Survivors Will Be Shot Again by Bill Crider

front. The fedora reminded Rhodes of the one that Seepy Benton wore occasionally, but Benton had been wearing his for years, long before the current bunch of hipsters had appeared.
    â€œNoah’s gonna die and it’s all your fault,” the boy said.
    â€œI’m not the one who snorted ashes,” Rhodes said, looking at Noah, whose coughing had eased a bit. “You better stand up now, too, Noah. Hands on your head.”
    Noah stood up. He was a bit shorter and heavier than his friend, and he didn’t have a fedora or a goatee. He did have on jeans and a black T-shirt, but his shirt was devoid of slogans.
    â€œI need to wipe my nose,” he said.
    â€œGo ahead,” Rhodes told him. “One hand only.”
    Noah wiped his nose. He didn’t look more than fifteen, but that didn’t mean much. As he got older, Rhodes had more and more trouble guessing people’s ages.
    Rhodes touched the badge holder on his belt with his left hand. “I’m Dan Rhodes, the sheriff of this county. What’s your last name, Noah?”
    Noah sneezed.
    â€œIt’s Noah Newsome,” the other boy said, helping him out. “I’m Todd Rankin. What did you mean about snorting ashes?”
    Rhodes pointed with the pistol. “You see that urn there?”
    â€œWhat’s an urn?”
    Rhodes wondered if English teachers still gave vocabulary tests. “It’s a kind of vase, usually one used to keep ashes in.”
    â€œWhy would anybody want to keep ashes?”
    At least Todd was curious. Maybe that was a good sign.
    â€œThey’re the ashes of a cremated relative,” Rhodes said. “In this case the ashes of Mrs. Lansen’s father.”
    Todd looked at Noah, who was sniffling, his eyes wide.
    â€œDude!” Todd said. “You sniffed some dead guy.”
    Noah started to cough again. After a couple of heaves, he turned aside, bent over, and vomited. Todd jumped away from him.
    â€œDon’t go anywhere,” Rhodes said. “He’ll be fine. Ashes aren’t poison.”
    â€œYeah, but a dead person up your nose…”
    Andy came walking back through the trees, alone.
    â€œWhat happened?” Rhodes asked.
    â€œThey got away,” Andy said. “I got my feet tangled up in some kind of vine and tripped. By the time I got untangled, they were long gone.”
    Todd smirked.
    â€œThat’s okay,” Rhodes said. “Todd can tell us who they were.”
    â€œI’m not a snitch,” Todd said, seemingly forgetting that he’d already told Rhodes Noah’s last name.
    â€œYou will be when the sheriff gets you in the back room,” Andy said. He looked at Noah. “What’s his problem?”
    â€œSnorted ashes,” Rhodes said.
    â€œLike Keith Richards?”
    â€œExcept these weren’t Noah’s own father’s ashes,” Rhodes said.
    â€œWho’s Keith Richards?” Todd asked. “What back room?”
    â€œMaybe I should just shoot him,” Andy said.
    â€œWouldn’t be right,” Rhodes said, “but don’t tell him who Keith Richards is.”
    Noah straightened up again, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He didn’t look well.
    Todd looked at Andy, who smiled. It wasn’t a pleasant smile.
    â€œNames?” Andy asked.
    â€œBryan Stout and Nic Chambers,” Todd said without hesitation.
    â€œWe can pick them up later,” Rhodes said. “Right now we’ll take these two to jail.”
    â€œJail?” Todd said.
    â€œGraybar Hotel,” Andy said. “The Slammer. The Big House.”
    â€œWhat’s he talking about?” Todd said, looking at Rhodes.
    â€œYour education is sadly lacking,” Andy said. “You’ll have plenty of time to study in jail. Maybe you’ll even find out who Keith Richards is. Put your hands behind your back.”
    â€œWhat? Why?”
    â€œHandcuffs,” Andy