World of Trouble (The Last Policeman #3)(21)

The music stops, there is a breath of silence, and then it starts again, Bon Jovi now, “Livin’ on a Prayer.” We keep moving, Houdini and I, we creep along the side of the RV, and when I come around the back of it I can see the parking lot, and there is a man there with a shotgun pointed at my head.

“Stop in your tracks, brother,” he says. “Quit movin’ and tell the dog to quit.”

I quit moving and thankfully Houdini does, too. There are two of them, a man and a woman, both half naked. He’s shirtless in boxer shorts and flip-flops, dirty brown hair in an overgrown mullet. She’s in a long, loose flowery skirt, red hair, black bra. Each of them has a beer in one hand and a shotgun in the other.

“All right, brother, all right,” says the man, squinting at me. Big sweaty biceps, ruddy forehead. “Please don’t make me blow your head off, all right?”

“I won’t.”

“He won’t,” says the woman, and she takes a pull off her beer. “I can tell. He’s a good boy, right? You’re a good boy.”

I nod. “I’m a good boy.”

“Yes. He’s gonna be real good.” She winks at me. I stare at her. It’s Alison Koechner. The first girl I ever loved. The lean white body, wild curls of orange hair like ribbons on a gift.

“I’m Billy,” says the man. “This one’s Sandy.”

“Sandy,” I say, and blink. “Oh.”

Sandy grins. That’s not Alison. She looks nothing like her. Not really. What is wrong with me? I clear my throat.

“I’m sorry to stumble in on you like this,” I say. “I mean no harm.”

“Shit, man, neither do we,” says Billy. His voice is warm and boozy, soaked in laughter and sunshine.

“No harm in the world,” says Sandy.

They clink their bottles together, both still smiling, both still holding their shotguns, raised and pointed. I smile back uneasily, and then there’s a long moment, everybody assured of everybody else’s good intentions, everybody nevertheless frozen with guns drawn. The way of the world. Behind Billy and Sandy, between their RV and the back of the Taco Bell, is the little private universe they’ve created. A big old charcoal grill, heavy and black and belching smoke like a steam engine. A rickety beer-making apparatus, a tangle of plastic hoses winding around cylinders and barrels. And there, behind a low wire fence, running around on a ragged layer of straw is a bustling tribe of chickens—rushing past and around each other on their weird alien feet, cackling like merrymakers on a parade ground, waiting for a concert or an execution.

Billy breaks our tableau, stepping forward one step, and I retreat one step, aim the SIG at his face. He squints and pulls his head away, mild annoyance, like a lion ducking back from a mosquito.

“Here’s the story, brother man,” he says. “I got the beer and I got the gun, you can see that, right? You can take the beer and hang out for a bit, we’ll even feed you somethin’ before you shove off. We got a chicken on the cooker right now, since it’s coming up on suppertime. It’s a big one, right, baby?”

“Right,” she says. “Claudius.” She grins. For a confusing half second I think she’s calling me Claudius and then I realize that’s the chicken. “Three birds a day,” she says. “It’s how we keep track of the countdown.”

Billy nods, “That’s right.” Then he sniffs, tosses his hard-rock hair. “Or, option B, you do anything hilarious, you try and fox one of our chickens, and Sandy’ll shoot you dead.”

“Me?” she says, laughing with astonishment.

“Yeah, you.” Billy smiles at me, like we’re in on this together. “Sandy’s a better shot’n me, especially when it gets later and I got a buzz on.”

“Shit, Billy,” she says. “You always got a buzz on.”

“Like you don’t.”

This woman looks nothing at all like Alison Koechner, it is clear to me now. The resemblance has receded like a tide.

“Well, brother?” says Billy. “A beer or a bullet?”

I lower my gun. Sandy lowers her gun, and then at last Billy lowers his and hands me the beer, which is warm and bitter and delicious. “Thank you,” I say, as the two of them step back and gesture me into the courtyard. “My name is Henry Palace.” The dog shuffles in behind me, staring warily at the fat feathery strangeness of the chickens.

A new tune is blaring from the speakers, something heavy metal, something I don’t recognize. There are two hammocks suspended on ropes between the restaurant and the RV, swaying above paper plates littered with old chicken bones. Chinese lanterns are hung from the trees around the edges. The speakers are mounted on the outside of the vehicle; the engine is on and idling, powering the tunes, the lights, the world.

I wonder in passing how Trish McConnell is doing, back at Police House. Dr. Fenton, at Concord Hospital. Detective Culverson; Detective McGully, wherever he ended up. Ruth-Ann, my favorite waitress at my favorite restaurant. Everyone back somewhere in time, doing something else.

“Serious, though, man,” says Sandy, laying a hand on the small of my back. “You f*ck with our chickens, and we blow your mopey face off.”


*

The chicken is delicious. I eat a polite portion, but Billy and Sandy tell me to take more so I take more and feed a bunch to Houdini, who eats with vigor, which is nice to see. I offer up three bags of honey-roasted peanuts as a side dish, which my hosts accept with delight, raising a series of enthusiastic toasts to my generosity.