Page 56 of Dark Sky

The living room was separated from the hallway by a cheap beaded curtain. He hoped it wouldn’t rattle when he pushed his way through, so he did it in slow motion.

The murmuring was coming from the screen of an ancient television mounted in a console. There was a snowy picture on it and the audio was tinny. Cartoons were playing.

A man with shaggy hair sat with his back to Nate in an overstuffed sofa, watching the set. Sharp-smelling weed wafted up from where he sat. Next to a saucer filled with cigarette butts on the end table under the arm of the sofa was a semiautomatic handgun. The weapon was an arm’s length away from the man on the couch.

Nate stopped still just a few feet behind the sofa, listening. If there was anyone else inside, they were away in another room and completely quiet. Because there hadn’t been a vehicle outside, he guessed that the shaggy-haired man was the only person inside.

As he moved close to the back of the couch, the manapparently heard him and turned around and looked over his shoulder. His eyes got big.

“Don’t move,” Nate said.

The man ignored him and prepared to lurch for the handgun.

Nate raised the pitchfork like a spear and bent over and thrust it down hard in front of the man’s face. The middle tine drove through the man’s boot deep into the wood floor and he screamed. His joint flew out of his mouth and the sparks from the cherry cascaded down his shirt.

The wounded man lunged for the pistol, but the pitchfork held him in place. His fingers stopped six inches short of the handle of the weapon.

Nate wheeled around the sofa and kicked the end table with the weapon away. The pistol skittered across the floor and thumped into the baseboard on the opposite wall. Then he reached out and grasped the man’s ear with his left hand and fitted the hole of the huge muzzle of his .454 onto the tip of the man’s nose.

Tuckness had provided Sheridan with a good description. He wore rumpled black clothing and a black bandana around his neck. His cheeks were sunken and his eyes were glassy from smoking weed. His mouth twisted with pain and anger and he looked like he was trying hard to be defiant.

“Raylan Wagy?” Nate asked.

Wagy’s eyes got big and he tried to jerk his head away. It was held in place by a rough twist of the man’s ear.

“Raylan Wagy?”

“I ain’t done nothing,” Wagy cried.

“Incorrect. You and your partner have broken the falconer’s creed. You’ve fucked with another man’s birds.”

“My foot... Oh man, it hurts.”

“Good,” Nate said, releasing Wagy’s ear. “Where’s Axel Soledad?”

At the mention of the name, Wagy’s face turned pale. He was obviously scared of Soledad.

“Where is he?”

When Wagy didn’t answer, Nate reached back down and gave Wagy’s right ear a full half twist. He could hear tendons pop.

Wagy closed his eyes and made a cry that sounded like “Skeeee.” It was otherworldly and birdlike, Nate thought.

“I’ll take it completely off if you don’t answer me,” Nate said softly. “That’s what I do. Do you understand me?”

Wagy nodded emphatically.

“Will he be back soon?” Nate asked.

Wagy shook his head. “I don’t know for sure. He doesn’t always tell me. It depends on whether he finds... what he’s looking for.”

“Falcons, you mean,” Nate said.

Wagy nodded.

“Then I’ll wait for him right here,” Nate said. He settled into an armchair across from Wagy and placed his long handgun across his thighs. “You stay right where you are.”

Wagy grunted and chinned toward the pitchfork that held him fast. “It’s rusty. My foot will get infected.”

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