Death is Not Forever (Barefield Book Book 3)

by Trey R. Barker

  I’ve killed. Again.

  “Damnit.”

  Jeremiah? I’m sorry, baby. He didn’t give you any choice.

  Clenching his jaw, Bean checked the dead man. Radial pulse, carotid pulse.

  Standing, Bean breathed deep, paused, then kicked the shit outta the guy. “Damnit.” Another kick. “Damnit.” Another kick and then he couldn’t stop even if he’d wanted to. “The fuck are you? The fuck were you doing?” More kicking and pain began to creep into his feet. “Why are you following me? What do you want?” His boots sank into the man’s flesh, eventually tore it open. He relished the rage that poisoned his blood. “You son of a bitch. Why’d you do this to me?”

  “Judge?”

  “I didn’t want to kill you. I’m tired of killing, punk.”

  Tired of killing, yeah, but also tired of feeling like he had no other choices.

  A bullshit argument. There were always choices and options. In this he was his own worst enemy. No one had ever forced him to kill. Judge Royy Bean, II was his own man. Hands and heart belonged to him. Choice and option belonged to him.

  “Judge?”

  His past was full of times he had pulled the trigger, or slipped a knife between ribs or squeezed a neck, but only when and why he wanted.

  “There were always options, Mariana.”

  Yes, Jeremiah, but options that would have cost your life.

  “You’re dead,” Bean said. “Angela’s dead. What fucking life?”

  For a moment, in the caress of the slightest breeze, Bean thought he felt her kiss his cheek. Soft lips and the barest hint of her tongue. Then it was gone, replaced by the stink of shit and blood, of carcasses and death, of anger that boiled in its own hatred.

  “Judge?” Faith touched his shoulder gently. “It wasn’t your fault.”

  He turned to her, a young woman he’d never seen until a few hours ago and who had most certainly seen more shit than he could even begin to imagine, and immediately understood how strong she actually was. Where he slumped with exhaustion from kicking the dead man, she stood tall. Where his hands were bloody, either from the goats or glass shards flying or from Sombrero Man, hers were simply dirty.

  They both had tears. They both breathed heavily, their bodies shaking almost in synch, and both were at a loss for words or an understanding of how this had happened on this shitty cattle trail in the middle of nowhere.

  “Come on.” Holding his hand, she led him to the car.

  “I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have to see this crap. I should have left you with Echo.”

  Her face hardened. “The guy who wanted to burn me up? Uh...pass.”

  Bean shoved the empty .380 into his pocket. “I wouldn’t have let him do that.”

  “You didn’t let him do that.”

  Bean took a deep breath. “I probably should have given you to the cops.”

  “No, no police.”

  He looked at her. “Why?”

  She hesitated. “This ain’t my first rodeo, Judge. I’ve been down some roads before. I ain’t no particular fan of the cops.”

  At the car, Bean said, “How can you trust me?”

  She looked around, obvious and almost comically. “Well, truth be told, ain’t nobody else around right now. But we get a hobo? Or maybe an English nanny? Shit, I’ll leave you by the side of the road...sort of like a used condom.”

  “Uh...okay.”

  Most of the goats had moved on. More than a few were dead. Others had bloody lines streaming down their sides from the buckshot.

  “That was crappy of me to say,” she said. “Sorry. Trust don’t come so easy for me sometimes. I lash out. I’m a bitch.”

  Bean chuckled. “Hardly.”

  “You’ll see.”

  “Well...used condom was funny. Little more graphic than what I expected, but funny. Hobo. Didn’t think anyone used that word anymore.”

  “I’m just a regular walking dictionary.” She leaned her head on the car’s roof. “I miss my family.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Ain’t we a pathetic duo.” With a deep breath, she stood tall and straight. “Those pictures? The handcuffs and the burning? You helped me. That’s why you get a few slivers of trust. Might be the most I can do for a while.”

  Grinning, Bean nodded. “I’ll take it. I’m going to get you home. I promise.”

  One more stop, he left unsaid. One more stop, learn the lie, find the hand missing a finger.

