Hard Times (A Sam Harlan Novel Book 2) (2 page)

Callie eyed the door critically. “You’re not going to paint it to match the rest of the truck?”

I snorted. “Does it really matter, in the grand scheme of things?”

“Sam—”

“Don’t bother, Sister. I don’t want to talk about it.”

Callie’s lips formed a thin line. “I’ll fix supper. I know you must be hungry.“

I chuckled grimly. “You know I am.”

* * *

The Sister placed the steaks in the sizzling hot cast-iron skillet. I watched from the kitchen table. In fact, I couldn’t take my eyes from the steak. The smell of cooking meat filled the room with a mouth-watering aroma until I couldn’t think of anything else. I wanted to grab the meat from the pan and rip it apart with my teeth, choking it down as quickly as possible.

I was ravenous.

“I could do that,” I said, trying desperately to think of anything but the ribeye spattering in hot grease and butter. “I did run a diner, remember?”

Callie turned, her face carefully blank. “I know, but it gives me something to do. I’m used to working and there’s not much else to do here.”

She was right. When she wasn’t practicing with the shotgun or praying, she was scrubbing the floors and countertops, washing my clothes, and trying to keep house.

I removed a fresh bottle of Jack Daniels and peeled off the paper around the bottle’s neck. I retrieved a glass from the second shelf next to the stove and returned to the table, where I poured myself a couple of fingers.

A couple of fingers as belonging to a very large man.

Callie’s housework made me uncomfortable. Stacie had done most of the cleaning in Arcanum, and there was something about Callie assuming those duties that unsettled me. “You’re not my wife, Callie. You don’t have to take care of me.”

“I’m not
trying
to take care of you,” she said. She watched the steak sizzle, then said, “I think you’re afraid to face what happened.”

“I’m not afraid,” I said, then winced. It sounded weak, even to my ears.

“You can’t deny what happened,” she said. “You were faced with a decision no parent should ever face. You’re hurting, Sam. You lost your wife and your daughter. You lost Jack.” She hesitated. “And Katie.”

“I
know
that,” I said.

“We’ve hardly spoken of it. You had feelings for Katie. Why don’t you want to talk about it?”

“I think about it
every
day. I can’t
stop
thinking about it. I was so happy to learn that Jack was my kin. Until I had to kill him. Then, when I killed Silas? I thought maybe, just maybe, Stacie might come to her senses, but the woman I loved was gone. Only the monster remained.”

I took a drink and coughed as it went down. “I think about Lilly, and how I should have protected her. And yes, I had feelings for Katie, but those feelings didn’t do a damned bit of good in stopping Pearl from punching a hole through her guts. All I could do was watch as she bled out. Just … a dead body. No spark left. Nothing that made her … Katie.”

“You think I don’t
know
that?” Callie said in a pained voice. “I lost my
sister
. My
twin
. She died trying to save me and I wasn’t there for her. I’m hurting, and I know you are, too. I’ve used the computer to research the stages of grief—”

“How do nuns learn to use the Internet?” I asked, trying to change the subject.

Callie frowned. “I keep telling you, I’m a woman religious, not a nun. A nun leads a cloistered life. A Sister is called to act and interact with the world.”

I sighed. “And what about Katie?”

“Katie took the same vows, but she broke them when she left the Church. When you killed Larz Timm, she was no longer a Sister.
I
have not broken
my
vows. I was called to a religious life, just like I believe I was called to help you kill vampires.”

I shrugged. “Well, Sister, can you turn my steak? I’ve got a calling to eat, and I like my steak rare.”

Callie’s eyes narrowed. “I think you joke because you’re afraid to confront your feelings.” She turned back to the pan and used a fork to flip the ribeye.

“Maybe,” I admitted. I poured another glass of bourbon and this time I savored the burn as it went down. “I wish I could have saved them.”

There was silence, broken only by the sizzling of the meat in the pan, until Callie finally spoke. “You fought for what’s right, Samuel. You made necessary choices in terrible situations.”

She plated my steak and brought it to me. I took it from her trembling hands and I saw the concern in her eyes. I cut a piece of steak and the first bite was bliss.

The juices flowed across my tongue and the taste was almost orgasmic, making my toes curl, turning on every pleasure center in my body.

