THE HIGH DESERT
Nate woke up choking. He coughed wet red phlegm into his hands. A never-ending bomb exploded in his skull. The world came back in pieces. He bounced in the backseat of a car. A cop car. Houser in the front seat talking. Saying, “Fine as May wine.” Saying, “If that’s how you want it.”
He touched his cheek where Houser had shot him. A hard swollen pocket on his face. Houser had taken him with a nonlethal round. A rifle that shot bags of pellets that took you down but didn’t break the skin. They had known he was coming. They wanted to take him alive. They wanted something from him.
That scared Nate. Scared him bad.
His eyes unblurred. He focused on the back of Houser’s head as the sheriff dialed his phone.
“Jimmy . . . yeah. Taking our prize to the shack . . . he don’t think I know he’s listening. Bet he’s got a headache, though. Listen, it’s that chink cop. The one who tipped us that our prize was coming to town. He’s on his way down here. He wants to see Slabtown . . . an hour, he said. I told him to find you . . . Think I don’t know that? There ain’t no way to clean it up in time. There’s shit there no one can see, Jimmy . . . well then, that’s just what you’ll do . . . just do it. No time for your experiments. Use one of McClusky’s guns. Leave the chink out in the desert. Call me when it’s done.”
Plain talk.
That scared Nate most of all.
The car rolled to a stop.
Nate blinked. He sat up. He saw a shack with a dog guarding it, something bred to guard the gates of hell. Nate saw the shack and knew it was the place he would die. No way Houser would talk so plainly in front of him. He’d kept Nate alive for some reason. Once the reason was gone, Nate would be gone too. And Nate bet by the time death came he’d be glad to meet it.