“Fine,” she said. “I’d like to go with you. But I really do need to make that call.”
“No problem. There’s a pay phone on the way out of town.”
“Can we take your car?” she asked. “I’m low on gas.”
He agreed, feeling magnanimous and ready to congratulate himself for handling what could have been a disastrously awkward situation.
~*~
“You can’t miss it,” is one of those oft-spoken refrains which almost never comes true. It all but guarantees missing whatever one’s looking for. Based on personal experience, Tucker expected this basic truism to rear its head again. And it did.
No matter how hard they scanned the horizon, nothing showed but empty plains stretching into the vastness of west Texas.
They reached the New Mexico border and turned around, looking over their left shoulders on the way back toward Greeley. Tucker had reached a point on the verge of frustration when Holly spotted something in the distance.
“There!” she cried, as if she’d found the landing site of an alien spaceship. “See?”
He thought -- maybe -- he had. Applying the brakes, he angled into the sand and scrub through which the blacktopped highway ran. Speed was not an issue; keeping all four tires intact, was.
“I see the house,” Holly said. He couldn’t tell if her voice actually sounded breathless, or if it might’ve been his imagination. He’d lost count of the number of times he’d grabbed surreptitious glances at her gloriously drooping neckline. It nearly made him seek out bumps and ridges to drive over.
All too soon they drove into the front “yard” of a dilapidated building. Weather greyed and beaten down by sandstorms and a century of west Texas sunlight, the house still stood. Sort of. The roof had long ago abandoned any pretense of protection from the elements, to say nothing of architectural integrity. The walls leaned nearly as much, and almost nothing of the front porch remained attached to the main structure.
“I’m going in,” Tucker said.
“Why?” Holly asked. “It doesn’t look safe.”
“How bad could it be?” he asked.
“If it doesn’t come crashing down on your head, then I ‘spect you’ll only run the risk of falling through the floor and landing in a pit of vipers. You up for that?”
“Pessimism doesn’t become you,” he said.
“Okay then, lead on.”
He stepped gingerly through the remains of the porch and tested the door. The knob had rusted into a solid blob, but the hinges still worked, albeit noisily. He pushed the front door open, climbed up on the sill, then turned and offered Holly a hand up.
When he turned around, he found himself facing an old man in a blue golf shirt and tan slacks. His carefully coifed, white hair and pleasant demeanor did nothing to soften the threat of the gun he pointed directly at Tucker’s heart.
“You must be the Thomas boy,” the old man said.
Tucker quickly got over his surprise. Holly must’ve tipped him off. “Congressman Coe?”
A head nod. “At your service.”
“I’m sorry,” Holly said, putting her hand on Tucker’s shoulder. “I had to tell him.”
“God knows, we wouldn’t want to take our time with something as sensitive as a sixty-five year old murder.”
“I understand you have a letter of some kind,” Coe said.
Tucker glared at Holly.
“Come, come. It’s not that big a deal. Just hand it over, and we’ll forget this whole regrettable incident.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” Tucker said.
“Son, you aren’t the first to try and blackmail me.”
“Woodrow wouldn’t do that.”
“Actually,” said Coe, “he did. But he wasn’t the first either. That would’ve been your mother.”
“What?”
“That was the second body I hid that no one will ever find. Do you think I’m not willing to go for three? Gimme the damned letter!”
A new voice entered the conversation, emanating from ground level at the doorway. “Play along with him, Tucker. You mustn’t raise his blood pressure. We wouldn’t want the old bastard to seize up n’ die before he goes to jail.”
Tucker, Holly, and Coe all looked toward the voice at the same time.
Tucker’s voice reflected his puzzlement. “Aunt Nell?”
“Kate Mabry called me,” Nell said. “Told me you were headed out here, and that no good could come of it. That much appears true. What took you so long?”
“C’mon up here,” Coe said, waving his gun. “Might as well make a party of it.” He pulled back the hammer on the pistol, possibly for dramatic effect--which it clearly accomplished--and gestured for Nell to join them.
