He took a step closer to Augustus, but that, too, failed to intimidate him. Didn't the man understand that after two years in prison, he wasn't fazed by a cop? He'd confronted guards, fellow inmates, men who wanted a piece of him, and he had come out the other side. A nearly sixty-year-old man didn't frighten him in the least.
"Look, Mac, I'd hate for you to get into trouble, but it's been reported you have guns on the premises. I shouldn't have to tell you that as a felon, you're not allowed to have a firearm. I would strongly advise you to surrender your firearms to me right now, so I won't have to come back with a warrant and seize them. If I do that, I have no choice but to press charges, and you’d be sent back to prison for at least six months."
Augustus took a step back, then another one. The rage that exploded inside him was so blazingly hot that he didn't trust himself not to get physical. He'd always known people hated him. Hell, he had been an outcast from his first day in kindergarten and had suffered anywhere from teasing to outright bullying all through his school years. And after he'd done his time, no one had ever treated him with kindness. He knew the gossip and had bravely faced the scorn, the ridicule, the gossip, and the derisive remarks.
But never in his wildest dreams had he expected someone to threaten him with sending him back to prison. How could they hate him that much? What had he ever done to deserve a wrath that had lasted twenty years by now? He'd done everything, tried everything, but they would never forgive him, would they? They would never let this go, would never give him a second chance. No matter what he did, he would always be the outcast, the felon, the man who had taken their money, even if it had never been him but his father.
And now McAuley was threatening him with prison. He couldn't go back. Not ever again. He had survived the first time, but barely. If he hadn't found protection in the unlikely form of another inmate, his cellmate of all people, he wouldn't have lasted. He would've probably killed himself within the first few months. But Gabe, his cellmate, who had been ten years older than him and had already served five years for armed robbery, had taken him under his wing. Augustus had never understood why because Gabe had never asked for anything in return, but Gabe had protected him throughout those two years. They had still been horrible, but he had survived.
That wouldn't happen a second time. If he were sent back to prison now, he would die.
"How c-can you h-h-hate me this m-much?"
The question was out of his mouth before he could swallow it back, before he could prevent himself from showing they had gotten to him.
But instead of the scorn he had expected to see on McAuley's face, the sheriff seemed embarrassed for a moment. Almost ashamed. "This has nothing to do with hate, son. I swore an oath to uphold the law."
He covered himself quickly, but Augustus had seen it. Maybe he’d reached that line the sheriff wasn't willing to cross, even if it was a thin, blurry one.
He took a deep breath, sucking back his anger all over again. "I d-do have weapons on the p-premises. I also have the n-n-necessary p-permits, and if you had b-bothered to ch-ch-check the reg-g-gister, you would've seen they are all r-registered with New York St-st-state."
McAuley looked confused. "I don't understand. You can't legally own a fire weapon as a felon."
"I app-p-plied for a C-certificate of R-r-relief of Disab-bility and was granted one, years ago. That certificate a-allowed me to apply for a g-gun permit and rec-c-ceive one. Check your d-database, Sh-sheriff. I guess you were s-s-so convinced you had m-me that you never b-b-bothered to even look."
"I… I didn't know. That you had a certificate, I mean." McAuley was full out flustered now, but even the satisfaction of knowing that he'd bested him didn't take away the stabbing pain inside Augustus.
He turned to Willis. "I'm not p-paying. S-s-ue me. We b-both know you w-w-won't win."
He took another few steps back. "Now g-get the h-h-ell off my prop-p-perty."
24
It was the fourth Wednesday Quentin spent in Northern Lake. It was also the fourth Wednesday he was visiting Mary's café. They had been talking about him, the Wednesday ladies. He deduced that from their reactions when he came in: covert glances and subtle elbows alerting each other to his presence.
He sent them a friendly smile. It fit what he had expected based on his research. He was an outsider, a newcomer, and by now, they realized he wasn't a tourist. Of course they’d want to know more.
Mary was as nice as always, and if she was curious about what was keeping him here so long, she didn't ask. He ordered another hot chocolate but with pecan pie this time. No matter what he ordered, it had always been delicious. No wonder the café was usually busy when he stopped by.
"I'll get that right in for you, honey," Mary said, sounding as maternal as she had that first day.
After she was gone, the other women shared looks, a lot of nodding and gesturing in his direction, and Quentin bit back a smile. He had no trouble interpreting what was happening. They were engaged in a silent battle to figure out who would approach him. Seconds later, a woman who had to be in her early fifties, with silver streaks running through her dark hair, got up from her chair and walked over toward him. Bingo.
"Hi," she said and extended her hand to him. "I'm Joanna Pullman. We've seen you here a few times, and we were wondering if you were new to town."
It didn't escape Quentin's attention that the café had grown silent and that all eyes were trained on them. He took her hand. "It's so nice to meet you. I'm Quentin. I'm hoping to be around for a couple of months."
"A couple of months?" she asked, letting go of his hand. "What brings you to the area?"
He'd called that one. Quentin gestured at her to take a seat, and she looked over her shoulder to the other women.
"Or I could join you," Quentin suggested with a soft smile. He hoped he wasn't too forward because that could burn bridges, but Joanna turned her attention back to him and smiled.
"Yes, why don't you join us," she said. "I'm sure the others would like to meet you as well."
They made room for him at the table, and Quentin's heart rate jumped at this opportunity. He had to tread carefully here. He could not fuck this up. The women quickly introduced themselves, a whirlwind of two Susans, a Patricia, a Laura, he thought, and a few names he'd forgotten as soon as they said them. He had time to learn their names. For now, it was important they got to know him a little and that he could establish a basis of trust.
"So, what does bring you to our area?" Joanna repeated her earlier question.
"I'm from California," Quentin started, and that resulted in a couple of gasps around the table.
"California?" One of the women—Laura?—said. "You're a long way from home."
“I have to admit it's been quite the shock. The weather here is no joke. I respect you guys for enduring this winter after winter."
They chuckled amicably. "This winter has been pretty mild so far," one of the other women commented. "Aside from that big storm a month ago, it's only been dustings."