Pitch

by William Ollie

  Norval thought about Larry Dale and Billy Dillon, and all the other victims of John Newton Smith, and the voice said, ‘Fuck it’.

  Norval opened the door, gun sweeping back and forth as he stepped into the pitch-black room, goose bumps rising on his skin, his neck hairs prickling while his eyes adjusted to the darkness.

  He took another step.

  One more, and cold steel pressed against his neck.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Yeah, Barney Fife, the hell’re you doing up here?”

  “I saw an old beat up truck start up the service road,” Norval said. “Thought it might be a couple of thieves coming up here to rob y’all.”

  “So you’re here to protect us, then?” Pitch asked him.

  “That’s right. We’ve got strict orders to look after this place.”

  “Holster your weapon, Barney.”

  “Look.”

  Newton cocked the hammer. “Holster it.”

  “Sure, okay,” Norval said, and then sheathed his .38.

  Newton stepped around in front of the deputy, his gun leveled at Norval, whose eyes grew instantly wide as he saw the spitting image of Nathan Hayes standing before him.

  “Where’s the tape recorder?”

  “What tape recorder?”

  “C’mon, Barney,” Newton said, pressing Slaney’s service revolver against Norval’s forehead. “You know what tape recorder. The one we forgot back at Uncle Lester’s house.”

  Pitch patted his jacket pockets, his face growing pale as Newton nodded toward the door.

  “All right, Barney. Back to the garage.”

  Norval led Newton and Pitch, through the kitchen and into the garage. At the garage door, Newton told Norval to keep going around to the front. On their way, he said, “Tell me something. You had the tape. All you had to do was get Nathan and Donnie and round up a posse to come up here and take us. How fucking stupid do you feel?”

  “Real stupid,” Norval said, all the while the little voice taunting, Ten years on the job, and wouldn’t you know it? You’re going out without even firing your gun one goddamn time.

  “Aw, hell, Barney, I understand. You wanted to be a hero. Shit, it took balls to come up here by yourself.”

  Or stupidity of gigantic proportions, thought Norval.

  When they reached the steps, Newton told the deputy to unbuckle his holster and let it fall, and Norval tossed his harness on the steps. “Now what?” he said, and Newton tossed his own gun on the grass beside the porch.

  “Now we see what you’ve got, hero. Man to man. Take me down and grab a gun. Kick my ass and take the spoils. You up for it... Hero?”

  “Yeah, I’m up for it, you murderin’ piece of shit.”

  “What in the hell do you think you’re doing?” Pitch demanded, while Newton smirked at the policeman, who lunged quickly forward, receiving a sharp blow to his head for his trouble. He swung but Newton sidestepped him, dropping him to the ground with an elbow to his cheek, stomping and missing as Norval rolled to his knees and lashed out, his well-placed blow sending Newton crashing to the grass, grimacing and grabbing his side.

  On his feet now, Norval took off for the guns, but Newton grabbed a foot and Norval went sprawling to the thick carpet of grass. He tried to stand but Newton was already up and running, hitting him hard and driving his shoulder into Norval’s upper body, planting him on his back. On top of him now, straddling the cop and pounding his face, he leaned back, laughing, and Norval kicked the back of his head.

  His body slumped and his arms went slack, and Norval, shoving him over and crawling out from under him, stood up, while Newton struggled to his knees and caught a savage blow to the jaw that knocked him flat on his back. And now it was Norval on his chest, pounding his face, raining down punches as he thought about those innocent women upstate. Until, finally, he got to his feet and put a foot on Newton’s throat, and heard a sharp, metallic click that drew his eyes to Pitch, who was pointing Norval’s own service revolver at him.

  “You cowardly son of a—”

  A fist pounded his scrotum and the enraged policeman dropped to his knees, gasping and writhing and clutching his groin, while Newton struggled up to his feet. On shaky legs, he lumbered over to the fallen cop and grabbed him in a chokehold, forcefully applying pressure until his beaten and battered opponent lost consciousness. Then he twisted his body, wrenching Norval’s head sideways and dropping his limp form to the ground.

