"My mouth tastes like a mud pie," Fisher, the driver, complained as he rounded the front of the Army vehicle. Windblown sand pelted his aviator sunglasses.
"Maybe Ironbutt'll buy you a drink after the arrest," Corporal Hamill said dryly.
"Right," Corporal Fisher mocked. "Chesterfield's like a Vogon. The only way to get a drink out of him is to stick your finger down his throat."
Thinking longingly of the water-filled canteen in the rear of the jeep, Fisher glanced around. There was a gas station near the Last Chance that looked as if it had been abandoned some time in the 1950s. Farther down, a small hardware store squatted in the baking sun. A few other tiny shacks lined the dust-caked road. Telephone poles listed morosely into the simmering distance. Desolation was as palpable as the windblown sand. Fisher's throat was filled with desert dust. "Let's get this over with," he muttered. Walking abreast, guns aimed before them, the MPs mounted the two squeaking steps to the saloon's broad front porch.
ELIZU ROOTE had been hunched at the long, dust-covered mahogany bar since the previous midnight.
He'd used the same glass straight through to dawn. A few empty bottles lay on their sides on the bar's surface. One had rolled off at some point during his hours-long bender, shattering near the greenish brass foot rail at the end of the bar near the men's room.
His shot glass was empty now. Roote tapped the metal pad of one index finger endlessly against the lip of the thick glass.
The pads were gold. Even though they didn't look it. Very expensive. At one time, Roote had been impressed. No longer. Now the metal pad on his index finger was just something that made noise against a bar glass.
The staccato tapping had been going on for hours.
He had gotten away.
At first when he'd made it off the base, he had allowed himself a moment of happiness. It quickly died.
There was no way Chesterfield would want a blot the size of Elizu Roote on his record.
He would be hunted. They'd want him dead or alive. With the trail of bodies he'd left after his escape, most likely they'd prefer dead.
Roote was soon proved right. The Alamogordo police had been on the lookout for him much sooner than he had expected. Obviously, however, good old General Chesterfield had neglected to tell them exactly what they were dealing with. When he'd left town, Roote was five and zero with the local police.
After a day of stumbling and blind killing, he had made it out here. Even though the Last Chance Saloon sat in the middle of nowhere, it was only a matter of time before they found him. And killed him.
As his finger continued to tap repeatedly against his glass, Roote heard a squeak on the porch somewhere behind him. His finger froze.
Cocking an ear, he listened intently.
Footfalls. More than one set. Someone sneaking in.
They'd found him. Quicker than he'd expected. Hunching further, he resumed his tapping.
The louvered saloon doors creaked open a moment later. The soft footsteps grew louder as the men behind him walked carefully across the floor. Not one word. Just steady, certain footfalls.
They had made him. Not only that, their guns were most likely drawn. Hunched over the bar, Roote smiled at the thought.
The men had gotten only halfway across the floor before they stopped suddenly.
"My God," gasped a voice.
Roote cleared a wad of phlegmy dust from his throat. "I see you've met Tommy." He didn't turn. He just continued to tap relentlessly at the rim of his glass.
The two MPs had paused near the dusty tables arranged around the bar floor.
Corporal Fisher glanced at his partner. Hamill was staring, horrified, into the dancing dust.
A charred corpse had been propped up in a chair in the shadow of one of the thick wooden support columns.
There was no hair. Only a few black remnants of clothing remained. His eyes had exploded, cooking like eggs in the sockets. Lips shriveled away, exposing skeletal rows of teeth. The man's lower fillings were clearly visible through the strands of grisly black that had been his cheeks.
"This guy looks like he's been cooked," Hamill hissed. His voice sounded sick.
"He was the bartender here," Roote explained from the bar. "Think he might've owned the place, too." Roote tipped his head pensively. "Never did get 'round to askin' him. Too late now, I suppose."
The two MPs steeled themselves. They left the body, stepping over to Elizu Roote.
He matched the description they'd been given. Thin, just under six feet tall. Ghostly pale skin. Hair blond enough to be almost white. The kid was a freaking albino. With a nod, they confirmed it was the man whose photograph they had been given. They hadn't been told his name.
"Get up," Fisher commanded.
Roote continued tapping. "No."
That was enough for Corporal Hamill. "Let's go," he ordered bluntly, grabbing Roote under the armpit.
Corporal Fisher followed his partner's lead. They yanked Roote to his feet. The private's bar stool clattered over. Corporal Hamill immediately began patting down his clothes for weapons. "How'd you escape from the stockade?" asked the MP as he worked.
"That what they told you?" Roote smiled. He held up his arms halfway, allowing the man to pat his shirt.
"He's clean," Hamill told his partner.
Roote was blinking lazily, weaving in his slightly drunken haze as the men spoke. He didn't lower his arms. "Don't matter that I escaped," he drawled. "Nothin' to escape to."
"Should we cuff him?" Hamill asked.
"Hell yeah."
The handcuffs were brought out. As Fisher flipped one bracelet open, he noticed something clutched in Roote's hand. The cuffs were instantly dropped. Fisher's gun flew up once more.
"Open your hands," the MP ordered.
"I don't think you really want me to," Roote confided.
"Open your hands!" Fisher commanded. By this point Hamill had raised his gun, as well. For safety's sake they'd moved a few feet away from the AWOL private.
Roote's giggle came out as a drunken snort. He held his hands up near his ears, elbows deeply bent. Until now, his fingertips had been pressed against his palms.
Slowly, with deliberate ceremony, Roote unfolded his fingers, exposing the rows of curved metal pads at the tips.
"What the hell are those?" Corporal Fisher asked, more of his partner than of Roote.
His question was answered in the most horrible way imaginable.