The Devil's Bag Man Read Online Free Page A

down at the ground like he was trying to burn a hole through it.
    Hell, maybe he could.
    â€œI went by the ice cream shop a couple days ago,” he said. “She seemed okay.”
    â€œBecause she doesn’t want to worry you. And that wasn’t a couple days ago, Jess. Sherry told me this morning she hasn’t seen you in two weeks. Going on three.”
    Galvan pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. “I lose track,” he said quietly.
    â€œYou can talk to me, you know,” Nichols blurted. “Shit, Jess, I was there. Whatever you’re dealing with, maybe I can help.”
    Galvan dropped his hands. Blinked, shook his head, blinked again. Finally, he looked over at Nichols, and the sheriff felt his face redden beneath the heat of Galvan’s scrutiny, his heart race in anticipation.
    Here it came.
    The Unburdening.
    â€œYou’re already helping me. With Sherry. The rest of this shit, I gotta figure out myself.” He raised up, brushed his palms against his shorts. “I should grab myself a shower.”
    Don’t quit your day job, Nichols .
    Galvan extended a hand.
    â€œI’ll see you soon.”
    â€œThere’s something else.”
    Galvan crossed his arms, and Nichols noticed that the cut had stopped bleeding.
    â€œKurt Knowles got picked up a few days ago in Ardmore, Oklahoma.”
    â€œWho’s he again?”
    â€œThe biker? President of the True Natives? If I’m not mistaken, he and his gang held you down while that corrupt Mexican Federale took a machete to your arm.”
    â€œOh yeah. Him.”
    Galvan twisted at the waist, peered into the trailer. For a second, Nichols half expected him to pretend he’d heard his mother calling him home for dinner.
    â€œI just got word today,” Nichols went on. “But I’m gonna do everything I can to make sure they throw his ass underneath the fuckin’ jail until the end of time. I don’t know what he’s been charged with so far, but with my testimony plus yours—”
    Galvan shook his head. “Forget it. I’m keeping my head down. Supposed to be in a Mexican prison right now, in case you forgot.”
    It was Nichols’s turn to shake his head. “Nah, I looked into it. Your record’s clean. Nobody ever filed anything with Texas. Hell, you could probably apply for food stamps if you wanted to.”
    Galvan’s voice darkened. “I’m off the grid, Nichols.” And then, for no apparent reason, his whole face squeezed tight—contorted into a mask of agony or anticipated agony, like a little kid bracing for a flu shot.
    â€œYou okay there, Jess?”
    Galvan exhaled—a short sharp breath, like he was fighting it off. Gradually, his face relaxed.
    â€œBeen getting these migraines,” he muttered.
    â€œYou oughta see a doctor. I’m sure Ruth can—”
    Galvan spun toward him, all the pain replaced with rage, and a bolt of fear shot through Nichols, adrenaline overruling intellect, fight-or-flight synapses decussating wildly.
    As if this weren’t a disagreement with a friend, but a wild animal about to pounce.
    It was all he could do to stand his ground.
    â€œNo fucking doctors!” Galvan roared, jabbing a finger in his chest. “No courtrooms, no shrinks—and if I gave a shit about that Knowles cocksucker, I’d have killed him already. You got it?”
    â€œSure, Jess. Sure.”
    Galvan seemed to deflate then, to pull back into himself.
    â€œSorry,” he mumbled, eventually.
    â€œYeah,” Nichols replied. “I’ll see you later.”
    He dropped his half-empty beer, watched it topple sideways. A weak stream of amber pisswater leaked out, and the parched earth swallowed it greedily.
    He strolled back to the cruiser, threw his arm out the window, revved the engine. Jess was still watching him. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, or perhaps the helplessness, the misery