  * * *

  They found the recorder under a grease-stained bag in the back of the patrol car. Newton held the tape recorder up so Pitch could see it; punched the play button and his mentor’s tinny, recorded voice echoed in the early morning fog. At Pitch’s insistence, Newton stashed the patrol car in front of the police station, and then he and Pitch stole away into the night, knowing the town was theirs for the taking, and they were free to do anything they wanted.

  The two madmen headed back to the mansion, and after taking care of Norval’s body, they went off to do what any monster might be expected to do: Sleep the day away, and wait for night to return.

  * * *

  When Newton parked the patrol car in front of the police station, the building was empty.

  Johnny Porter was home, trying, but failing miserably to comfort his wife.

  Larry Dale lay unconscious in his hospital bed, barely clinging to life.

  Nathan sat at his kitchen table, staring at the pills Doc Fletcher had given him.

  Sharon Hayes lay in bed with Myrtle, arms wrapped gently around her sobbing mother-in-law. By three o’clock in the morning, Myrtle had cried herself to sleep.

  Sharon went to Nathan, and the two of them talked of many things: the past, the future, Newton Hayes, and what that had done to the family. And the question many have asked before, and many others have asked since: Why?

  Somewhere around four-thirty in the morning, she finally convinced him to come to bed.

  Saturday

  Nathan had to go somewhere—anywhere. He got into his truck and drove through Bethel’s Holler, passing his father’s house like it wasn’t there anymore. On his way past the police station, he glanced at the building, and saw Norval’s patrol car parked out front. The next thing he knew he was waving to Jackie and Jimmy Pritchard on his way up High Street. Then he was rumbling up the old mountain trail on his way to Maudie Mason’s place.

  Once there, he parked his truck, got out and crossed the yard.

  “Well, hey there,” Maudie called to him from the porch. “Come on up and sit a spell.”

  Maudie went inside, and Nathan walked over and sat down on the porch.

  She returned with two glasses of iced-tea, and handed the frowning sheriff a glass.

  “What’s the matter?” she said.

  “Somebody killed my daddy last night, Miss Maudie.”

  Maudie’s face went pale, and Nathan asked if she was all right.

  “Yeah, I’m all right, but are you?”

  Answering as honestly as he could, Nathan said he didn’t know. Then he told her about Larry Dale and Billy Dillon, how Johnny Porter’s newborn baby had been stolen from the safety of his home. He told her about the call that had sent him speeding away from the hospital, how he had found his father lying dead on the living room floor.

  Maudie walked over, sat down beside the big policeman and put a frail arm around his shoulders. “Miss Maudie’s here for you, baby.”

  And Nathan let it all out: twenty-six years of guilt and frustration over what had taken place in 1955, the sudden death of Earl Peters and the horror of yesterday’s tragic events.

  Maudie held him close, patting his knee as she pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and handed it to him. “Dry your eyes,” she said. “I’ve got somethin’ to tell to you.”

  “What… what’ve you got to tell me?”

  “There’s somethin’ evil goin’ on around here, son. I’ve seen the man that killed your daddy. He’s got cold blue eyes, dead eyes…
hypnotic eyes that can make a man do things… bad things he wouldn’t never have done on his own.”

  “What’re you talkin’ about, Miss Maudie?”

  “It started right before summer. A dream come to me, only now I don’t think it was a dream at all. It was a vision.”

  “Now, Miss Maudie, what in the world—”

  “Hear me out, Nathan!

  “A month before Earl Peters died, I dreamed about him. Saw him go into an old rundown church. Strange things happened in there… voices—children’s voices, callin’ out ‘help us, help us, help us’. A picture of Jesus with thirteen little children was hangin’ on the wall, and it changed. Right in front of my eyes, His face changed into the laughin’ face of a demon. The sheriff got down on his knees and prayed, and then stood up straight and tall and walked right out of that church. The next thing I know he’s lyin’ curled up on the floor of his office, grabbing at his chest, a big ol’ knot on his forehead.”

