by Linda Berry
Smiley unbuttoned his breast pocket, made a show of taking out a thick roll of bills, and began thumbing them into Justin’s hand, slow and precise. Mostly twenties and fifties.
“Hurry it up, will ya?”
Smiley glared up at him. “You made me lose my place. Where was I?”
“Give it to me.” Heart racing, Justin grabbed the bundle of bills, shoved it into his back pocket, and strode toward his truck.
Two men rounded the back of his camper before he reached the driver’s side. Silhouetted against the dim light, one was tall and skinny, the other was stocky with bowed legs. Justin turned in time to see Smiley slip back through the exit door.
The men came at him fast. Justin turned to run, but a third figure sprang out from the shadows and tackled him. The concrete flew up hard and fast. Someone’s boot heel came down like a sledgehammer on his skull. White pain exploded in his brain. He curled up, covered his head, braced himself. Rapid-fire kicks from two pairs of boots thrust him into instant, agonizing hell.
“Enough!”
The assault stopped.
“Mind yer own business, Murry,” Porky grunted.
“Beatings behind my bar are my business. Keeps tourists away.”
Silence.
“You did the kid enough damage. Get your money and go.”
More cursing. Justin felt hands pat down his body, find his wad of bills, then he heard his wallet slap the ground.
“Let’s go. Count it in the truck. Take out Smiley’s cut.”
The footsteps moved away down the alley.
Justin heard the door clang shut behind Murry.
Lightheaded, drifting on a sea of pain, Justin heard a set of boot steps return. A vicious kick found his hamstring. Someone moaned like a dying animal. Was it Justin? Vaguely, faraway, he felt his boots being yanked off. Then he was floating off the ground. The last thing he remembered was sinking into oozing, stinking, rotting food.
As he emerged from darkness, Justin became aware of three things: his labored breathing, hellish pain, and the claws of squeaking rats scurrying over his body. With a yelp, he batted a large rodent off his head. The creatures scattered as he tried to rise, his hands grabbing blindly for the rim of the dumpster. His fingers slipped off the greasy edge and he teetered backwards onto his ass. It took another couple tries before he tumbled over the side to the asphalt below. Coated in grease and rotting food, Justin leaned against a brick wall with both arms and retched his steak dinner, then he dry-heaved, feeling like his guts were going to come out next. Bile burned his throat, his body pulsed with pain, he could hardly breathe, which probably meant fractured ribs, and he was hatless and bootless. Momentarily, white-hot rage blocked out the pain but then it came back full force. Tears squeezed out of his eyes.
Sucking in ragged breaths, he picked up his wallet and staggered like a drunkard to his truck. He wiped dust off the window with his sleeve and peered into the camper shell. Thank God. All his meager possessions—sleeping bag, carton of books, laptop, beat-up guitar, rodeo gear bag—were untouched. He unlocked the cab door, threw an old tattered blanket over the seat, climbed in and peeled out of the alley.
As he raced away at high speed from his nightmare in Red Rock, Justin was tormented by his own stupidity. Why had he followed Smiley into the alley? Why couldn’t he see it was a setup? Porky, Smiley, and even the bartender had played him. This, after the preacher got a sizable piece. He’d ricocheted like a pinball from one con man to the next after cruising into town with the word sucker pulsing in neon on his forehead. Hank Sterling, the only decent man he’d met today, had warned him but he’d been too pigheaded to listen. Now he was paying a heavy price. Beaten up, no money, and no way to make a living until his body healed up.
He drove for hours with the windows rolled down to dilute the nauseous smell. Around three a.m. the lights of Phoenix appeared on the horizon and familiar landmarks swept into view. Cheap motels and gas stations; garish neon signs bleating against the night. He pulled off the highway, bounced over a pitted road, and parked at a rest stop. The restroom reeked of urine and bleach, and Graffiti covered the walls and stalls. As he relieved himself in the urinal, his eyes scanned vulgar poetry and primitive drawings of body parts. Fighting back an urge to heave, he stripped off his fouled clothes, shoved them into a trash bin, and did his best to wipe grease off his skin with powdered hand soap and paper towels. After doing a piss-poor job, he slathered on a layer of soap just to stifle the odor. Pain shot through his body as he pulled on his last pair of clean jeans and t-shirt. He wormed his feet into a pair of worn running shoes and limped out into the warm desert air.
