by Laird Barron
The grass thinned and the earth softened into marsh. She moved into the shade of a weeping willow. A shovel, its blade sticky with clay, and a wheelbarrow waited next to a fire pit ringed by blackened stones. Mosquitoes whined and strafed.
“Bog ain’t got no name on a map. We call it Woolly Swamp.” Clem indicated where the marsh gradually descended through copses of willow and alder. Farther off, solid ground was broken into islets surrounded by scummy water. A paradise of frogs, swallows, and biting insects.
“As it happens, I’m somewhat of a Charlie Daniels fan,” I said. “This must be where the bodies are buried.”
“Glad we have an understandin’.” She reached into her pocket and handed over three driver’s licenses. The men pictured were shaven and scowling. “Eldon Turner, Robert Jakes, and Willard Crowley. Never seen ’em before they come callin’ the other day. Rude sonsofbitches.”
“Sons of the Iron Knife.” I didn’t know them either. Still, it was an easy guess.
“Ayuh. You asked if them skinheads knew where Henry lived. Answer is plain. They come up here lookin’ to put a bullet between his eyes. It didn’t work out so well for them. There was a fourth fella. Sent him back to town with a message to stay off this mountain.”
“I hope it sticks.”
“I don’t give a hoot either way. No shortage of holes to put a man in around here.”
Flies crawled along the lip of the wheelbarrow. I took a peek. Two lumpy burlap sacks, soaked in blood and spackled with flyblow, and a machete with tape around the hilt.
“Two bags, two heads, and one trespasser sent home with his tail tucked. Where’s the last guy?”
“Them pieces belong to Crowley and Jakes,” Clem said. “Turner is yonder in the woods. See where the crows are wheelin’? Follow the dry patches about two hundred paces, you can jaw with him, maybe.” She waved like she was shooing one of her mutts. “Go ahead. I’ll wait on you.”
Two hundred paces brought me, soaked boots and all, to an alder thicket. Unfortunate Eldon Turner languished there, chin tucked to chest, arms stretched wide by ropes, legs splayed before him. Clad in a grimy T-shirt and nothing else. He’d been seated on the sharp tip of one of the punji stakes that thrust from the dirt around him. Crows cackled and complained in the branches, hopped around out of kicking range.
I knelt and lifted his chin.
“Well, pardner, this is a hell of a pass you’ve come to.”
Turner was mostly gone. He drooled ropes of blood and spit. His glassy eyes wobbled in different directions. He emanated that sick death reek that comes from a man after his insides have begun to come apart.
My instincts were to pick a direction and flee. I resisted and walked back to Clem.
“I’ve seen some ruthless acts. That Vlad the Impaler routine might be the worst.”
A lie she didn’t appear to believe.
“Cain’t take credit. Was the Manitou that picked off them boys.”
“The Manitou followed the Iron Sons here into the boondocks?”
“Ayuh. Followed ’em up here and bushwhacked ’em. Warned me to leave Turner to his fate. Said to bury him when it was time.”
“Ever consider the possibility of putting the guy down yourself? Nobody needs to suffer like he’s suffering.”
“Bah. I asked him a question and he didn’t want to answer. So let him sit.” She grimaced. “Besides. Scared me spitless, that scene did. That’s why my kin are on alert with their varmint guns—’case either group decides to try any bullshit. They’ll get a welcome, you better believe.” She stuck her fingers into her mouth and gave a shrill whistle. Her faithful hounds rustled in the grass, at a moderate distance. That decided everything for me in that instant.
I glanced to my left and took another step so we were still apart but closer than she realized. Then I reached out, left-handed, and caught a fistful of her hair and yanked her completely off her feet and tight against my body. I pressed my thumb against her windpipe. She quit wriggling, pronto. I put the willow tree between us and the direction she’d sneaked her last glance, which was where I estimated her friend with a rifle lurked.
“Call him in,” I said.
