Page 46 of Snake

“Hey, boys!”

Abigail’s voice broke the tension. Mel turned toward her, and his aspect changed completely as one of his big grins filled his face. “Hey there, pretty lady. How you doin’?”

Wearing a loose, flowery red dress and bright yellow rainboots, her curly dark hair pinned up in a haphazard arrangement that looked to Cox like nothing so much as a wasp’s nest, Abigail stopped beside them and set her hands on her wide hips.

“I’m doing good. You know, I don’t see people ‘round here all that much, and I didn’t know anybody really cared too much about me any which way, but this week, I feel like I found family I didn’t know I had. If not for the chickens, I’d say what happened was a blessing in disguise. Y’all hungry? I’m layin’ out a lunch. Got cold cuts and cheese, fresh-baked bread, egg salad, deviled eggs, melon salad, and a strawberry tart—plus lemonade and sweet tea.”

Still wearing a big grin, Mel made a show of rubbing his belly. “That all sounds amazing. If I’d’ve known what a cook you are, I’d’ve been hanging around up here looking for odd jobs long before those shitheads showed up.” He blushed. “’Scuse my language.”

Cox was mildly shocked again to see Mel Lind drop his head like a chastised schoolboy.

Abigail laughed and patted his arm. “Nothing to excuse, hon. My ears can take it, and those fucking shitheads deserve worse than some nasty words. C’mon, you two. Let me feed you. It’s the least I can do for all you’re doin’ for me.”

Mel and Abigail started to walk back to the house. Cox followed.

“Don’t you worry, Abigail,” he heard Mel tell her. “Those fucking shitheads’ll get all they deserve.”

Cox didn’t chime in, but he agreed wholeheartedly.

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~oOo~

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Dom pushed a photo, enlarged to about 11x14, onto the Keep table. “I’d say that’s enough to move on,” he said as the rest of the club leaned in to study the image.

The photo had obviously been shot through a dirty garage window, but it was clear enough. It showed a late-Nineties or early-Aughts Chevy Bronco, with a big crack in the windshield, significant damage to the hood, and a badly scraped grille guard. Cox would have said he knew just about everybody’s ride in town, and he could name at least ten people who had Broncos, but this one wasn’t ringing a bell. Somebody from away had fucked up Abigail’s life? Or maybe this wasn’t a regular ride for its owner? Who did he know who’d once driven a Bronco but didn’t anymore?

Tommy, their SAA, asked the question it hadn’t occurred to Cox to voice. “Whose is it?”

“Gary Prentiss,” Badger answered before Dom could.

Zaxx Bello, back at the table after three months following his girlfriend (and Isaac’s daughter), Gia, around while she played intrepid reporter, interviewing outlaws for her PhD, sucked in a sharp breath. “Fuck. Seriously?”

Gary Prentiss was a fairly regular problem child in town. He and his wife, Leigh, had a small sheep ranch, but, despite Gary being several generations down the family sheep-ranching line, they weren’t especially good at the work. They lived on the line between subsistence and starvation. Gary had an unfortunate habit of stealing what he couldn’t afford, usually from his neighbors. Being longstanding homesteaders themselves, most of them tolerated it to every extent they could, but occasionally Gary pushed too far—siphoning precious gas from tractors, stealing whole loads of hay, shit like that. The Horde had corrected him several times, sometimes leaving permanent reminders.

For example, Gary had only nine fingers. He’d lost a pinky as punishment for stealing a load of hay.

The man was an idiot, but would he be this idiotic? Also, he stole things he needed. Nothing had been stolen at Abigail’s. It was only damage. A personal attack.

“Why would Gary fuck with Abigail?” Mel asked, his voice sounding both confused and furious.

“It was three trucks,” Cox reminded everyone. He pointed at the photo and said the obvious, which everyone seemed to be missing. “That’s just one.”

“Obviously,” Double A answered. “But it looks like Gary’s truck is one of them, and if we’re right, that weak-ass dope will bend over so far and so fast we could get a good look in his colon. If he was part of it, he’ll give us the others.”

“But why?” Mel stressed again. “What the fuck reason’s he got to hurt Abigail?”

Showdown turned and studied Mel. One of his small, wise smiles ticked up a corner of his mouth. “You’re gettin’ bent as hell over this, brother. You got a stake here?”

Mel’s complexion took on a decidedly ruddy hue. “She’s a nice lady is all. Never hurt nobody, don’t deserve shitheads shittin’ on her.”

“Do we know she’s never hurt anybody?” Thumper asked. When Mel reacted to that like he wanted to make an issue, Thumper put up his hand. “She’s a nice lady, yeah. But she keeps to herself a lot. And, come on, she’s fuckin’ weird. All those ointments and weird shit she sells at the fairs and such? I’m just sayin’—do we know she doesn’t beef with anybody? They’re all a little weird up there, y’know?”

“He’s not wrong,” Cox said. When Mel’s head swung his way, Cox continued, “The people livin’ up there are mostly backwoods types. We don’t know anything more’n they say out loud how they all get along with each other. That’s all I mean.”

“She’s a nice lady,” Mel repeated, like nothing else mattered.

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