Chapter 9

Michael Hunt was as horrified as he had ever been.

Only inches away from him lay the body of Bubba Anson. His eyes wide open with a large hole centered just above his eyes. His prone body still lay on the steps and was what tripped him.

He was still screaming, but finally stopped. It wasn’t because of the pain shooting up Michael’s arm or from whatever injury had happened to his face.

It was from seeing this man’s body before him, the person Michael had come to the lake to see and try to help. Michael used his good hand to scoot farther away. There was a big rock formation to his right and he moved up against it.

The realization suddenly hit him that he might be in danger, also. Michael didn’t know much about guns, unlike ninety percent of the county’s population, but could tell from the size of the wound and the accuracy that whoever did this had a big gun and knew how to use it. He grabbed for the cell phone attached to his belt. Michael opened it with his good hand and tried to make a call. Nothing was happening. He started worrying that the phone had been damaged in the fall, before noticing there were no bars.

No signal. Michael sighed and wondered what to do. The pain was getting worse, now joined by something on his left knee. He tried to stand and figured out that was a no go. His left leg would not offer the needed support so Michael sat back down against the sloped rock.

This wasn’t a popular time to camp and he saw no lamps lit or fires burning at the camp sites on this side of the lake or the other. He thought for a second that he saw lights across the lake, but if there were any, they quickly disappeared.

There was no way to make it back up the steps. He regretted not telling anybody where he was going, not a smart move. There probably wasn’t anybody around for several miles, back to the few houses on the side of the road heading into the lake.

“Help!” he hollered, quickly deciding that was a waste of time and energy. Michael looked back at the corpse and wished the eyes would stop staring at him. Lifeless eyes that showed no horror or anything. Michael touched his left knee and was not surprised to find out it was already swelling, easily twice the size of the other knee. He had hurt this knee years ago playing softball in a recreational league in Tulsa. He tripped rounding second base and wound up with torn ligaments and a face full of dirt. The second baseman laughed while applying the tag to end the inning. Michael saw nothing humorous about that, or this. He knew this was bad and getting worse.

--------

One of the agents from the OSBI was looking through the debris left over from the fire at what used to be the Langford Review. Most everything was destroyed, from the desks, the computers, printer, chairs and everything.

This was not a plum assignment as far as Mel Hudlow was concerned. His instructions were to find anything that looked like it might either come from a bomb or ignite a bomb. Like Michael Hunt, Mel was a fan of CSI. They always found the stuff, right before a commercial break. It didn’t take them long to find the good stuff.

Mel was striking out. At least he was until he moved aside a chair and saw something that looked out of place. The agent was a rookie and didn’t know what to make of this.

“Hey, Harry,” he said, calling over his supervisor. “You might want to come look at this.”

--------

Sandy was the first one to grow worried. Michael had not called or stopped by after leaving to meet with somebody earlier in the evening. He had told her about the meeting, but not the location or who Michael was going to see. She would have gotten worried anyway, since it was not three hours later, but with the threats, bombs and dead body, it was enough to make her do something she would have never done under any other circumstance.

Sandy got her phone, looked through the address book and finally found the name of the person she never expected to call.

She pushed the send button and waited. On the fourth ring, the person answered. “What?” the man said.

“Squiggy?” she said.

“Uh, yeah, who is this?”

Sandy heard another person in the background. “Who is that?” the woman yelled.

“This is Sandy,” she said. “Can you talk?”

“Sandy? Yeah, we was just getting busy. What’s up?”

“Who’s Sandy?” the other person hollered.

“It’s Mikey’s chick,” he said.

“Why’s she calling you?”

Sandy was already regretting this.

“If you’d shut your trap I’d find out.”

“Don’t tell me to shut my trap!”

Sandy heard some thud and then heard Squiggy grunt.

“Are you okay?” she said.

“Yeah, Big Uns just hit me over the head with my dadgummed boot.”

"What's Big Uns?"

"You know...Big Uns! The chick I been..."

“I hate to call you,” Sandy said, which was the definite truth. “But I’m worried about Michael.”

“He ain’t here!” Squiggy said. “It’s just me and Big Uns. Mikey don’t go for the weird stuff.”

“What?”

“Oh, nothing. Where’s he at?”

“If I knew that, I’d go find him. Have you seen him?”

Squiggy thought about it for a few seconds. “Yeah, about six foot, got a little belly and not much hair on his head?”

“I know what he looks like,” Sandy said.

“Yeah, I reckon you do…in more ways that I ever hope to see.”

Sandy didn’t have a clue what Squiggy was talking about. She decided that was a topic that could fade away. “Have you seen or heard from him in the last hour?”

“Naw, me and Big Uns, we been kinda getting after it…until she hit me in the head with the dadgummed boot. Crap, I think I gotta knot!”

“You deserve it!” the woman hollered in the background.

“I’ll hit you with a boot and…say, you eating blueberry wafflers?”

“Yeah, but you can’t have none.”

“Squiggy!” Sandy said.

“Oh yeah, sorry. Boy, them wafflers sure smell good! Got some syrup dripping and..what was we talking about?”

“Michael.”

“Oh yeah. I gets confused at times. Where’d you say he was?”

Sandy hung up and grabbed her car keys.

--------

Jimmy Don Anson was also growing a little worried. He had not seen his brother’s truck come back up the driveway since Bubba left earlier. His brother could take care of himself against most people. The people they were dealing with weren’t most people, though.

He decided to check things out and took off walking through the pasture. But not in the direction of his brother’s house.

---------

Michael wasn’t aware that he had fallen asleep. He felt somebody shaking him and opened his eyes. The pain was bad, growing worse every second. He shook his head and tried to clear the cobwebs.

There were two men standing above him, guns propped up on their shoulders. They both had thick beards, camo clothing, hunting boots and hats that were tilted off to the sides of their heads.

Michael stared at the guns and the men. They were both young, barely in their twenties. Both of them had the look so many young men shared, that they would rather fight than do anything else other than hunt. Michael didn’t care anymore. They weren’t going to take him out without a fight.

Chapter 8

He heard the thud first, then the gunshot. At first, Gary Reynolds thought he had been hit. He backpedaled backwards several steps before falling on his rear. Gary looked around at his body and patted all over, looking for any entry hole.Finally, he was satisfied that no bullet had entered his body. Gary was not amused. He figured out the bullet hit the tree, not by accident. Jimmy Don Anson didn’t miss. This was a warning for Gary and his buddies to leave the property.

Gary raised his binoculars while peering around the small tree and looked down in the valley at where Jimmy Don was sitting on a stump with the rifle laid across his lap. The dog was sitting beside Jimmy Don, also looking toward Gary.

He noticed Jimmy Don was not smiling. For some people, this would have been funny. Jimmy Don didn’t seem like the type to smile. But neither was Gary, who planned on sending a message back to this country hick. It wouldn’t be now, but soon.

------

Michael Hunt was working at home in his old bedroom, trying to salvage a paper for the week. It wasn’t going that great and for the first time ever, the Langford Review’s publishing date would be set back at least one day.

He heard the knocking at the door and hoped it would quit. Michael knew who was pounding on his door, it was his mother. She was persistent.

