Sundown Honeymoon

I

"There. There. It's okay, boy." His hand hovered inches away from Deputy Garcia's shoulders. "I've seen him now and you can... ." He was interrupted by Garcia shaking and retching. "Let it out, boy. Let it out." His deputy heaved and finally spit a few globs of acidic phlegm down on the puddle of vomit. "Just go. Outside, now. I've got it from here. Just send up Johnny as soon as he shows."

Sheriff Hyram Booth turned away from his deputy and pulled open the windows. The smell inside the small courtroom was stomach turning. Vomit and the metallic stench of blood. He took a deep breath, filled his lungs with outside air before he turned around and approached the judge's headless corpse.

The fat, white-haired man had been beaten, severely and repeatedly, enough to deform bones and to bruise every inch of once ruddy skin. Booth noted the broken fingers, maybe lifted in defence and maybe broken to further torture the geezer.

He stepped around the blood pooling from the corpse's neck stump and approached the bench. There, perched atop the polished mahogany, sat the head. Its mouth was opened in a rictus grin and the yellowed teeth seemed sharpened and elongated. "Tarnation," said Booth to no one in particular.

The sheriff followed the faint, sad sound of music to the judge's chambers. The radio on the windowsill played that one mournful ballad by a cowboy troubadour. The one about love lost and the moonlit grave out in the desert. Booth turned off the radio, grunted and grimaced, then turned it on again. The wailing lament of a murderer and a guilty conscience.

It was a beautiful day outside. White bloomed the flower beds and the red-gold midday sun seemed to smile in the blue sky. He tried the latch but could not open the window. The foul odours had followed him into the small room.

His search was cursory. The grand desk, as ever, was adorned with curios and the judge's matted brass nameplate. 'The Honourable Samuel Diegife.' Its top was empty. No papers; save for the brown bag and a half-eaten sandwich. Booth checked the drawers. He found naught, but the judge's six-shooter and a bottle of bourbon, half-empty.

The black robes still hung in the corner as if their owner could return at any moment. Booth noted the flag and the pictures of presidents and hunting scenes, undisturbed. He opened the filling cabinet, unlocked, and eyed the folders. They looked perfectly ordinary. He picked on out at random and leafed through the write-up of the mayor's third divorce from early last year. His duty done, he shrugged and left.

The deputies stood outside, smoking. Colour had returned to Garcia's face and Johnny showed off his usual bored expression.

"Got one for me?" the sheriff asked.

He lit the cigarette with his gasoline lighter and took a drag. "Johnny, I need you to head over to the clinic and get Doc Warrens or somebody to help you with the corpse. I need the autopsy done pronto."

"Now?" the chubby ginger asked.

"Now."

With an annoyed expression Deputy Johnny Holiday flicked away the half-finished cigarette. He turned and climbed into his police cruiser.

"Now," Booth pushed his cigarette to corner of his mouth, "you found'im, right?"

"Me and Mrs. Larson, yeah."

"He hold court today?"

"Nah, but you know how he be - was."

"Mhm." The sheriff nodded; he knew about both the judge's creative uses for a bailiff and his deputy's habit of hanging around the courthouse. And around the court reporter. "He seem different to you? Nervous?"

The other stared and smoked. When he finally answered, he sounded uncertain: "Nah. I don't think so. Wasn't like we'd all be hanging out in chambers or nothin'. He paused. The furrows on his brow disappeared suddenly and he added: "He bummed a smoke -'bout an hour before lunch- and he was fine; happy even. Joked with Lizzie - with Mrs. Larson. And he talked about goin' fishin' on the weekend."

"I see. So you went for lunch?"

The deputy nodded. "Mrs. Larson had invited me over to hers and when we came back I could, like, sense it. I sent her out back and," he winced, "secured the scene."

Booth laughed. "Sure did." He trampled the stub of his cigarette into the dust. "Keep securing the site. At least until Johnny shows." He saw the look on the other's face and added: "You can stay outside. Probably nobody dumb enough - anyway I gotta inform the widow."

A quick glance at the watch and his grumbling stomach convinced Booth to take lunch first. And Mary would be waiting.

He drove past the other one-story wood houses and stopped the cruiser in his own driveway in front of the chipped paint green garage door. The kitchen window was open, and the radio inside played that same cowboy ballad.

Mary shut off the radio when he entered. She had cooked, steak and potatoes. "I boiled 'em with cream, just like you like 'em," she said.

He said nothing.

