Episode 3: —SCARECROW—

Earl Lyman’s Home 2245 Cactus Drive
Spiny, AZ
Present Day

The rattle of the engine caught the girl’s attention. When the power steering squealed, and brakes screeched, Cathy Lyman peeked through the blinds. She saw the Sheriff’s clunker pickup sitting in their circle drive. Her daddy got out of the passenger door, walking with a quick ginger step, when on his left foot.

Earl Lyman leaned against the Sheriff for support. His left leg didn’t appear to enjoy supporting his body. Cathy took a deep breath, ‘Is Daddy hurt?‘ she ran to the door, flung it open, and ventured onto the front porch.

“What’s wrong?” Cathy demanded.

“I hurt myself,” her father insisted. “Sheriff Lang helped me.”

“Do you need to go to the hospital,” the young girl took her father’s other arm and offered her support as well.

“He’ll be fine,” Thorn helped him into the house, eased him into a recliner. “Cathy, child, would you get your daddy his favorite drink from the bar. Just bring him the bottle.”

Earl guzzled down a quarter of a bottle of tequila before the throbbing lessened. He gazed at the ceiling, trying to put his missing toes from his mind. Lyman turned his head, glancing about the room. ‘Where are they,’ he wondered.

“Cathy?”

“Yeah, Daddy?”

“What you doing?”

“I’m showing, Thorn, my art.”

The couple strolled back into the living room. Cathy had her left arm warped around the Sheriff’s waist, leaning into the Sheriff. Her right hand rested on the Sheriff’s belly, touching his gun belt. Thorn’s right hand hung down over her pert right breast, brushing over the small mound.

“Time to finish paying the piper,” Thorn led the girl to the sofa, and the two of them sat across from Earl.

Cathy felt a relaxed, ease with the Sheriff. As though they were old friends, who had become familiar over time. His touch pleased her, and Cathy saw nothing wrong with the vast difference in their age. At sixty-five, Thornton Lang was older than her father, than his father. She didn’t see that, didn’t notice his age, she felt a desire to be with him.

1982

Leonard Slye was one of those men that people liked and trusted. Blessed with an even temper, friendly manner, and a silver tongue, he had little trouble with the opposite sex. When I tell you had three affairs, that does not mean those were the only women he fucked. There was a long line of one-night stands. Dozens over the six years of his marriage. The first infidelity occurred while they honeymooned.

Even so, for the past three months, he had been faithful to his wife. Lucille would have been a long-suffering woman if she had known about the past affairs, the one-night stands. Not knowing the scope of her husband’s dalliances, made the living with him barrable. Had she known the depth of his infidelity, no question about it, Lucille Slye would have divorced him.

Len Slye envisioned himself as a real man, a lady’s man, always in control. He had lived wild and free, even in marriage. Women were drawn to him due to his looks and manner. Tall, well built, with brown hair and eyes, he’d talked his way into many a bed.

He lacked nothing in confidence. A rugged individual capable of defending himself or hurting others if the need arose. With that said, one punch put him down, and the bastard controlled him with one hand. Slye had no latent homosexual interest. He tried to sleep, his ass throbbed, his body hurt. The man managed him and used him, like a dog humping a pillow.

Even now, hours later, he could still feel that cock inside him. Those hands still clutched him, pinching him, punching him, doing, whatever the fuck he did to his neck. An unmistakable notion tormented Len Ske’s mind. He liked it all. That was unacceptable, Len Slye was no homo, he couldn’t be a faggot.

Leonard Slye drifted into a nightmarish sleep.

Bang, bang, bang the pounding on the door interrupted a dream or nightmare. Leonard jumped to his feet, searched for his gun, and remembered it had been taken from him. Snatching his pajamas, from his open suitcase, he pulled on the PJ bottoms. Collection himself, he walked to the door.

“Yes, what is it?”

“It’s Sheriff Lang, let me in there.”

“Come in, Sheriff,” Leonard cracked the door open. He moved to a chair and plopped into it. Slye would never admit it to a living soul, but Thornton Lang frightened him. He sensed pure malevolence when they were near each other. His harsh voice hit a nerve, his gut whispering to him, run don’t fight. Like he was that seven-year-old, his childhood bully threatening to beat him.

“What the fuck’s going on with you?” the Sheriff held a shoebox in his hands.

Slye worried about that shoebox, what did it hold? Why’d the Sheriff bark at him? Hadn’t Len Slye been through enough?

