by R.J. Ellory
The boy of whom Emanuel Smith spoke was waiting for them in the yard. He had to be six three if he was nothing. Smithy had said he was twenty-five, but he had the complexion and coloring of a ten-year-old kid. He had the slack-jawed, vacant-eyed, hang-dog-jowled expression of an idiot. His arms hung like plumb lines from his shoulders, dead straight like stair posts, and his hands—each the size of a ham hock—were clenched into fists.
He smiled when he saw the pickup pull up ahead of the house. The smile vanished when he saw that his father was not alone.
“Jonas,” Smithy called as he exited the vehicle.
Jonas was backing up around the corner of the building readying his escape.
“Jonas … you mind your manners now. We got guests here and you better be civil or I’m gonna get mad.”
Jonas hesitated. He looked down at the ground. He started rubbing his palms together like he was planning on setting a fire, and a low rumbling sound came from somewhere in his vicinity. At first Bailey could not believe that the sound came from Jonas, but it did. It didn’t sound human. It was an animal sound, dark and troubled, and it scared her.
She glanced nervously at Clay, but Smithy saw her expression and smiled.
“Don’t be concerned. He’s a helluva lot scareder of you than you are of him. He’s harmless, sweetheart. No more trouble than a puppy dog. He gets over his nerves and he’ll hang around you both like you’re long-lost. Once he decides you’re his friends … well, you won’t find anyone more loyal than Jonas.” Smithy looked up at his son. “Right, Jonas? You’re the best friend anyone could ever wish for, isn’t that so?”
Jonas fell silent. He stopped rubbing his hands together, but the palms stayed flat against each other as if he was fixing to pray sometime soon.
“Come on in the house,” Smithy said to Clay and Bailey. “I’ll fix us some coffee, make you some sandwiches or something for your travels, and then you can be on your way. I’d take you on down to Eldorado, but I got a mountain of things to do and I really don’t want to leave the boy alone any longer than I have to—”
“It’s okay, Mr. Smith,” Bailey interjected. “We’re really grateful that you’ve brought us this far.”
Smithy walked to the steps and paused. He turned to look back at Clay and Bailey.
“Your name I know,” he said to Clay. “I know it because she said it.” He looked at Bailey. “But you? I only know the name you gave me and it ain’t your real name. That much I’m sure of. Now, I don’t know what trouble you got yourselves into, and I ain’t gonna ask, but whatever the hell it is I can tell you one thing for free. There’s never a trouble in this life that’s solved by runnin’ away from it—”
Bailey opened her mouth to speak.
“Let me finish, girl. Do me that much as a courtesy. Most often I’m out here with the boy and I don’t get a great deal of time to talk anything but simple stuff he’ll understand. You pair are as sharp as pins, I can see that without looking too hard, but I can see the trouble you got around you as well. Hangs like a second shadow. Don’t see that there’s gonna be anything good coming out of this ’cept if you try and fix it.”
“There’s nothin’ to fix,” Bailey said. “We’re not running away from anyone. We don’t have anyone to run away from. We’re going to Eldorado simply because it’s somewhere different. We ain’t done nothin’ wrong and we sure as hell ain’t runnin’ away from anyone—”
Smithy raised his hand. “If that’s the truth then I’ve heard enough. If it ain’t then I don’t wanna hear any more. We’re done with this conversation. Come on in and I’ll make you something to take on your way, and then we’ll say our farewells and be done with it.”
Clay and Bailey followed Smithy into the house. Jonas was now nowhere to be seen.
In the kitchen Smithy went straight for the whiskey. The room was not so much dirty as unkempt, uncared for. Spiderwebs decorated the corners, traipsed across the spaces between things. Around the white sink was a clean space where food would be prepared. It was from a cupboard beneath this that Smithy took the bottle.
He turned and looked at Clay, held up the bottle with the five or six inches of amber swilling in the bottom.
“You want a drink?”
Clay shook his head. “Can’t say I do. Don’t have a taste for it.”
“Me either,” Smithy said. “I keep expecting to take a liking for it. Thirty years ain’t done it yet.”
“Why don’t you quit?”
