Archons Ii: The Becoming

By S. R. Herman

Taking up where Archons: The Foundling left off, Hutch and Jasmine find their new daughter, Simmie, is eagerly sought after by the evil Gadiael, the Keepers long-hated enemies. Why they want the baby Archon is uncertain, but the fact that they will stop at nothing to attain her is made perfectly clear. After several failed attempts to acquire her leaves the Keepers short of more than a few warriors and shades. Meanwhile, the Dark Lady, the Gadiaels secret weapon in the war against the Keepers, had been tasked by Nod, the Gadiaels leader, with keeping the baby Simmie safely in the hands of the Keepers until he says otherwise. The reason why is unclear. But one thing is for certainSimmie, newborn Archon of God, is more important than anyone knows.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 27, 2017
• ISBN: 9781524584382

S. R. Herman

S.R. Herman lives in southwest Missouri with his wife and two kids. He enjoys recreational target shooting and researching historical events.He is currently working on the third book in the Archons series, and hopes to have it in the hands of the readers by the end of next year.

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Copyright © 2017 by S. R. Herman.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

All artwork in this book is the sole property of David Faught-Artist Esquire LLC and S. R. Herman. Feel free to browse other wonderful artwork and David’s website: DavidFaught-ArtistEsquire.com

Rev. date: 02/27/2017

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CONTENTS

PART ONE

Snow Blind

Prologue

Chapter 1 The Stranger

Chapter 2 The Resurgence

Chapter 3 Plans Postponed

Chapter 4 A House Divided

Chapter 5 Trading Places

Chapter 6 Over the River and Through the Woods

Chapter 7 The Best-Laid Plans

Chapter 8 Losses

Chapter 9 Snow Blind

Chapter 10 Secrets Revealed

Chapter 11 An Outlaw Once Again

Chapter 12 Enemies Turned Allies

PART TWO

The Aftermath

Chapter 13 The Meadow

Chapter 14 The Survivors

Chapter 15 The Supreme Council

Chapter 16 Becoming

Chapter 17 Through the Rabbit Hole

Chapter 18 Sisters

Chapter 19 Buck’s Street Howitzer

Chapter 20 Happy Birthday

Chapter 21 Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend

Chapter 22 Asmedai

Epilogue

To my wife Melissa, who never stops believing in me. I love you so much. Thanks for being my muse and the template for Jasmine. She would not exist without you.

To Mrs. Stephanie Obert, my high school English lit. teacher. Thank you for pre-editing this book. You’ll never know just how much that meant to me. You are an awesome person and a great friend. Prayers out to you and yours.

To David Faught, the artist who drew the artwork for this book, and his sister Christy who manages his business, David Faught-Artist Esquire LLC. You listened to my exhaustive demands and delivered in spades. Thank you so much for your patience and friendship. You guys are great.

A Note From the Author

As I said earlier, Mrs. Stephanie Obert pre-edited this book, and I am very grateful for her time and effort. However, due to my being a scatter brain at times, I had her edit the book before the final re-write. So, being an author and subject to the whims of fancy all authors suffer with, there are parts, small and large, that have been added to, removed, and created totally anew throughout the book that Stephanie did NOT edit. If you, the ever loved reader, find errors in grammar, syntax or otherwise, it is not the fault of Mrs. Obert. Those mistakes are all mine, and I own them in full.

Also, as an avid reader myself, I love artwork in books, such as can be found in Stephen Kings Dark Tower series. But I do not like for the art to dictate to the reader what a certain character looks like. I feel that job is up to the authors descriptive and the readers imagination. That imagination should be the fuel that creates the visuals for the story. To that end, I instructed David Faught to create his images in such a way as to give a vague idea of what the characters look like, yet not so real in scope as to hinder the readers imagination. I think he came through WONDERFULLY! Thank you David.

