Page 48 of Snake

“Fuck me,” he muttered. “Gonna break a damn axle out here. Lazy shitheads not keepin’ their shit up.”

Cox had nothing to say to that, so he continued glaring out the side window. The pasture where the Gary and Leigh’s sad little herd of sheep grazed was dry, more dirt than grass. An old-fashioned hay feeder, made of desiccated wood, leaned drunkenly. It was empty. Cox wasn’t from a farming family, but he’d lived in the country all his life. He knew it wasn’t necessarily noteworthy for a feeder to be empty in the middle of a summer afternoon. The fact that it was about to fall over, however, spoke to some neglect.

Neglect could mean they didn’t give a fuck, or it could mean they couldn’t afford to give a fuck. Cox didn’t know where the Prentisses landed on that question, but he had a good guess.

The house and outbuildings up ahead were in no better shape. The house was little more than a shack, with weather-beaten wood siding that had last seen a paintbrush probably thirty years ago. The dusky shingled roof sagged near a stovepipe chimney, and the porch drooped down the middle. A collection of rusting old appliances stood in a hunkering cluster like a junkyard fairy circle, and all manner of rusty metal bits scattered and leaned throughout the yard. The garage tilted precariously on its cinderblock foundation, and the barn was barely a phantom of a structure that had probably been raised with the help of a lot of neighbors, at a long-ago time when the Prentiss family was doing alright.

Nothing remarkable here; hundreds, thousands of folks lived just like this in the hills and woods of Missouri. And every other state. But Autumn’s argument about the limits of Signal Bend’s prosperity echoed between Cox’s ears.

Tommy parked the van behind the Prentisses’ aging Chevy truck. A skinny mutt of uncertain color dragged itself to its feet and started barking, shaking the chain clipped to its pinch collar.

That was a new strike against the Prentisses: that dog needed to be fed better, and fuck an asshole who kept any animal on a damn chain. And don’t get him started on those fucking pinch collars. He’d like to wrap one around Prentiss’s neck.

“You carryin’?” Tommy asked as he grabbed hold of the door handle. “I don’t know if this shiteater’s been waitin’ to get caught.”

Cox was always carrying. He patted the left side of his chest, where his shoulder holster held his Sig P320.

With a nod, Tommy pushed open his door and jumped out of the van.

As Cox climbed down, a shot rang out from the direction of the house, and Tommy fell from view.

Cox dropped to a crouch at once. Shielded by the van, he pulled his piece, checked the mag, and racked it.

“GET OFF MY PROP’TY!” Gary Prentiss shouted. “YOU GOT NO BID’NESS HERE!”

“Tom!” Cox called, keeping his voice low enough that Prentiss wouldn’t hear, but hoping it carried to Tommy, if he could hear.

“Yeah,” Tommy replied in a raspy groan, and Cox let out a held breath. “I’m hit, fucker got me in the chest, but I ain’t dead. Not yet, anyway. Get that shitstain, brother—but don’t kill him. I want that.”

Cox crab-walked to the back of the truck and ducked his head out to get a look at the house. No sign of Prentiss; he must have been shooting from inside. Cox focused on the windows, but the afternoon sun hitting the dirty glass occluded his view. Two were open, but he saw nothing through those low, dark squares but fluttering curtains.

Another shot rang out; Cox heard it strike wood somewhere far to his right—probably the side of the barn. Little late for a warning shot, motherfucker.

“GET OUT!! PICK HIM UP AND GIT!” Prentiss shouted—and shot again.

That time, Cox caught the flash. He aimed at that window, low. If he managed to hit Prentiss, it would likely be around his midsection, low enough to keep him alive to find out why he’d gone for Abigail and who’d been with him. If he missed, maybe he’d get a better bead on Prentiss as the man reacted.

He fired and saw Prentiss drop. A rifle dropped from his hand, the barrel bouncing off the windowsill.

From deeper in the house a woman—Leigh, no doubt—began to yell.

Fully expecting Leigh to rush for that rifle and seek to finish her husband’s job, Cox broke for the house. He ran straight for the window, ducked low as he hit the side of the house, and waited.

On the ground beside the club van, Tommy worked himself to a seated position and aimed his Glock with a shaky military grip. His complexion had gone waxy, and his white t-shirt was turning red beneath his kutte. Cox did not have much time to fuck around here.

As he had that thought, the rifle barrel pushed carefully through the open window. Cox surged up, grabbed that barrel—still hot from the shots Gary got off—and yanked as hard as he could. He got the rifle out of Leigh’s hands and pulled her halfway through the window. She looked down at him, eyes huge with shock and fear.

Cox pointed his Sig directly in her face. She was a woman, and she hadn’t shot Tommy, but it was all he could do not to pull his trigger.

He mastered the urge and moved his finger from the trigger guard. Instead, he grabbed her by the front of her shirt, yanked her the rest of the way out the window and dropped her on the rocky, dusty ground.

When Leigh hit the ground, Tommy dropped his gun and fell over with a worrisome groan. Quickly, while she was too stunned to struggle, Cox yanked his belt from its loops and bound her arms behind her back. He paused, thinking through how to keep her still while he helped Tommy, and decided on tying the laces of her ratty sneakers together. That wouldn’t hold her long, but if she thought to kick her shoes off, she’d have to run barefoot with her arms behind her back, so he was sure to catch her if he had to chase her.

He left her lying on the ground beside her house and ran back to Tommy.

Tommy’s eyes were closed, and he didn’t react to Cox rushing at him.

“Hey,” Cox said, crouching before Tommy and setting his fingers on the side of his neck. A pulse, moderately strong, but the rhythm was too fast and jazzy.

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