  “You saw that, did you? A knot on his forehead?” Nathan said, his neck tingling as he remembered the lump on Earl’s head they day he’d found him.

  “Yeah, baby, that and a whole lot more.”

  Nathan massaged his temples, wishing he could wake from his nightmare. But his father was dead. Billy Dillon and Barney, too, and he knew that this was no nightmare.

  Maudie placed a hand on his shoulder. “He’s an old man, but he don’t look it. And he’s got a young man with him. I ain’t never got a look at his face, but I know what he is. That boy’s been killin’ people his whole life, and he ain’t gonna stop ‘til somebody kills him. I knew they were comin’, and now I know why. They’re here to take them children, and the only way you’re gonna stop ‘em is to kill ‘em.”

  Nathan got to his feet and walked over to the water hose, turned the water on and stuck his head under the nozzle. The water revived him somewhat, but it didn’t keep the fear from grabbing him around his throat. “How do you know this isn’t just what you say it is… a dream?”

  “Why did you come here today?”

  “I, I don’t… I’m… not sure. I just felt like I needed to see you.”

  “But why? You haven’t been up here in more than twenty years now, and all of a sudden you feel like you need to talk to me? Something, or somebody, or some power has sent you up this mountain. It wanted you to hear what I had to say. It made me see those things. It’s been waitin’ all this time for him to come back, and it wants all this here business to stop. Trust it, go where it sends you, and when you feel like you’re at the end of your rope and don’t know what to do next, which way to turn, listen to what it tells you.”

  Maudie stood up, walked over and gave the exhausted sheriff a hug. “God be with you,” she said, as he turned and walked back to his truck.

  * * *

  Donny dragged himself out of bed to answer the telephone. Sharon was worried. Nathan had taken off and she didn’t know where he was. He showered and shaved, and ate a scrambled egg sandwich. Then he left his house to search for his childhood friend.

  From one end of the county to the other he looked, stopping several times along the way to call the police station. But he found nothing, and no one answered at the police station.

  By four o’clock, Donnie had been everywhere he could think of.

  Nobody knew where Nathan was, and no one had seen Norval.

  He pulled up in front of his tavern, got out and walked inside, and saw Jerry Mays and his crew sitting at their favorite table. A few feet away, Walt Davis sat at the bar, nursing a beer as Jerry and his friends described Jeb Davis’ funeral. Nearly everyone in town had shown up to honor the man who had died coming to the aid of Annie Bridges. At the funeral home, Annie, her jaw wired shut, took off her gold cross and laid it across Jeb’s folded hands. Several people spoke out about what a fine man he had been.

  From there they moved on to the subject of Lester Hayes, and the incident at Johnny Porter’s house. When Willem Mays commented on how strange it was, Jerry Mays took that as his cue to start a discussion on what had taken place at Billy Dillon’s home. When Jerry commented about how strange their little town was, nobody laughed, nobody teased or ridiculed him.

  Donnie nodded at Mary Cousins on his way to the kitchen, where he stopped at the sink and turned the cold water on. Moments later, with a couple of aspirins washed down his throat, he turned the water off.

  Then, walking out to the coolers, he took out a bottle of beer and opened it.

  “Y’all seen Nathan?”

  “Nah, we ain’t seen him,” Jim Harris said, eyeing Donnie as he tipped the bottle back.

  “How about you, Walt?”

  “Huh uh.”

  Donnie opened a bag of potato chips, ate a handful and washed them down with the rest of his beer.

  “You all right, Donnie?” Carver Pitts asked him.

  “Yeah, I’m okay,” Donnie said. Then, tossing another handful of chips in his mouth, he opened another beer and walked out the front door.

  Walt Davis threw a five-dollar bill on the bar and hurried after him. Getting his attention before he could pull away from the curb, he said, “Where you going?”

  “Aw, hell, I’ve been looking for Nathan all day. Guess I’ll keep on looking.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Haven’t been to the hospital yet.”

  “Hold on and I’ll ride with you.”

