The Devil's Bones

by Larry D. Sweazy

  She always encouraged Jordan to be nice to the Mexican kids that showed up in school for the first six-week period. Tito was neither, and that's what confused Jordan. His father helped with the search, his mother did not, and then after the search was called off, the constant drinking and arguing began.

  Jordan just tried to stay quiet, back in the shadows. He had learned a long time ago to stay out of the line of fire when his father was drinking. You could never tell if Big Joe was going to be mean or nice. Mostly it was mean. He didn't trust the nice times—knew it was like a break in the clouds, a ray of sunshine on a stormy day.

  The argument his mother and father were having in the car was about another man, Buddy himself asking his mother to dance, and she obviously had obliged, ignoring Big Joe's famous jealous streak. Jordan thought it was strange that Buddy was in the tavern at all on a Saturday night, but the tavern was a grownup world. One that he had very little understanding of. He rarely went there, unless he absolutely had to.

  Since Tito disappeared, his mother seemed to ignore most of his father's rules, and Jordan had withdrawn even further from both of them, just waiting for the next argument to explode out of nowhere, the next lightning bolt to land directly on his head. He didn't walk on eggshells, he tiptoed. Spider disappeared as much as possible, hanging out with his best friend, Charlie Overdorf, as far away from the house and tavern as possible. It was dumb luck that Spider had gone to Kitty's that night—Charlie was out of town at his grandfather's funeral—and Spider couldn't stand the thought of missing homemade sloppy joes.

  The car had started to slide sideways as his father pressed the accelerator to the floor, promising to get them home as soon as possible.

  “I'll take you home and leave. I'll sleep at the tavern,” Big Joe had said. It was not the first time Jordan had heard him say that, knew it was a veiled threat, a promise of things to come.

  “Fine,” his mother said.

  “Damn it, Katie, what in the hell were you thinking?”

  “I was in the mood to dance.”

  “I don't know what that son of a bitch was in the bar for anyway.”

  “I asked him,” his mother answered, her voice rising to meet the level of Big Joe's. “It's my turn, Joseph. It's my goddamned turn.”

  Jordan knew there had been other women in his father's life, but until that moment he had chosen to ignore it—even though it seemed like a divorce was really going to happen. More than once he had seen his father and a woman leaving the back of the tavern, in a more than friendly way. When he'd said something to Spider about what he saw, his brother had threatened him within an inch of his life if he said anything to their mother.

  He had been staring out the window and into the darkness wondering if Tito Cordova was warm, and was more than shocked to hear his mother swear. It was her belief in God, or at least that's what she'd said during a recent argument, that kept her from leaving Big Joe.

  He wondered if Tito was buried underneath the banks of snow, hidden away by some monster to feast on when it got really hungry. Jordan had never looked for monsters in the dark until Tito Cordova had disappeared. Now he seemed to be doing it all the time, trying to remember what the little Mexican boy looked like, and wondering if the monster was going to come for him, too.

  Tito, Tito, where are you?

  Big Joe reached over and slapped Katherine, the crack so sudden it was like glass shattering. The echo lasted forever, overcoming Dolly Parton wailing at Jolene. Tears immediately streamed down his mother's face, but the rage in her eyes grew. Jordan thought she was going to hit Big Joe back.

  There was a car coming toward them in the other lane. Headlights glaring off the snow bank alongside the road, blinding Big Joe momentarily. They sideswiped the car as the rear end of the Pontiac swung out from behind them. Sparks shot up into the air as the two cars raked alongside each other in opposite directions. And then their bumpers caught, sending both cars into a high-speed spin.

  Even when Jordan closed his eyes, he could still see the crash, still feel his stomach turn upside down as they spun and spun and spun, and still hear his own screams as he saw the tree come closer and closer in slow motion. The impact deafened him, the immediate pain strange and frightening, but distant, like it was happening to someone else, and the explosion seemed as if it was going to last forever.

  His mother screamed and then became silent as her head slammed against the window multiple times. Cold air whisked inside the car, and the music faded, disappeared, and everything, including the dashboard, grew dark.