  The car between them, Bean felt the exhaustion everywhere in his body. He’d never been this tired, physically, emotionally, spiritually. Two shootouts in one day? A near fight with Echo and a few punches with Tommy-Blue? What the fuck was going on? The entire day had to be some sort of record. Maybe there was a mope book of records he could consult, see if his name would live on.

  Truthfully, all he wanted right now was to sleep. Get some long hours behind closed lids, then start again fresh.

  Or never wake up.

  Maybe a bottle of Tequila Don Julio. Some pills. Easier than a bullet through his soft palate. Something to gently usher him back into her arms.

  It’s a mortal sin, Jeremiah. Besides, you’re not done yet. Is that girl in her mother’s arms? Get her there, then you can come see me.

  “Got another stop, don’t we?” Faith asked.

  Bean frowned. “Why do you say that?”

  “Please. I’m not stupid.”

  “I need to find the hand that belongs to the finger.”

  “That’s some freaky shit, Judge.” She shook her head. “Also not what you’re really looking for.”

  “Yeah? Pretty smart, are you? What am I looking for then? Redemption? Acceptance? Atonement?”

  “Uhhh...sure. And her property. Mariana’s. What is it? What’d she lose that you’re killing yourself to find?”

  While he thought, the sun descended another three or four degrees across the burning afternoon sky. “She didn’t lose it. I did.” He turned his face into the sun. “I lost it in a poker game.”

  “Well, that was stupid.”

  “I know. Not quite the single dumbest thing I’ve ever done...but sure as shit in the top five.”

  But I’m going to get it back. And deliver it to your side, baby.

  Jeremiah, shut up with that talk. Suicide. The pussy’s way out.

  He laughed, his exhaustion and melancholy forgotten. “Did you just call me a pussy?”

  Faith stared. “What? Wasn’t me this time.”

  “Not you, my wife.”

  “Dead wifey talking to you again?”

  Bean glared at her. “I don’t give a shit if you believe it or not. I do.”

  When she finally spoke, it was softly, with a surprising delicateness. “I talk to my family, too. Don’t matter I’m not with them. I talk to them. To my sister especially. Feels like I’m home. Ain’t such a huge leap to believe I could talk to them if they were dead.” She shook her head as though uncomfortable.

  “My sister was my best friend,” Bean said. “She died a few years ago. Cancer.”

  “Yeah, my sister turned me out when I was twelve years old. She was a street whore who couldn’t make enough to keep herself in drugs. But when she was clean, she had the biggest heart of anyone I ever knew.”

  Bean said nothing.

  Faith cleared her throat. “So you lost it. Dumbass. And what was it?”

  It was forever that he didn’t answer: hours and days and weeks, months and years, eternity. Finally he stared right into her soul over the top of the car. “A badge.”

  “Badge...like a cop’s badge?”

  “My wife’s badge.”

  Faith gaped, surprise ripe in her eyes. “She was a policeman? Uh...police woman?”

  “Texas Ranger, Company E. Based out of El Paso but she spent most of her time in Zachary City, Midland, Odessa, Barefield.”

  From surprise to something else that Bean couldn’t read. “A Texas Ranger? Seriously? Wow. I mean...wow...that’s cool, ain’t it?” />
  “Yeah, actually it was.”

  “And so you lost her badge...in a poker game.”

  “Yeah.” He swallowed. “I was drunk.”

  “Hah. Like my old man. Old, pissed off white men. All the same.”

  “And high.”

  “The hell you say.” Faith’s eyes were big, surprised. “A little weed to soothe the drunken beast?”

  “Coke.”

  Her mouth snapped closed.

  “And heroin.”

  “Well, maybe that explains it,” a new voice said. “The man’s a horse junkie.”

  A new voice, deep, husky, angry. The mesquite bushes dotting the trail rustled and a second later a man emerged.

  Bean saw the shotgun too late. He made a move for the .380, but the guy trained the gun squarely on Bean’s skull. “Explains what? And who the fuck are you?”

  The man racked the slide. “Explains why you been killing goats. And I’m the guy that owns the goats.”

  19

  “I am a direct descendent of Christ. I can smell your fear.”

  The sound of the man’s balls tightening was almost audible.

  Creak...creak...