The pounding didn’t work so she opened the door and poked her head in. “Michael!” she said. “I have been knocking at your door.”

She was a little upset. When somebody knocked on a door and a person was inside, that person should answer. Especially when she was the person knocking.

“I’m kinda busy here, Mom,” Michael said.

“Do you want anything to eat?”

Michael gritted his teeth. If he wanted something to eat, he knew where the kitchen was located. The same place it had been since he lived in this old house as a child.

“I’m not hungry,” he said.

“But Michael…”

“Not now, Mom. I have to work.”

His mother could not imagine anybody skipping a meal. His father sure never missed one in all the years he was married to the woman interrupting Michael.

“I can heat up some casserole!”

“Casserole makes me throw up.”

She started to say something, but paused. “You used to always like my casserole!”

“No, I ate it cause you made me.”

She looked hurt. Mrs. Hunt was proud of her casserole cooking skills and had never thought somebody, especially her son, wouldn’t love it.

“How about a salad?”

She was on him constantly about his weight. Michael could stand to lose some, but it wouldn’t be from eating salad.

“No thanks, Mom.”

“It’s good for you, Michael.”

He looked up from his laptop toward his mother. “I am aware of the nutritional value of salad, Mom. I just don’t want any.”

She started to say something, right before the phone rang. She looked at the old phone on his desk, at Michael, then back at the phone. She quickly pounced on it, before Michael could get it. The caller could be one of her network with big news. The news about the man dying downtown and the Review burning was making the rounds tonight. Somebody might have new information!

“Hello, the Hunt residence,” she said. Michael shook his head. He didn’t think anybody answered the silly phone like that in this day and age. His mother did, though, and took great pride in her etiquette. She listened to the caller and the smile slowly worked into a frown. “Hmph!” she said. “It’s for you.”

She handed the receiver to Michael. The cord wasn’t long enough so he had to get up from his chair and grab the phone.

“This is Mike,” he said. She shook her head. Her son didn’t even offer a greeting! How rude. She started to say something, but he was already waving her off.

He recognized the caller’s voice. The tone suggested it was important.”I needs to talk to you,” the caller said. It was Bubba Anson.

“Okay, go ahead,” Michael said. His mother slowly walked out of the room, doing her best to hear every word.

“Not on the phone. It ain’t safe.”

“Okay, where do you want to meet?”

“The dock at Cedar Lake. Thirty minutes.”

Michael started to protest that he couldn’t meet tonight, that he was too busy, but heard the click and knew the call had ended.

---------

He had mixed emotions on the drive out to the lake. This place always brought back memories of the night he and Sandy shared together. That was the night when everything changed. Before, they were just really good friends. As they sat next to each other on their graduation night, both of them realized they felt different about each other. They only kissed and held each other, but that was the last time. After that, they both knew things had changed and didn’t know how to handle it. Michael went off to school and Sandy stayed in Langford.

He remembered the way the wind sounded as it went through the pine trees that night, the cool breeze of late spring before the onslaught of summer heat. Michael had avoided the dock for so many years because of the bad memory. Now, it didn’t hurt nearly as bad as he and Sandy were together again and planned to get married.

Michael parked his truck in the parking lot and saw Bubba’s old truck parked off to the side. He got out and started walking down the steps toward the dock and the lake. It was dark as clouds covered the thin slice of the moon. Michael heard the wind howling through the pines and the call of some bird that sounded like a shriek.

He stopped halfway down the steps. Every nerve in his body was alive. Not because of the bird, but something else. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing at attention. Michael looked around, but could not see anybody or anything that looked out of the ordinary. But something was wrong. He knew that without any question. Michael had never been scared of the dark or the woods before, but it seemed like the trees were too close. He heard the wind lap against the dock and the beach and almost jumped.

“Bubba?” he said, but got nothing back. Michael proceeded slowly down the steps, constantly looking around. He was so busy looking around that Michael didn’t watch where he was stepping.

Michael tripped over something and went face first, hitting the rock step in front of him. He heard the crack and knew something wasn’t right. A sharp pain went up his left arm. Still laid out on the ground, Michael reached over and felt of his wrist. It was angled in a position that it had never been before, broken back enough that it almost felt like a bone was sticking out of the skin.

He felt something on his face and realized that blood was gushing out of his nose and mouth. Cradling his broken wrist, Michael sat up and looked behind him to see what tripped him.

What Michael Hunt saw on the thin path made him forget everything about the broken wrist and other injuries.

“Oh my gosh!” he screamed, loud enough that a person on the other side of the lake could clearly hear. That person smiled, walked back to his truck and drove off into the darkness.

Chapter 7

John “Bubba” Anson was a huge man, there was no doubt about it. He stood six feet, five inches and weighed just a tad over three hundred pounds.

Bubba gave the impression of a man who could lose some weight and there were a few extra pounds gathered around his middle, but most of his bulk was courtesy of a life spent hauling logs.

His family had been in the business for as long as anybody could remember, acquiring contracts for timber, cutting the trees, hauling them off and selling them. There had been good times and bad times over the years. Now was a bad time as the timber companies had more wood than they needed thanks to good weather.

Bubba was standing down the street, leaning against a building that once held a lumber and hard wood company that sold products for half a century before closing some eight years ago.

Now the building was filled with stuff that the current owner acquired at auctions and would sell to the public.

Bubba was wanting to talk to the newspaper man, to see if he might be able to help. Somebody needed to help him quick. He didn’t know who the other man was, but automatically didn’t trust the man since he was an outsider.

Bubba didn’t much care for outsiders. He also didn’t care for people he didn’t know well, but knew the newspaper man had once lived in Langford and would understand his situation.

He had been waiting for a long time until the two men parted company. The newspaper man was now standing between two other guys that Bubba knew from The Last Call, Langford’s most popular bar.

Bubba didn’t know the other two that well, just knew one of them was crude and would chase any girl who could breath while the other was rumored to be well equipped.

He slowly walked down the sidewalk. Bubba wore an old pair of overalls that time had turned and wear had turned almost white. The pants had holes on both knees, not that Bubba cared about his appearance. His work boots were also worn, especially at the toes, exposing some of the steel that had protected his toes on more than one occasion.

Bubba didn’t come to town much. He preferred working and staying in his small cabin and twenty acres in the hills just south of Langford. Bubba watched the firefighters still trying to get the blaze under control.

He knew this probably wasn’t the best time to talk to the guy from the newspaper, but Bubba was out of options. It was either now or never.

------

Michael was still blown away by the story the FBI agent just told him. Squiggy was trying to get the information, but wasn’t having much luck as Michael was sworn to secrecy.

This was the kind of information that could get a person injured or killed and with the way Squiggy blabbed around town, word would get around. Michael had his problems with Squiggy’s behavior, but still didn’t want his friend to be in jeopardy.

Michael didn’t really want to be in jeopardy himself. Apparently he no longer had a choice in the matter. He saw the large man approaching. Michael stepped back, but could tell this man didn’t seem like the type to hurt anybody.

He had a rough appearance, but a kind face. The man stopped just short of Michael. “Excuse me,” Bubba said. “I needs to talk with you.”

