He wished the Mexican hadn’t fallen on his radio. At least he could tell Sadie to go find Roe. He was across the 5-and-10 and onto the connecting roof of the Tinsel, Pinto’s one screen movie theater, in a few quick strides. There wasn’t but one safe way down from the roof tiles on the Tinsel, and it was the rickety old fire escape. Noisy as all get out, too, he thought. But, as plans go, this plan not really being a plan, nothing had gone south yet and that wasn’t a bad thing. Still, the idea of heading down two flights of steps in the dark with his hands full didn’t sit right with him.
He peered over the edge of the roof at the open dumpster. It was full of everyone’s trash, as usual. Made him miss the idea of old Hollis showing up at the jail on Sunday morning instead of going to church with his wife so he could complain about how everyone in town was using his dumpster, and by God, it was for theater trash only.
He sighed and jumped off in it. Something sharp stabbed into his lower back as he landed in the piles of garbage and he could feel blood begin to run down into his waist band. He scrambled up and out and ran limping down the alley. He heard a crack from far behind him, like somebody lighting fireworks. The bullet whizzed by him and hit a gutter. If he’d taken the fire escape, he’d likely be dead. He half-turned and fired the shotgun, the echo from the retort filling the backstreet. He could hear the ball shot bounce off the back bricks. He knew he hadn’t hit anything, but maybe it slowed whoever shot at him down a bit.
Two blocks to go, then left one block on 5 to Main, his only way back to the station house. That sure was a long way from where he was now and he felt a little nauseous. The leg of his jeans was becoming soaked through with blood. A loud engine fired up over on Main, one of those Ford big blocks with the pipes cut, and the sound started to move in his direction. He knew there was a side street ahead of him that was big enough for a truck.
He leaned against the wall there and tried to catch his breath. He reached behind him and felt the deep cut in his back through the tear in his department issue shirt. He hoped he hadn’t stabbed himself so deep he’d die right here in the alley before he had a chance to get this shit squared away. He set the Magnum in the holster and jacked a round into the sawed off. The truck careened onto the short road to the alley, shearing off one of its side mirrors on a light pole. He watched the headlights on the back door of the beauty supply across from him, the spots getting larger and larger.
He swung out and shot a round into the driver’s side glass, ran another shell through and blasted the passenger side, and ducked back out of the way. The big truck went right by him and crashed into the beauty supply and drove up inside under the collapsing walls before stopping. He took off again, not bothering to check if the occupants were alive or dead.
He threw up a little in his mouth and spit it out. There were little fireflies dancing around in the corners of his eyes. He covered the last block in the alley and hung a left on 5 Street, stumbling some as he did. Hey, Miguel, he thought, I made it. You’re gonna have to see this through, though, because I need to go drop dead. Good luck, amigo.
He sucked it up and kept his legs pumping. He turned right on Main and more bullets sparked on the sidewalk behind him. He thought he saw his old man in the glass of the Starr County Tax Records office, running beside him. He put his boot in a big crack in the sidewalk and bit his tongue on the misstep. Night keeps getting better and better, he thought. Maybe Don the rummage man will be out on his rounds and miss the red light up at San Jacinto and just run him over. His Lucchese boots would be in the second hand store and Don would be out shooting cans with his Magnum, sawed off stuck up underneath the seat of his beat up Power Wagon.
The only sounds he could hear were the thuds of his boot heels on the pavement and the pounding of his heart in his ears as he crossed San Jacinto. He thought he saw shadows run across the street to his right but he wasn’t going to stop to look. The station house was just up ahead. He put everything he had into the sprint, his chest on fire as he ran.
He stopped in the doorway of the station house and turned around. He dropped to one knee more out of necessity than anything else and leveled the Magnum. He looked left and right, near and far, trying to spot anyone moving against him. He saw two figures far down the street leave the cover of a vehicle and duck into an alley. Too far away to hit. Nothing else moving. He couldn’t stay. There was no cover.
He painfully removed the keys from his pocket and turned for two seconds to unlock the door. He backed in, never taking his eyes from the street. He locked the door behind him and crawled to the bathroom and opened the first aid kit. He unbuttoned his shirt and slowly took it off. He opened the bottle of rubbing alcohol and poured it over the wound in his lower back. He stuck a finger in it. It was deep, maybe an inch or more and about two inches wide.
It did cross his mind he could bleed to death. He ripped four packages of gauze bandages open and held them to it as he began to painstakingly wrap his midsection in white tape. Once he had it in place, he tried to stand and he put his shirt back on. He was shaky, but he wasn’t going to fall down. Not yet, anyway. He dropped to his knees and made his way back to the foyer. He hadn’t closed the blinds on the big windows and now he was glad he didn’t. At least he could see what was happening down the street.
He thought he could see the spot on the courthouse roof from where the gunmen had been shooting at him. Down below them in front of the building proper sat a black Suburban. It began to roll towards him with its headlights off.
He watched the black vehicle come slowly on. He could see behind it were several men. Every few steps, one of them would stick his head out to see how far away the Sheriff’s office was. He counted at least ten. He’d killed four if he recalled correctly. Fifteen men or more sent in to kill him and the only man stupid enough to agree to testify against the cartel. They were taking this pretty seriously, he thought.
He flipped open the cylinder on the Magnum and replaced the two spent rounds. He emptied the shotgun and replaced the shells one by one. There were only five. Better make each one count, JD McKinnon, he told himself. The Suburban was just a few blocks away now. He could see two men in the front seats, God only knew how many were in the back. Or on the side streets, trying to flank the jail right now, for that matter. He tried not to think about that prospect.
