by Billy Coffey
I’m so glad you came.
There’s a Texaco down the road a-ways.
Just trying to help you out.
“Let’s go get you some more money, Charlie,” he said. “Fella said there’s another fill-’em-up station down the way. But you let me play it. You screw this up, Charlie Givens, you’ll bleed after.”
Taylor thought the idea of getting more money was one Charlie Givens liked fine. He also thought that when it came to the slumbering, the only motivator greater than greed was fear. Charlie tore out of the parking lot and left a thick layer of rubber on the empty road.
Taylor leaned forward. He took the book from his back pocket and found the pencil he’d stashed inside. The blood on his fingers stained the pages. He was about to ask his question again—You think I’m a good man, Charly?—but then remembered Charlie had not answered the first time.
He decided not to ask again.
Part II
The Narrowing Trail
1
It would be so easy.
Lucy didn’t know if she’d said those words or thought them. Some part of her believed it had been neither—that this was the one time her mother had spoken and Lucy had heard. Impossible, maybe, but Lucy was nearly convinced that impossible didn’t matter because none of this was really happening. She was imagining it all, maybe, or maybe this was all a nightmare. Yes. She closed her eyes in front of the bathroom mirror, even eased her heels slowly together and apart three times, but there was only the steady hum of the fan in the ceiling and the feeling of tears drying on her cheeks and the absolute certainty that it really would be so easy.
She laid the scissors down, clunking them against the phone beside the sink. There was a kind of cosmic significance that Lucy’s downward spiral had reached its end with a phone call to Johnny; Johnny, after all, was where that spiral had begun—right after he walked out and Kate Barnett walked in. Had Timmy Griffith’s sister stayed away, Lucy was sure things would have been different. She would have taken her time cleaning up and surely picked up what her father had found. Everything would have been okay. Not great (Lucy thought things between herself and her father had never been great and likely never would be), but okay. It didn’t seem fair that the course of one’s life could be forever altered by the random actions of another.
There was no doubt her father would make good on his promise. That Lucy was eighteen and the school year was almost over didn’t matter, he would send her away. He would hold his money over her head and use any trick, would maybe even talk it over with The Boys. It would be Glendale in Charlottesville or Lipscomb in Stanley, private schools just for girls like her that boasted locked doors and totalitarian rules with an aim not to educate the mind but break the will. He would do so, Lucy thought, because in the end all her father would be getting rid of was the daughter who reminded him of his dead wife.
Lucy raised the scissors and held them to the light. The florescent glow played along the blades. From downstairs came nine faint bongs of the grandfather clock.
She’d called Johnny that afternoon and told him everything, tempering it all by saying that she had a plan. They would run away. To where and for how long didn’t matter so long as they were together—so long as he loved her. It would be like a storybook, Lucy said, everything they had always wanted, and her father would never have to lord his money over her again.
And Johnny said no.
Said he’d never had any idea Lucy loved him and she only had herself to blame for thinking he loved her back. And as for running away, Johnny said he’d never dream of leaving Mattingly. This was home, and he had to work his daddy’s farm because one day that farm would be his own. Lucy begged even as she heard the door on Johnny’s heart creak closed. She cried and that door closed more. And then it shut with a driving thunder when he said Timmy Griffith had called the house not long before, warning Johnny’s parents that their boy was in bad company with a girl from Away.
It was over, Johnny said. And then he said it wasn’t like they were going to stay together forever anyway (“You’re cute an’ all, but Momma says all us Adkinses need is fields and Jesus.”). But hey, Johnny said, if you ever want to invite me over when your daddy ain’t home, that’d be really cool. He said maybe next time he could even bring some moonshine, make it a real party.
Staring into the mirror, Lucy’s mind locked on that one word.
Moonshine.
