Neil McMahon - Lone Creek

Reuben had been carrying a weight, all right.

I stepped to him and put my hand on his shoulder.

"I wouldn't call it that way, Reuben. If I'd been in your place, I'd have done the same. Probably most men would have."

His eyes changed, to a look that was surprised and maybe grateful.

"I loved Celia and I admired Pete," I said. "But she knew damn well what she was doing, and a lot of it wasn't good. Pete always took it for granted he'd get everything his way-he never bothered much about anybody else. And there was some pure bad luck."

Reuben patted my hand brusquely. I sat at the bar again. We both knocked back an inch of scotch.

"'Course, there were other people who suspected," he said. "Your father. Gary. They had their reasons for keeping it to themselves. But how come you never said anything?"

In that moment, I realized that in spite of what had happened with Laurie and how idiotic I felt about it, I still couldn't let go of the special intimacy with Celia that my imagination had constructed. I gave an answer that was as true as it needed to be.

"I don't know, exactly," I said. "I was fourteen-it wasn't like I thought it through. I guess I figured we'd all lost enough already."

His eyes widened a little.

"That's a damn fair way to put it, Hugh. All right, I've said my piece. Now tell me the rest of what you know about my son."

It wasn't easy concentrating after the way I'd just been slammed. I kept it terse, and he seemed satisfied-at least he didn't ask any questions, just kept gazing out the window and rolling his glass between his hands.

"Suppose I was to suggest we ought to pay a call on Wesley Balcomb," he finally said. "You got any ideas how we might arrange it?"

In one way, that was the last thing in the world I'd ever have expected. In another, I wasn't even surprised.

"I do, Reuben," I said. "I've been thinking a lot about paying him a call myself. Assuming we're talking about the same kind."

He heaved himself to his feet and stalked into the back rooms of the apartment. When he came out, he was carrying a twelve-gauge Remington Model 870 shotgun. He didn't look like an old man now.

"We're talking about this kind," he said.

I stepped to a phone, punched Madbird's number, and waited for his gravelly "Hello."

"That project we've been talking about," I said. "I've got an idea I'd like to run by you. Now would be a real good time."

It was getting toward midnight when the lights in Wesley Balcomb's office went on. Madbird and I were waiting outside the compound's security fence, in the spot where I had earlier planned to shoot from. He had a powerful flashlight. I was lying prone a few yards away with Kirk's rifle, just in case.

When Balcomb walked into the room and sat at his desk, Madbird started shining the flashlight in quick bursts. Balcomb's head swung toward it in alarm. He jumped up and lunged for the light switch. The windows went dark.

Then we heard the sound of one of them cautiously being opened.

"Identify yourself," Balcomb said harshly. "I'm warning you, I've got a gun."

"I'm the one called you last night about them people you were looking for," Madbird said.

Balcomb's voice turned furious. "Who the hell are you? What are you-"

Madbird cut him off. "I found them again. Get your rig and follow me, I'm parked up at the highway. You ain't there in two minutes, I'm leaving." He turned and started loping in that direction.

"You'd better have my ten thousand dollars, goddammit!"

"Gonna cost you ten more," Madbird yelled over his shoulder, and kept running.

I took off running for the road, too. This was the best plan I'd been able to think of for luring him out of there without leaving a phone record. I wasn't at all sure he'd go for it. He always operated at a remove, and he'd be real unhappy about dealing with Madbird. But he had to be going crazy by now, with no idea what was happening and two of his hired guns vanished-primed to grab at any chance.

Within another minute, a vehicle engine started inside the compound. Headlights appeared, with the hulking shape of Balcomb's Humvee behind them.

The security gate opened in front of him and closed after he drove through. He advanced slowly until Madbird turned on the flashlight again, flagging him to stop.

Balcomb's window rolled down. I could see the glint of metal in his hand.

"Go ahead and shoot me," Madbird said. "We ought to get to hell just about the same time."

Reuben stepped out of the shadows with his shotgun leveled.

"I'd let go of that gun if I was you, Wesley," he said. "You know what kind of a mess one of these can make."

I stepped to the window and put the rifle's muzzle against the back of Balcomb's neck.

He let the pistol fall to the ground. It looked like a Smith amp; Wesson Airweight with a shrouded hammer. They were easy to conceal, very reliable, and very effective point-blank-probably what he'd intended for Madbird. I scooped it up and shoved it in my pocket.

"We're going to take a drive," Reuben said. "Hear what you got to say about dead horses and diamonds."

We made sure Balcomb wasn't carrying any other weapons, then put him in the front seat of the ranch pickup truck that I'd driven here. Madbird took the rifle and he and Reuben sat behind us.

Balcomb kept his cool and put on quite a show.

"Hugh, I'm really sorry about what happened," he said. "I'm sure we can get past it."

So we were finally on a first-name basis. I didn't answer.

He made a play for Reuben's sympathy next, not realizing how misguided it was.

"Any news of Kirk?" he said. "I'm worried sick about him."

None of us spoke. He tried again.

"Reuben, I can't think of anything I've done to get on your bad side. Will you at least tell me that?"

"We'll get around to it, Wesley. Now, you got a chance to negotiate here. But I'm starting to get impatient."

I could almost hear the gears whirring in Balcomb's head for the next thirty seconds.

"You want diamonds?" he said. "All right, I'll get you diamonds. You're going to have to let me go for a few minutes."

"Wesley, I don't believe I've ever seen a man as sick as you," Reuben said, in a voice that could have broken stone. "You're one red hair short of dead, with your goddamned guts all over that dashboard in front of you."

The gears whirred again-not as long this time.

"Take that road," Balcomb said, indicating the gravel track that circled the outside of the compound's perimeter. I started the truck and turned onto it, headlights out.

Balcomb kept talking in his smooth, persuasive way. Some unfortunate things had happened, but they were over. He congratulated us on our shrewdness, laughed ruefully at himself for getting conned by Madbird, and intimated that he was taking us into his confidence-was prepared to pay us handsomely and even cut us in on a very lucrative setup. The unsubtle message was that we were all men of the world, conducting business-the catchall word to justify a million ways of fucking people over-and that we'd be fools not to join him.

The road continued on past the compound through the woods another quarter mile, then opened into a wide level stretch of ground. Light from the moon and stars filtered through the hazy clouds to create a sort of luminescent dome, enough to see that the terrain looked like grass, except there was something slick and unnatural about it. Off to one side lay a whitish depression about twenty yards across. I hadn't been in this area for many years, but I realized this must be his Astroturf golf range, and the white spot was a sand trap.

"Over there," Balcomb said, pointing at a small shed. When we got closer, I made it out as one of those cute prefabs you saw advertised at the big building supply stores-shaped like a miniature barn, with a gambrel roof and a big white X on the door. It had probably been brought here on a flatbed boom truck and set in place entire.