Safety (One Eighteen: Migration Book 1)

by Christopher Wiig

  “Actually, take his cuffs off first,” Horace said, then turned to me and asked, “You aren't dangerous, are ya Jonas?" Robert opened his mouth to argue and Horace gave him a withering look.

  Valentine gritted his teeth and said nothing. "Of course you're not. Get those cuffs off him." Horace picked up my knife, inspecting the blood.

  "Didn't wash the knife," Horace said, as Valentine undid my cuffs. "Seems like the first thing I'd do, if I cut someone and didn't want anyone to find out was wash the knife. Fuck off, Valentine.” Valentine 'fucked off.'

  “There's no DNA or blood tests, anymore,” Horace continued, thinking out-loud. “The only honest to God evidence was that knife and you kept it; and you kept it dirty. Why didn't you clean it?"

  It was a fair question and one I wasn't quite sure how to answer. If this had been a year ago, I'd have said "Lawyer" and been done with it. But this was Greenly, and that formerly magic word had no power here.

  So I shot straight with him.

  "I've been on pain meds," I told him, "Ever since the fight. They make me forget things. Then the stuff with Em's meds... it got pretty bad out there. I guess I just never thought to." I was rambling. He smiled and put the knife on his desk.

  "Here's a better answer," he said, "You didn't clean it because you had nothing to cover up. Jonas, you did nothing wrong.” Horace set the knife down.

  “Do I wish it didn't happen? Sure. And I wish you'd come to me right away. But self-defense is self-defense." Horace poured two tall glasses of whiskey, honest to god whiskey, and handed me one.

  I took it, appraising him skeptically. He basically ignored me, and as we waited together for Franks, I saw him in a whole different light. Sure he was an asshole, but some people are assholes because they go by the book without thought or question. They aren't bad people, they're just wired to work on rules, and not reason.

  But a man who hated lawbreaking alone wasn't a bad man. Might even be a good one. I took a sip, and the whiskey soothed my nerves, smoothing out the Codeine.

  "I guess- I mean he was a Deputy... and to be honest I didn't know-" He smiled and slapped me on the back good-naturedly.

  "You didn't know how badly he was hurt. You're not a doctor. And if they boys hadn't hid him from me, this whole thing might not have happened," Horace said.

  He lit a cigarette and took a long drag, then shook his head at Anthony Valentine's corpse and said "Goddamned shame is what it is. Doesn't make it a crime. Doesn't even make it anyone's fault assuming you're not pulling my leg... And about Em's place, leaving town, rule-breaking; you've got balls Jonas.” Horace shook his head a little, smiling.

  “You're as smart as you give yourself credit for. Your dad would be proud of you. He was just like you, did what he though was right, rules be damned. Smart guy, like you. Cigarette?" He offered me a cigarette from a pack of Camels and I shook my head no.

  "I quit," I said.

  I was still nervous, but I felt like a thousand pounds of weight had come off my shoulders. I'd been waiting for the other shoe to drop, convinced he'd side with his kids and I'd be banished.

  But sitting in that office, a good glass of whiskey in my hand and Horace reassuring me, I realized that he wasn't this horrible, totalitarian monster. He was just a man, trying to hold a town together. A good man. He was wrong, not bad.

  "I know what people say about me Jonas,” Horace said with an almost apologetic shrug. “I know they think I'm some god awful Fascist. I'm not, I'm just a man trying to do my job and keep all you folks alive.” He put his hand on my shoulder.

  “You don't even have to like me. Just tell me what happened son, from start to finish. You're not in any trouble, but I can't exactly get this all sorted without the whole story," Horace said, refilling my whiskey. I think he could tell I wanted to be honest with him, so he added:

  “And worse, I can't be sure about how dangerous those kids are. Valentine's going to be back soon, and I'd rather he not hear... armed.” I shivered. It was a good point.

  "I changed my mind... can I get that cigarette?" I asked. He smiled and offered me a name brand coffin nail. He gave me a light and I took a drag... just one long drag.

  The whiskey may have oiled the lock, but that one God damned Camel turned the key. There's something about a man offering you a cigarette that just puts you at ease.

