White Hot Pistol

By Eric Beetner

Award winning author Eric Beetner's latest novel begins with an abandoned truck, a dead body and a sack of cash. So begins a treacherous and twisty tale of escape and survival. A path of blood and destruction follow at every turn. It’s all leading to a showdown. Sometimes there is no escape without confrontation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stark Raving Group
• Release date: Mar 17, 2014
• ISBN: 9780989212946

Eric Beetner

Eric Beetner is the author of more than 30 works of crime and thriller fiction. He's received an ITW award nomination, as well as nominations for a Shamus, a Derringer and three Anthony awards. Ken Bruen called him, "The new maestro of Noir." and LitReactor said he was "the 21st century's answer to Jim Thompson." He works as a TV editor and producer and has earned 7 Emmy nominations.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Nash remembered the first time he escaped this town. Six years ago, he drove the same stretch of highway, only then he didn’t have his little sister asleep in the passenger seat. Back then, Jacy was only eleven.

She needed to escape for many of the same reasons. This town, a speck on a map, a town full of nothing but dead ends, it bled you dry. And then there was Brian.

The Stepdad.

Technically Jacy was Nash’s stepsister, and neither was Brian’s blood child. He was Mom’s third attempt at happily ever after, and the third time was decidedly not the charm.

Nash never had to deal with what Jacy had to from Brian, though. Nobody should have to deal with what she did.

The dashboard clock was in the single digits of the morning. He’d waited for hours outside the house, waiting for her to make her escape. He fought to stay awake, and now he was jealous of her snoring in the seat next to him. She’d gone to sleep so fast, so easy. Probably the unwinding of the noose around her neck as they cleared town limits. They could feel the rope loosen, even though Noirville is so gnat-shit small there’s no sign telling you that you’ve left. It’s such an unremarkable feat, why waste the paint?

He couldn’t be too mad at her deep slumber. He knew the feeling of freeing himself from the bonds of this town, these people. Still, his head nodded, searching for sleep, and the steady rhythm of the highway made it worse.

Nash reached into Jacy’s purse for a smoke. He’d quit years ago, but after breaking his stepsister free from the gates of hell, he felt he’d earned it. Plus, the buzz would keep him awake.

He kept his eyes on the road as his hand swam inside the bag. Everything felt the same, like rooting through a garbage can, until he settled on the gun.

Nash lifted it out of the purse to confirm he was right. A small, snub-nosed .38.

Yeah, he thought, not a bad idea. He couldn’t be angry at Jacy, not after what she told him. A gun seemed like a damn good idea. But no cigarettes.

He saw a sign for a rest area ahead. They hadn’t cleared very many miles, but a short stop for a Coke out of the machine wouldn’t be a risk. Unless something unusual happened, Brian wouldn’t know Jacy was gone until morning, and by then, they’d be in another state, tracing Nash’s old escape route to safety.

Nash folded the top flap of her purse over to close it enough so the gun wouldn’t slide out. He felt grateful he hadn’t come up with a glass pipe out of her purse. Crystal meth seemed to be the number one high school sport in town lately. A far cry from the occasional pot and stolen beers of his own youth.

He knew she’d tried it but didn’t know how truthful she’d been about how many times. Not that a little bump of crank wouldn’t get him across state lines in record time. He’d settle for a caffeine jolt instead.

The rest area showed up as a glow on the horizon a half mile away. With no other lights around and a flat midwestern landscape, the tall light posts had nowhere to hide. There were no secrets on the Great Plains. Not outdoors anyway.

Nash still couldn’t believe he’d come back. He’d turned around and never looked back the day he left. He thought of Jacy, now and then, but it wasn’t like they were all that close growing up. He was already ten when she was born. When she turned seven, her father was out, and Brian was in. By eighteen, Nash was gone, and her nightmare was about to begin.

When she told him the timeline of when it all began with Brian, Nash couldn’t help feeling a little responsible. With him out of the house, the green light was lit for Brian to begin his late night visits to her bedroom. To her bed.

She begged Nash to come home, to help her get out the way he had done before. He couldn’t say no.

