Ernesto leads them a mile or so down an old country road. He cuts across a field, following a deer path and down to a small creek. Roger manages well enough on the horse; they seem to know where they are going and amble along easily. The reins almost seem unnecessary. Roger wonders if the horse would feel insulted if he actually tried to use them.
They tether the horses along a high section of the bank. Ernesto scrambles down the side, just above the high water mark, and moves some river stones to reveal an opening. Arm in up to his shoulder, he reaches in and pulls out a bulky canvas bag that he heaves over his shoulder and carries up the slope with difficulty.
“We’ve got our own armory at the farm. Too many eyes on it. This is my own private stash for emergencies.” His eyes gleam as he looks through the bag. “What do you think? Should we go small or large?”
“I’m not even sure what we’re doing,” Roger says.
“We’re going to give Beckett a little surprise.” Ernesto unwraps a cloth from around a revolver. “Maybe do a bit of interrogating.”
“What if he doesn’t talk?”
“His type always cracks. There’s a country bar he frequents, the Moonshine Sadie. He’s not on assignment, so it’s likely he’ll be there tonight. The bar’s not in a commune. It’s out in the middle of nowhere. All types visit it, but it can be pretty rough. Wild West type stuff. Attracts a lot of would be cowboys, Roughies and all-around assholes.” Ernesto looks at Chelsey. “No offense intended with the Roughie part.”
“So what’s the plan?” Roger says.
“I figure we case the place, see if his horse is there. There’s a spot on the return trail that would be good for an ambush— just like old times. We’ll wait for him there.” Ernesto pulls a mean looking rifle from the sack. “So, again I ask you, small or large?”
{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}
A mosquito whines in the indistinct airspace around Roger’s head. He feels a tickle against his ear, brushes it; the whining continues after a brief interlude. If only I still had some of Jodi’s catnip.
Roger waits on one side of the trail, Chelsey the other, and Ernesto has positioned himself farther down, with the idea that he would step out in front of Beckett, and the other two would step out behind, trapping him. The tanglewood growing along the path would make it impossible for him to leave it.
What could go wrong? Roger had thought. But he had not considered the question “what if he never shows up?” Beckett’s horse had been tethered outside the Moonshine Sadie as Ernesto predicted. But the night was growing old.
Ernesto slides up beside Roger, rifle in hand. “He should have been here by now.”
“You should tell him that.”
“We’re losing the night. And my ass hurts from laying on it funny.” Ernesto whistles to Chelsey, who creeps her way across the path and settles next to them. “What’re you doing?” she asks.
“We need to see if he’s still there. We could be waiting here for nothing.”
“But the ambush.” Chelsey is clearly annoyed.
“No Beckett, no ambush. Just three sore asses.”
Roger sighs. “I’d rather wait, but we’re following your lead here. You know what’s going on around here better than us.”
“Do all three of us need to go?” Chelsey asks. “I could go back and check it out while you two wait here.”
“Did I mention my sore ass?”
“If he looks outside he won’t recognize me. And you and Roger can still do the ambush.”
“I’m not letting you go back there on your own,” Roger says. “From everything Ernesto has told me.”
“Not letting me? I think you’re forgetting who the babysitter is.”
“I didn’t say that right. But I’m coming.”
“Then keep up, if you can.” Chelsey is already on her feet.
“What happened to following my lead?” Ernesto grumbles. “I’m the one with the sore ass here.” But Chelsey is already jogging down the path with Dixie and Roger trying to keep up.
Roger is out of breath when they reach the Moonshine Sadie. They peer into the clearing where Beckett’s horse is still tied to a hitching post along with three others. Light floods through the front windows of the drinking establishment, illuminating the front porch where one the rocking chairs seats an early casualty of the night’s revelry and a pair of rusty mountain bikes leans against the clapboard wall. Jaunty piano music and drunken voices drift in the clearing.
