“Where the hell was Alice?”
Her mobile was dead.
Jericho paced, needed action, and, of course, her primary present target was Jack Taylor. Time to go fuck with his place.
Jericho approached the door of Taylor’s apartment with extreme caution.
She knew he knew she broke into his place regularly,
So would he have the brains to set a booby trap?
He wasn’t in there; no one had seen him for a week.
Was he dead?
“Fuck no,”
She muttered.
She wanted/needed the joy of killing him her own self.
She set her tools on the lock.
Click.
Okay.
She opened the door slowly, her heart in ribbons. She’d seen an episode of Fargo, the shotgun rigged to the door, cursed,
“Where the hell is Alice?”
Girl had gone on a tear, no sign of the cow for days.
She stood in the middle of the room. On the coffee table was an envelope with
“Jericho”
In bold red marker, leaning against the skull she’d left on one of her forays.
Nervous, she picked it up, opened it oh, so carefully,
Read,
Sorry to miss you.
Your call is important to us.
I’m unavailable for a few weeks
But I will be back to chat about your massacre of my friend.
Meanwhile, I left a small token/trophy of our dance so far.
It’s on ice.
That’s the fridge, you dumb bitch.
xxxxxx
JT
She turned, looked at the small fridge. It seemed harmless but her stomach was in knots. Would he have rigged it to explode on being opened?
She slapped herself, said,
“Get with the program. He isn’t that smart.”
All the same, she hesitated.
Then, steeling herself, opened the small door, realized she’d shut her eyes, cried,
“Fuck, girl, focus.”
The fridge was empty save for a small red envelope propped against a bottle of Galway Hooker beer. She sneered,
“Cute, Taylor.”
Took the envelope out, shook it, heard a faint rustling, then slit the flap with her long nail and out onto the coffee table fell...
A gold chain
With the initials GG, blood still encrusted on the letters.
The sound she made would have made a banshee shudder, a primeval howl of utter agony.
37
“Someone roll the credits on
Twenty years of love turned dark and raw
Not a technicolor love film.
(It’s a brutal document — it’s film noir.)
It’s all played out on a borderline
And the actors are tragically
Miscast.”
Horses.
I was leaning on the corral fence, admiring the gorgeous animals.
A chestnut mare and a black stallion — they seemed perfect, like what you’d find on a box of Milk Tray. Keefer came up from the left, Jones as always loping beside him.
He was dressed in a denim jacket, torn not for fashion but from actual age, black combat pants and the dusty motorcycle boots, a black T with the near illegible Exile on Main Street. He looked like a Hell’s Angel, if those dudes ever smiled, said,
“They’re not mine.”
I laughed, asked,
“What, you’re a rustler too?”
His smile vanished and Jones tensed, alert to his owner’s every mood. Keefer said,
“They belong to a friend. His other ones have been stolen.”
I was a little skeptical, asked,
“Rustlers?”
A touch more sneer than intended leaked over the question. He gave me a look that was not aggressive but in the vicinity, said,
“A gang from the North, they steal to order...”
Paused, spat in the dirt, added,
“Those two are on their list.”
I asked,
“Are they a worry, I mean, like dangerous?”
He lit a Camel, unfiltered, didn’t offer one, showing he was angry, said,
“If beating one of the owner’s crew half to death with pickaxes qualifies, I dunno, what in the city” — the word dripping with contempt — “you class as dangerous but, out here, we think that qualifies.”
Jones had fixed me with an intense stare, the one that said,
I kind of liked you, but now...
We had breakfast in silence; fry-up:
Sausages
Double eggs (over easy, said Keefer)
Soda bread
Beans
And a gallon of coffee.
If we drank out of tin cups, we’d have been the complete Clint Eastwood western, bar us wearing Colts on our hips.
I said,
“I didn’t mean to offend you.”
Apologizing is not natural to me and I stumbled over the words. Keefer was very quiet, feeding bits of bacon to Jones who, for a German shepherd, took the food as gently as if he were in a James Herriot book. Keefer’s gaze was focused on the large front window, opening out to the woods. He finally said,
“She’s buried out there.”
That will kill a breakfast cold.
It did.
The she was his wife.
He said no more about it.
That night, instead of us drinking and chatting until the small hours, he said he was tired, the bad vibe lingering. I went to my own cabin, read,
Keith Nixon
Ger Brennan
Hilary Davidson
Late, I finished off a Jay, turned in.
I think I was dreaming of my dead daughter when I was wrenched from sleep by two loud bangs. I knew the sound.
Shotgun.
I grabbed my hurley and, in just a T, underpants, and socks, ran outside.
Keefer was down, Jones on his side beside him, two men kicking the bejaysus out of Keefer, a third pulling the stallion into a horse trailer.
Without a word I was on the first guy, walloped him on the head. The other turned and, using the long swing, I took his knees out. The guy at the trailer let the horse go, reached for a hatchet, came at me, swearing,
“Where the fuck did you come out of?”
He swung the hatchet, which I sidestepped. I moved in low, smashed his face with the hurley, then stood back, adrenaline deafening me. The three were moaning, crying but not getting up, so I moved to Keefer, helped him stand. His face was bloody, one of his arms useless, but he was conscious, muttered,
“Check on the dog.”
The dog was dead.
The shotgun had near obliterated his head.
I threw the shotgun as far as I could into the woods, having ejected the cartridges.
I got Keefer inside, did some makeshift first aid, gave him some painkillers and a large glass of brandy. I heard a jeep start up, ran outside to see the men take off without the horses.
I buried Jones, then went back inside, got Keefer into bed.
I checked on the falcon, and then went back outside to round up the horses.
Stopped to grab a breath at the place where Keefer had lain, said,
“The countryside is losing its appeal.”
Keefer wasn’t doing so well. I said,
“We need to get you to a hospital.”
He shook his head, pointed to his journal, made of well-worn leather, the Stones’ logo on the front, said,
“On the back page there’s a number. Call, tell him I’m hurt.”
I called the number, waited, then it was answered, heard a guarded,