The Devil's Bag Man (6 page)

I
t had to be some kind of self-hate thing, Nichols thought, his interior monologue dappled with Cantwell's psycho-speak these days. Either that or a macho thing: Nichols playing the stoic, the man who could take a licking and not start bitching.

Why else—now that the department had both a pot to piss in and a window to throw it out of—would he refuse to get himself a goddamn working air conditioner?

The twelve-to-eight shift fit better with Ruth's schedule, meant he could linger at the breakfast table the way she liked—weekend breakfasts had been marathon affairs in Cantwell's house growing up, apparently, and for her domestic bliss started with re-creating the ritual.

And it meant he could be privy to shit shows like this morning's, play stepdad to the bundle of nerves and hormones that was Sherry Richards—and hey, Nichols wasn't complaining, was happy to do his part, had been an equal partner in the decision to take her in. A no-brainer, considering the lack of options the girl had.

But still, Jesus Christ. He wasn't qualified for this. And two women in one house? Nichols was no goon, women were his equals and his
betters—but goddamn, that was a lot of estrogen whipping around, a lot of emotional updrafts and downswings. More than he could keep track of, for sure.

He parked the cruiser in his reserved space, made for the front door. He swung it open and tamped down the irrational, guilty feeling that he was sneaking in late. Starting at noon just
felt
wrong. It threw off his rhythms, made him feel like he was playing catch-up all day. Robbed him of his morning rituals.

Like feeling his office heat up. By this time of day, it had already completed the transformation into a sweltering, fetid armpit. Where was the sport in that?

And when the hell were you supposed to eat lunch on a noon to eight? An hour after you got to work? At three? Were you supposed to eat two meals on the clock? Starve yourself, then strap on the feedbag for an early dinner?

First-world problems, Nichols
.

Use 'em to block out what's underneath, long as you can
.

He grabbed the stack of paperwork waiting for him on the department secretary's desk—Maggie was already out to lunch herself, no fool she—walked into the Armpit, and turned on the Eisenhower-administration fan. He'd stopped for an iced Dunkins on the way, despite the pot of coffee he'd already poured down his throat at home. Sheer force of habit. He plunked it down on the desk with a reproachful glance, unable to even take a sip, and took a baleful look around.

This room, and the job he did in it, represented the only continuity Nichols had left.

Sure, you've got a brand-new house and a brand-new lady friend and a brand-new sense of existential dread, but hey, at least the wood paneling and the smell of mold remain the same
.

Talk about cold comfort.

At least something was cold.

He drummed his fingers atop the paperwork, not ready to slog through it yet, and felt a familiar restlessness creep though his muscles, a desire to move just for the sake of moving, the desk like a ball and chain around his leg.

Get out there and do some good
—that was the self-exculpating, rah-rah version.

Went down a lot easier than
I can't sit here with myself or I'll go nuts
.

Protect and Serve, motherfuckers.

He called the rookie's name, hoping maybe something had happened out in the world that required sheriffly attention. Anything major, and he'd have gotten a call; the deputies weren't shy about interrupting Nichols's off-time, passing the buck to the buck-stopper. But a man could dream, couldn't he?

“Boggs.”

“Yessir?” Boggs called back, from his cubicle in the big room, not even standing up.

What was it with these kids, and their willingness to conduct a conversation through multiple walls? Sherry was the same way. Nichols ran the numbers, realized that Russell Boggs was probably six years older than her and nearly two dozen younger than himself.

The fact that it keeps surprising you how old you are, you know what that is?

Proof of how fucking old you are
.

“C'mere, dammit!”

Boggs appeared at the threshold a few seconds later, a rangy kid with curly brown hair and arms 25 percent longer than seemed necessary. He was a little doofy, but he had the makings of a solid cop—
good bones
, as they always said about a house they were about to gut-renovate on those design shows Cantwell sometimes watched.

Nichols shook his head, playing at fatherly rebuke. “What do you think, I wanna talk to you across the whole office?”

“Sorry.”

“Don't be sorry. What's new? All quiet this morning?”

Boggs shrugged, helped himself to a seat across the desk. “Pretty much. Had a B&E call over on the east side around seven. Lady woke up and found her kitchen door pried open—with a screwdriver, it looked like—and some cash and small electronics gone. But her son's a meth-head, and she kicked him out last week, so . . .” He shrugged again. “All in the family, probably.”

“Fair enough. You want this iced coffee? Fresh from Dunkins. I haven't touched it.”

Boggs raised his eyebrows, nodded. Nichols handed it over and leaned back. The deputy's smooth cheeks went concave as he drew on the straw.

