J Duncan - Deadworld

After parking the Porsche, he walked directly up to the loft, opening the door to his room of memories. Nick walked slow and purposeful toward the back, stopping every so often to pick up something, one of Agatha’s dolls, or a coin from Joshua’s collection. He brought up their images, getting dusty and faded with age, recalling the times long past, far simpler times, when the world was a vast, wide-open place, and justice came in the form of a badge and a pair of six-shooters.

Nick picked up the box of matches next to an antique brass candleholder on the small, quilt-covered table and lit a candle for Gwen, staring for a long moment at his painting of her until he could hear her dying voice fresh in his mind once again. He then picked up the painting and moved it away from the wall, revealing a polished, wooden trunk behind it set against the wall. He did the combination on the lock and opened the chest to reveal that which he had stored away for this particular time.

From inside the chest, Nick pulled out the beaten and dusty leather overcoat he would wear riding the range on those cool, fall Wyoming days when the wind would be sharp enough to sting your face. Beside that lay his hat, and Nick had the absurd notion that it would be too small now, shrunken with age, but it fit snug to his scalp, and he took a moment to roll the brim between his fingers, setting its angles and curves to just the proper position. Beneath those lay the oak case carrying his old six-shooters, and Nick laid it down gently on the table beside the candle, breaking the wax seal with his pocketknife and smiling when he saw them, the cherry handles still gleaming with polish, and the metal still shiny with oil from the last time he had removed them to ensure they were still in working order.

He grabbed the leather belt from the bottom of the chest and strapped the guns on, feeling for a brief second like the man he was of old. At least if Drake showed up now, Nick could go down like he had once already, six-shooters blazing in an abysmal, stormy downpour of water and blood. At least this time there was nothing else left for Drake to take.

“Just me this time, you miserable old bastard,” Nick said and walked out of the room.

After making a pot of coffee, Nick took his mug out onto the deck and sat in his chair, polishing the old guns and sipping the hot brew until it was gone. He was covered in a fine mist by then, the night skies growing more saturated by the hour. It would be a nice, solid rain before long, he figured.

Nick’s thoughts turned to Shelby. In the end, she had done what he could not, and it still was not enough. If both of them had, would the results have been any different? Would that have been something Drake would have not guessed? Did he plan his actions around Nick’s rigid, moral code?

“Pigheaded, obstinate, stupid fucking code, more like,” he said, repeating Shelby’s words. The woman had never been afraid to express her feelings toward him about anything. For him, against him, or just in plain disagreement, she had always been straightforward and honest. That directness had been one of the main reasons he had fallen in love with the woman. It still amazed Nick that she stuck around, and now she had died because of him. Twice.

Jackie was like her in a lot of ways. Straightforward, a no-bullshit kind of woman. Not the stunning beauty Shelby was, and in fact, nearly the opposite, having a definite tomboyish quality to her. But it was that attractive, rumpled, stumbling-around-in-your-flannels-with-a-mug-of-coffee look that hit a soft spot for him. Shelby had known better than he, but it was too late for that. It was better to get rid of those thoughts before he became even more morose than he was already.

Nick picked up one of his pistols from his lap and aimed it at a distant fence post, imagining it could be Drake’s head, standing there with that thin, bloodless grin. His shot caught the corner of the post, and Nick grumbled to himself. How had he gotten so rusty?

He took aim again, this time with more focus, and caught it square, blasting off the top two inches of the post in a shower of splintery debris. He smiled. It felt good to hold his guns again, and, better still, the crack of gunfire took his mind off things better left unthought of. Lifting up the other gun, Nick took aim and fired again at the next post.

They parked on the side of the road short of Nick’s driveway. Jackie would have said an hour ago that her suspicions about Nick Anderson and Shelby Fontaine were long gone, but now, after the vanishing act, she had a whole new set of questions. Could this Drake guy have literally made them all vanish? She did not want to entertain what that might mean. Maybe he had vanished, and Shelby had followed him. Was it an ability all vampires had? Jackie needed some answers.

She stepped out of the car to the sound of a gunshot. Jackie ducked behind the open door, and Gamble came out to do the same, his gun drawn.

“You see where?” he whispered.

“No.”

Three seconds later there was another shot fired. No flash of muzzle fire in the dark. No sound of ricocheting bullets. They were both still standing.

“Around back?”

Jackie nodded. “Sounds like. You go around to the far corner. Wait for my signal.”

He nodded and went off at a slow jog, half crouched along the edge of the road and then across Nick’s drive. Another shot had Gamble dropping to a knee, pointing his gun toward the house, but there was still no indication of attack. Jackie quietly closed the car door and moved along the thick row of rhododendrons and oaks lining the property. A walk up to the garage window indicated Nick was likely home. The dinged-up Porsche was parked inside. Another shot made her jump, and she moved quickly to the back corner of the house.

A dark figure, overcoat flapping in the night breeze, cowboy hat pulled low over his eyes, stood on Nick’s deck. He had two guns in his hands, two huge fricking guns, and Jackie watched him raise up one and squeeze off a shot into the yard. In the dim light provided from the inside lights, another fence post blew its top. It took Jackie a moment to register the image she was seeing.

“Nick?” she called out. “Mind putting down the guns?”

He turned, the pistols hanging loose at his side. “Agent Rutledge,” he said. “They send you for the statement, or just back to get your things?”

Why did he sound just a little off to her? Jackie didn’t like the feeling she was getting from him. “Both. Can you put the damn pistols away, please?”

He hesitated for a moment, but she could see Gamble creeping up silently from behind. “Agent Gamble, any louder, and you might as well announce you’re sneaking up on me.”

Gamble stopped at the edge of the deck. “Christ. You hear better than a fucking dog.”

Jackie watched Nick pull back the edges of his coat and slide the pistols into holsters at each hip. It was then in the light that she caught the glint of a shining star pinned to his shirt. Sheriff. He’s wearing his goddamn sheriff outfit. What the hell? “What are you doing, Nick?”

“A little target practice,” he said with half a smile. There was no amusement in the rest of his face.

“And the sheriff costume? What’s going on?”

Nick turned and made for the back door, moving with slow and purposeful steps. “Nostalgia, Ms. Rutledge. Nothing more.” He slid the glass door open and walked inside, leaving it open behind him.

Gamble waved a hand in Nick’s direction, a questioning look on his face, and Jackie frowned at Nick’s retreating figure. He was going into the kitchen now, slow, with shoulders drooping. It began to dawn on Jackie then what she was seeing. Nostalgia, my ass. I can’t even fucking believe it. Anger knotted up her gut. “Go ahead and wait in the car, Gamble. I want a few private words with Mr. Anderson.”