She released one of the blue plastic handles on the scissors. The bottom blade fell, forming a flattened V. She placed her thumb and forefinger through the holes, took hold of her mother’s hair, and began to cut. Lucy’s breaths came in heaving gulps as curls and ringlets broke free—some falling onto the sink, others onto her shirt, most on the tiled bathroom floor. When the blades caught in her thick mane, Lucy pulled them out in clumps that left her weeping. Her fingers and scalp pulsed in agony, her cheeks wet and red, and when she was finished, what remained was nothing more than a disheveled mop. Lucy left everything there—the hair, the scissors, the phone—and took the stairs down to the kitchen. She poured through the cabinets and found a small pair of binoculars and one of the mason jars her father kept beneath the sink.
She passed the side table with its stack of books Kate had seen earlier (which happened to be only a small part of a collection neither Johnny nor any of the other boys ever took interest in) and went outside. She sat on the top step of the porch and tilted the canning jar to the stars, brought it down, and sniffed. The inside of the jar carried the same faint stink as her father’s breath. Corn whiskey. Lucy hadn’t thought of that possibility—moonshiners had been nonexistent back home in DC—but now it made perfect sense. It was moonshine that had spoiled the last bit of goodness in Lucy’s father, moonshine that had poisoned him such that he was now going to send his daughter away. She vowed right there beneath the orange moon that if she ever found the man who had given her father that drink, that man would die.
Cool night air flowed over her, chilling the back of her bare neck. Lucy put the jar down and picked up the binoculars. Orion’s stars rose just above distant blue mountains that loomed skyward like dark monoliths. Her father once said he didn’t care much for the Blue Ridge. He’d grown up in the west, where the peaks were taller and sliced the sky. Lucy had always thought otherwise. Her father’s mountains were but children upon the earth. Those she gazed upon now were primeval, smoothed by time and wind. They did not gouge the sky, but met it in amorous union. These mountains held secrets. They guarded magic. Lucy didn’t know how she knew this, only that she did.
She panned the lenses down over the Texaco. Timmy was behind the counter, probably counting his money and patting himself on the back for the good deed he’d done in calling Johnny’s father. A dirt-road colored pickup appeared out of the night and lumbered into the lot, stopping beyond the doors. Two bloodied men limped out. One of them was short and potbellied, the other taller, sinewy, with a ponytail and beard that swayed in the wind. A steady stream of crimson ran from the side of his head to his left shoulder.
The two men walked through the Texaco’s doors and approached Timmy, who began a nod he didn’t finish when he saw the condition of his last customers of the night. The three of them exchanged words. Timmy shook his head no and gave them a shooing motion.
It was the fat man who charged first.
He reached over the counter and connected a solid fist to Timmy’s head, then grabbed for his collar. Timmy wrenched himself free and brought up the shotgun from beneath the counter. The bigger man leaped forward. Timmy was faster, catching him in the shoulder hard enough to back him away.
Far upon the hill where the old Kingman house stood, Lucy stopped breathing.
Fists flailed inside the Texaco. The tall man jerked the shotgun free and hit Timmy with the stock, sending him backward. Timmy recovered and landed another blow, knocking the gun free. The fat man charged just as Timmy’s fingers closed around the hunk of ash. He leveled the stranger with it, sendi
ng him across on the floor. The tall man ran for the doors. Timmy followed but forgot about the body at his feet. He tripped and landed on his face.
The tall man stumbled to the truck and sat there. Lucy heard no roaring engine or squealing tires. Her heart lurched in her chest when she realized why. His friend had been driving. The keys must still be in his pocket.
He ran for the store and then stopped, no doubt thinking that if he went back inside he may well not come out. Lucy watched as he stood beneath the canopy lights, a feral beast caged and without options.
Lucy Seekins acted first and thought later. She ran inside for the keys to her BMW and took the lane as fast as she dared, not even slowing as she crossed the road. The man looked up as she swerved between the pumps and came to a stop mere feet from where he stood.
Lucy lowered the passenger window. She said, “Get in.” He did.
2
Our Saturday nights with the Boyds had begun two years prior, back when the recession first hit. Things had gotten so bad that Trevor Morgan ran an op-ed in the Gazette weighing the likelihood of Mattingly disappearing outright. I took that as just the sort of journalistic sensationalism Trevor often used to sell his newspapers, which turned out exactly to be the case. In the end the town held together just as Peter and Abigail Boyd had—by equal measures of prayer and sweat.
