DOM#67A
LOSTON, COLORADO
AD 1999
2:00 AM SUNDAY MORNING
Casey wanted to close up; wanted to go home and crawl into bed for five hours before coming back to get the bar ready for the Sunday lunch rush. The bar wasn’t a restaurant or even a grill, but Casey noticed a lot of people that came in to ask if he had anything to eat stayed for a drink or two, so he had started cooking burgers and sandwiches for some of his customers. It made a bit more work, and a slightly higher amount of paperwork to be filled out each year for the state health commission, but it more than paid for itself in extra profits. So now he had to get the bar opened earlier than he used to, and Sunday was a good business day on top of that. He wanted to rest up for it.
Unfortunately, one small group of people remained. They had come in early, and stayed the entire evening, though they’d only purchased one round of drinks each, and as far as Casey could see, those drinks were still full. He had thought more than once over the evening that they might be waiting for him to be alone - as he was now - to rob him.
He dismissed the thought, though. He’d been robbed twice, and both times it had been people with a certain frightened, jittery look. These people didn’t have that look. They sat utterly calm, like a deep pool of water on a still summer day.
At the same time, though, it occurred to Casey that even calm waters had been known to hide sharks.
Time to close up, he decided. He’d get rid of his guests - nicely, of course, but firmly - and go home for forty winks. Maybe for forty thousand. He told himself again that he wasn’t worried, but he put his hand below the bar, where a shotgun - a sawed-off double barrelful of lead - hung on a spring-pivot. In a split-second he could aim and shoot it right through the bar, if necessary. Anything he pointed at, he would hit. And anything he hit would go down and stay down.
Tal Johnson, Loston’s sheriff, had given Casey the shotgun after the second robbery attempt. He’d handed it over, whispering, "I never saw this," when Casey got out of the hospital, where he had recuperated from a shot that glanced across his clavicle, missing his neck and head by inches.
Casey had laughed at the melodrama at the time, enjoying the sheriff’s obvious pleasure at Loston’s only chance to engage in vigilante cloak and dagger stuff. But now he was glad to have the gun.
"Folks," he said, making sure his voice was chipper, cheery, the last kind of voice in the world you’d want to hear angry. "We’re closing up, I’m afraid."
Surprisingly, the answer to his statement came from the oldest of the group, a late middle-aged man who’d done nothing but case the bar out the whole time they’d been there. It seemed like he was looking for something. Or someone. Casey hoped it wasn’t him, as the man wore a scowl more dark and impenetrable than the darkest night in the mountains.
That was why it was a bit of a shock when the man cracked a wide smile and said, "Oh, it’s late. Terribly sorry, friend. We’ve been...traveling. It felt good just to sit down a while, and I guess we lost track of the time in your wonderful place here."
Casey smiled. His hand remained on the gun, but he was as susceptible to flattery as any proud parent. "Thanks for the compliment. She’s a great place."
"Indeed," said the man. He stood, and the others followed suit. He walked to the bar and his hand went to an inner pocket.
Casey tensed, but the man withdrew a billfold, nothing more.
"How much do we owe you?"
"Four drinks, twelve dollars."
The man held out a twenty. "Here you go. If you can tell us of a good motel around here, you can keep the change."
Casey shook his head. "Sorry, I’ll have to give you eight back. Loston doesn’t get many tourists. Hardly any new move-ins, either. The nearest motel’s about three hours west of here."
"Oh." The man’s expression fell and Casey felt sorry for him. Driving in the middle of the night wasn’t any fun after a long day of traveling.
"Sorry, friend," said Casey. He took the twenty and made change one-handed, a move he’d practiced many times. He knew it looked smooth and that the four watching would be unaware he kept his right hand below the bar. Unless they were up to no good, in which case the fear that he had something down there might keep them in line.
He handed the man his change. The man took it, laying the five down on the bar in front of Casey. "Well, thanks anyway." He pocketed the remaining three and then pulled out a gun.
Casey would have shot him, would have punched a hole the size of a serving tray right through the man, except the guy moved so smoothly. He didn’t yank his gun out of a holster, trembling, as any other gunman might have done. He drew it out, not like a quick-draw, but like he was languidly drawing up water from a fresh artesian well. So Casey didn’t react nervously, either, automatically pulling the trigger and blowing the guy straight to hell in two or more pieces. The guy flowed, and Casey was stuck somewhere between awe and surprise during the half a second he could have done something. Then the moment was gone and the man who stared at him from behind a gun was in charge, and Casey knew it.
"I know you have a gun under there," said the man. "If you so much as twitch I’ll pull this trigger and your brain will be splattered into pieces too small for you to ever come back."
Casey knew then that the guy was insane. His three friends had pulled weapons during the short diatribe, too, all three taking them out with that same easy, almost casual style.
Casey was outgunned, outnumbered, out of luck. He was also supremely glad he had not tried to shoot earlier. From the look of these three, he had little doubt that such a move would have ended in his death. These people were dangerous, and his only hope lay in cooperating and praying that whatever they wanted took them away quickly.
"I’m taking my hand off the trigger," he said. His voice remained calm, well-modulated. Keep them happy, he thought. Pretend nothing is wrong, and live to see tomorrow.
"Slowly!" barked the other guy, a younger, good-looking fellow.
Casey moved slowly. "Thought you might be looking for something," he said as he withdrew his hand, centimeter by centimeter, from below the bar.
"Somebody," said the blonde girl.
"Looks like you found him," said Casey, trying to sound calm, as though this sort of thing happened every day. Stay cool, stay calm, and stay alive, he thought.
The older man laughed. The sound pierced Casey’s ears like needles wrapped in barbed wire. "Not yet, my friend," said the man through his laughter. "We haven’t found whom we seek." He leaned in, then, and Casey stared into twin pools of hell masquerading as human eyes. "Not yet. But we will.
"With God’s help and yours, we will."