I opened the top drawer. Fished around for a box of .38 caliber.

I pushed back from the desk when I heard the big engine again, closer this time. I didn’t doubt it was the Mustang. I went to the window, peeked through the blinds but couldn’t see anything. I went through the back room and opened the door to the alley, stood there a moment listening. Quiet.

The alley stank like trash. It was still so damn hot. I stepped out, looked up and down, trying to catch any little hint of movement in the shadows. I didn’t hear or see anything, but then a light in the firehouse window caught my eye. Wasn’t supposed to be anyone in there, although the town council certainly wouldn’t feel the need to inform me if they were doing some work on the place. What kind of work at this time of night, I couldn’t guess.

I should probably take a look. I was wearing a badge after all, and they hadn’t fired me yet.

I went back inside and grabbed the revolver off the desk, clipped it to my belt. Okay, let’s see what’s in the firehouse. I headed down the alley, my hand resting on the revolver. My own breathing sounded a little too loud in my ears.

Simmer down, dumbass.

I listened at the backdoor of the fire station. All I heard was dead wood. I tried the knob. Unlocked. I swung it in, waiting for the hinges to creak, but they didn’t. I entered a kitchen, florescent lights buzzing overhead. I expected the place to smell musty and unused, but it didn’t.

I paused, surveyed the kitchen counter. Unopened cans of beans. A big stack of paper plates. Jugs of supermarket water. Had the state passed the new budget? Maybe the firefighters were moving back in. I wondered if that meant there wouldn’t be enough in the budget to put me on full time. Like it mattered anyway. I was sure Krueger would take my star away in the morning.

I walked through the kitchen, down a short hall and found another door which lead into the garage. I cracked the door and looked inside. The lights were on, and a truck was parked there. A big moving van. The words Budget Movers still showed through where they had been painted over. Somebody had taped over the little windows of the garage door to keep the light from showing on the street.

I heard movement and held my breath. Voices.

The door crack didn’t let me see too much, but I wasn’t ready to barge in yet. I shifted around, strained to see and hear. A couple of guys standing in back of the truck, mostly out of sight. The elbow and leg of one just in view. A black shirt and jeans. I closed my eyes, put my ear to the door crack.

The first voice was probably in English but with such a thick Spanish accent, I couldn’t follow what he was saying. The other voice was clearer and in English. I held my breath, strained to listen.

Billy.

It was Billy’s voice, and I could almost hear what he was saying. The two seemed to be arguing, but it wasn’t too heated. Nothing too passionate, just a disagreement about something or other. But since I just had my ass stomped by some Mexicans, you can bet your sweet ass I was curious what Deputy Billy was doing in a supposedly closed up firehouse, talking to a Mexican, hell, maybe even the guys who’d kicked me in the ribs.

So yeah, I was going top find out more.

I opened the door just enough to scoot through then shut it back. I crouch-walked to the front of the truck, put a hand on the hood. Cold. It had been parked here a little while, or anyway, it hadn’t just arrived. I eased my way down the other side where there was a narrow aisle between the truck and a bunch of oil cans and tools and other stuff that had collected up against the wall. I went on my belly by the rear tire, lay there flat and stone still, trying to control my breathing.

“I told you these ain’t even the right ones.” Billy’s voice. Exasperated. The jangle sound of keys. “I tried every one of them three times.”

“You said get the keys from him and I did,” insisted the heavily accented Mexican.

“Hell, you probably got the keys to that piece of shit Nova.”

Now that was just fucking uncalled for.

The Mexican muttered something I didn’t catch. They talked so damn fast.

“You better watch your Goddamn mouth,” Billy said. “This isn’t my fault, remember? You people are the ones fucked this up. Where the hell is Juanita, anyway?”

The Mexican said something again, talking too low to catch.

“Good then,” Billy said. “Keep her out of the way and go find the boy again and get the right keys this time.”

Mumbling.

“Yes, right now, Goddamn it. We got to get this shit back on the rails.”

The Mexican mumbled one more time and walked back toward the door I’d just come through. I watched his steps under the truck and recognized the boots. I’d seen one of them up close, standing square on my chest. I wasn’t eager for a replay of that situation.

The door slammed shut, and the Mexican was gone.

Billy shuffled his feet and said, “Shit.”

Okay, time for me to back the fuck out of there and call in the Marines.

I backed right into a stack of oil cans. They tumbled and clattered across the cement. Son of a bitch! Just like some dumb shit in a Three Stooges movie.

“Who’s there?” Billy came around the truck.

I stood up quick, tried and failed to look casual.

“Toby.” Billy’s face got hard like I’d never seen before. “How long you been there? What did you hear?”

“Just saw the light on, thought I’d better check it out.” I tried to play it cool but couldn’t stop my head from looking around for an escape route. “But I guess you got everything under control here.”

He took two real slow steps toward me. “I told you to go home, Toby.”

“Yeah.”

“We’re … uh … hiring some guys to fix up the firehouse,” Billy said.

“That Mexican and two of his buddies just kicked my ass.”

Billy shook his head. “No, not this guy. You’re thinking of somebody else.”

“No I’m not.”

“I said you’re thinking of somebody else,” Billy said. “You need to trust me on this.”

“I just saw the guy, man.”

“Jesus, Toby, you’re not making this easy. You could play along, you know.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

“It’s a shame. A damn crying shame, but there’s a whole lot of shit going on here that isn’t any of your business, and you’ll mess it up if I let you blab it around.”

I forced a laugh. It sounded scared. “Blab what, man? I don’t know what you’re talking about. I won’t blab.”

“Uh-huh.” He reached for the fire axe hanging on the wall, hefted it, testing the weight.

I thought this real quick: Billy wasn’t wearing his gun. I was.

My hand fell to my holster, but it was a bad play. Billy was already on me, the axe coming down fast. I threw up my hands to catch the handle as Billy barreled into me. We tumbled back into the oil cans and tools, something hard digging into my back, but I didn’t let go of the axe.

He sat on my chest, put all his weight into the axe. The blade hovered over my nose and edged closer. I cocked my head to the side and lifted up, opened my mouth wide as I could and bit into his knuckles. He hollered. Blood sprayed hot and salty into my mouth. He hung onto the axe, so I bit harder, grinding the teeth in until I hit bone.

Billy howled into a screech and let go, blood splashing over the two of us like an exploded ketchup packet. I spit out a wad of flesh then shoved the axe. The flat of the blade caught him good on the chin, and he tumbled off me.

I stood and ran, still clutching the axe to my chest.

A hand grabbed my ankle. I went flying, landing hard on the floor.

I scrambled to one knee, turned in time to see Billy coming at me again, full-blown murder in his eyes. I swept out one handed, the axe biting into Billy’s shin. He grunted and went down right in front of me. I stood, swung the axe over my head. Billy looked up, his eyes blinking wide with terror a split-second before the axe bounced off his skull, the strike vibrating up through my arms, a shock of pain in my wrists.