He drove a short distance into a gritty suburb, parked outside a Motel Heaven, and entered the dimly lit office. The closet-size room smelled of stale coffee and cigarettes, and the pimply-faced clerk swiped his card without looking him in the eye. Justin figured his odor must be offensive, even frightening. He paid in advance for three nights and located his room. At thirty bucks a night, Justin knew what to expect and wasn’t surprised. Musty, dismal, worn. Stains in the toilet and sink that would never wash off. He parked his old leather bag on a chair and searched for some oxycodone left over from an old injury. After popping two in his mouth and washing them down with water from a plastic cup in the bathroom, he undressed and stood in front of the mirror to gauge the damage. Not good. He looked like he’d been trampled by a herd of bulls, his body a patchwork of welts and bruises. Covering his face with his arms during the assault left it untouched, but the back of his head throbbed like it was being used as a conga drum. Something like rancid bacon grease dripped down his face from his hair.
Justin showered in tepid water. He shampooed his hair twice and scrubbed his flesh with two cakes of tiny soap, sucking in his breath against the pain. He withstood a cold spray of water for several minutes, hoping to reduce some swelling. Shivering, teeth chattering, he toweled dry, got into bed, and pulled the covers over his shoulders. Bad mattress. Starchy sheets. Made no difference. He was in agony, waiting for the meds to kick in. Now that he was safely holed up, he surrendered fully to the depression his anger had kept at bay. With the splurge for the motel room, he had maxed out his credit card. Tomorrow he hoped to rustle up enough change from his pockets and glove compartment to order a large pizza, which would have to provide his calorie intake for the next three days. In his entire life, Justin had never felt so low, so desperate. Only yesterday, he thought he had bottomed out on bad luck and was on his way up. He flashed to his feeling of triumph after riding Cyclone. Ecstatic high, cowboys slapping him on the back, a big wad of cash waiting for him. His luck had changed with the speed of an ax slicing through kindling.
As he contemplated a survival strategy for the next few weeks, one far-fetched idea kept resurfacing: finding a woman who’d take him in while he healed up. Around the circuit, women were always hitting on him. They liked his athletic build and neon-blue eyes. A good number had invited themselves into the back of his camper truck for gratification. Quick. Easy. Stripped down to raw emotion. No attachment. No expectations. Like riding a bull, the second he started thinking was the second he made a mistake. Best to just stay in the moment and enjoy the ride. He didn’t remember faces or names, never kept a phone number. After sex, he just wanted them gone. “Catcha next time around” was his usual parting remark. Living the way he did with no house, no savings, and an insufficient education didn’t foster a desire to hook up with a dependent female, though one or two had expressed an interest in hitting the road with him.
Now things had changed. He was desperate. He’d have to piece himself together, venture out to some upscale singles bar and try to find a gal with a tender heart who would lend him a helping hand. Despising himself, he drifted into a pain-filled, hazy sleep.
CHAPTER SIX
“Incoming! Incoming!” A panicked voice crackled over the loudspeaker. Sully heard the whistle of Taliban mortars in the background. The ground concussed, shaking his cot. In an i
nstant, he was on his feet with his M16 in his hands. A round burst right outside the concrete-and-sandbag bunker and sprayed his men with rubble. Dust and smoke stung his eyes. The air reeked of explosives. He couldn’t hear his own voice screaming, “Take cover!”
Another detonation. Shrapnel blasted through the embrasures. Two men got slammed to the floor. A rocket-propelled grenade hissed through the doorway and skidded across the floor.
“Get out! Get out!” Sully frantically searched the floor until his fingers touched hot metal. Snatching the grenade beneath his gut, he waited for oblivion.
