by Mark Allen
“No,” Wilkerson moaned. “Please don’t. I’m begging you…”
“But then,” Nazareno continued, ignoring the pleading convict, “you wouldn’t be able to clean Warden Ghastin’s office, and she tells me you do a good job…when you’re not busy raping her with your eyes.”
Wilkerson didn’t even waste his breath protesting. He just remained bowed over the toilet, awaiting his fate.
“But your eyes are not really the problem,” Nazareno said. “The problem is desire, lust, thinking with your balls, and being a slave to your dick.” He paused for a moment, then nodded, pretending to reach a decision that, truthfully, he had made before Winkerson had even been dragged into his cell. “I believe amputation will solve your problem.”
Winkerson immediately started struggling against the two enforcers, nearly cutting his own throat in the process. Which might have been preferable to what came next.
“NO!” the orderly screamed as they yanked him to his feet. Instead of slicing his neck wide open, the hunting knife cut away his gray prison-issue sweatpants, followed by his boxers.
Naked and exposed, Winkerson, still screaming even though he knew nobody, prison staff or inmates, would come to his rescue, was forced to sit down on the toilet as if taking a dump.
The knife went between his knees. It was sharp, but not that sharp; the enforcer had to saw back and forth to get the job done. Winkerson screamed in agony as blood splattered the porcelain and crimsoned the water.
Nazareno fired up a cigar until the end glowed red-hot. He approached Winkerson with a cruel smile carved on his swarthy face.
“Let’s see about getting that wound cauterized, amigo.”
The pain and smoke and gagging stench of burning flesh let Winkerson know you didn’t always have to die to go to hell.
Chapter Three
Vesper Lake
As the Wrangler’s tires rumbled over the old railroad tracks and rolled into Vesper Lake, Kane reflected that while the mountain views might be awesome, the town wasn’t much to look at.
It was situated around a small lake—Vesper Lake, he assumed—about three miles in circumference. A single two-lane road ringed the lake, with houses built along the water’s edge and the town’s limited businesses occupying space on the other side. Just about every house featured a dock—some in disrepair, others freshly-renovated—with either a fishing boat or a pontoon boat tied off.
Kane did a lap around the lake to familiarize himself with the area. The southern end featured a gas station, a bank, a hardware store, Baldy’s Groceries, and a liquor emporium. Most of the eastern side of the lake was dotted with houses.
At the northern edge of town was the Cammeaux Logging Company. As he drove past, he saw rows of heavy machinery and logging trucks and wood-chippers. A cluster of men huddled together on a smoke break stared at him with the same unwelcoming gaze he’d received back at Wolf Pond. Kane shook his head. Seemed like these mountain men didn’t take kindly to outsiders.
Just past the logging company was a rundown restaurant with its windows shuttered, and right next to it was an old car dealership, also closed up and dilapidated. Clearly, the town’s economy wasn’t booming. Kane was willing to bet that Vesper Lake was pretty much supported by the federal prison and the logging company, and if not for those two entities, this place would be a ghost town.
He passed a public boat launch and the post office, then came upon the bar Ernie Foxx had mentioned—Saws ‘n’ Suds—perched at the northwestern edge of the lake. There weren’t too many cars in the parking lot.
The road curved around a bend and snaked along the western side of the lake, mostly occupied by larger houses with bigger boats, indicating this was the wealthier side of town. Clearly in Vesper Lake, saying “the other side of the lake” was the same as saying “the other side of the tracks” in a more urban setting.
The only non-residential building on the western edge of the water was the sheriff’s station, a standard two-story brick building that had probably been built sometime in the 1950s. There were two squad cars parked out front, along with a Ford Bronco. Kane could see yellow lights glowing through the windows.
He circled back around to Baldy’s and picked up enough supplies for a week. Business was slow; there were only two other shoppers in the store, and they pointedly ignored him. The cashier was a bored, blonde, bubblegum-popping girl who looked to be about sixteen with purple streaks in her crow-black hair and angry red acne peppering her cute-in-a-plain-way face.
