Chapter 18

Standing in Pete Bargas’ old bedroom, Lincoln Steele dropped to a knee and dragged the wider of his two suitcases out from under the bed. He hoisted it up onto the mattress and flipped the lid open. Having unpacked when he arrived, it was empty. Or so it seemed. He lifted the false bottom, a thin lead plate that thwarted x-ray machines at airports. Beneath it were his toys, as he had referred to them when Elena asked about the two suitcases. The tools of his trade were held in place in form-fitting Styrofoam cut-outs in the hidden compartment. His Glock 19 semi-automatic pistol with a loaded fifteen-round magazine in the handle, the empty space where his ankle holster with gun had been, extra fully-loaded magazines, and a large knife in a leather sheath.

Steele lifted the back of his shirt and tucked the Glock into the waistband of his pants. He reached for the knife, hovered his hand above it, clenched his fist, and then slammed the lid closed. He slid the suitcase under the bed and returned to the master bedroom to check on Elena one last time before leaving.

Earlier, Elena had insisted he not call a doctor so Steele examined her for serious injuries and found none. Not wanting to move her too much, he had cleaned her up as best he could with a basin of warm water and washcloth. It had been difficult for Elena to speak. But between tears and a lot of groans, she had told him what happened. Afterward, Steele had sat on the side of the bed with her hand clasped between his two and listened to her moan and whimper until she fell asleep.

Steele drove to Tubac Lane and parked under a street light on Main Street. The crispy breeze disappeared when he entered the alley where the air was stagnant. Maybe it was the narrowness of the street, but as Steele walked toward the only light, it felt much warmer. Maybe it was the adrenaline pumping through his body. With all the businesses shut down and no overhead lights, each step brought him deeper into the darkness. The only light came from the Red Dog Saloon near the end. While he still had some light, he removed the Glock tucked inside the back of his pants, slid the rack back far enough to see that the chamber was empty, and shoved the pistol into the front of his pants. He covered it with his shirt.

When Steele entered the bar, all talking stopped and five pairs of eyes fell on him. Four men sat at a table playing cards. A large man with red hair stood behind the bar washing glasses. Steele took another step. With his eyes locked on Steele, the bartender put the glass and dishtowel down.

“What brings you to these parts?” Red Maran said.

Monte Willowby leaned over the table and whispered something to Bobby Joe Miller. Steele had gotten their descriptions from Elena. Based on what she had told him, he paid more attention to the bartender and Bobby Joe than the others, but he eyed them all.

“Red,” Bobby Joe said without taking his eyes off Steele, “he’s the one asking about the shooting.”

“Figures,” Red said. “You ain’t from around here. We don’t know nothing about the shooting. Only that Pete Bargas done it.”

“I’m not here about the shooting.”

“So you heard this is the hot spot in Cactus Point.” The men at the table chuckled. “You want a drink?”

“I’m not here for a drink either.”

Red swept his hand through the air. “As you can see, there ain’t no girls here so dancing is out of the question. You may be a faggot, but no one else here is.” Once again, the others chuckled. “So if you don’t want no drink, you might as well leave. This ain’t the YMCA.”

“I just came from Elena Bargas.”

“So?”

Steele looked at the well-built man at the table. “You must be Bobby Joe Miller. Those are nasty scratches on your arm.”

Bobby Joe lifted his arm and twisted it to look at the scratches above the elbow. In the triceps area. “Yeah, a damn cat. What about it?”

“Your skin is under Elena’s fingernails.”

“Like hell it is!”

Steele turned to the fat man. “And you’re Monte Willowby.”

Monte glanced at Bobby Joe and then back at Steele. “Maybe I am and maybe I’m not.” His shaky voice didn’t match the words.

“You’re the one with the little pecker who needs to use the back door.”

Monte turned bright red.

Bobby Joe slapped the table with both hands as he jumped to his feet. “You don’t know shit.”

“I know everything. I know you all raped her. That you beat her and whipped her with a belt. You told Elena you’d kill her if she spoke. Well she did. Told me everything. And before you excuses-for-men do something stupid, the only reason you assholes are not going to be dead is because she’s still alive. Keep that in mind after I’m done with you.”

Red pulled a shotgun out from behind the bar. It made it only halfway up. Steele’s hands moved with lightening speed. He lifted the front of his shirt, whipped the pistol from his waistband, racked the slide, and pointed the Glock at the bartender.

“Don’t!” Steele said.

Red didn’t move, but he didn’t put the shotgun down. He glowered at Steele, his fingers tightening on the weapon.

“Don’t make me kill you,” Steele said. “You weren’t part of the rape and beating so I don’t have a grudge with you. But if you move that shotgun any way but down on the counter, I’ll put a bullet between your eyes.”

Steele aimed the pistol a little higher.

Red laid the shotgun on the bar, kept his hands on it for a moment, and then let go.

“Now step aside,” Steele said.

When Red did, Steele walked up to the bar and picked up the shotgun. He flipped it open with one hand, shook out the shells, and flung the shotgun toward the entrance. It bounced twice and then skidded, spinning on the floor until coming to rest in the alley.

Bobby Joe’s eyes darted between the pistol and Steele’s face. “What are you going to do?”

“If this shithole was a normal town I’d have called the police. But I met Sheriff Millwater. He’s some piece of work. So you ask what I’m going to do? I’m going to get justice for Elena.”

Micky Mercer turned in his seat. “We didn’t do anything.”

Steele shook his head and tsked. “I found some dark curly hairs that must be from your beard. I have the evidence in plastic bags. Your hair. Bobby Joe’s skin. Semen from all of you. You really are a bunch of stupid rednecks. It’s not a question of whether you did it or not. You’ve already been found guilty. We’re up to the punishment stage.”

“Are you man enough to put that gun down?” Bobby Joe said.

“If I was going to use it you’d already be dead.” Steele turned to Red. “Get out from behind the bar in case you have other surprises back there.” Steele waved the pistol toward the far corner of the room where there were no doors. “Go wait over there. If you stay out of it you’ll be able to walk out of here.”

With all eyes on Red as he strolled to the corner of the room, Steele covertly pressed the pistol’s eject button. He snagged the magazine before it sprang completely out of the handle. When Red leaned against the wall, crossed his arms, and glowered, Steele held the pistol up for all to see. Holding the disengaged magazine in place with his pinky so that it wouldn’t fall out, Steele pulled the slide back. All eyes followed the cartridge as it popped out of the chamber. Steele snatched it in mid-air. He pressed the slide release lever to close the slide and, with the chamber now empty, tapped the bottom of the magazine with the meaty part of his palm. Reseating it with a click. It was all done so fast no one had a chance to move. Steele held the round up between his index finger and thumb before stuffing it into his pocket.