The Relic Runner Origin Story Box Set

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The Relic Runner Origin Story Box Set Page 24

by Ernest Dempsey


  "Then why do you insist on continuing to make trouble for me?" Sanders' leathery face sagged with a condemning scowl. He shook his head, barely moving the short, thinning grayish brown hair on top. Calculating blue eyes glared back at Tyler, full of unspoken accusations.

  "I don't insist, Sheriff. Me and the boys were just having some fun. No one got hurt."

  "How long until that happens, Tyler? What you were doing was irresponsible."

  Tyler wanted to jump across the desk, grab the sheriff by the collar, and pound his face into the hard metal surface until he blacked out—or worse. Who was this idiot local to tell him what was irresponsible? If Sanders knew what he'd done, the people he'd killed, the way he'd killed them, he would think twice before offering a rebuke of any kind.

  The cop may as well have been talking to a venomous snake sitting in that chair, trying to convince it to be a cuddly teddy bear.

  Irresponsible. What a joke.

  "Thanks for the tip, dad," he scoffed. "Now give me my rifle so I can get out of here."

  The sheriff swallowed and shifted in his chair. "I'm the law around here, Tyler. Don't you forget that. What I say goes."

  Tyler sat up a little straighter and leaned forward. "That's right, Sheriff. You are the law around here. You got yourself a cushy job." He played his hands out wide at the modest office. "A good paycheck. People respect you. What you say goes. But it would be a shame if word got out that you were taking money to turn a blind eye to certain things. Wouldn't it?"

  Sanders' breathing quickened. "Are you threatening me, son?"

  "We both know I am, Sheriff." Tyler's voice brimmed with rage, like a charging bull staring at a red cloak. "Like you said, perception means a lot these days."

  He stood up and inclined his head. "Get a leash on your deputy before something bad happens to him. You understand?"

  The sheriff nodded reluctantly, though he never locked eyes with the visitor. "Yeah."

  "Good. Now give me my rifle."

  Five

  Cuchara

  Dak did his best to not ravenously consume the bison burger and fries he'd ordered. His military background begged him to down the entire plate in a few minutes, as he'd grown accustomed to doing during basic. That habit had been reinforced during his various deployments.

  Eating slowly gave him cause to linger at the restaurant and bar for longer without facing too many questions, though he knew he'd have to keep ordering beers now and then to prevent Merrick from getting annoyed. Servers depended on their tables for a constant influx of money during their shifts and there was nothing worse than a group of people sitting around chatting it up for an hour or more while new customers were sat at other servers' tables. Dak knew as long as he kept spending money, Merrick wouldn't mind. Plus, he'd leave a big tip—especially if he could ply the young man for more information.

  After sitting there for thirty minutes, the waiter came by a third time and asked if he could get him dessert or another beer.

  "This is good lager," Dak said. "I'll definitely have another one. Sorry if I'm drinking them slow. Don't want to catch a buzz."

  "Well, if you like we can get you a cab back to wherever you're staying." Merrick risked asking the obvious question. "You at a cabin in the area?"

  "Yeah," Dak said with a single nod. "Not far from here. Took about eighteen minutes, but I don't think it's more than three or four miles away. Had to take it slow with the dusting of snow y'all got."

  "Smart," Merrick offered.

  "Don't worry," Dak said, tilting the nearly empty beer glass. "I won't hang around too long." He looked out over the room, noting how it was beginning to fill with more patrons. "I'll just have one more and be on my way. I know you guys need these tables."

  Merrick twisted his head around, looking out over the bar. "I'm not too worried about it. You take as long as you want. And you did say you want another lager, right?"

  "Please."

  "I'll get that right away for you."

  He made a beeline back to the bar and asked the bartender for another lager. Dak noted that this time, the young man didn't enter the drink in the computer before he retrieved the full glass and brought it back.

  "This one's on me," Merrick said.

  Dak furrowed his brow, surprised. "For what?"