“Ain’t one for quitting. Besides, you deal with something like that—” He jerked his head toward the front of the house. There was no doubt that he was referring to Jonas. “Deal with something like that every day and you find a depth of sorrow that you didn’t think you could find. You wait until darkness and then drink enough to forget. Drink enough to sleep. Before long it gets to a point where you don’t wait until darkness.”
He uncorked the bottle, poured an inch into a glass, downed it in one and poured another. He drank half, set it aside on the counter, and then reached for bread and such things to make sandwiches for the runaways.
Later—half an hour or so—the sandwiches made and wrapped in paper, the three of them stood on the porch and looked at the road that would take Clay and Bailey away from there.
“Been a mighty pleasure havin’ your company for a while,” Smithy said.
“Been a pleasure meeting you, Smithy,” Bailey said, “and we’re real grateful for your help in bringing us this far.”
“Well, you take care now. You look after each other good, ’cause it seems to me that no one else is gonna be doin’ that.”
Clay shook Smithy’s hand. Bailey leaned up and kissed the old man’s cheek.
They started walking, and it was only when they reached the end of the long path that Bailey looked back.
Jonas stood there at the corner of the building, and when he saw her he waved. Just once. A left-right motion of the hand. She raised her hand to wave back, but even as she did so he was gone.
CHAPTER FIFTY
The house was neat and clean. No denying the fact that Mr. Morton Randall kept a tidy place. Mr. Randall himself was behind the kitchen. There was an extra room in there. Not so much a room as another space separated by a doorway with no door. Washing machine, a drier of sorts, a rope to hang stuff up. Anyway, Mr. Randall was in there with a bullet hole in his face. Digger had planned to shoot him a couple of times, maybe use all three .45 slugs, but Randall went down and stayed down with the first one. Digger had shot him just above his mouth and beneath his nose, so either the bullet ricocheted up and went through his brain or it went out back and severed his spinal cord. There was no exit wound, so whichever and wherever and how, that baby was still inside there and wasn’t coming out anytime soon.
Digger figured that later he might cut Randall’s head off and see if he couldn’t find it. It wasn’t important, not at all, but it was something to do for want of something better.
After Digger had cleaned himself up he went out back and sat on the porch. He kicked off his boots and pulled his socks away from his aching feet. He massaged the balls and the arches, even the spaces between his toes. It felt good. He was hungry and he wanted to fuck someone. He thought about fucking Randall in the ass but it didn’t really interest him. He wanted a girl. He wanted quite a young girl. Or maybe he wanted two. He would have to see what was available.
He understood things better now. The girl from the bank, the one in the apartment, even the old man who’d owned the Galaxie. In some way they had been tests. He had failed the tests, but that was part of learning. It was better now. He had a good sense of control. His emotions were in check, his needs were being fulfilled, and he was aware of the simple fact that those who achieved something in life were simply the ones who took what they wanted when it was there. It was not complicated. It was a sentiment and a philosophy that he knew Earl would appreciate.
Back in the kitchen he found some pork and beans in a dish in the re
frigerator. He lit the stove, dumped half of the mess into a pan, and warmed it. He ate it tepid with a spoon straight from the pot. He looked for liquor, found a half bottle of rye on a shelf above Randall’s bled-out head, and he took a couple of sips. It was raw-edged, but it would do.
Randall’s guns were in a shed at the back of the property. As he’d said, there was a twelve-gauge shot, a good Remington rifle, a couple of Colt revolvers that had seen better days. There was also a mountain of ammo. Amongst everything Elliott found two and a half boxes of .45 caliber. He left the revolvers behind, but took the shotgun and the rifle. With the .45 shells he could just stick with Juneau’s weapon as his sidearm.
He carried his arsenal back to the house and laid out the guns on the floor of the sitting room. He covered them over with a blanket, but before he did that he took a good handful of the .45 shells and filled his pockets. He was out for hunting, and the .45 was gonna serve him best.
He left Rita McGovern’s station wagon behind the building and looked for the keys to Randall’s pickup. It was a good pickup, a Ford, maybe three or four years on it. Had a bed in back, and a wide cab—enough room for four. Anyone he was bringing home he’d want up front and close. He wouldn’t want anyone in the backseat. Wouldn’t want anyone behind him, even if it were some slip of a girl, all bones and no meat.
