Wild Blood by Nancy A. Collins Page A

back to the reservation before I kick it back for you!”
    The two locals playing pool paused their game as the jukebox switched from Hank Williams Jr. to Hank III. The bartender still refused to look at Skinner, instead focusing his attention of the glasses he was drying.
    â€œYou fuckin’ deaf, Tonto? I said leave!” The walrus-bellied biker snarled as he bent down to grab Skinner by the shoulder.
    Maybe it was a combination of the frustration and stress from the last two weeks—or perhaps he’d simply had enough of being treated like shit. Whatever the reason, Skinner didn’t care if the bastard outweighed him by sixty pounds and could flatten him like a sack of overripe tomatoes. He had had enough of being treated like shit. He came up like a jack-in-the-box, ramming his head into the biker’s walrus gut. His adversary doubled over, clutching his midsection as he gasped for air. Skinner then brought his knee into the other man’s face as hard as he could. The biker promptly forgot about his beer belly and fell to the floor clutching his nose, swearing through blood and broken teeth. As Skinner stared down at the biker sprawled at his feet, the blunt end of a pool cue made contact with the back of his head. And everything went black.
    â€œâ€¦ to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”
    The next thing Skinner knew he was lying facedown in a mixture of sawdust, blood, urine and spilt beer with his arms pinned behind him and someone’s knee wedged into the small of his back. Judging from the pain that radiated from every part of his body, his attackers had worked him over pretty good while he was unconscious. And going by the smell, they also pissed on him for good measure.
    â€œCome on, buddy. It’s time you paid the judge a little visit.” The deputy helped Skinner to his feet by yanking on his cuffed wrists. It was all Skinner could do to keep from hollering in pain.
    â€œAm I being arrested?” he asked thickly.
    The deputy and the bartender shared a smirk. “Catches on pretty quick, don’t he?”
    â€œWhat’s the charge?” It was difficult to come across as an indignant taxpayer while handcuffed and reeking of beer and urine, but he still gave it his best.
    â€œDrunk and disorderly.”
    â€œBut I didn’t start it—”
    â€œTell it to the judge, kid.”
    The deputy led Skinner to the waiting cruiser parked outside the bar. There was no sign of the Harley or the two pickup trucks that were there earlier. It was twilight and the sky was rapidly turning purple as the sun sank behind the nearby mountain range. The deputy pushed Skinner’s head down and forward as he helped him into the back seat. Somewhere in the gathering dark, a coyote chorus took up its song. It sounded like the laughter of mad women.
    The Los Lobos County Jail proved to be tiny. After being booked at the front desk, Skinner was released into the holding tank and told to wait. His only other companion in the cell was an elderly Navajo who was so drunk Skinner had to look twice to make sure he was breathing. After twenty minutes, the deputy who’d arrested him appeared. “Okay, Cade: time for your phone call.” He unlocked the holding tank and Skinner shuffled out.
    â€œDo I get to see a doctor, too?”
    The deputy gave him a precursory glance. “You don’t look that bad off to me.”
    Skinner had to admit that, outside of a dull ache here and there, his earlier pain had disappeared. He’d always healed fast as a child and had rarely taken ill, even when the measles and mumps had swept through the Choctaw County public school system.
    The deputy walked Skinner to the end of the corridor, and then motioned to a pay phone mounted on the wall. “Here’s your fifty cents. Knock yourself out, kid.”
    Skinner hesitated for a long moment, rubbing the coins between his