Dead South Rising (Book 2): Death Row (15 page)

If only.

He wanted to converse with his sweet Kate, to hear her angelic voice, to touch her lavender-scented skin, to press his parched lips to hers, drink in the whole of her. All of her—spirit, mind, body… to quench that insatiable thirst for her.

He missed her love.
 

Fucking David Morris.
 

Tom thumbed away yet another tear. He was tired of tears, just as he was tired of the unwelcome utterances within. Neither of them served a purpose any longer, just got in the way, distracted him. Aggravated him. Angered him.

Come back, Kate. Please… just… come back. I’ll do anything…

She would talk to him, sometimes. Her sweet voice, he’d hear it. So vivid—so…
alive,
sometimes—that he had to glance around, be sure she wasn’t in the room. Of course, it wasn’t possible. Would never happen again. Not in this life. Not on this earth. His mortal ears, never to hear her voice again. He wished badly that he believed in ghosts.

He slammed his fist against the bar top, took another desperate pull from the bottle. The liquid gold sloshed inside the vessel, dancing like living stained glass.
 

“I miss you, dahlin’.” A sniffle.

His original whiskey bottle lost during his retreat through the forest, he detoured, seeking out a replacement, and found one in the most obvious of places. Leeson boasted one bar—The Bearded Bayonet. And in true southern style, the place had been drank dry for the most part. But he lucked out, found a half-full bottle of the cheap stuff along with enough hooch to entertain him for a good part of the afternoon. The generic brand splashing over his tongue straight from the bottle wasn’t Southern Comfort, but it sufficed. Got the job done. Just like he’d get the job done. Soon, it would all be over, a profoundly wicked man dead.

David the deadman.

Honestly, he didn’t
need
the liquid courage, that fun-tastic firewater, but it sure as hell helped. It calmed him, helped him think. Relax. Plan. An injection of much-needed patience.

And with that liquor-induced patience, he sat, forearms on the bar, shoulders slouched, head down. Fingers clutching glass. Thinking. Wishing. Missing.

Behind him, across the room, neglected hinges announced the presence of another. Perhaps someone else seeking refuge from a heart destroyed by another’s careless actions. Or perhaps it was the dead.

Or perhaps the good folks from Alamo Assisted Living and Retirement were after a bit of their own recreational elixir.

Wouldja looky here, Billy Joe Bob!

Well whudduhya know, Uncle Rufus. He was here all along.

Shore nuff. Shall we shoot ‘im now or have that drank first?

Well, I reckon we oughta have us a cold one, first, don’tcha think?

Well I—

Whispers. Sand and dirt, stuck to the bottoms of soles, like sandpaper scuffing the hardwood. More whispers.

Tom’s breathing stilled, hand clutching the bottle, his solace. He wasn’t in the mood for company, especially unannounced and unknown—alive
or
dead. He lifted his chin only slightly, catching sight of silhouettes in the mirror behind the bar.
 

Had they found him already? Maybe he didn’t give those damnable souls cowering within the walls and halls of Alamo Assisted Living their due credit. Underestimated the enemy, as it were. He thought back to Sammy and Gills, two murderous double-crossing scoundrels he’d sold short. He wouldn’t make
that
mistake again. Ever.
 

A presence. Directly behind him. A barrel in his back. A nudge. The distinct scent of marijuana mixed with that of his own cigarettes and booze.

“Hey.”

Tom fed the silence, gave the glass a squeeze, preparing to smash it across some insolent asshole’s face if need be.

Another nudge, harder this time. “Hey… cowboy. I’m talking to you, man.”

Tom never lifted his head. “I’ll not have you poke me like some feral animal.” Despite his best efforts, the words tripped over his tongue, stumbling, before spilling over his lips.

A light laugh, then the same voice. “You hear that, Mallory? He lives.”

“I dunno, home skillet. Seems like I heard one of them deadies talk before.”

Doc felt the barrel’s lip kiss his leather-clad back again.
 

“So which is it, man? You a talking
live
one, or a talking
dead
one?”

A woman’s voice. “He’s a talking
drunk
one. Leave him alone already.”

“Aw, hell, naw. You remember what happened last time, Laura. Ain’t gonna let that happen again. Naw, this one’s gonna prove—”

“TJ,” the woman said, “chill the fuck out already. Quit trying to be all gangster and shit.”

The man Laura called TJ huffed, propped the shotgun stock on his hip, barrel to the ceiling. Another huff, then he took two steps back.

