Most of the town refers to him as Sheriff Ward, but to my brothers and myself, he’s JW, short for John Wayne. It’s not his real name, but one we came up with when we were kids because John Wayne movies were his favorite. He’s seen them all, some so many times that he used to repeat them word for word. It used to bug the hell out of us, but we never said anything.
“Where did you find the bastard?” I ask when he comes to a stop in front of me.
The pulse in JW’s temple throbs. “Hiding out in Willard’s shed. The stupid fuck thought he could take me on.” He looks down at his hand and flexes his fingers. “He’ll be nursing bruised ribs for days.”
“He give anything up?”
It doesn’t matter if he does. The proof of his sick actions is in the file on my desk.
“Not a thing, but I didn’t expect him to. He’s caught, and he knows it. The only thing he can do now is deny the accusations and hope by some divine miracle we’ll be stupid enough to believe him.”
The notion is ludicrous. He knows how we do things here. He’s been a part of the change since the beginning. He was actually one of the few people left behind when Sweet Haven was taken down.
“He’s a fucking moron.”
“Agreed.” He scratches his beard. “Judge give you a ring?”
“Yeah. I spoke with him earlier.”
“That only leaves eight.”
His phone rings and he pulls it out of his pocket and checks the screen. “We’ll find the rest.”
Fuck yes we will. I’m ready for this shit to be over with.
“Gotta take this. Talk later.”
He swipes his phone as he turns away. Instead of heading to his car, he walks back to the Sheriff’s office.
As soon as my ass hits the seat of my Tahoe, I have my AC on full blast. The drive home is only a few minutes away. I normally walk, but I didn’t feel like sweating my balls off this morning.
I toss my keys and wallet on the island. After pulling open both the fridge and freezer, I realize I should have stopped at The Hill before coming home. There’s not a damn thing in either. I decide to hunt something down later and go for a shower first. I’m halfway across the living room and pulling off my shirt, when something catches my eye. Or rather someone.
I look over and spot Emo sitting on
my recliner. The man has jet black hair and piercing blue eyes. He’s quiet, watchful, and rarely lets his feelings show, unless it’s only just me and my brothers around. He’s the smallest of the four of us at just over six foot. When comparing him to me and my brothers, many underestimate him. That’s one mistake people make that always bites them in the ass later. Emo may be the smallest and the more quiet one of our group, but he’s the deadliest.
I finish slipping off my shirt and toss it on the couch. “Judge said you weren’t due back until tomorrow.”
“Something came up, and I needed to be back today.”
I narrow my eyes and look behind the emotionless veneer Emo always portrays. A barely noticeable fine sheen of sweat covers his forehead, the pulse in his neck throbs a little too forcefully, the tic by his left eye, and the knuckles of his hand that’s resting on his thigh are white. It’s that hand that concerns me. I have no doubt the single key he always carries with him is gauging his flesh. When a dark spot appears on his jeans, my suspicions are confirmed.
“Come,” I demand then turn on my heel, not bothering to see if he’ll follow.
Walking into the kitchen, I reach beneath the sink where I keep a first aid kit and set it on the counter. Emo appears beside me as I turn the water on and pull out the things I need from the kit.
“How did it go?” I ask.
I grab his hand, and sure enough, when he opens his fingers, I find an old silver key covered in blood resting in his palm. I pluck it up from his hand and set it on the counter. He immediately grabs it and pushes it into his pocket. That key is never far from him, going so far as putting it on a shelf in the shower when he baths. He even sleeps with it under his pillow.
“He squealed like a stuck pig, and then I gutted him like one,” he replies in a monotonous tone.
I look at Emo and see him concentrating on the blood seeping from his hand. His eyes hold a mesmerized look, completely captivated by the bright color.
Placing his hand underneath the running water, the blood washes away, leaving behind the vision of his mangled palm. It’s not just his palm that carries the deep scars, but his fingers as well. His other hand looks just as bad. The key is always the weapon.
When I pour alcohol on the open gashes to clean them, he neither jerks, flinches, or makes a sound. Pain is Emo’s solace. It calms him and is the only way he can ever find peace.