Squiggy turned around and saw the newcomer. “Hey, whadda you say, Fatty?”

The man’s face turned for a second. Gone was the kind look, replaced by a look that showed he was not a person to be messed with. “I don’t like you calling me that.”

Squiggy also noticed the reaction and shut up. The man could probably crush Squiggy with one hand.

“Hey, you got any beer?” Mule said. “We’s about out.”

The man shook his head, causing his long beard to sway against the overalls. The beard was still brown for the most part, mixed with a few speckles of grey.

“Sure,” Michael said. “What can I do for you?”

The man walked away and Michael followed. They stopped in front of the next building, the second part of the old Burroughs Building. This one was also empty with large glass windows across the front that so far had escaped the vagrants that seemed to enjoy destroying other people’s property.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” Bubba said. He seemed a little antsy, constantly looking around.

“It’s okay,” Michael said. “What can I do for you?”

“I gotta get some help. They’re after me.”

“Who’s after you?”

“They are.”

Michael was afraid he knew who “they” were without hearing it from this huge man. “What can I do for you?”

“I can’t get no help from the law,” Bubba said. “If I don’t sell my place, they are gonna get me.”

“Okay, but what can I do?”

“I don’t know…maybe write up a story about what they’s doing.”

“What are they doing?” Michael said.

Bubba started to say something, then saw something across the road that caused his face to go white. “I gotta go!”

“Hang on,” Michael said. The man had already turned and was walking back where he came from, his eyes never veering from the location across the street. Michael looked in that direction and saw a man standing at the corner. He was also a large man, wearing a white dress shirt, jeans and boots that were similar to the man who had shot the police chief earlier.

The man was watching Bubba stride down the sidewalk. He stayed in that position until Bubba got in his old truck. It took several cranks to get the old Chevy running. After getting the engine going, Bubba flew off down the road, going so fast that he almost drove like the teenagers.

Michael looked back. The man had vanished into the darkness. Within seconds, a newer truck pulled out from behind a building and took off in the same direction as Bubba had gone.

--------

Jimmy Don Anson was Bubba’s brother. Like his brother, Jimmy Don was also a huge man. But unlike his brother, there wasn’t anything peaceful about his appearance or demeanor.

He had calmed some over the years, but was not a person anybody in the county would want to mess with. Jimmy Don was bad before he entered the service and worse after his discharge. He did jobs with the military that nobody else would consider doing.

Jimmy Don was a little irked at the moment. He was sitting in a rocker on his front porch in front of a cabin that was much like his brother’s. It needed some work, but Jimmy Don didn’t have painting high on his list of to-do’s.

His bird dog, Spike, was lying next to him. A pretty dog, mostly white with some brown over parts of his head and black dots on his body.

Spike knew his owner was upset, so he was also. Jimmy Don’s patience was about up. He had never run from a fight in his whole life and didn’t intend to start now. Jimmy Don had a pretty good idea what was going on in this valley and didn’t like it one bit.

They could intimidate his neighbors and his brother, but Jimmy Don was a different story. He got up from the rocker and walked into his house. The living room was not one that would impress many people. There was a wood-burning stove over in the corner. On one wall was an old couch that was on its last legs. The dog usually slept on the couch while Jimmy Don sat in a recliner that worked less than half the time.

Jimmy Don bypassed the living room and went back to the only bedroom in the cabin. There was a mattress on the floor with sheets scattered about. He reached the gun safe, entered a combination and grabbed a gun that Jimmy Don knew well.He grabbed some shells, put some in the rifle and a few others in the pocket of his overalls. Jimmy Don put a hat on his head and walked back outside. This time, he didn’t stop at the rocker.

Instead, he walked over to the old barn. Spike accompanied him, trailing exactly two steps behind, just like he had been taught. Jimmy Don pulled up just short of the barn. He knew exactly where they were, all four of them.

One was hiding behind an old stump on the hill that separated his property from his brother’s land. The second man was behind an oak tree next to the creek that ran behind Jimmy Don’s house. A third man hid in a ditch that ran parallel to the driveway.

The fourth was the one that attracted Jimmy Don’s attention. This man was good, but not good enough. He had concealed himself behind some overgrown shrubs roughly two hundred yards into the trees.

Most people wouldn’t have a clue there were people watching him. Jimmy Don knew and was ready to put a stop to it. He was at least as tall as Bubba, but moved with a brisk pace. Jimmy Don sat down on the back tailgate of his old truck and took aim.

The other three men quickly abandoned their post and high tailed it back into the cover. Jimmy Don had the fourth man in his scope. He could see the man’s face. The man smiled back at Jimmy Don, almost taunting him.

Jimmy Don was not amused. He slowly applied pressure to the rifle’s trigger and noticed that the man’s smile had faded away.

Chapter 6

It was a rather quick conversation between the caller and Michael.

But the words shook him in a way that few things had ever done.

“You got lucky this time, paper boy,” the caller had said and hung up quickly.

Michael pulled the phone from his ear and looked at the number. It was a private caller, just as he suspected.

One thing he was sure of, whoever these people were, they didn’t want him around. That was fine with Michael. For a long time, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to be around Langford.

That had all changed one night a few months earlier with the phone call from his mother urging him to come home, that his father was sick. For Michael, that wasn’t that big of a deal. His father was frequently sick, or at least thought he was sick.

But for his mother, he had returned home. This time, his father wasn’t faking. He was sick. Prior to the old man’s death, Michael learned many things about his father and family that he never expected to hear.

Things such as because of poor money management, he was about to lose the Langford Review and his house to the Bank of Langford. At the last minute, Sandy had stepped in and helped Michael save the paper.

Now, that was all for waste. The Langford Review was no more, at least the building. The newspaper could carry on, but this week’s issue was ready to be taken to the printers tomorrow. There was no way Michael could redo the whole newspaper and get it ready for the printers by noon the following day.

He was still standing across the street, watching the building burn. Squiggy and Mule had joined him, sitting down on the sidewalk drinking beers and throwing the bottles underneath the various law enforcement vehicles parked in front of the Burroughs Building.

They seemed to think this was great fun, not that it surprised Michael. Squiggy and Mule were a little different than most people, not that they seemed to care. For the last few minutes, they appeared to be having a farting contest. Michael wasn’t paying that much attention. Apparently Mule had gotten too intent in the contest and had to run off in search of the nearest bathroom.

“Ooh!” Mule said, as he got up. “A convict is about to sneak past the Guard Shack!”

Michael watched Mule go down the sidewalk, looking much like the speedwalkers you see in the Olympics and the local track.

Squiggy was trying to talk to some girl, but she was showing no interest.

“Hey, baby,” he said, “how bout you and me go for a trip?”

“I think not,” she said. The woman was very attractive, young and seemed a little out of Squiggy’s league, not that he would let something like that bother him.

“Why, you a lesbo?”

The woman shook her head and looked around for help. “No, I think you are disgusting.”

Squiggy nodded and spit a huge wad of spit on a police car. He watched it slide down the front bumper and drip to the ground.

“I ain’t that bad,” he said.

She had left by then, gone in search of a safer environment. The fire department was doing its best to get the fire out. The wind was whipping up and that didn’t help matters.