He could feel fresh blood oozing down his back. His bandages were already leaking. He shook off some dizziness and moved over in front of the small file cabinet that sat next to Roe’s desk. He leaned out and aimed the Magnum at the street, then moved back in front of the file cabinet. He did this a couple more times to get used to it. The file cabinet wouldn’t be much cover if they were using high-powered rifles. His knees ached.
The men behind the Suburban suddenly sprinted in every direction, taking cover behind cars and trash cans and mailboxes. Then, they opened up on him in unison. Rounds came flying through the foyer, striking everything. Papers on desks were sent skyward. Pictures of all the sheriffs before him were blown to pieces. The blinds fell out of the front door. Coffee cups on the cabinets exploded. The hanging lights blew out. Glass was everywhere as both front windows collapsed.
“Shit,” he whispered. He swung out and took aim at the driver. He pulled the trigger. He could see the man’s head knock back against the headrest, cracks spreading across the windshield. The vehicle stopped. He pulled the hammer back on the big gun. He swung back out and sighted a man running from one trash can up to the next. He pulled the trigger and the man jerked in midstride as if he’d run into a clothesline. He flopped on his back.
“That’s two,” he said to himself. Another chorus of bullets ripped through the office. The sheetrock at the back of the room was beginning to look like a block of Swiss cheese. Big chunks of it were now falling out onto the floor. He knew he couldn’t stay here. He got on his belly and began to crawl slowly back to the jail cells.
Once inside the heavy steel door, he stood up and almost blacked out. He shook his head
vigorously and reached around to touch the bloody spot spreading on his shirt.
“Dammit,” he swore.
“Sheriff?” Miguel called out.
“It’s me. They ain’t in yet,” he told him.
He walked back to the cell where Miguel stood, oddly calm, in front of the bars.
“Sheriff, you have to let me out. Give me a chance to defend myself,” he pleaded.
JD breathed deeply. If it were him and Roe, he knew they’d have more than a fighting chance. Now it was just him. He reckoned he didn’t have much of a choice. He removed the keys from his belt and unlocked the cell door.
“Thank you, Sheriff,” Miguel told him.
“You know how to use one of these?” JD asked, handing him the shotgun.
“Yes,” Miguel answered, taking the shotgun. He jacked a round into the chamber. “You don’t look so good, Sheriff,” he said.
“I guess I seen better days,” JD said. “They’re movin on the front. I figure they’re movin on the back, too. But all the firepower’s concentrated on the entrance right now. There’s a reserve cruiser out back. We get to that, we can cut outta here. Can you drive?”
“Yes,” Miguel answered.
“Good,” JD said, “I can’t.”
He handed him the keys to the reserve cruiser. Miguel bounced them in his palm.
“I’ll go first,” JD told him. He stopped to fill the cylinders on the Magnum again and flipped it closed. He put the big key in the lock to the back door and slowly opened it. He peered cautiously out into the back parking lot. He could see no one.
“Let’s go,” he said, as he stepped through the door.
Something happened. It was loud, so loud his ears popped. He stumbled forward and fell down the steps. His arms didn’t work and he couldn’t stop himself and he landed on his face. His front teeth broke on the pavement. He exhaled through his mouth a clot of thick blood. He rolled his eyes around and back. A bare foot passed by. It seemed to be moving in slow motion as it planted and the energy behind the step pushed it forward. He watched with sleepy fascination the ball of the foot as it rolled and he drunkenly tried to comprehend the words falling on his ears through the deafening roar in his head.
“I told you your time was up, didn’t I, Sheriff,” Miguel said.
There were several men approaching, their booted feet thudding on the concrete. They were shouting at Miguel. Calling him something. Jefe? Jefe. He couldn’t keep his eyes open. He was back on the beach at Iwo, sitting in the black sand with the waves lapping at his feet. The sound of the ocean filled his ears. Clouds filled the sky. He looked around the beach for Ange. He couldn’t find her.
He died.
The door on the black sedan opened and a young man got out and stood there. He was clad in black, with a flak jacket on. He wore mirror frame sunglasses and a Glock was on his gunbelt. The letters DEA were emblazoned in white across the front of his shirt. He looked impatiently at his watch.
“Boss?” he said. “Boss? We need to go.”
The old woman at the grave rested her hand on the man’s shoulder and he turned to her.
“I miss him, Ange,” he told her. “Hard to believe it’s been twenty years.”
“I know, Roe,” she said. “I miss him every day. I think about the way he wore his hat. The way he half smiled all the time. I set at night sometimes and I can hear him walkin around in the livin room. That’s crazy ain’t it?”
He gave her shoulder a squeeze.
“Naw, Ange, it ain’t,” he assured her.
“He’d be prouder’n hell of you, Roe,” she told him. “He always knew you’d break free of this town and do somethin better.”
He ran his hand across the lower part of his stomach. Twenty years gone and the scars from the bullets still felt strange to him, even beneath his body armor and his shirt. He tried to imagine what it was like for JD that night, like he always did every time he thought about it, but just like every other time, he couldn’t come up with anything.
“Can I get you somewhere?” he asked her.
“No, Roe, I’m fine. My sister’ll be along in just a few minutes. I want to spend a little more time with him.”
She bent to the stone and touched it before looking back up at him.
“Go get em,” she told him.
He looked down at the cracked headstone and then at the untended graves nearby. He scanned the horizon where the town once stood. Only crumbling buildings now and a few houses. Packs of wild dogs everywhere.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, staring at the stone. “I’ll be seein you, Sheriff.”
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