Part 3 (1/2)

I run up the steps and barrel through the jail door. I tear past the guard, who's sitting at a desk with his boots up. I skid to a halt at Arn's cell, drop to my knees and wrap my hands around the bars.

”Arn!” I yell. ”Arn, wake up!”

Boots step up behind me. A giant hand yanks me backward. I fly through the air, my arms wheeling. I hit the concrete hard. My head bangs on the far wall and pinp.r.i.c.ks of light burst before my eyes. As I'm shaking my head, trying to clear my vision, a shadow looms. The sound of a shotgun being c.o.c.ked echoes around the room.

I throw my hands over my face. The world's fuzzy and far away, and when I look, the guard aims both barrels at my chest.

A voice from the other side of the room. ”Don' shoot.”

It takes me a moment to place the weak, garbled voice. Arn's struggling to sit up. He's alive. Thank G.o.d.

The guard doesn't lower his shotgun, but his finger inches off the trigger. With it still trained on me, he looks over his shoulder to where Arn pulls himself up the metal bars. The more I can see of him, the worse he looks.

”None o' your business, old man,” the guard says to my stepfather. He turns back to me and nudges my leg with his steel-toed boot. ”What the h.e.l.l ya think you doin' barging in here? Want me blow yer everlovin' head off?”

I raise my palms up in a show of surrender. ”Sorry.” I point to Arn. ”I ... I'm here for him,”

The guard relaxes his grip on the gun. ”Ya got bail, pal?”

I inch up on my elbows so my head's upright. The goose egg where my head hit the concrete throbs. ”What's the charge?”

The guard lets the gun barrel tilt to the floor and wipes a hand over the sweat dotting his bald head. ”Owes for the goods he stole.”

I glance at my stepfather, who's upright but leaning against the wall for support. His left hand clutches his abdomen. There's more wrong with him than a busted face.

”Dat's a lie,” Arn mumbles as if his mouth's stuffed with rocks. He spits dark brown flecks of dried blood on the cell floor.

The big guard, who reminds me of the bald guy from the cleaning bottles I saw in the general store, shrugs. ”Don't matter. Sheriff already done sentenced ya. Ya stay 'til ya pay as the Sheriff say.” He guffaws loudly at his rhyme, his big lips crinkling up in a grin. He looks at me, hoping I'm in on his joke. I'm not. The smile fades from his mouth, but he's decided I'm not a threat, either. He lumbers to the desk near the door and plops down in the metal folding chair. He lays the shotgun across the desktop and wipes more sweat off his brow. ”So, you got bail?”

I ease up slow so not to disturb my pounding head. I give Arn a questioning look.

”Git outta here.” Arn coughs and spits again. This time the floor is stained bright red.

There's no point in starting to obey Arn now. I pull myself up, walk over to the guard's desk and dig out my gun slip. My fingers tremor as I lay the paper on his desk. ”I got a gun to trade.”

The guard shakes his head and beads of sweat fling off the bald surface. ”Can't make the deal, Neil,” a goofy smile touches his lips, ”but I can tell ya that ain't gonna be enough.”

I put my hands on the chipped wood. ”What about a four-wheeler in great condition?”

The guard shrugs. ”Maybe. You gonna have to wait at this rate 'cause he's late.” He grins sloppily now, despite himself.

”Huh?” I ask.

The smile slips and he waves a dismissive hand at me. ”Never min'. Sit there 'til Warden come.”

”Warden?”

”He'll tell you yeah or nay on that quad. Should be back in tick.”

I sit on one of the dented folding chairs that are strewn haphazardly next to the cells. Arn and I don't speak, but he keeps nodding toward the door. I shake my head. He sighs and slides down to the floor, wincing and running a hand over his ribs.

Seeing him like this kills me. Who hurt him? The only one around is the guard, though he doesn't seem like the face-busting type. He's too busy picking his nose and eating it.

After about a half an hour, the guard stands up. He leans to one side, farts and then paws it away. He grabs a big key ring, the rifle and a tattered book with the picture of naked women inside the faded glossy pages. He points his finger at me as he heads toward the door.

”Going 'round back to drop a load. Don't try anything stupid or I'll shoot ya.”

As soon as he's gone, I crouch down and grip the rusted rebar fixed unevenly in the concrete.

”G.o.d, Arn. What happened to you? You alright?”

Arn nods, though I see a wince of pain tighten his mouth before he covers it up. ”Got some cuts and bruises. Couple busted ribs maybe.” He sounds like he's got a mouth full of marbles. ”Ri, you need to go. Don't mess with the Warden.”

”No way I'm leaving. How'd this happen?”

Arn scrunches up the wall a little and winces again. ”Made a fair trade. Got food, gas, odds and ends.” He s.h.i.+fts and grimaces. ”Turns out the shopkeeper and the Sheriff been running a scam. Shopkeeper takes your trade and then cries wolf. Sheriff's thugs lock you up. They split the spoils. Least that's what I reckon.”

My knuckles go white around the b.u.mpy bars. The injustice of this place and everyone in it makes my head swim.

”Don't worry. I'm gonna get you home. Mama will take care of you.”

Sadness fills the eye not swollen shut. ”Don't let 'em hear you talk that way.”

I lay my forehead against the bars, the coolness soothing to my feverish skin. A slick unease is settling over me, sending s.h.i.+vers up my spine. This is why my parents never let me come in to town. It's more horrible than I could've imagined. I open my mouth to apologize when a lean shadow darkens the doorway.

”Who are you?” A venomous voice cuts the silence.

A shadow slinks into the room until he forms into one of the most frightening men I've ever seen. The man's black hair is greased flat to his skull. His b.u.t.ton-down s.h.i.+rt is as white as Bounty's milk, a feat so impossible in this landscape I gape in wonder. His down-turned mouth drags up over sharp white teeth that match his white s.h.i.+rt. He can only be the Warden.

”Stand up,” he commands. His acid-green eyes sear into me.

I pull myself upright. The Warden runs his eyes up and down my body. I fight the urge to shudder.

”Darrel says you have bail?” the Warden hisses. The guard trots in the doorway, pulling up his pants.

”I do.” My heart patters in my chest. His eyes seem to see through me.

The Warden laces his long white fingers together. ”What's the item of trade?”

”A quad,” I say. ”Yamaha. She runs like a dream.”

His eyes narrow to slits at the word she. My stomach does somersaults.

He steps towards me, so close now I smell onions on his breath. ”Pull down your bandanna.”

I glance at Arn for help he can't provide. I focus back on the Warden. ”Why?”