He stood and stretched, working his shoulders, and glanced surreptitiously at the house. The dead tree was empty. The yard was still. Smoke did not rise from the kitchen vent. The gas pump shut off with a deep clunk. He put the nozzle back into its holster and went on in the store.
It was as hot as always. Myrtle had suddenly come across some important paperwork; her head was down, attacking the order form with her pen. Frank went straight to the alcohol, a stack of boxes shoved into the near corner, leaning against the bulletproof glass.
He picked out a bottle of whiskey, a bottle of vodka, and three bottles of cheap rum. He lined the bottles up on the counter and waited.
She made him wait a while. Finally, she looked up and added up the bottles, stabbing the prices of each bottle into an angry adding machine that spit out a strip of paper like a machine gun. “Thirty-nine ninety-five.” The words were delivered in such a flat monotone the adding machine might as well have been speaking.
Frank slid two twenties through the slot. She took both bills and snapped them into a cash register drawer, kept loose under the counter. Then she went back to her paperwork.
“You owe me a nickel,” Frank said.
Myrtle checked the cash register. She took her time. Sure enough, she owed Frank five cents. She flicked a nickel through the slot. But she still wouldn’t look at him.
* * * * *
Frank drove for about a mile before he couldn’t take it anymore and simply stopped in the middle of the highway. He fumbled through the bottles on the passenger seat and managed to find one of his bottles of rum. He cracked the seal and took a long, long swig. He shut the engine off and listened to the crickets for a while.
Off to his left, the sun had disappeared completely behind the mountains, but there was still a little light left in the sky, enough to see the scraggly fence posts on both sides of the highway stretching away into darkening hills. The rum pooled and warmed his stomach, massaged his mind. He rubbed his newly shaved head, still not quite used to the short bristles of black hair.
Headlights hit his rearview mirror. Hard. High beams, most likely.
The sudden flash of lights gave him a start, despite the soothing rum. He started the engine, jerked it into Drive, and put the gas pedal on the floor. The long black car surged forward, picking up speed. Fence posts slid past, fast and faster. He realized he didn’t even have his own headlights on yet.
He turned them on, juggling possibilities. The headlights behind him probably belonged to new hunters. But just for a second there he wondered if it was more quiet gentlemen in another long black car. No. There was no way they could have found him. He didn’t think he could be recognized in the photo on the website. Not this fast, anyway. It might be the cops, Olaf and Herschell. He hadn’t seen them around much, but ever since the day at the vet hospital, he’d been keeping an eye out.
He pressed down on the gas even harder. The headlights were gaining.
He was going so fast he damn near missed the turnoff to Sturm’s ranch. He locked up the wheels and slid past the driveway in a blue, acrid cloud. He jerked the gearshift into Reverse. The headlights crested the rise behind him and the highway around him began to glow. He savagely stomped on the gas, downright panicked now, and the car jumped backwards. Back into Drive, turning into the driveway lined with palm trees, he told himself he was being fucking stupid. He had the protection of Sturm, didn’t he? Those cops couldn’t touch him.
He slowed, watching the flickering headlights as they rushed down the highway. They slowed as well, and turned into the driveway behind him, filling the car with orange light. He hit the gas again, roaring through the palm trees. When Sturm’s house came into view, the front littered with SUVs, he exhaled and realized he had been holding his breath.
Frank slid to a stop behind the Assholes’ white Cadillac Escalade and jumped out, forgetting the bottles. He crouched low and ran along the fence line out to the barn. There, in the deep shadows, he waited, struggling to catch his breath. Off to his right, the back yard was softly lit with lanterns. He heard laughter and the clink of dishes. It looked like it was dinnertime.
The headlights reached the house and a deep, vibrating air-horn sounded, once, twice, three times. It seemed celebratory. The vehicle slowed, and Frank could now see it was a tractor-trailer lit up like a Christmas tree. It wasn’t the quiet gentlemen; it wasn’t the cops. Jack and Pine were back.
Jack shut off the big engine and climbed out. Sturm came around the corner of his house, followed by Theo and the rest of the hunters. Pine opened his door, but stayed in the cab, just swiveling on the bucket seat and propping one leg on the doorframe.
“Well?” Sturm asked.
“Thirty-seven,” Jack said.
“Outstanding,” Sturm said. “Any problems?”
“Fuck no. Worked slicker ‘n shit. Hell, I think most of them people woulda’ paid us to come haul ’em away. But I can understand. You would not believe how much these suckers can eat. Good thing we’re back, ’cause we’re fresh out of meat.”
Sturm turned to the hunters. “Well gentlemen, I hope you all are ready for some real shooting, and I ain’t blowing smoke up your ass. The main course has arrived. So here’s the plan. Come dawn tomorrow, you have your rifles ready.” He walked out to the truck and gestured grandly. “You have just been delivered some of the deadliest big cats in the world.”
Everyone funneled through the gate in the front yard and took a look at the truck.
Frank figured he’d better go see what all was in the truck too. Sturm saw him immediately. “Howdy, Frank. Where’d you come from?”
Frank jerked his head back to the barn. “Checking on your girls.”
“And how are they doing?”
“Fine.”
“They like their new food, don’t they?”
Frank wondered what the hell Sturm was feeding the lionesses now. “Looks like it,” he said. Later, he found out that Sturm hadn’t killed off all the sheep in town. Not by a long shot. There was a pen way out in the pasture and he kept five or six in there at a time. Every night, just before dinner, all the hunters would gather along the tall fences that surrounded that the cats’ corral, and Sturm would lock a ewe inside, then turn Lady and Princess loose. The show wasn’t as spectacular as watching them go after Sarah, but the hunters couldn’t get enough.
“What’s this?” Frank asked.
Sturm clapped his hands together like a child. “Didn’t want to ruin the surprise,” he said. “Take a look. We’re in business now, by God.”
Frank got closer, and before he could even see the cats, he somehow felt the impact of the all those gold stares, striking him from all sides, all at once, as if he was being enveloped in a thick blanket and punched by unseen figures. The cats had been packed tightly into a two level cattle truck.
One of the Assholes had found a long stick and was jabbing at one of the cats through the round holes in the side of the trailer, giggling as the lioness hissed. The game didn’t last long; there was a quick snap, and the Asshole pulled back the stick, now half as long.
Mr. Noe snorted and moved away, taking short, precise steps. Frank watched him out of the corner of his eye, waiting until the little man became nothing but a white blur in the darkness.
“Never would have thought there was this many cats out there in private hands, not in a million years,” Sturm told Frank as he approached the truck. “Apparently, everybody wants just cubs. That’s what brings in the audience. Cute little baby lions, chasing each other around. Maybe even give folks a chance to pet ’em when they’re young like that. But hell, just like anything, them cubs grow up quick. People lose interest. Stop spending money.” He shrugged. “It’s a goddamn shame, really. They get sold. Goddamn cheap, too.”