A man slipped in beside Michael. “Aaaarrreee yyyooouuu Mmmmister Hhhunt?”

Michael looked around and saw a huge man, wearing a long sleeve shirt with a massive badge on his chest. He was also carrying a pistol on his belt. But what caught Michael’s attention was the huge growth on the man’s neck.

“Wwwhhhooo wwwwaaaannnnt’s tttooo knnnnoooowww?” Squiggy asked, making Michael wish his friend would go away.

“Shut up, Squiggy,” Michael said, hoping that he didn’t start stuttering or stare at the man’s growth. “Yes, I am. Who are you?”

The agent answered by saying he was special agent Moody from the FBI. Almost every word was a struggle.

“Hey hoss, you got a speech impotency?” Squiggy said.

The man frowned at Squiggy. “That’s impediment,” Michael said.

“Whatever,” Squiggy said and tossed his latest beer bottle under the front tire. He looked at the agent and squinted his eyes. Michael had a fear of what was fixing to happen. “Dude, you got like some big growth on your neck!”

The agent was not amused. Michael half expected him to pull out his massive gun and blow Squiggy away.

“Is that why you talk like a retard?” Squiggy said.

The agent started moving toward Squiggy. Michael could see the blood vessels on the agent’s forehead sticking out. “You ever been arrested?” the agent said, not stuttering nearly as bad since he was so angry.

“A few times.”

“Ever been busted by the FBI?”

“Naw, but them Arkansas cops must like to do cavity searches. I couldn’t walk for a week after the last one. Looked like a dadgum bronc rider.”

The FBI agent looked puzzled and backed off. He had handled hundreds of criminals in his service career, but never handled anything like this. Agent Moody walked back toward Michael, trying to shake his head but having a tough time with the goiter.

As he looked down the road, a huge man was jogging toward them. The man seemed awful excited about something. Mule skidded to a stop, staring at the FBI agent’s neck.

“Wow, is that one of them goiters?” he said.

The agent took a step back. He nodded, his hand poised inches above the pistol.

“Cool! Can I touch it?”

“No,” the agent said, offended beyond words.

“Please? My gradmammy used to have one and she’d let me play with it for hours. I like the way they feel.”

The agent was a little sensitive in the first place, thankful that most people were sensitive enough not be make a big deal about the growth. But that certainly wasn’t the case here.

Squiggy was laughing so hard that he laid back on the sidewalk and rattled off several poots, sounding almost like a machine gun going off.

“Let’s go over here and talk,” Michael said, moving away from Squiggy and Mule. He turned around and saw Mule following. “We need to talk in private, Mule.”

Mule’s smile slowly faded away. “Dadgummit!”

Michael and the agent stepped into a recessed area of the entrance to the Burroughs Building, right above where an advertisement for some pharmacy that had closed years before.

“What can I do for you?” Michael said.
The agent looked around to make sure nobody else was listening. “Do you have any idea who you are messing with?”

“No,” Michael said. He wasn’t aware of messing with anybody. But somebody was sure messing around with him.

The agent told a story that was almost hard to believe, even for Michael.

Chapter 5

The Langford Review had been one of the mainstays of downtown Langford since 1928, when the building was first built.

It was the third building from the end of the block, located on the north end of a block that featured many buildings of the same age and structure.

The Langford Review building had an upstairs on it, one distinguishing feature that only the former bank building at the end of the block shared.

The years had not been kind to many downtown buildings in Langford. Neglect, variances in weather and failure to update marked all the buildings, including this building, although it was in much better shape since it had been occupied all these years.

Nothing much had changed with the Review building, until the last two months. Since Michael Hunt took over the Review, he and Sandy with some help from Squiggy and Mule, at least when they weren’t so drunk they threw paint everywhere, had painted the walls a bright white and the concrete floor a shade of grey.

It helped, but there was still a smell in the building of oldness, combined with decades of smoking cigarettes, pipes and cigars. Michael had instituted a no-smoking policy, which didn’t set well with his cousin, who now had to go out back to toke on her generic brand of smokes.

Michael had also purchased three new computers, complete with new software, along with modern printers. He planned to get new desks and chairs, but had yet to do so.

Inside the building were books with every edition printed since 1918. There were also boxes of pictures the newspaper had used through the years. Most of them weren’t all that good, but they were a key part of the history of Langford, the good and bad through the years.

At one time, Michael hated this building and the newspaper it hosted. A lot of that had to do with his father forcing him to work since Michael was old enough to walk. While other kids got to play sports and participate in other activities, he was writing stories and taking pictures with an old Pentax camera that his father had just recently retired.

Michael still had mixed feelings about the Langford Review, but since he took over for his father, he had tried to make the environment a lot better.

As he stood on the second story of the Burroughs Building across the street, seeing the building explode from the inside took away a lot of him.

His first worry was if anybody was inside. His other workers, Nancy and Teresa, had left for the day and as far as Michael knew, nobody else would be inside. He had left the door unlocked in the excitement, but at least if somebody did disintegrate, it wasn’t his responsibility.

It was a little amazing to see history go up in smoke like this. Michael was too stunned to move for several seconds, at least until Sheriff Patterson came up beside him.

“What the heck?” the sheriff said.

“It just blew up,” Michael said.

“Boom, huh?”

Michael broke his attention away from the burning building and looked at the sheriff. He wanted to say something about the sheriff’s intelligence, but didn’t feel up to it.

Instead, he shook his head and walked out of the room, down the stairway and out the back of the building. As he rounded the corner, Mule and Squiggy were advancing at a quick pace.

“We caught him!” Squiggy said.

Michael could only nod. He had been there and taken pictures, of course.

“You reckon there’s any reward for capturing the man who shot Porky?”

Michael shrugged again. He started walking away from them, but they quickly caught up.

“What was that noise?” Mule asked.

“Somebody just blew up the Review,” Michael said. He remembered that was talking to Sandy when the building exploded and would probably be wondering if he was still alive. “Let me use your phone, Squiggy.”

Squiggy frowned. He had to buy minutes for the phone and didn’t want to waste any. Big Uns, his sometime girlfriend, got awful fussy whenever the minutes were out and she couldn’t talk to him.

“Uh, I don’t got many minutes,” he said.

“I’ll buy some,” Michael said. “I need to call Sandy.”

“Where’s your phone?”

“I left it upstairs after the building exploded.”

“You could always go get it,” Squiggy said.

“Just let him use your phone,” Mule said.

Squiggy rolled his eyes and then glared at his buddy. “Just keep it short, okay?”

Michael nodded and accepted the phone. He started to dial but didn’t have any luck. “How do you use this dang thing?”

“You gotta use the code.”

“Well, what is it?”

“Here, let me have it. I’ll do it.”

“You fraid Mikey’s gonna steal your phone?” Mule asked.

“Uh, no.” Squiggy grabbed the phone and entered the code. He handed the phone back to Michael. “Here you go.”

Michael dialed Sandy’s number and waited a few seconds. Finally, she answered. “Somebody blew up the Review.”

“Are you okay?” Sandy asked.

“How’d you get out?” Mule asked.