  It wasn’t a screw, or a vise grip that did the tightening. It was just a plain, old semi-automatic pistol, pressed lovingly against his forehead.

  “That’s probably gonna leave a mark.”

  “Huh?” The man—his name was Tommy-Blue—was on his knees. They all ended up on their knees, penitence before God.

  “Except the black man. Balls of steel. Faced the music.”

  “What are you talking about?” Tommy-Blue’s voice was strong, but his hands, covered by skin long since tanned to a lizard skin, shook badly.

  “Where is the Judge, my friend.”

  “I’ll tell you again, there wasn’t any judge here.”

  “Oh, sir, please do take care with that tone of voice.”

  The hammer cocked back, the metallic snap filling the empty Sip’N’Tan.

  Tommy-Blue’s jaw ground, the muscles popping and snapping. “Apologies. I don’t know any judge.”

  “Don’t know any judge? You were a cop...a Texas Ranger, the most exalted of all narcissistic law enforcement in this whole narcissistic state. How is it you don’t know any judges?”

  Tommy-Blue frowned. “Narcissistic...what?” He managed to regain some control of his voice, but there was still fear in it, thick as the scrub around Rankin.

  “How come all the coffee is crossed off?”

  Tommy-Blue’s hair was bone white, bleached by the sun or age. Some of it had come out of the tight ponytail. It flew across his head, caught in the tiny breeze that strolled his shop. “They only drink black coffee around here.”

  “And tanning? Dude, it’s the middle of the fucking desert. They’re not paying to tan, are they?”

  When Tommy-Blue said nothing, the gun ground into his forehead. “Aaahhhhhh...No, they aren’t paying to tan.”

  “I told you...I am from Christ’s loins...so I see things clearly. I know things that no one else knows.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  The gun smashed his temple. Blood welled, then rolled down his cheek. He yelped and fell sideways.

  “I’ve forgotten more knowledge than you’ll ever have, because of my lineage. Now, tell me about the Judge that came to see you.”

  Tommy-Blue came up quick. Fists clenched but held tightly at his side. Rage burned in his eyes, framed by the blood staining his face.

  “Yeah? Wanna go?”

  Tommy-Blue said nothing.

  “Thought so. You know, for a former Ranger, a tough guy, you smell...”

  Tommy-Blue tried to stand tall against the hot breath on his cheek.

  “...weak.”

  “Test that assumption anytime you want.”

  “The Judge, boy.”

  Tommy-Blue’s voice rifled up, high-end anger. “No judge has been to see me. Hell, just about no one has been to see me in weeks.”

  “’Cause you don’t have any decent coffee.”

  “So you said. I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

  “But you do, dear sir. He was here just a few hours ago.” The laugh again. “That’s what I thought. I see the knowledge on your face like syphilis pox. Judge Royy Bean, II.”

  Tommy-Blue stared hard at the shooter.

  “I think I hear those wheels turning, Tommy-Blue-The-Former-Ranger-Who-Smells-Weak. I think you have information for me.”

  The air limped around them, a breeze redolent with the smell of west Texas dirt. A semi rumbled by on the highway and maybe the ground shook the slightest bit. Birds, probably vultures, called in the distance.

  “Such a mournful sound, don’t you think? It was the sound Christ made on the cross.”

  “Christ was a vulture?” Tommy-Blue asked.

  “A mournful sound. Mournful.” The gun came back, pressed against the side of Tommy-Blue’s throat.

  “He’s not a judge,” Tommy-Blue said.

  “Of course he is. Judge Royy Bean, II. Elected justice of the peace from Barefield.”

  “Your clothes are out of date, too. He hasn’t been a JP for years. Had a bit of a problem, had to resign.”

  “I, along with everyone, know that.”

  Tommy-Blue pointed to the burgeoning bruise on his forehead. “See that? Red now but it’ll be black and blue tomorrow.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Bean did that.” Tommy-Blue paused. “With his badge.”

  The shooter paused, long and dramatic. “With what?”

  “His badge. He’s a Texas Ranger.”

  “The hell you say.” The gun dipped. The shooter continued to stare at Tommy-Blue, but with eyes held distant, on some point miles away. “A Texas Ranger...Walking in his wife’s footsteps?” The gun came back up. “Why’d this...Texas Ranger...come to your shop, this lonely place of non-business hidden so far from the World?”

