Си Бокс - Dark Sky

Next to the falcons were six empty crates. Wagy was still in the act of gathering up more birds, Nate thought.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly in a cold rage. He wondered how many young birds had been injured or had died and had not been transported to the barn. He was looking at the entire generation from his bluff. All of them were caged and in the possession of the worst kind of outlaw.

The falcons and hawks were destined, no doubt, for buyers employed by Middle Eastern royalty.

—

On his way to the back door of the house, Nate snatched a pitchfork from where it leaned against the doorframe. The handle was cracked and weathered. The three thin prongs looked rusted but sharp.

He stepped onto the broken concrete porch and tried the doorknob. It turned and he eased it open. He was met with a wash of warm air and marijuana smoke from inside. Of course, he thought, they were from Colorado .

With his cocked revolver in his right hand and the pitchfork in the other, he paused and looked and listened. The kitchen was from the 1970s: linoleum floor, rounded white appliances, pink cabinets. The sink was stacked with dirty dishes and the counters littered with fast-food bags, empty beer bottles, and a nearly empty half gallon of Jim Beam. He wondered if the lodge was rented from the owner or simply occupied by a squatter. The latter, he guessed.

Nate padded through the kitchen into a narrow hallway. The walls were covered with faded and crooked sporting prints that looked like they’d been torn from hunting magazines and cheaply framed. So, he thought, it had been a hunting lodge at one time.

He could hear murmuring ahead and moved slowly with his gun at his side, ready to swing up and take aim.

The living room was separated from the hallway by a cheap beaded curtain. He hoped it wouldn’t rattle when he pushed his way through, so he did it in slow motion.

The murmuring was coming from the screen of an ancient television mounted in a console. There was a snowy picture on it and the audio was tinny. Cartoons were playing.

A man with shaggy hair sat with his back to Nate in an overstuffed sofa, watching the set. Sharp-smelling weed wafted up from where he sat. Next to a saucer filled with cigarette butts on the end table under the arm of the sofa was a semiautomatic handgun. The weapon was an arm’s length away from the man on the couch.

Nate stopped still just a few feet behind the sofa, listening. If there was anyone else inside, they were away in another room and completely quiet. Because there hadn’t been a vehicle outside, he guessed that the shaggy-haired man was the only person inside.

As he moved close to the back of the couch, the man apparently heard him and turned around and looked over his shoulder. His eyes got big.

“Don’t move,” Nate said.

The man ignored him and prepared to lurch for the handgun.

Nate raised the pitchfork like a spear and bent over and thrust it down hard in front of the man’s face. The middle tine drove through the man’s boot deep into the wood floor and he screamed. His joint flew out of his mouth and the sparks from the cherry cascaded down his shirt.

The wounded man lunged for the pistol, but the pitchfork held him in place. His fingers stopped six inches short of the handle of the weapon.

Nate wheeled around the sofa and kicked the end table with the weapon away. The pistol skittered across the floor and thumped into the baseboard on the opposite wall. Then he reached out and grasped the man’s ear with his left hand and fitted the hole of the huge muzzle of his .454 onto the tip of the man’s nose.

Tuckness had provided Sheridan with a good description. He wore rumpled black clothing and a black bandana around his neck. His cheeks were sunken and his eyes were glassy from smoking weed. His mouth twisted with pain and anger and he looked like he was trying hard to be defiant.

“Raylan Wagy?” Nate asked.

Wagy’s eyes got big and he tried to jerk his head away. It was held in place by a rough twist of the man’s ear.

“Raylan Wagy?”

“I ain’t done nothing,” Wagy cried.

“Incorrect. You and your partner have broken the falconer’s creed. You’ve fucked with another man’s birds.”

“My foot . . . Oh man, it hurts.”

“Good,” Nate said, releasing Wagy’s ear. “Where’s Axel Soledad?”

At the mention of the name, Wagy’s face turned pale. He was obviously scared of Soledad.

“Where is he?”

When Wagy didn’t answer, Nate reached back down and gave Wagy’s right ear a full half twist. He could hear tendons pop.

Wagy closed his eyes and made a cry that sounded like “ Skeeee .” It was otherworldly and birdlike, Nate thought.

“I’ll take it completely off if you don’t answer me,” Nate said softly. “That’s what I do. Do you understand me?”

Wagy nodded emphatically.

“Will he be back soon?” Nate asked.

Wagy shook his head. “I don’t know for sure. He doesn’t always tell me. It depends on whether he finds . . . what he’s looking for.”

“Falcons, you mean,” Nate said.

Wagy nodded.

“Then I’ll wait for him right here,” Nate said. He settled into an armchair across from Wagy and placed his long handgun across his thighs. “You stay right where you are.”

Wagy grunted and chinned toward the pitchfork that held him fast. “It’s rusty. My foot will get infected.”

“Yeah, I know,” Nate said with a cruel grin. “Don’t pull it out. I like it there.”

—

An hour later, Nate asked Wagy, “What’s antifa?”

“We’re anti-fascists,” Wagy replied. “We fight against racism and capitalism. We fight for social justice against the oppressors.”

“In Denver ?” Nate asked.

“Everywhere we find it,” Wagy sniffed.

Nate snorted and said, “Maybe you should get a job. It might take your mind off all the unfairness going on out there.”

Then he felt a series of vibrations, one after the other, from his cell phone in his pocket. Without taking his eyes off Wagy, who was now mumbling to himself with his head in his hands, Nate drew out his device. He hated being a slave to cell phones, but his business and the baby demanded that he have one with him at all times.

There were three texts lined up. One was from Sheridan, one from Marybeth, and one from Liv. They’d obviously conspired, he thought. He could envision the three of them standing shoulder to shoulder, tapping out letters.

Sheridan wrote: My Dad is missing and we can’t reach him. We’re getting worried. Can you please come back?

Before reading further, Nate glanced at Wagy. The man was using the distraction to wrap his fingers around the shaft of the pitchfork to pull it out.

In one motion, Nate grasped his .454, thumbed the hammer, and fired a round next to Wagy’s injured ear. The explosion was like a thunderclap and the force of the big round scared Wagy back into the cushions.

“ Oh my God ,” Wagy cried. “You nearly killed me!”

“Behave yourself,” Nate said. “Don’t even think of stabbing me with that pitchfork. It’s rusty, you know.”

Wagy groaned.

He read further.

Marybeth wrote: I’ve called Sheriff Tibbs and left messages for him to assemble a search-and-rescue team, but he hasn’t called me back. We can’t wait. We need your help.

Liv wrote: Get your ass home.

—

All three women in his life were telling him what to do, he thought. He wondered how many years it would take for baby Kestrel to join them as the fourth.

Nate sighed and dutifully stood up. When he did, Wagy recoiled. Blood pooled around Wagy’s boot where the pitchfork held him in place.