The stool beside Tom creaked, the woman sitting. She laced her fingers on top of the bar, where Tom could easily see them. “Sorry, man. We’re all a bit jumpy. Dealt with some real assholes today.”

The one named Mallory chuckled a most annoying, high-pitched laugh. “Yeah, some major-league assholes, dude.”

Tom sat silently, his gaze glued to the bar before him, an awkward heaviness on the air. He was ruminating on the quickest way to kill these three, until TJ made a curious comment.

“Right on. Whatever the fuck you do, don’t go up the hill looking for the cool crowd. Those fuckers holed up in that old folks home kicked us to the fucking curb, man.”

Tom twisted his head slightly, cutting a sideways glance at Laura. “That so?”

Laura nodded, holding up two fingers. “He speaks the truth. Girl Scouts honor.”

“Why, do tell,” Tom prompted. He loosened his grip on the bottle.

TJ continued. “We were chill, ya know? All willing to help with whatever. But that big dude, Lenny? Total prick, man. Always on our shit, man.”

Mallory chimed in. “Yeah, total hater. No love for the ganja. And that fat-ass dude, Randy, or whatever, following him around like some fat fucking puppy dog.”

Randy. They know Randy.

“Anyhoo,” Laura said, “them people have some serious issues, keeping deadies locked up in the tennis courts and even have some in an empty pool. Fucked up, man. Tee-totally fucked up.”

TJ said, “And we ain’t the only people they got issues with, neither. Some dude cut off some other dude’s wife’s hand, stuck that fucker in a box and gave it to one of the kids—”

Mallory cackled, fist to his lips.

“Shut up, man,” TJ chided. “I’m telling a fucking story, here.”

The cackling slowed, and Mallory held up his hand. “Sorry… sorry, home skillet.” Clearing his throat, he folded his arms over his chest.

TJ said, “You done?”

Mallory nodded tight, little nods. “Mmm, hmm.”

“Anyway, dude chopped off this chick’s hand, delivered it to the kid. Sick shit, right? I heard when the guy got it, he went fucking ballistic. Beyond bat shit crazy, man. Blew a couple guys’ heads off or some shit.” He whistled while twirling a finger near his temple.

Something inside Tom flittered. Butterflies. Happy, sparkling butterflies. David was suffering, heading toward Crazy Town. Mentally collapsing into a pile of emotional rubble. He wanted to hear more, so much more about David’s breakdown. To be absolutely sure it was him. Though who else could these three possibly be speaking of?

“—were outside, and I totally shot that fucker from way out—”

“David?” Tom asked, spinning on his stool to face TJ.
 

“Huh?”

“David? Was the man’s name, David? David Morris?”

“I think so. I guess so.”

“Was he about six foot tall? Early to mid-forties, maybe? Brown hair, sideburns going silver?”

TJ glanced at his buddies, then at Tom. Shrugging, he said, “I guess, man. Didn’t get a real good look at the dude. Was high most of the time we were there and he was laid up in bed—”

Mallory laughed again.

“Dude!” Laura said. “Shut the fuck up, already!”

“Sorry, sorry.”

TJ said, “I do remember he was some kind of fucked up, though.
 
Somebody beat the ever-living shit out of that guy. Head was wrapped up, one eye covered. Face sewed up. Fucker was black and blue and purple and green and…”

Sammy and Gills. They didn’t kill him. Fucked him up real good, but didn’t kill him. Bryan had told the truth. Good boy.

Tom tuned out TJ’s maundering for a moment. He just knew that David was alive and residing inside the facility. He hadn’t found his body at Mitch’s, for one thing. And even though Sam and Gills could have easily killed David and dumped him along the road somewhere, he just didn’t think so. Those two thugs thrived and relied on bluster and threats. Maybe if they actually followed through…

He sat, relishing David’s torment and anguish. He wanted things to get bad for David. Really, really bad. No, worse. And another idea came to mind. One that these three could—and would—assist with. Whether they wanted to, or not.

“—fucking Doc Holliday or some shit—”

Tom snapped back into the one-sided conversation. “Pardon me?”

TJ looked a bit perturbed, like he was tired of having to stop and repeat himself. “You listening to me, man? Your, uh, tank a little too full there?” he asked, pointing to the whiskey bottle still in Tom’s loose grip.

“What was that last part? About… Doc… Holliday?”

Smiling a smug smile, TJ said, “Yeah, so we was helping out, right? Trying to find that dude, the one that cut off the hand, right? You with me?”

Tom nodded.

