The Serpent and the Crow

Book 1: Chapter Seventeen

Water splashed across Proctor's face. He came too as the water surged down the worn grooves of his acid burnt face.

Douglas whispered to Wade, "This isn't right."

Douglas peered out the window and saw PLM guerrillas loading caches of weapons, drugs, and meth on a flatbed most likely appropriated from the Aryan Knights. Payment for their services in assisting in the capture of one David William Proctor.

Bolívar said, "Señor Proctor. Sometimes a man is surrounded by friends and is comforted by their company. This is not one of these times."

Bolívar signalled to his man. He gripped Proctor's knee-cap that had been injured during the firefight.

"That's as comforting as this conversation is going to get, Señor Proctor, "Bolívar nodded to the Guerrilla, "Déjalo ir."

The Guerrilla lets go. The tented femur slides down underneath his skin.

Douglas whispered to Hank, "Are you going to just stand there?"

Hank looked surprised and responded, "As far as the Solemn Pines PD's involvement. We're not here at all, sergeant. I think it would be in your best interest to remember that."

Proctor looked faint. Bolívar slapped him across the face, and Proctor inhaled. His eyes bulged.

Bolívar said, "La policía want you to sing. They have requested a song. C'mon you know the one. The one about the little kids you took and killed, hijo de la chingada."

Proctor said, "Fuck you, you..."

Bolívar head-butted Proctor, and his front teeth bent backwards, exposing his gums. He squeezed his wound again.

Bolívar said, "con rapidez."

The Guerrilla passed some pliers. Bolívar held the vice grips and clenched his palms around them. It pivoted, and the jaws locked on the skin where the femur tented. Bolívar yanked out the broken femur. Proctor's screams made all the birds in the wilderness take flight.

Douglas strode over to Jador to determine if she could tolerate this. But Jador brushed past Douglas.

Jador asked, "How many kids did you kill?"

"Please, I don't have a fucking clue what you're saying?"

It was the wrong answer. Jador signalled to the guerrilla, and he placed a bandana around ­Proctor's mouth. Bolívar smiled.

"You're singing the wrong tune, Señor Proctor. We didn't pay our dinero to hear no Honky Tonk. We came here to hear you sing the high notes."

Bolívar salted his wound, and it seared through his nerves. Bolívar pulled on the shatter femur bone. Proctor's head drooped. He was unconscious.

Bolívar soaked up liquid from a glass vial. He smeared it on Proctor's nostrils, his nose twitched, and his eyes flared up again.

Bolívar's finger tugged on Proctor's inner workings. They sent a sharp pain shooting up his leg and spinal cord. Proctor's muffled screams were terrifying; the only sign of the excruciating pain. The Guerrilla let go of the bandana.

"What do you want? Please, I'll tell you anything."

Jador asked, "The children?"

"It wasn't me. Please, no. Wait. I know who did it."

"How do you know? Don't bullshit me," Jador said.

"I smuggle things, not just guns, drugs, but people. And, sometimes high-end stuff, that people can't get into the states."

Jador asked, "What kind of stuff?"

Proctor shrugged, "How the fuck should I know?"

Bolívar tugged on his nerve. Proctor gritted his teeth in agony, searing through every living cell as fast as a flash of lightning striking a weathervane.

Proctor shouted, "Snakes. Fucking giant snakes. The guy wanted giant fucking snakes."

Jador asked, "Where are they transporting these snakes?"

"I don't know that, and I don't know why either. But I saw him with that girl."

"What, girl?"

"The Harding Girl. I tried to approach these detectives many times. I'm many things, but I ain't no child killer, and the fucker creeped me out."

Wade asked, "Why didn't you inform us then?"

"There were a lot of eyes every time I tried. I didn't know how to let you know, without letting you know about my shit, here in Owl Creek."

It seemed plausible and even logical to Wade.

Hank asked, "Give us a name, and we'll cut you loose."

"I ain't got a name," Proctor saw Bolívar move, "wait, fuck. I know what he looks like, and where he is right now. The fucker knows all ya'll are on him."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Douglas asked.

Proctor spat out blood that had accumulated in his mouth, "I wasn't lying before. Nothing happens without my know-how. He wanted information."

Hanks asked, "What kind of information? And, make your words count Sunshine, or I'll get Bolívar to make you sing like a soprano."

"He wanted to identify who was staying in the trailer. How many kids' detective, Nez has?"

Douglas asked, a bit confused, "What?"

"The guy wanted to learn if Rosa would look after Halonie if she were called to an emergency as a Doctor."

Douglas pushed Jador and Bolívar out of the way. He clutched Proctor by the arms, launched him out of the wooden chair, and pinned him to the wall. Hank, Wade, Jador, Bolívar, and the Guerrilla struggled to restrain his rage. Douglas dropped Proctor and shoulder barged through the front door.

Nez ran to the truck and pulled out the driver, and the PLM hit the ground. Douglas drives off with Para Los Muertos Guerrillas, still loading the truck. The last cache falls off the truck. The PLM raised their weapons.

Bolívar commanded, "Suelta tus armas!"

The Dead Men lower their weapons in confusion. Jador and Hank stood next to Bolívar as Wade brushed past them. Hank threw him the keys to a Ford Raptor.