Sundown Honeymoon

"That bad?" Booth followed the other to the door.

"Worse."

They crossed the yard in silence.

V

Doctor Warrens had unlocked the cellar door and led the Sheriff into the green tiled morgue. He sighed and pointed at the judge's corpse, naked on the steel slab. "Hard blows - enough to break ribs. My gut says fists, but that would make our guy an absolute beast. You might need to consult with an expert - someone who knows his weapons - native or oriental."

Booth looked at the judge's severed head sat on the wall counter, away from the slab. "Guess cause of dead is easy, at least."

"It is not." The cold professionalism had left the doctor's voice. He had grabbed the edge of the slab with whitened knuckles.

"What in tarnation?"

"He's," Warrens paused and breathed heavily. "He's missing his heart."

Booth peered down at the corpse's opened chest cavity. "I can see that - I guess."

The doctor managed a dry laugh. "It was gone when I opened him up."

"What in tarnation?" Booth sucked in air, then inspected the cold, death flesh. "Are these scalpel cuts? I can't rightly tell."

Warrens sighed. "Fuck. Neither can I. Might have been a world class surgeon, might've been - something else."

"So what? Some big city doc, built like a brick shit house, walks into town, then rips open the judge's thorax and cuts out his heart?"

Warrens shook his head. "No. Not as far as I can tell. I've found hematoma around the cracked ribs, but no ruptures. No open wounds."

"That's impossible."

"Yeah."

"There's gotta be something you missed. A small nick, and then he'd have to have worked- I dunno some kind of acid or wire or something."

The doctor looked sceptical. "I can look into it. And I might've missed something. But... ." He paused again and starred up at the ceiling. "But," he continued, "maybe you should think about calling in the feds - if only so another doctor can look him over."

VI

Booth spent the rest of the morning brooding in his office. Twice he picked up the phone and twice he slammed the receiver back down. Around noon he called home and told his wife he would not be in for lunch. He then sent Johnny out for sandwiches.

*

Hat in hand, he rang the doorbell. He had not eaten much and the taste of coffee and tobacco still clung to his lips. He did not expect much from the interview, but he needed to work, needed to do something. Anything.

"Sheriff," Mrs. Larson, the court reporter, smiled brightly as she opened her door, "please, come on in." She stepped aside. A short entryway then a large central room and an open kitchen.

"I'll make us some coffee. And please make yourself comfortable," she pointed at lone mattress on the empty floor. "I haven't had time to unpack yet. But please make yourself comfortable."

"I'm okay."

"Just a minute." She said from the kitchen.

He leaned his back against the wall and looked around. Past the empty central room he saw a hallway filled with boxes. Three doors. One was open and led to a small room, also piled high with boxes. The doors to the other rooms, one opposite the open one and one at the end of the hallway, were closed.

Mrs. Larson worked, back turned towards him, at the stove. He stepped into the hallway and stopped by the two doors. He checked out the boxes in the hallway with mild curiosity. Most were taped shut. Inside the small room he found one opened and overflowing with folded clothes and old pans. He stepped back into the hallway and inspected the white lacquer-wood of the closed door.

Smells and noise. A smokey scent, earthy and wooden. Some kind of incense, maybe. Booth sniffed and listened.

The twangy guitar was quiet, and he felt rather than heard the vocals, but the cowboy troubadour's lament was unmistakable. The hairs on his arm stood upright and he shivered.

"What are you doing?" said a voice behind him. He had not heard her move.

"I just - I was - I need to take a leak."

"Oh," she smiled, awkwardly and without guile, "just through here," she pointed at the door at the end of the hallway.

Hat in hand he mumbled a "much obliged" and retreated into the small lavatory. He splashed water on his face, paused and then used the toilet. Her soap smelled like roses.

When he reopened the door, he saw her standing in front of the closed door and locking it shut. She noticed him looking and flinched. The smell of perfumed smoke almost made him gag and the music was gone.

"Come. Come." She hid the key inside the pockets of her knee-length, red bubble skirt.

VII

"Good coffee." He had followed her back and now sat on the mattress, while she stood with her back pressed against the wall.

"Thank you." A weak smile lit up her face.

"Anyway," he cleared his throat, "you are widowed?"

She nodded slowly. "My Georgie died - died in June, two years ago."

"The fire, right? I heard - damned shame," he paused, "my condolences."

"Thank you, Sheriff."

"But you're not from Scalper's Ferry?"

