night?”
“Count on it.”
“Fuck me runnin’.” Leon started gnawing at his fingernails again. “I’m a dead man.”
“You’re not a dead man.”
“Sure as I’m sittin’ here. Might as well just find me a hole somewhere, lay down in it and pull the dirt in over my head.”
Nick said, “Trust me. You’ve done the right thing.”
“For once in my sorry-ass life?”
“You said it, not me.”
Leon laughed.
Nick didn’t. He turned to leave, glad to finally get out of there.
†
Evening. Nick headed back to town. Beyond the Blue Ridge Mountains bordering Polk County, the horizon had turned the color of ripe peaches.
He spotted the black-and-white the second he pulled into the parking lot of the Sunrise Motor Lodge. It was parked conspicuously in front of the motel’s main office. A man in a khaki uniform leaned against the patrol car, talking into a cellphone.
The Bronco’s brakes whined as Nick backed the vehicle into a spot facing his room.
In his peripheral vision he saw the lawman cut his call short, start walking toward him. Nick took his time switching off the ignition. Rolling up the windows. Dabbing at his leaking eyeball. Pocketing his keys, then sliding the fob for Room 118 out of the ashtray where he had stashed it.
He got out of the truck. Slammed the door.
“Mr. Bullman? Nick Bullman?”
The man with the badge was in his early forties. His hair was close-cropped at his temples, just starting to turn gray. He had a muscular frame, but carried a hint of a middle-age belly, as if he might have once pumped iron but had gotten out of the habit the last few years. He wore a five o’clock shadow, wire-rimmed glasses with a blue tint.
“Sheriff Kyle Mackey,” he introduced himself.
“Sheriff,” said Nick.
The cop’s handshake was firm, sincere. “I was wondering if I might have a few words with you.”
“We do need to talk,” Nick said. “You wanna come on in the room?”
“Actually, I was thinking we could head over to the Denny’s on Brookshire Boulevard.” When Nick didn’t say anything, the sheriff lowered his voice as if he and the big man were coconspirators. “Had to skip breakfast this morning. Any time that happens, I get cranky. Have to make up for it later in the day. It’s my favorite meal.”
Nick couldn’t care less about the sheriff’s eating habits. But they did have a lot to talk about.
“What do you say? Denny’s, my treat?”
“I’ve never been one to turn down a free meal,” said Nick.
“Good man,” said the sheriff. “We’ll take my car.”
†
They started off with idle conversation—talk about the weather, and about how much Midnight had changed in the last thirty years—and Nick noticed the whole time that the sheriff seemed to have no reservations about looking into his disfigured face as they spoke. He wasn’t used to this. Folks always reacted one of two ways: with an anything-but-subtle aversion to his mug...or they couldn’t tear their eyes off of it, as if he were some scientific anomaly.
Not this guy, though. Sheriff Kyle Mackey had honed his poker face to perfection. Done his homework beforehand, most likely, knew what to expect upon meeting the man who had once been the Widowmaker.
“I’ll get to the point,” the sheriff said between bites of his long-awaited breakfast. “In a place like Midnight, word travels fast. I heard you were in town, thought it’d be best if I wasted no time making sure we’re on the same page.”
Nick took a sip of his iced tea. “Say what you gotta say, Sheriff.”
Mackey put down his fork. Nick noticed a stripe of pale skin on his left ring finger, where the lawman had once worn a wedding band.
“I’m asking you not to get involved in this. With all due respect, I need you to stay out of my way, let me do my job.”
“What makes you think I’d want to get in your way?” Nick said.
“Mr. Bullman, I wasn’t born yesterday. I know Melissa is desperate. She
“Count on it.”
“Fuck me runnin’.” Leon started gnawing at his fingernails again. “I’m a dead man.”
“You’re not a dead man.”
“Sure as I’m sittin’ here. Might as well just find me a hole somewhere, lay down in it and pull the dirt in over my head.”
Nick said, “Trust me. You’ve done the right thing.”
“For once in my sorry-ass life?”
“You said it, not me.”
Leon laughed.
Nick didn’t. He turned to leave, glad to finally get out of there.
†
Evening. Nick headed back to town. Beyond the Blue Ridge Mountains bordering Polk County, the horizon had turned the color of ripe peaches.
He spotted the black-and-white the second he pulled into the parking lot of the Sunrise Motor Lodge. It was parked conspicuously in front of the motel’s main office. A man in a khaki uniform leaned against the patrol car, talking into a cellphone.
The Bronco’s brakes whined as Nick backed the vehicle into a spot facing his room.
In his peripheral vision he saw the lawman cut his call short, start walking toward him. Nick took his time switching off the ignition. Rolling up the windows. Dabbing at his leaking eyeball. Pocketing his keys, then sliding the fob for Room 118 out of the ashtray where he had stashed it.
He got out of the truck. Slammed the door.
“Mr. Bullman? Nick Bullman?”
The man with the badge was in his early forties. His hair was close-cropped at his temples, just starting to turn gray. He had a muscular frame, but carried a hint of a middle-age belly, as if he might have once pumped iron but had gotten out of the habit the last few years. He wore a five o’clock shadow, wire-rimmed glasses with a blue tint.
“Sheriff Kyle Mackey,” he introduced himself.
“Sheriff,” said Nick.
The cop’s handshake was firm, sincere. “I was wondering if I might have a few words with you.”
“We do need to talk,” Nick said. “You wanna come on in the room?”
“Actually, I was thinking we could head over to the Denny’s on Brookshire Boulevard.” When Nick didn’t say anything, the sheriff lowered his voice as if he and the big man were coconspirators. “Had to skip breakfast this morning. Any time that happens, I get cranky. Have to make up for it later in the day. It’s my favorite meal.”
Nick couldn’t care less about the sheriff’s eating habits. But they did have a lot to talk about.
“What do you say? Denny’s, my treat?”
“I’ve never been one to turn down a free meal,” said Nick.
“Good man,” said the sheriff. “We’ll take my car.”
†
They started off with idle conversation—talk about the weather, and about how much Midnight had changed in the last thirty years—and Nick noticed the whole time that the sheriff seemed to have no reservations about looking into his disfigured face as they spoke. He wasn’t used to this. Folks always reacted one of two ways: with an anything-but-subtle aversion to his mug...or they couldn’t tear their eyes off of it, as if he were some scientific anomaly.
Not this guy, though. Sheriff Kyle Mackey had honed his poker face to perfection. Done his homework beforehand, most likely, knew what to expect upon meeting the man who had once been the Widowmaker.
“I’ll get to the point,” the sheriff said between bites of his long-awaited breakfast. “In a place like Midnight, word travels fast. I heard you were in town, thought it’d be best if I wasted no time making sure we’re on the same page.”
Nick took a sip of his iced tea. “Say what you gotta say, Sheriff.”
Mackey put down his fork. Nick noticed a stripe of pale skin on his left ring finger, where the lawman had once worn a wedding band.
“I’m asking you not to get involved in this. With all due respect, I need you to stay out of my way, let me do my job.”
“What makes you think I’d want to get in your way?” Nick said.
“Mr. Bullman, I wasn’t born yesterday. I know Melissa is desperate. She
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