Mr. Shivers (16 page)

Sleep fell on him quickly, better sleep than he had had in weeks.

Connelly awoke in the middle of the night. Something troubled him. He could not place what it was until he realized that he
could no longer hear the racket of drinking and piano from downstairs. It had halted sometime, sometime recent.

He stood and went to the window. The streets were empty, but he saw something far down at the end of one. Two little sparks,
fluttering in the night.

Torches. Two, maybe even three.

He went to the door and opened it as quietly as he could. He walked out and peered around the staircase. He could see and
hear no one, but the lights were on downstairs. Then he heard hushed voices, whispering to one another, and the fall of a
boot. He snaked into an empty room across the hall and stood there, listening. More footfalls came until there were at least
four men outside the room where Roosevelt and Pike still lay. Connelly ducked his head around the doorway, just far enough
to see the shining cylinder of a rifle. He pulled back into the shadows, heart pounding.

The men kicked the door in and the inn filled with yelling. Some shouted for them to get up and some shouted for them to stay
down, a confused and furious assault that soon degenerated into a flat-out beating. He heard Roosevelt and Pike crying out,
their attackers shouting back to shut up, only to cause more noise. Finally one of them shouted, “Where is he? Where is that
bastard?”

“Who?” said Roosevelt’s voice. “Who the hell do you mean?”

Another blow. Roosevelt moaned.

“The big one! Where’s the big bastard you came in with?”

“Who? I don’t know!”

Someone shouted in rage. A crack, and this time it was Pike who howled and snarled.

“You stay back! You stay back and down, old man! Now where’s the big damn bearded bastard you came in with or I swear to God,
I’ll shoot every one of you men right here and now!”

But now Roosevelt and Pike were beyond answering. “Christ,” said their attacker. “Look at these fuckers. Blake, round them
up and get them out on the damn street. Boss wants to look at them.”

“I thought there’d be more,” said a voice.

“So did I,” answered the other.

Connelly stayed pinned to the wall as Hammond and Pike were dragged out of the room. The men spoke and laughed to one another
as they tossed their prey down the stairs. Connelly did not move until he heard their voices move outside. Then he dashed
back into his room, put back on his boots and coat, and tried to find some section of the street outside that was empty.

He darted from room to room, peering through badly built windows to the streets below. Firelight flickered from the front.
There was either a lot of fire out there or a lot of people carrying fire, but he could not see, nor would he risk a glance.

He wound his way through the second story of the inn until he found a small window that opened out onto the back. Behind the
inn the land sunk down into a ditch filled with refuse and gravel. He pried the window open and shouldered his way through.
Then he looked down at the ground below and thought. He turned, dug his fingers into the windowsill, and lowered himself down
slowly. His right arm screamed, still tender from the train. He hung there and then dropped to the ground.

He collapsed in a heap and tried to suppress a cough but could not. Someone shouted, “What was that?” and Connelly got to
his feet and began running.

Clouds strafed across the midnight sky but there was still light enough to see. He ducked between fences and tottering buildings
that slouched on one another like ancient winesots. He checked around a corner, desperately searching for the dancing, roving
torchlight that would be searching for him. He saw nothing and bolted forward and scrambled through a lumber yard, great logs
leaning and seesawing against the violet sky. He vaulted himself up and over one and it was damp to the touch. As he crested
shots rang out. Their hot riptide washed over him and he knew they had been close, buzzing by just over his shoulder. Splinters
and chunks dotted his right side as he descended and more shots whined through the air like angry bees. He landed and checked
but felt no blood on him, then lay there breathing.

There was no noise, no shouts or calls. He turned and peered through a small gap in the logs, eyes scanning the roads and
streets. Still he saw nothing. He crouched, ready to spring, when he heard the vicious snap of a rifle cocking.

“Eh,” warned a voice, high-pitched and friendly. “No. No, no. I wouldn’t do that, I certainly think I wouldn’t.”

Connelly froze.

“Okay, boy. I think you’re in one piece, and it’s a big piece at that. I can see you well and good, and though it may be a
tight shot I think I can wing you through them logs. You agree?”

He didn’t answer.

“I said, you agree?”

“Yeah,” said Connelly.

“Okay, then. And you also don’t seem like the kind of fella to be running around with a gun. Otherwise, well, we’d have heard
a shot already. So. So, how’s about you put the backs of your hands on the top of that pile so I can see there’s nothing in
them? Does that sound agreeable? Does it?”

“Sure,” said Connelly.

“Sure,” purred the voice. “Sure it does. So do it.”

Connelly lifted his hands, placed the backs on the top corner of wood, and slowly pushed them up.

“There we go,” said the voice. “There it is. Okay now, son. You just pull the rest of yourself up. All the way up. Real slow.”