Those weekend get-togethers kept going as the years went on, mostly because Peter and Abigail were such good company. Their son, Josh, and daughter, Sara, were close friends with Zach, even though they were a bit apart in age. Joey and Frankie Munroe, Peter’s cousins and volunteers down at the rescue squad, had taken to joining us of late. Both had graduated high school with Kate and me.
We sat around the long picnic table under the porch light in Peter’s backyard that night. Kate said nothing about the empty place she’d reserved for Timmy, and neither she nor Zach had mentioned our near collision and the reasons behind it. Given the ease with which kids surrender the before to the now, I thought Zach had likely put the whole thing out of his mind. But I knew Kate hadn’t. She hung on to memories, the bad ones especially.
Conversation was light and broad as the meal continued on. The kids finished early, wanting to play more than gather. Joey and Frankie joined them in a spirited game of dodge ball. Both of the Munroe boys may have been a sandwich shy of three hundred pounds, but in many ways neither of them had ever grown up.
“You’re not eating, Jake,” Abigail said. “Something the matter with my cooking?”
I looked down at my plate and found only half my barbecued chicken and a bite of my slaw gone. I didn’t even remember eating that. The only way I knew I had was the spicy-sweet taste in my mouth.
“Sorry,” I said. “Good as always, Abby.”
Peter squinted, cheeks bulging with food, and offered, “You ain’t lookin’ too good, Jake. What’s up?”
Kate stole a look to make sure Zach and the kids were out of earshot. She whispered, “Justus’s calling again.”
Sad nods all around. Peter offered an understanding sigh. I suppose Kate had to offer some sort of explanation for my sullenness. I was just thankful that she’d kept my nightmares private. And the truth was that Justus calling had upset me more than I cared to admit.
Peter asked, “What’s he want, Jake?”
“Just trying to pick a fight,” is what I said. “You know how he is.”
Abigail humphed. Peter smiled at her and looked at me. “My wife’s too polite to say that man should count his lucky stars you haven’t tracked him down and thrown him in jail.”
I felt Kate’s eyes on me.
“Nothin’d please our good Mayor Wallis more, I suppose,” Peter said. “’Course, he’d have a revolt on his hands. More folk blame Big Jim for getting those men shot than blame Justus. Everybody knows he wanted Justus’s land for his godforsaken strip mall, and he was tired of Justus holding the reins on what he could and couldn’t do in this town. I expect Jim Wallis’s the only one who thanked the good Lord for the drought that year. Justus wouldn’t have had to take out a loan on the farm otherwise, and Big Jim wouldn’t have gotten the idea to muscle the bank to call the loan in.”
“Justus didn’t have to shoot the men who came to collect,” Kate said. “Sending them out there might have been Mayor Wallis’s doing, but he didn’t pull the trigger.”
Peter shook his head. “No’m. And I suppose Justus has been paying for it since.”
I said nothing, lost in my own thoughts. Kate said, “He called the office this morning. Zach answered.”
Peter raised his eyebrows and nodded. “You two understand sooner or later that boy’s gonna know? Can’t keep it a secret, no matter how hard you try. It’s a small town, Kate. Jake, people talk.”
“Zach is six,” Kate said. “He’s too young to understand. We’re trying to keep the world from him, let him be. And it’s not just me and Jake who think it’s best. Justus does too.”
I looked out into the dark yard. Zach flitted in and out of the porch light’s arc, chased by both Frankie and Joey. “Doesn’t matter,” I said. “Justus isn’t coming back, and that’s all Mayor Wallis ever wanted. Farm’s still there and the strip mall still ain’t. I made sure there was no trouble. It’ll all be put away sooner or later.”
Kate offered a sad grin and said, “Nothing’s ever put away in this town, Jake.”
I nodded, knowing just how true that was, and decided it was better to play with the kids than dwell on Justus. I left the porch just as my cell phone rang. I checked the name and called Zach over.
“Wanna talk to Uncle Timmy?”
“Sure.”