“I’m too old to climb anywhere,” she said. “I’ll just stay right here.”
“You’ll do exactly as I say,” growled the congressman.
“She’s fine right where she is,” said still another voice. This time it came from behind Coe.
Tucker stared in shock at his uncle Hunter. The pit bull twins, Denny and Donny, stood at either elbow as if waiting for the command to attack.
The gunman stepped away in an effort to keep everyone in view. He pulled a second gun from his jacket pocket, a more compact automatic, and handed the revolver to Holly. “Keep an eye on them,” he said, gesturing to Nell and Tucker.
“Hell of a time for a family reunion,” Tucker muttered.
Nell grinned. “It’s at times like these when you never have enough family. But the rest will be along soon.” She put her hands on her hips and stared directly into the congressman’s increasingly more nervous face. “I think I hear a couple cars now.”
Holly held the gun at her side, glaring at her grandfather. “You really killed two people?”
“I didn’t have a choice.”
“And then you wanted me to come down here and ‘charm’ the letter out of Tucker? Did you expect me to sleep with him to get it?”
“You’re not looking at this the right way,” he said, a slight whine coloring his tone.
“Bullshit.” She shot him in the kneecap.
No one moved except Coe, who collapsed like a demolished building. After a moment of odd silence, the politician began to scream, both hands clawing at his ruined knee.
“Nice shot, honey,” Nell said. Then to Tucker, “Gimme a hand up, boy!”
“But you said--“
“Help her up,” Holly said.
He did.
As Hunter and the twins dragged Coe toward the back entrance, more heads popped up in the front door -- Nell’s sons, daughters and grandchildren crowding for a better look.
Tucker called to his uncle, “Hold on a second.”
When he held out his hand, Holly placed the still smoking revolver in it. He scooped up Coe’s gun and stuck both weapons in his waistband, pirate style. Coe remained on the floor in fetal position, and Tucker stood over him, looking down.
“How’d you know Woodrow would leave me the letter?”
“Screw you,” Coe said.
Tucker shuffled his foot just enough to push the toe of his loafer into Coe’s mangled knee. The congressman reacted as if he’d been given a large dose of direct current. When he eventually calmed down, Tucker repeated the question.
“I knew Woody was afraid of incriminating himself, but he was still pissed off about-- Well, about his wife and daughter.”
“My mother and grandmother.”
“Yeah. So, it had to be you. Woody knew you couldn’t resist coming after me.” He glared at Nell and the others. “I didn’t count on all them helpin’ you out.”
“You done?” Hunter asked.
“Yeah.”
“C’mon, Pappy,” Hunter said, then motioned for his sons to continue hauling the politician out to their car. He rubbed his chin and observed, “We may need to put a Band-Aid on that knee.”
“He really yo’ daddy?” Denny asked.
“Naw. Just kiddin
’. Woodrow was my Dad. I don’t even know this asshole.”
Tucker suddenly realized where the wayward gene came from that resulted in the twins. Coe’s groans faded as they dragged him away.
“Y’know,” Holly said. “When he snuck out here, he made sure nobody’d be able to follow him. We could just bury him and be done with it.”
“It’s tempting,” Tucker said, “but I’d rather see him tried and convicted.” He slipped his hand into his pocket and retrieved the gold nugget, then gave it to Nell. “That needs to go in the museum.”
“I agree,” Holly said. She sidled closer, inviting him to put his arm around her.
Tucker dropped his voice. “I’ve still got the note, in case you’d like to try and charm it out of me.”
She leaned close and whispered, “Do I need to take you to bed?”
Nell just smiled.
~End~
About the author:
A Little Primitive ** -- A contemporary thriller featuring a two-foot tall Indian on a mission to save his clan, and a woman hiding from her psychotic ex-husband.
A Little More Primitive ** -- The little warrior returns -- with his lady love! Alas, the apple of his eye is kidnapped. Once again, the little primitive springs into action.
Resurrection Blues ** -- A novel of discovery and liberation set in a town that doesn't exist, at least as far as tax collectors are concerned. (Don't miss the sample chapter beginning on the next page.)