  Once he got his breath, Jordan began screaming, began trying to free himself. Neither did any good. He was stuck, alone in the dark, more afraid than he had ever been in his entire life. He thought the sleet was glass, still showering over him, even ten minutes after the station wagon had come to a stop.

  A bright light shined in Jordan's eyes, and he began to scream again.

  “It's all right, Jordan, I'm here to help.”

  He blinked and saw Holister Coggins standing in the open door at the other end of the backseat, behind the driver's seat. Red and blue strobe lights pulsed across the icy road, casting dancing spires of light onto the trees and the ground, covering the world with sharp diamonds that at any other time would have looked beautiful and festive. A large chorus of sirens throbbed in the distance, suddenly transforming the black night into a rousing carnival.

  “Can you move, son?” Holister asked.

  Jordan shook his head.

  “Does it hurt anywhere?”

  Jordan nodded.

  “OK, you just hold tight while I check on your mom and dad.”

  A question began to form on Jordan's lips. A question filled with terror and dread that had been building since Jordan had opened his eyes after the car came to a stop. After he realized the door Holister was standing in had flown open and the seat next to him was empty.

  “Where's Spider?” he whispered. He could see Holister exhale heavily.

  “Just hold on, I'll be right back.” Holister stood up out of the door and shined the light on Jordan's father. Big Joe moaned—blood dripped out of his mouth as he tried to speak.

  The flashing strobe lights multiplied as the ambulance and fire trucks arrived. There was yelling. Orders flying back and forth, voices carrying on the cold wind like trumpets blaring at a Christmas concert.

  “You're going to be all right, Joe. Just hang on. Hang on for God's sake,” Holister said.

  “Katie,” Joe mumbled.

  Holister's flashlight disappeared. “I got three over here,” he hollered out, and then said, “She's gonna be all right, Joe, don't you worry,” in a lower voice as he shined the light on Katie's face.

  Images and shadows danced around the Pontiac. Holister's face appeared and then disappeared. Big Joe moved his head and groaned. The smell of gasoline was even stronger now—it made Jordan's nose and throat burn, and he tried not to breathe. Darkness came and went, lasting only a moment, but always returning, and the cold kept getting colder.

  “I'm gettin' him out there before the car blows.” A pair of hands reached in and grabbed Jordan's shoulders. “This might hurt,” Holister said. Jordan opened his eyes wide as he felt a shock of pain like he was rolling in a rose bush. He heard the crunch of glass, and then felt his legs pull free as Holister wrapped him in his arms and lifted him out of the backseat.

  The wind hit his face, and a blanket appeared out of nowhere and tightened around him like a cocoon. More faces. More blood. In and out of reality. Big Joe being laid on a stretcher. Steam rising from the front of the Pontiac.

  Where was his mother? He wanted her . . . and he struggled in Holister's arms, reaching out for her, calling her. Holister's huge, strong arms held him tight, and he whispered that it all would be OK, for Jordan to calm down. But even in the rush of movement, in the flashes of light, Jordan could see tears in Holister's eyes, and he knew the man was lying.

  The other car was in the middle of the roa
d, a mass of black twisted metal. The driver's door was open, the front of the car pushed back like a closed accordion facing the opposite direction from his father's station wagon. Jordan recognized the car; it was Buddy Mozel's big black Lincoln Continental, but there was no one behind the steering wheel.

  Darkness ate at the blue and red streaks of light, and the voices dimmed, vibrated—it was like nothing Jordan had ever experienced before. He was falling into a hole. He wanted his mother. Big Joe. Spider. Kitty. He wanted to wake up from the nightmare . . . have pancakes. Smell Kitty's violet perfume, and hear his mother sing.

  Halfway to the ambulance, Holister put Jordan on a stretcher. “Is my mother going to be all right?” he managed to ask.

  “She'll be fine, son, just fine,” Holister said. His voice was distant, cracking like the static on the radio. As Holister lay another blanket over him, Jordan turned his head, looked back at the Pontiac.

  He finally saw Spider, finally got the answer to his question. But he wasn't sure what he was seeing was real. It was so far away. Spider was lying in the middle of the road in a pool of blood, his legs twisted under him.