  The server rolled his shoulders nonchalantly. "For understanding. And being cool. Most people would sit around and take up a table for an hour or more and not think twice about it. You're considerate and I appreciate that."

  "Likewise," Dak said. He tipped the glass to the young man.

  The front door barged open and swung around so hard it nearly slammed into the doorstop. The dim light of dusk poured into the bar as three young men, probably in their late twenties at best, sauntered in.

  Merrick swiveled around. His head drooped visibly upon seeing them. "Oh great," he mumbled.

  "Friends of yours?" Dak pried.

  The server retreated a little with his downtrodden attitude, knowing that it was inappropriate to show such emotion in front of a customer. "No, they're just... locals. That's all."

  "I see." Dak didn't need to get the full story. He could fill in the blanks from the newcomers' body language—the way they walked in as if they owned the place, snickering and making snide comments about some of the customers as they made their way to one of the tables on Dak's side of the room.

  They plopped down in the booth and started looking through the menu. One of them—the average-sized one of the group—slapped his hand on the table and waved his hand, calling out for Tanya.

  "Not your table, huh?"

  "No, fortunately for me. Not so fortunate for Tanya."

  Dak took a long sip of the remnants in his glass, then slid the empty container off to the edge of the table.

  The woman he'd seen before appeared through the blue door and stalked over to the guys at the booth.

  Dak saw everything: the annoyed look on the bartender's face, the fear on Merrick's, and the anger on Tanya's as she passed, loosely carrying a notepad in one hand with a pen tucked behind her right ear.

  "Do you idiots always have to be so loud when you come in here?" Dak heard the woman ask.

  He winced, knowing already that her question would spark further belligerence.

  "You sure got a lot of attitude for a plate slinger," the instigator said. If he made an effort to keep his voice down, it was minimal.

  "What do you want, Tripp?" she asked.

  The man eyed her up and down and licked his lips. "I think you know."

  She huffed. "To drink, moron. What do you want to drink?"

  "Just because your husband is a cop doesn't mean you have to play hard to get with me. We both know he can't take care of you the way I could."

  She tilted her head to the right and put her left hand on her hip. "If, by take care of, you mean annoy and disappoint me, you're right."

  The other two men at the table snickered at the comeback.

  The one called Tripp blushed, but quickly recovered. "Shut up, you two. It's all part of the chase. Ain't that right?" He started to reach out his hand to touch her other hip but she swatted it away.

  "Don't you ever touch me," she warned.

  His playful idiocy turned to embarrassment, then rage. Dak could see it in his eyes from his side of the room. He'd witnessed that same look a dozen times back in the days he frequented bars with his buddies. It was a look that always came calling when someone had had too much to drink and was too easily offended.

  "Okay," he relented, but the venom in his voice said otherwise. "Bring me a beer. And a round for my friends, too."

  "Maybe you've had too many already, Tripp."

  "We would have," the tallest one said from across the table. "But your husband interrupted our fun."

  "Yeah," the runt of the group agreed. He was stocky, built like a football or rugby player. "So, in a way, you only have him to blame for us being here."

  "Exactly," Tripp finished the th
ought.

  "Three beers coming up," Tanya surrendered. She turned to head over to the bar when Tripp stopped her.

  "Hey. Aren't you going to ask what kind of beer we'd like?"

  Dak saw her eyes roll as she exhaled, exhausting every ounce of patience left in her reserves. She wheeled around on her heels and ambled back to the booth.

  "What kind of beer would you like?"

  "What have you got?" Tripp antagonized.

  "You know exactly what we have. Same as we always do. Stop being an idiot. Just because your daddy is the sheriff doesn't mean you have the right to be stupid."

  The two friends cackled again, adding in some ooo's and ahh's.

  "What kinds?" Tripp demanded, choosing to ignore the barb.