The bored look disappeared when Kane approached with his basket of groceries. Her eyes ran up and down his tall, muscular form in a frank, borderline-rude appraisal.
“Well, howdy, stranger,” she greeted him. “You’re not from around here, are you?”
“What gave me away?”
The girl popped her gum between her teeth, then licked her lips with exaggerated lasciviousness. “I’ve screwed every guy in this town and the next two towns over,” she said, “but I ain’t screwed you. That’s how I know you’re not from around here.” She winked. “So, what are you doing later?”
“Not you,” Kane said, giving her a grin to take the harsh edge off the words. He looked at her nametag—J. Bait—and back at her face. “Your last name really Bait?”
She brushed the tag. “No, some of the guys gave this to me as a joke. They said the ‘J’ stands for Jail. You get it? Jail Bait?”
“Yeah, I get it,” Kane said. “Guess if what you said is true, it pretty much fits.”
“Oh, it’s true,” Jailbait assured him. “But up here in the mountains, you ain’t considered jailbait once you reach thirteen.”
“Charming,” Kane replied, handing her some money. “Keep the change. Maybe I’ll see you around.”
“God, I hope so,” the girl said, stripping him with her eyes again.
“Never gonna happen, Jailbait.”
“That’s what they all say, mister. Hey, you got a name?”
“Sure do.” He gave her another grin as he walked out the door. At least he had finally found a friendly face in this town. Sure, it was mostly hyperactive teenage hormones rather than genuine friendliness, but it still counted.
He popped into the liquor store to buy a bottle of Jack Daniels to accompany the Coke he had purchased at Baldy’s, then drove around the end of the lake to Saw ‘n’ Suds. There were a few more cars in the parking lot now, and as he exited the Jeep, he could hear music coming from the propped-open front door. It was country music, and it made him want to get back into the Wrangler and leave. He hated that crap, with all its nasal twang and steel guitars. He was a rock ‘n’ roll kind of guy, but for the sake of a cold beer, he decided to suck it up and suffer the ear pollution.
After stepping through the open door, Kane found himself in a simplistic small-town drinking joint. The bar ran down the right side of the room, with high-top tables and chairs pushed up against the left wall, leaving a path straight down the middle. Halfway back, a short set of stairs led up to a lounge of sorts, with a few booths tucked against one wall. Kane glimpsed a stage at the back of the elevated area—a four-man country-western band jamming away with bucketloads of enthusiasm but not a whole lot of talent. On the dance floor in front of the stage, two couples rollicked to the southern groove, while a pretty redhead gyrated solo as a couple of beer-swilling lumberjack types in jeans and flannel shirts ogled her from the sidelines. She ignored them both but gave Kane a quick smile that made her green eyes sparkle.
Kane smiled back, more out of politeness than anything, then bellied up to the bar. He had it to himself, save for a middle-aged man slumped on a stool at the far end who looked downright miserable. Kane couldn’t blame him. That was what country music did to you. Of course, the half-dozen empty shot glasses lined up on the bar in front of him probably helped.
The bartender wandered over. He looked old enough to be God’s great-grandfather, with thick white hair matched by an equally-white beard that cascaded all the wa
y down to his big brass belt buckle. He moved sprightly, though, eyes bright with the kind of vitality usually reserved for much younger men.
“Howdy, stranger,” the barkeep greeted him. “What can I get ya?”
“What’s on tap?” Kane asked.
“A little something I call ‘Sex in a Canoe.’”
“What is it?”
“Coors Light.”
“Then why do you call it ‘Sex in a Canoe?’”
The bartender winked. “Cause it’s fuckin’ near water.”
Kane chuckled. “Got any Bud?”
“Long as you don’t mind a bottle.”
“Bottle’s fine.”
“Regular or light?”
“Regular.”
Almost like magic, a brown bottle appeared on the bar in front of him. With a practiced flip of his wrist, the barkeep sent the cap sailing. It arced into the trash can with the aerial precision of prime-time Michael Jordon draining a foul shot. “He shoots, he scores,” the barkeep announced with a grin that revealed tobacco-stained teeth.
