Page 4 of Double Bucked

The darkness hoots back at him with the voice of a barn owl.

I pat his back. “Alright, Mr. Preacher. Let’s go on back inside.”

The Preacher Estate was once a grand mansion with a full wait and kitchen staff filing in and out of the halls.

Now, there ain’t no one here to haunt the halls except Mr. Preacher himself.

The once-dubbed “Tyrant of Belleflower” took a steep decline over the past couple of years. He got paranoid, forgetful, started claiming that everyone under the sun was out to get him. Fired his kitchen staff when he said they were poisoning him. The help went next. Soon, there was no one left but me.

As the on-call farm manager, I’ve been a firsthand witness to his state of mind going from weird, eccentric old man to downright batshit, liable to shoot someone if they step around his side of the hedges.

Even entering the estate is a feat of life and death. He’s rigged doors and windows with hair-trigger traps, convinced that someone’s trying to break in. As I help him inside, we’ve got to step over the thin, near-invisible fishing line that runs across the hallway. It’s attached to a hammer, which is attached to the hanging chandelier, and it’ll swing down and knock the daylights out of anyone who triggers the fishing line.

I walk him down the maroon runner and up the winding staircase that empties out on the second floor. From here, I get him down the hallway, past his old office, and into his bedroom.

He’s gone from lion-with-a-thorn-in-his-paw to docile lamb. He tucks his robe tighter around himself and ambles on into bed, tucking himself in.

The man’s only in his sixties, but you wouldn’t know it. When he closes his eyes, his expression tight and worried, he looks in need of a sarcophagus.

I survey the room. It’s got that thick, dusty smell. He’s got glasses cramped up on his bedside table. Some with whiskey. Some with days-old water. A bottle of pills that looks suspiciously full. “Y’need anything?”

He opens his eyes and peers over at me. Mr. Preacher’s most striking feature is his eyebrows. Always has been. He’s got these mean, wicked whiskers that curl upward at the tips like wisps of smoke.

“You’re the only man I trust,” he tells me. “You wanna know why?”

My heart does a surprised little leap. He’s never said a kind word to me his entire life, so I indulge. “What’s that, Mr. Preacher?”

He squints. “You’re too fucking stupid to kill me. You’d muck it up and blow your own brains out.”

My smile drops. He starts laughing at that—this rattling, wheezy thing.

Ah. Now, there’s the Mr. Preacher I know.

I snap my fingers between three of the empty glasses to carry them off. “Ain’t you a ray of sunshine. Get some rest, sir.”

He’s still hacking out his laugh when I exit his room, shutting the door behind me. I carry the whiskey glasses and the shotgun downstairs with me. I set the shotgun down on the dining room table as I pass through toward the kitchen.

This room is a tough one for me. There’s a fireplace in here, and above the mantle sits a large oil painting of Mr. Preacher and his daughter, Claire.

She’s young in the painting. A teenager. About how old she was when I first met her. Wispy blonde hair. A small button nose. Pink lips she kept closed for all photos as soon as her schoolmates started teasing her about the small gap in her front teeth, but I always thought it was cute as hell. Just a kid but so serious already. It’ll break your heart.

I head into the kitchen. I set the crystal glasses in the sink and take a look through his fridge.

Without the kitchen staff, it’s just me and Arris Dagney who take care of him.

Yeah—that Arris. Arris Dagney is my boss. The co-caretaker of Mr. Preacher. And the guy whose wife I’m licking on the side.

Am I a bastard for it? Probably.

But a man’s got needs. Needs that make devils of us all.

I ain’t talking about the need under my belt either.

It’s the need to forget that I’ve been chasing for half a decade.

The need to forget the fact that I let the only woman I ever loved walk out of my world, and I’ll spend the rest of my life paying the price for that.

Arris and I take turns stocking up Mr. Preacher’s fridge. It’s looking pretty meager now. There’s a container of red beans and rice in the freezer, so I set it in the fridge to thaw. I hand-wash dust and smudges from the crystal whiskey glasses and set those out to dry. Finally, I go back into the dining room, get his shotgun, and go back into the hallway. Around the staircase, there’s a door. I keep it locked, but the lock’s been smashed. Dammit, Preacher. I make a mental note to get a sturdier, heavier lock and pull a chain. A bulb flickers on, illuminating the stairs that lead to the cellar.

---