Sewerville

by Aaron Saylor

  Filled with nervous energy, Boone made a quick in–and–out at his house, grabbed some additional bullets for his .38. In all the uncertainties of the moment, that one thing seemed true indeed: he definitely needed more bullets.

  Back at Mama’s house, Boone took one more try.

  Under bright moonlight, he walked up the creaky wooden steps of the front porch. The outside light was on and he knew she must be home. She was always home.

  “Mama?” he said, tapping on the glass of the storm door. “Mama? It’s Boone.”

  He saw her silhouette moving inside, cast against the living room curtains. But she seemed to be going away from the door, not towards it.

  Boone rapped the glass again, longer and louder this time. “Mama?”

  She didn’t answer.

  He tried again. “Mama, I see you in there. I need to talk to you.”

  Her shadow was gone now. He realized she’d retreated to the back of the house, no doubt hoping her youngest son would just go away. Still he tried again, rap–rapping even louder on the storm door with the knuckle of his forefinger. And still, Mama didn’t answer. He supposed that he couldn’t blame her.

  Boone didn’t know exactly where to go next, but he needed to go somewhere. Needed to get away, clear the fireflies from his mind and determine his next move. He left Mama’s and hopped back on Highway 15 out to the East Kentucky Parkway, then took the parkway to I–64. He didn’t stop anywhere else until he got all the way to Owen County, which was ninety miles north of Sewardville, in between Frankfort and Louisville.

  It took him an hour to get to Frankfort, and another forty minutes or so to get to Owen County. It felt like 10 seconds, so preoccupied was he with thoughts of the drama in Sewerville.

  The trip to Owen County required that he actually get off the interstate at the second Frankfort exit, and follow a couple of two–lane state roads, winding through the capitol and eventually breaking out into a rural area dotted with vinyl–siding homes and mottled cow pastures. Once he reached Owen County, it was only a few more miles before he arrived in Owenton, the county seat.

  Barely more than a thousand people called Owenton home, but it was still far and away the largest municipality in the county proper. Boone stayed on the main drag and drove past some familiar small–town sights: Baptist church, Taco Bell, Church of Christ, McDonald’s, KFC, Christian Church, a Shell station, a BP mart. The staples of Smalltown USA. He figured the pill heads and the makers of meth must be nearby, somewhere in the shadows.

  All told the jaunt required fifteen minutes, from one edge of Owenton to the other. On his way out of town Boone stopped at the last gas station, a Chevron convenience store. By then he had to take a mighty piss, so he filled the truck up with gas then went inside to use the men’s facilities. He grabbed a few supplies for the road, too. Doritos, white bread, some salted peanuts, four bottles of water.

  He got back in his truck, pulled out of the Chevron station, and kept going in the same northern direction. In a short moment he was completely out in the countryside again, travelling in pitch black night on a narrow two–lane highway. High old oak and maple trees whipped by on both sides of the route, their leafy limbs bowed out over the road to such a degree that at times Boone felt like he was passing through a railroad tunnel.

  One mile became eight, eight miles turned into eighteen, eighteen became thirty, thirty became some number more than thirty. He lost track of the distance.

  Owen County gave way to the next county north, Gallatin, which bordered the Ohio River.

  Boone made a hard right turn at a flashing yellow caution light. He traded one country road for another and kept going. The highway banked left then right then left again, twisting through dips and rises, taking Boone past occasional houses and farms clustered in nameless rural communities. Soon he turned onto a rough road that had gone without maintenance for the last decade, save snaky lines of asphalt patch in its worst places.

  The last sign of civilization Boone saw was a run–down trailer that sat fifty yards or so from the point where the asphalt ended and the highway became a gravel service road, running against a steep wooded slope on one side, and a grassy field on the other. The field cascaded towards yet another hill that rose a couple hundred feet high.

  Boone took the service road, undaunted. This place had its dark corners, Sewerville had its dark corners, the whole damned world had its dark corners. So what.