She looked tired. Old and tired. Even with all the make-up, the lipstick and whatever paint she had assembled, she looked tired. With the dark bags under her brown eyes and her thinning, strawy, greying black hair. "How's work?" she asked. Her voice was high-pitched, nervous.

"Bad." He tore into the beef.

"You like the food?" She was not eating and only moved her small serving around on the brown earthenware plate.

"Fine."

"Coffee?" He set down the red-stained steak knife and sauce-covered steel spoon beside his empty plate.

She stopped her fidgeting with the floral oilcloth and hurried from the table to the kitchen counter to the stove. "Two sugar, no milk?", she asked, though she knew the answer.

He waited in silence until she brought him the steaming enamel cup. She handed him the coffee and then hovered behind him. Her hands rested on his shoulder while he drank. Suddenly, he could feel her lips on his bearded cheeks.

"I've missed you," she whispered. "And I think you deserve a break."

Her cooking apron fell to the floor. She wore her one short skirt and one good blouse, with nothing else underneath.

"I've gotta go. Much work." He emptied his cup. She could not hide her sorrow. He felt the gnawing guilt and hurried away.

II

The widow was beside herself. Crying and unable to answer any questions, she begged him to stay with her. He spent two endless hours drinking her weak coffee and eating stale cookies. Still, he was unable to console the dumbstruck woman. She was at one moment trying to play host and then wracked by crying fits. Only after even more coffee, he finally convinced her to take a glass of brandy and to lie down.

After he had, as promised, called her sister and the Reverend Porter, he radioed his deputy from the car:

'Johnny, do you read me? Over.'

'Loud and clear. Over,' answered Deputy Holiday's voice.

'You get it done? Over.'

'Yes. Over.'

'Did the doc say when he'll be done with the autopsy? Over.'

'He seemed busy. Operation or something. Not today. Tomorrow morning at the earliest. Over.'

'Acknowledged. Out.'

'Okay, boss. Over and Out.'

The sun was almost setting, and Booth could feel a headache coming on. He decided that he had earned a break. And a drink.

III

The rough and rustic hard wood tables inside the Wrangler stood empty and only the usual lifers lingered at the bar, drinking whisky and chewing tobacco. Emily, the barmaid, was busy with preparations and struggled with carrying an empty keg back to the storage room.

"Need help with that?" he asked.

"Thank you kindly." She smiled.

He followed her into the dark back room and set down his load.

"You're in early," she whispered.

"Hard day." He grabbed her and pushed her lithe form against the wall.

"I can see," she moaned.

Their lips met. He caressed her face. Calloused fingers stroked her long brown hair. Their lips met again. Her teeth scraped his skin. She quivered.

Then he turned her around as his hands wandered down along the firm body. He groped her breasts until she moaned; softly, hoarsely. Further and further along he trailed her shuddering body, until he reached the belt on her jeans.

"Yes," she moaned.

He pulled down her pants and pushed aside the cotton panties. "Take it." With his feet he forced hers apart. The metal of his zipper bit against his flesh as he worked to free his bulging cock.

She inhaled sharply when he grabbed her ass cheeks and lined up his length against her dripping pussy. "Yessss!"

He plunged into her. Quick thrusts and hard. Rougher than his wife had ever liked, but just what the wanton slut needed. Each fibre, each flutter and every inch of her body responded, melted, to his dick.

"Yesss!" she almost screamed.

He placed his palm on her lips. Held her traitorous tongue and felt her berserk bites. She threw back her head, but could not, would not slip his hold. "Will you be a good girl?" he whispered into her ear.

She nodded weakly, but screamed out at his next lunge. Again, he clasped shut her mouth. Hotly and madly, she writhed under him as he quickened the pressure.

"Take it!" he roared, then stopped, dumbstruck. He could hear her laughter and felt her mirthful breath. "Damn," he whispered.

Still laughing, she slipped his grasp and turned around. "Don't feel bad," she whispered and kissed his lips, "sometimes we get wild. We're wild and," she put her hands on his cock and he inhaled sharply, "and if we fuck like animals, we will be," she gave him a wild kiss and a gentle bite, "feral." She lined up his length then massaged it across her slimy slit. With a wicked smile she pulled him back until his bulk pressed her against the wall. She undid the buttons on her flannel shirt and invited him to play with her tits.

"I'm close," he whispered, and still she only teased him at the edge of her folds. Teased him with her nimble fingers.

"Come for me."

Hot heat rose from his loins. He erupted; sticky seed shot from his twitching meat and splashed on her belly. Hit after hit coated her form.