She whistled again. The dogs darted close and snaffled and snarled, but she composed herself and soothed them until they sat on their haunches and regarded us with worry. Presently, a figure detached from the undergrowth and crossed the field. A gangly, youngish man in a camouflage shirt and pants. He carried a bolt-action deer rifle.
“You think you can get out a this?” Clem said. “My boy Erik, he’s aces with that peashooter. Then there’s my dogs.”
“Don’t forget about the other guy. The one covering your trailer.”
“Yes sir. And just you and no weapons. How you think this will come out, huh?”
“I’m thinking I’ll kill all of you. Be a shame about the dogs. I don’t care to hurt animals.”
She held her tongue.
“Leave that rifle on the ground and step back twenty paces,” I said to Erik. He busily sighted down the barrel, trying to line up the bore with my face. “Drop it or I’m going to crush your mom’s throat. Then I’ll come after you.”
The kid didn’t flinch. Way too stupid.
She hissed at him and he tossed the rifle aside like he’d grabbed the wrong end of a red-hot poker and moved back. I manhandled Clem to where the rifle lay, then shoved her and picked it up.
She stood next to her son. Expressionless, she straightened and dusted herself off, too proud to acknowledge the swelling bruise on her neck. The dogs whined and circled. They wanted to savage something, anything, in the worst way. I empathized.
I checked the action of the rifle.
“Clem. Are we talking or are we killing?”
“Talking,” she said without hesitation. That convinced me not to shoot her yet.
“You need help?” I said. “Lay it on the table.”
“I ain’t seen Hank in over a week.” She took a deep breath and released it. “The Manitou ain’t no friends-a mine. Somethin’ stinks and I don’t appreciate bein’ kept in the dark. No matter what that fool kid thinks, they ain’t his friends either.”
“Appearances to the contrary.”
“That’s right. I propose we make common cause.”
I recalled Calvin’s prediction that some sort of internal gang struggle was in the works. A “thinning of the herd,” he’d said.
“Please, go on.”
“I want you to find my boy.”
That caught me off guard, but I kept a straight face.
“If Hank had anything to do with my niece’s disappearance . . . Well, I make no promises regarding how this winds up for him.”
“Whatever you got planned ain’t any worse than whatever he’s stepped in now. Could be your girl and my Hank are missin’ for the same reason. They got crossways with forces larger than any of us.”
“Okay,” I said. I knew plenty about getting swept up by forces greater than myself. “What do you propose?”
“This is my bargain, city boy. Supposin’ Hank didn’t harm your niece—and a sawbuck says he didn’t—you find him and bring him back to me. I’ll make it worth your while.”
I glanced at the ramshackle trailer and environs.
“Assuming he’s in the clear regarding Reba, exactly how do you propose to reward me? I don’t drink moonshine or smoke weed.”
“My money ain’t in a bank. Man like yourself must understand how it is. Get that little shit back in one piece, I’ll cut you the fat off a stack of Federal Reserve notes to the tune of eight grand. For my conscience, mind you. Hank ain’t worth the powder it’d take to blow him to China.”
“Point me in the right direction. As I said, there might not be a happy ending.”
“No hard feelin’s, slick. I ain’t mad. My late husband proba
bly woulda cut my throat if’n he were in your moccasins.”
She spat into her leathery palm and we shook on the deal. Then she turned and headed for the trailer and I fell in. Erik followed and I watched his shadow from the corner of my eye.
“Rough side of Newburgh,” Clem said. “The Battery, last I heard. Start there, you’ll catch his scent.”
“The Battery. Let me guess—Manitou chapter house. Punji stakes, gats, grenades. Angry Algonquians.”
“Ayuh. Can’t narrow it down for you. Have to kick in some doors, I reckon. Or find somebody who knows more. The Sons know. The Eye-talians for damned sure know.”
She wasn’t wrong. Finding the HQ of one of the biggest, meanest East Coast gangs wouldn’t be the real obstacle. Problem was, I needed leverage, an offering, something to take in to an audience besides my hat in my hand.
We got back to the shack and the massive hillbilly with dental problems from the gun shop cum liquor store leaned against a pickup. He’d laid a .30-06 across the hood and was swigging one of Clem’s beers.