  A man who wants to do you harm, he doesn't offer you a smoke, right? They certainly aren't free. Bartenders do, friends do. Cigarettes are trust on fire.

  I let out a long sigh/exhale, and then my mouth opened and the words just started pouring out. I told him everything; the plan, Sarah, the Deputies, my theories on how to move not just a rogue band but perhaps an entire town all the way to Galveston safely. I knew if I could get Horace on board, I could convince anyone.

  He was a fantastic listener, letting me talk, asking questions when appropriate. Always there with a smoke and a joke. Half father-figure, half-psychologist, he very subtly opened my head up and drained the whole of my mind out for his inspection. Sometimes I was even giving details without prompting, a smile or a nod urging me to say just a little more. Someone finally understood me.

  I finished, and we sat quietly for a few moments, then Horace chuckled.

  "Well, that is some goddamned story, that's for sure!" he said, slapping my back in good old boy fashion.

  “It would work, right?” I asked. Hope. Finally some goddamned hope.

  "It might. You've been through the ringer, son, and you just don't stop. That ain't nothin',” Horace said, chewing on the idea. He appraised me for a moment, sizing me up.

  “And you've got this way about you. I think people'd listen. If you told them just like, I think that they'd listen and I think they'd go." He was refilling my whiskey when Robert Valentine brought the soldier in. Franks looked disoriented, and was yawning.

  "Found him at Lucy Mathew's house," Robert Valentine said with obvious distaste. But he didn't worry me so much anymore, now that Horace was on my side. Him, Fetch, the rest of the Deputies. None of them scared me. Their boss was on my side now. I was protected.

  Franks' shrugged and Horace let out a long belly laugh, and actually slapped his knee.

  "Plundering our towns' natural resources, no doubt!" Horace said, slapping Franks' on the back.

  "Yeah well... ya know," Franks said, blushing a little, "When in Rome, do who the Romans do."

  We all laughed at that, everyone but Robert Valentine. He scowled in the corner, pacing and taking sips out of a flask; staring daggers at me. Franks set his AK down by the door and took a seat.

  "So I hear from Robert that Jonas killed his brother in cold blood two nights ago while sneaking out the front gate,” Horace said, laying the kid's story out. “Gut stabbed Anthony right in front of his face, Robert says. Also says Fetch will corroborate his story,"

  Horace poured Franks a glass of whiskey. Franks took it, but he didn't drink. He looked at me skeptically. I nodded my head, giving him the "all-clear." Franks shrugged.

  Finishing his Whiskey in one gulp, he said: "Bullshit."

  "That's what I thought," Horace said, picking up my confiscated J-Frame and inspecting it, "God I haven't seen this gun in years. I registered it for your dad, you know that Jonas?"

  He turned to Franks, "Tell me what really happened."

  Franks told the story. He was animated, embellishing it in just the right places to make it more exciting. Even Valentine listened intently.

  He told the same story I had, frame by frame. Horace had just heard it, so the only detail he asked about was Fetch's appearance in the watch tower.

  "So Fetch was up in the tower huh?" Horace said, "And I never heard a thing. You're both lucky, that boy's got a itchy trigger finger. Bad kid, bad family. Not a bad policeman when he's kept in line though.” The big man thought for a moment, then shrugged and wrapped things up:

  “So in terms of a statement, you're saying Jonas was with you the whole time, up in that watchtower. Nei
ther Valentine brother was there, right? Only Deputy Fetch. Just for the record."

  "On my life, Jonas didn't kill anyone that night that I saw. If this boy says that then, pardon my french but he's a fucking liar because-"

  When Horace stepped behind Franks and put my gun to his temple, I realized something; executioners offer you cigarettes, and so do smart cops who want to be your friend. Smart cops who want to get a stupid suspect to tell them everything before they throw the book at them.

  The J-Frame exploded in his hand, then Sgt. William Franks' skull did the same.

  All of the young soldiers skills, all of his knowledge, his hopes, his dreams, his stories... they all exited the other side of Franks' head and splashed against the station wall. His jaw opened and shut twice, then he fell out of the chair.

  Valentine snickered.

  "Round up the boys," Horace said in disgust, "Go have a talk with Fetch about following the rules, then get them all back here."