"Mhmm." Some she scooped with the tip of her finger. "Here." She smiled when she handed him the dishrag. It looked clean enough.

"What in tarnation?." He winced as he cleaned himself.

She, too, grimaced when she accepted back the soiled tatter. "Could you do that one?" She pointed out a full keg of beer then dabbed herself down.

Booth grunted and strained as carried out the metal barrel.

"You're a doll," she said from inside the dark room. Rustling, as she pulled up her pants.

He did not answer and took a seat at the corner table.

Soon she brought him his bourbon. "You're a doll." She allowed him to steal a fleeting touch, then swaggered away. Booth mumbled a curse.

They hardly shared another word all evening. The Wrangler soon got busy, but she at least promptly refilled his glass. He did like to watch her work, slightly sweaty and with traces of his cum hidden under her clothes.

Another drink, another smoke and then, past midnight, the jukebox played that heart-rending, that accursed ballad. He tried to remember to forget, but the headless corpse crept into his mind. It stole away the memories, sweet and fresh, of her naked body and hot breath. Only the dead grimace remained, laughing at him with ghoulish teeth; long and yellow.

He motioned for her and she came. They could not kiss, but he could drink. Another drink and a cigarette for the road.

It was a cold night out. He swayed and staggered, past his cruiser and along the long and dusty road. Under distant stars and a blue moon, he walked home.

He fumbled with his keys until the front door clicked open. He stripped off hat, boots, gun-belt and jacket. He rid himself of pants, shirt and socks, then he stopped at the closed bedroom door.

His hand hovered over the handle. He stood, unsteady, alone in the dark and spinning room. He would not wake her. He could not wake her. With a grunt, he retreated to the sofa. To the hard mattress and to dark dreams.

He awoke when she opened the bathroom door. "Coffee?" she asked. The smile on her haggard lips looked forced.

"Mh - shower first." His head was pounding, and he could not bear to look at her eyes; her sadness.

He closed the door behind him, but could hear her crying through the thin plywood. Until she turned on the radio and that damnable song droned out despair.

The face in the mirror gawked at him, tired and guilty. He pushed it aside. Hidden behind, he found the painkillers and chewed down two pills. Churning acid burned the inside of his stomach. He almost fell over when he tried to climb out of his underwear.

Then the cold, hard water hit him in the face. "Damned cold." He endured until the boiler gurgled to life. Mist filled the small room. He fumbled for soap, longed to be clean, even as his body tortured him.

IV

"Coffee?"

He could not look at her; could not stand the bitter smell. Even showered and dressed, he was not ready. "No." He winced. "Thank you." He held his pounding head, then touched his gun. "I oughta go. Much to do."

In the cold, blue morning light, the Wrangler looked like filth. Booth was on his second cigarette already and the run-down building made the bile rise to his throat. Someone had thrown up last night, and the greenish-brown puddle pooled around and stained the left back tire. He lit another cigarette and drove off.

The elderly orderly who manned the front desk inside the squat clinic building looked as tired and strung out as Booth felt. When he asked for Doctor Warrens the woman shrugged and told him to check the residence.

He crossed the dusty backyard and entered the residence. Built from dark wood and sandstone, the house was almost as large as the clinic itself.

Booth tried the handle and found the door unlocked. "Doc?" He knocked softly against the open door. Moans and music answered. The needle of the old gramophone scratched over vinyl. He recognized the melodious wails of the cowboy troubadour despite the rustling static and the discordant moans. Booth winced but entered.

"This early, Doc?" He rounded the corner from the small, carpeted hallway and, leaning against the wood panelled wall, lit another cigarette.

"Fuck you, Sheriff. Fuck you," Warrens answered from his black leather couch. Only his feet were visible, with the woman bouncing on his lap hiding the rest of his frame.

"Fuck, ahhh - fuck - ahhh- fuckin' fuck me." Suzanna Myers, the local whore, stopped riding her john long enough to express shock and annoyance at the interruption.

"Sue, oh Sue, you oughta know better." Booth ambled along the wall and sneered at the pictures. Formless shapes in hideous reds, violets and ochre. "Sue. Sue. Sue." He turned around and grabbed the red-faced hooker by the chin.

She hissed and squirmed.

"Sue. Suzie Sue." His fingers touched her brow and he brushed aside a long lock of dark red hair. Wet and sweaty slick. Green fire seemed to spark in her eyes. His eyes lingered on her tits.