PART ONE

Snow Blind

Prologue

November 24, 1943

The morning of the twenty-fourth saw the beginnings of winter for the sleepy little town of Hollister, Missouri. A light snow from the night before covered the dirt streets in town, and a sudden wind blew loose snowflakes across the main drag in little whirlwinds, only to set them back down again in the doorways and stoops that lined the south side of the street.

Most of the inhabitants in this little farming community held out hopes for a mild winter instead of the blizzards like the year before. But last night’s dusting of snow told a different story, and it was a story the old-timers had all heard before.

Those over fifty remembered the blizzard of 1904. That winter had started out just like this one. The light flurries began in mid-October in ’04, just as they had this year. And the maddening temperature fluctuations, (seventy degrees one day, fifteen degrees the next) had begun the week before.

Jis’ look at the tails on the squirrels, ifn’ ya don’t believe me, old man Potter said to Reverend Wheaton as they met on the boardwalk.

A bushy tail means a harsh winter. You mark my words! Potter shouted at the good reverend when he smiled indulgently and walked away.

Potter fumed as he watched the reverend walk inside his church and close the door.

Young fool, Potter mumbled under his breath. He’ll see, they’ll all see. I may be old, but Momma Potter didn’t raise no fool.

Agitated, old man Potter tugged his collar up around his neck as a cold wind came howling in from the north.

Something cold and harsh is a-comin’ this way, he thought as he turned around and followed the boardwalk to Kirkham’s General Store. It was getting late, and he still hadn’t had his cup of coffee and doughnut.

Once inside the general store, Potter took in his surroundings. The store was warm and welcoming, just as always, and the smell of coffee and bacon cooking in the kitchen tantalized his hunger. Over by the potbellied stove, Potter saw his two best friends, Frank and Billy, sitting around a little table. The two old farmers were lamenting the woes of a harsh winter as foretold by the fruit of the persimmon trees.

Finally, someone with some smarts about ’em, Potter thought as he grabbed a cup of coffee and went to sit with his friends.

Pulling up a chair, Potter joined in the conversation as Frank and Billy tried to explain to the younger generation about the weather.

If the persimmons have spoons inside ’em, it means a bad winter’s a-comin’, Frank argued.

But the younger farmers in the room just laughed, calling the old men gathered around the stove a bunch of superstitious old codgers. They claimed basing the outcome of a winter yet to happen on the prognostication of a tree was foolhardy.

You’d be better off listening to old man Potter and his fuzzy squirrel butts. The young men laughed.

It’s their tails, ya stupid kids, not their butts! Potter yelled, making the young men laugh all the harder. And it’s true, I tell ya!

And you better mind the dusting of snow last night too, Billy jumped in, defending his friend. That snow was a herald of somethin’ big a-comin’.

But the young men just laughed harder, making the old-timers madder and madder as their faces burned red.

Behind the counter, Walter Koenig dried coffee cups with a dish towel as he listened to the argument. Personally, he couldn’t care less about how severe the winter was going to be. At the moment, all he wanted was a speedy end to this argument before one of the older men got angry enough to throw his coffee cup across the room.

This, of course, was what the younger men were hoping for. They lived to prod the older farmers into providing them with a show as they ate their breakfast. So the chances the young farmers would let up on the old fools and their silly superstitions was next to nil. They would keep stirring the pot of contention until someone lost their tempter, probably old man Potter, and then the crockery would start flying.

Ah, what do you know, ya old fossil! Jeff Faraday shouted across the room to old man Potter.

Walter sighed deeply when he heard this and reached for the broom and dustpan in the corner. It wouldn’t be long now.

And Walter was right. Old man Potter responded to Jeff Faraday’s insult by hurling a flapjack across the room. It sailed like a dinner plate and struck Jeff across the forehead, leaving a trail of maple syrup running into the boy’s eyes.

This caused the room to explode into a mixture of raucous laughter and foul language. Soon coffee cups and pancakes were flying across the room like German buzz bombs, leaving Walter to clean up as they fought.