“Four horses and two bikes, but there’s a lot more than six people in there,” Roger observes.
“Horses and bikes are luxuries,” Chelsey says.
“Well, his horse is there. We should get back to the ambush before he steps out.”
Chelsey doesn’t move. “How do we even know he’s actually in there? Or what if he’s passed out drunk, like the guy on the porch?”
“All we can do is wait and see.”
“Or go inside.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“We need to get this guy.”
“I can’t argue that you can look out for yourself. But this is my mission. This is about me finding my wife. If someone is going in, it’ll be me.”
“I care about Miss Esther, too,” Chelsey says. “And you really think it would be wise for you to walk into this bar, you, the man whose face is plastered over wanted posters, and will probably be recognized by Beckett himself? Yeah, that would make a lot of sense.”
“Bad things could also happen to you,” Roger says grimly. You’re not going in there alone.”
“I’m not,” Chelsey says. “Right Dixie?”
{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}
Roger grits his teeth and watches Chelsey cross the clearing with Dixie. The girl and dog walk confidently up the steps of the Moonshine Sadie and enter through the front door with no hesitation. The piano notes and voices grow louder as the door opens, and then are again muffled by its closing.
An outcry, a scream, glass breaking: Roger waits for any of these sounds, but hears none. The piano keeps playing; the voices roll along modulated and unintelligible.
Another mosquito whines unseen.
If waiting for the ambush was long, this was an eternity.
The seconds pound like a slow drum.
I must go inside.
I will endanger her if I go inside.
The pendulation between the two thoughts leaves Roger frozen like a frightened animal. We should have waited at the ambush.
Ten minutes, by Roger’s estimation.
Twenty minutes.
Twenty-five.
Or maybe it was less time, but to Roger it was still too long.
I’m going in.
And here is Roger on the porch, confirming the drunk in the rocker is still out cold, drool leaking down to wet a well-worn flannel shirt. Here is Roger, peeking through the window like a curious adolescent.
Here is Roger entering.
His handle grasps the doorknob and turns it. The door opens easily; he shuts it behind himself automatically. A hanging fog of smoke drapes a large wooden room and presents Roger’s nose with a pungent aroma of tobacco, alcohol and sweat. Men play cards at wooden tables set over wide plank floors. A long bar is mostly filled. The piano in the corner is manned by a plain-looking woman who focuses on keys, occasionally missing a note to swig from her cloudy glass. A man and woman dance before the piano, heavily clinging to each other, their steps a balancing act of defiance against drunken clumsiness.
A dim hallway leads out back.
A staircase leads up to a half-floor that overlooks the bar below.
What Roger doesn’t see is Chelsey. Or Beckett.
Now what?
Roger had imagined every head turning, every eye staring. And while he did receive an appraising glance or two, most simply continued doing whatever they were doing.
He approaches the bar, choosing an empty seat nearest the door that gives him a view of most of the room including the balcony above. Th
e bartender, a gray-faced little man, looks at him with a slight lift of the eyebrows.
What the hell do I order? What is there to order?
“Beer, please.” The “please” squeaks out, like an afterthought. The bartender takes a small round glass and pours something into it from a jug under the counter. He sets it firmly in front of Roger and continues his conversation down the bar.
The liquid is clear. Mostly. The smell of it makes the tiny hairs in his nose tingle.
Moonshine. Roger takes up the glass and sips carefully, avoiding a small chip in the rim. It’s strong, but not quite as powerful as Roger expected, as if it were watered down. Maybe that’s his version of beer.
Roger sips and surveys.
Was that man at the end of bar giving him a look? The men on either side of him seem oblivious to his presence. Roger watches the stairway to the balcony, but no one goes up it. And no one enters the dim hallway to the back.
Finally, a man gets up from one of the card tables and stumbles his way to the back hallway. No one gives him a second glance. Roger pushes back from the bar, his drink barely touched. The bartender is engrossed in his conversation.
