The Cold Spot by Tom Piccirilli Page B

but as he gingerly touched his leg he let out another howl that ended in laughter. The sheriff lumbered up on his good leg and dragged the other behind him, limping around in circles until he found his gun. He stood and offered a hand. “Come on, son, let’s go eat some greens.”
             
    But Chase wasn’t going to eat anything solid for a while. Lila’s mother pretended not to notice the blood and bruises when they dragged their asses back inside, which made sitting down to dinner even more fucking creepy. He figured he’d already earned whatever points he needed to earn. Hester just kept smiling. He was starting to think maybe this lady here had some serious emotional problems.
    Lila brought him an ice pack and shot a death glare at her father, but she said nothing to the man. She got Chase on his feet and told him, “Come on along, we gotta get you to a hospital.” He tried to wink at her but his eyes were closing up.
    Hester smiled some more. This solid, hefty lady saying nothing, it felt like she was another aspect of his own lost mother. He was doomed to be surrounded by a mother’s silent ghost.
    They got to the door and Bodeen, clutching at his twisted leg in his chair, said, “What about me? You ain’t worried your daddy might be crippled for life?” Trying to play it off as tough but with a touch of whine in his voice.
    Lila left Chase propped in the doorway, walked back to her father, geared up, and with the side of her hand chopped him in the throat.
    Sheriff Bodeen squawked like a strangled cat and flopped against the dining-room table. Lila told him, “Daddy, you ever touch my man again and I’ll make sure you ride all the way to hell in a wheelchair.”
    Hearing her say “my man” like that made Chase grin, and as she pulled his arm around her shoulder again, his tongue spilled out one side of his mouth and a thick rope of blood trailed from the other.

T he next Saturday Sheriff Bodeen showed up at Lila’s door on crutches with his leg in a cast. Chase backed up a step when he saw the man on the porch. He was still pissing blood and had already lost five pounds from having to eat meals through a straw. The fight had given him a certain sense about himself, knowing he could be hard when he had to be and that he could disregard Jonah when necessary. But still, he didn’t feel like going another round right now.
    The sheriff said, “You want a job?”
    It was tough to talk but he could swing it. “What job?”
    “I need another deputy. I could use someone like you.”
    “What’s that mean?”
    “What’s what mean, son?”
    “Someone like me.”
    “You’re smart, you’re fast, you’re tough as saddle leather, and you know how to keep your head in the middle of a fight.”
    He thought about that for a minute. What a gas Jonah would have, thinking about Chase walking around with a badge. Standing there on a street corner being Deputy Dawg while Lila called him an outlaw. Riding after the stupid Southern crews that stumbled into town loaded on moonshine.
    Chase said, “Thanks anyway.”
    Bodeen nodded, looked a little irritated, said, “You mind tellin’ me why the hell not?”
    “I don’t like guns.”
             
    A couple of months later, when he started looking around for a wedding ring, he asked folks who the best jeweler in the area was. They all pushed him to Bookatee. He couldn’t believe it, and nearly hit the road to go check out shops in New Orleans, St. Louis, Oklahoma City, somewhere there was civilization. But he figured what the hell and went to visit the Emporium.
    Turned out Bookatee really did know jewelry. Book sold Chase a nice diamond ring for a fair price. When Book opened his safe and Chase got a look inside, he pursed his lips, realizing the crew really had known what they were doing. At least in scoring Bookatee.

    He sent a message to Jonah only once, through the regular channels. From a pay phone he called Murphy in Fort Wayne,