Meanwhile, on the other end of town where all the towns churches resided, something besides a potential fistfight was brewing—something that would make the discussion of a harsh winter seem trivial in comparison.

The Fundamental Baptist Church sat nearest to Hollister’s southern border and was the youngest church in town. Having been founded in 1873, most people considered it to be not as religious as the other more established churches in town. The Fundamental Baptist Church’s congregation consisted mainly of the town’s younger citizens. Its elders, if you could call them that, were all in their forties, and its pastor was only thirty-seven years old, far too young to know anything about the mysteries of the Bible, let alone explain the will of God to his congregation.

Outside the little church’s white slat-wood walls, the Eternal Rest Cemetery sat nestled close to the boarders of a dense forest. The forest served as a natural boundary between Hollister and Trilby Lake some five miles distant and was said to be haunted by the older generation, which is why all the churches in Hollister were built where they were—to serve as a buffer of holy ground between the town and the ghosts of the haunted woods.

The Fundamental Baptist Church’s cemetery, having been built in the same year as the church, was the smallest in town. It held only four hundred graves, and most of the older people in town thought that to be buried in such a small upstart cemetery was a shameful way to be interred.

Yet small as it was, the congregation of the Fundamental Baptist Church were quite proud of the Eternal Rest Cemetery. Since its founding in 1873, the graves had multiplied, and it now boasted three mausoleums, more than any other cemetery in town. Several of the ornate tombstones were large enough to rival anything found in Europe. And they were certainly able to stand toe-to-toe with anything found in the other more established cemeteries.

Near the back of the cemetery could be found the older graves, starting with the first internee, the church organist. She was buried in the same year the church was founded, and all other gravestones were laid out to the right to hers. From her headstone, one grave marker after another were added until they stretched almost the entire length of the back row. Yet there was an odd, out-of-place gap in the back row that made the uniform look of the cemetery feel awkward and unbalanced. Going from left to right, the tombstones were laid out in exact, neat rows spaced precisely four feet apart, except for the back row. Here, immediately to the right of Frank Thomson’s headstone, there was a span of unused ground that stretched thirty yards to the right. Here, standing all alone, was a single tombstone, standing as sentinel against the haunted forest behind it. It stood all alone, devoid of any neighboring tombstones, and was covered in lichen, mold.

The headstone was quite plain to look at and was draped in Spanish moss which partially obscured the name and date of the person buried beneath. The branches of the forest oaks and maple trees hung low over the grave and were weighed down with overgrowths of Spanish moss, making this lonely plot of the Eternal Rest Cemetery look like it belonged inside the haunted forest instead of standing guard against it.

This tiny uncared-for tombstone was the smallest in the graveyard. It stood only a foot tall and was pitted and stained by the weather. Sitting atop this lonely pockmarked little headstone was a statue of a small cherub. She was blowing her miniature bugle toward the ground while dangling her tiny legs over the edge of the marker. The little angel’s cherubic face was carved in a strenuous relief. Her crinkled forehead and chubby ballooned-out cheeks were blowing the tiny bugle for all she was worth, sounding out a silent herald to the decades as they marched by on their way into the history books.

On the face of this solitary tombstone, carved deep into the granite below the little angel’s legs, were etched these words:

Here lies Dermot Ray Higgins

The meanest man the world has ever seen

Born??? - Died December 2, 1877

Those who knew him are glad he’s dead

Sadly, the man beneath this gravestone had been hated by everyone while he was alive. He was a criminal of the highest order, and wherever he went, people turned away and closed their doors to him.

As for the little angel sitting atop his tombstone, it was a mystery as to who had placed her there. The town certainly hadn’t paid for it, and the churches denied responsibility for the deed as well. When questioned about the matter, the pastor of the Methodist Church had become quite angry, saying there was no way he was going to take up a mercy offering to decorate this grave.

