The Rifters by M. Pax

Chapter 14

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Chapter 14

San Quentin had stomped Earl’s spirit, boxing him inside a room in which a cockroach overcrowded it. During those years, he had decided to change, to be the gentleman most had known him as, to drop his outlaw ways. After his release, the world wouldn’t let him. He needed a new life. So he had run north and took the name Earl Blacke. The portal had granted his wish, depositing him in the future where no one remembered him.

The cell in Settler’s police station had more room, but Earl had already served his time. He’d serve no more. Not in this sad little town, fighting an enemy as to which he had no clue as to the war or the rules.

He punched the wall. The concrete jammed into his knuckles, doling out agony. The bars he kicked did the same. Earl growled. “Deputy Banks, you let me out of here. You know I didn’t kill, Susan. I’m not a killer.”

Lou Banks shrugged his shoulders and hooked his thumbs on his belt. A complexion as dark as charcoal, he blended in with the shadows, which there were a lot of due to the one narrow window. A dusting of gray in his sideburns hinted he might be older than his face let on “You were with Susan. Your hands on her throat, your fingerprints everywhere. You have to be here. You understand?”

He understood the evil in the rift had targeted him. Because of Charming? She couldn’t be left to fight on her own. He had to get out of here. “Where’s my phone call? I need my phone call.” Earl paced, swiping at the blankets on the rickety cot. “Let me out of here.”

“I don’t know what to make of you.” Lou’s teeth pulled at his lower lip. “I can give you a phone call. Make it count and get yourself a lawyer.” He handed over his phone then leaned against the wall opposite, gazing out the dust encrusted line of glass as thin as the barrel of a shotgun.

Earl’s thumb shook, hovering over the numbers on Lou’s phone. He took a deep breath and ran his hand over his face. This couldn’t happen again. He couldn’t go back to prison, certainly not for murder. “I can’t hang,” he whispered, debating who to call.

Charming wasn’t on this world. Dante would kill Earl faster than the hangman if Earl used the policeman’s phone to contact him. Wilma would come, but then Earl would owe her. He dialed Scott’s number. “I can’t hang.”

“¡Hola!”

“Scott, it’s Earl.”

“Morning, boss. Sorry some of the herd got out. I’m fixing the fence now.”

“That’s not why I’m calling. Umm…” Earl punched the wall again, cracking his knuckles open, finding less satisfaction in the pain than the first time. “I need your help. I need you to come down to the police station.”

Scott inhaled sharply. “Am I in trouble?”

Later, Earl would have to look into what had Scott feeling such guilt. Most likely, he hid one of his no-good cousins again. “No, I am. Finish the fence quick, then get over here.”

“Will do.”

Earl handed the phone back to Lou. “You’ll let me talk to him, right?”

“I shouldn’t, but I will. Violet will have my head if she finds out.”

“I won’t tell her.” Earl flashed his most reassuring smile, reminding Lou they were friends, they had history. He didn’t share the same camaraderie with Violet Redfield.

Sheriff Redfield had thankfully gone on vacation. She and gung ho went together like gold and stagecoach robbery. If she caught a whiff of Susan’s murder, she’d be on the next plane.

“We can both stay mum, and she’ll find out anyway. Most likely before the day ends,” Lou said. “She’ll be here tomorrow night at the latest. You know it.”

Earl did. Violet reminded him too much of John Hume, the man who had made Earl a priority back in the 1880s and had sent him to prison. Earl only ever confessed to one robbery. If he hadn’t cracked then, he wouldn’t crack now.

After fixing the blankets he had mussed, he perched on the edge of the cot, hands folded, waiting on Scott. Two eternities passed by his estimate, despite the sun shifting only two hours to the west.

The door to the cells clicked then squealed like a dying pig. Sun spilled into the deep shadows, and Scott rushed in clutching a plastic container. The lid had been confiscated. Obviously Lou had inspected the food. Steam sent up tendrils of spices, fish, and stir fry.

“Wilma sends lunch,” Scott said. “You should eat something.” He handed over the container. “Before it gets cold.”

“Not hungry.”

“I’ve heard talk.” Scott winced as if a cow had just pissed on him. “Susan Leeds?”

Earl gripped onto the edge of the cot, choking it until his battered knuckles grew white. “Do I have to say it?”

Eyes as wide as a heifer’s, Scott held onto the bars, peering into the cell. Faint lines added the hint of wisdom to his eyes and mouth. “No. What can I do, boss?”

There might be no way out of this mess, but it helped to know he still had friends. Earl stood and approached the door. He patted Scott’s hand. “I need you to ask the new librarian to research George Hawley for me, alias Haw Shot. He was a stagecoach robber in the 1880s.” Earl spelled the name.

Scott repeated, nodding his head. “Got it. Anything else? I’ll bring dinner by tonight.”

“I assume Lou will feed me. Find me a good lawyer. Not from these parts. You’ll probably have to go to Portland.”

“Got it. My cousins are in the know about these things.”

Scott’s cousins spent more time in court and in prison than not. They would know. Earl’s shoulders felt a little lighter.

“Make sure this weekend’s guests don’t find out about this and keep it off the internet. OK?” Earl clutched Scott’s hands. “Don’t fail me.”

“Absolutely.” Scott sighed. “Wish I could take you home with me, boss.”

“I wish so, too. Now go find Daelin Long and have her find out what she can on Georgie Boy.”

Scott trotted off. The outer door banged with a jarring clank. Earl jumped in his skin. Hearing that sound was a living nightmare, one from which he couldn’t wake up. “I can’t hang. Can’t.” Neither could he live one more day in a cage.

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