The Devil's Bag Man Read Free Page B

sun nearly kissed the horizon, the mountaintops outlined in orange. He pulled into the patch of dirt that passed for a front yard, gratified to see Galvan’s wood-paneled station wagon, the pride of 1982 Detroit, parked a few feet off. That had to mean he was home—there was nowhere to walk from here, that was for sure—and Nichols’s trek hadn’t been in vain. Galvan’s cell had been going straight to voice mail for a day and a half, so this little visit was both overdue and unexpected.
    Nichols unfolded himself from the squad car, knees unlocking with a satisfying pop, ambled up three rusted-out front steps, and rapped on the trailer’s busted-and-duct-taped screen door.
    Nothing.
    â€œGalvan? It’s me, Bob. You in there?”
    He peered inside, took stock. A jumble of sheets on the narrow bed, a stack of dirty dishes piled next to the sink. A flannel shirt and a cowboy-style one on plastic hangers in the tiny, jacked-open closet. A bedside minifridge doubling as a night table, strewn with newspapers. Nichols recognized a Sunday section three or four weeks old.
    No Galvan.
    But no heads on stakes, either.
    That was a plus.
    Nichols stepped outside and eased himself onto the top stair, figured he might as well watch the sunset, maybe rehearse what he would say. Jess couldn’t have gone far.
    As soon as he thought it, Nichols winced in self-censure. What Jess could and couldn’t do was not something he oughta make assumptions about. For all he knew, the dude had taken a nice long running start and jumped onto the goddamn moon.
    A few minutes passed, and then a large-animal rustle someplace nearby brought Nichols to his feet, hand dropping instinctively to the butt of his service revolver. There were mountain lions out here, and those things didn’t play. He peered into the twilit underbrush, but the rustling was coming from someplace else—from behind the trailer, it seemed, though pinning down directionality in all this open space was surprisingly tricky. Nichols took a tentative step down and cocked his ears.
    Something was definitely coming closer—heavily and steadily—and Nichols didn’t like what that might imply. A jag of movement swept across his left periphery; the sheriff spun toward it and found himself face-to-face with Jess Galvan.
    He was shirtless from the waist up.
    Unless the dead mountain lion slung across his shoulders counted as clothing.
    â€œSheriff,” he said, with a crisp, weirdly formal nod.
    â€œHercules.”
    Nichols returned the nod. “Whatchu, uh, got there?”
    â€œAction kinda keeps me sane,” Galvan said, and turned sideways to give Nichols a look at the lion. It was a full-grown male, a hundred and forty pounds of coiled muscle; front incisors protruded from the mouth like daggers. The massive head lolled backward, the animal’s neck broken.
    Nichols pretended to examine the beast and instead took stock of Jess. An inch-long gash on his right forearm oozed blood, and a broad smear of red painted his chest. He was clad in cutoffs and cross-trainers; there was no possible place he might have been carrying a gun, or even a knife.
    â€œYou killed this thing bare-handed?”
    Galvan shrugged. “I’ve got a good fifty pounds on him.”
    â€œYeah, but you chased him down .” A beat of silence, the heat coming off Galvan in waves, Nichols wondering just how far to push this.
    Fuck it , he decided.
    As he often did.
    â€œLook, I’ll pretend that’s normal if you want me to. But, I mean, come on.” Nichols spread his arms, tilted his head to the side. “I’m guessing you weren’t doing shit like this say, oh, three months ago.”
    Jess’s eyes flickered up to meet his, and Nichols could feel his friend straining within himself; the sheriff had the uncanny feeling that if only he could figure out the secret knock, Galvan would open up.
    The moment passed. Galvan