Chapter Six

Milo

I decide to forgo the car and walk around town. I need to stretch my legs a bit anyway. Walking along Sutter, I glance into the shops that line the street. Very little is as I remember. It's a little disconcerting. I mean, I've only been gone eight years, and everything has changed. What is Folson Forge going to look like a decade from now?

Given all the trendy, upscale shops and restaurants I'm seeing, I guess it's going to look like any of a thousand other wealthy towns. Nothing unique about it anymore. All that hometown charm, gone.

I pass some people on the street – nobody that I recognize though. I see a few families with small children, a few pushing strollers, some couples walking hand-in-hand. It's a scene that's plenty familiar, but with an entirely new cast of characters.

I make my way down a side street and find myself facing one of the few familiar things I've seen since I crossed town lines – the Hammer and Anvil. A wide grin crosses my face as I cross the parking lot, glad for one tiny piece of familiarity in the middle of so much change.

Stepping into the Hammer is like stepping back in time. Nothing about the place has changed. Same pictures on the walls, same gaudy neon signs behind the bar, same dingy, grimy booths. The only difference seems to be that Leon upgraded the place, sticking half-dozen large flat-panel TVs around – all of them tuned to one sports game or another.

“Son of a bitch.”

I look up and find Leon in his usual spot behind the bar, staring at me with a big grin on his face. He's a tall man, thick through the shoulders and chest – I think he played some college football. He's got dark eyes, rich, russet colored skin, and though there is a little more gray in his hair than I remember, he looks exactly the same. Hell, the black t-shirt and jeans with holes in the knees may be the exact same outfit he was wearing the day I left.

“Leon,” I say. “Damn. You don't look like you've aged a day.”

“Black don't crack, son,” he calls out and laughs. “Now, git on over here.”

All the stools at the bar are taken, so he tells a couple of guys to get up and take a seat in a booth. They complain loudly and cast a sinister look at me as I take one of the now-vacant stools. Leon runs a damp rag over the bar in front of me, chuckling to himself.

“Damn good to see you, son,” Leon says. “When I heard you joined the Corps, I just knew you was gonna git your ass shot over there.”

I chuckle. “Came close a few times.”

Leon sets a shot of bourbon and a beer down in front of me. “You're drinkin' on me tonight, son,” he says.

“Appreciate that, Leon.”

He nods and smiles. I've been drinking in the Hammer since I was eighteen – when you're a Sheridan, you can get away with a lot of shit. Leon's been the owner/operator since long before that. Though a bit grayer, he really doesn’t look like he's aged at all while I've been gone. I honestly have no idea how old the man is.

He pours himself a shot and raises it to me, then speaks loud enough to be heard by everybody in the bar.

“Listen up, assholes,” he shouts. “Raise your glasses and salute a goddamn war hero.”

“Leon,” I say, shaking my head.

“Six years in the Corps, four years in Marine Force Recon,” he intones, “Milo Sheridan is the biggest, baddest motherfucker you'll ever meet.”

Most of the patrons in the bar raise their glasses, and I acknowledge the salute by raising my own. In unison, we all throw back our drinks and the buzz of conversation returns to normal. Leon leans on the bar and smiles. It was common knowledge around town that I'd enlisted, but very few knew I did four years in Force Recon. I suppose I have Timmy to thank for that getting around.

“Yeah, I'm no hero, Leon.”

“Shit you ain't,” he says. “You served your country. You killed the bad guys to protect us and keep us free. If that ain't a hero, I don't know what is.”

I raise my mug of beer to him. “You keepin' this place open and still having cold beer on tap – that's a hero to me, Leon.”

He laughs, a barking sound, and pours me another shot. Somebody plays a song on the antique jukebox in the corner – some country ballad that makes me want to shoot the jukebox.

“Why haven't you gotten good music in that box yet?” I ask.

He chuckles. “Cuz these boys would riot if I did,” he says. “They're attached to their shitkicker music.”

I groan and down the second shot, feeling better than I have since driving into town. Seeing a friendly, familiar face has a tendency to do that.

“I can't believe how much this place has changed in eight years,” I say.

He nods. “Lots of rich folk movin' in,” he says. “Turnin' the ol' Forge into suburban hell.”

“I'm just thankful this place is still open,” I say. “It's a goddamn landmark.”

“Damn straight,” he says.

“You been getting squeezed to sell the place?”