“Oh, and Oklahoma put out an APB on that Knowles guy. Apparently, he escaped from the lockup in Ardmore a few days ago.”

Nichols sat bolt upright. “What? How? And they're just putting it out now?”

Boggs turned red. “Um, no. Actually, I just kind of forgot to tell you. It came in right at the end of my shift, and then I had to—”

“Goddamn it, Boggs.”

“Sorry, Sheriff. I—”

Nichols took a deep breath, let it out through his nose. “Don't be sorry. I obviously didn't make clear to you how important this son of a bitch is to me. We've got . . . history.”

Escaped
. The word chimed in Nichols's head, abrasive and off-key. This wasn't the Wild West. Nobody escaped these days—not without a whole lot of help, or some very willing incompetence. Which came down to the same thing, really.

Who the fuck would expend that kind of energy on a scumbag like Knowles? His club was tattered and scattered, those once-ubiquitous convoys of True Natives absent from the local landscape since the Night. Aaron Seth's organization had shown no signs of rising from the ashes either; cut the head off the charismatic leader, and a cult usually folded.

A man always stepped out of jail with a sense of purpose. And if he was a fugitive, the clock ticking down on his freedom, every day quite possibly his last?

There were only a couple of things a man like that might have on his mind.

Settling scores, or disappearing.

Or both.

Putting whoever he blamed in a world of hurt, and then making for the border.

Whoever he blamed
.

That'd be Nichols, and everyone he loved.

Before he knew it, he was brushing past the deputy and heading for the door, cell phone out in front of him like a compass, stone-faced and scrolling through the numbers.

Boggs raised up, stepped into his wake.

“Boss?”

“I'll be back.”

“Anything I can—”

“No.”

He jumped into his car, the seat back still warm from the journey over, the cell wedged between his ear and shoulder now, the home phone on its tenth ring.

Where the fuck was Ruth?

He hung up, tried her mobile. Twice. Nothing.

Her office, even though she wasn't scheduled to work today. Straight to voice mail, the answering service telling him that if he was having a medical emergency, he should hang up and dial 911.

Nichols felt the sweat ooze through his pores. He gripped the wheel tighter.

It made no sense to panic. The old Nichols—the Nichols of three months ago—would not have.

The new one was downright prone to it.

Calm down
, he told himself.
Knowles was on the loose for months before this, and he didn't beat a path to your door
. Hell, he'd busted out nearly a week ago, and it had been all quiet on the Western front.

There's no need to do eighty in a thirty-five, Nichols
.
She's probably in the shower or something
.

He hung up, held the phone at arm's length to search for another number, phone inches from the windshield, Nichols's bifocals still lying on his desk.
Get it together, you fucking dinosaur
.

Three rings.

“Hello?”

“Sherry! Are you okay? Is everything all right?”

A desultory sigh. “Why is everybody asking me that today?”

Nichols felt his throat constrict. “What do you mean?”

“My dad called. He sounded, like, freaked out. Is something going on?”

Without meaning to, Nichols accelerated. “What did he say?”

“He had some dream or something.” A pause. “What's happening, Nichols?”

Should he say anything? Infect her with his own panic, or be the rock Sherry needed?

The quivering, terrified rock.

“It's nothing. Just . . . be careful. I'll see you later on, okay?”

“Yeah, I guess. You be careful too, or whatever. And Nichols?”

“Yeah?”

“I'm not going back to school.”

Click.

Nichols banged a right, tires screeching. Two blocks from home.

He lifted his phone again, wondered if he should call Jess, give him a heads-up. But Knowles would never be able to find him anyway—and if he did, well, best of luck. Galvan would see the biker coming a mile away. Probably rip off his head and punt it into the fucking stratosphere.

It was Ruth whose name was in the phone book, who'd liberated Sherry and her mother from Seth's compound, gone after the cult leader so relentlessly he'd filed a restraining order against her.

Nichols skidded to a halt in front of the house, and what he saw kicked the panic into a higher gear.

Ruth's red Audi, parked in the driveway, the driver's door jacked open, the car beeping insistently.

Her gym bag, lying on the ground.

“Ruth!” He raced toward the house, found the front door standing open, tore inside.

“Ruth! Baby, where are you?” The front hall, the kitchen. Empty.

Only then did Nichols think to draw his gun.

He spun into the living room, weapon first, swept left to right.

Nothing.

“Ruth!”

From the back of the house, a tiny, breathless cry. “In here.”

He found her in the bathroom, curled around the toilet.