  Robert Valentine nodded and left, then it was just me and Horace. I didn't say a word. My mind was... broken. Franks was alive one second and then... just gone. Snuffed out like a fucking candle.

  "You know I don't really know why I used your gun," Horace said, shrugging. "Can't really do fingerprints any more, or ballistics for that matter. Even if we could, it would be me doing them, and well... I wouldn't.” He looked down at Franks' body.

  “I guess I just like to keep things tidy. Head shot. We'll just say that was the 'Keeping-him-down shot'" Horace paused to fire two rounds into Franks ' chest.

  "Those are from when you shot him for not agreeing to lie for you. This is from when you resisted arrest." Horace whipped me with the barrel of my own gun and I folded like a bad hand. I landed on my dead arm, and the pain was enough to push through the narcotic haze.

  Horace paused, picking up Franks' rifle; inspecting it. "The AK's nice, think I'll keep it. And full auto too, can ya top that?” Horace set the weapon down and looked me over.

  “You know, you've been a thorn in my side since day one. First you wouldn't sell cheap. Then, after all this, questions, questions... always with the fucking questions. "

  He opened his desk drawer and pulled out an old phone book, then knelt next to me. Horace smashed my bad arm with the phone book. I bit my lip to stop from screaming. I wouldn't give that to him. I owed William Franks' that much.

  "Why?" I said, and Horace smashed the phone book down on my dead hand again.

  "Even now. Questions. You are a piece of work, Jonas. A genuine piece of work,” Horace said.

  “And you think you're going to take MY town away? To go to Galveston? Who the fuck do you think you are?" I tried to get to my feet and Horace smacked my good hand out from under me with his fat fist. I went face first into the wood floor.

  "You didn't have to-" I tried to choke out, but took my dead arm and pushed down on a pressure point. I nearly fainted from the pain. I stayed down. He kept working me over with the phone book as he talked.

  "Who the hell do you think I'd be in Galveston? A sheriff from bum-fuck nowhere, that's who. I'd be lucky to be fucking dog-catcher. Even in Paradise fucking Falls I'd have been just another hick asshole begging for a hand out. I saved you, you ungrateful little fuck.”

  He put his face close to mine, and exhaled into my face.

  “Now, I'm going to take you out to the gate, and you're going to get out of my town. You can keep the clothes on your back, everything else is mine. There will be shoot on sight orders. You're not going to say a word to anyone.”

  “You don't agree to that, I'll shoot you like a dog right here." He took my bad hand and slammed it against the floor to emphasize his point.

  "What's it gonna be, Waight? You gonna get the hell out of my town?" Horace said, kneeling next to me and putting my own cocked J-Frame to my nose.

  I gave in.

  Horace beat me some more anyway. Then the Deputies arrived and they joined in. They were careful and thorough. Professionals. Fetch never showed up, but he'd had a head start. They were still catching up.

  When they'd had their fill, Horace paraded me through town. The Deputies followed behind, dragging Anthony Valentine and William Franks 's bodies through the snow. He announced the "charges" against me.

  Hoarding.

  Leaving town.

  Using dangerous electronics.

  And of course the murders. I couldn't argue most points, and after the fresh beating, I didn't have the strength to anyhow.

  I was a trader, and a damn good one, so I had more than most. But it wasn't on purpose. I did leave town. I'd argue with the "dangerous" part, but I did have electronics. I suppose I had murdered Anthony Valentine.

  (No, I did murder him. Accident or not, justified or not, I killed him. I still haven't come to grips with that.)

  I have no doubt that if Franks had never met me, he'd be alive too. Some of the mob grew restless as they listed my offenses. My friends and neighbors, some of them, became just my neighbors. Lucy Matthews has a nice little throwing arm in particular. She hit me with a rotten potato from about ten yards.

  Square in the face.

  The crowd followed Horace to the center of town, then gathered, then Jeb Greenly arrived and spoke quietly to Horace for a few moments. He seemed concerned, but Horace gave him a look and he wilted like week old flowers. Nothing new there.

  Then Alex Wilks was pushing his way through the crowd and shouting "Just what in the fuck is this nonsense about?"