The bunker and his men vaporized. The sudden silence was deafening. He opened his eyes to find a sliver of light peeking through the bedroom door from the hallway. Drenched in sweat, heart racing, Sully lay motionless, waiting for his emotions to cool. He kept his eyes open, not willing to witness more of the horror stored behind his eyelids. The clock on his nightstand read six thirty. Gray light seeped in along the edges of the window shade. He pulled himself into a sitting position and his feet felt around the floor for his worn slippers, then he shuffled down the hall to the kitchen, clad in pajama bottoms. The smell of last night’s chili reached his nostrils before he turned on the light. It felt good to see the kitchen scrubbed and orderly. He put water on for coffee and set two mugs on the counter.
Coffee dripped into the pot and the aroma filled the room. A knock at the door alerted him before Travis walked in, accompanied by a cold blast of air.
“Morning, Travis.” Sully smiled. “You smell coffee a mile away, don’t you?”
“Heard the water hitting the pot from the bunk house.” Travis rubbed his reddened hands over a gas burner.
It bothered Sully that his friend looked stiff with cold. The old bunkhouse was drafty, but Travis insisted he liked his privacy. “I don’t know why you don’t stay in the house. There’s a perfectly good room sitting empty while you’re freezing your ass out there.”
Travis ignored him and grabbed a box of powdered doughnuts from the cupboard. “Want one?”
“How old are they?”
He shrugged. “Two weeks. Maybe three.”
“I’ll pass.” Sully poured two mugs of coffee and set one on the table in front of Travis.
Travis hung his jacket on the back of the chair and placed his hat in the middle of the table. Sully thought it made a nice centerpiece, with the sleek feathers jutting out like a rooster’s tail. The old Paiute’s skin was sun-cured from his collar to the middle of his brow where his hat normally sat. After stirring sugar into his coffee and adding cream, Travis wolfed down a doughnut and started on a second, powdered sugar dusting his collar.
“I got a visit from Carl yesterday,” Sully said, leaning against the counter with his hands wrapped around his mug. “He gave me the good news.”
Travis grunted and gulped down a half cup of coffee. He wasn’t much of a talker until he had about half a pot.
“Thanks for going out tracking.”
Travis looked around the room. “Thanks for cleaning the kitchen. Where’d you put my auto parts? I need to work on the truck.”
“In the garage. You find anything?” Sully asked.
“Yeah.”
Sully waited until Travis took another gulp.
“When I was out with the sheriff’s men, we lost the tracks on a forest road a few miles up the creek. Yesterday, I picked them up again where the creek runs into the McKenzie River. The tracks disappeared from time to time, but I’d find them again. They just kept crossing those horses back and forth across the river where the water was shallow.” He stopped and drained his coffee cup.
Sully refilled it and waited while Travis stirred in sugar and cream.
“In an old campsite, I found tire impressions made by two trucks hauling big horse trailers. There were four pairs of boot prints and the tracks of about a dozen horses. The horses were loaded into the trucks. Gunner was one of them.”
Sully cursed. There could be no mistake if Gunner was one of them. His tracks were easily recognized, embossed with the initials DH for Dancing Horse. “The other horses?”
“Don’t know where they came from.”
Sully mulled this over. “Big trucks. Careful planning. Sounds like a well-organized operation. Sheriff said they’ve been at this for a while. Horses have gone missing in other counties over the last ten months.” He spoke in a quiet tone but anger stewed in his gut. “The bastards could be anywhere in the country by now.”
Travis pulled a plastic baggie from his jacket pocket and handed it to Sully. “Found those scattered around the campsite.”
Inside were three cigarette butts. Hand-rolled, pinched on one end, stained with nicotine. “Sloppy, leaving these around.”
Travis shrugged. “Probably some stooge they hired to wait with the trucks.”
“We’ll drop this off at the sheriff’s office. Maybe they can trace some DNA.” He looked at Travis. “Thanks, Travis. You’re better than a hound dog at tracking.”
“Takes time and patience, is all.” Anger flashed in his dark eyes. “I want Gunner back as much as you do. Yesterday was my last chance to track. Snowstorm’s coming in.”
Sully arched a brow. “Snow gods tell you that?”