Nichols holstered his gun and felt the adrenaline flow out of him, leaving him weak, deflated as an old balloon. He slid down the wall and reached out to touch her hair, sweat-plastered to her forehead.

“Baby,” he breathed. “What's wrong?”

She gave him a weak smile. “What are you doing here?”

“I was worried about you,” Nichols said. “You weren't answering your phone, and then . . . your car was . . . I . . .” He smiled at her—helpless, ridiculous, not caring, his limbs rubbery with relief.

“What's wrong?” he asked again.

She blinked rapidly, then wiped a phantom tear from her cheek.

“I didn't want to say anything yet,” she started, and Nichols's heart surged.

She read the joy on his face and smiled broader. “It's only been eight weeks. But . . .” She reached out, grabbed his warm meaty hand in her thin clammy one, and pressed it to her belly.

Nichols didn't realize he was crying until the first tear hit his knee.

“I know what it did to you and Kat,” she whispered. “Trying for so long. I wanted to wait until I was little further along, in case . . .”

But Ruth was glowing like she didn't believe a word.

“I know the timing is kind of crazy.” She caught his eye, held it, squeezed his hand between both of hers. “But you want this, right?”

“More than anything in the world,” he said, and Ruth pitched forward into his arms.

Nichols pressed his cheek to the top of her head, closed his eyes, and tried to figure out what it was he felt. A soaring sense of hope, for sure. Of possibility. The searing burn of love, for Ruth and for their baby.

And also a pounding trepidation, like a drum inside his stomach.

How do you bring new life into a world you don't even recognize?

For reasons that were beyond him, the phrase
no free lunch
popped into Nichols's head, and once it was there it wouldn't leave.

T
he late-afternoon rush was crazy, one youth soccer team after the next, the place filled up with the high-pitched laughter of seven- and eight- and nine-year-olds, kids too young to practice proper cone management, the ice cream sliding down their elbows in white and brown and peppermint-green rivulets, their parents giving duck-walk chase with wadded-up paper napkins while their own scoops went melty in their Dixie cups.

Sherry could watch kids be kids forever, as long as they were somebody else's responsibility. Had she ever been that young, that carefree? The joy she took in them was cut with heartache: How long could their innocence last? What would happen when they found out there was no Santa Claus, that their parents were mortal, that tragedy was inevitable and nobody—nobody—would be spared?

God
, Sherry thought later, as she wiped down the sticky tables after the rush,
I sound like some ancient crone
.
Some one-eyed witch from a Greek myth, sitting in my cave, shaking my head at the coming doom
. She glanced over at Meghan, using a waffle cone as a microphone as she crooned along to some tacky love song, and gave her a tick of a smile.

How were they the same age? How was that even possible?

Hey, Megs, guess what? I used to live in a cult, but then we left, and so they cut my mom's head off and kidnapped me, but then my dad broke out of prison and ate like this magic human heart and fucking killed everybody—oh, except for the psychotic rapist who kidnapped me; I stabbed him to death myself
.
Yeah, it was awesome
.
So, like, how was
your
summer?

Fuck. My. Life
.

“I'm taking a smoke break,” Sherry called. Meghan gave her a thumbs-up without breaking character, arching her back as she hit the song's pièce de résistance high note. Sherry grabbed her purse from her locker, then stepped past the storage freezer and through the back door, into the heat and quiet. There was nothing back here but Dumpsters, nothing to hear but muted traffic and the low thrum of refrigeration.

She pulled out her kit, ground the hitter until the tip was packed, lifted it to her lips. Sparked the herb and inhaled with all her strength, wanting to fill her lungs and feel the world lose focus.

Aaaaah
. She closed her eyes, savored the float.

“And just what do you think
you're
doing, miss?”

Oh,
fuck
.

Her eyes popped open, and Sherry grinned. Alex was walking toward her, hands jammed into the front pockets of his slim-cut jeans, orange T-shirt fluttering in the slight breeze, gravel crunching beneath his perfectly worn cowboy boots. God, he was beautiful. The way he moved: a careless, confident, unspeakably masculine saunter. The way one thick lock of black hair broke free of the short ponytail and framed his face. The two days of stubble on his cheeks, the light in his brown eyes, the glow of his olive skin.

He didn't say anything more, just came straight up and kissed her like Sherry was the only thing that mattered in the world. His hands slid over her waist, up her forearms, back down. And then Alex was unfurling her palm, finding the hitter and the lighter stashed there. When his lips left hers, they locked around the pipe. He flicked the lighter, pulled until the load was ash, exhaled out the side of his mouth.

“Hi, baby,” he said.