With all the clergy in town denying the charitable act, speculations flew as to who could have placed the angle atop Dermot’s grave.

If not the churches, then who? was the prime piece of gossip at Kirkham’s for weeks after Dermot’s burial.

Of course, rumor had it that a local prostitute named Millie Brice, whom Dermot frequented whenever he had the money, had paid for the adornment. Still, others believed it was a long-lost relative no one knew Dermot had.

But the truth was it really was the pastor of the Methodist church. He had placed the granite angel over Dermot’s grave as a joke and then was afraid to tell anyone what he had done.

It seemed that a week after Dermot’s death, the pastor commissioned a local sculptor in Reeds Spring to carve the cherub. He instructed the artist to carve the little angel with his bugle pointed down, toward Hell. That way, the demons of purgatory would have fair warning that Dermot Ray Higgins was on the way.

As so often is the case, as the generations passed by, people forgot why Dermot was hated. They looked at the solitary marker in the Eternal Rest Cemetery and wondered why the Baptists had placed the grave all alone near the haunted forest.

But the old-timers knew, and they wasted no time in telling Dermot’s story to anyone who asked, especially around Halloween. They told it so often and with such vibrato that most of the younger people in town figured the stories were now more legendary myth than fact. Today the name Dermot Ray Higgins was more of a ghost story than any real accounting of historical fact.

Yet in truth, this was one time the old-timers could not spin a large-enough tale to press the boundaries of a historical fact. Dermot Ray Higgins was evil, pure and simple, the kind of evil that true ghosts shied away from.

When he was alive, he drank, gambled, bullied, and killed his way across Southwest Missouri for twenty-three years, terrorizing the people of Hollister, Forsyth, Reeds Spring, Kimberling City, and Branson. It was said the number of people he had killed near fifty-seven, half of which were women and three were but infants. In his prime, Dermot had even burned down the Christian Church of Forsyth simply because he didn’t like the way its pastor walked.

If God were real, he wouldn’t suffer a priest with a limp, Dermot said as he tossed a burning torch through the stained-glass window.

The outlaw had no friends who would claim knowing him (save for the hooker Millie Brice and that was only because Dermot paid for it) and no family to care for his grave once he was finally dead. In the end, Dermot entered eternity as he had lived his life—utterly and completely alone.

Even the churches in town, which were supposed to care for the sinner and saint alike, argued over who would be forced to accept Dermot into their graveyards. The dispute raged for days, with one clergyman actually throwing a Bible at a rival pastor as a rebuke. But in the end, it was the newly founded Fundamental Baptist Church that came out on the short end of the stick.

The other churches argued that since the Fundamentals were the youngest church in town, they would have the most room in their cemetery. Their own graveyards were all nearly bursting to capacity, and the remaining plots were assigned to church elders.

Knowing it was pointless to argue, the young pastor relented and buried Dermot as far away as he could from the other residents of the Eternal Rest Cemetery.

Since that day, not a single visitor came to Dermot’s grave. Not animals, not people, not even insects dared fly over or crawl on top of his grave. All creatures great and small stayed as far away as they could from this unhallowed piece of ground, fearing its inhabitant would reach up and drag their soul to hell.

Even Dermot’s tombstone, carved from the densest of granite, stood stock still, refusing to lean one way or the other as the ground settled beneath it. During the spring thaw, when the other gravestones would lean due to the melting of the frozen soil, Dermot’s headstone refused to move. It stood straight as an arrow through all sorts of weather and was the only tombstone the grave keeper never had to straighten.

It ain’t natural, I tell ya, the grave keeper remarked to a townie one night over drinks at the Ye English Inn. Headstones are supposed to move, to lean as they settle. But this un’ ain’t never so much as twitched. It’s like God himself put a curse on that grave.

And so it has been for the last sixty years. No one visits Dermot’s grave, and nothing stirs except the wind.