Connelly stood.

“You’re just as big as they said, ain’t you? Well-fed boy. Now turn around, big boy, turn on around.”

He did. His attacker was standing in the lumber yard, rifle gently resting at his shoulder, not hard and alert, but not afraid,
either. Connelly squinted to see him in the night. He was a small man, late middle age, with white hair and a gentle baby
face and a happy, knowing smile that never left his lips. Connelly could see the man’s blue eyes even in this light, blue
as chips of glacial ice, merry and gleeful as though all of this was just a small joke for everyone to enjoy.

“Come on over here, son,” said the man chidingly. “Come on over here and say hey to me.”

Connelly walked over with arms still in the air and stood before the small man.

The man nodded, satisfied. “You boys put on quite a show,” he said.

Two others rounded the far corners of the yard at either end, torch in hand, and Connelly saw one of them was the boy from
the inn. He trembled to see Connelly. As the Halloween-orange light washed over them Connelly saw the twinkle and shine of
something at his attacker’s breast, something polished silver-bright. A metal star.

Connelly looked at it. “Jesus Christ,” he said.

The man nodded, still smiling. “Yeah,” he said, almost wistfully, like he was reliving a fond memory. “Yeah.”

Then his eyes hardened and the rifle butt flashed up and struck Connelly’s temple. The ground spun around him and everything
faded.

Mr. Shivers

Light lanced down at him through the pain. He cracked open an eye. A lone bulb hung from a dark wood ceiling. Someone was
smoking a cigarette somewhere, acrid and tangy. His hands were bound behind his back and he was lying on a wood floor, wood
shavings and sand worked into every crack. He tried to move his head and saw Roosevelt and Pike sitting on a bench across
from him, hands cuffed and in their laps, heads bowed, their faces purple and misshapen.

Roosevelt saw him and tried to smile. “Hey, Connie,” he said. “You got no luck with your head. Every time you turn around
someone’s busting it open again.”

Pike shushed him, but it was too late.

“Boss,” said a voice. “Boss.”

“Yes?” came the answer. That high-pitched voice, mild and sweet.

“He’s awake.”

“Oh, that so?” it crooned. “Is he?”

Connelly rolled over. He saw the small man standing over him in jeans and a white shirt, the sleeves rolled up. The figure
swam in and out of focus and as Connelly thinned his eyes he saw a nasty brand on the sheriff’s inner arm, brown and pink,
a circle with a lizard’s head mounted in the middle of the edge, eating itself.

Connelly’s skull pounded. “What’s that on your arm?” he whispered stupidly.

“What’s that?” said the sheriff. “What’s that you say? What?”

“On your… On your…” mumbled Connelly.

“Speak up boy, speak up,” said the sheriff. His mouth quivered and he began savagely kicking Connelly over and over again,
in the side, then the arms, and then finally landing one blow on the head.

Things blurred. Darkness melted in from the corner of his vision. He heard someone laughing but was unable to see who before
his mind failed once more.

Connelly’s body clanked to life. Air forced its way through his shuddering lungs and when his consciousness rose he doubled
up and retched in the corner. He lay there breathing and trying to still the nausea before flexing his fingers, then his arms
and toes, then his knees. Nothing seemed broken. He pushed himself up to a sitting position and looked around.

He was in a small, damp cell, no doubt in the jail. Like the rest of the town it was poorly built. The floor was uneven and
there seemed to be no straight lines, every board badly cut and every surface warped. Gray light streamed through a window
at the top. It was day but he could not pull himself up to see. The door was heavy and there was a slot for food and water,
but none had arrived yet.

He checked the money sewn into the cuffs of his pants. It was still there.

“Hey,” said a voice. “Hey.”

Connelly looked around. The cell was empty except for him.

“Over here,” said a voice.

He looked down and saw there was a thin crack at the bottom of the wall that ran through to the other cell. He peered through
and saw a sliver of a face, no more than a smiling eye.

“You alive in there?” said the voice.

“Yeah.”

“You okay?” said the voice.

“I guess,” said Connelly.

“I’m Peachy.”

“You’re what?”

“Peachy. That’s me. That’s my name.”

“Oh.”

Connelly held a hand to his head and rubbed at his temple. He wished he hadn’t vomited in a closed room, especially since
he wasn’t going anywhere.

“What’s your name?” said the voice.

“Connelly,” he said.

“What’d you do, Connelly?”

“Puked.”

“No, I mean to get in here.”

“Oh. I don’t know.”

“You don’t?”

“Not really.”

Connelly looked around. He thought over the last few days. The boy had only noticed him out of all of them. And there was
only one person who knew what Connelly looked like who wasn’t in his group, and that happened to be the man he was hunting.