“I’m told, you came stumbling in here at 3:45 this morning, naked and beaten. Why didn’t you call the police or my department?”

“It wasn’t anything ... important, misunderstanding is all,” Len lied to him, the horrific truth to devesting, to admit. During the attack, for the briefest of moments, he’d believed his attacker had been the Sheriff.

“Misunderstanding? The folks down in the bar said you went outside last night, though the back door.”

All Slye could think of was, ‘Leave it alone.” In a flash, Len Slye crafted a close to the truth lie.

“I went outback with a woman and got jumped. She may have been in on it. He beat me and stole my clothes.”

“I guess you’ll stick with that bullshit story,” the Sheriff tossed the shoebox to him.

Holding the box, he felt its weight. Len feared to look inside himself. No, he couldn’t bring himself to do so.

“That’s your gun, billfold, and badge. You won’t be wanting the clothes back, there to blood-stained. We killed a bastard last night out on Old Lame Owl road. A big feller about my size, who looked, a smidgen, like you. Routine traffic stop, he came out, your gun a blazing, my boys shot him dead. He escaped from Cibola County Correctional, over in New Mexico, three days ago. He drove your Crown Vic.”

“Yeah, well, there you go, that’s what happened.”

“What about the cum and blood?” the Sheriff smirked at Len.

“What?”

“A watery substance, the girl took for cum, mingled with your blood, running down your legs, from the general region of your asshole. That’s what the little gal, working the desk this morning, told me,” Thorn smirked, his little smile he shows when’s bested, someone.

“She’s mistaken,” shame overcame Len. He wanted to bury his face in his hands and cry. So, it wasn’t the Sheriff. He doesn’t know anything for sure. Len had to keep up his front. Couldn’t have a crack in the armor for the man to pick out and expose his humiliation.

“Tell me about this woman, who was she? No one mentioned a woman that was in the bar last night,” the Sheriff removed a pad and pencil from one of his breast pockets.

“She was, tallish, I guess, reasonably attractive, about forty-five to fifty, I’d say.”

“Hair color?”

“I don’t know,” Len struggled to remember, “had little grey mixed with, I don’t know.” Inside he screamed, ‘Leave it, the fuck, alone.’

“Mixed in with what, other, color?”

“I don’t know, Sheriff,” he couldn’t give him more. He couldn’t let him find her and let her tell him the appalling truth.

“Eye Color?”

“I don’t have a clue,” none of it was true. Leonard Slye would know the woman if he ever saw her. If he did see the bitch, he’d rape and kill her. Len would find her eventually.

The questions droned on, the Sheriff pestered him, picking at the scab like want to reopen the wound. Finally, he left. Waiting until he heard the creak on the stairs, Len fell to the floor, crying.

That day, Leonard Slye checked out of the hotel and left Spiny. The Sheriff assumed, at first, he’d gone back to Phoenix, licking his wounds. After a day, Thorn sensed Len in a tourist community called, Wesley — the specialized tourist trap, Wesley’s Western Movie Town & Ranch. Then he moved to Luka and other of the small towns around Spiny Cactus County. Always asking questions about the Sheriff.

Sooner or later, Sheriff Lang would have to deal with Leonard Slye.

Six Miles South of Spiny
Dover’s Ranch

The ranch house, smaller houses, outbuildings, and barns were gathered close together at the base of a 200-foot cliff. A natural spring feeds a small creek that trickles through the little valley. Around the stream were trees, green grass, and many animals. The water flowed into the desert and died a few hundred yards from the end of the walls surrounding the canyon.

The canyon, valley, or whatever you choose to call it, was a sliver of green, a refuge of life. The power of life filled the valley. Flowing in the river, the plants, animals, and humans who took shelter there. There are certain places, which produce energy that promotes the body, mind, and soul. Locations where the hand of God has imbued a spiritual spring to empower those who abide there.

Dover’s Valley was such a locale. A counter to the evil that ran rampant in the rest of Spiny Cactus County.

One old barn served as a sanctuary, of sorts, to the commune’s citizens. This night the men of the group huddled in the pews discussing their ‘mission.’ This collection of men wore costumes that covered body armor, prepared for war. A man in a wolf mask guarded the door. All the men had on masks of some kind. On the raised platform, a gaunt gangly tall man, dressed as a scarecrow, paced the stage, hands folded behind his back. Without a doubt, he was the leader.

The men and women under him knew he was neither cruel nor evil. Still, their respect was measured with fear. He had taken care of any traitors in their midst, in the most brutal of ways. The leader of the sect was a kind man. Everyone knew, but no one admitted, their religious leader was also the leader of the groups, not so worshipful activities.

