He sat in the garage on a flimsy folding chair, the dwindling bottle of vodka in his hand. He tilted it and watched the elixir slosh back and forth like a crystal sea. Those waves had carried him to sleep for the last two nights after his watch. A certain amount of guilt accompanied drink. But then, a certain amount of guilt accompanied sobriety. He raised the bottle to smash it into the cement.

“Gonna drink that?” He had not heard her come in. She wore her hair down today.

“Haven’t decided yet,” he said.

She took the bottle from him, opened it, and shot two large gulps. She hissed and wiped her mouth with her sleeve. “Bored?” she asked.

“We can’t stay holed up here forever,” he said.

“We don’t have anywhere to go.” She examined a tool on the workbench.

“I should go in, talk to the investigators,” he said. “We’re innocent.”

“Everyone is innocent. That’s always the story. You heard Comstock. He lied about the deputies. We saw. They weren’t shot, Alan.”

“We saw something. I don’t know what it was. Do you?”

“The fact that I can’t explain it logically worries me the most,” she said.

“Mickey has been emailing me. Or someone who claims they’re Mickey. It’s from a dark web email.” He handed her the thick, hardware-hacked phone Little Joe had given him.

The first email read, Alan, what happened? Is everyone alright?

A day later he received another, We need to meet. I have a few more pieces to the puzzle. The FBI is watching my house.

The final email came this morning: If you’re in the valley, you need to move before it stops snowing. Ask Francis about the snow!!! The next concert is in Billings. Soon. Don’t know the time or place.

Alan shrugged. “I don’t get it. Someone out there is fucking with us. Maybe it’s a trap.”

“Or it’s the real thing,” said Gwen. “Just like at the sheriff’s office. Did you show this to Francis?”

“No, not yet. I’m a damn shrink, not whatever this is.” He gestured at everything and nothing. “I feel like someone somewhere is pulling strings, and I don’t understand what puppet show they’re trying to play.”

“That boy has nothing.” There was a tone to her voice.

“I am nothing,” he said.

“He smiles when he sees you. You’re all he has,” she said.

The bottle was suddenly heavy, pulled down by the gravity of guilt.

“Some people aren’t good at this life thing.”

“A lot of people aren’t. Sometimes, it’s just a leap of faith.”

“I don’t believe in faith.”

“What do you believe in?” She crossed her arms.

He turned away, took the bottle, and opened it. “Very damn little.”

----------------------------------------

All day and into the evening, Little Joe did not return. Francis nested in the cockpit of an antique space-fighter arcade machine with abysmal graphics and sound apparently mixed at the bottom of a tin drum. Every time he won, it played a victory song that sounded like fingernails on a chalkboard, and he won a lot.

Gwen read her book about the blond hero and buxom damsel.

Alan created an anonymous email on the dark web and replied to the person claiming to be Mickey Verona: We are alive. Seconds later, his phone vibrated with a new message.

Mickey: Thank God! Don’t reveal yourselves. This should be secure, but don’t take chances. Don’t tell me where you are.

Alan: We didn’t kill anyone.

Mickey: I know, but Comstock is on a mission. Taylor is backing him. The FBI is involved. They’ve been watching my house.

Alan: I don’t know what to do.

Mickey: Me too. They’re suppressing the news. Nothing about the Jail. Paul Murphy asked about you.

Alan: I can’t talk to them.

Mickey: I got to go. I’m as hungry as a lumberjack, if you know what I mean. Bye.

Alan knew exactly what he meant. He was hanging out at Dee’s Diner, the place where they’d worked on Francis’s defense back when that was an option. He could risk going out for a meetup and possibly getting caught, or he could sit tight here, wait, and eventually get caught.

“We got company,” Gwen said.

He peeked through the spy holes in the cardboard and watched two coated figures trudge down the fading tire tracks left by Little Joe’s truck. They appeared to be a man and a child. Their car, a white SUV, was parked on the road by the gate. They approached slowly, taking a moment every few yards to stop and look behind them. A light snow whirled in the air from dispersed clouds that refused to be blown away. The low sun from the west caught the ice flakes and made them glitter in an Arctic rainbow. The man had his arm around the child, holding it close as they neared the truck stop.

“Maybe their battery died,” said Nash. “There’s a spare in the garage we can swap out if that’s what they need.” They remained silent as the man pounded on the front door below.

