Dark Places

by Reavis Z. Wortham

  Cody started to answer when the woman’s expression went from pleasant to furious as she glared over his shoulder. He followed her gaze to see a flash of yellow in the woods. Trying to maintain the moment, he came back to her with a smile, “Anyway.”

  She tried to slam the door in his face. “John T.!!! Run!!!”

  Shouldering her aside, Cody slammed the door open while drawing the Colt. Bowling her over, he stormed into the one-room cabin and realized it was empty.

  There was no other door. Cody lunged back onto the porch to see John T. starting a beat-to-hell two-door Pontiac Catalina parked on the off side of the cabin. He’d been examining a Route 66 roadmap when Cody walked up. Concentrating on whether Pepper could be found after so much time, John T. really hadn’t worried too much about the fisherman knocking on his door.

  Cody pointed the .45. “John T.! Get out!”

  Instead, John T. threw the map aside, started the car, and punched the accelerator. The tires spun on the wet needles.

  “Hold it!” Cody jumped off the low porch and hit slick needles. His feet went out from under him and he landed flat on his back.

  Realizing he was about to get stuck, John T. reversed, backed up, and shifted again. The car started forward. Sheriff Davis and Ricky Garfield darted around the corner, demanding that he surrender.

  Still on the ground, Cody raised his pistol as John T. finally convinced the car to move. “I said hold it!”

  The fugitive gained speed, steering directly at the two men who opened fire through the windshield, then split up in front of the oncoming car.

  The big .45 bucked in Cody’s fist. His first round shattered the driver’s side glass, but John T. didn’t slow. Cody fell and fired again at the same time the Indian woman in the cabin threw a shot at the lawmen in the trees. The deputies in the woods opened up on the cabin and the car.

  It would have been suicide to rise into the barrage of bullets zipping by only a couple of feet overhead. Rolling onto his stomach, Cody added to the din as John T. stuck his left arm through the shot-out the window and blasted away toward the woods. The return shower of lead snapped holes in the sheet metal as John T. struck Garfield, throwing him over the hood. The game warden shrieked and convulsed in pain.

  Sheriff Davis leaped against the cabin’s wall.

  Incoming rounds punched holes in both the car and the cabin behind Cody. The woman screamed, adding to the cacophony.

  Partially blocked by the truck parked in his way, John T. aimed the Pontiac at Sheriff Davis, but instead of crushing him against cabin, John T. went limp and turned the wheel, sliding sideways and stopping only inches from the building. The engine knocked, rattled, and died.

  John T. slumped against the door as he absorbed round after round of suddenly accurate fire.

  “Knock it off, you dumb bastards!” The gunfire trickled off as Sheriff Davis’ voice finally got through to the men. “I said knock it off! I’m under here!”

  The last shot was late, and the lonely report echoed through the woods. Cody rose and rushed to the Catalina, the muzzle trained on the still form in the front seat, but it wasn’t necessary. John T. West was shot to pieces, his cheek resting in the shattered glass of the window.

  Cody dropped to his stomach to see Sheriff Davis lying partially beneath the car, pinned against the building. “Quinn, you hurt bad?”

  “Only my pride.”

  “Hang on a minute ’til we get Garfield out of the way.” Cody knelt beside the game warden. “How bad you hurt?”

  Moaning in pain, Garfield rolled onto his back and gasped. “My whole leg’s broke.”

  Big John trotted up. “We’ll get you to the doctor right quick.”

  While two deputies rushed forward and pulled Garfield out of the way, another joined John to move the Pontiac. Cody reached over John T.’s corpse and steered the car as it rolled back far enough to free Sheriff Davis. With the Catalina out of the way, he sat up with a sick grin.

  Cody knelt beside him. “What’s so funny?”

  Davis hung his head between bent knees. “I swallowed my chew, but hang on. It’ll be back up in a second.”

  Chapter Eighty-five

  Moonlight illuminated the sleeping bikers. Crow worked what he hoped was a consistent search pattern that brought him from the outer edges of the camp toward the fire.