He stood up and went to the door. It was thick and heavy and the hinges seemed strong, as was the lock. There were two slots,
one for food, one for the guards to observe him. He pushed on it. It did not even rattle.

“What you doing?” said Peachy.

“Nothing.”

Connelly tested the door, the ceiling, the floor, the wall with the window. They were all heavy, not even flexing to his touch.

Peachy chuckled. “Ain’t no popping out of these boxes. They might not look like much but they do their job.”

Connelly grunted.

“What you think they’re going to do to you?”

“I don’t know. I hope not much. Doubt that, though.”

“Maybe someone will bust you out.”

“You ever hear of anyone doing that in here?”

“No.”

Connelly shut his eyes. His legs trembled underneath him and his head throbbed. “Well,” he said. “I’m going to sleep now.”

“At least, no one’s broked out while I been in here. I been in here three months,” said Peachy. “I broke a man’s hand in a
fight.”

“Okay.”

“He was a son of a bitch.”

“Okay. I’m going to sleep now.”

There was a pause.

“They kill people in here,” said Peachy softly. “Did you know that, Connelly?”

Connelly shook his head.

“I said, did you know that?” said Peachy again.

“No,” said Connelly.

“I just… I just thought you would want to know that.”

“Well. Thanks.”

“Connelly?”

“Yeah?”

“Think they going to kill you?”

He paused. “Yeah.”

“Why would they kill you?”

“Don’t think they need a reason,” said Connelly, and he lay down to sleep.

As he drifted off he heard Peachy’s voice say, “Shit.”

The door opened. Flat electric light bored into his darkened room. He lifted his hand to block it and someone said, “Up you
get,” and grabbed his arm and hoisted him to his feet.

He was dragged out and led down a long low hallway at the end of which was an iron door that opened on a room with walls of
cinderblocks. Again, a lone bulb in the ceiling. Plain, boring desk at the end. A small drain in the center of the cement
floor. It was the sort of room in which wars were planned.

The men pushed Connelly in and the door clanked shut behind them. Pike and Roosevelt were sitting on two stools set in the
floor. A third was empty. At the far end of the room was the sheriff, leaning on the desk and smiling at them. His men forced
Connelly onto the third stool. It was absurdly small for him. Pike and Roosevelt did not look at him or at each other, though
it was hard to tell through their bruised faces. Connelly guessed that some of the marks were fresh.

“How was your night?” asked the sheriff.

Connelly shrugged. He kept his eyes on the floor, then found himself looking at the drain set in its middle. Faint rust-red
stains ran around its rim. The floor itself was scrubbed clean.

“You thirsty?” said the sheriff. “You look thirsty.”

“I’m pretty thirsty, yeah,” said Connelly.

The sheriff nodded and took out a small tin cup and filled it with water from a basin. He brought it to Connelly and Connelly
drank it quickly.

“Yeah,” said the sheriff. “You were thirsty. Care for some more?”

Connelly shrugged, nodded. The sheriff filled the cup once more and brought it to him. Connelly drank just as fast, fearing
some imminent violence would kick it from his hands.

“Rainwater,” said the sheriff. “Rainwater’s never been sweeter than it is in dry countries. Now. I’m going to ask you a question.
Are you ready? I hope so.” He sniffed and rubbed his nose. “Where’s your friends?”

“Friends?”

“Yeah. Your friends. Where they at, big boy?”

Connelly gave him a puzzled look and pointed to Roosevelt and Pike sitting on their stools.

He almost didn’t see the sheriff move. The only thing he sensed was the lightning bolt of pain that shot through his shoulder,
from his wrist to the base of his brain, every ligament and nerve turned to razor wire. He looked up and the sheriff was gently
patting a short, thick pipe in one hand.

“Like that?” he said cheerfully.

“No,” said Connelly.

“That’s okay. You weren’t supposed to. Where are your friends at?” he said more clearly.

Connelly didn’t say anything.

“Why don’t you answer, boy?”

“Don’t want to get hit again.”

“You won’t get hit again if you give me the right answer.”

“But I don’t know the right answer.”

“Hmm,” said the sheriff thoughtfully. “Hmm.” He walked around like he was contemplating something and then he brought the
pipe down on Pike’s forehead, stabbing down with the short base. Pike roared and bent over, a stream of blood flowing from
his hairline.

“Did all of you like that?” asked the sheriff. “Did you? You going to tell me where they’re at now? Huh?”

None of them answered. Pike sat frozen, ignoring the flow of blood from his forehead. He could have been carved from wood.

The sheriff looked at them all, face fixed in disgust. “Reynolds?” he called.

“Yes, Sheriff Miles?” said a voice outside the door.