Until today. Today, with the coming of the snow, something strange happened with Dermot’s tombstone. The ground that had in the past refused to move began to stir, not much, just enough to cause an ever so slight dimple in the dirt, a dimple that had not been there the day before. In fact, the casual passerby wouldn’t have even noticed the slight dip in the ground directly over Dermot’s decaying head. Nor would they have noticed that Dermot’s grave was not the only one that had changed during the night.

As the snow began to fall around midnight, all the graves experienced the same shifting of the soil beneath their headstones, and it happened at exactly the same time. It was almost as if there was a supernatural power at work, one that wanted the denizens of the grave to awaken, to claw their way back into the world of the living.

And they would have been right.

Had a Keeper from Bentwater been present, they could have stopped this black force before it could awaken the dead. But the Keepers hadn’t seen a genuine revenant in over a millennium, so they had long since abandoned their practice of keeping watch over local cemeteries.

But after today, things were going to change. For the Keepers, they were going to need to reinstate their policy concerning revenant outbreaks. And for the peoples of Hollister, Branson, Kimberling City, and Forsyth, well, their populations were about to become a lot smaller.

Chapter I

The Stranger

November 24, 1943

The sound of new black-and-whites walking down the wooden boardwalk of Hollister’s main street echoed under the shingled porch roof. As the footfalls of the well-dressed stranger rang out, people closed their blinds, pulled curtains shut, and crossed the street to walk in the mud. All so they could avoid eye contact with this dapper stranger.

But the stranger wasn’t a complete unknown. Everyone in Hollister who had access to a nickel had seen men like this one before, at the Monarch Movie House in Downtown Branson. The strange man in town was a gangster. And with his confident swagger, tilted fedora, and leather suitcase, he looked like a character straight off the silver screen, like Cagney or Bogie.

Except this was no movie star from Hollywood, this was the real thing. A genuine New York gangster, live and in the flesh. And the citizens of Hollister wanted nothing to do with him.

The stranger walked straight past Kirkham’s General Store, Mason’s Butcher Shop, and Faught’s, the town barbershop. The gangster stared straight ahead and didn’t stop until he came to the Ye English Inn, Hollister’s only hotel. Once there, he opened the red-painted door hard and strode in like he owned the place.

Taking a moment to acclimate himself to his surroundings, the gangster saw a staircase leading to the rooms upstairs on his right and the reception area to his left. The walls, clerk’s desk, and staircase were all made of large river rock, while the wood molding and guest furniture were made of some rich dark-colored wood. The stranger had seen furniture like this before because it was favored by the swankier New York hotels. Mahogany, he thought it was, but he couldn’t remember for sure. And seeing it here in Hollister, Missouri, was quite a culture shock. At the Ritz Carlton, sure. But at the Ye English Inn and feed barn? It was almost surreal.

The thought made him smile a crooked smile, one that revealed incisors like a tiger, making him look more like a demonic predator than a gangster. But he soon wiped the grin away a resumed his persona of a hitman from New York. He shrugged, tugged at his tie, and descended the small stairway leading into the lobby, continuing to take in his surroundings as he moved.

Above the counter hung a stuffed deer’s head and a mounted trout, while in the reception area sat crystal vases and Tiffany lamps, their glass shades cobbled together from every conceivable gaudy color. The whole thing was a mishmash of country meets big city, and it reminded the gangster of a ski lodge in Wolf Creek, Utah. He had once carried out a hit there, and the interior of that lodge was a lot like the Ye English Inn, with its mix of rustic and modern furnishings. He had nearly been killed in Wolf Creek, Utah, and he hated the place for it. Now he hated Hollister and the Ye English Inn as well.

What a dump, the gangster said as he entered the foyer.

Slamming the door closed behind him, he sat his suitcase on the floor and rang the silver bell on the counter. As the metallic ringing echoed through the spacious lobby, a large man dressed in a long-sleeved white shirt, complete with black armband and bolo tie, stepped out from the manager’s office.