“Hello?” he called up. “Hello there!” He repeated several more times. Then, holding the child close, he began to bang on the windows covered in steel bars and chicken wire. With each window, his effort grew more severe, his voice more urgent.

“Maybe they’re lost,” whispered Francis. He’d pulled the cockpit curtain aside and was peering out with large, uncertain eyes.

“Nash, they’re going around,” Alan said. “I’ll meet them at the garage door and tell them it’s closed. We can’t help them. Follow me with the shotgun.”

This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

“I ain’t shootin no one,” Nash said.

“God, no shooting, but we might have to scare them off.”

“Fucking Montana,” said Nash.

Francis came over to sit in the booth next to Gwen.

Alan headed down the stairs with Nash behind him, shotgun in his hands. Little Joe had left the weapon with the contradictory orders: “Don’t use this.” and “Just in case.”

In the garage, they hunkered down by the rear of Ol’ Betsy and waited for the pair to circle around the building. Their steps crunched through the snow drifts; their shadows visible through the cracks in the cardboard on the bay door windows as they passed.

“Hey, anyone home?”

“Dad, no one’s here,” said a boy’s soft voice. “Let’s go. It’s scary.”

“We have to look, buddy, okay?” said the man. “We came all this way. This is the place, right?”

“I think so. It looks just like it.”

In front of Alan, next to the bay door, there was a regular-sized door. The man stopped here and tried the handle. It jiggled but remained locked. He ceased his shouting, and his shadow obscured the cracks around the cardboard. It took a second to realize he had his hands cupped around his face and was peering inside, one dark eye aimed directly at him.

“Hey, I need help here! Hey, man, I see you there!”

“We aren’t open. Closed for the season,” Alan shouted back.

“Please open!” the man pleaded. “We need help. My boy is cold.”

“Dad, let’s go,” begged his son.

“No, we came too far. This is the place, right?”

“Yeah,” the boy said.

At that, the man kicked. The garage vibrated, and the door shook on its hinges.

“You stop that,” Alan demanded.

“You gotta help us,” he insisted.

Alan looked back at Nash, holding the shotgun like it was a garden hoe.

The hippie shrugged.

“Hold on a second.”

Alan unlocked the door and eased it open.

The man pushed through, followed by his son. He shut the door behind him and locked it. He scanned the room. When he saw Nash with the gun, he shoved his son behind him, using his body as a shield.

“Whoa,” he said, holding up his hands. “We don’t mean any harm. This is the place.”

“What place?” Alan said. “This place is closed. Not in business.”

“No, no, no. My son said… Look, he’s hurt. He needs a doctor.”

“There’s a hospital up the road in Polson. Another one the other way in Ronan.”

“I can’t take him to a hospital. This is the place.” The man removed his gloves and set them on the van’s bumper.

“Damn it, Alan, I ain’t gonna hold this goddamn gun on a kid.” Nash lowered the shotgun and addressed the man. “Hey, friend. Sorry, I don’t know how we can help you—”

“Shut the fuck up!” The man leveled a large pistol at Nash’s head. “This is the place.”

“Jesus, dude, don’t shoot me!” cried the hippie.

The man flipped the pistol onto Alan. “I don’t want to shoot you, but I will if I have to.”

Alan raised his hands. “Let’s talk about this.”

“No fucking talking. I hate talking. We need to go inside. My boy’s freezing. I don’t want to shoot you. Don’t make me shoot. Put the gun down.”

Nash leaned the gun against Ol’ Betsy.

The man motioned with the barrel of his pistol toward the convenience store.

Alan and Nash backed slowly through the door and into the storefront. The man’s gun moved between them, his other arm around his son.

“Stand next to him. No sudden moves.”

Nash pressed up against Alan.

“Ty, look around. Is this the place?”

“I think so. It looks the same,” the boy said, almost a whisper.

“Where’s the Maji? We know he’s here. We need to see the Maji now,” ordered the man.

“What?” Alan said. “Man, there’s just us. You got some mistake.”

The man aimed his pistol on the tip of Alan’s nose. “There’s no fucking mistake. I will blow your stupid fucking brains all over this mother fucking floor. Do not fuck with me.” He was breathing hard, and his nostrils flared wide.

Alan was so absorbed by the long barrel of the gun that he jumped, just as the man did, at the CLICK, CLICK of Little Joe’s shotgun.