“Cuffs, please.”

“Sure.”

A young man brought in cuffs and they were handcuffed with their wrists behind their backs. The chain of the cuffs went down
around one leg of their stools so they could not move forward or away.

“Now then,” said the sheriff. He rolled his sleeves up, again revealing the raw brand on his arm, the snake eating itself.
“Now then. I know that you boys aren’t alone. No sir, not a chance. So there’s some other boys out there running around and,
well, I’d like to chat with them, too. Are they chatty folk? Are they personable?”

No one said anything. The sheriff paced around them, walked behind Pike, then Roosevelt, then Connelly. Connelly tried to
turn to see the little man but he could not. Suddenly there was a fierce pain in his wrist and he groaned and slid forward
and tried to twist it in his cuffs. He could not see what the man had done but he felt sure his wrist was broken.

“Oh, relax, son,” said the sheriff. “It’s barely a hairline. Barely a hairline, if that.”

Roosevelt muttered something.

“What was that? What?”

“I said, you can’t do this,” said Roosevelt.

“Can’t do what?”

“Can’t just haul up some fellas and cuff them to the floor and beat the hell out of them and not have a reason for doing it.”

“I do have a reason. You boys killed some men on a train. Some good men. Killed them dead, like they were animals.”

“We didn’t do any such thing.”

The sheriff looked at them, eyes flat and dead and distant. They looked alien on such a quaint little old man. “Yes you did.”

“You can’t do this,” said Roosevelt. “Can’t beat on prisoners. There are laws. This is America.”

“What is?” said the sheriff.

“Huh? This is. All this is.”

“This?” said the sheriff, and waved at the bland, gray room.

“No, this… this country. We’re… we’re in America, right now. There are laws.”

“Show me,” said the sheriff.

“What?”

The sheriff grinned. “Show me America.”

“I don’t… I…”

“If it’s going to tell me what to do and what not to do, it better be on hand. You know?”

Roosevelt frowned.

“Show me a law,” the sheriff demanded. “Pick it up and show it to me. Show me a part of America. What, is it this country?
This is just dirt we’re standing on, son. Dirt and stone. Ain’t no lines in the earth, no directions saying what I can and
can’t do. Show me a right. Pick it up and hold it in your hands and put it beneath my ever-loving nose and show me a thing
that says I cannot do what I am doing now. Show me that this is forbidden.”

“This is America,” insisted Roosevelt.

“America is back east,” said the sheriff. “Rights are back east. You’re out on your own out here. And no one gives a damn
about any such thing. See?” He sidearmed Roosevelt across the neck with the pipe. Roosevelt gagged and cried out and spittle
hung from his lips in streams.

The sheriff crouched and smiled into Roosevelt’s face. “All this stuff you talking about,” said the sheriff. “All this stuff.
Well. You take it out here and you see it’s just made up. Imaginary. Santy Claus. It’s only real if you and everyone else
shuts your eyes and pretends with every inch your pretty little hearts. And no one out here’s willing to do that, son. Now,”
he whispered. “Now, now. You want to see what is real?”

The sheriff smiled, then reached behind him and held up the lead pipe, like a lawyer presenting evidence. He laid it on the
cement floor in front of them. Then he took out his gun, the metal wicked black and lustrous, and laid it in front of Roosevelt.
All of them watched it, their eyes following its movements.

“Argue with that as you would a law,” he said. “Argue your rights with that. Go on. Do it.”

None of them spoke.

The sheriff smiled. “With things like that a fella makes a place far more… I don’t know, real than one of laws and rights. What about you, old man?” said the sheriff to Pike. “What do you have to say?”

Pike’s cold stare moved to the sheriff. “Laws are made by men,” said Pike. “I serve a higher power. A power higher than any
butchery you have in your hands and heart.”

The sheriff laughed. “If God wants to come on down and give me a yell about what I’m doing, I—”

“I bet if the scarred man came out here and said not to, you’d jump,” interrupted Connelly.

The sheriff froze and turned to look at him, eyes thin with fury. “What?”

“You’re his man, aren’t you?” said Connelly. “He’s put some cash in your pocket to scoop us up. Isn’t that it?”

The sheriff stared at him a long while, then stooped and picked up the gun and held it to Connelly’s head. Connelly felt the
muzzle bite into the patch of scalp behind his ear, felt it grinding into his skull, felt the sheriff’s hand quivering with
rage and felt Pike’s and Roosevelt’s stares. He shut his eyes and waited for the mindless lump of metal to enter his head
and push everything that made him what he was out the other side onto the cement floor to be washed down into the drain with
God knows what else that had met its end in that room.

“Say that again, boy,” said the sheriff softly. “You just say that again.”