"No, Siree. I'm a Sundown gal, born and raised." A hint of pride had entered her voice.

"So - you returned?" He did his best to imbue the words with warmth.

"I needed a job and there was nothing - I am happy here."

"I see. And Judge Diegife - did you like working at the courthouse?"

"Oh," she pulled out a white handkerchief and cleaned her nose, "he was such a dear. So kind and wise. Never a bad word about nobody and he'd always tell these funny hunting stories."

"I see. And did he seem different recently? Nervous or off somehow?"

She shook her head.

"Very well." He emptied his cup. "You have been a great help. And please - if you remember anything do not hesitate to give us a ring at the station."

She promised him that she would, but he resolved to return the day after tomorrow either way. Or after he had spoken to the judge's wife again. The court reporter before her had married in a hurry. Even rumours notwithstanding, he never had had the inclination to call the judge "dear" nor "kind and wise."

He was a goat. Horny and angry.

VIII

A routine call on the way back to the station sent him to the Wrangler and, after he and his nightstick had resolved the situation, he stayed. Emily did not work tonight, but he did not want to go home, and it was almost dusk.

He drank bourbon and smoked. When that song began to play on the jukebox, he threw a few bills on the table and left. The hands on his watch pointed to almost midnight.

The full moon was darker and warmer than last night. An almost amber yellow, it dripped from the starless sky and bathed the dusty roads and dark houses in a soft light.

Booth stretched with a smile. The evening cold felt refreshing on his skin. He whistled a few off-key bars, then suddenly stopped and cursed. The song had again wormed its way into his brain.

"Sheriff Booth?" she asked meekly.

"What?" His voice was louder than he had intended.

"There's something I need to tell you."

Booth had recognized the court reporter immediately. A colourful headscarf tamed her long brown hair and she had covered her form with a long, dark-grey cloak.

"What?" he asked, softer this time.

"The judge and I," her eyes darted around and finally found his, "we were more than just - we had an affair." She stepped closer. "I did not mean to lie to you, but - but it feels strange admitting it even now."

"That's," he swallowed, "quite alright." She was close enough for him to see just how thin her cloak was and how little she wore underneath it. "I... ," his tongue was heavy and she did not shy away from his touch. "Thank you for telling me." Her skin was warm and her breath smelled like mint.

"Sheriff Booth," she whispered.

A dark cloud devoured the moon and the sudden chill made him shiver. Again, he stretched out his hands, but he could not reach her shadow. He blinked.

"Sheriff Booth." She held his hand in hers.

"Mrs. Larson."

"Please, call me Elisabeth."

"Hy -."

The stench of decay. Almost enough to make him retch. "Do you?" His head was spinning, and his eyes had begun to water. "I should probably... ." He staggered away.

"I am ready for you." Her voice was soft, but urgent. "Come to me. Soon."

He stumbled away through the darkness.

Finally, the moon returned, and its warm light guided him home. His head was swimming, and his hands were shaking when he unlocked his front door.

He could remember locking away his gun belt and he must have noticed the empty spot on the bed beside him. Then darkness.

IX

His tongue was desert dry. Only the slivers of moonlight, close to the drapes lit the night-dark room. He fumbled for the light switch but stopped when he heard.

Mary was moaning. Low and hot and filled with need. He could feel her heat and smell her wetness. There was life in her shadow dance, and he had not seen her alive for a long time.

She gasped when his hand touched her knee.

"Mhmm, yes." She begged him to move his hand deeper. "Take me. Please, oh please, take me."

He rolled over and embraced her. With his hand still between her legs, he kissed her neck. He could smell her shampooed hair and touched the dark strands. Not a hint of grey. Only darkness.

Her lips were soft and wet. He drank her kisses and her moans.

"Don't!" Her hands reached out after him.

"Just trying to... ." Sitting upright, he pulled down his pants.

"Ohhh."

He teased apart her legs and found her naked breasts. Her wedding ring was cold on his back, but her skin was warm.

"I've missed us," she whispered.

She was right. Her body still fit him like a glove and her lusty screams were beautiful. Every inch of her body was familiar, yet he had never been this close to her.

In the pitch-like darkness, he could not see her eyes, but he sensed her. Sensed her soul. He melted into her. Each thrust broke away another piece of the barrier.

She was so close. And forcing her over the edge, and again, only brought her closer to him.

He wrapped himself around her sweat slick form and was drawn closer. Pressured heat boiled inside him.