“Hello.” She wanted to kiss him again, taste the smoke on his tongue. “Nice entrance.”

She took the hitter, packed it again, and handed it back. “How's your day going?”

He smiled, the lighter frozen halfway to his mouth. “My day started the second I saw you.”

By the time they cashed the load, Sherry was soaring and work was a distant thing, a virtual impossibility.

“Going back in there right now seems like a form of torture,” she said, leaning back against the warm metal fire door.

Listen to me
, she thought suddenly, the epiphany blooming like a flower.
Torture
.
I've
been
tortured
.
And here I am applying the word to scooping ice cream
.
If I wasn't me, I'd be fucking offended
.
But I guess we all just go on
.
Maybe that's a beautiful thing
.
Maybe that's, like, the human condition
.

Wow, I'm really freaking baked right now
.

“So don't,” said Alex, snapping Sherry out of her reverie.

“Huh?”

“Don't go back.” He took her hand. “Let's get out of here. Go watch the sunset. What do you say?”

She goggled at him. “I'll get fired.”

He waved her off. “Aaah, Meghan will cover for you. It's only a couple hours. You want me to sweet-talk her for you?” He waggled his eyebrows, and Sherry laughed.

“No way. I'm not letting you flirt with her. I'll ask her myself.”

Five minutes later they were in his car, the town shrinking behind them and the open road ahead.

“Where are we going?” Sherry asked idly, as the sagebrush flew by, a light green blur, and the deepening blue sky held steady above. A slivery, silvery moon had already snuck out, ahead of the sunset.

“One of my favorite spots. You'll see.”

That was enough for Sherry. Alex lay his hand on the seat between them, palm up, and she dropped hers atop it, interlaced their fingers.

“As far as I'm concerned, we don't ever have to come back.”

He glanced over sharply, and Sherry felt a stab of panic. Too much? Too needy/clingy/desperate?

But all he said was, “Why don't you tell your parents you're staying over at a friend's tonight?”

Sherry felt her face flush—at the suggestion and at the word
parents
, a reminder of just how little Alex knew about her, how completely new and fresh and unbesmirched she was with him.

“Okay.” She slipped her phone from her bag, texted Ruth, and then switched the thing off, in case the reply wasn't to her liking.

“I'm all yours,” she said, and slid toward him. Alex lifted his arm, and she snuggled in beneath.

“This car is so awesome. I feel like we're about to go to a drive-in movie, or a, I dunno, like a sock hop or something. Like we're living in simpler times. Is that stupid?”

“Not at all, baby. That's why I bought it,” Alex said. “It's a classic.”

He spun the wheel, and they banked left, up a snaky little road Sherry never would have noticed and into the hills.

“What is a sock hop, anyway?” she asked.

“You got me.”

The climb was long and steady, and before Sherry knew it, they were cresting the top of the mountain—or hill, rather; it was more like a really tall hill—and looking down at the sumptuous view below: the glittering lights of the town, as sunset descended upon it in concentric bands of orange, pink, and blue.

Theirs was the only car, though the dirt lot had room for eight or ten. Alex pulled right up to the edge, so close to the sloping hillside that Sherry clutched at his forearm in half-manufactured fear.

“This is the best way,” he explained, cutting the engine and rolling up his window against the slight chill. “It feels almost like we're floating above it, right?”

“Totally. You want some more of this?” She rolled up her window and waved the one-hitter at him.

“I'll roll us a proper joint. That's what they smoke at the sock hops, I'm pretty sure.”

He slid a pack of Zig-Zags from his pocket, flipped them across his knuckles, and in about twenty seconds, the pinner was ready to smoke. He handed it to Sherry, and she stared at it with trepidation for a moment, already plenty high.

Fuck it. You could always get higher. And anyway, Alex would take care of her. For the first time she could remember, she felt cocooned,
safe. There was something about him—a calm, a confidence, a
manner
—that put her at ease, made her want to relinquish control. Maybe she needed to feel that way so badly she was projecting those qualities on him—but no, that was the old Sherry's way of thinking, the scarred, scared Sherry, the one she refused to be anymore. Alex was real. This was real.

This was her life, and it was just beginning.

She took a pull, passed, then leaned back against the door to watch his pillowy lips pinch tight around the joint.

Instead, Alex parked it between his scissored fingers and leaned in for a kiss. Sherry pulled him to her, sliding down until her head rested on the seat and she had a clear view of the stars.

“Hey there,” he murmured, kissing his way down her neck. Sherry arched her back and ran her fingers through his hair, feeling all her concerns evaporate like sweat from skin and float off toward the new night stars.