“Good to hear it. Anyway, me and my home crew, here, we was behind the fence, the main fence up by the building. And the woods are, like, I dunno, two hundred yards away, right? And I see the guy, this Doc Holliday asshole.”

“Mmm, hmm.” Tom made a show of swigging his whiskey while inconspicuously reaching into his coat. Then he unsnapped the thumb break that kept Bessie securely in her holster. And gripped her handle. Hard.

Laura glimpsed the bottle, asking without asking if she could take a swallow herself. Tom nodded, handing it to her.

“So I line up the sights, and…
bam!
Downed that motherfucker where he stood. Bye-bye, Doc Holliday.”

“Actually,” Mallory interjected, “it was the second shot.”

“Whatever, fool. Fact is, I tagged that asshole from behind the fence at two-hundred-plus yards. You sure as hell couldn’t’ve done it.”

“Well done,” Tom said, releasing his gun, and giving a golf clap.

“That’s right,” TJ said, still boasting. “Motherfucker better recognize. Least
you
appreciate it, uh… what was your name, man?”

Tom said flatly, “Doc. Doc Holliday.”

TJ’s features tensed, and the group traded uneasy glances. Seconds stretched, a discomfiting quiet seizing the room and all in it. A smile cracked TJ’s lips. Then an uneasy, light laugh. “Doc. Right.” He continued his uncomfortable laugh, wagging a finger at the man purporting to be Doc Holliday. “Right. Doc Holliday. Good one, man. Good one.” His chuckle morphed into an uncontrollable guffaw.
 

Like a merry-go-round, Mallory’s giggle started slow, then wound up into a full blown cackle, and he slapped TJ on the back. “Doc Holliday. Good one, cowboy dude! Pound it!” He held his fist to Doc, and Doc simply glanced at it, then stared coldly, a stare broken only by the occasional blink.

Mallory’s laugh trailed off. “Or not. Ya know. Whatever.”

Tom looked from one man to the other, his own smile emerging, which reignited TJ and Mallory’s dueling chuckles.

The corners of Laura’s lips tilted to the ceiling, and her lungs pushed out a stuttering laugh, adding to the chorus of howls and hoots now slapping the walls.

TJ wiped at his eyes.

Mallory was bent over, hands on his knees, shoulders shaking. He waved a hand. “You’re killing me, home skillet. Killing me. Doc Fucking Holliday!”

Finally, after another minute or so, the laughter subsided into intermittent snickers and squawks.

Continuing, TJ said, “Well,
Doc
,”—he snickered again—“at least
you
appreciate what I did. Those assholes just chewed our asses for it. Cussed us real good for killing that dude—the
real
Doc.” He shook his head. “Fucking hypocrites.”

Clearing his throat, Tom said, “So, you fine folks have a rather rocky relationship with those residing at Alamo Assisted Living and Retirement, I gather.”

“Fucking A, Doc Dude Number Two,” Mallory said, finally calming down. “Ass. Holes.”

Laura said, “We got them back pretty good though. Didn’t we, boys?”

“Yeah,” TJ said, “Fuckers gonna rue the goddamn day they fucked with us.”

“And why is that?”

“‘Cuz we turned all them deadies loose on their stupid asses, that’s why.”

Mallory laughed. So did TJ. And Laura.

Reading Tom’s perplexed expression, TJ elaborated. “Before we left, we busted the lock on the tennis courts. Left the door wide open. All them deadies probably surrounding the place now. If we’d had a way to get them outta the pool quick and easy, we’d’ve turned them fuckers loose, too.”

Another round of riotous laughter.

Tom nodded, “Well, sounds like you folks stuck it to them right nicely, I’d say.”

“Fucking A. Like I said, they gonna rue the fucking day, man.” TJ nodded at Tom’s whiskey bottle, held out his hand.

Hesitantly, Tom handed it to him.

After a hearty swig, he ran the back of his hand across his lips and said, “Wish I could see their stupid-ass faces now.”

Tom narrowed his eyes, then said, “How would you three like to do just that?” Taking the bottle back from TJ, he added, “Up close and personal?”

The trio traded unsure glances.

Laura said, “We really hadn’t planned on going back.”

“Yeah,” TJ said, shifting on his feet, “our work there is done, man. Anyway, what’s
your
beef with them assholes? They kick your ass to the curb, too, Doc?”

Mallory giggled again, muttered, “Doc.”

Tom emptied the remaining whiskey into his mouth, swished, swallowed, slammed the bottle to the bar top. Standing, he dragged the sleeve of his leather coat across his lips. “Got something to show you.”