He checked around the place. He locked the back door, closed the windows, shut up the back kitchen door and the door to the stairwell. Where the hell the front door key was he didn’t know, but he didn’t think anyone’d be coming down here in the next hour or so. He figured the closest Morton Randall ever got to company was the sound of people on the highway leaving him behind.
Elliott Danziger got into the pickup and revved the engine into life. He took one more look at the house—his house—and then he headed back for the I-10. He planned on driving to the nearest town and seeing if there was any entertainment. If not, well, he’d keep on driving until he found something.
The nearest town was Van Horn, and it was all of ten or twelve miles away. Quarter of an hour and Elliott was idling at a junction waiting for a light to change. There was a diner, a post office, a bank, a mercantile, a clothiers, a saloon called The Buffalo Bar, another couple of places. Elliott drove on over and took a right at the corner. He was on Merchant Street, and down on the left was a garage with a girl sitting out front. From what he could see she looked pretty enough, maybe twenty or so, and Elliott pulled into the forecourt, checked the .45 in the back of his pants, and got out.
“Heya,” she said. She smiled. Her teeth were really white. She had shoulder-length ash-blond hair, much of it tied in a ponytail. She wore jeans, a checkered shirt, cowboy boots. She looked like she was on her way to the rodeo to see her dumb boyfriend get kicked to death by a steer.
“What can we do for y’all?” she drawled, and immediately the nasal Texan twang irritated him.
Elliott smiled. “Don’t tell me that you’re doin’ all the fixin’ and mendin’ here, little girl.”
She smiled again. Such white teeth. “Well no, that’d be my daddy you’ll be wantin’, but he’s on out tendin’ to somethin’ that ain’t movin’, you know?”
“Sure do,” Elliott said. “So he just leave you all here on your lonesome?”
“Case folks come by and need somethin’, sure. Can take a message, can tell me what’s wrong and I’ll tell him when he gets back …”
Elliott smiled. He wished his teeth were as white as hers. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”
“Name’s Candace,” she said.
Elliott couldn’t help himself laughing.
“What’s so funny?”
“Candace?”
“Sure, you ain’t never heard that name before?”
“Hell, sure I have, just never figured it for what it was. Stick the letter y in there somewhere and you’d be candy-ass.”
Candace frowned. She took a step backward. “Now, that’s just rude, mister. There ain’t no call for sayin’ things like that.”
Elliott nodded. “Well, I’m real sorry, miss.” He could hear himself imitating her nasal drawl. “I didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”
“So you have something wrong with your truck or what? You have somethin’ my daddy needs to fix?”
Elliott looked down at his feet. He used the toe of his boot to kick a little indent in the dirt. He reached behind his jacket and took out the .45. He held it down by his side and it was a moment before she realized what it was.
“Oh no, sweetheart,” he said. “I ain’t got nothin’ your daddy needs to fix.”
She didn’t struggle a great deal, but then most people don’t when faced with a .45 and a smile like the one Elliott Danziger wore.
He indicated she should go on into the garage itself. There was a high overhanging roof, and once beneath its shadow the workshop proper was visible. Hydraulic jacks, a couple of inspection pits, shelving on all three internal walls loaded with a fabulous array of black machines and tools. Everything smelled of oil and diesel and gasoline and sweat. Across the concrete floor were the memories of a thousand oil leaks and brake fluid spillages.
“Now, look here, mister, I didn’t do nothin’ to upset you—”
Elliott pressed his finger to his lips. “Sssshhh,” he whispered, and he did the smile again and there was something so indescribably chilling about it that Candace just fell silent.
There was a bench down in the corner and he told her to sit. She did so. He told her to take the band out of her hair. She complied.
He stood in front of her for a moment, and then he put the gun in his left hand and held out his right.
“Give me your hand,” he said.
“Mister … please … please, no …” She looked scared then. Really scared. Too scared to cry.
He hefted the gun in his hand, raised it, and touched the muzzle to her right temple.
“Give me your hand,” he repeated.
