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  Over his shoulder, he heard Slater exhaling hard, already thirty-five push-ups deep.

  18

  Violetta and Alexis opted for the Budget Inn out west, opposite the Best Western on Rodgers Drive.

  The taxi dropped them out front and they looked up at the building from the kerb, their small suitcases perched in front of them. The walls were off-yellow and cream, and the big sign out front advertised WEEKLY RATES, FREE BREAKFAST, WIFI.

  It was a better representation of their financial situation than the Arbuckle Lodge. King and Slater were vets with money to burn, but Violetta and Alexis were backpackers on a tight budget, spending what little remained of their savings on this cross-country expedition.

  They checked in, both of them polite and shy, avoiding small talk like it was cancerous and refusing to make eye contact with the receptionist for longer than a second or two.

  Then they went to their room. It was tiny, rundown, with a single queen-sized bed for them to share.

  Violetta said, ‘I’ll go for a walk for most of the afternoon, make my presence known about the town. Just in case we’re being surveilled.’

  Alexis said, ‘Have you spotted anything?’

  Violetta shook her head. ‘No, and I doubt anyone knows we’re here yet. But it doesn’t hurt to be cautious. And the sun’s out. It’s a nice day for a walk, anyway.’

  ‘I’ll stay here,’ Alexis said. ‘Get in the right headspace for tonight.’

  ‘You know what you need to do?’

  Alexis nodded. ‘Crystal clear.’

  ‘You think it’ll be a problem?’

  Alexis said, ‘Won’t know until I try, but it shouldn’t be too complicated.’

  ‘You’re more confident than you used to be.’

  ‘I’ve been putting in consistent effort,’ Alexis said. ‘If that doesn’t lead to confidence, nothing will.’

  Violetta said, ‘You ever think about what happened in The Bahamas?’

  Alexis hesitated. ‘In what sense?’

  ‘You know what sense.’

  Alexis shook her head. ‘Not like the first time. But that’s the case with everything, isn’t it? The first time’s the hardest. When it’s all unknown. That great chasm of … the unknown.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Now I could step out of this room and kill someone to save my own skin and not think twice about it.’

  Violetta shook her head in bemusement. ‘That didn’t take long. You’re all caught up.’

  ‘Not quite,’ Alexis said. ‘Still got a lot of work to put in.’

  ‘What will you do while I’m out?’

  ‘Think about tonight. Train. There’s a lot you can do with just your bodyweight.’

  Violetta took in the words, let them digest, then said, ‘You’re Slater 2.0.’

  ‘Not a bad label. I’ll take it.’

  Violetta smiled. ‘Not a bad label at all.’

  She headed for the door. ‘I’ll bring food back.’

  Alexis was already completing a set of walking lunges across the tiny space. ‘Thanks. I’ll need it.’

  Violetta walked out to enjoy the day.

  19

  As night fell over Gillette, Alexis sat alone at the bar of The Office Saloon, north of the city’s main arterial street.

  Neon lit-up Budweiser and Coors signs graced the walls above two pool tables with blue felt. A handful of blue-collar workers milled around the tables, shooting pool and shooting the breeze simultaneously. She overhead ample gossip about bosses, wives, kids, the political climate, and the state of the economy. The bartender had happily served her three Cosmopolitan cocktails in a row, elated to have something to put his mind to other than crack the tops of beer bottles and slide them over the counter to the regulars. He’d been courteous and pleasant for the hour she’d been here, making polite conversation but being careful not to linger.

  He could tell she wanted her privacy.

  Really, she just needed to talk to one of the regulars, and she was waiting for the inevitable approach. The bartender was in his early twenties, with a hint of stubble and long brown hair falling over his forehead. She doubted he had connections to the vein of Gillette’s invisible gossip highway.

  Then a guy in his early thirties dropped into the stool beside her.

  He wore a flannel shirt and worn-in jeans above work boots. His demeanour was confident — he kept his shoulders back and his posture up — but he didn’t make a direct advance. He signalled to the young bartender for another Coors, and the guy slid it across.

