He stumbled toward the bed as the door exploded off its hinges and slammed to the floor, two men standing in the threshold—the sheriff with the shotgun trained on him, a deputy with a flashlight and a handgun.
Mitchell shielded his eyes, specks of snow blowing in, luminescent where they passed through the LED beam, couldn’t see the man behind the light, but the sheriff’s eyes were hard and kind. He could tell this even though they lived in the shadow of a Stetson.
The sheriff said, “I don’t see the boy, Wade. Mitchell, let me see those hands.”
Mitchell took a deep, trembling breath.
“Come on, Mitch, let me see your hands.”
Mitchell shook his head.
“Goddamn, son, I won’t tell you—”
Mitchell swung his right arm behind his back, his fingers wrapping around the remote control jammed down his boxer shorts, the room fired into blue by the illumination of the television, the laugh track to Seinfeld blaring, Wade screaming the sheriff’s name as a greater light bloomed beside the lesser.
Sheriff James flicked the light, felt the breath leave him, blinking through the tears.
He leaned the shotgun against the wall and stepped inside the bathroom.
The cheap fiberglass of the tub had been lined with blankets and pillows, and the little boy was sitting up staring at the sheriff, orange earplugs protruding from his ears.
The sheriff knelt down, smiled at the boy, pulled out the earplugs.
“You okay, Joel?”
The boy said, “A noise woke me up.”
“Did he make you sleep in here?”
“Mitchell said if I was a good boy and kept my earplugs in and stayed in here all night, I could see my Daddy in the morning.”
“He did, huh?”
“Where’s my Daddy?”
“Down in the parking lot. We’ll take you to him, but I need to ask you something first.” The sheriff sat down on the cracked linoleum tile. “Did Mitchell hurt you?”
“No.”
“He didn’t touch you anywhere private or make you touch him?”
“No, we just sat on the bed and watched about spiders and stuff.”
“You mean on the TV?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s that?” The sheriff pointed to the notebook sitting on a pillow under the faucet.
“Mitchell said to give this to the people who came to get me.”
Wade walked into the bathroom, stood behind the sheriff as he lifted the spiral-bound notebook and opened the red cover to a page of handwriting in black ink.
“What is it?” Wade asked.
“It’s to his wife.”
“What’s it say?”
The sheriff closed the notebook. “I believe that’s some of her business.” He stood, faced his deputy, snow melting off his Stetson. “Get this boy wrapped up in some blankets and bring him down to his dad. I gotta go call Lisa Griggs.”
“Will do.”
“And Wade?”
“Yeah?”
“You throw a blanket over Mr. Griggs before you bring Joel out. Don’t want so much as a strand of hair visible. Shield the boy’s eyes if you have to, maybe even turn the lights out when you carry him through the room.”
The deputy shook his head. “What the hell was wrong with this man?”
“You got kids yet, Wade?”
“You know I don’t.”
“Well, just a heads up—if you ever do, this is how much they make you love them.”
An introduction to “On the Good, Red Road”
This story takes place in the universe of my third book, ABANDON, and is a companion piece to that novel. It works fine as a standalone, but will be a richer experience for those who have read ABANDON, as this one explores how Oatha Wallace came to the mining town in the autumn of 1893, delving into the doomed journey from Silverton to Abandon, which turned this pacifist into a murderous outlaw.
on the good, red road
October 1893
San Juan Mountains
Southwest Colorado
If Durango was on the road to hell, Silverton had already gotten there and staked a claim—enough whorehouses, dancehalls, and gambling halls to service a city ten times the size.
Oatha settled on one of the less rowdy saloons for his nightcap, pushing through the throng of revelers to get in line behind a man at a barstool nursing three brimming shots, the surface of the whiskies trembling from the vibration of bootstomps on floorboards. Hands grazed his shoulders and he turned to see a toothless, blond whore in nothing but stockings and a corset grinning at him.
“Bet you could use a trim,” she said.
“Not tonight.”
She went on through the crowd, availing her services, and through the smoky lowlight, Oatha caught shards of his grimy reflection in the constellation of liquor bottles behind the bar.
He’d been waiting ten minutes for the barkeep to notice him, when a voice lifted above the din, “You gotta yell out you wanna drink in this shithole!”
Oatha glanced back, saw a pale, smoothshaven man of thirty or so waving him over, his face half-obscured by dirty, chin-length yellow hair. At the table sat three men, and the one who’d called out to him motioned to an uncorked bottle of whiskey upon which the trio had already inflicted substantial damage.
“Happy to share.”
Oatha relinquished his place in line and threaded his way through the crowd to the table, where they’d already pushed out the last remaining chair. Oatha sat, extended his hand across a filthy set of playing cards and a pot of tiny pokes, a few crumpled dollars, a double eagle, and a voucher for fifteen minutes with a whore called Grizzly Sow.
“Oatha Wallace.”
“Nathan Curtice. This is Marion McClurg and Daniel Smith.”
“Boys.”
McClurg, a larded beast of a man, reached forward and pulled the pot toward his corner of the table while Dan eyed Oatha.
“Play cards?” Nathan asked.
“Not often.”
Nathan poured a whiskey, pushed the glass to Oatha, who took it up and tossed it back with a fleeting grimace.
“Two dollars gets you in on the next hand.”
“Well, I’m trying to save my money—”
“For what?”
“A horse.”
“A horse.”
“I’m traveling on to Abandon. Got a job with the Godsend Mine.”
“No shit,” Nathan said. “I’m headed that very direction myself to visit my brother. He’s sheriff up there. Maybe you heard of him…Ezekiel Curtice.”
“I haven’t.”
“Yeah, I can’t quite believe what that outlaw’s become myself.”
McClurg shuffled the cards while Dan refilled the tumblers.
“You been to Abandon?” Nathan asked.
“First time.”
“What I heard, even across lots, it’s a twenty mile ride through hard country.”
Oatha felt the cards sliding under his fingers, McClurg already dealing.
“Don’t wanna play.”
“Few hands won’t kill ye,” Nathan said.
Dan muttered, “Man bought you two drinks already. ‘Less you some boiled shirt, least you can do is play a hand.” Oatha looked over at Dan, the man thin as a totem, gant up and blanched like he carried some parasite. Oatha reached into his leather pouch, selected several pieces of hard chink, and tossed the coins into the middle of the table.
Two hours later, Oatha stumbled out of the saloon, and he barely made it into an alley before spewing his supper against the clapboard.