Candace held out her hand and closed her eyes.
Elliott took the girl’s hand and pressed it against his crotch. He was already nearly there, and when he felt her fingers through the fabric of his pants he was erect within moments. He unhitched his belt, maneuvered his hard-on out of there, and held it in front of her face.
“Open,” he said, and jabbed her in the side of the head with the gun.
Candace looked up at him. Her eyes were now filled with tears.
“Mister …” she whimpered.
“No talking,” Elliott said.
She opened her mouth to speak again, and Elliott grabbed her face. His fingers reached the back of her head and his thumb was in her mouth. He twisted her head sideways and leaned down. His nose was no more than three or four inches from hers.
“You’re gonna do just exactly what I tell you to do. If you don’t, I’m gonna shoot you. I ain’t gonna kill you. I’ll shoot you in the gut or something. That’ll hurt a great deal and it’ll take you a good couple of hours to die. While you’re dying, I will fuck you in the ass. When I’m done with fucking you in the ass we’ll sit here together and wait till your daddy gets back, and then you’ll see me shoot him in the head fair and square. That’s what’ll happen, you understand?”
She closed her eyes tight, as tight as they would go, and Elliott felt her nod her head despite the pressure he maintained on her neck.
“Well, good enough,” he said.
He released his grip. She kept her eyes closed.
“Open your eyes and your mouth,” he said. He jabbed her once more with the .45.
Candace opened her eyes, and then her mouth, tentatively at first, and then wider.
“Okay. Good. Now we’re in business.”
Elliott took her hand once more and closed it around his erection. He made her massage back and forth a few times until he was hard again, and then he held the back of her head and put it in her mouth. She sat there without expression. Her eyes open but looking right through him.
“You gotta
suck it now, sweetheart,” he said, and he smiled like he was explaining something to a child.
It was then that he saw it. The flash of hatred in her eyes. He saw what she was going to do. He saw the intention in her face as clear as daylight. The way the muscles tensed along her jaw line. The way the color rose in her cheeks suddenly.
She was going to bite his damned dick off!
Elliott grabbed her throat. She opened her mouth involuntarily. He jerked back and his erection was clear of her teeth.
The relief he felt was enormous. Well, hell, he nearly damned well came with the relief.
“Fucking bitch,” he said, and his voice was barely audible.
She looked at him. The same sad hangdog look she’d given him when he first sat her down. Pathetic. Don’t hurt me. Please don’t fucking hurt me.
“Fucking bitch,” he said, and he raised his hand.
She flinched and withdrew. A tiny gasp escaped her lips. She raised her hands to protect herself, and ever so slowly Elliott lowered his hand and watched her expression change. The fact that he hadn’t shouted, the fact that he hadn’t hit her was more unnerving than anything.
Elliott took one step back. He put his erection back in his pants.
“Okay,” he said quietly. “You wanna play funny fucking games, sweetheart, then we’ll play funny fucking games.”
With one strike of the gun’s handle she was unconscious. He picked her up as if she were no heavier than a sack of laundry, and he walked on out to the truck.
No one saw Elliott Danziger. No one saw Candace Munro. One person did see Morton Randall’s pickup pull away from Sam Munro’s garage at approximately ten past noon on Thursday the twenty-sixth of November, but thought nothing of it.
Candace had intended to stay at the garage for a couple of hours at most. She’d told her dad that she might go on up and see a friend in Monahans, up near Odessa. He’d offered to drive her, but she said she liked to take the bus. She was twenty-one, she was a good girl, trustworthy and good to her word. She had never been a problem, not a day of real difficulty since her mother had died fourteen years before. The arrangement to visit her friend was informal. They’d spoken of it on the telephone but made no firm plans. Thus, later, when Sam Munro returned to the garage at quarter to three, he figured she’d taken the bus. There was no note, but then there would only have been a note had someone come in with a message for Sam or some work that needed doing. Evidently there had been none, and there was nothing strange in that. And the friend in Monahans? Well, she’d never really expected Candace to show up. Candace had said she would come a couple of times before, and then her dad had needed her and she’d had to stay back. She would arrive when she arrived. It was that kind of arrangement because it was that kind of friendship.