  The thirty-something man finally glanced over at Alexis. ‘Haven’t seen you before.’

  She met his eyes for a moment and smiled coyly. She couldn’t deny the alcohol helped the facade. It wasn’t hard to feign interest — beneath the stench of tobacco he was an attractive guy. White teeth — probably veneers, which must have cost half a year’s salary — and a smooth, acne-free complexion. His eyes were green.

  She hesitated for a moment too long, feigning social awkwardness.

  He took the reins. ‘I’m Brent. Pleased to meet you.’

  ‘Alexis,’ she said.

  ‘You from around here?’

  ‘No,’ she said, sipping from her third Cosmopolitan. ‘I’m not in town for long. Been drifting all over the place for a while.’

  ‘I feel you,’ he said. ‘Spent most of my youth on the road. It teaches you things. Hard to put into words. I’m sure you know what I mean.’

  She smiled again. ‘That was my plan. Can’t say it’s working out the way I wanted.’

  He finished a swig from his beer. ‘How so?’

  He was good, she concluded. Not overt, not overbearing. In a different life, she might have taken this conversation seriously. He knew his way around an introduction.

  But in this life, he was exactly the sort of easygoing gossiper she needed to spread word over town.

  She said, ‘I’m seeing a lot of places, meeting a lot of people. But I don’t feel like I’m learning anything. I’m just … lost. Feels like I’ve got no place in this world, you know?’

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Thirty.’

  The truth.

  He smiled. ‘I’m thirty-five, and I didn’t figure anything out until last year. Was working all over the place, labour job after labour job. No end in sight. Then one day it all just clicked. I guess I realised I’d picked up enough bits and pieces to understand how it works behind the scenes, so I started my own carpentry business. Right now I’m pulling in 100K profit a year. Not bad, hey?’

  Too eager to impress, Brent, she thought.

  Outwardly, she let her eyes widen. ‘Damn. A man who knows what he’s doing. Haven’t met many of those lately.’

  He couldn’t hide his enthusiasm, no matter how much he tried. ‘And I haven’t met a girl like you in forever.’

  She bowed her head, shy now. ‘You don’t mean that.’

  ‘I do.’

  Now, she thought.

  She drained the last of her cocktail for dramatic effect and said, ‘I’m useless. I know you think I’m pretty, but I’m just … an empty shell. There’s nothing below the surface. I don’t know what I want from my life, I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m a failure through and through. I’m thirty, and what have I got to show for myself? I might as well become a monk or something. I’m a waste of fucking space, Brent.’

  He reached out and put a gentle hand on her shoulder. ‘Hey, hey, hey…’

  She bowed her head, blinking back tears.

  He said, ‘You know that’s not true. You know you’ve got value. I can see it plain as day.’

  ‘You’re a great guy,’ she said through a mask of turmoil. ‘I’m sorry. You don’t deserve my baggage.’

  He said, ‘We’ve all got baggage, don’t we? Part of being human.’

  He was a great guy. She felt bad about what she had to do.

  She turned to him. ‘Listen. I think you’re very attractive. I want to see
you again. I think we could have some fun.’

  He was halfway through downing his beer, but his face lit up. He put the bottle on the counter and said, ‘Well, Alexis, I’d like that too. What do you say we get out of here, find a quieter spot? Have some good conversation. I want to get to know you more. You ain’t an “empty shell,” I can see it.’

  She stood up, and he mirrored her.

  She said, ‘Not tonight, sorry. I’m just … look, everything came to the surface tonight. I’ll be in a bad mood for a day or so. But you should call me. Take my number.’

  She was already inventing a fake number in her head when—

  ‘Come on,’ Brent said, taking a step forward. ‘What have you got to lose?’

  He reached out to put his hands on her waist.

  She inched back, millimetres out of range, so he grasped at thin air. His fingers were close enough to her belt to make him look foolish, putting him in an awkward spot. He’d either have to lunge forward, egregiously committing to the gesture, or admit defeat and step back.