Squiggy pulled his hat off and popped Mule with it. “That don’t make no difference. Let him get off the dang phone.”

Michael covered up the phone. “I wasn’t in there.”

“I guess that’s why you ain’t extra crispy, eh?”

They walked along the sidewalk next to the Burroughs Building. Michael was telling Sandy what happened when the phone beeped. “This thing’s beeping,” he told Sandy.

“Must be somebody calling,” Mule said proudly.

“Duh, you think?” Squiggy said. “Hang up! It’s probably Big Uns. She’ll think I’m talking to some other chick and pluck my back hairs out again.”

Michael told Sandy that he would call her back and handed the phone over to Squiggy, who quickly hit the button.

“Hey, baby,” he said. After a brief pause, Squiggy was quickly defensive. “No, I wasn’t talking to the redhead…Naw, she’s butt ugly…I was drunk!...Mikey was using the phone to call his chick…Naw, you’re the dadgummed idiot!”

Squiggy hung up the phone and shook his head. They rounded the corner and saw the fire was spreading to the adjacent buildings. The first fireman had just arrived on the scene and was standing in the middle of the street, dressed in his yellow outfit.

The Langford Fire Department was used to fighting house fires and grass fires. Twice before, part of downtown had burned. The old theater had caught on fire in the late 1970s while the funeral home burned in the 1990s. Sadly, like many volunteer fire departments in small towns, they didn’t have the equipment to fight a fire of this intensity.

A call had already gone out to the fire department in Poteau, requesting help. The Poteau Fire Department had the equipment necessary to battle a fire like this, but they were tied up at an apartment fire.

Within a minute, the first fire truck showed up. The firemen went to work, trying to keep the block from burning to the ground. Most of the buildings were empty and some thought it would be an improvement, but their job was to get the fire under control.

In the next few minutes, downtown was filled with onlookers. It was one of the worst traffic jams in Langford history. As Michael, Squiggy and Mule stood on the corner watching, Sheriff Patterson walked up beside them.

He held out Michael’s phone. “Here, somebody wants to talk to you.”

Michael grabbed the phone and answered. His blood soon turned cold.

Chapter 4

Sheriff Leroy Patterson had just taken over the position after the previous sheriff retired. Sheriff Patterson was a tall, angular man, standing almost six and a half feet tall. He was rather skinny, weighing only one-eighty soaking wet.

He wore a white cowboy hat anytime outdoors, so the one on his balding head was not worn for show. The sheriff had the two top buttons of his dark shirt open, revealing a mass of hair sticking out that could easily cover the baldness.

The sheriff was in another room, just off the one Michael Hunt was looking in. Sheriff Patterson had just walked to the back of the room and found the motherlode, a collection of dirty magazines that were in two stacks and almost reached his waist.

A smile formed on his wrinkled face. These weren’t the fluffy magazines available in the local convenience stores, but the hardcore stuff, the kind he liked. He grabbed the top one off the cover and pointed his flashlight at it.

BIG MOMMA’S! was the name of the magazine. He glanced inside and realized that was an accurate description. Now the sheriff didn’t have anything against plump women, but it just wasn’t his cup of tea. He tossed that one aside and was about to pick up another one.

“Sheriff!” came the call from the other room.

“What?” he said in an irritated mood. Whatever the newspaper guy had found could wait. The sheriff had hours of fun waiting here.

“You better come here.”

The sheriff sighed heavily and walked out of the room, making sure he remembered which one had the goodies inside. He stuck his head in a couple of rooms before seeing Michael just inside the doorway, staring at something at the other end of the room.

“Look there,” Michael said.

“Hang on, check this out,” the sheriff said and thrust the magazine out.

Michael wasn't positive, but thought the sheriff was breathing awful heavy. He turned his attention away for a second to see what the sheriff wanted. It was a magazine entitled BLUE-HAIRED BABES! Michael looked at the magazine and back at the sheriff.

“So?” he said.

The sheriff opened up the magazine to the centerfold. “Now that’s a hot filly right there, eh?”

Michael couldn’t make out much of the woman, not that he really wanted to see her. “There he is.”

He pointed toward the far side of the room. Aaron Sanders was lying on top of the desk that he had once hid behind. There was an open wound in the middle of his forehead. His mouth was wide open. What used to be his tongue was cut out and placed in the middle of his chest.

Aaron’s throat had been slashed from one ear to the other. The blood had formed a large puddle on the desk and was dripping off the side and to the floor. Several rats were scouting out the body. One had walked through the blood and left little foot prints on Aaron’s shirt.

“Bummer,” the sheriff said and turned his attention back to the magazine. “Whoo!”

Michael looked at the body, back at the sheriff and toward Aaron Sanders. “Shouldn’t you do anything with him?”

“Aw, he ain’t going nowhere.”

------

In a large house on the west side of Langford, Sandy Daniels had just walked into her bedroom when the house phone rang again. She was wearing a pair of baggy black shorts, a white Langford tee-shirt and ankle socks on her feet.

Her dark hair was put up in a bun. It had been a long day for her and a night of relaxation was on the agenda. Just minutes earlier, the phone rang but nobody was on the other line when she answered.

Sandy looked at the caller I.D. and saw the number was from a private caller. That normally meant somebody trying to sell something, but sometimes her fiancée, Michael Hunt, would call her like this because he knew how much those kinds of calls bothered her. She really didn’t want to mess with them, if it was a sales person,but also didn’t want the phone tied up so Sandy answered the phone.

For a few seconds, there was nothing coming through the phone. Slowly, somebody started breathing, slowly at first but the pace increased quickly.

“Michael, this isn’t funny,” she said.

“This isn’t Michael,” the caller said. This voice was much different, for sure.

“Squiggy, Michael isn’t here.”

The line was dead for a few seconds. “This isn’t Squiggy.”

Sandy removed the phone from her ear and stared at it for a few seconds. “Who is this?”

“That isn’t important.”

“I kind of like to know who I’m talking to.”

“All you need to do is pass on a message.”

Sandy waited for a second. This was a strange one. She was used to strangeness from living in Langford all her life, but this was a topper.

“I’m waiting,” she said.

“Tell your little boyfriend he’ll never see the sun rise.”

-----

The shape of Aaron Sanders’ body had finally loosened the sheriff from his admiration of the magazine. This was a new one for him. From some forty years of law enforcement, he had seen many dead people.

Even some that had been shot. But never one that wound up looking like this. The sheriff knew this was beyond his grasp and he needed help. The OSBI, Oklahoma’s version of the FBI, had been called and two agents had been dispatched.

He didn’t particularly enjoy dealing with the OSBI, but this was too much. The sheriff was from the northern part of the county and didn’t know many people in Langford or further south.

“You know him?” he said.

“Never seen him before,” Michael said. “I bet Squiggy knows him. Maybe he’ll show up after they quit gloating over capturing the shooter.”

He pulled his cell phone from the holder on his belt to call Squiggy. As he dialed the number, his phone went off. He answered, but whoever the caller was could not be heard. Michael looked at the bars and saw reception for his cell wasn’t good in this building. It actually wasn’t all that great anywhere in downtown Langford, so he walked toward the front of the building.

