Bill and Doc stared it down.
“Chill,” Curtis said. “We’re gonna need every hand if we’re gonna beat this thing.”
Wild Bill looked up. “So you in?”
Curtis nodded. Doc mouthed what the fuck.
“We took an oath, Doc. Terrell was a friend of mine.”
“Okay,” Wild Bill announced. “Here’s what we’re gonna do. We’re gonna slow way down and scan both sides of the road. Every time we see a gate or a dirt road we’re gonna stop and check it out. He’s gotta be in the Hollow.”
“Hollow’s nine miles long,” Chainsaw said.
“What else we got to do?” Wild Bill said. “You guys are always braggin’ on how bad you are. Now’s are chance to prove it. Now’s our chance to write the Road Dogs into his -store—ee. Let’s go.”
***
CHAPTER 21
Nazis
Fagan showered in Fred’s old rust-stained stall with a chip of soap and a mini shampoo from Best Western. He dried himself with a Harley towel. He went into the bar owner’s bedroom and took a clean T-shirt from Fred’s highboy. It said, “STURGIS, ’96” and showed an Indian chief with an extravagant bonnet riding a chopper through the Black Hills. Fagan looked at himself in the tarnished mirror above the dresser. His short hair looked like a Brillo pad. He had a goose egg that looked like an eggplant emerging above his left eye.
Fagan stood in the doorway and scanned the room as he’d been trained to do.
Sooner or later he would have to go through it searching for any evidence related to Helmet Head. But now was not the proper time. He quietly shut the door and returned to the bar in control of himself. Macy had backed her chair into a corner, sitting with her arms and legs crossed as if trying to take up as little space as possible.
She must have felt it, too, Fagan realized; a crimson tide rising up his neck.
“Does that old pick-up out back run?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know where the keys are?”
“Should be behind the bar.”
“Can you find them for me? There’s no reason for us to hang around here.”
Macy got up and went behind the bar. She opened cupboards beneath the bar and rummaged. Fagan heard pots and glasses banging and clinking, shoe boxes filled with junk being shuffled. She stood, opened the cash register with a ding and removed the change tray. She picked the heavy register up by one side and peered underneath.
The bar didn’t even have an electronic credit card scanner. It had one of those old-fashioned slide operators.
She turned around and faced the bar. A series of small drawers ran the length beneath the marble top and above the open shelving holding bottles of liquor. Macy went through them methodically from left to right. Fagan watched her every move, throat dry from the sight of her shifting glutes.
Stop it, he told himself.
How unprofessional can you get? Had he learned nothing from his mistakes?
On a night like this the rule book was out the window. He felt as if he’d left Planet Earth for an unknown dimension. He chuckled.
Macy looked at him in the mirror and smiled. “What?”
The smile transformed her like sun breaking through clouds.
Fagan hummed the theme to The Twilight Zone . “Do do do do … do do do do.”
“Peter Fagan, a sheriff’s deputy in the Southern Illinois,” Macy said in a surprisingly deep baritone, “with no more sense than a tripping gerbil, thinks he’s on the verge of a big meth bust when he is really about to enter the Twilight Zone.…”
They laughed. Macy continued looking. After a few minutes she threw her hands up in despair. “It could be anywhere. Maybe it’s in his shop or his bedroom.”
“I’ll do it,” Fagan said out of long habit. Technically the whole bar was a crime scene and if the room was to be searched he preferred to do it as he’d been taught.
Macy headed for the old sofa in the corner. “I’m going to lie down.”
Fagan eased himself upright feeling the tape tug at him and returned to Fred’s bedroom. There was an
“Chill,” Curtis said. “We’re gonna need every hand if we’re gonna beat this thing.”
Wild Bill looked up. “So you in?”
Curtis nodded. Doc mouthed what the fuck.
“We took an oath, Doc. Terrell was a friend of mine.”
“Okay,” Wild Bill announced. “Here’s what we’re gonna do. We’re gonna slow way down and scan both sides of the road. Every time we see a gate or a dirt road we’re gonna stop and check it out. He’s gotta be in the Hollow.”
“Hollow’s nine miles long,” Chainsaw said.
“What else we got to do?” Wild Bill said. “You guys are always braggin’ on how bad you are. Now’s are chance to prove it. Now’s our chance to write the Road Dogs into his -store—ee. Let’s go.”
***
CHAPTER 21
Nazis
Fagan showered in Fred’s old rust-stained stall with a chip of soap and a mini shampoo from Best Western. He dried himself with a Harley towel. He went into the bar owner’s bedroom and took a clean T-shirt from Fred’s highboy. It said, “STURGIS, ’96” and showed an Indian chief with an extravagant bonnet riding a chopper through the Black Hills. Fagan looked at himself in the tarnished mirror above the dresser. His short hair looked like a Brillo pad. He had a goose egg that looked like an eggplant emerging above his left eye.
Fagan stood in the doorway and scanned the room as he’d been trained to do.
Sooner or later he would have to go through it searching for any evidence related to Helmet Head. But now was not the proper time. He quietly shut the door and returned to the bar in control of himself. Macy had backed her chair into a corner, sitting with her arms and legs crossed as if trying to take up as little space as possible.
She must have felt it, too, Fagan realized; a crimson tide rising up his neck.
“Does that old pick-up out back run?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know where the keys are?”
“Should be behind the bar.”
“Can you find them for me? There’s no reason for us to hang around here.”
Macy got up and went behind the bar. She opened cupboards beneath the bar and rummaged. Fagan heard pots and glasses banging and clinking, shoe boxes filled with junk being shuffled. She stood, opened the cash register with a ding and removed the change tray. She picked the heavy register up by one side and peered underneath.
The bar didn’t even have an electronic credit card scanner. It had one of those old-fashioned slide operators.
She turned around and faced the bar. A series of small drawers ran the length beneath the marble top and above the open shelving holding bottles of liquor. Macy went through them methodically from left to right. Fagan watched her every move, throat dry from the sight of her shifting glutes.
Stop it, he told himself.
How unprofessional can you get? Had he learned nothing from his mistakes?
On a night like this the rule book was out the window. He felt as if he’d left Planet Earth for an unknown dimension. He chuckled.
Macy looked at him in the mirror and smiled. “What?”
The smile transformed her like sun breaking through clouds.
Fagan hummed the theme to The Twilight Zone . “Do do do do … do do do do.”
“Peter Fagan, a sheriff’s deputy in the Southern Illinois,” Macy said in a surprisingly deep baritone, “with no more sense than a tripping gerbil, thinks he’s on the verge of a big meth bust when he is really about to enter the Twilight Zone.…”
They laughed. Macy continued looking. After a few minutes she threw her hands up in despair. “It could be anywhere. Maybe it’s in his shop or his bedroom.”
“I’ll do it,” Fagan said out of long habit. Technically the whole bar was a crime scene and if the room was to be searched he preferred to do it as he’d been taught.
Macy headed for the old sofa in the corner. “I’m going to lie down.”
Fagan eased himself upright feeling the tape tug at him and returned to Fred’s bedroom. There was an
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