  Tommy-Blue raised his hands and slowly, ever so gently, moved the gun off his face. “Like all of us...looking for someone.”

  “And who are you, Ranger, looking for?”

  “Anyone I can find.”

  Tommy-Blue did it quick. Faster than he thought he could. A hard punch to the shooter’s face. Blood exploded from the shooter’s nose and a howl spiraled up into the air.

  Tommy-Blue dove forward, pushed them both away from the counter. They crashed over a table and Tommy-Blue made a grab for the gun. He palmed the barrel, blued steel came and went in a breath, sliding along his hand and fingers.

  “Damn.” That had been, probably, his only chance.

  Fear bubbled up deep in his testicles.

  He threw an elbow left, then right, but found only air. He kicked and realized he was falling alone. The shooter had slipped away from him. Dotted with blood, feeling the warmth, he hit the floor hard.

  The shooter stood over him. “If it’s any consolation, no one else even tried. You’re a good man, Former Ranger.”

  “Get to it, then.”

  A wide grin broke across the shooter’s face. “Gracie’s taking it like a man. Good enough, then. Your wish is my command.”

  20

  Hands raised, the Judge kept his eyes on the man rather than the shotgun. The two men were about fifty feet apart and Bean gave a fast, stupid thought to trying to cover that ground. Even if Bean didn’t have back problems and wasn’t wearing boots, this man was half Bean’s age. Bean wouldn’t get more than three steps before that shotgun cut him in half. “I’m Royy. Two ‘y’s.’”

  “And I’m the King of Tokyo. Two ‘kyo’s.’”

  He was a big boy, probably half a head shorter than Bean but wide and solid. Arms cradled the gun easily, as though they were comfortable carrying a gun, and probably just as comfortable firing it, no doubt. His hair, black bleached into a washed-out gray by the sun, was thick and tied back in a pony-tail.

  Bean nodded. “Good enough.”

  “The fuck you doing ki
lling my goats?”

  “Well, strictly speaking, I didn’t kill them, the sombrero—” Bean snapped his mouth shut.

  “A sombrero killed them?”

  “Well, no, because that would be stupid.”

  The man nodded. “Yeah, and we can’t have anything stupid...like an overturned truck and a tall guy in a cowboy hat with an empty holster ’bout the size of a long-barreled .45 except he’s carrying a .380 that he just randomly emptied into a guy who looked pretty dead already. But we don’t want anything stupid.”

  The man breathed through his nose with a dirty, edgy air. In that whistling breath, Bean was sure he could hear the man’s nerves burning. “Why are you on my land?”

  Bean frowned. “Your land? Thought I was—I must have misread the map. I apologize.”

  There was no mistake, no misread of a map Bean hadn’t looked at. Whoever this guy was, this wasn’t his land. This drop of desert belonged to Andy.

  Maybe Andy finally ate the bullet. He’d threatened to, seriously and jokingly, for so many years. Maybe he finally found the guts I have yet to find.

  “Mariana,” the man said. “She was your wife.”

  Bean squared up, set his jaw.

  “You’re looking for Andy.” Still holding the shotgun, the man yanked a cell from his pocket and sent a text.

  The trio stood silent for the next five minutes. The gun never moved from Bean, and by extension, Faith. The sun, brutally hot, beat them with white-hot fists until their sweat felt like blood trickling over their skin. Under that heat, the stench of dead animals, and a dead man, grew and began to finger them.

  “Is he coming?” Bean finally asked.

  “Shut the hell up.”

  “Hey, asshole,” Faith said. “We’re sorry about your damned goats. It wasn’t our fault so give it a fucking rest or—”

  The man grinned, his lips like a snake whipped across his face. “Yeah? Or what?”

  Faith stood tall, clenched a fist. “Or I’ll shove that shotgun straight up your ass and pull the trigger.”

  Bean kept his smile to himself. More and more like Mariana every moment. Mariana wasn’t such a fan of the f-bomb, but sure as hell of the sentiment. She had been a woman who didn’t like getting pushed around.