  From the driver’s side window, he could see through the trees silhouetted in the moonlight that the smaller hill to his left side leveled out. But then, at its far end, the incline quickly sagged back downward into a flat plain. This told him that the river was not far away.

  A half mile down the service road, Boone saw a place where the grass had been driven over and tamped down after many repeated uses, a spot worn down almost to the dirt in two tire–wide tracks. He cut the wheel at that point and headed into the field. The truck’s shock absorbers got a hard workout as the vehicle bounced on the terrain but soon enough he was among the trees again, riding up the hillside on a path that was far too clear to be accidental.

  He followed that path to the top of the hill, then started another descent, into a small valley with no other way in or out except for the path he’d just taken. A small brook cut a steady flow through the bottom of the hill, spurred along by the recent spring rains. An unkempt grassy field spread out from the creek bank, towards the other side of the valley.

  There, just a hundred yards or so away, was a little building.

  A cabin.

  It was small, really just a crude shack, run down as all hell. It looked like it had been plucked straight from the 19th century American frontier. Like Honest Abe Lincoln himself might stroll out the front door any minute. Knee–high weeds whipped around the place, shooting through cracks in the concrete–block foundation. In the grayed, wooden walls opened weathered gaps that Boone saw even before his truck hit the creek’s edge. Dim light flickered through the gaps, and through the small windows that sat crooked on either side of the door.

  He thought it must be a candle throwing off the jittery light. Yes. A candle. That meant somebody was in there.

  Boone drove his truck through the creek and geared down. Slowly he pulled up near the ramshackle structure, determined to see who was there. All the thoughts of Karen, and Walt Slone, and John Slone, and the mess in Sewardville melted away as he found a new single–mindedness of purpose.

  He grabbed his .38 from its spot on the seat next to him and headed for the front door, which sat a foot or so above the ground at the top of the single concrete block that the cabin owner had placed there for a step. As he stood up on the block, he looked through the windows, but still couldn’t see anyone in there yet.

  He lowered his head, and knocked on the door with the butt of his handgun. “Anybody home?”

  From behind the door came only silence.

  Boone thought for a moment, saw the candlelight flickering underneath the door, knocked again. “Who’s in there?” he said, this time in a quieter tone.

  “Who you lookin’ for?” snapped a voice from the other side. A man.

  Boone saw a shadow shift in the candelight. Whoever was in the cabin, they were near the door, probably right up against it. “I ain’t looking for anybody,” he said. “Who are you looking for?”

  “I’m lookin’ for Mama,” said the voice.

  “I’m lookin’ for Mama, too,” said Boone. He nodded slowly and then looked up again, staring straight at the door. A surprising confidence straightened up his spine.

  “Tell me this,” said the man inside the cabin. “Who’s Mama’s favorite?”

  Boone took a deep breath and said, “The oldest son is always the favorite.” He waited. “I’m gonna step back now. Don’t shoot.”

  He moved back off the concrete block, and stood in the weeds. A metallic whine escaped from inside the structure, the result of a heavy, unoiled steel bolt wrenched backward. The door unloc
ked. It cracked open and hung like that for a second, then with a mighty shove swung back wide and smacked against the side of the cabin.

  There stood a man.

  His right hand dangled limply, showing stubs in place of two amputated fingers, all those months ago.

  It was Jimmy. He still wore the same green army jacket he’d worn that night at Coppers Creek.

  “You’re early,” Jimmy said.

  “I know,” said Boone. “We got problems.”

  Jimmy shook his head but otherwise had no reaction. Of course they had problems, it seemed like they always had nothing but problems. Problems followed them around the way puppy dogs followed around little children, always barking, always biting at the heels. If they’d learned anything in their lives, it was that they could deal with problems.

  He moved over, and motioned Boone into the cabin.

  PART SIX: VENGEANCE

  Vengeance and retribution require a long time; it is the rule.

  Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities

  TRUTH

  After Boone came inside, he and his brother sat down at a square card table, in two plastic deck chairs that were the color of bread mold. Two slender white candles stood halfway melted in the center of the table, providing plenty of light for the two men in this small space.

  A profound silence wedged between them. Boone stared at the slight flame that flicked from the candle nearest him. Jimmy stared at his little brother, waiting for the right moment to continue the conversation.

  Boone tapped his knuckles on the table, once, twice, three times, while looking around the room at the creature comforts that his brother lived with for the past few months. A cot stood in the far corner, away from the windows, with several ratty quilts piled on top of it. A dented metal wastebasket sat by the door, filled with plastic food wrappers and soda bottles. Several gallon jugs of spring water lined up against the wall. Magazines and newspapers lay about haphazard, screaming outdated headlines.

  “Looks like you been livin’ high on the hog,” said Boone.

  “You bet,” said Jimmy, without expression.

  “That face of yours don’t look too bad. When’s the last time you shaved?” Boone asked.

  Jimmy shrugged. “One of the neighbors lets me stop in once a week or so and take a shower, shave my face, even shit in a toilet for a change.”

  Boone sat up straight, agitated now. “Are you fucking kidding? We agreed on it! You wouldn’t leave here until I met up with you!”

  “You try shittin’ in the woods for a few months and see how that suits you,” said Jimmy. “Besides, all that food you was supposed to bring me never did exactly materialize. What the fuck did you think I was gonna do, eat the rest of my fingers?” For extra effect, he held up the mangled digits.

  Boone bit his lip and gave no answer. He knew that Jimmy spoke the truth. When Boone yanked him up from Coppers Creek, they had put together their plan of escape, and Boone promised that he would keep Jimmy stocked with supplies while Jimmy hid out in this distant Gallatin County cabin. But it quickly became apparent that Boone couldn’t regularly be away from Sewardville for hours at a time without arousing the suspicions of the entire Slone family, so that promise fell apart.

  So, yes, things hadn’t quite gone as planned. Then again, he hadn’t shot Jimmy in the face as planned, either. It didn’t matter now. They were in a mess.

  “I came up here before the winter,” said Boone, “and I gave you some money, and told you to sit tight. That neighbor of yours at the end of the paved road got some money, too. He said he’d look in on you to make sure you stayed stocked in food and water.”

  “Yeah, well, he did,” said Jimmy. “Sometimes he did.”

  Jimmy got up, went to the cot and grabbed one of the quilts. He wrapped the ratty blanket around his shoulders. The nip of the evening air already seeped in through the walls.

  “Forget it. Main thing is, you’re here now,” Jimmy said. He produced a pint of Jim Beam bourbon whiskey from the inside of his jacket.

  “I see where your money went,” Boone said.

  Jimmy tipped the bottle towards his brother, shook his head, laughed. “Now you gotta tell me why you’re early,” he said, ignoring Boone’s last comment. “The plan was, you’d come up here a week after we got Walt out of the way and then we’d go down to the state police in Frankfort and turn witness on him. It ain’t been a week yet.”

  “That’s the problem. Walt’s not out of the way.”

  Jimmy was stunned. “What do you mean, he ain’t out of the way?”

  “I mean, he ain’t out of the goddamn way,” said Boone. “He’s laid up in a hospital bed, breathing through plastic tubes, but he’s still alive. Maybe you ain’t such a good shot after all.”

  “Well excuse the fuck out of me!” Jimmy snapped, and again he held up his damaged hand. “You try holding a rifle with half your fuckin’ fingers blown off one hand. See how you do!”

  Jimmy slumped back in his chair, looking like he’d just been told there was no God in Heaven. But just as quickly as he’d lost his composure, he put the bad news behind him. “So the fucker’s still alive. So what. It don’t change shit. We still go to Frankfort, turn state’s evidence and bring every last goddamn one of them down.”