Casually, Roger ambles past the bar and into the hallway, which proceeds narrowly for several yards before opening up into sad room of bunks. The bunks line the walls, and are sealed with wire netting. The man who preceded Roger into the room is already inside a bottom one, fumbling a latch closed. He falls back in the ragged bedding, turns over and promptly falls asleep. Two other bunks are occupied, miniature flophouses for the overly drunk or tired. Beckett is not in either of them.
Returning to the bar, Roger now focuses on the balcony stairs. As he takes his first step, the bartender calls out to him.
Roger looks to bar.
“Yeah, you.” The bartender eyes him suspiciously. “You pinching back there?”
“Pinching?”
“Stealing.” The bartender narrows his gaze. “From the drunks in the flop room.”
If eyes weren’t on him before, they sure were now.
“No,” Roger says.
“You plan on paying for your drink?”
“Yes.”
“Well how about it?”
Roger hesitates. “How do I pay? What’s the currency?”
“What’s the currency?” A nasty smile splays across the bartender’s lips. “‘What’s the currency?’ he says.” The bartender folds his arms. “You in the habit of buying things without knowing how to pay for them?”
“I’ll pay. What’s the price?”
“You got any commune money? You sure ain’t got no Roughie credit.” This comment elicits a few chuckles from the growing audience.
“No commune money,” Roger says.
“You one of them annoying barter-fucks? You got some chickens in a sack outside you want to give me?” The bartender motions around the room. “Or maybe you can get someone to buy you your drink? How about it? Anyone want to buy this little lady her fucking beer?” More chuckles from the crowd. But the ugly smile on the bartender’s face is melting away leaving behind an even uglier expression. His dark eyes shine expectantly. “How about it?”
Roger has no money, and the only item in his possession is the small pistol he selected from Ernesto’s canvas sack. And he sure wasn’t handing that over.
“I stand by my word, and I give you my word that I will pay this debt.”
“Shut up.”
Two men grab Roger from behind and muscle him to the bar. The bartender looks him close in the eye. “Search him.”
The men shove Roger’s head down against the bartop and pat down his legs and torso. At first Roger struggles, but a slam of the head convinces him against the action. The men find the gun, tucked into his belt, and hand it over to the bartender who inspects it and sees that it is fully loaded.
The men hold Roger as the bartender points the gun loosely in his direction. Roger’s mouth is dry. I’ve failed her, and have gotten us both killed. The piano has stopped, and so has most everything else. Shiny, intoxicated eyes around the room look hopeful to witness some violence.
“A loaded gun,” the bartender drawls, “is something of luxury these days. And you said you didn’t have anything to pay with.”
Roger breathes heavily against the bar. His breath fogs the worn, smooth surface.
“This here gun buys a lot of drinks at Sadie’s,” continues the bartender. “Or would have. Too late for that.”
The crowd snickers. In the reflection of bar, Roger sees distorted figures looking down from the balcony.
“What do the Arabs do to thieves?” The bartender says to the crowd.
“Cut off their hands,” a voice responds.
“Sounds too lenient to me, but I’d hate to waste a bullet.” the bartender says. He strikes the side of Roger’s face with the butt of the gun.
Roger feels warm blood ooze down his cheek. The tense crowd seethes with a night’s worth of unspent animosity. Lost card games, missed tail, a rough day in the field— they could let it all out on him. All they need is a spark.
“Stop,” commands a strong, young female voice. Chelsey stands at the top of the stairs. “He’s an idiot, but he’s with me.”
The focus of the bar patrons shifts but the tension remains.
Chelsey walks down the stairs deliberately. “Let him go. I’m good for his tab.”
Murmurs erupt. “She knows the top-level passcodes,” Roger hears one voice say. “Says she’s the daughter of a chieftain,” says another. The hands on Roger relax. The bartender shrugs. “Let him go. But I’m keeping this gun.”