  Even though he was concentrating on finding an adult woman, he kept an eye out for a girl Pepper’s age. A couple of underage girls were passed out with a bottle of Jack Daniels lying between them. One had dark hair and he turned her head to see her face.

  She didn’t match the photo.

  The stained bandana across his broken nose, Griz snored softly. Crow studied him for a moment and moved on past two Harleys parked beneath a makeshift sunshade. Two more shapes slept nearby. Nearing the glowing coals of the campfire without finding who he was looking for, Crow knelt for a moment beside a piñon pine to think. Stomach clutched with nerves and fear, he started over, working a different pattern through the camp, finding others that he’d missed in the shadows.

  The colorful eastern glow reflecting off high, thin clouds told him he’d run out of time. Coyotes yipped somewhere in the distance, following their prey through the scrub. Feeling empty, Crow took a wide circular route to check the outer edges of the camp one last time.

  “Damn, man. You stepped on my hand.” Groggy and angry, a redheaded biker sat up, holding his fingers. “Get your ass away from here.”

  A slim hand rose up and rubbed his beard. “What’s the matter, sugar?” The woman’s sleepy voice was clear in the still morning air, and Crow recognized it right off.

  “Nothing. This dumb bastard stepped on me. Get away from here!”

  Mumbling apologies, Crow backed away, but stopped after only a few feet. The couple became still and silent. He waited until he heard heavy breathing once again and crawled back to where they lay on filthy blankets spread beside a cluster of tall brittlebushes.

  He reached out and took Tammy’s hand. When she opened her eyes, he was smiling with one finger to his lips. She gasped and he put his fingers against her mouth. Maintaining the grip, he indicated that he wanted her to follow. She rose to her knees.

  Without opening his eyes, Redbeard reached behind him and held her thigh. “Where you going?”

  Tammy’s eyes widened but they never left Crow’s excited face. “I have to pee.”

  The biker rolled over without a word.

  Standing as one, Crow led her toward the arroyo. They stopped short of the parked bikes and he drew her close, breathing her familiar musk that made him feel weak in the knees. “Let’s get out of here.”

  She pulled back, glancing toward the camp. “How’d you find me?”

  “I’ll tell you when we’re gone.” He pointed toward the bright glow of the desert sunrise.

  She planted her feet and stopped again. “Crow! We can’t. They’ll follow us.”

  “That’s all taken care of.”

  “How?”

  “You’re asking too many damn questions, and keep your voice down!”

  Still, she refused to move. “We can’t!”

  “Of course we can. I’ve found you. We can get away.”

  She twisted her arm, yanking free. “You’re going to get killed. I’ve seen these guys leave half a dozen people out in the desert. Most of them are on drugs and they’re mean as snakes. Crow, they don’t think anything of beating or killing anyone. I can’t go.”

  Shocked, he stood silent for several long moments. “What? Why?”

  A twig snapped somewhere beyond the brittlebushes to his left and Redbeard stepped around the thick screen, fumbling with his zipper. “You had a good idea, baby.”

  He still hadn’t seen Crow. Tammy sucked in a startled breath and the man reacted by turning his head toward the sound. Without
a wasted motion, Crow dug in with his foot and swung Ned’s sap.

  Instead of catching Redbeard on the side of the head, the leather-covered chunk of lead exploded the biker’s cheek. The blow knocked him back into the bushes and he landed in a crackle of breaking branches. It would have probably killed an ordinary man, but this guy was tough as a boot.

  He came up with a roar, thrashing and kicking his way out of the brush. Crow danced sideways when the Demon Rattler swung a haymaker. He saw it coming and dodged the blow at the last minute, responding with a quick snap of his wrist and catching Redbeard on the ear. He roared from the pain and drove in swinging.

  Tactics like that work in the close quarters of a bar fight, but Crow had more than enough room to move. Knowing he needed to finish the guy before the whole camp joined in, he dodged and snapped two lefts into Redbeard’s already bloody face and then swung the sap again. It missed and Crow danced back.