  He stepped back.

  She stared right into his eyes. ‘Did you hear me, Brent?’

  Drink clouded his gaze. He smiled back. ‘Oh, I heard you. But I know a girl like you is up for some fun. You’re a wild soul at heart, ain’t ya?’

  He stepped forward again.

  She lowered her voice and said, ‘Get the fuck away from me before I cause a scene. I shit you not, I’ll start screaming my lungs out, and you’ll look like a predator. Is that what you want?’

  He froze up. She doubted a woman had spoken to him like that in a long time.

  He said, ‘Well, I’m sorry…’

  She said, ‘Save it. You’re just a scumbag like the rest of them. I was going to give you my number, maybe even sleep with you tomorrow, but you can forget about that.’

  With a huff, she collected her purse off the counter and stormed out of the saloon.

  He didn’t follow her, didn’t say a word to her back as she left. Probably just watched her rear end in the tight jeans and stewed with regret about what might have been…

  When she stepped outside, she brought her emotions back down and coolly assessed the conversation.

  Perfect, she thought.

  He’d think she’d organically spilled her guts to him before things went south, and now he was jaded, full of resentment. Encouraged by the beers — she figured he’d drink plenty more tonight — he’d go and spread word of the gorgeous out-of-towner having a mid-life crisis, nearly crying over her drink. Pathetic, he’d say. Covering up for his unsuccessful pursuit.

  Word would get out.

  Hopefully, it’d reach the right ears.

  She walked back to the Budget Inn.

  20

  King stepped into another saloon-style bar south of the main arterial, his mind already set on causing chaos.

  You’re a disgruntled, disillusioned, dishonourably discharged vet, he told himself. Act like it.

  He slammed the door as he came in, sending all the regulars’ heads shooting up like meerkats. King gave a couple of them dark looks, but most of his attention was fixed on the wall up the back. A closed door with a sign that read PRIVATE was positioned between a Polaroid collage of the bar’s celebrity guests over the years and the mounted head of a trophy mule deer. Through a rectangular glass window set into the door, King saw four or five bearded men playing pool. They looked tough, they looked mean, and they looked no-nonsense.

  Jackpot.

  He went straight to the bartender and said, ‘Whiskey.’

  ‘Which one?’ the guy said, not politely.

  His tone radiated a message: You bring this attitude in here, it won’t do you any favours.

  King said, ‘Jim Beam. Straight up. Two fingers.’

  The guy poured it in menacing silence, because even though he didn’t like the newcomer, he wasn’t about to refuse business to a paying customer. The establishment wasn’t doing well enough to discriminate.

  King downed the glass in a single gulp, jerked his thumb at the door up the back, and said, ‘What’s back there?’

  ‘Nothing that’s your business,’ the guy said, turning away.

  King said, ‘Either you tell me what’s back there, or I go find out myself.’

  The bartender wheeled back to face King. Then a sly smile played at his lips. He threw his hands in the air, took a step back, and jutted his chin. ‘Be my guest, buddy. Go find out for yourself.’

  King said, ‘Another whiskey first.’

  The guy thought about it, then shrugged. Probably thinking, Well, you’ll need it.

  As he poured he said, ‘Who are you anyway?’

  King said, ‘A guy who doesn’t like being told what his business is and isn’t.’

  The bartender rolled his eyes. ‘I’m calling the cops as soon as you step away from this bar. Don’t think you’ll be getting beat half to death and then escape without getting held responsible for the damages.’

  ‘So whoever gets their ass kicked is paying for damages?’

  ‘Whoever instigates.’

  ‘They’ll throw the first punch. Just watch.’

  ‘I’d tell you to get the hell out of here, but you’re not going to do that, are you?’

  King shook his head.

  The bartender was tired, worn down from a long night. He didn’t have the energy to get involved in this. He said, ‘Go on, then. They’ll sort you out.’