Recently, for reasons only known by their leader, they had relocated from Florida. In Florida, they’d been known as the Glades-men. A type of vigilante brotherhood, who wreaked havoc on the drug dealers, pimps, smugglers, and criminal organizations in the Sunshine State. There was a suspicion, among law enforcement, the Glades-men were no different than those they attacked.

The mask here wore, was a white material resembling burlap. The stitched lips smiled on one side and frowned on the other. When this Scarecrow spoke, his voice growled as if filled with gravel. A deep, foreboding, tone projected with authority, the Scarecrow dispensed his words with some menacing hint of cruelty.

“We’re in a new location,” the tall gaunt man said. “That doesn’t change our mission. Southwest of Spiny, on a line due west of our location, there’s a growing and drying facility. It doubles as a holding facility for illegal immigrants. These poor unfortunates will be auctioned to the highest bidders. A collation of fruit farmers will take a portion. Vegetable farmers will take their share. Some will work in construction. But the women and girls, the better-looking ones, they’re destined to become prostitutes or worse, sold into sexual slavery.”

Pausing, he faced the group, standing in the middle of the platform next to the pulpit. “Glades-men, we will not allow this to happen. Not one of these people will be exploited by these men. We have trucks to carry them to safety in New Mexico, and our organization will find these people legitimate work. New identities, new lives, free of the oppression they fled here to avoid.”

“We’re a long way from Florida, and we shall return there ... someday. But for now, we are needed here in this den of corruption. We fight not against mere men here. We fight against a foul fiend of darkness. Stay strong in your faith, guard your thoughts, do not let this ... Skinwalker ... find refuge in your thoughts. To victory!”

The men all howled, “Victory.”

“Mr. Wiley, a word,” Scarecrow moved to the far right of the stage. In his own voice, he spoke to his friend, “Collect a measure of the dried hemp, funds are low.”

“You’re not going with us, then?”

“No, haven’t prepared a word of my sermon for tomorrow. When you know how much you have, call me, and once I now the amount, I’ll call the Phoenix boys and set an exchange.”

“Yes, Reverend.”

“How many have secured work?”

“All but two of the men, and three of women.”

“We’ll be on our feet soon. The enemy will know we’re here after tonight. Grid yourself in the armor of the Lord, the battle begins.” Scarecrows voice returned to its acid tenor, “Away with you, my Glades-men.”

Scarecrow moved through a secret passage. Crossing a man dressed in the same scarecrow manner. The two exchange a nod. Down a flight of stairs, Scarecrow traveled a tunnel running below the barn back in the main ranch house. Opening a door hidden in a bookshelf, Scarecrow pulled his floppy hat from his head, pulled the toupee of straw from his head, peeled the tight-fitting mask over his head, and let out a small sigh. Removing his scabbarded saber, laying them across the desk. Christian Blackheart sat at his desk. Bowing his head, he gave thanks, in advance, for their successful raid.

Looking to the ceiling, Blackheart pressed his hands together, crying out to his God.

“How many years has it been, how long has your Breath of Life filled my lungs? Two-hundred-and-fifty-three and more miles than possible for me to count. How long will I continue, how much further must I go, and will the debt ever be paid? You remain silent on that, “Go that way, do this thing.” Never a word of, “Well done,” or, “Soon the debt will be paid,” from You or Your agents that crowd my mind. Therefore, I persevere, walking between Heaven and Hell. Thy will be done. Amen.”

Blackheart walked a fine line between this side of the law and that for many years. Far too many to be counted. His mind wandered back to when he’d fallen from grace, hunting down the man who’d stolen his wife from him. Taking her back, seeing the seducer hang as a pirate while he held his tongue, refusing to save the man. He remembered her death and the death of their son. Childbirth, in those days, a dicey thing ending badly as often as the other.

He had so much blood on his hands, God cursed him. After his ‘death‘ at Dymchurch, he changed his name, condemned to wander the earth, unsure if he was a good or wicked man. Perhaps Skinwalker was too big a challenge. Part of him longed for that to be so.

“One more matter, dear Lord. Can this be the end, Lord? Can I earn Your Celestial favor and pass? Whether Heaven or Hell, You decide. I’m just so tired of the battle. My heart is crestfallen, for I sense the answer already, “Persevere, you child of man, persevere.” That’s always the Divine answer.”