This isn’t good.

It was a
quick thirty minute drive the next morning to Marshalltown. I pulled Jack’s Chevy truck to the curb a block north of the county courthouse, in front of the Amana store. Hawkeye Gun & Pawn was next door. All the buildings were two-story red brick with brick facades, some covered in brightly colored siding. The general tone was small-town USA decay, much like my hometown in Arcanum.

I glanced over to Callie. “Coming?”

She nodded.

I stepped into the cool October air and pulled my trench coat tight. It was nearing Halloween and the temperature was hovering in the upper forties. Callie followed, pulling at the light brown jacket she had purchased at the Shopko in Toledo. It wasn’t stylish, but the Sister didn’t seem to care. Like everything else in our new lives, form was more important than function.

The pawnshop was well-kept, the red awning over the front clean and not yet faded from the sun. The big bay window in front was stuffed full of tool chests, a few old woodgrain console televisions, and a trio of acoustic guitars on black plastic stands. I opened the door and the bell above tinkled. I entered, Callie following close behind, and was greeted by the smell of musty cardboard and Lemon Pledge. We were the only customers, and I let the door shut behind me and waited for several minutes before a woman approached.

She was tall and still good-looking, somewhere in her late forties or early fifties, with the start of crow’s-feet around her eyes and strands of silver throughout her long black hair. Her startlingly vibrant gray eyes found mine and she smiled perfunctorily.

“Can I help you?”

“You left a message for Jack,” I said. “You had his order?”

The woman’s eyes widened. “Where’s Jack? Who are you?” She took a step back and I saw her eyes flit from me to Callie.

I remained still as her hand dropped to the black apron she wore. Her hand clutched something in the apron, a handgun of some type, I suspected. I wanted to know her business with Jack, but not enough to risk getting gut shot. “Jack is dead,” I said. “I’m his grandson.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Funny, Jack never mentioned a grandson.”

“He never mentioned a pawnshop,” I said, “but here we are. Look, did Jack tell you he had family?”

I saw a brief glint of recognition in her eyes. “He
might
have said something about a relative.”

“He seemed,” Callie said, “to have mentioned Sam to everyone he was close to.”

The woman withdrew her hand from the pocket of her apron and she sagged, as if a little of the life had drained from her. “He might have, yes. You’re Sam?”

I nodded. “Sam Harlan. You are?”

The woman took a deep breath and wiped her palm against her apron. “I’m sorry. I’m Mary Kate Glick.”

“This your pawnshop?” I asked.

“Yes. I’m … sorry. About Jack.”

“Are you okay?” Callie asked. “You don’t look well.”

“I just wasn’t expecting this.” The woman turned and made a beeline for the back of the shop.

I turned to Callie. She raised an eyebrow, then nodded for me to follow the woman. I did, passing shelves filled with old wrenches and toasters, and an entire shelf of used Bunn coffeemakers. I found the woman sitting on a stool near the back of the shop, hunched over a display case full of silver coins and used MP3 players.

She raised her head as I approached. “I don’t know what to say. I never thought Jack would…”

Callie came behind me and placed her hand on my shoulder. I started to speak, but I felt her fingers tighten on my shoulder and I stopped, then spoke carefully. “How did you know Jack?”

“I’ve known Jack for years,” Mary Kate said, her face weary. “We were…”

“Together,” I said, not bothering to hide my surprise.

“A long time ago,” she said. “After my husband died. Jack … comforted me. Helped me through a rough patch.”

I nodded. She was clearly mourning Jack’s loss, but I had questions. “You said his order was ready. What order?”

She looked up, her face turning suspicious. “You say you’re Jack’s grandson, but I know that Jack didn’t
have
a grandson.”

I smiled. “Jack was my kin. You’ll have to trust me on that. He died six weeks ago.”

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

She has a good point.
“I only met Jack right before he died. I found out he’d been keeping an eye on me for my entire life.”

She smiled sadly. “That sounds like him.”

I nodded. “What did you have for him?”

For a moment, I thought she would tell me, but she glanced down and I knew I had lost the moment. “I don’t know you—”

“Forget it,” I said, forcing a smile.
No sense pushing it.
“It was nice meeting you, Mary Kate.”