Kate perked up when she heard her brother’s name. “Tell him to hurry, Zach. He’s already missed supper.”
Zach flipped the phone open and said, “Hey, Uncle Timmy. Momma said to hurr—” He fell silent. I looked down. He handed the phone to me like it was a hot coal. “He wants to talk to you, Daddy.”
“What’s the matter?”
Zach didn’t answer. He left me and walked to the porch, where he settled in Kate’s lap. Conversation around the picnic table had moved on by then. Peter asked Zach about his black eye.
I held the phone up to my ear. “What’s up, Timmy?”
There came a crash on the other end of the line, followed by a distant bonging sound. Then Timmy’s voice—a panting, crackling mix of confusion and fear: “Jake? Two guys came in here all drunked up and turned on me.”
I looked at Kate, who laughed at something Peter had said. Zach wrapped her arms around himself and stared at me.
“Jake?”
“I’m here.” I turned away and found a private spot next to the woodshed. “You okay?”
“You gotta get here, Jake. I got one of them. Knocked him out and drug him into the cooler, but he’s awake now. Other one’s still outside. Their truck’s still here. I think they killed Andy, Jake. Jesus help us, I think Andy’s dead.”
“What?”
It was my tone that caught everyone’s attention. Kate’s laugh shrank to an uneasy smile. Abigail stared at me. Peter rose from his place at the picnic table and left the porch. Joey and Frankie made their way over.
Another crash on the phone. Someone was trying to get out. Or in.
“I think they killed him,” Timmy said again. “One of them—the one I got locked up—he said if I didn’t hand over the money they were gonna kill me like they killed the man at the gas station down the road. That’s gottta be Andy, right? They jumped me, Jake. I got one of them. Locked him in the cooler. But the other one’s still here.”
“I’m on the way,” I said. “Lock the doors and wait for me.”
“Jake?” Kate asked. “What’s wrong?”
I shut the phone. To Joey and Frankie I said, “Y’all need to get down to the squad and take a truck to the BP. I think Andy’s hurt.”
The cousins had turned their backs and begun their walk to the driveway before I could finish. Neither ran—running would
only imply panic—but their strides were long and quick.
“Jake,” Kate said again.
I turned to Peter next. “Two guys came into the Texaco and jumped Timmy. One of them’s cornered. Other’s on the loose.”
Peter said, “I’m coming with you,” just as Kate said, “Jake.”
I looked at her. Zach pulled Kate’s arms tighter over himself like they were the harness on a carnival ride that wouldn’t stop going down and down. We all turned as Frankie’s big diesel rounded the corner and headed toward town. Moving fast.
I told Peter, “No. I’m gonna need you to get Kate over to the office. Zach’ll have to stay here a bit until we get this straightened out.”
Peter wavered. A trace of alarm crept over his face. In a strange way, I took comfort in knowing I wasn’t the only one standing there afraid.
But I knew the anxiety Peter felt was not for himself, it was for me. I was a Barnett, oh yes, and may that name always be spoken in awed, hushed tones within Mattingly’s boundaries. But the particular Barnett in front of Peter had never grown to embrace his kin’s storied past, even if I did cart Bessie around like a holy relic. To Peter, I was just Jake—good old Jake—the man who wanted a quiet life and never wanted trouble. But I was also a man who could get himself hurt down at the Texaco if I was worried about my family.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll tend to Kate.”
I moved to the porch and kept my voice as even as I could. “Something’s going on at the Texaco. Don’t know what, but I need to get over there. Kate, Peter’s gonna take you over to the office. He’ll explain things on the way.” I bent a knee and lifted Zach’s chin. “I’m gonna need you to stay here and watch over Abigail and the kids for a little while, okay? I gotta go be sheriff, so that means you gotta be my deputy. Think you can do that for me?”
Zach sniffled. There came a soft, “Yessir.”
I kissed them both and did not turn back as I rounded the corner of Peter’s house. I wanted to. You have no idea how I wanted to. But I couldn’t bear to see the fear in my family’s eyes. And more than that, I didn’t want them to see the fear in my own.