  Robert Valentine tried to stop him as the big man pushed the crowd apart; moving towards me. Robert tried to stop him, but Alex practically walked right through the Deputy. No one else tried to stop him. They'd seen Alex when he was angry.

  They weren't stupid.

  "Just what the fuck is going on? They say you're being banished," Alex said. I shrugged. “Said you killed the soldier.”

  Robert put his hand on Alex's shoulder and the chef spun on his heels and said:

  "Get your hand off of me and back away or you and I are going to have problems. I'm going to talk to this man till I'm satisfied, and if you don't like that, you can all cook your own fucking dinners. We clear?"

  Robert didn't say a word, or move. "Get out of earshot before I lay you out, kid. Clearer?" Reluctantly, Robert backed away from us.

  "What do you need me to do?" Alex said under his breath. "Tell me what to do and I'll-"

  "Don't," I said. "You've got to look after Wendell and Caroline."

  "I know you didn't do this. It's not in your nature. Nobody thinks you did it. You deserve a trial. I could be your advocate! No one's going to let this happen if you just-”

  "Alex, I did it," I said. "I did almost everything they accused me of. The Deputies were jumping me when it happened, but I did stab Anthony. The Deputies were kicking my ass, but still. I did it.”

  “So-” Alex started, but I talked over him.

  “I didn't do Franks, but that doesn't matter. I can't prove it and since it happened because of me I may as well have.”

  Alex shook his head, frustrated.

  “Look at me, Alex. I'm rotting, and I'm beaten and I just don't... I don't have any fight left in me. They won. You've got a family now. You have things to look forward to and things to lose. Let it go."

  “Jonas-” Alex started, but Horace noticed us talking. He pushed Jeb aside, coming after Alex.

  "You get away from my prisoner," Horace growled, and Alex turned to him, balling up his fists.

  "You listen here, Horace-" Alex said, taking a step towards the fat Sheriff.

  "Alex, NO," I said, moving between them.

  "Let this one go." I leaned in and whispered quickly to Alex, "Nothing changes for the rest of you. Em's on board. He can help get you there safe.”

  “Take Jackson Tate too, he's got guns and he's a good guy. Luke and Margaret, if they'll go. Take whoever you can. Horace knows the plan so be quiet and careful, but it's got to be up to you now, you can still-"

  Ale
x hit me in the jaw, and I fell like a leaf from a tree. I was baffled. Then he was on top of me, slamming his fists into me.

  Horace's jaw dropped, and Caroline shouted "Alex, don't!" She moved to separate us, but the Deputies held her back. Horace did nothing.

  "You asshole, you always have to go it alone, don't you?!" Alex said practically taunting me, his fist smashing into my face over and over.

  “That's enough, Wilks,” Horace said.

  "Good old Jonas, never lets anyone help, right? Has to do every God-damned-fucking thing himself."

  I didn't know what to do; I had no idea why my best friend was punching me, and when I covered my face Alex's fists just went lower, into my stomach, knocking the wind out of me.

  Caroline was screaming "Alex, STOP! He's your friend!" Then we were rolling in the snow, his hands hitting me everywhere.

  But not quite as hard as Horace had hit me. Almost as if he was... pretending to hit me. I hadn't been surviving a fistfight with Alex, his playacting had been kicking my ass. Going easy on me. Two Deputies dragged him away as he shouted obscenities at me and fought them.

  "I could have helped you, asshole," Alex shouted while I was laying in the snow, stunned and confused.

  “Get up,” Horace said coldly. I did.

  As I staggered to my feet I felt a curious weight in my coat pocket and the whole scene became crystal clear.

  A gun.

  The wily fucker had slipped me a gun. Alex, thinking on his feet again. But did he have to hit me so hard?

  And he's wasn't exactly pretending, the things he said. He wasn't exactly wrong either. It's a revelation that comes too late for me (and others.)

  "Nobody's gonna say anything?" Mr. Hurley shouted, staggering forward out of the crowd. "None of ya have the balls to stand up and say what a crock of shit this is?"

  He was drunk.

  "I'll be fine Mr. Hurley," I said, "It's OK."

  Mr. Hurley pushed his way through the Deputies and got face to face with Horace. He stank of moonshine, but his eyes were as clear as I'd ever seen them.