Abandon

“Joss, would you accuse me of exaggeration if I said that is the most useless cocksucker I ever laid eyes on?”

“Al?”

“Yeah.”

“No, I wouldn’t contradict that statement. Now I’m go

Joss released him, shoved the bowie back into its leather sheath under the bar. She set up two tumblers while Oatha retrieved his hat. They raised their glasses.

“To your impending release,” Oatha whispered.

They clinked and drank. Joss glanced at the sleeping deputy, then whispered, “How’d it go last night with ol’ Bartholomew?”

“It went.”

“Smoothly? Without incident?”

“Well, by the end of the proceedings, Bart sure as shootin wished he’d never yapped to you about them bars.”

“What I mean is, you did it quick, right? There weren’t no need to drag it out, make things any harder on the man than necessary.”

“Billy fucked it up.”

“How?”

“Particulars ain’t important. It got done what needed to get done.”

“You sayin the boy was rough on him?”

“Well, Billy hadn’t never done nothin like it before. He got carried away, but—”

“That little shit.” Oatha withdrew a scrap of paper from his flap pocket, slid it across the bar. Joss unfolded it, saw where Oatha had scribbled something on a torn-out Montgomery Ward page advertising hobnailed miners’ boots. “Fuck is this?”

“Wrote it last night. Notes for what you need to do tomorrow when I come back for you.”

She lifted her suspenders and slipped the paper into the patch pocket of her plaid dress shirt. “What of the boy? You trust him?”

“Shit no, but what other choice I got? Can’t play a lone hand, haul it all up there myself, can I?”

“Oath—”

“It’ll get taken care of. You just worry about them notes I made for you. We do this right, everthing’ll work out. Now this child’s gotta haul out. This ain’t go

“Know this. When the time comes, I’ll be the one to take care a that hobble-tongue chore boy.”

“Joss—”

“Ain’t arguin with you about it. He gave Bart a rough shake, boy go

Oatha headed for the coatrack. He’d just done the last button on his slicker and reached for the door when Joss called his name. He turned back. She held up the piece of paper he’d given her.

“Before I say this,” she said, “let me warn you. If I see a grin, a smirk, a eye roll, one fuckin hint a condescension—”

“Jesus Christ, chew it finer. I gotta go get Billy.”

She shook the paper. “Can’t use this.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I can’t use it, Oatha.”

“Oh.” He started back toward the bar.

“I said, not a fuckin word.”

“I just said ‘Oh.’ It ain’t a judgment. Why didn’t you tell me this when I give it to you in the first place? Think I give two shits whether you can read or not?”

2009

TWENTY-TWO

 A

bigail returned to consciousness, aware of only two things—the staggering pain in her head and the echo of voices, one of them her father’s.

“Don’t say that to me again, Lawrence. You know exactly why we’re here. And now that your partner’s out of commission—”

“I swear to you, I—”

“Ain’t believing this. Motherfucker wants me to take him apart.”

“Put away the knife, Isaiah. He’s go

“That true, Larry? My man Stu know some shit I don’t?”

“This is just a huge—”

“Misunderstanding?”

“Yeah, a huge—”

“Oh no, no, no. All right, Lar. After I slice off your thumbs, we’ll continue this—”

“Okay, I’ll—”

“No, I think I better go ahead—”

“We have to go to Emerald House.”

“Big mansion up the trail?”

“Yeah.”

Abigail opened her right eye. It took five seconds for the darkness to sharpen into focus. She sat with Lawrence, Emmett, and June inside one of the ghost town’s structures, her hands bound behind her back. It all looked familiar—the archways, the collapsed staircase, the climbing rope still dangling from the second floor. Three men—she assumed they were men—dressed in night camouflage and face masks busied themselves packing an assortment of equipment into black backpacks.

Under the archway leading into the lounge, Scott lay holding his abdomen, moaning softly. She wondered if Jerrod’s body had just been left in the street.

Didn’t I shoot someone in that old house?

She leaned into Lawrence, whispered, “What’s happening?” As he turned, she saw that his right eye had been closed from a vicious blow.

“I don’t know yet, but . . .” One of the men finished zipping his backpack and walked over, crouched down in front of Abigail.

“Dirty Harriet,” he said, gri

“Stu, what the fuck?”

“You want my hands to shake? Besides, my ribs are killing me. Might be cracked.”

“So take a fuckin aspirin.”

Isaiah came and squatted down, facing June, Emmett, Abigail, and Lawrence.

He looked them over, said, “In a minute, we’re go

He pointed the machine pistol at June.

“Yessir.”

Then he aimed it at Emmett.

“Yessir.”

“What about Scott?” Abigail said, nodding toward the archway.

“Motherfucker look like he can walk to you? He had a seizure before you woke up.” Isaiah leaned in toward Abigail, their faces barely an inch apart. His breath smelled of ci

Two years ago, while waiting to catch a cab after a Christmas party in the East Village, she’d felt something push into her back, followed by low, menacing words in her ear: “Wa

The man called Isaiah still spoke to her.

“That your boyfriend? Y’all fucking? What?” She shook her head. “I poked him in the gut. Be dead in an hour. Maybe less. Painful way to go. But if you’d rather stay with him”—he slid a Fairbairn-Sykes from an ankle sheath and pressed the knife point under her right eye—“I’ll be happy to leave you here, because the truth, bitch, is that I don’t need you.”