  January 17, 1986, 6:12 A.M., Patzcuaro, Mexico

  The air coming under the door to the infirmary was cool. Footsteps approached, but the boy kept his eyes closed. The pain was finally gone from his head, but the fingers on his left hand were still splinted, and both legs were still in casts, still broken. He could not move, and he did not speak. The nuns thought he was a mute. But it was only because he did not understand their language well enough to speak back. They spoke softly to him in Spanish, stroked his hair, fed him, prayed over him as he silently wished for his mother to appear. But she never did.

  The days were all the same. Warm sunshine pouring in the windows. Children's voices echoed in the distance. Laughing and playing knew no language barriers. The nights were quiet. Sometimes he heard singing. He was the only one in the infirmary. Six other beds were empty. But he was always afraid, even though the nuns had shown him nothing but affection and concern. He opened his eyes when the door creaked open, and when he a saw a man dressed in black follow the nuns inside. Tito Cordova could do nothing but scream.

  CHAPTER 6

  August 21, 2004, 6:33 A.M.

  Without a thought, Jordan ducked, rolled Holister over, and dragged him into the middle of the stand of cattails. He fired off three rounds as they made it safely into the thick cover.

  And then came the quiet, like the long wait after a lightning strike for a loud clap of thunder. No one laughed, no one ran. Jordan could hear his heart pounding. Mosquitoes buzzed near his ear. He felt like a rabbit that had outran a pack of dogs, waiting for the next sound, the next gunshot, to send him running again.

  Holister's body was lifeless. His eyes were blank, staring upward. Jordan listened for a breath, felt for a pulse, and could feel nothing. He knew he was taking a chance, but he began to pump furiously on Holister's chest.

  He stopped CPR after a minute or so, flipped his radio on, and called Louella for help. She didn't answer.

  Jordan went back to Holister, felt for a pulse again before resuming CPR. He found one this time, a faint beat, enough to give him a little bit of hope.

  He hit the radio again, opening the frequency to the county sheriff's department and state police. “10-53! Man down, man down,” he said as quietly as he could, and gave his location.

  The Carlyle County Sheriff's department immediately responded that they were on their way, so was the volunteer ambulance from Dukaine. Louella finally answered, panicked. She had probably fallen asleep. The volume squawked loudly. Jordan couldn't understand her, so he squelched the radio.

  Thunder erupted and bullets peppered the cattails, high, low, at his feet, and over his head. He jumped on top of Holister's body to protect him as hot metal grazed his right arm.

  He screamed unconsciously, rolled over and fired the fresh magazine in the direction of the shooter, and reached for another as pain exploded through his entire body. Jordan could barely grasp his utility belt. It only took him a second to realize he'd used both of his spare mags. Holister had dropped his weapon when he was hit the first time. The service revolver was lying next to the skeleton, and the bullets from the old .38 in Holister's belt wouldn't do Jordan any good anyway.

  The firing stopped, and he heard a laugh just like Holister had. A deep, guttural laugh that sounded like a hawk screaming as it dove from the sky to finish off its prey. There was nothing human about the laugh. It was neither male nor female. To him, it was pure evil.

  Fear paralyzed Jordan. He knew he was a sitting duck, a dead man if the shooter continued to take blind pot shots into the stand of cattails. There was no flash of the past, no churning of regret in the pit of his stomach. He ignored the pain in his arm and the blood soaking his sleeve as he reached for his nightstick and tucked it under his arm. He wasn't going out of this world without a fight, but he had no choice but to wait and see if the shooter was going to come and claim his prize. No choice but to wait and try to crack the motherfucker upside the head, even if it was the last thing he did.

  A siren throbbed in the distance. The radio buzzed distantly with voices. Louella called Jordan, but he didn't answer, he didn't move. He held his breath and clutched the stick tighter.

  A pool of blood began seeping out from under Holister's body. The marshal wheezed again and took a deep gasp of air. His eyes were open, blinking. He tried to speak, but failed. A frustrated tear eased out of the corner of the old man's right eye. Jordan put his cheek up to Holister's face so he could hear him when he tried to speak again.