  Redbeard still hadn’t landed a blow, but Crow knew it was only a matter of time before he did.

  The fight caught someone’s attention in camp. “Hey! You two knock that shit off! We’re trying to sleep.”

  Other voices rose in response, asking what happening.

  For the moment, those shaking sleep from their heads thought it was a dispute between two gang members, but it wouldn’t take long to realize what was happening, especially when they recognized the man in the sleeveless jacket.

  An outsider wearing the gang’s colors was a death sentence.

  It didn’t take long.

  “Hey! Who are you?”

  Chapter Eighty-six

  A gunshot echoed across the desert, but it came from the wrong direction. “Careful, Red. He don’t fight fair.”

  Stunned at Tammy’s comment, Crow took his eyes off the biker. It was enough for Red to connect with a roundhouse blow. Crow’s head snapped to the side and he staggered, momentarily stunned. He had a sudden urge to vomit, but his sense of self-preservation kicked in and he stutter-stepped back out of reach.

  From his peripheral vision, Crow saw others step into view. The cover of darkness was gone, and it was only a matter of minutes, if not seconds, before someone realized what was happening in the early morning light.

  Redbeard had learned his lesson, and with the arrival of the others, he knew everything was on his side. Instead of charging in like a bull, he stalked Crow. It was too slow, much too slow, eating up valuable time as Crow retreated. “You’re not going?”

  Tammy paused for a moment, studying the men appearing like apparitions.

  She nodded, and Crow realized the indecisive and untrustworthy woman he’d desperately loved since high school would come after all. He threw his head up. “Shoot!”

  A pistol cracked again and the bullet snapped overhead, but it came from the wrong direction. An entirely different direction from where Rocky should have been.

  Experienced fighters, the bikers either hit the ground or melted back toward camp, going for their own guns. Another round cracked through the air above them, and then a third clipped through the brittlebushes.

  Two more gunshots crackled from near the row of Harleys and Crow knew those rounds came from the pistol Rocky carried.

  At the sound of gunfire, Red paused long enough for Crow to deliver a massive kick to the groin. No matter how tough, a direct kick there will take the fire out of any man. Doubling over, Redbeard gasped. Crow swung the sap against the top of his head and Redbeard fell sideways, completely out. Crow held out his hand. Tammy hesitated for only a moment, then grabbed it and they ran.

  A Demon Rattler rounded a cholla and landed on one knee. He threw a pistol up and the gun roared. Fire burned in Crow’s side. He snapped a shot in return that threw sand into the man’s face causing him to flinch, the next round going wild.

  Fire erupted from one of the nearby bikes. The startling dull whump of an exploding gas tank robbed the man’s attention and he paused long enough for Crow to thumb the hammer back. He shot again. The kneeling Rattler fell sideways with a gasp.

  Another bike whoofed alight. More shouts and curses came from the camp. Gunshots popped like firecrackers in the morning air. A series of methodical shots came from beside the bikes as Rocky returned the favor. Black smoke rose in two columns, then three, then four as the bikes erupted into flame in quick succession.

  Rocky had given up on putting sand in the tanks and with all stealth gone, he lit the rest.

  The deep crump of a shotgun came from near the rock house, the same direction as the first shots, and a dark figure charged. Crow drew the second revolver from his waistband and snapped off a round that missed.

  “Don’t shoot me!”

  Recognizing James’ voice, Crow threw two more shots to each side. Bikers jumped and ducked. Gunfire came from several directions, eliciting shouts and screams from both sides of the camp as the missed rounds struck unintended targets. James stumbled and landed hard on his stomach. Crow thought he was hit, but James rolled to his knees, held the trigger back on the shotgun as he pumped the forepiece as fast as he could. The wall of pellets discouraged return fire from one side, but scattered flashes told they were shooting back from the other.

  James scurried away from the melee like a crab, using both knees and one hand. Bullets whizzed overhead. Targets flashed between the bushes as bikers dodged for cover and position.