He smiled jovially as he said, Help ya, m-m-mister.

The gangster curled his lip in disgust at the man’s stammer. He hated infirmities in others and was quick to point them out whenever possible. But he was tired from his trip and simply wanted to shower and catch a few z’s before getting on with business, so he said nothing about the stutter as he ordered a single room with a private bath.

The desk clerk, a balding middle-aged man in wire-rimmed glasses, tried to ask the man if he wanted the room for one day or a week but was silenced when the stranger held up his hand and pulled out his wallet. It was leather, it was fat, and it had an embossed little cat with green eyes on its cover. The cat was leering maliciously at a tiny little mouse, exposing over large fangs while his green eyes slanted evilly.

Looking up to the calligraphy sign hanging on the wall behind the desk, the gangster said with a sniff of disgust, It’s $2 a night, huh? Lovely. Must be a real honey of a room for that much green.

Reaching into his wallet, he withdrew a single twenty and slid it across the counter as he said, I’ll take a room with a private bath for a week.

I-I c-c-can’t change a t-twenty this early in the d-d-d-day, the clerk said, stammering even harder out of nervousness.

I don’t want any change, the stranger said nonchalantly. What I do want is privacy. That means no maid service, no breakfast calls, and no morning knocks on my door for paper delivery. If you even have a newspaper in this crappy little town, which I doubt.

N-n-no maid service? the clerk stammered.

That’s right, Porky Pig, n-n-no m-m-maid s-s-service, the man said hatefully, growing impatient with the rotund little man. I’ll make my own bed and clean my own room. Just leave three clean towels and a new bar of soap—wrapped, please—on a cart outside my room in the evenings.

Y-y-yes, sir, a stuttering clerk had replied.

And if I find a mint on my pillow, I’ll show you a new way to eat it. You got that, Porky? the man said most seriously.

Y-y-y-yes, sir, the clerk said as a nervous bead of sweat ran down his chubby cheek.

I hate mints, the gangster murmured to himself as he fished another twenty out of his wallet.

Now here’s another fin. This one is for you alone. It’s not to go to the owner of this… fine establishment, he said, looking around in disgust.

W-w-what for? the clerk stammered.

It’s a down payment on my privacy. Every Monday I’ll give you another twenty for the room and a second for your services in securing my solitude for another seven days. That means you will make $26 above and beyond the standard $14 fee for a seven-day room rental, a pretty nice piece of green for this toss pot of a town, eh? the stranger said with a toothy grin that reminded the fat man of the leering cat on his wallet.

I-I-I should s-s-say so, the clerk said with wide eyes. His pay was $5 a week, so an additional twenty-six bucks was a small fortune.

For my money, I expect you to personally see that no one enters my room while I’m away. Also, no one knocks on my door while I’m in residence, he continued.

The gangster wasn’t trying to be overly difficult with his demands, just cautious. It was common practice for a hitter to knock on your door before opening fire. It ensured that their target was standing right behind the door before they sprayed through it with a few hundred rounds from a tommy gun.

B-but— the clerk started but was silenced with a raised hand from the stranger.

There now, you see, you’re talking. I paid you for silence, remember? the gangster said, reaching across the counter to take one of the twenties back.

For every infraction of the rules, I will take back a twenty. After I have taken both fin’s back, you get one more chance. Then I take something else. I’m partial to fingers, but if the mood hits me, I’ll settle for toes. Do we understand one another? he said flatly, with no hint he was joking.

The clerk nodded to indicate he did, in fact, understand, and the gangster smiled his toothy grin again.

Good, he said and handed back the twenty to the clerk. Our contract begins now.

The clerk nodded a second time.

Still smiling, the man took his room key from the counter, picked up his suitcase, and walked up the flight of stairs to his right.

Reaching the top landing, he turned and spoke back down to the lobby. Oh yes, I almost forgot. In case there should be a phone call for me from a man calling himself Mr. Mangano, come and get me immediately, understand?