A good handful of still firm flesh, pale and freckled. Stiff nipples and swaying from the doctor's thrust. "Damn." He grinned and stepped back.

"Booze? Booth sat down on the armchair opposite the couple and pointed at the low lacquered wood table. At bottles empty and full. At the overflowing ashtray and at old plates.

A deep, husky moan. He shifted, then Doctor Warrens' wrinkled, moustachioed face appeared from behind Sue's back. "Bourbon...," the doctor pointed at bottle filled with amber liquid. Booth lifted it up and nodded at the label.

"...and laudanum," the older man pointed at the unlabelled bottle filled with reddish-brown liquid. "My very own recipe."

Booth winced, then drank bourbon straight from the bottle. "I'll be damned." He motioned at the other bottle. "One of those days you're gonna get arrested for that shit."

The grey-haired man laughed. "Fuck you."

Booth grunted and took another sip. "Speaking of arrested," he looked at Sue, "you wanna do this the easy way or what?"

"Fuck - urghhh fuuuck," Sue gave him the finger and stuck out her tongue. She turned to the doctor. "Are you close or what?"

"Yeah. Ahhh fucking yeah." The old doctor slid back and let her overtake him.

"Fuck. Ahhh good." The whore bucked against him one last time, then lowered herself to the floor.

"Tarnation." Booth moved to the edge of his seat and spread apart his legs. "I'll be... ." His hard cock pressed against his tightning pants. "Hell." He ripped open the zipper and pulled out his dick. "Listen, now. Easy or hard?"

She did not answer. Instead, she bobbed her head up and down between the legs of the other man. Booth could only watch. Cock in hand, he watched.

Her red mane flew back and forth across the doctor's lap. Booth could hear the wet sucking and gargling of her mouth and throat closed around Warrens' dick.

His hungry eyes followed the curvature of her spine down to her dainty feet and firm ass. Droplets of sweat covered her skin and flowed down to the cup and antlers tattooed on her lower back.

"Answer me! Dirty whore!" Booth had been stroking his cock with the movement of her head and now felt close to bursting. "Filthy slut."

The doctor laughed and flashed his yellowed teeth. Then he grimaced, his face warped by the throes of his orgasm.

"Easy or hard?" he had grabbed her and dragged her away from Warrens.

She smiled and some cum trickled from the corner of her mouth down her swanlike neck. "Anything for you, Sheriff," she whispered.

He pressed her down on the floor and forced apart her legs. She swallowed loudly, and then showed off her empty mouth. He threw her left leg over his shoulder and plunged himself deep in her wet cunt.

"Filthy whore. Filthy, teasing whore," he thrust into her. Again and again. "I oughta -ahh I'll - I oughta drag you back." He moaned, screamed and pawed at her swaying breasts. "Back to the thrice-damned station and have the - ahhhhh."

He pressed his hand on her neck and clamped up against her grinning face. "Take it!"

"Anything for you, Sheriff," she wheezed.

He lifted up her ass and buried himself deep in her. "Filthy whore. I'll have the boys run train on you."

The skin under her tits tasted like salt and he almost toppled over when he tried to taste her. He roared loudly and pushed against her, again and again.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" he had grabbed her face and made her nod. "Good," he pulled back and stood up, "now open up your suckhole."

She did. He groaned. Rubbing his cock, he rose and approached her kneeling form. He teased his tip against her lips and grabbed her hair.

"Dirty whore." He pulled back. Spit and her juices coated his member. "Can you take it?"

She looked tired and forced a grin. Then she nodded.

"Good whore." He slapped her cheeks with his length, then pushed it past her tongue. She gargled. A wet and rasping sound, but he did not release her hair and pressed deeper.

Cold and dainty hands on his ass. She groped and finally scratched, but he did not stop until her nose was buried in his coarse pubic hair.

"Fucking - fuck." She coughed and hacked spit on the hard wood floor.

Booth laughed. "C'mon. Open up - I'm close." Rubbing his cock, he lifted up her face and aimed at her opened mouth. He moaned, low and contentedly. He covered her with cum.

She swallowed and did not stop until the last glob had disappeared between her lips. Only then did she crawl over to the table. There, she poured reddish liquid into a dirty glass and emptied it. With shaking hands, she filled it and emptied it again.

"Had breakfast yet?" Warrens had put on green scrubs and a white lab coat. The old doctor sat back on the armchair and savoured his sips of the red and brown.

"Naw." Booth pulled up his pants and lit a cigarette.

"Good. Let's go then." The older man counted out a few bills and rose.