Little Joe pressed the barrel into the back of the man’s head.

“Please don’t shoot him. I don’t want to have to clean up two sets of brains off my nice floor,” Little Joe said calmly.

The man’s eyes grew wide.

“Now, very slowly, so that I don’t accidentally pull this hair trigger and leave your son without a father, put your gun on the counter there and back away.”

At first, the man didn’t move, then, as instructed, he put the gun down and backed up.

“Raise your hands.”

The man lifted his hands, and so did the boy.

“Mr. Nash, please search this gentleman for any more weapons. Dr. Smith, can you search the boy?”

The boy was bundled up in a heavy jacket. Alan patted the outside and felt nothing. He then unzipped it and felt up and down the boy’s torso—the child winced—up and down his legs—he winced again. A heavy medicinal smell wafted off his warm body.

“He doesn’t have anything,” Alan said, pulling his hands away.

“The man ain’t got nothin either,” Nash confirmed.

“Okay, that’s good. Now, this is a very heated situation,” said Little Joe. “The trick to diffusing it is for everyone to stay calm and figure out what’s what.”

The man started to cry softly, tears running down his dark cheeks, snot dripping from his nose, his lips quivering.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s not real. It’s just a water gun full of apple juice.”

Little Joe kept the shotgun lodged against the man’s skull. “Check it out, Dr. Smith,” he instructed.

Alan picked up the gun with a trembling hand. It was light plastic, not heavy metal. He smelled the barrel. It had a sweet smell. “It’s not a real gun.”

“You got some balls, mister,” said Little Joe. “Why apple juice?”

“He likes it. My son, he likes apple juice.”

“Turn around. Open your mouth.” The man turned and opened his mouth. “Shoot him in the mouth, Alan.”

“What?”

“Maybe it’s battery acid.”

“It’s juice. Go on.” He opened his mouth wide.

Alan aimed and pulled the trigger. A golden stream of fluid shot into the man’s mouth and dribbled down his chin.

The man swallowed.

Alan handed the gun to the boy, who turned the barrel on himself, opened his mouth, and pulled the trigger several times, then licked the juice from his lips.

“Very amusing, mister,” Little Joe said, lowering his rifle. “You should write a book. Call it How to Get Shot in Montana.”

Alan, now that he realized there would be no brains splattered over the linoleum at this particular moment, took a deep breath and wiped the sweat from his forehead.

“As Dr. Smith said, this place is closed for business, so what do you want?”

“My name’s Bridger Washington. This is my son, Tyrion.”

“Dad! Don’t call me Tyrion. It’s just Ty.” The kid extended his hand to Little Joe, who shook it.

“Spill the beans,” said the store owner.

“We’re from Raleigh. We need to find the Maji. Ty told me how to get here.”

“How does he know it?” said Little Joe.

“He knows it from his dreams,” came a voice from above.

All eyes lifted to Francis and Gwen at the top of the lounge stairs.

The boy named Ty spoke up, “We come in search of the… the…”

“Maji,” finished Francis. “You found me. I am here.”

“Dad, it’s him. He’s the kid in the dream.”

The man named Bridger fell to his knees on the hard linoleum of the truck stop floor. His hands were folded as if in prayer as he gazed up at Francis. “Please, I beg you with my life, help my son. He’s sick. I’ll do anything.”

Francis came slowly down the stairs and approached Ty. “Show me.”

Ty looked at his father, who gave him a nod. He shucked off his jacket to the floor and pulled his shirt over his head. Under the glow of the single fluorescent light above the cash register, they saw the wounds.

It looked as if a bear had dragged its claws from the nape of his neck to the small of his back. He turned, revealing a long cut across the musculature of his chest, half scabbed and healing, half fresh and welling up in little beads of blood. On his belly were small, circular burns.

Alan swallowed a hard knot in his throat.

The boy undid his loose sweatpants, pulled them down, and stepped out of them so he was standing, surrounded by all, in a pair of pale blue underwear. His right leg looked as if some beast had bitten into it. A little blood trickled out of the puncture wounds. His left leg was crisscrossed with scars from his hip to his ankle, like someone had slashed him with a razor blade.

“My God.” Gwen covered her mouth with her hand.

Then Francis took off his own shirt, revealing his own scars and wounds, slightly healed from the first time he’d shown Alan.

“They’ll get better,” Francis said.

Bridger Madison held his face in his hands and sobbed.