Gods, I wanted out of that swamp. I handed Erik his rifle and collected my pistol and other belongings.
“You’re putting some heavy faith in my abilities,” I said to Clem. “From what I understand, the White Manitou is practically an army.”
She grinned coldly.
“I put faith in the good Lord. My dogs are scared a you. Buford and Barney ain’t scared of nothin’.”
“Really?” I said. “They don’t seem too afraid.”
“Those two are attack-trained. They’ll go after man, bear, cougar, what-the-fuck-ever. I told ’em to sic you when you first come along the road. They wouldn’t do it. Piss-scared.”
“Gee,” I said.
TWENTY-EIGHT
The hillbillies gave me a lift back to my truck. I waved good-bye as they rumbled away in a cloud of country dust.
My cell rang.
“Hi,” Meg said. “What are you doing tonight? Say, around sixish?”
“Uh, coming over to see you?” I said.
“Got it on the first try. Good boy! Bye.”
I stared at the phone and grinned like an idiot. It buzzed again.
“Right, this is Kline—I drove you from the airport,” Kline said. “Mr. Coleridge is away on business. I am authorized to pass along information he gathered at your request.”
“Hello again, Mr. Kline. Please fire when ready.”
Kline cleared his throat.
“Theodore B. Valens. Aged thirty-five years. Marital status: Divorced. No children. Former Green Beret. Purple Heart. Former Golden Gloves Hudson Valley regional champ, welterweight division. Boxed light heavyweight in the Army; undefeated in twenty-six bouts, one draw, one no-contest. Security contracts for several civilian agencies; chiefly, Black Dog.”
“Green, gold, purple, black. A colorful character.”
“A dangerous character. He resides in Kingston but is out of the country months at a stretch. Third World tours.”
“Rap sheet?”
“Not in civilian or military life.” Paper rustled. Apparently, Kline was reciting from a list. “In his capacity as an independent contractor, he has been accused of a variety of offenses by foreign governments and watchdog groups, ranging from assault and rape to murder. These alleged offenses have occurred exclusively in jurisdictions not covered by U.S. law enforcement codes. Black Dog, his primary employer, has apparently contributed significant financial sums to local governments to quash these charges. At the moment, Mr. Valens operates free and clear of all legal entanglements.” He hesitated. “I have also included a dossier on one Lionel Robard. Please relay your email address and I’ll send you the relevant documents. It’s a large file. There are photographs and audio recordings.”
Damn, the old man had come through for once in his miserable tenure as a father.
I thanked Kline and rattled off my email. Then, right before he hung up, I said, “By the way, where is Mervin off to?”
“That information is classified as a need-to-know basis, sir. Good day.” Click.
As I thought.
* * *
—
MIDAFTERNOON SUN BLAZED HELLISHLY when I rolled through Kingston. I stopped into a florist’s next to Hennessey’s Barbershop and bought two bouquets: red roses in a fancy crystal vase and mixed flowers in a cheap vase—daffodils, petunias, violets, some others I didn’t recognize offhand. I proceeded to the second floor of Kingston General Hospital with the second bouquet.
Charles Bachelor didn’t appear too happy to see my mug in the doorway. What was he going to do, trapped in a maze of pulleys? A plaster cast engulfed his left leg.
“Chaz!” I set the vase of flowers on the dresser alongside some wilted geraniums.
Hatred shone from his eyes. His flesh was pallid and his lips were cracked as if he’d been crawling through the badlands.
“Here to finish the job?” He slurred from drugs or dehydration or both. He glanced around. Looking for a weapon to defend himself.
I poured a glass of water from a pitcher and sat in the chair next to his bed. Was this how I’d seemed to Mr. Apollo? Wasted, ruined, helpless? A creature in need of a mercy killing, if not plain old mercy?
I offered Charles the glass.
“Drink up, kid. What do you mean, am I here to finish the job?”
He sipped without shifting his gaze from mine. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“I figured Curtis sent you.”
