Page 40 of Property of Whiskey

My thumb keeps rubbing over the teeth of my keys, fast enough that Mama eventually looks down at my hand.

“I raised you through adolescence. I can handle a damn door.”

“Mom.”

Her eyes flash. Then she sees whatever is on my face and stops fucking around. “All right.”

I nod.

That’s all I need.

Wren calls after me before I reach the porch.

“Daddy?”

I look back.

“Bring me a candy bar.”

“Thought you wanted me.”

“I want it all.”

I grin. “That’s my girl.”

The door closes behind me.

My smile dies before I reach the Harley. Legend’s two messages have been beating against the inside of my skull since he sent them. The first gets me on the bike. The second will make me ride faster than I should. Not because I’m worried about Twila.

I’m concerned about the general stupidity of deputies who stand nearly six feet tall, have blonde hair visible from a fucking mile away, and consider direct orders a personal challenge.

That’s different.

I thumb the starter. The Road Glide rumbles awake beneath me, loud enough to shake the quiet out of the trees, and gravel spits behind the rear tire when I pull onto the county road.

Old Pearly Gates sits north of Hell, past a stretch of farmland nobody farms anymore. The farther I ride, the thinner the houses get. Pavement cracks beneath my tires before narrowing into a road crowded by trees on both sides. I know this way.

Everybody around here knows where old Pearly Gates is. Most pretend they don’t. The complex used to be something people bragged about. Revivals, youth programs, addiction treatment, religious retreats. Buses rolled in every summer while half the county lined up to get saved and the other half waited for them to leave so they could go back to sinning in peace.

Pearly Gates still exists in other forms. There’s the humble church in Official and the compound where the lifers are holed up, clutching their guns and waiting for the end times.

But the old showplace sits abandoned behind tall white fencing that ain’t white anymore. Gray mildew streaks the boards, weeds climb the posts, and the main sign still stands near the entrance with half its gold lettering peeled away.

PEARLY GATES MINISTRIES.

Somebody once painted scripture beneath it. Weather took most of that too. Probably for the best.

I slow before the main turn but don’t take it. Instead, I ride another half mile, cut onto an old logging path, and kill the engine beneath a thick line of cedar trees.

Silence hits hard after the Harley. The first thing I notice is there ain’t any birds. The second is a security light burning over one of the far buildings in the middle of the fucking afternoon.

Closed places don’t need lights. They sure as hell don’t need fresh tire tracks. I leave the bike hidden and go the rest of the way on foot, my gun sitting heavy beneath my cut. I don’t draw it yet.

The ground is still soft from rain two nights ago. Mud pulls at my boots as I follow the fence to where several warped boards have enough give to squeeze through if you know where to push. Somebody else knows. The grass is flattened around the opening, mud churned by more than one set of boots. A cigarette butt lies near the fence, fresh enough that the paper ain’t soaked through.

I slip inside.

The old buildings are scattered across several acres, white clapboard gone gray beneath moss and weather. Broken windows stare across stretches of waist-high grass, and porches sag under their own weight. Near the center of the property, a stone chapel still has a cross on the roof, leaning sideways like even Jesus got tired of looking at this place.