Part 6

With the gun in his hand, he stepped over the body, walked up the stairs, and into the empty kitchen. He didn’t see anyone on the monitors. He heard shuffling and a man cursing. He kicked the door open. Two men with their pants hanging half-mast climbed out the window. One fell on his face. They ran toward the treeline. The tall girl huddled in the closet and cried. A shot rang out. Blackburn felt another blast of heat at the back of his head and a piercing burn at the side of the same armpit. He twitched in pain and turned. The big girl stood naked in the doorway with a smoking gun and a surprised look on her face. He was about to faint. He shot the girl before he went down to the floor.

He woke up in the hospital. Sheriff Boone sat by his side, his ankle over his knee. Blackburn jerked.

“Easy. Easy.” The sheriff raised his hands. He stared intently for a time, scratching his long mustache. Then he opened his notepad. “Mr. Blackburn. Now, can you tell me, how do you know Anastasia Grangur and Svetlana Lungu?”

“Who?”

“The two prostitutes that brought you here.”

“I don’t know any prostitutes. I know some girls who were being trafficked.”

“How you’d figure?”

“Common sense. How about the third one?”

“Third one?”

“Third girl – blonde, short, fat. She shot me. I shot her.”

“Someone torched the place. There were no bodies, no cars, no nothin’. How’d you find out about the place?”

“Maddox.” He kept the part about the mayor to himself.

“Raymond Maddox?” Sheriff scratched his long, grey mustache and made a note.

Blackburn grunted. His hands were shaking. “You wouldn’t have some liquor on you, would you?”

The sheriff gave him a long look. “I see.” He pulled out a metal flask, and poured some into Blackburn’s mouth. He swallowed. “Don’t overdo it. It doesn’t mix well with morphine.”

“You know, you could be in a heap of trouble with Maddox’s ilk telling me this?”

“It’s Maddox that should worry.”

“Don’t you go all vigilante justice on me now, son.”

“Don’t worry Sheriff. I won’t seek it. I’ll wait for it to find me.”

“Hm,” the sheriff grunted, and gave him another long stare.

“Are the girls okay?”

“They are being taken care of. They didn’t even know they were in America, the poor souls.” Sheriff stood up. “I’ll have to call immigration.”

“Can you do me a favour, Sheriff? Can you give them a few days before you call? Let them recover before our people fuck them up.”

They exchanged long glances.

“A Samaritan, huh?” He shook his head. “All right. I gotcha,” said sheriff and turned to leave. Then he stopped and turned back.

“By the way, that there,”– he pointed to the specimen jar on the table –“is the bullet cluster they pulled out of you. Apparently, the second bullet was going for your heart, but hit the first bullet, they fused and only tore into your lung.” Sheriff shook his hear and gave him a nod of respect. “You are blessed, son.” The sheriff walked out.

Blackburn looked at the jar. Someone wrote “Mason Blackburn; Merciful Bullet” on the label.