Mysfits -- A six-pack of urban (and suburban) fantasies.
Dancing Among the Stars -- A six-pack of science and speculative fiction.
Christmas Beyond the Box -- Six holiday tales of mystery and magic.
The Best Damned Squirrel Dog (Ever) -- A Civil War ghost story.
Books co-authored with Barbara Galler-Smith:
Under Saint Owain's Rock ** -- A contemporary romantic comedy.
Druids -- ** The first century BC adventures begin.
Captives -- ** The Druids saga continues.
Warriors -- ** The final book in the Druids trilogy (debuts May 2013).
**Also available in paperback.
(List last updated on Dec. 1, 2012.)
Connect with me online at https://www.joshlangston.com
Bonus! Here's the opening chapter of Resurrection Blues, for which Josh Langston was nominated as 2012 Georgia Author of the Year (by the Georgia Writer's Association).
Chapter 1
One good fire is the equivalent of three good moves. --Wayne A. Langston
Trey opened his door to the first line of a joke: An Indian, a dwarf, and a biker walk into a bar... Except he didn't own a bar, and this clearly wasn't a joke.
"We're lookin' for Trey Bowman," the Indian said.
"As in A. A. Bowman, the third," added the biker.
Trey looked down at the dwarf, expecting her to add something. She didn't. Instead, she stunned him with the sexiest smile he'd ever seen. He dragged his gaze from her face and quickly inspected the other two visitors. They appeared calm, and unarmed. Always a good sign. Still....
"He's dead," Trey said.
"Then, who the hell're you?" asked the Indian, "And why are you in his house?"
"Who the hell are you, and why do you want to know?"
The biker looked less likeable than he had before, the morphing process moving him from possible miscreant to probable felon. "It's important we find Trey Bowman. He's not in any trouble. Leastwise, not with us, but if he's dead we'll need to see proof."
"Like a grave?" Trey asked.
"More like a body," said the Indian. "But a death certificate would probably do."
The dwarf continued to smile, but the effect ceased to be sexy. It now seemed morbidly curious -- the sort of smile reserved for really bad traffic accidents, or public executions.
"You didn't answer my questions," Trey said, shifting his foot slightly in order to get more of it wedged at the bottom of the door. "So, again: who are you, and why are you looking for Trey Bowman?"
"Augie sent us," the tiny female said, her voice a delicious tinkling of fine crystal.
"Augie who?"
"Augie Bowman."
"He's still alive?"
"Yeah, but not for long. Doc says he's only got a few days left." The Indian looked down at a photo in his hand, then held it up to eye level and glanced back and forth between Trey's face and the picture. "He sent us to find you."
Trey squinted at him. "Okay, I'm Augustus Bowman."
"The third," said the biker by way of confirmation. "Your grampaw said you go by 'Trey.'"
"I do, but he barely even knows me," Trey said, twisting to see if he recognized himself in the photo. He hadn't seen his grandfather in at least twenty years.
"Why don't you call yourself 'Augustus' or 'Augie?'" the biker asked. "Don't you like your name?"
"I like Trey."
"I expected someone more... I dunno, interesting," said the Indian to the biker. "This guy's a geek."
"I am not a geek! I-- I hate computers."
"Relax, sweetie," said the diminutive femme. "He's not talkin' about the kinda geek you're thinkin' of." She looked up at her companions. "I think it's him, but we'd better check his ID just to be sure."
"My ID? This is my house, for cryin' out loud. I don't have to produce an ID. You should be showing me yours."
"I'm Warren Lightfoot," said the Indian, pushing his arm between the door and the jamb. "You can call me Bud." He gripped Trey's hand firmly, shook it once, then let go.
"Bud. Right." Trey looked at the biker.
"I'm Dago," he said, keeping his hands in the pockets of his jeans.
"Of course you are," Trey said, utterly clueless. He looked down. "And you must be...."
"The Virgin Mary," she said with an absolutely straight face.
He tried to roll with it. "Would it be okay if I just called you 'Mary'?"
