Chapter 23: The Rusty Pick
I am screwed unless I find Maddie. My gaze swept the alley, searching for any sign, any clue. Then, a glint of metal caught my eye—a discarded burner phone near a dumpster.
"Maddie?" I whispered, scooping it up. A text message flashed on the screen, a single coordinate and a name: Rusty Pick. —M.
The text was a lifeline, a beacon in the encroaching darkness. I pocketed the phone, a grim smile touching my lips. She always had a plan B, and I was betting it involved getting us both out of this mess. The desert wasn't just a backdrop; it was a character, an accomplice to every dark deed done within its vast, indifferent embrace. But when I got there, I didn't find Maddie.
Instead, Sheriff Brody's cruiser idled at the curb outside the saloon, its headlights carving two stark beams through the dust. He stepped out, his earlier hardness replaced by a facade of weary concern.
"Jack," he drawled, the folksy tone back, but lacking its former conviction. "Fancy seeing you here. Everything alright?"
"It has been one hell of a day, and I need a drink. After I drink to forget this goddamn town, I will leave if that's alright with you," I reply, hoping he buys my lie.
"That's just fine by me, Jack. The desert's a lonely place for a city boy," Brody said, his eyes scanning the saloon's dark windows. He tapped a finger against his chin. "You know, Maddie Hicks hasn't been herself lately. Heard she's been a little… unpredictable." A warning, cloaked in casual concern. He knew. My blood ran cold. The man was a viper in a sheriff's uniform. Brody's smile was a thin, predatory curve. "Some folks are calling her the 'Dark Rose' now. Saying she's the real power in Calico." He paused, letting the name hang in the air, a poisonous bloom. "You should be careful who you trust out here, Jack. Especially when the thorns are hidden so well." He tipped his hat, then climbed back into his cruiser, leaving me to face the neon glow of the saloon sign alone.
Funny, the man who pocketed my evidence and lives behind ghost stories just told me not to trust the only person who has been marginally honest with me. I stepped into the saloon, the scent of stale beer and desperation washing over me, a familiar perfume in this forgotten town. The weight of Brody's words settled in my gut, a heavy counterpoint to the gnawing fear for Maddie.
With her cover blown, she can't hide behind her reporter's mask anymore. Hell, I don't think she can trust most of her Kings either. But that is a conversation I will have with her once I find her again.
The whiskey burned a familiar path down my throat, but the heat did little to thaw the ice in my veins. Brody's words echoed in my mind: ‘Dark Rose. Thorn hid so well.’ He'd played his hand, and now I knew the rules of this twisted game. Maddie wasn't just a reporter; she was the power broker of Calico, a ghost manipulating shadows from her hidden command center. But if she was the Dark Rose, who planted the bombs? Who tipped off the Mongols? The same question that gnawed at me was the one I needed to ask her: Who betrayed us? I found a table in the darkest corner of the saloon. The whiskey was cheap, but the burn was real, a welcome distraction from the cold dread coiling in my gut.
"Another one, bartender," I slurred, pushing my empty glass across the scarred wood. "Make it a double."
The bartender, a burly man with eyes that had seen too much, nodded without comment, his movements economical. He'd been a fixture in this town longer than I had. He knew the rhythm of Calico, the quiet dread that permeated the air like a lingering illness. "Rough night?" he grunted, pouring me another shot.
"You could say that," I replied, my gaze fixed on the swirling amber liquid. "Just trying to make sense of it all."
My mind, however, was far from making sense of anything. It was a battlefield, each thought a soldier falling in the grim march towards the truth. The betrayal cut deeper than any bullet. Maddie, the woman I'd shared a desperate night with, the woman I'd started to trust, had been playing me from the start. She wasn't just a reporter; she was the puppeteer, and I was the marionette dancing on her strings, a truth that felt colder than the desert night itself.
“I will tell you what I tell all out-of-towners. This town isn’t worth its salt, and all you find here is dust. Unless you are one hell of a maid, I advise you to move on,” he said before he turned away.
As I drank, I realized he was right and that I needed to get out of town. Maddie was nowhere to be found. She wouldn't show up here, but she might send a message. I glanced around, but nothing stood out. I fumbled with the burner phone in hopes of another message. The battery was getting low. I sighed and ran my hand over my face. I was in too deep. This wasn't my town, and this case wasn't a case but a goddamn war. I needed a way to think and come up with a plan.