  Punctuated by pistol shots, the bikes continued to cook off one after the other. Kneeling behind the flames, Rocky thumbed fresh shells into the pistol and rose to shoot again. One man fell, but the bikers were slowly organizing themselves. Pouring lead in Rocky’s direction, they moved forward as he retreated back toward the arroyo.

  Crow fired with a pistol in each hand, backing away and shielding Tammy with his body. She screamed and pulled at his shirt, urging him to turn and run. James finally regained his feet and charged past the retreating couple. Crow’s revolvers clicked dry and he spun to follow.

  There was no time to find an easy way down into the wash. Tammy led the way, still gripping Crow’s shirt. She leaped over the edge, pulling Crow off balance. She caught the sloping side over halfway down and managed to maintain her balance with great leaps to the bottom. Crow landed wrong and tumbled, losing the grip on one pistol.

  He rolled to the bottom in a spray of rocks and sand as more rounds blasted from Rocky’s position. On the camp side of the arroyo, a steady count of deep, methodical gunshots echoed across the desert as if someone were taking target practice.

  James found footing over the arroyo’s edge, giving him a protected position to shoot. Exposed only from the chest up, he rested one elbow on the ground and pumped rounds at anything that moved. Bodies fell, possibly from the impact of the #4 buck he was throwing in the bikers’ direction, or they were ducking—he didn’t know. Most of the bikers’ return fire whizzed overhead, but occasional close shots threw sand into his face and eyes. When the last empty shotgun shell rattled to the ground, James drew a .38 from Ned’s holster and threw six shots at the scattered muzzle flashes.

  Below, Crow found his feet as Tammy hauled him up. Seventy-five yards away, Rocky slipped over the side and stumbled to the bottom of the wash. Taking advantage in the brief lull, he ran for the safe side.

  James quit shooting and all was silent. He took that opportunity to leap down the crumbling side and landed hard. Regaining his feet, he saw the other three racing across the open space. Shouts filled the air and ineffective shots snapped overhead without finding flesh. James ran, and in seconds, all four were scrambling to the top.

  More bikes whoofed to light and flames rose into the still air, sending thick columns of black smoke that mixed and stretched skyward. When he reached the top of the arroyo, James realized he was far behind the other three. He reloaded both weapons and resumed the uniform pattern of gunfire to keep their heads down until both ran dry.

  He wiped t
ears from his eyes and ran.

  Chapter Eighty-seven

  Still shaken, Sheriff Davis and Cody leaned against the game warden’s truck as the Oklahoma lawmen handled the details of the shooting between the rain showers.

  Cody lit a dry smoke from the pocket of his slicker and blew a long stream from his nose, watching them carry the wounded woman from the shot-up cabin.

  The game warden, Ricky Garfield, was already on his way to the nearest hospital. A deputy directed the second funeral home ambulance as the driver backed through the melee to the cabin’s little porch. “Back, back. Stop.”

  The driver hit the brakes too hard and the tires slid a couple of inches on the wet pine needles, piling up the straw and leaving two inches of cleared sand. Seeing the short skid, Cody’s head swirled with a feeling of déjà vu.

  Thinking it was the result of stress and too many smokes, he ground out the butt and studied the propane tank sitting in a clearing only feet from where he stood. The stationary object spun in his mind and he waited, thinking it was lucky one of the wild rounds during the shootout hadn’t hit the tank. He drew a deep breath and sighed, crossed his arms, and watched something skitter through long grass growing up around the tank. A mouse darted across a clear space and disappeared into another clump.

  There was something about those ambulance tires. He studied them again, but kept coming back to the sand cleared of pine needles.

  “You all right, Cody?” Big John joined him.

  “Yeah, swimmy-headed’s all.”

  “You ain’t hurt, are you?”

  “No. I’m fine.”

  A cat darted across the clearing toward the propane tank, launched itself through the grass and came out with the mouse. It made Cody think of the cat that had given him a split second of warning before Marty ran out of Melva’s house.

  The tires popped into his mind. Tires on the broken down truck sitting that long should have been low at least, and then he realized what had been nagging at him. There was a slight indention behind the truck tires where the grass wasn’t growing.