I turned and found Callie watching our exchange. She shrugged and I followed her outside, the bell above the door tinkling as we exited.

I got in the truck and waited for Callie. She opened the door and paused, her hand on the door, then said, “You aren’t going to push for more?”

I didn’t speak and she finally climbed in and shut the door.

I nodded to the pawnshop. “Whatever she may have been to Jack, she’s not interested in speaking to me. Frankly, I don’t blame her a bit.”

* * *

The drive back to Toledo was quiet except for the throaty roar of the Chevy. I turned on the radio and dug through the stations, looking for something to distract me, but gave up when Callie cleared her throat.

“What?”

She looked at the radio, then squinted at me. “I find constantly switching channels to be annoying.”

“Fair enough,” I said, turning off the radio and staring out the window at the passing fields, now empty of crops, until we came over the hill that led down into Toledo. “Do we need anything in town?”

“No,” she said. “Your last trip filled the pantry.”

We drove through Toledo and headed east on Ross, past the middle school, and onto the dusty rock road. We continued in silence until we turned left on the gravel lane that led to the farm.

I slowed the truck. An unfamiliar beat-up silver Plymouth Voyager was parked in front of the machine shed. A heavyset man leaned against the boxy minivan, and I eased up next to it and tried to identify him.

He was a tall, broad-shouldered man in his early fifties and wore jeans, a dark blue flannel shirt, and a John Deere hat. His jacket was emblazoned with a seed company logo. I’d come to recognize his style of dress as the local uniform, a way to differentiate them from out-of-towners who might happen to find themselves far from the relative civilization of Des Moines or Iowa City.

The man was smiling, a wide, honest smile that lit up his face.

I didn’t trust it. I’d learned lately that nothing and nobody could be trusted.

We got out, slowly, and I was reassured by the weight of the Colt in my shoulder holster. I cleared my throat and asked, “Can I help you, friend?”

The big man smiled wider. “I heard Jack was gone. You his grandson?”

“I am. How did you hear about it?”

The man stuck out his hand, his fingers like swollen sausages. “From Slinghuff. I’m Billy. I did some … work for Jack.”

I took his hand in mine and shook it, feeling a gentle strength there. “What kind of work?” I asked.

“Oh, a little of this and a little of that,” the man said, pulling a red-and-white pack of Marlboros from his coat. “You mind?”

Callie cleared her throat. She stood a few feet from me and watched the man warily, clearly getting a vibe from him. I felt it, too. There was something about him I couldn’t place my finger on, but a dull buzzing ran up my spine and into the back of my teeth.

I nodded. “Help yourself,” I said, carefully clenching and unclenching my right hand. The wrist still hurt, but I was prepared to pull the Colt, just in case. “What are you doing here?”

Billy lit his cigarette and took a deep drag, then exhaled slowly, blowing the smoke in a tight little cloud. “All this shit about smoking causing cancer,” he said. “It’s probably true, I know, but I can’t seem to quit.”

His eyes flickered down to my hand and then back to my eyes. “I’m going to reach into my shirt, real slow, because I don’t feel like getting plugged by whatever gun you’re carrying. Can I do that?”

A cold lump settled in my stomach. Whatever Billy was, he wasn’t a farmer like Slinghuff. “Sure, Billy, just know I can grow a hole in you before you even
start
to do something stupid.”

I heard Callie’s breath catch in her throat, but I didn’t take my eyes off the man.

“Son,” Billy said, “I’m not here to cause trouble.” He slowly eased his hand inside his shirt, pulled something from it, then opened his hand to show a brown leather bag hanging from a cord around his neck. “You understand?”

I was losing my patience, plus the cold pit in my stomach was spreading. Deciding I’d had enough weird shit for the day, I said, “I’m afraid I don’t, Billy. Billy what? Seems like I ought to have your full name before I put a hole in you.”

“Christ, son, you need to relax. I’m Billy Davenport. I’m a shaman.”

I blinked. “You’re Indian?”

Billy laughed heartily and it shook his ample belly. “It’s Native American now. I’m a Meskwaki.”

I knew the Meskwaki were a tribe that lived between Toledo and Marshalltown. We had passed by the road to their casino on the way back from the pawnshop. “You live on the reservation?”