"Sure," she said, relighting her ten thousand watt smile. "I'm not really a virgin."
"Good," he said. "I mean, about your name. Not the, you know--"
"Time to go," said Dago.
Oddly, Trey felt no threat from the bizarre trio. Something about them had the ring of truth, and he felt compelled to go with them. Besides, he'd already made a complete mess of his life, and he clearly had nothing better to do.
"You got a car?" Bud asked. "We've got a truck, but somebody'd have to ride in the back."
"Not me!" Mary said. She pushed through the door and grabbed Trey's hand. "You wouldn't make a lady sit in the back of a truck, would ya?" She snuggled up to his thigh, and batted what he suddenly realized were absurdly long eyelashes.
"I've got a car," he said. "I can follow you."
Bud smiled for the first time. "Good, then let's get movin.’”
"Waitaminute!" Trey said. "First things first. How long am I gonna be gone? Do I need to pack some clothes? Leave a forwarding address? Who's gonna feed my parakeet?"
"Good Lord, he's got a tweety," said the Indian. "I told you he was a geek."
"Bring the bird," Mary said. "And throw some clothes in a bag. If you need more later, I'm sure we can find the hole and come back."
"'Find the hole?' What the hell are you talkin' about?"
The biker stared at Mary as if he was contemplating dwarficide.
"It's just an expression," Bud said. "We'll explain later."
Trey looked down at Mary. "I don't really have a parakeet."
"I can get you one."
"No. That's cool. I don't--"
"You like blue or yellow? Green, maybe? I think that's all the colors they come in. But I can check it out." She pulled him after her. "Where's your bedroom?"
Trey hit the brakes. Mary may have been short, but she had full grown curves. "My bedroom?"
"Yeah. Unless you keep your clothes somewhere else."
"Oh. Right. I thought--"
"You have a dirty mind, Trey." She laughed, and somewhere a shelf full of exquisitely fragile glass toppled onto th
e floor. "Where's your suitcase?"
He retrieved it from his closet, then paused long enough to look for Mary's companions. "Where are--"
"Outside."
"While we're--"
"In here. Packing." On her tiptoes, she groped blindly in the top drawer of his dresser and withdrew a handful of briefs. "I figured you for boxers." She threw them on the unmade bed, then continued foraging in his other drawers. T-shirts and socks followed the underwear and landed in a pile.
Trey stuffed his clothes into the travel bag as quickly as Mary launched them in his direction. "Jeans and sweatshirts are in the closet," he said, but she had already discovered them. "Will I need a jacket?"
She paused to look at him, curiosity coloring her classic features. "I doubt it. Unless we've slipped into another dimension, this is still summer in Atlanta, isn't it?"
"But I don't know where we're going!"
"West and north, but not far either way."
"That's comforting."
"These are nice," she said, throwing a pair of loafers at him. "Bring 'em."
"Those are my formal sorta shoes. They're a little tight."
"Wear 'em for me, then."
"Okay," he said. "Listen, I'll get the rest of that."
"No, you won't. We're done. You got that stuff packed yet?"
Very little space remained in the valise. "Uh--"
"Don't forget your hairdryer, razor, and toothbrush."
"Why do I get the feeling you've done this before?"
"I've got six brothers," she said. "Most of 'em are younger than me, but none of 'em know how to pack. It's just not a guy-thing, y'know?"
He nodded. She was right. She was also leaving.
He zippered the case and hauled it out of the room as Mary walked out the front door. With none of his visitors in sight, Trey slipped into the little pantry in his kitchen and reached into the flour container where he kept his emergency fund--a roll of twenties he'd received in exchange for a motorcycle he couldn't afford to keep running. The money was gone.
Trey looked up at a chuckle from just outside the pantry.
Bud held up his cash, still wrapped in a plastic bag. "Lookin' for this?"
"How'd--"
"You'd be surprised how many people hide their money like that," he said, tossing it to him. "You oughta find a safer spot."
"Like the freezer?"
"Nah. I'd have found it there, too."