  “Tell Celeste I tried to make things right . . .,” Holister said. “Tell Ginny this was all my fault . . .” His voice was distant and weak, but he struggled to move, struggled to say something else.

  The sirens grew closer.

  Beyond the cattails Jordan heard the weeds rustle with movement, coming toward them. He motioned for Holister to be silent, eased himself up on his knees and squatted, ready to leap at the first thing that moved.

  A chattering of starlings swooped down from the clear blue sky and lit atop the sycamore tree that marked the skeleton's grave. In a matter of seconds the birds evacuated in a burst of fear and squawked all the way across the pond.

  Jordan teetered on the balls of his feet, startled by the sudden outburst. Sweat poured down his face, stinging his eyes. The stick was in his left hand, and he knew the swing would be weak and uncoordinated since he was right-handed, but he was only going to have one chance to save Holister and himself. He jumped up as soon he saw a human figure emerge into view.

  An EMT stopped. “Whoa, Jordan, it's me!”

  He didn't immediately recognize Sam Peterson. They both played on the same softball team and went all through school a year apart. They weren't enemies, but they weren't beer-drinking buddies either.

  Sam was just a blur to Jordan, a creature from a horror movie rushing toward him.

  The stick was six inches from Sam's head on the downward swing, and Jordan was too weak to stop it. Sam threw a blue vinyl bag at Jordan and jumped out of the way, cowering. The bag deflected the swing, and Jordan staggered back into the weeds. He was disoriented, enraged. He ran at Sam, tackling him to the ground.

  Sam Peterson was not a lightweight. He matched Jordan pound for pound and was in better shape from lifting weights at the fire station five days a week. Sam pushed Jordan off him and delivered a swift punch to Jordan's right eye. Jordan fell backward, dazed.

  “You move another inch, McManus, and I'm going to kick the shit out of you,” Sam Peterson said.

  Charlie Overdorf, the other EMT, arrived pulling a gurney. He stopped dead in his tracks. “Damn it, Sam, what the hell is going on?” Charlie asked as he rushed to Jordan.

  “He fuckin' attacked me, what the hell was I supposed to do?” Sam said.

  Jordan's heart was still racing. He exhaled deeply and tried to pull himself up. “Shit, Sam, I'm sorry. I thought
you were the shooter,” he said. He shook his head to clear his vision.

  Sam Peterson stepped back, his right hand still clenched in a fist.

  Holister's eyes were glazed and fixed, his eyes focused on the skeleton.

  “It's all right, Jordan, we're here to help,” Charlie Overdorf said.

  Charlie Overdorf kneeled down, strapped an oxygen mask on Holister, and after a minute or two, said, “Jesus, Jordan. What's that out there?” He pointed twenty yards away at the skeleton.

  Jordan was breathing heavily. His face was throbbing from the punch and his arm felt like it was on fire. The bullet had only grazed him, but it felt much worse now that the adrenaline had left his system. He ignored Charlie's question and alerted the Carlyle County Sheriff's department of the shooter's last 10-20, which was the northwest corner of Longer's Pond, where Huckle Road intersected with County Road 300 South. He was glad Holister was getting the attention he needed, glad that he'd taken a chance and performed CPR, but the marshal was still weak, still in bad shape. Jordan had only been this scared of losing someone he loved one other time in his life.

  Sam forced Jordan to sit on the ground with a blanket over his shoulders to prevent him from going into shock, and began to wrap the wound on his arm.

  “Those bones are the last fucking thing you need to worry about right now, Charlie,” Jordan said.

  “Just asking, man. You really need to get a grip on yourself,” Charlie answered.

  Charlie was as inch taller than Jordan and skinny as a cornstalk. He was thirty-six, had three kids, all girls, a year apart in age, the oldest being ten. He was an imperturbable man, calm and reserved even in the most stressful situations, not a crisis junkie like most of the EMTs Jordan knew. Charlie was an ever-present figure in Jordan's life, though not as much in the last ten years, and Spider's best friend, and just his presence helped calm him down.