When they lied, it made him angry. But there were other things that angered him as well. Many other things. And now, he scowled across the field, watching the man on the old, green tractor chug gamely along, circling once, reaching the end of his field, turning, and circling back.
Such a predictable pattern.
The man with the black gloves glanced over his shoulder, towards where he'd parked his own vehicle on the side of the dirt road. He hadn't tried to hide his car. He found this sort of behavior only attracted more attention.
Now, he stood on the tilled dirt, facing the old tractor and the farmer riding it.
Beneath the sunlight above, peeking through the dark, gray clouds, he felt warmth against his skin. A car zipped by behind him, and he waved cheerfully at it. The occupant in the front seat looked bemused but waved back—a very similar reaction to the hospitality of the Amish.
Not that he was Amish. He wasn't much of anything... except he considered himself a storyteller. A master of happy endings.
The tractor turned, faint plumes of smoke rising from the exhaust as the vehicle moved once more down the rows of old weeds and over-long grass, cutting everything in its path.
Now, the man moved onto the farmer's ground, ignoring the tilled earth, ignoring the cleared field, ignoring, even, the lingering scent of fumes on the air.
He walked forward, smiling as he did, congenially, shoving his gloved hands into his pockets. As he drew nearer, leaving footprints behind in the mud, the farmer looked suddenly up and over. The man's face, beneath his straw hat, broke into a frown. He gave the approaching man a severe look, but this didn't deter him. He kept approaching the tractor and its rider.
At last, the farmer leaned down, turning off the engine, and coming to a sudden halt. He waved at his sweaty face with his large hat, then glared towards the approaching pedestrian.
“This is private property, sir,” the farmer said with a snap. “You shouldn't be here.”
The man with the black gloves kept his hands in his pockets, smiling up at the farmer on the tractor. “I know,” he said cheerfully. “Nice place.”
The farmer blinked. “Right... nice. Mister, you better get off. This is my land.”
“I know. You're Jackson, right?”
Lee Jackson, the farmer, blinked. “Do I know you?”
“Not yet,” the man with the gloves said, rocking on his heels and leaving impressions of his shoes in the dirt. He'd have to clear those later. But for now, he just enjoyed the chat. He liked chatting with them before it happened. Especially in broad daylight. It was his own little cherry on top, the frosting that made the cake so, so delicious. He'd tried to talk to that bitch back in the trailer, but she'd brushed him off. Then, in the trailer, she'd promised not to make a noise but gone and ruined that also. She'd screamed. She'd lied. So now, he was determined to enjoy himself.
“Well, then if I don't know you, and you know this is my land, get the hell off.” The farmer's eyes narrowed now.
But the man didn't move, preferring to stay exactly where he'd landed. Another car zipped by behind them, kicking up a cloud of dust. He'd parked his own vehicle in such a way as to obscure his rear license plate. All of it where anyone who cared to look would notice.
But no one looked. Ever. Not until after.
“Hey man,” the farmer said, reaching slowly towards a glove compartment on the tractor. “Get lost. Now! I'm warning you.”
“Oh? Warning? Lee, that's not nice. You have, what is it, a hundred acres here? That farm up the hill is yours, too. The little house with your wife and two kids? Super nice place if you ask me.”
“Alright, mister, I warned you. Put your damn hands in the air!”
The man in the gloves stared at the handgun now waving towards his face. He didn't blink, didn't retreat. Just continued smiling, rocking on his heels, feeling the way the mud parted beneath his shoes.
“Nah, I won't,” he said cheerfully.
“I'm calling the cops!” the farmer screamed.
“Nope, you won't,” he said. “I'll leave.”
“Yeah, you better!”
The man continued studying the farmer. This land, this place was the fellow's very own happily ever after. “You want to know how I know you won't call the cops?” he murmured faintly.
The farmer hesitated, frowning.
“Because,” the man said, “you don't like cops, do you? Not after that incident in the seventies, hmm? Moving here from Ohio—thought you'd outpace it. But nah—not how that stuff works, is it, Mr. Jackson?”
Now, the fellow on the tractor's eyes bugged. His gun, still pointing, trembled in his hand.
The man smirked. “Lee Jackson. Two counts of assault. Sexual battery. Nice way to start over up here. Must have a very forgiving wife. I wonder if your kids know.”
Lee Jackson just stared like he'd seen a ghost, or at least had been brushed by one. “Wh—what do you want?”
The man tilted his head slowly, studying the gun. “I wasn't sure at first. But then you pointed that at me. You don't deserve a happy ending, do you? No, no, you don't. Cheaters I've dealt with already. Liars too. But violent men? I deal with your kind sometimes also.”
“What the hell are you on about. Get your damn ass off my land before I put a bullet in it! I mean it, now!” The farmer leaned forward threateningly, the sweat dripping down his forehead, along his upper lip.
The man in the gloves nodded once. Mr. Jackson had reached his limit. He could tell. Everyone, every human, had a limit. And he'd pushed up to that very boundary. So now, he turned, and as casually as ever, began strolling away beneath the gray skies streaked with sun.
“Hey! Hey! Who are you? Don't just turn your back! What's your name!”
The man began whistling as he strolled away.
He heard a sudden blast—a gunshot. The dust exploded off to his left. He paused long enough to glance at the muddy terrain, to smirk.
Then he turned back, twisting at the hips like some curving snake, and looked Mr. Jackson right in the eyes. Dead eyes met ones filled with panic. The eyes of a snake fixing on those of a frightened coyote. One of them a venomous thing, the other just a scavenger.
“I don't normally tell...,” the man said. “But for you, for that…,” he waved a hand towards the dusty ground. “I'll give you one chance.” He turned fully, chest rising proudly, arms spread as if attempting to embrace the horizon. “Put a bullet in me,” he said suddenly. “Do it now while you've got your chance.”
Mr. Jackson's eyes bugged, staring in horror.
“No?” the man asked, quirking an eyebrow. “Come on. Do it. Go on...” The gun in the farmer's hand just trembled. The warning shot had been a bluff, of course. The man knew his targets. Knew the sorts that deserved the lives they had. Knew the sorts that were too cowardly.
The man pointed a gloved finger at the farmer on the tractor. “You're going to regret not killing me. Have a good day,” he added, cheerfully, and then spun again and walked, even more slowly than before, back towards his waiting car.
No gunshots now. No shouting. Just a single spectator. Another car zipped by, kicking up dust.
The man, though, grinned as he slipped into his vehicle. He waved once more over the roof of his vehicle, then closed the door. The farmer was just staring at him, beginning to move the tractor to eye the license plate, no doubt.
But he was too late.
The man hit the gas, kicking up a cloud of dust before veering onto the road, and making good his getaway.
For now.
He'd come back later. He liked them scared. Liked their fear.
As he drove down the dusty road, glancing in his rearview mirror to witness the outline of the man still sitting on his slowly moving tractor, he felt a faint shiver of delight.
One hand on the steering wheel, partly watching the long road, his other hand moved towards the glove compartment. He opened it, glancing inside at his own special device.
A dark, plastic handle gripped a carbon-steel blade. A long, wicked blade, serrated on the back. The sort of knife made for gutting and twisting innards.
He lifted the knife, hefting it and straightening in his seat.
Then, whistling again, he began spinning the open blade between his fingers, enjoying the familiar weight against his knuckles, the scrape against his skin.
Oh yes... That farmer was going to regret not taking the shot.