“It’s almost like you’ve done that a time or two,” Kane remarked.
“Been around these parts since Moses was knee-high to a grasshopper, and I’ve been slinging booze and brewskies pretty much the entire time.”
“I’m guessing you’re Fred.”
“You’d be guessing right. Old Fred, that’s what they call me. Who let you in on the secret?”
“Ernie Foxx.”
“Renting his cabin?”
“I am.”
Fred nodded. “It’s a good cabin. I remember when his father built it. Back in ’52, I think it was. Or maybe it was ’53.” He shook his head as if to clear the memory fog. “Don’t matter, I guess. So, what brings you up here to God’s country?”
“Just looking for a little peace and quiet.”
Fred jerked a thumb toward the stage, where the band was abusing their instruments while the lead singer yowled like a tomcat with a sore throat. “You came to the wrong place if you’re looking for quiet.”
“Tell me about it.” Kane turned to look, and when he did, the redhead caught his eye and treated him to another smile. Then she spun back toward the stage and swayed her ass to the rhythm. Kane had to admit it was a really nice ass, and she swayed it damn well.
Fred grinned at him. “See something you like?”
“What’s not to like?”
“She’s a local girl,” Fred said. “Name’s Luna Myers.”
“Married?”
Fred snorted. “That girl’s as untamed as a wild filly. You think if she had a husband, he’d be letting her shake her tail up there like that?”
“Good point.” Kane took a swig of beer. It went down nice and cold, washing away the road dust. “Not that it matters. Like I said, I came here to get away from things for a while. Not looking for a hookup.”
“No reason you can’t do both,” Fred said. “Few days up in that cabin, you might find yourself getting lonely.”
“I hear I’ve got bears to keep me company.”
The band moved into a godawful rendition of Sweet Home Alabama as Frank nodded. “There’s a man-killer up in them woods,” he warned. “Been a bit since Gasper got a hankering to munch on a human, but you can bet your backside he’s still around.”
“Gasper?”
“Gasper the Grizzly.”
“Didn’t think grizzlies lived in the Adirondacks.”
“We used to have a wildlife exhibit about fifteen miles from here,” Fred explained. “Guy who ran the place had trained Gasper to do some basic tricks. Sit, play dead, roll over…that sort of thing.”
“So basically, he treated a grizzly bear like a dog.”
Fred shrugged. “Guess so. Anyway, few years back, Gasper escaped. Owner went looking for him. They found his remains the next day, strewn all over a pine clearing. After that, Gasper seems to have gotten a taste for human flesh, so every once in a while he pops up, kills a hiker or hunter, and then disappears again.”
Kane felt like his leg was being pulled. “You’re telling me that they can’t track him? Bring in some bloodhounds or something?”
“Been tried,” Fred replied. “Dogs, helicopters, traps, you name it. That damn bear is like a ghost.”
“Maybe they should call him Casper instead.”
Fred smirked, then grew serious again. “I know it sounds like a tall tale, sonny. Hey, I didn’t catch your name.”
“Call me Kane.”
“Well, Kane, like I was saying, I’m sure a story about a killer grizzly roaming the woods sounds like a campfire story, but I assure you it’s true. You plan on wandering around the Black Bog woods, best be sure you’re packing the kind of heat that’ll stop a bear.”
“Duly noted,” Kane said. “Thanks for the advice.”
The stool next to him was suddenly occupied by the pretty redhead. “What advice is old Fred giving you?” Luna asked.
Kane turned his head to look at her, and her green eyes gazed right back. She was even prettier up close, with a light smattering of freckles dusting her face, which was slightly flushed from the exertion of dancing.
She held his eyes, corner of her mouth tugged up in a little smile, as he replied, “He was warning me to watch out for bears in the woods and pretty girls in the bar.”
The other corner of her mouth quirked up, giving him a full-wattage smile. “Well, one of those is good advice. I’ll let you figure out which one.” She turned to Fred. “Can I get a Corona, Fred?”
