Wolfhunter River (Stillhouse Lake #3)(83)

He hops backward, howling and crashing into the wall, where he leans and keeps making noise. Not down, but for now, out of the fight.

The two limpets locked onto my right arm stare at their friend in shock. All I have to do to shake them off is punch my left fist into the side of the first guy’s head, grab him by the hair, and introduce him to the point of my knee, which breaks his nose and sends him reeling back to fall in the corner.

One left. Nobody holding me back. I don’t feel pain right now. I feel a deep, almost sickening joy that I’m laying these guys out. And he can see it.

He holds up both hands and backs off.

I’m surprised that when I speak, my voice sounds pretty even. “Hey, fellas, let me ask you a question. Who put you up to this?”

The one with the broken nose tries to curse at me but breaks into a coughing fit that sprays blood. I wince, and also feel a savage rush of satisfaction.

Redbeard says, in a voice that sounds like he’s grinding rocks in the back of his throat, “Asshole.” He manages to give it the Tennessee twang even on two syllables. “Everybody knows you’re part of it.”

“Part of what?” I’m expecting it to be about this town, about Travis getting shot. But it isn’t.

“You’re Melvin Royal’s little errand boy,” he says. “Everybody knows that. You and her, together, helping him get those girls. You’re fucking dead.”

After he says it, I hear a white-noise buzz, like I’ve taken a blow to the head. I just look at him without any real comprehension. Then the sickness creeps in. Jesus Christ. I take a breath and let it out. I feel unsteady now. “Where did you hear this?”

“Bar,” says Redbeard.

The man still holding up his hands says, “Somebody said it on Facebook.”

I turn on him. “Who the hell said it?”

“Why?” The man whose nose is ruined spits blood and grins with pink teeth. “You gonna go fuck her up too?”

Her. My immediate, sickening thought is this comes directly from Miranda. This is the kind of thing she’d launch, pure propaganda with no truth in it at all. An accusation without backup, without merit, spreading fast . . . and one thing I know about people from deep personal experience: they’re happy to jump on the hate train if it makes them feel like fucking heroes.

I grab the uninjured man by the shoulder and say, “Show me.” He pulls out a surprisingly good cell phone and navigates with shaking fingers, then thrusts it toward me.

I read the post. It isn’t by Miranda. Or, at least, it doesn’t seem to be. It’s attributed to a woman who says her name is Doreen Anderson, and the picture is of a blonde, plump woman whose address is listed in Atlanta. Here’s Doreen at a bake sale with her kids. At a church social. Posing with two men, one of whom looks familiar to me, though I can’t immediately pinpoint why until I see the white panel van in the fuzzy background. They’re all beaming and giving the thumbs-up sign.

The circuit clicks. She’s part of the film crew. I check her employment details. She’s a bank clerk who’s been laid off, as so many have, by the advance of automated tellers. Current occupation is listed as “Documentarian.”

Her post strongly implies that I’m some acolyte of Melvin Royal’s, moving in with Gwen because we have that in common. But nothing is strong enough or directly stated enough to take to court, which I wouldn’t do anyway; it would only fan the flames. Lots of What if he and Maybe the two of them were kind of speculation. What passes for journalism in today’s world.

Tar sticks. If she meant to cause trouble, mission accomplished. And like Miranda told me: it’s just beginning.

I flip the phone back to the man, who fumbles and drops it. I hope the screen’s cracked. “You idiots spread the word at that bar you were talking about: you come for me, or for Gwen or our kids, and you won’t walk away next time. You’re lucky I didn’t kill all three of you. Now fuck off.”

“Faggot.” Redbeard spits at me. Misses, because my reflexes are still pretty good.

“Pretty pathetic that’s still your go-to insult, big man. That ligament’s fried, by the way. You’d better get it fixed if you ever want to walk without a limp.”

“My nose is broke,” the second man volunteers, like it’s not obvious. He doesn’t sound so much combative as sad. “It’s fuckin’ broke.”

I just nod. The three of them shuffle off around the corner, with the still-whole third man helping Redbeard hop along, and Broken Nose trying to stop the streaming blood with the sleeve of his denim jacket. Unsuccessfully. There’s a good chance they’ll go straight to the police and get my bail revoked, but I can’t help that. If the Wolfhunter police want to find me, nothing I can really do about it. At least I’ll cost Miranda her quarter of a million. That’s petty revenge, but hey. Revenge.

I’m starting to walk off toward the woods to find a place to piss when a white, boxy sedan I don’t recognize pulls into the motel parking lot; I don’t pay a lot of attention to it because I’m starting to feel the adrenaline wearing off and exhaustion setting in again, until it pulls in abruptly in front of me. I step back, reaching for a gun I don’t actually have anymore, and then I realize that Gwen’s driving the car. We look at each other for a long, telling moment, and then I glance into the back. The kids are inside. Quiet and subdued.