Roger groans and pulls his head up from the bartop. Chelsey is already at his side. “Let’s go,” she says.
“Hold up,” comes another voice from atop the stairs, one Roger has heard before. “That asshole is a wanted rapist.” It’s Beckett, holding one of the flyers with Roger’s face drawn on it. “And this little bitch, if she knows him so well, must be quite the criminal, too.”
Beckett walks down the stairs, talking the entire way. “She’s been up here, asking me this and that, suggesting we leave together. Seems suspicious to me. Seems like they’re here to rob and murder.
“I bet she isn’t even a Roughie. Probably took all them passcodes from someone. Her and her rapist buddy over there.”
The seething energy that had been leveled at Roger is now turned on Chelsey. We’re screwed, he thinks miserably. Chelsey, for her part remains calm, but Roger can sense a crack in her resolute manner.
“Eye for an eye,” calls out a voice.
Not going down without a fight, thinks Roger. The time for negotiation is over. He leaps on the man nearest Chelsey and starts swinging. “Run for it!”
Chelsey takes a step, but is yanked backward by the hair. She bites, kicks and curses, but a circle of men surrounds her. Roger feels glass break over the back of his head, feels weightless, and suddenly flying across the room and into a table. Get back up and help her.
He struggles to his feet only to be kicked back down by grinning men who seem more interested in the other struggle, leering back toward Chelsey.
A shot reverberates in the wooden room and a man bending over her falls back and slumps over.
Chelsey found her gun.
Another shot takes off an attacker’s ear and buries itself in the high ceiling. The attackers are breaking away, ducking for cover.
Two shots. One down.
How many more does she have? Six?
There were well more than six more men, if they hung around. Maybe they would dissipate, decide it wasn’t worth the risk.
No such luck.
“Drop it, bitch!” The bartender levels Roger’s pistol from behind the bar. “Don’t make me blow your pretty face off.”
Chelsey has no intention of dropping anything. She reels off three quick shots from a sitting position and the bartender drops behind the counter. But did she get him?
Three shots left.
�
��You’re dead,” the bartender shouts.
“No hombre, you are.” Ernesto stands in the doorway, rifle leveled, and opens fire. Down goes the bartender. Down goes everyone in a cacophony of splintering wood and gunfire. Bodies are lunging, then falling. Rolling then stopping. Movement then stillness. But always noise.
Chelsey is creeping up the stairs. Roger sees Beckett in the balcony, lining up a shot at Ernesto. He shouts a warning but his words are lost in the madness.
Ernesto is clutching his shoulder, gun drooping. Chelsey has made the top of the stairs, taking aim at Beckett.
“Don’t kill him,” Roger shouts. “Don’t!”
Chelsey shoots and Beckett falls. Roger has found his direction and is flying up the stairs. He is looking over her shoulder— she winged Beckett, but he still holds his weapon.
“I have one more shot,” Chelsey says. “Please make me use it.”
Beckett looks desperately around the room, and finding little hope, sets the weapon aside.
{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}
All the other men in the room have expired. Ernesto has procured a shirt and tied off his arm to stop the bleeding— a “scratch,” he calls it. Roger has retrieved his pistol from the dead hand of the bartender. Chelsey sits out on a porch rocker, keeping watch with Dixie. The drunk who had been on the porch must have awakened and fled during the firefight. His spot was still warm.
In the flop room, the drunks are out cold. “See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil,” Ernesto says. “They’ll be confused as hell when they wake up.”
“What about Beckett?”
“Don’t worry; he’ll talk.”
Beckett is strapped to one of the last intact chairs. Roger had done him the favor of tying his leg off above the knee, which Chelsey shattered with her shot. Mostly he didn’t want the man to bleed out before he told what he knew.
Ernesto stands over the chair and takes out Beckett’s gun, tracing his thumb over the intricate golden ornamentation of the handle. “Pretty accessory you have here. Where’d you get it? A gift from the Freedom Republic?”
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