Michael stopped near the front window and looked out over downtown Langford. He had a good view of the Review and noticed the lights were still on inside and the front door was unlocked.

“Can you hear me now?” he said.

“Yes!” the caller answered. It was Sandy and she sounded rather frantic.

“What’s wrong?”

“I just got a call from somebody and...” she paused for a second.

“Who was it?”

“He wouldn’t say.”

“What did he want?”

“For me to tell you that you won’t see the sun rise tomorrow!”

“Do what?” Michael said.

Her reply was drowned out by a huge roar that shook the window and made Michael jump back.

He looked across the street and dropped the phone. “Oh no!”

Chapter 3

Two years earlier, the Bank of Langford had spent over two hundred thousand dollars to tear down some buildings and build a parking lot that many citizens thought was a joke.

At the front of the parking lot, right under the big sign that could easily be seen from the highway, there were several planters with shrubs in each. When Mule saw his friends take off across the street, he went the long way around the block.

He had just made the block when several gunshots were heard behind the old hardware store. Mule started walking in that direction and was by one of the planters when the man rounded the corner, running toward him with a pistol in his hand.

Mule slipped back in the planter right next to a newer model Chevrolet truck, decked out with bug shield, tire flaps and fancy wheels. He saw the man stop just short of the truck and turn around. Mule looked out and saw Psycho and Squiggy running toward the man.

When he saw the man raise the pistol, Mule left his hiding spot, moving at a speed he had not matched in many years. He forgot about the pain from where he broke his leg the year before.

As he neared the man, Mule heard Squiggy shout. As the man started to fire, Mule dove, hitting the man right under his raised arms. The gun blared again, but was pointed up in the sky.

It was a tackle any pro linebacker would have admired. The shooter crumpled up and crashed to the ground, right next to his truck with Mule on top. The man was knocked silly for a few seconds. Just as he started getting his senses back, there was another problem.

The hit from this giant lug hurt, but not nearly as bad as the crazed dog. Psycho went for the gusto, right for the man’s privates and got a good bite that caused the man to scream.

He had never known pain like this. He had been a good running back in his high school some thirty years before and taken some hard hits, but nothing like the one he had just received, one that was made even worse when the mutt bit down.

There was a loud crunching sound and the man knew one of his nuggets had just ruptured. He was fighting to get loose and aim the gun at either the big man or the gun. Just as he almost completed this action, the other man stepped on his wrist, causing the gun to fall free.

“Howdy,” Squiggy said. “How’s it feel for a pit bull to bite your goodies?”

The man was too busy screaming to answer.

“Psycho, let go!” Squiggy said. The dog was jerking its head back and forth, but quit and released his hold on the man. “Nice hit, Mule.”

Mule smiled at his friend. He didn’t realize it, but a cut had opened between his eyes and blood was streaming down over his nose. “Hee hee, I hit him a good one!”

The first officer from the county came flying over the railroad tracks and pulled up next to where Mule had the man held.

The deputy came out of his car with a gun pulled. He ran over and pointed his gun at Mule.

“Get off the man!” the deputy said and pointed his weapon about one inch from Mule’s head.

“Huh?” Mule said, looking at Squiggy in confusion.

“Naw, you idiot,” Squiggy said, pointing at the man grimacing in pain. “That’s the bad dude.”

“Oh,” the deputy said, then noticed the dark spot on the man’s pants. “Did he pee himself?”

“Naw, Psycho got him,” Squiggy said with proudness. “I think he lost a nugget.”

“Cool,” the deputy said. “Where’s the chief?”

“Probably still in his car. He got shot in the foot.”

“Well dadgum,” the deputy said. “The way he was going on, I figured he was gutshot.”

Squiggy looked down at Mule. The blood was dripping down on the man’s dress shirt. “You can probably get off him, Mule.”

Mule slowly climbed off, making sure his knee landed near the man’s injury. Psycho was sitting back, watching the man’s every move. Another car from the county came pulling up behind the man’s truck. This was the head cheese, the sheriff.

He and Mule explained what was going on and the sheriff informed the OSBI, the state organization for criminal activities.

----

After getting the police chief settled down and convinced that the gunshot wound to the foot wouldn’t kill him, Michael left to go see what was happening. He had heard the screaming and wondered what could cause a person such agony. After finding out what did cause the pain, Michael fully understood why the man was hurting.

He slipped back to the office and got his camera. Michael got some good pictures of the man getting cuffed and stuffed in the sheriff’s car, right before an ambulance arrived. The EMTs determined that the man could make it to the hospital without their assistance and went searching for the injured police chief.

Squiggy was confusing the issue more than helping so Michael translated what happened, starting with the initial gun shot in the Burroughs Building.

“Reckon somebody else got shot?” the deputy asked.

The sheriff glared at his deputy and shook his head. “Why don’t you let me ask the questions?”

The scolded deputy moved off to the side to pout. Michael and the sheriff walked back toward the Burroughs Building, passing by the old hardware store that was now the third pawn and gun in Langford. They cut in between the buildings and found the EMTs working on Chief Arnold, who seemed to scream every time anybody got close to his foot.

“You gonna be okay, Chief?” the sheriff asked.

“I’m hurting…bad!” the police chief said and howled again. “Am I gonna lose my big toe?”

The EMTs tried to keep from laughing, no easy task. “You’ll be wigging that bad boy in no time,” the bigger EMT said.

Michael took a picture of the scene, complete with the chief howling. That would be a good one, he decided, but doubted the chief would appreciate it.

They walked across the street and walked around the building. The front door was locked so they went around to the back. That door was ajar. The sheriff started to open it.

“Aren’t you worried about fingerprints?” Michael said.

The sheriff stopped, slowly turned and glared at Michael. “What are you, one of those CSI nuts?”

Michael shrugged. “I like the real one. Don’t much care for the Miami or New York versions.”

“I’m more of a Law and Order guy,” the sheriff said. “I know how to deal with a crime scene, newspaper boy.”

The sheriff used his foot to open the door. Michael got a little satisfaction out of this. They entered the building and walked around downstairs, finding nothing out of the ordinary. After searching downstairs for a few minutes, they found the stairwell and walked up the stairs.

They looked through most of the small rooms without finding anything. They split up to save time. Michael was entering one of the rooms near the back when he smelled something.

Michael got a little farther in and stopped, seeing something he would never have thought possible.

Chapter 2

The man who just ended Aaron Sanders’ life hid beside a storage building in the alley behind what used to be the hardware store. If he had to worry about a professional police force, the man would be halfway to the state line by now.

But based on his findings concerning the Langford Police Department, the word “professional” should never be used in the same sentence.

He was afraid the guy from the newspaper might have seen him, but also knew that it would be impossible to identify a person running away from the building.

It was kind of fun to watch the reactions of the cop, the newspaper guy and the two men who showed up shortly after the gun shot. Something had them concerned with the big guy’s chest. Every few seconds they would look back toward the building, but had not made any move to check it out.

The man did not get any enjoyment out of killing. It was simply his duty for a cause that many people did not believe in. But that was fine. He knew one day the tide would turn and one of their enemies would have him cornered.