  A few of the other patrons hastily collected their things and started making their way out of the bar. The few who still had food on their plates ate faster, sensing either something bad was about to happen, or just too uncomfortable to deal with the scene.

  "We have an IPA, a lager, and a pale ale from local breweries," Tanya recited. "All major domestics, both on draft and in bottles."

  "Three IPA's on draft then," Tripp said. "And bring us fresh ones every ten minutes."

  She spared the energy of fighting the demand and spun around. She reached the computer station with a sigh of relief and started entering their orders.

  The bartender slid over to Tanya, looking at her apologetically. "I'm sorry," she said, quiet enough for only Tanya to hear, though Dak caught it too. "They'll have a few beers and be on their way."

  "I know," Tanya said, forcing herself to be strong.

  Dak admired her immediately for not letting them see any weakness.

  "Sorry about all that," Merrick said under his breath, leaning over the table. "Those guys, they think they own the town."

  Dak hefted the fresh glass of beer and took a sip. "Do they?"

  "Yeah. They definitely think that."

  "No," Dak corrected. "Do they own the town?"

  Merrick's right eye twitched at the question, and he shook his head. "No. I mean, I don't think so."

  "Who does?"

  The server blinked rapidly. "I mean… no one questions what they do." He lowered his voice out of caution. "Tripp is the sheriff's son."

  "And who does the sheriff answer to?"

  Merrick swallowed, suddenly aware that he'd been standing at the table for far too long.

  "I know you have other tables to take care of," Dak said, attempting to ease the young man's mind.

  Merrick glanced over his shoulder. "Actually, one just left and one looks like they're about to."

  Dak reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver money clip. He pulled back two slides on either side and pressed them together, loosening the fold. He produced a hundred-dollar bill and slid it across the table. There was at least another that Merrick could see, along with several more bills of unknown denominations.

  "I'm going to keep this table for a while," Dak said. "This is for your trouble."

  Merrick eyed the money hungrily. It was more than he'd make in his entire shift, or at least close to it.

  "And I'll give you another one if you let me sit here until you close down."

  The server stared at the bill for several seconds, then met Dak's intense gaze. "Seriously?"

  "Seriously. All I ask is you keep bringing me drinks every twenty minutes or so. Make it look like I'm drinking them. I have no intention of getting hammered tonight, so if you don't fill them up that's fine by me. Understood?"

  "I think so, sure."

  "Good." Dak nudged the hundred an inch closer to the server. "Go on. Take it. And another one at closing."

  "Okay. Thank you."

  "You're welcome. And thank you."

  Merrick started to turn and check on his other remaining table, then he paused, and shifted closer, hovering over the edge of Dak's nearly empty plate. "You asked me who the sheriff answers to."

  Dak neither confirmed nor denied. He merely answered with a blank stare.

  "Before… he didn't answer to anyone. Then Tyler Mumford showed up. Thick as thieves, those two. If I didn't know better—and you didn't hear this from me—I'd say the sheriff is in Mr. Mumford's back pocket."

  Dak inclined his head and gave an understanding nod. "Thanks, Merrick. Go check on those other people. I have a feeling they don't want to hang around much longer."

  The young server hurried away while Dak kept a close watch on the booth at the other end of the room and the three hoodlums who occupied it.

  Six

  Cuchara

  Dak sat at the table for the next three hours, only getting up now and then to go to the restroom. Merrick continued to do as requested, dropping off a beer every twenty minutes or so to keep up appearances.

  The troublemakers at the booth hung around for a little over two hours before paying their bill—albeit with demands that they be given the meal and drinks on the house.

  When they were gone, Dak gave it another thirty minutes before he decided to get up and leave as well.

  When Merrick came around, Dak thanked him and slid a second hundred across the table. "I appreciate you letting me hang here," he said.

  "Not a problem at all, man," Merrick stuttered. "But I thought you were going to stay till closing."

  Dak looked around the room and twitched his left shoulder in a shrug. "Looks like things are dying down now. Think I'll head on back to the cabin and get some rest."

