But even then, it wasn’t the leg I was really worried about. It was that knife-loving hothead, Vincent. He’d taken a bullet in the gut and I was pretty sure it’d killed him. In all honesty, I hoped it had. He’d been a lousy brother-in-law and had killed for money with that Bowie knife of his on at least three occasions that I knew of.
Something his sister—my wife—Melissa didn’t know about.
But I’d still let him bully me into pulling the robbery with him because of the leverage he’d had on me knowing I’d cheated on her a year ago. Of course, she’d left me anyways once she’d discovered our plans to knock off a Kansas bank.
Life sure had a funny sense of humor.
I’d been on the run now for the past two days, but at least I hadn’t shot anyone during the robbery—I’d let Vincent do the killing, which he was more than happy to do with his precious knife. As far as the escape plan down to Mexico, I was in good shape. Another day of driving and I’d cross over the border; if Vincent really was six feet under, the law would be mostly satisfied and shouldn’t be as hard-charging to find me.
But you never really know, and that’s why I had to rest up and keep moving.
I hobbled up to the big double doors of the church and pushed one of them open. The smell of dry wood and dust hit my nostrils and the dim purple light coming through thin rectangular windows in the walls gave just enough light for me to see what was inside. Two rows of six benches, a pew on a stage at the far end, and—thankfully—half-used candles in copper candle holders on shelves attached to the walls.
It’d be fully dark outside in about an hour and this would be as good a place as any to hole up for the night.
I went back outside and looked out at the single stretch of highway that probably went another couple hundred miles before the next town. I took out my Colt and checked the barrel; it was loaded. If somehow Vincent did survive and made it this far there’d be a decent chance he’d stop here too. And that’s not at all what I wanted.
I leaned back against the church and just stared out at the desert. After a few minutes I glimpsed a pack of coyotes trotting through the brush and a minute later a rattle snake slithered out of a hole only ten or so feet in front of me.
Time to get back inside.
It was now almost too dark to see inside the church but I could still make out the candles and I walked up to the first and took my book of matches out of my coat pocket. Tearing off a match, I struck it against the rough strip and it lit in orange flame. I held it to the candle and an orange flame jumped off the wick, lighting the church wall in a burnt orange glow. I lit the rest of the candles, took a drink from my water bottle, and lay down on one of the benches. As I watched the candle light flicker over the vaulted ceiling, I thought about Melissa and my eyelids quickly got heavy.
A sharp tapping against the window woke me and I lay there listening to it. It had a metal sound, like the edge of a knife being tapped against the glass. I shut my eyes again.
“Roberrrr,” a thin voice hissed in the wind outside the window.
I shot to my feet and my leg burned like someone had poured a pint of whisky on my wound. There was no way I’d heard my name. It was the wind and my tired mind playing tricks on me.
Unless, of course, Vincent had survived and made it here.
No, I’d imagined it. Vincent was history. The whipping wind, the coyote howls, my throbbing leg. It was all getting to me.
But still.
I took the gun out of its holster and went to the door. Lifting the deadbolt I pulled the door open to see nothing but bright stars, desert, and black sky. A gust of wind blew some tumbleweed across the road past my car.
Just my car.
No one had called out my name.
A stronger blast of wind shook the walls of the church and again I heard what sounded like my name hissed around the outside corner of the church. My shoulders tightened but I shook my head.
Just a delusion with my burnt-out mind and this damn desert wind.
And yet …
I raised the gun and walked back outside towards the corner of the church. The wind whipped faster and faster the closer I got and as I stepped around the corner I held the gun out, ready to shoot.
And of course, nothing was there.
I took a deep breath, lowered the gun, and went back inside the church. It was tempting to get back in the car and drive for the border tonight, but between the wind, the darkness, and my leg, I figured I’d better wait it out. No sense in risking a crash just because I was hearing silly things.
I sat back down and rubbed my chin. It’d been three days since I’d shaved and the stubble brushed against my hand like soft little prickers. This was turning into a long night.
The tapping against the glass started again and my shoulders got tight.
It was heavier this time too, like it might just break through the glass. I looked at the window but all I saw was the black of night. My spine chilled when a scraping sound slid up and down the church door. It moved slowly, like a knife being sharpened—just like Vincent used to do it against that damn flat
