فصل 02 - بخش 11

2

Jack drove past the falling-down tourist cabins, wondering why anyone would want to spend good money to stay near what was essentially just a hole in the ground (at least the name of the place was truthful). Did no one have any better places to go? Yosemite? The Grand Canyon? Even the World’s Largest Ball of String would be better than a hole in the ground out here in Dry ’n Dusty Asshole, Texas.

He parked beside the service shed as he had on his previous trip, grabbed his flashlight from the glove compartment, then got the Winchester and a box of ammo out of the lockbox. He stuffed his pockets with shells, started for the path, then turned back and shone his light through one of the dusty windows of the shed’s garage-type roll-up door, thinking there might be something he could use inside. There wasn’t, but what he saw still made him smile: a dust-covered compact car, probably a Honda or a Toyota. On the back window was a decal reading MY SON IS A FLINT CITY HIGH SCHOOL HONOR STUDENT! Poisoned or not, Jack’s rudimentary detective skills were intact. His visitor was here, all right; he had driven down from FC in this no doubt stolen car.

Feeling better – and actually hungry for the first time since the tattooed hand had come creeping around the shower curtain – Jack returned to the truck and rummaged in the glove compartment some more. He eventually unearthed a package of peanut butter crackers and half a roll of Tums. Not exactly the breakfast of champions, but better than nothing. He started up the trail, munching one of the Nabs and carrying the Winnie in his left hand. There was a strap, but if he slung it over his shoulder, it would chafe his neck. Maybe make it bleed. His pockets, heavy with cartridges, swung and bumped against his legs.

He halted at the faded Indian sign (old Chief Wahoo testifying that Carolyn Allen sucked his redskin cock), struck by a sudden thought. Anyone coming down the byroad leading to the tourist cabins would see his Ram parked beside the service shed and wonder what was up with that. He considered going back to move it, then decided he was worrying needlessly. If the meddlers came, they’d park near the main entrance. As soon as they got out to look around, he would open fire from his shooter’s perch on top of the bluff, knocking two or maybe even three of them down before they realized what was happening. The others would go scurrying around like chickens in a thunderstorm. He’d get them before they could find cover. There was no need to worry about what they might see from the tourist cabins, because Mr No Opinion and his friends were never going to get out of the parking lot.