The desk clerk nodded twice in the affirmative but said nothing.

Good man, the gangster said slyly. You learn quickly. You are going to make a lot of money while I am here, provided you can keep me happy.

With that, he topped the stairs, turned to his left, and opened the door to his room. He entered his room then closed the door quietly behind him with a soft snick of the latch.

***

The next morning the gangster came downstairs in a freshly ironed and starched pinstripe suit. He walked over to the counter with a swagger that was smooth as grease and tugged at the fat man’s sleeve.

Tell me something there, Porky. Is there a place in this town where everybody gathers? You know, a social ‘hot spot,’ if you will?

With fear in his eyes, the clerk stammered, K-K-Kirkham’s.

What’s a K-K-Kirkham’s? the gangster quipped while wiping the two fingers that had touched the fat man’s sleeve with a silk handkerchief.

The general st-st-store, the clerk answered as sweat beaded up on his brow.

And where is this K-K-Kirkham’s? the gangster asked.

Out the d-d-door and tu-tu-tu-to the right, the clerk said. Five d-d-doors—

Yeah, yeah, five doors down, I got it. Stop now before you develop lock jaw, the stranger said in disgust.

Wanting to leave as quickly as possible, the gangster strode across the lobby and out the hotel’s front door.

A chill north wind blew down the street and across his neck, causing him to pick up his pace while pulling up the collar of his trench coat. Glancing to his left, he saw a two-story building made of the same river rock and mortar as the hotel’s staircase. Hanging above the front door was a very large very white sign with five-foot-tall red letters that screamed out to the world:

Hollister Drug Co.

Soft Drinks, Sundries,

And Fishing Tackle

The gangster laughed despite surly attitude. Penicillin and night crawlers. It’s a one-stop survival shop, he mused and kept walking.

After walking past several other businesses, he came to the post office. He paused briefly to look around him to see if anyone was watching, then looked through the window. He looked to the left of the surprisingly large room and then to the right. Finally, he found what he was looking for. Hanging on the back wall next to the postmaster was a large corkboard. Tacked to it were lost pet fliers, church social bulletins, and what the gangster was truly interested in: the wanted posters from the FBI.

For a moment, he thought about going inside to see if he had made it to the top five yet, but the temptation fled when another jet of cold air nearly took his hat off his head. Shrugging his coat collar higher up around his neck, he clenched his coats lapels tight in his fist and kept walking.

Nearing the end of the wood-decked walkway, he reached the last business on this side of the street. Stopping to look at the red and gold stenciled words painted on the plate glass window, he read,

Kirkham’s General Store

Est. 1874

Seeing the date, the gangster wondered briefly if this place had ever been robbed by Jesse James. The outlaw was from around here somewhere, so it was possible.

But on second thought, the gangster doubted that Jesse James had even been to Hollister at all. If the famous bandit had frequented this place, or any other business in town, there would be signs bragging about it everywhere. Rubes like these loved to brag about stuff like that. And a sudden thought of his name instead of Jesse James’s being on the window made him smile.

Deciding neither he nor Jesse James would never waste their time with a small mom-and-pop shop like this, he opened the door to Kirkham’s and was immediately greeted by a warm rush of air from the piping-hot potbellied stove in the corner.

Come in, come in, a jovial middle-aged fat man welcomed him from behind the counter.

Jeez-a-loo! Don’t these people do anything but eat in this sewer of a town? This guy must be three hundred pounds! he thought to himself.

Saying nothing in return, the gangster closed the door behind him. Looking around, his training as a hitman took over, and he began scanning the room for possible threats. There were six people in the little store, seven if you counted the storekeep, and none of them looked like a person he need worry about. Four men were dressed in coveralls with boots caked in mud and crap, while the other two wore jeans and plaid shirts. The fat man behind the counter, well, he looked like one of those overweight bartenders you saw in those corny serial westerns. He even had one of those arm bands things tied high up on his right arm. It was a gaudy red, white, and blue thing with black lace around its edges. The elastic had been sprung because of the man’s huge fat arms, and he had to keep tugging it back up where it belonged.