Fifteen Miles, South-Southwest, of Spiny{br}

Deputy Sheriff Darrell Simons strolled into the large drying barn. Fifty-five women, children, and men were herded into the center of the room. Ragged, worn, and dirty the illegals clutched to each other, fearing what would befall them. Nothing had been that which had been promised.

“Jeff, come here, boy,” Darrell looked at the girls, those under 18, and smiled at one lovely dark-eyed one. A brief smile fluttered over her face, which she stifled lest her parents notice. “Okay, feed them, get them cleaned up, and put um in the dormitories. No sampling of the products. Oh, yeah, if there are any handsome lads under 16, set them aside and put them in dormitory B with underaged girls.”

“Yes, sir, I’ll take care of it.”

“How much is dry? We have a buyer in Vegas, pushing us for another load soon? And is the cook done with the Crack?”

“Cooks is done. They’re packaging the crack at Winding Rocks Ranch. A goodly amount of weed is packaged here in kilo blocks, maybe 5 or 600.”

The sound of gunfire erupted, everyone scurried, looking for their guns. But fifteen armed men stood inside the barn, a tall thin scarecrow clad man, waving a sword barked, out the order’s in a voice that sounded like acid burning your ears. Many more men were outside the building. All the illegals fell to the floor. The workers put their hands up, even the lawmen that were there.

“Just keep your cool, and no one dies,” he growled. “Drop your guns or die.”

A short man, also dressed as a scarecrow, with a carrot looking nose, shouted more commands. All the guns were collected, unloaded, and the weapons piled high in a corner. Some of his men took the packaged bundles of weed and loaded them. Others escorted the Central and South American men, women, and children to waiting trucks.

Jeff Sanders squatted in a corner. His mind raced, and his courage soared. He pulled a gun from an ankle holster under his pants leg, jumped to his feet, and charged the men, firing the auto wilding as he did.

The man with the carrot nose aimed the M16 then squeezed the trigger. Three bullets ripped through Jeff Sanders, he plunged to the ground, soon he’d be stone-cold dead. Walking to the body, Carrot Nose peered at the dying man.

The tall thin Scarecrow joined the other man. Sanders attempted to rise. With hard swift blow, with expert precision, the Scarecrow swung the sword, lopping Jeff’s head from his shoulders. A few quick spurts of arterial blood, a slow seepage, and the blood spread over the floor. Deep, dark red, the gore pooled between head and body.

“No one else need die,” he snarled.

Mr. Wiley said a prayer.

“You see, what happens?” Wiley told the outlaws. “Do you understand, we didn’t want this outcome? His blood is on your boss’s hands. You tell the man, the Wastelanders have arrived. Y’all give up your wicked ways or suffer the consequences.”

“Tell him Scarecrow has come calling,” the taller man sheathed his saber.

“Wastlanders, Wastlanders, yes, yes, Mr. Wiley, that works well. Myles, you’re the best of the lot of us. You remind me of a man I worked with, oh, so, long ago, named Mipps.”

Wiley’s cheeks turned a bright crimson, shaking his head, he looked at his feet. Being compared to Mipps, a man he had heard of many times, high praise from him. Wiley’s friend put his long boney fingers on the shorter man’s shoulder. After a moment, Wiley let out a slight gasp, collected his thoughts, and again spoke.

“I couldn’t call us the Glades-men. Though I suspect that Skinwalker will glean the truth quick enough.”

“He will indeed. Yes, in truth, I’m certain he will try to find his truth here. To that end, he’s coming to worship with us this morning. Well, coming to check out the new, nut-fringe, commune.”

“I see, is that what he calls us?” Wiley asked.

“Words to that effect. I sense Lang, Skinwalker, the brushing of their pestiferous presence, he is nearby, nearly here. Not to worry.” Changing the subject, “What hymns have you chosen for today’s service?”

“Mix of some newer and older hymns. I’m saving Amazing Grace for the altar call.”

“Always an appropriate choice,” Christian Blackheart and Mr. Myles Wiley shook hands. The shorter man opened the double doors of the office, and the pair stepped through the threshold. Wiley spoke as the two men ambled from the main ranch house to the makeshift worship center.

“Words of encouragement, Reverend,” Sheriff Lang grabbed the man’s hand and squeezed hard as they shook. Standing at the barn’s entrance, Lang had timed his exit to be the last person to leave.

The hard clutch of his hand by Lang took Blackheart by surprise. He winched, releasing the man’s grip. Or perhaps, it was an act, who knows?