“Sure thing, Luna.” He popped the cap right into the trash again and handed it to her.
“Thanks.” She took a long, appreciative swig, let out a satisfied sigh, and slid off the stool. She looked at Kane. “Care to dance?”
Kane glanced up at the stage area, where the two lumberjack types were scowling down at him. “Not sure your boyfriends would take kindly to that.”
She took another drink, then tilted her head as if studying him in a whole new light, the playful smile still fixed on her face. “You don’t strike me as the type who much cares what other people think.”
“Not caring what other people think and deliberately pissing off a couple of local boys who are clearly spoiling for a fight are two different things.”
She leaned close and said softly, “Maybe I’m worth fighting for, cowboy.”
He could smell the delicate perfume on her sweat-laced skin. Combined with her closeness and natural sensuality, the effect was intoxicating. He had come here looking for peace and quiet, though, not a barroom brawl. “I’ll bet you are,” he replied. “But I don’t dance.”
She looked deep into his eyes for a long moment, and she must have seemed something that caught her off-guard. For just a flickering second, her smile faltered, but it jumped back into place almost immediately.
As she sauntered back toward the dance floor, she called over her shoulder, “You change your mind, cowboy, you know where to find me. It’s just a dance. It won’t kill you.”
Judging from the murderous looks the two men flung his way, Kane wasn’t so sure about that.
“Back in my day,” Fred remarked, “turning down a lady for a dance was considered ungentlemanly.”
“I wasn’t kidding,” Kane replied. “I really can’t dance.”
“Can you fight?”
“Why?”
“Because it looks like you’re gonna have to.”
Kane swiveled his head and saw the two men approaching. Dammit, he thought. Just what I don’t need.
They braced him, one thumping down on the barstool at Kane’s left, the one recently vacated by Luna. The other leaned an elbow on the bar to Kane’s right, invading his personal space in an obvious attempt to intimidate. Up close, the family resemblance became clear; these two clowns were brothers. Both sported close-cropped dark hair, brown eyes, and faces that might have been considered ruggedly handsome if not for the malevolent glint in their gazes and the cruel set to their thin lips. Kane sized t
hem up in three seconds flat and came to a swift conclusion.
These guys were assholes.
Kane cut to the chase. “Can I help you, boys?”
The one on his left said, “The name’s Nick. The guy on the other side getting up in your business is my brother Paul.”
“Brother Paul,” the one on the left echoed.
“Thanks for telling me,” Kane said. “But I didn’t really need to know.”
“Actually,” Nick replied, “you do. I think it’s very important that you know the names of the guys who are gonna kick your ass if you don’t stay away from Luna.”
“Yeah.” Paul grunted. “Kick your ass.”
Still facing Nick, Kane jerked a thumb over his shoulder at Paul. “Does he repeat everything you say?”
“It’s sort of his shtick,” Nick said. “Some kind of compulsive disorder. He can’t help it. Now, are we clear on what happens if you mess with Luna again?”
“You two fine fellas from the Vesper Lake Welcoming Committee will stomp my ass,” Kane said. “Yeah, I think I got it.”
“You’re quite the smartass,” Nick said.
“Smartass,” Paul echoed.
Kane injected some steel into his eyes as he rasped, “I’d rather be a smartass than an asshole.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Nick snapped.
“What the hell?” Paul asked.
Kane sighed and decided to let it go. “Listen, guys, I’m not looking for trouble.”
“Well, you damn well found it,” Nick growled.
“Found it,” Paul said.
“Well, I don’t want it,” Kane replied. “So how about I buy you both a beer, and we can go our separate ways without any asses getting kicked.”
“Sounds to me like you’re a pussy,” Nick said.
“Pussy,” Paul agreed.
“You’re entitled to your opinion. Now, how about that beer?”
“I don’t want your damn beer,” Nick said. “Just stay away from Luna, got it?”
“Got it?” Paul chimed in.
Kane stated, “You couldn’t make it any clearer.”