"I love you."

He pressed his lips against her. Her confession hurt. And he felt the same. He had to feel the same. The same forlorn, painful need. He was deep inside her and they shared the same sadness. The need for oblivion.

Another scream, pained and wailing. Then he felt it, too. His fingers and the tip of his cock. The searing pain shot in waves though his raw body.

Thick and oily smoke filled the room. He was boiling. Sizzling bubbles like from a fat-rendering vat. He cried out in pain.

She had reached the switch and the light flickered alive. Her face was pale and burn marks covered her body wherever he had touched her. She covered her mouth and pointed at him. A muffled scream then she hurried away.

He wanted to cry out for her, but his voice failed him. More fatty flames engulfed him and darkened his mind. He found his voice and screamed. Meaningless cries into the bright and greasy void.

White lights danced in front of his wide-open eyes. Finally, the bedroom door opened and he again saw her blurred form. She sat down on the edge of the bed. He heard her speak but could not no longer understand the words.

She pressed ice against his blistering skin and for a few seconds the pain lessened. Then she screamed and withdrew her hands.

He clawed at his skin and sent drips of boiling water flying. "Cut it out!" he screamed, "cut it out!"

She answered something, then he lost consciousness.

*

Bright lights and pain. Heat. She screamed and fell. Both their body hit the floor and he singed the hardwood boards. Then he blacked out again.

*

Steam rose from the bathtub. She had gripped his hair and yanked him up.

"You were slipping." She dumped another load of ice into the hot water.

"I can't... ." Boiling water filled his mouth and the fat under his skin continued to burn. He felt her hand then slipped away.

*

Red water filled the tub. He screamed in pain. Blood flowed from the cuts on his arms and legs and coloured the cooling water crimson.

"Are you okay?" She held up his right arm and tried to staunch the flow with gauze.

"Ye - yes." He sucked in air and fought down the pain. The open wounds hurt, but his body was no longer boiling. Sudden shivers, and she dropped the bandage into the dark water.

"Are you cold?" Still holding his arm, she pulled another white dressing from the nearby shelf.

He nodded weakly. She did not release his arm but climbed into the tub with him, dressed in her nightgown. Her warmth was enough to calm the worst shakes and she managed to bandage the wound on his arm.

"Can you reach the towels? And the gauze?"

His hands were unsteady, but he could.

"I've tried calling Doctor Warrens, but he must be a deep sleeper. Garcia said he'd pick up the night nurse," she paused. "I called them."

"Thank you."

Her hands were warm and gentle. She had wiped dry his other arm and now tied close the bandage. "Can you stand? I need to do your lower body."

He nodded and put his hands on the rim of the bathtub. The pain made him see the lights. He breathed and struggled, but his limbs would not obey.

"Let me... ."

With her help, on the third try, he managed. She guided and supported him as he weakly walked, one foot in front of the other, until they reached the toilet. He sat.

"Boss? Boss!" Shouts, then a bang as Deputy Holiday forced open the front door. "Garcia's," the young man fell silent as soon as he reached the bathroom and saw Mary kneel, almost naked, between Sheriff Booth's naked legs.

"Stop gawking and help," Booth said. He felt angry, but his voice was to weak to convey any emotion. Johnny obeyed, nonetheless.

*

When Garcia arrived, nurse in tow, he carried bad news. The dark-haired deputy did not share them immediately, but first let the woman in her red scrubs check Booth's bandages and administer painkillers from her bag.

"Talk." Booth felt tired, slow almost, but he read the worried look on Garcia's face easy enough.

The other man did not meet his eyes. "Johnny oughta hear this," he mumbled.

"Get him. I told him he could smoke inside, but - should be in the backyard."

Garcia left. The nurse looked at him, then left as well. Soon he could hear her chat with Mary in the kitchen. Finally, his deputies returned, and the war council began.

"Warrens' dead," said Garcia. Both deputies avoided looking at Booth's naked form.

"What? How?" the Sheriff asked.

"Don't know," Garcia paused. "He looked bad. And the smell. It's as if he'd been cooked. Boils everywhere and," the deputy fell silent.

"Hell and tarnation." Booth paused then cursed again. His deputies looked at him; looked him in the eyes. "It's gotta be Sue." He was weak and the painkillers seemed to slow everything. Every word was a challenge. "Suzanna Myers," he lowered his voice. "Johnny knows her." He was slurring every word and was whispering now. "Warrens was a customer. And whatever it was it almost - almost got me too. She must have infected us. With - with something. A disease or -." He did not say or a curse.