Scoffing at himself for his overly cautious demeanor, the gangster shrugged off his coat and hung it on the coat rack next to the door.

When the rest of the room saw the pinstripe suit and black and white oxfords, they immediately fell silent. Everyone stared as the sound of percolating coffee and burning wood from the stove dominated the room. A nervous chink of porcelain touching porcelain cut through the air as a shaky ham-fisted farmer sat his cup of coffee down in his saucer, causing everyone in the room to look briefly at him.

The gangster paid them no mind, however. He had already determined there was no threat in the room and had busied himself with straightening his tie and collar in the mirror next to the coat rack.

Satisfied with his appearance, he hurried over to the potbellied stove and placed his hands as close as he dared to its nearly glowing sides, rubbing his palms together quickly to coax warmth back into his fingers.

How much for the coffee? he said without turning to face the storekeep.

Uh five… five cents, the fat man stammered.

Jeez, does everyone in this town stutter too? the gangster said. I’ll bet the Sunday services here are a regular laugh riot. Tell me, does the pastor dismiss for lunch, or does he make everyone stay until he f-f-f-finishes his s-s-sermon?

Not a soul spoke, leaving the stranger to laugh alone at his own joke.

I see humor took the same train out of town as basic speech and healthy dietary habits, he said and then walked over to the counter to pour himself a cup of coffee.

Are those doughnuts any good? he asked the storekeep.

My mother makes them, the man said sheepishly.

I didn’t ask who made them. I asked if they were any good, the man said with an exhaustive sigh.

Over the fat man’s shoulder, the gangster looked at a chubby-faced elderly woman staring at him through a square opening cut into the wall. Presumably, this was the fat store clerk’s mother. She was in the kitchen preparing more doughnuts because flour was streaked down her nose.

Yes, they are quite good. The chocolate-covered ones are particularly tasty, the fat man said, drawing the gangster’s attention back to him.

Cocking his head, the stranger furrowed his brow ever so slightly and said, Did you just say ‘quite good’ and ‘particularly tasty’?

Yes, the man said with the small whispery voice of the weak.

You don’t speak with the same hayseed accent as everyone else in this crappy little town. Where are you from? the stranger said.

Boston, the storekeep said nervously.

Is that so? the gangster said suspiciously. Ever hear of a man named Joseph Dentalgia while you were in Boston?

Yes was all the fat man could say.

Everyone in Boston had heard of Joseph Dentalgia. He was the head of the largest crime family in Massachusetts. The notion that this man had heard of Dentalgia testified that he had indeed lived in Boston or at the very least had family living there.

Tell me, how did a sophisticated, dapper, smooth-talking man about town like yourself come to live here?

My grandfather owned this store. When he passed away, my mother and I moved from Boston to Hollister to take over the family business, the storekeep said.

Boston, huh, said the gangster thoughtfully, weighing the story for truth.

I guess you’re telling the truth, the gangster said, relaxing a little.

He wouldn’t put it past Joseph Dentalgia to send a man of his own to represent his own interest in this situation. But as far as he knew, Dentalgia was still unaware that his missing son, Nicky, was here. Besides, even if he did know, he wouldn’t have sent a lard ball like this guy. He would have sent someone like himself—a ruthless, seasoned killer.

Placing himself at ease, the stranger said, Tell me, Mr. Boston, you have a name?

Walter, the man said.

Walter, huh. Walter Kirkham? the gangster asked, certain now he was not a member of the Dentalgia family. No self-respecting wise guy would use the name Walter.

No, Walter Koenig, the man said.

Koenig? the gangster asked with a raised eyebrow.

"The Kirkhams are on my mother’s side of the family.