“That, and I saw it on the Weather Channel last night.” Travis stood and crossed the floor, refilled his coffee mug. “You planning on cooking breakfast, or letting an old man starve?”
“Last time I lived here, you knew what a frying pan looked like.”
“You remember my cooking?” Travis asked.
“Point taken.” Sully recalled the stack of pizza boxes he threw out last night. “Time to wean you off pizza and doughnuts. I’ll cook. Think you can make toast without burning them?”
Travis grunted.
Sully pulled eggs, butter, and bacon from the fridge, placed two cast-iron skillets over the burners. He lined one with strips of bacon and cracked eight eggs into the melted butter in the other. He poked the bacon with a fork and turned them over when the bacon sizzled and popped. After dividing the food onto two plates they sat down to eat. Travis doused his eggs with hot sauce. He smothered everything in hot sauce, probably even pizza.
“I looked over the books last night,” Sully said, swiping egg yolk off his plate with buttered toast. “We have enough savings to cover the next two months. That’s the good news. Now the bad news.” He paused for a long moment and then dove in. “Dad’s medical bills have pushed us close to bankruptcy. We owe the General Store for feed. Long and short of it, we’re about thirty grand short to meet overhead and property taxes by the end of the year.”
A trace of anger tightened Travis’s face.
Sully knew the old Paiute was blaming his mother. Sully, too, felt a burn in his gut. “With Gunner gone, we’re losing stud fees. It appears Gunner wasn’t insured. No payment was made this last quarter.”
Frown lines on Travis’s face deepened.
Sully was sorry to dump the bad news on him but he needed to know. “I figure we’ll have to sell a horse or two, one of the bulls, and think about boarding other folks’ horses. Maybe do some training clinics.”
Travis pushed his empty plate aside. “What about hay money?”
“That’ll help,” Sully said. “The folks Dad leased the hay fields to … ?”
“Shankles. Last year they agreed to lease for two years. Fifty-fifty split on hay.”
“Who delivers the hay?” Sully asked.
“Todd Shankle. Until he broke his hip.”
“That explains why we’re behind on payments. You and I need to make deliveries today, and collect what’s due.”
“I’m not much good at asking for money,” Travis said, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms.
“How long’s it been since you’ve seen a paycheck?”
“Can’t remember.”
“Six months,” Sully said.
“Don’t need anything. I got room and board and my veteran’s check. Doing fine.”
“You want to keep that roof over your head, you’ll make rounds with me.” Sully smiled. “You can be my muscle. Wear your shades.”
Travis grunted.
“That a yes?”
“What’re you waiting for? Get your duds on. I’ll start piling hay on the truck. And grab my shades.”
Sully went to his bedroom to get dressed and saw Eric’s box sitting on the carpet. A nagging sense of duty welled up. He picked up his cell and dialed Maggie Steeler’s number.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Maggie heard the distant jingle of her cell as she stepped out of the shower into the steaming bathroom. Wrapped in an oversize towel, she rushed into the bedroom and tried to pinpoint the phone’s location. The jingle came from the rumpled covers of the bed. She threw back the comforter and grabbed it on the fifth ring. “Hello?”
“Mrs. Steeler?” A man’s voice.
“Yes,” she said, impatient. A telemarketer? Water dripped down her back from her hair and she shivered from the chill in the room. She started to head back into the warm bathroom but the voice stopped her.
“This is Michael Sullivan. I was stationed with Eric in Afghanistan.”
Maggie stood motionless. “Yes, of course. Eric’s squad leader.”
“Yes, ma’am.” A pause. “I’m home in Wild Horse Creek. I sent you an e-mail from Germany?”
“Yes, Michael. I remember.” Her voice softened. “You have some things that belonged to Eric.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’d like to get them to you.”
Tears welled in her eyes. She didn’t trust her voice to speak. She didn’t know if she was ready to meet the last man to see her son alive.
“Mrs. Steeler?”
“I’m sorry. I was thinking about my schedule.” She stared at the frigid world outside the window. Everything sheathed in frosted white. “I’m free this evening after work. Around six?”