“You figured wrong. Curtis isn’t planning to whack you. He wants you to drive his limo. Or wrangle call girls. I forget. Incidentally, he’s scared of your uncle. You’re safe.”
“Huh.” Charles relaxed back into his pillow and regarded the ceiling. “Got a butt?”
“I quit. Sorry.”
“My coat pocket.”
I rummaged through his very nice suit jacket until I located a pack of Lucky Strikes and a lighter. I got a cigarette going and passed it to him.
He puffed away, still staring morosely at the ceiling. Occasionally, he winced.
“They got me on morphine or something heavy like that. My head feels like a balloon. I asked Uncle Dino to dust you. Gotta admit I asked.”
“He didn’t grant your wish?”
“Didn’t say anything. Won’t take my call. So, I left a message. It’s bad when they stop taking your calls.” He sighed a contrail of smoke. “What it is is I screwed the pooch on that deal with the gooks. Ah, that’s not even the truth. The boys had it in for me since before I got sent up the last time. I love the life, but it don’t love me no more.”
“You should consider a new line.”
“Yeah? Dancing pro?” He took another drag.
“I’ll need help.”
“Help?”
“In a few months, after you mend a bit. I’m starting a business. It won’t interfere with the Family.”
“Mend? I’m not ever going to be right. You saw to that.”
“Curtis saw to that.”
“He gave the word, yeah . . .”
“Yes, you’ll limp. So what? Get therapy, get into the gym and lift iron, it won’t be noticeable. Your days of playing flag football might be done, okay? Even so, you put in the work, you’ll get strong again.”
“Some balls you got.” His expression softened into resignation. Charles had a lot of animal in him. A beast caught in a trap will rage and struggle and ultimately submit to its fate. “Gonna say you’re sorry for making me a cripple?”
“Nope.”
“You aren’t?”
I gave him a glimpse of the dead stare. Then I dialed it down again.
“Because I’m not sorry, Chaz.”
He frowned.
I rose and swept the dying geraniums into the wastebasket.
“Al
so because you’re a prick. Because I could’ve destroyed both your chicken legs, kicked your teeth in, or made a eunuch of you. Or done worse. Because I have done worse before, to other men, animals, but no more deserving than yourself. Because I went exactly as far as I had to and no further. Be grateful. For once in your pitiful, wretched existence, count your lucky stars.”
He closed his eyes.
“I come work for you, are you gonna give speeches like that all the time? That’d be a problem.”
“Never fear, Chaz. Mostly, I’m the silent, brooding type.”
“What do ya know? That’s my type. We’re a match made in hell.”
TWENTY-NINE
The excitement at the Stephens homestead had gotten my blood pumping while the sight of Charles languishing in his sickbed depressed me. I went home and drank a beer to even everything out. Then, it was twenty minutes of a scalding shower to cleanse myself of sweat and swamp and hospital. Too bad I couldn’t obliterate the image of skinhead Turner skewered on a spike. A second bottle of Wicked Ale would have to be my consolation. Since the heat of the day promised to stick around, I dressed in the lightest T-shirt and slacks I owned.
Foreman Coates and Lionel were in conversation when I returned to the yard and headed for my truck. Coates left in his station wagon and Lionel plodded over to me. He looked better, if only by a few degrees.
“Got a delivery for you,” he said. “Man, you smell purdy. New cologne?”
“Yes. Smells like Come to Me . . . I’ll be back in a few hours. Catch me then.”
“I’m knocking off for the day. Think I’ll head to town. Run down a few more of Reba’s friends.”
We said our farewells and I went on my way with a song in my heart and love on my mind. Or sex, at least.
* * *
—
A PHILOSOPHER ONCE SAID, “Man plans and God laughs.”
A blonde with a pixie cut answered the door at Meg’s house. Mid-thirties, skinny chic, high-energy. Pantsuit and Greek sandals. A delicate silver bracelet and watch designed to appear much more lavish than they actually were. Her perfume wasn’t bad, but she’d laid it on too thick.