SEVENTEEN

Sheriff Carney stepped from the shadows beneath the eaves of the livery when Mitch Evans began to slide the livery door shut. The horses nearby did not move.

“Got to say I’m disappointed, Mitch,” the sheriff said. “You and me go a long ways back.”

Carney had his pistol holstered. The two-way was clipped to his belt, but he’d shut it off. No telling when that simpleton Billy Jasper might call to ask about something, and Carney didn’t want any distractions here. Didn’t want anyone interfering either. If this could lead to finding the girl, Carney wanted this interaction as off-camera as possible.

“Clarence, you about gave me a heart attack,” Mitch said in a relaxed voice. “What brings you out after curfew?”

Mitch was slightly bigger, slightly older. In daylight, his face showed a few more wrinkles, and he was losing hair faster than Carney, but in his usual overalls, he cast an impressive shadow. He could crack walnuts with his bare hands.

“I never thought you were the one. But looking back, it makes sense.”

“Clarence?”

The sheriff leaned against the edge of the door. “I’ve been thinking about it all afternoon, how easy it might be for you, like hiding a needle in a haystack of needles.”

“It’d be nice if this conversation started making sense, Clarence.” Carney guessed Mitch had repeated his first name to emphasize their longstanding friendship.

“You know how things work in Appalachia,” Sheriff Carney said. “Bar Elohim is not intrusive in private affairs. Sure, public moments are recorded, and radio chips track the movements of every horse, every day. And you know the argument about how that protects folks in more ways than one. Gives them privacy. Just like the best place to have a secret conversation is in the middle of a party with fifty other conversations around you. Bar Elohim doesn’t have the time and manpower to examine more than half a percent of what gets recorded and saved. On the other hand, everyone knows that all of that information is somewhere on the mainframe, and enforcement can use it to unravel just about any crime against God or Appalachia, right?”

“Sure, Clarence. Just seems like a strange time and place to discuss something we both know.”

“I was able to track a recent visitor in town,” Carney said. “Don’t even know his name, just his face. And the fact that he was a wanted man. I tracked him right to your doorstep. You were the only person in town he had any conversation with.”

Mitch leaned against the opposite door frame. “Be glad to help if that’s why you’re here. Lots of folks come to me for horses.”

“Not lots of folks with Mason Lee hard on their trail. Last thing anyone like that wants is a horse that shows Bar Elohim every movement through a radio chip.”

“Can’t speak for how others think,” Mitch said. “I assume you have a photo or something so I can identify him and tell you what I can about his conversation with me.”

“Mitch, I’m thinking there’s a saddle under the blanket of one of those horses. That would be strange, wouldn’t it?”

Mitch straightened a little.

“See,” Carney said, “if the horse isn’t reported stolen, then there’s no reason to track it by satellite, is there?”

When Mitch remained silent, Carney continued. “Someone shows up at night, leaves with the horse, then sends it back when they get to the next town. Is that how it works? Chances are slight that someone in law enforcement would show up and check your horses to see if all of them are accounted for, especially if you only did this every couple of months. And especially if you were good friends with the sheriff, right, Mitch?”

Mitch took a step away from the livery, toward the horses outside the stable.

“All I want is the girl,” Sheriff Carney said. “She’s coming for a saddled horse, isn’t she? Tell me when you expect her, and then maybe I can go easy on you and your family.”

Mitch whirled and dove toward Sheriff Carney. It was fast and unexpected. Carney pulled his pistol to clear it from his holster, but he realized he’d made a mistake, playing this conversation so relaxed.

Mitch’s broad shoulder hit the sheriff squarely in the chest, knocking him against the wall. His head slammed back with a thud, dazing him. Before he could breathe, Mitch was on top of him, pinning his arms with his legs, sitting squarely on his chest.

Carney was looking straight up, but Mitch’s face was in a shadow, and Carney couldn’t read it. He tried squirming, but the man was too big. Mitch pushed the gun away from Carney’s reach.

“Don’t make this worse, Mitch. Surveillance cameras show me getting here. You kill me and nothing will show me walking away. Any investigation leads right to your door. Let me up right now, and let’s talk through a way to keep you from being sent to a factory.”

“What’s wrong with allowing a few horses to travel unsupervised now and then? What’s wrong with a little freedom? I’m tired of all this.”

“Tired enough for death by stoning?” Carney was trying to think of a way out of this. “Mitch, I don’t want that to happen to you. All you need to do is let me know when someone comes to you for an illegal horse.”

Then he heard a whirring sound. A sickening thump. Mitch tilted sideways, fell off Carney’s chest.

Carney pushed off his hands into a sitting position. It took him a moment, and the light at the entrance of the livery, to make sense of what he saw.

An outline of a man stood in the light. He held a pitchfork like a baseball bat. Poised to strike again.

Carney was in no position to raise his hands to protect himself from the thunderous blow to his head. The pain lasted only a heartbeat, then all sensation disappeared into a black void.