Escape was the best option. Calling the cops, reporting the abuse, were options too, but not good ones. Hard to call the cops on your stepdad when your stepdad is the sheriff.

• • •

Nash eased his Honda, all one hundred and fifty-three thousand miles of it, onto the exit ramp, moving like a mesmerized insect to the three mercury vapor lamps high on their stanchions over the single octagonal building. A men’s and women’s restroom, a map on the wall, a few brochures for what passed as tourist attractions around these parts, and a row of vending machines beside a broken drinking fountain. It all seemed like an oasis to anyone unlucky enough to find themselves on this lonely stretch of highway, especially at night. To Nash, it was only the last gasp of his stupid hometown. Small, inadequate, useful only for pissing and shitting and then moving on down the road.

Only one other vehicle, a cube truck with a big storage area in back, sat parked under the lights. Smaller than a semi, it reminded Nash of the U-Haul he rented when he moved apartments last fall. Finally, he owned things. Not like when he left town with nothing more than a half-filled suitcase and a broken guitar.

Nash brought the car to a rolling stop, making sure not to jerk to a halt so as not to wake up Jacy. She stayed asleep as he turned the key and let the motor rest. He watched her for a few seconds, the deep calm settling over her as she took relaxing breaths for the first time in years, finally free from the fear her bedroom door might open, and Brian might slip inside.

Nash pushed gently on the door until it clicked shut. He headed for the small building, thinking he would get one can of Coke and down it quick, here, then get another for the road. He opened his wallet and dug out a few singles to feed the machine. He hoped like hell some ex-con state-worker had remembered to restock the soda cans, or that the damn thing wasn’t waiting inside to mock him with an Out Of Order sign.

As he stepped onto the curb, he could see the front end of the cube truck. Both doors were open, and he saw a dark shape half in and half out of the passenger side. He stopped and listened. The truck’s engine was off, he heard no other traffic from the highway, no voices in the night. He figured the driver must be in the toilet. With no one around and virtually no traffic, it must have seemed safe to leave the doors open while he took a piss.

Then Nash looked closer at the shape. The body was upside-down, which is why he didn’t recognize it as a person at first. Feet clad in worn Timberland boots pointed up into the truck’s cab while the slumped figure of a man rested on his head against the asphalt of the parking lot. The open door cast a shadow over the body, so Nash couldn’t tell if it was a young man or an old man, black or white, alive or dead. He could at least make an educated guess on the last one.

He folded the dollar bills in his hand and pushed them into his front pocket as he began walking toward the truck.

Hello? he said. No one answered.

As he got closer, he saw the man’s head was turned away, staring at the underside of the truck like he had engine trouble, and he stumbled out of the cab going to check it. But the body didn’t move.

Nash stepped closer, smelled something he didn’t recognize, and bent low.

Hello? he said again. He felt foolish doing it.

He knew for sure he was looking at a dead body, but he wanted to check before he called someone. An ambulance or the police, the choice would be decided by a quick check for a pulse.

Nash slid two fingers around the back of the man’s neck and walked his middle and pointer fingers forward to hunt for the artery on his neck facing the underside of the truck.

Nash felt something wet.

He jerked his hand away, and it came back stained red. As he tore his arm back from the body, he bumped the corpse, and it slid the rest of the way down from the cab until it lay on the flat pavement of the parking lot, half the body sprawled over into a handicapped spot.

Nash could see the wide opening on his neck. Without thinking, he wiped his hand on his jeans, smearing the fresh blood across his thigh. And it was fresh, he thought, still warm, in fact. This man hadn’t been dead for long.

Nash looked more closely and saw a knife a few inches away from the man’s shoulder, as if he had it tucked under his chin when he fell. The blade was long and blood stained, the ebony handle Nash expected to be inlaid with the words Murder Weapon.

He knew he should call the cops, but when the local jurisdiction involved a late-night wake up call to the man he least wanted to see in the world, the one whose stepdaughter was currently being kidnapped in Nash’s front seat, he decided a phone call could wait. The