  They went to the hospital, but Nathan wasn’t there—as far as Donnie could tell, he wasn’t anywhere.

  On the way to the police station, Donnie thought about their situation. Last night a madman abducted a little baby. In another part of the county, somebody murdered the sheriff’s father. The town has four policemen, including the sheriff. One was laid up in the hospital, shot down by a man who had never shown the least bit of inclination to cause harm to another human being. Nathan was missing—no telling what kind of shape he would be in when he finally turned up. And who knew where the hell Norval was. That left the remaining deputy, who just happened to be the father of the missing child.

  “About damn time,” Donnie said, when he pulled up in front of the police station beside Nathan’s truck, got out and led Walt past Norval’s patrol car.

  “The fuck have you been?” Donnie asked as he walked through the door, softening his tone when he saw Nathan slouched in a chair: “I’ve been looking for you all day, Cuz. Have you talked to Sharon?”

  “Huh uh.”

  “Where’s Norval?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Jesus, Nathan, I’ve been looking for you since eight o’clock this morning. I’ll bet I called over here ten times today and nobody answered. But every time I drove by, Norval’s car was parked outside.”

  “My God,” Nathan said.

  “That’s right. Nobody’s been here all day, and nobody knows where the hell Norval or Johnny is.”

  Nathan looked stunned as Donnie walked over, grabbed him by the arm and pulled him out of his chair.

  “Come on. I need to show you something.”

  Walt followed them into the bathroom, where Donnie said, “The mirror; look into the son of a bitch.”

  Nathan, staring intently at the teary-eyed stranger reflected in the glass, leaned over the sink, turned the water on and splashed some onto his face. “It’s him, Donnie. He’s back.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know why I didn’t tell you last night. I guess my mind wasn’t working right. Hell, it still ain’t.”

  “Tell me what?”

  Nathan shut the water off, and turned to face him. “I didn’t tell you how I came to be at Daddy’s house. I got a phone call while Johnny and I were at the hospital. It was him.” Nathan’s voice trembled as he continued, “He recited Baby Charlie’s poem, word for word, and then said a new one, ending it with ‘your daddy just died’.

  “Jesus,” Donnie whispered, then, raising his voice, “Listen to me. You’ve got to get some rest, get some sleep. The only—”

  “
Did you hear what I just told you?”

  Donnie grabbed him by his shirt, spinning him around to face the mirror. “You listen to me,” he said. “You ain’t no good to nobody like this. Hell, you couldn’t even whip my ass the way you are now. There ain’t no question about what you’re gonna do next. The only thing we’ve got to figure out is where you’re gonna do it.”

  “He’s right, Nathan. If you don’t get some sleep, and somehow pull yourself together, this town’s in deep trouble.”

  Nathan closed his eyes, rubbed them, and then opened them. “Somebody’s got to stick around. Somebody has to be here in case—”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  “You’ll need help.”

  “He’s got help,” Walt said. “And we’ll get more help. These are good people in this town.”

  “All right, Nathan. You’re going home, or you can go to my house, or you can go sleep in a friggin’ cell.”

  “Nah,” Nathan said. “I’m goin’ home.”

  He looked at Donnie, then at Walt, the impromptu policeman. “Good luck,” he said, grimacing as he turned to go.

  * * *

  Pitch sat on his second floor balcony, smoking a cigar, a shot glass of tequila on the table before him. He was elated. In one night, he and Newton had decimated the town’s entire police force. He’d done what he needed to do, and fortune had smiled upon him by sending that foolish policeman through his kitchen door. They’d been careless and sloppy, but they’d gotten away with it. Of course, that didn’t really surprise him. He’d always been a lucky man, even when he’d been called Johnny Smith. After all, he had been a gambler by trade. Earlier this afternoon, Vonda Peters brought some nourishment for his little guest. After some polite conversation, and a great deal of flattery he considered to be quite transparent, she finally found the courage to ask him for more time. Still euphoric from last night’s accomplishments, he looked upon her as a father might gaze upon a favored daughter, and surprised the both of them.