He knew tears would never flow from his eyes and no babbling would happen. He had to hand it to the Sanders guy. He took it like a man. Just closed his eyes and clenched his body.

Some of the blood had splattered on him. He planned to burn these clothes later, not that it mattered. The man just hoped none of the blood got on his boots. A year ago, he wouldn’t have been caught dead wearing something this garish. But the boots and western attire had helped him and his friends fit in here in hickville.

Now, he actually liked the boots and the snakeskin cover. Plus the women seemed to like them, even the ones with all of their teeth. As he slowly escaped into the shadows, the man’s phone rang. He had forgotten to turn the ringer off and it sounded loud enough to wake the dead, a necessity for him to hear the ringer after too many gunshots in too many tight quarters. He grabbed the phone before it rang a second time, opened and shut the flip part while peering around the corner of a building.

-----

“That sounded like a phone going off,” Chief Arnold said. They had all heard it and were looking in the direction of where the sound came from.

“That’s because it was,” Squiggy said. “A Nokia!”

“Like you’d know,” Mule said. His chest was hurting now. The Chief was grabbing his chest and pressing with all his might. “Chief Porky, you’re hurting the Mule!”

The chief gritted his teeth and gave an extra squeeze. Suddenly, there was a popping sound and the chief wheeled backwards quickly. His face had speckles of white all over.

“Ugh!” the chief said and spit several times. “I think I swallered some zit!”

Squiggy started to laugh while Mule was bowed over in pain. He started groaning and wouldn’t quit.

Michael had enough of this silly stuff and started walking toward where they heard the phone ring. He wasn’t positive, but thought whomever he saw run away might still be hiding in the alley.

Squiggy stopped laughing as he saw his buddy take off. “Where you goin, Mikey?”

Michael didn’t answer, just walked straight toward the alley. He realized this probably wasn’t the smartest thing he had done lately, but wasn’t all that concerned.

Squiggy walked over to his truck and opened the door. Out hopped a dog with an enormous head. It was a pit bull slobbering in amounts that would probably set a record if there was some kind of record.”Hold up, Mikey, here comes Psycho!”

“Oh great,” Michael said. He turned around to watch the dog sprint toward him. He and Psycho had never gotten along all that great, dating back to the first day they met. The dog was crazier than its owner and that took some doing.

“Wait up!” Squiggy said. Psycho pulled up next to Michael and started sniffing up and down his legs. She tried to check out the private area but Michael put a stop to that.

He looked back and saw what appeared to be a trail of blood or slobber. “What’s wrong with your dog?”

Squiggy caught up and was already breathing hard from the twenty-yard run. He held up his finger, wanting to catch his breath.

“She’s in heat. I been trying to breed her but she won’t take no dog. Last one I tried, Psycho bit half the dog’s dang ear off. We been playing Frisbee with it the last couple of days.”

Chief Arnold hopped in the police car and drove to the alley with all the lights blaring. He was on the radio calling for backup. Unfortunately, the other policeman on duty was answering nature’s call at the pizza joint and left his radio on the table. The chief didn’t want to do it, but called for the county sheriff’s help.The chief was about to get out of the car when it happened.

-----

The man knew this was not good. He was trapped behind the corner of the building, the lights shining all around him. He couldn’t move without being seen. He slammed his hand against the concrete wall, frustrated with his stupidity and a phone call at the wrong time.

He had successfully operated in places like Dallas and Houston without getting caught. Now, some rinky-dink, fat cop was going to capture him. But not without a fight, the man decided.

As soon as the policeman opened the door, the man leaned around the corner of the building and started firing. The first bullet was low, but scored, hitting the cop in his foot.

The cop jumped up and down twice, then dove back into the car right before two more shots followed, shattering the windshield and sending glass all over Chief Arnold. The man took off running, paying no attention to the shouting from behind.

-----

“I’m hit!” Chief Arnold hollered. He hollered this several times in a row, then grabbed the radio and said it again, only remembering to push the button on the mic on the third try. He looked down at his foot and saw smoke coming from the big hole in his boot. Chief Arnold didn’t care what anybody said, it did hurt when you were shot.

When the first shot went off, Squiggy and Michael dove to the ground. They waited for the shots to stop and glanced up, grateful that the road was actually below the sidewalk and offered some protection. They slowly looked over the edge and saw the chief squirming in his car.

He looked like a big slab of bacon sizzling in the frying pan. Michael was the first to get up and ran over to Chief Arnold’s car.

“Are you okay?” he asked, ducking down behind the door.

“Crap no!” Chief Arnold screamed in a blood-curdling voice. “I’ve been shot in my foot!”

Squiggy and Psycho arrived next. Squiggy tried to keep from doing it, but was quickly laughing.

“It ain’t funny!” Chief Arnold hollered.

“Have you called for help?” Michael asked.

“We don’t need no help,” Squiggy said. “Sic em, Psycho!”

The dog started for the police chief, who looked even more terrified as the pit bull came after him.

“Not him, you dumb dog,” Squiggy said. “Go after the gun!”

Psycho took off after the shooter, Squiggy trailing a short distance behind. Michael looked around for Mule, but he was nowhere to be found.

-----

The man was running as hard as possible. His truck was only a few yards away when he heard something behind him, coming even faster. He turned around and saw the dog bearing down on him.

The man made it to his Chevy truck, but knew there was no way to get inside before the dog arrived. That left him with only one option. He spun around, raised his pistol and took aim.

"No!” yelled Squiggy, who was some twenty yards behind his dog.

The man was about to pull the trigger, never seeing the blur coming from the side.

Chapter 1

It was dark inside the top floor of the deserted building. The man was crouched down behind an old desk that didn’t look like it had been used in some thirty years.

This was the old Burroughs Building, located in downtown Langford. He remembered seeing the year the building was built etched in the bricks somewhere a long time ago. That was back when he was younger and noticed stuff like that. He couldn’t remember the exact year the building was built, only that it was in the early 1920s.

The Burroughs Building had been vacant for several years, just like several other buildings in the once thriving downtown. Part of the ceiling had given way thanks to numerous leaks in the roof and the rotted material hung toward the floor in several locations. Aaron Sanders was only in his mid-twenties, but already his knees were hurting from sitting in this position.

His hair was a little long in the back and short on the sides, almost a mullet look. He wore a dark tee shirt, jeans and a pair of white Nike's that stood out like a sore thumb.

With each breath, he tried to hold down the noise. His heart was thumping loud enough that he feared anybody in a block could hear.

Thump..thump..thump it beat. It almost sounded like a drum beaten with a baseball bat.

It was cool outside and cold inside the building. It stunk of rotted wood and the feces that seemed to be everywhere. Despite the cool temperatures, Aaron had sweat pouring down the front of his face. The beads were burning his eyes and he wanted to wipe them away, but knew that would be a bad move.

Whoever was chasing him was here somewhere, looking for him. Aaron looked toward the window and saw the shadows on the floor that made all the different objects in the room appear to be several times their actual size.

He wished the street light outside wasn’t working, like so many others throughout town. But the electric company had this one blaring out light at full strength. He heard a noise somewhere behind him. He held his breath, hoping it was one of the numerous pigeons that had made this building their home. Or possibly a rat. Aaron hated rats and the thought of one scooting across his foot scared him almost as bad as the men chasing him.