  Boone stood up and began pacing back and forth across the room. “It’s not that easy,” he said. “I thought we’d have a few days to cover our asses and get out of there once Walt was dead, but that ain’t gonna happen now. The sheriff’s lost it. He killed J.T. Rogers because he thought it was J.T. that shot Walt, but that ain’t satisfied him. If he ain’t got Elmer Canifax yet, he will. And he’s gonna come after me, too.”

  “Why the hell would he do that?”

  “Because I got between him and Rogers. Because I tried to keep more blood off our hands. That’s why.”

  Boone stopped at the window, looked out into the moonbeam–soaked valley.

  “I fucked up, Jimmy,” he continued. “I thought everything was gonna work out just like we planned. I should have known better. We got a world of shit coming down on us and nobody but me to blame for it. I got a little nervous before the day come to shoot Walt and I tried to play Karen and her brother off of Elmer and Rogers. Tried to throw everybody off our trail that way. Now Rogers is dead, and he won’t be the last if John Slone has anything to say about it.”

  “Then let’s not wait,” Jimmy pleaded. “Let’s go right now. Fuck ‘em Boone, let’s go right now!”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why can’t you?”

  Boone turned away from the window and faced his brother again. “Because. Samantha. I can’t leave her there with them. That was always part of the plan, that we’d take her with us.”

  Samantha was the key to everything. Boone had gotten his fill of doing Walt Slone’s shit work, his fill of Sewerville in general, and he wanted out. More importantly, he wanted his daughter out.

  He’d agreed to kill Jimmy for Walt, but when the deed was set to go down in the stormy waters of Coppers Creek, Boone finally realized that he could no longer remain a part of such madness. If Walt Slone would order Boone to kill his own brother, what would come next? His mother? His daughter? Karen? Who could tell. What started off with small time errands – deliver illegal fireworks here, pick up guns there – had evolved into a life of inflicting pain on others. For God’s sake, Walt had paid Boone and Jimmy to kill his wife when they were barely legal adults. Boone wondered why he ever thought life with the Slones would get any better from there. Why did he think it would get any better? It could only get worse.

  So, he’d pulled Jimmy up out of the swirling water and they’d concocted their plan on the banks of Coppers Creek. Sure, Jimmy sacrificed a couple of fingers, but those severed fingers helped convince Walt that Jimmy was out of the picture. And for most of the time, the plan worked to perfection. Boone knew some people who knew some people, and paid them enough money that they found Jimmy a remote place to stay for a few m
onths where Walt would never think to look. That turned out to be this hidden Gallatin County valley, not far from the Ohio River, a hundred and thirty miles from Sewardville in a far–off corner that not even Walt’s all–seeing eye could find.

  From there, the plan went accordingly. Autumn passed, and winter, and into spring. Jimmy stayed at the cabin, and while Boone could not check in with his brother the way they’d hoped, the cabin’s nearest neighbor was rewarded handsomely for ensuring that Jimmy never ran out of the necessities.

  In the spring, the neighbor gave Jimmy the keys to a car with forged license plates. Jimmy drove back to Seward County with his favorite hunting rifle, climbed up in a tree at the far end of the Sewardville City Park, and waited there until the moment came that he had a clean shot at Walt Slone. And when he had that shot, he did not hesitate.

  Jimmy and Boone were supposed to meet a week later. Boone would have Samantha in tow, and they would head off to Cincinnati to the open arms of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, who would no doubt love to hear the inside dish on one of the biggest interstate criminal empires in the entire Southeast. At some point after that, the Slone operation would crumble, the three of them would enter the witness protection program, and that would be that.

  But then… well, then. They weren’t meeting a week later. They were meeting now. And now, they had a mess on their hands.

  Jimmy kicked Boone’s chair and nodded towards it, silently asking Boone to sit back down. Which he did.

  “Fine then,” said Jimmy. “You go back and get your daughter. We’ll work this shit out.” He took another swig from the pint of Jim Beam and offered one to Boone, who politely declined.