"Should we?" Garcia played with the hat in his hand.

"Yes!" Booth's voice was louder than he had intended. "Arrest her immediately," he had calmed himself, "and only arrest her. I'll talk to her. And Johnny don't - don't be stupid. She is dangerous."

With a hurried salute, they left and with Mary's help Booth reached the bed. He fell asleep immediately.

*

When he awoke again, the room was dark.

"Mary? Mary? he called out until his wife awoke. "How long was I out?"

She picked up her watch from the nightstand. "It's midnight. A day, almost."

He cursed. "I need to go." He sat up and the room began to spin.

Her face was pale. "Are you sure? Can't it wait? Should I cook something? Do you need water? Coffee?"

Booth opened and closed his eyes. He was hungry and tired and nauseous. "I need to - water."

"Yes." She hurried to the kitchen and brought him a glass. "You sure you don't want anything else? I've made soup. Chicken. Won't be a minute."

He emptied the glass, paused, then nodded. "Hurry."

She hurried out the door.

"And thank you."

X

Walking hurt. Breathing hurt. Everything hurt. The soup had helped, and his throat was not quite as dry any more, but everything hurt. And when he saw Mr. Antonielli loiter around the waiting room inside the police station, he expected the worst.

Like his father before him, Antonielli practised law. Contracts, testaments and the occasional divorce, usually. Sundown rarely called for a criminal lawyer, or any kind of trial lawyer.

"What do you want?" Booth asked.

"I would like to speak to my client," Antionielli confirmed the sheriff's suspicions.

"Wait here," Booth said and stalked back behind the counter. He found Johnny in the break room, nursing his coffee.

"Are you daft?" Booth managed to keep his voice low enough that the lawyer would not hear him. "What in tarnation were you thinking?"

"Boss?"

"Why is that shyster here?"

"She asked for her call an' I figure she called him."

The pain threatened to overwhelm him. Booth massaged his temple and swallowed a biting remark. "Guess we'll make do," he paused, "and where's Garcia?"

"Personal business," the other mumbled.

Booth exhaled. Inhaled and exhaled. "Get our guest into the interview room. And then get out of my sight."

The lawyer was still waiting outside. Boot forced a smile. "We just have a few questions." Antionielli opened his mouth, but the Sheriff continued: "I assume you want to sit in?" He did not wait for an answer and let him past the barrier and to the interview room.

Suzanna Myers already sat at the small metal table in the small, empty room. She looked tired and, judging by her pupils, high. Cold sweat beaded her pallid face, and she clutched her hands, claw like, to her chest.

The men took their seats. "Doctor Warrens died last night," said Booth. Antionielli seemed shocked. The whore remained motionless, no muscle twitch, no sign of emotion.

"I am sorry to hear that," the lawyer had calmed himself, "but I fail to see how that relates to my client."

Booth's fist hit the table. "You worked him and now he's dead." He looked the suddenly trembling slut square in the eyes. "So - what did you do? Poison? Or some disease? What is it? Hm? Go on, what filthy, disgusting disease did you give - him?"

His outburst had scared her. She had shied away. Each word spat an onslaught, a hit to her face. Then she changed. Sneered and smiled then turned to her lawyer. Mocking whispers and Antionielli too began to smile.

"Any proof?" The lawyer's eyes lingered on Booth's bandages.

Silence then Booth answered: "No."

Booth's opponents looked at each other and smiled. "Will that be all?" the man asked.

"Coffee?" Booth hurried from the room; he could not stand their smug faces.

*

When he returned with three steaming paper cups, he had calmed himself. "We will need to do a drug test."

Myers' smile froze and he started to grin.

"A formality I am sure, but the arresting officer noted physical signs of intoxication in his report." He grabbed his cup with a smile and addressed Antionielli: "I expect you wish to confer with your client?" He left them without another word.

*

"No drug test," the other man said after Booth had returned, "but my client will consent to whatever other tests a medical doctor deems necessary. And she will make herself available for further questioning should you uncover any evidence for foul play. Acceptable?"

Booth hesitated then shook the outstretched hand. "Acceptable."

They left and Booth laid down his head on the cold table. Doubts niggled and gnawed at the back of his mind. He could prove nothing and he could not connect the whore to the judge at all. He rose with a groan.