His tee shirt was torn in the front, just above his right chest. That was courtesy of a nail on the stairway he used to find this hiding place. Along with part of the shirt, the nail took some skin just for the heck of it.

Aaron had been in the bottom part of the building before, back when it was a pool hall and later a clothing store that did not last long. But this was the first time he had been upstairs. He wasn't impressed.

There were several rooms that had once been apartments a long time ago, each in about as bad of shape as the room he hid in.

He was hurting, both from the scratch on his chest and the ankle he twisted badly while running in the alley, stepping in a pothole that was concealed by darkness and water. Aaron had limped into the building, feeling a relief that the back door was not locked. He had tried to put the door back into its prior position, but it never closed properly.

The old floor creaked from something heavier than a pigeon or rat. He hoped it was from something else, but at the same time knew he was no longer alone. Aaron tried to scoot even further under his cover. As he did, the desk moved, making a noise that sounded about as loud as an airplane flying just a few feet above his head.

There! Another footstep scraping on the old wooden floor. The pursuer bumped into something and grunted. At any other time, it might have been funny. But not now, that was for sure.

He held his breath and looked to his left at the old brick wall. He could see the shadow moving, one of a man holding something that looked much like a pistol in front of him.

The man was moving slowly. Aaron took no comfort from this. It would take a miracle to save him and he was not feeling lucky.

A siren started wailing outside somewhere in Langford. He saw the shadow stop for a second. Aaron hoped it was a police man coming to rescue him, but knew from the sound of the siren that it was the Langford volunteer fire department leaving their building two blocks away to the north.

Aaron looked to his left and saw the man’s boot, the cowboy variety, made up of some animal skin. The light almost seemed to reflect off them. Aaron knew if he could see this well that the man could probably see just as good.

A flashlight turned on. Aaron felt the beam shine into his face. He closed his eyes for the last time and waited. Aaron didn't have to wait long.

"Well, there you are,” the other man said in a drawl that was not from around here. “This will only hurt for a second.”

He laughed as Aaron braced for the end, one he never felt.

------

Michael Hunt was trying to wrap things up for the day when he heard the gunshot. It sounded close, way too close for a man who had people shooting at him only a short time before. The gunshot sounded like it was across the street.

Michael hit the floor, wondering if this was another bullet aimed in his direction. This time, he didn’t hear any glass break and he sighed in relief. He hoped that it was some stray animal that one of the members of the Langford Police Department had just put out of its misery.

He slowly raised and looked over his desk toward the front of the building. The glass door was still in place, thank goodness. Michael had already replaced the glass in the door once and didn’t want to have to shell out the money again.

The money was not the problem like it had been a few months earlier, but he didn’t want to spend any money on anything that wasn’t necessary.

Michael slowly walked to the front and looked outside. Something was moving on the road between the Burroughs Building and the empty lot to the north. He saw a man disappear into the alley, moving at a rapid pace.

At about that time, a truck skidded to a stop at the front of the Langford Review, where Michael was working until the gunshot disturbed him. He knew this truck way too well and tried to hide, not wanting to bother with the driver and his sidekick.

Michael knew it wasn’t any use. He opened the door and looked outside just as the one man, a small and skinny one hopped out of what could be considered a monster truck. A monster, ugly truck at that. It was jacked up beyond belief, so high that one almost needed a ladder instead of steps to enter and exit.

The driver came running up to the door. His dirty hat was cocked to the side. He had a chew of tobacco in his mouth that made his face looked deformed.

Just behind him, the other door opened and the other fellow came jogging up toward the front of the building. The second man tripped on the steps and looked like a baserunner sliding face first into second base.

The first man saw this and stopped to enjoy the scene. “Safe!” he said and threw his arms out like an umpire, with a bit of tobacco juice dribbling off of his chin.

“Ugh,” said the second man, who somehow managed to hold on to the beer bottle in his right hand without spilling a drop.

“Mule, you look like a dadgum retard,” the driver said. He was also sporting a beer bottle that was half full of spit. The driver went by the moniker “Squiggy”, one that he had recently attempted to have tattooed on both arms.

Squiggy was pretty proud of his tattoos until Michael pointed out that it spelled “Squeaky” instead of “Squiggy”. “Reckon I can change my nickname to Squeaky?” he had asked Michael.

Slowly, Mule sat up. He was wearing camo shorts despite the frigid temperatures and a short that had once been a button-up, long sleeved one that he had cut the sleeves off with a pocket knife.

Squiggy turned his attention back to Michael. “They shooting at you again?”

“Not this time,” Michael said. He stood in the doorway, looking across the street. He was of average size, wearing tan slacks and a white dress shirt that proved wrinkle free did not exist at the end of a work day. His hair was tinted with a touch of grey and receding rapidly, showing a forehead that was covered up until a few years ago.

A police car came pulling up in front, without the lights on. The car pulled in close to Squiggy’s truck, at an angle that would prevent the truck from leaving without taking the front bumper of the cruiser with it.

The front door opened and out came a short, plump man with an enormous gut that sagged over the front of his jeans. Even in the darkness, it was easy to see what looked like the remains of a coney splattered across the front of his shirt. He fumbled with his holster, trying to extract a pistol that seemed too large for the short man.

“Dadgummit!” Police Chief Arnold bellowed, loud enough that the Hispanics gathered in the road a block away started to stare.

“Need some help, Porky?” Squiggy said.

“Not from you,” the police chief said. He was still a little peeved at the little man for taking and wrecking this same vehicle almost a year earlier during the worst ice storm Langford had seen in some five years.

Squiggy noticed some of the dents on the car and tried to keep from laughing. He failed. “When you gonna fix them dents?”

“Probably as soon as you pay for them,” Chief Arnold fired back. “You almost cost me my dadgum job. Somebody shooting around here?”

“I thought they was trying to kill Mikey again,” Mule said. He proceeded to open his shirt and look at a large bump on his chest.

“What the crap is that?” Squiggy asked. “It looks alive!”

“I think it’s one of them ingrown hairs,” Mule said. He tried to squeeze the sore. “Dang, that hurt.”

Squiggy leaned in for a closer look. “Dadgum, that almost looks like a third nip.”

“Did you pop it?” Chief Arnold asked, taking way too much interest in the act. “I do like to pop a pimple. Want me to try?”

Mule had to think about this for a second. He didn’t like to pop his own pimples and surely wasn’t crazy about letting somebody who was carrying a gun have a go at it. “I’ll get it later.”

Chief Arnold eyed the sore. “I see a whitehead!” It was said with way too much enthusiasm. “Let me get it! Please!”

Squiggy was the first to notice. “Dadgum, Porky, you’re drooling! You gonna eat it?”

The chief stepped back. “Uh, no, I just wanna pop it.”

“Excuse me,” Michael said. The three men turned to look at him. “I know that pimple’s really exciting, but I saw somebody running off after I heard the shot.”

“So?” Chief Arnold asked. He stole a couple of glimpses at Mule’s chest.

“So…I think somebody might've been shot.”