  "All right. Well, thanks again. You get home safe."

  "Will do."

  Dak ambled slowly toward the door, eyes sweeping the room for the hundredth time to make sure he wasn't missing anything, or anyone. Once outside, he padded down the steps, wary that ice could have formed during the time he'd been inside. At the bottom, he zipped up his coat and exhaled into the chilly night air.

  His gaze drifted up toward the sky. Stars speckled the black canvas above like diamonds in a tar field. The only light pollution keeping it from being a pristine view came from the lights in the parking lot and the one over the porch at the entrance. The other shops across the street were closed and their lights dimmed for the evening.

  Dak longed for a few minutes in the cabin hot tub even more, but noticed something out of the corner of his left eye that told him he'd get no such luxury tonight—at least not soon.

  A black Ford Explorer sat across the parking lot under a collection of four pine trees. Dak only allowed his vision to pan across the vehicle so the occupants wouldn't think he'd noticed. But he did.

  The silhouettes of the three men inside the SUV stood out against the clear moonlight in the valley behind them. Their faces remained shrouded in shadows, but Dak could feel their vapid gaze fixed on the entrance to the bar, perhaps only momentarily flashing at him as the lone point of change in their view.

  Dak knew they were there before he saw their outlines. It was why he'd decided to hang around for the last three plus hours. He'd seen it before. Pretty young woman gets hit on by the village idiots, then they wait to harass her when she gets off work because she denied their advances.

  Harassment would be the mildest version of how it could go down. He hoped that's all it would be.

  Dak continued shuffling toward his car, swerving a little in one direction and the other to make it appear he might be a little too buzzed to drive home. If Tripp and his two friends were paying attention, they'd deem Dak a harmless drunk and continue watching the bar's front door.

  He fumbled with his keys when he arrived at the driver's side door and then made a show of inserting it in the keyhole, then dropping the keys to the ground. As he bent down to pick them up, he peered through the windows of the Isuzu and noted the men's forms shaking a little. In the utter silence of the Rocky Mountains, Dak thought he could even hear a little laughter.

  Perfect, he thought. They were paying attention to him and now making fun of his perceived drunken state.

  Dak managed to unlock
the SUV on the second try and climbed in, then slumped back in the seat and used the button on the side to decline it toward the rear.

  He imagined Tripp's crew believed him to be getting ready to sleep off a tough night of drinking in the parking lot. That was the goal, though it was possible they weren't that gullible.

  Dak allowed enough space for his eyes to see over the edge of the window toward the bar's porch so he would know when the next person left.

  Thirty minutes went by and no one from the Explorer came over to pester him. They clearly had one goal in mind for the night. And Tanya was the target.

  Dak wondered where her husband could be, why he wouldn't be sitting here in the parking lot to wait for her shift to end. He'd overheard that the man was a deputy in the local police force. Had Tanya not called her husband? Maybe she wasn't concerned about the earlier altercation.

  That had to be it.

  Civilians—most anyway—didn't think about things like that. They weren't always on alert like Dak, perpetually considering every ripple along the water's surface from the slightest disturbance.

  He didn't want to call it naivety, but he knew that was the right word. It was why he was sitting there in his Isuzu, waiting for the building to clear out. A side door opened and Merrick stepped out of the building with the bartender. They each went to their respective cars, a white Subaru Outback and an old pickup truck. The lights inside the bar flickered off as the other two started their engines and pulled out of the lot.

  Dak refocused his attention on the entrance. He didn't have to wait long for what he feared. Tanya emerged through the front door with a set of keys in one hand and a paper cup in another. She locked the door and spun around nonchalantly, waving to Merrick and the bartender as they drove off.

  She took a sip from a red straw and made her way down the steps, veering toward a black Toyota Land Cruiser at the back of the lot near the road.

  It was a twenty-five yard walk to her car. Dak was somewhere between, with the threat behind her.

 

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