The sound of shattering glass put an end to that. They scrambled away, Alex shielding her body with his own, pressing her against the passenger door.

A hulking man stood by the driver's door, fist webbed in blood, face cloaked in shadow. What was left of the window collapsed into diamond-sized bits and fell like sand in the wind.

Oh, shit.

“What the fuck, Dad?”

He's lost it
, was her first thought.
He's lost it, and he's capable of anything
.

Stay calm, Sherry
.
He loves you
.
Find his eyes
.
Talk him down
.

“Dad, this is my
boyfriend
. His name is Alex. I'm
fine
. Nothing is wrong.”

“Get out of the car, Sherry.” He spoke low, through gritted teeth.

She threw an arm around Alex, pulled him to her. “No, Dad.
You
get out of here. You're acting crazy right now.”

Her father lunged forward, his arm like a python, grabbed Alex by the ankle, and pulled him halfway out of the car.

“Get out right now, Sherry, or I'll break his neck. Do it!”

“Okay—okay! Just take it easy.” She threw her weight against the door and stepped into the cool night air, onto legs like melting Popsicles. “I'm out.
I'm out. Just—” Words failed her, and she lifted both palms in a
steady, steady
sign.

“Come here,” he demanded, pointing at the ground beside his feet.

“Not until you let him go.” They eyed each other for a moment across the car, and then Alex found his voice.

“Hey, look, this is obviously some kind of misunderstanding, okay? Can we just—Mr. Galvan, sir, can we just talk?”

Sherry's father tightened his vise hold on Alex's ankle, and he howled in pain.

“You told him my last name?” he demanded, eyes darting back to Sherry as Alex continued to thrash. “Huh? Why would you?”

He turned his attention back to Alex. “How the fuck do you know my name? Who sent you, motherfucker?”

“Stop it!” Sherry screamed, at the top of her lungs. “You're fucking paranoid! Just stop!”

Alex was scrabbling at the seat, trying to pull himself up. He bent double, got a hand on Jess's, tried to break the grip.

Bad move. Jess swatted him across the face with an open hand, and the top half of Alex's body disappeared beneath the seat.

“Alex!” Sherry's legs had come back into focus now, and she ran at her father.

The sound of a gunshot brought her up short.

It came from inside the car. Alex had pulled a revolver from the glove box, it seemed like. Fired a warning shot into the air.

Or else—

No. Warning shot. It had to be.

Sherry's father was nowhere to be seen. He'd dropped flat, probably, at the sight of the gun.

“Alex!” she shouted. “Dad! Both of you, st—”

She never finished the thought.

Her father was on his feet, he was in back of the car, he was bending, grabbing at the bumper, the undercarriage, the muscles of his neck and thighs and biceps straining against his clothes—

“No!”

She was too late. The burgundy-over-tan GTO flipped through the air and down the hillside. The rear bumper landed first, a hundred and
eighty degrees later, with a sickening, metallic crash, and the vehicle only picked up speed from there—became a blur, a series of horrible crunching noises.

Became wreckage.

Became fire.

Became death.

Sherry crumpled to the ground, her body racked with sobs, the world gone black around her. For a moment, she couldn't breathe—and then all she could do was breathe, fast and ragged, and then she was on her feet, flying at Galvan, a frenzy of punches and kicks, saltwater and fury.

She might as well have been attacking a brick wall. He stood perfectly still, and took it—but no, he didn't
take it
. Her father didn't even seem to notice.

“You monster!” she screamed, clawing at his face, nails drawing blood from his cheek. “You insane fucking psychopath!”

He said nothing. Did nothing. His eyes were unfocused, vacant.

She stepped back, panting, scared for her own life now. This man was no one's father, no one's son, nobody's friend. He was a shell, a ghoul, something to fear and loathe. He—

“Shut the fuck up!” Galvan bellowed, fists clenched, head lifted to the night sky. “Just shut the fuck up!”

And then he looked at her, and he was Jess Galvan again. Desperate, haunted, confused Jess Galvan, who would do anything for her, who already had, who needed her to understand why he'd done this.

But no.

Just no.

“Sherry—”

He opened his arms, body already pleading before his brain had found the words.

“Stay away from me!” She scrambled farther away, down into the underbrush. Where she could see the flames, licking at the carcass of the car.

“He was going to hurt you. It was all some kind of—”

“Stop it!” The tears were hot, so hot they burned. “You're a fucking murderer! Stay the fuck away!”

He fell silent, and Sherry took another step backward, the brambles biting at her thighs.