He nods. “Yup. Every damn day,” he says. “But, the locals – the real locals and not these yuppie pricks takin' over – need a place of their own. They don't need another uppity coffee shop or dress store. They need places like this to come blow off some steam. So, even though they're offerin' me real nice money to sell, I won't do it.”

“God bless you, Leon,” I say.

“Listen,” he says, his tone growing more serious. “I was real sorry to hear 'bout your brother. He was a good kid.”

I nod and sip my beer. “Yup. He was.”

“I assume that's why your back?”

I nod again. “Just comin' to pay my respects and put him in the ground.”

Leon shakes his head. “It's a damn shame.”

I set the mug back down. I don't have many details about what happened to Timothy. The family hasn't been very forthcoming. As usual. All I know is that his office burned down while he was trapped inside. The official cause of death is smoke inhalation. Bad way to go, but not the worst way, all things considered.

It left me with some questions, though. Questions I know my family isn't going to answer, now that I'm the outcast and all. I suppose I should feel grateful I found out about Timmy's death at all. My family has cornered the market on being petty assholes.

But, banking on the fact that although it's grown Folson Forge is still a small town, and that in small towns, rumors and gossip spread quicker than wildfire on a dry prairie, if there's anything I need to know, all I have to do is ask someone without the last name Sheridan.

“How'd his office burn down?” I ask.

“They say it was somethin' to do with the electricity,” he says. “Some short-circuit that caused the electronic locks to seize up and trap him inside or somethin'.”

I nod and take a long pull of my beer. I'm no expert in electronics or anything, but something about that story doesn't sit right with me. Depending on the system, I suppose it's possible it went down that way, but there's definitely a few red flags waving in my head. And if there's one thing I learned in my time in the shit overseas, it's that my instincts need to be trusted and listened to. They've helped me out of plenty of tight spots.

“Burns still the sheriff here?” I ask.

Leon shakes his head and laughs. “Nah. He's the mayor now.”

“Mayor, huh?” I say. “Moving up in the world.”

“Apparently,” he says. “Nah, the new sheriff is a guy named Keyes. A real son of a bitch. He's also a Longstreet man, so you best watch yourself, son.”

“Keyes?” I ask, my eyes widening. “As in Elliott Keyes?”

“Yeah, that's him,” I say. “You know him?”

“Lord help us,” I mutter. “Son of a bitch doesn't come close to describing that man.”

Elliott Keyes was Clyde Longstreet's best friend back in high school. Though, a more accurate description might be lackey and sycophant, rather than best friend. He was a lot like the girls who used to bang my brothers and I – willing to do anything to get close to our families and be a part of them. He was the one I'd knocked out cold when Clyde and his buddies had jumped me all those years ago.

Keyes, like those girls, did whatever we wanted without question and at a snap of the fingers.

I let out a long breath and chuckle. Will this family blood feud shit ever end? Having removed myself from it entirely, I can see it for what it is with crystal clarity now. And it's fucking stupid. Beyond stupid.

“Yeah, well, I have no intention of getting mixed up in all that stupid family feud shit all over again,” I say. “I did my time.”

“Wish other folks felt the same,” Leon says.

“Yeah, tell me about it.”

“You been home yet?”

I shake my head. “Nah. Not yet,” I say. “Trying to put that off as long as I can.”

He laughs, his voice a deep, rumbling bass. “Can't say I blame you.”

“From what I gather, nothing much has changed,” I say.

“That's what I hear,” he replies. “What are you doin' these days, Milo? You ain't still in the Corps, are you?”

I shake my head. “Nope. Did six years and rotated out,” I say. “Started a company though.”

“Oh yeah?”

I nod. “Private security firm called Spearpoint,” I say. “We're based out of San Diego.”

He whistles low, a smile spreading across his lips. “I hear it's nice out there.”

“It is,” I say. “Sunny all the time. Always near the beach. And best of all, we don't have the goddamn humidity this place does.”

“I hear that, son,” Leon laughs. “Glad to hear you're doin' well for yourself.”

“Gettin' there,” I say.

I drain the last of my beer as Leon sets me up with another. We talk and reminisce about old times, and for the first time since I arrived, I don't feel that overwhelming sense of dread. Old friends are good medicine.

And a good source of information. I make a mental note to check in with the new sheriff. I have some questions about my brother's death I hope he can answer.