  As King walked away he heard the guy mutter, ‘Fucking idiot,’ under his breath.

  He ignored it.

  Went straight to the door up the back, copping stares of vitriol from the regular patrons the whole way, and thrust it open with a flat palm. It had no handle or lock, just swung in on its hinges. He walked through.

  The pool game came to an abrupt halt.

  They were either bikers or low-level criminals. King wouldn’t be surprised either way. They looked like they took their hogs out on weekends, and they also looked like they distributed a bit of meth to the most vulnerable sector of Gillette’s small population. Either way, they’d be fine in a few weeks. Even if they were good, upstanding citizens — which King highly doubted — sometimes ordinary people get in the way of the pursuit of evil.

  King had to set a scene, otherwise their plan of approaching Mother Libertas would fizzle out.

  The biggest guy squared up. And he was big, at least six-five and somewhere in the range of three hundred pounds. Most of it was fat, but there were great slabs of muscle under there, too. He had meaty hands that looked like they could tear a phonebook in half. His buddies — four of them — milled around him, sensing confrontation, relishing in it. They all had beards that reached their chests, and their eyes were cloudy with drink. King felt the warm burn of the Jim Beam in his own stomach, but ignored it. He’d needed to drink to appear unhinged — otherwise it’d look like a targeted attack instead of a random approach. It was paramount that he didn’t raise suspicion when Maeve got wind of this.

  The enormous man said, ‘Where’s your fucking invitation?’

  King let the door swing shut behind him. ‘What?’

  ‘Off-limits here,’ one of the smaller guys said. He looked just as mean as his buddies, but his words were softer. Like, Come on, man. Save your own skin. Leave it. ‘Get out if you know what’s good for you.’

  King had to become something he despised, but he did it, because sometimes you have to act in the interest of the greater good. He pointed a finger at the smaller man and said, ‘I can smell your fear, you hick fuck.’

  That was all it took.

  He’d taken a small spark and dumped gasoline on it.

  All three hundred pounds of the big guy bull-rushed him.

  21

  No matter how seasoned a fighter you are, three hundred pounds is three hundred pounds.

  If the big man collided with King shoulder-to-chin, it’d spark him unconscious in an instant. Those are the unavoidable laws of physics. So King went
into full survival mode and reacted with all the fear he could muster. He needed it, because his life was very literally on the line. If he caught an unlucky shot and went out, all five of them would wail on him with punches and kicks before the collective anger subsided. The human brain is intensely vulnerable. One well-placed kick to the head when he was already out could cause irreversible damage.

  The big guy closed the distance fast, like he’d played football at a near-professional level. King faked a massive overhand right with similar speed and physicality, which made the guy flinch as he came into range. He didn’t slow down, but his centre of balance shifted, rocking his chin back to prevent getting clocked clean in the head as he charged in.

  King pulled the right hand short and pivoted on his left leg and threw the right leg low, using everything in the gas tank. If he missed he’d sprawl off-balance and five testosterone-fuelled bikies would pounce on him, which lent him extra win-or-die strength. When his shinbone slammed into the outside of the guy’s knee in mid-stride, it made the sound of metal striking flesh, and the guy’s giant tree trunk of a leg pitched sideways. It had the successful effect of knocking both legs out from underneath him and instead of slamming into King, all his bulk slammed chest-first into the wood-panelled floor.

  King recognised that it’d take a few seconds for the big guy to get back to his feet, considering the weight he was working with, so he forgot about him and lunged at the closest man still standing. It was the smaller guy, who’d pleaded for King to leave, so King just popped him with a teep kick to the left side of his ribcage, shutting his liver down and crumpling him. He’d be useless for the next ten minutes, but fine after that.

  The other three…

  One of them charged, throwing caution to the wind, and King reached out and grabbed his head in a vice-like grip between two palms. He brought it down on the edge of the pool table, the thud resonating off the thick polished wood, and threw him down. He was already limp.

  The remaining two charged at the same time.

  Smart.