He wanted it—all of it. And all he had to do was walk in there, blasting. They’d never know what hit them. But he couldn’t do it. Maybe if it was just Clarence. But he couldn’t kill the boy.
Fred grabbed the passenger-door handle. The rusty hinges groaned when he pulled the door open and tossed the soiled pillowcase onto the floorboard. He leaned inside and opened the bag, touched the money and closed his eyes, and saw himself running naked on the Florida beaches, chasing beautiful young women whose huge breasts bounced up and down as sweat glistened off their tanned, nubile bodies, and they ran smiling across the sand.
Clarence’s loud, raucous laughter stirred Fred from his reverie. He grabbed a fistful of cash and crammed it into his pocket. Fuck ‘em, he thought, and then stepped back to shut the door.
He walked around the truck, unzipping his fly, grabbed his cock and maneuvered it through the opening, aiming his stream at a mound of ants as he sprayed piss at them.
“There you go, you little bastards,” Fred said, laughing as the ants raced haphazardly around. He looked up, and then dropped to his knees beside the truck. A man was coming up the path, moving in the shadows, dry leaves crunching beneath his shoes—Fred wondered why he hadn’t heard him before now. He was big, powerful-looking with a shotgun in his hands. His clothes, new and clean, had Johnny Law written all over them. The wind blew his coat open and Fred saw a gun belt, and knew for a fact they’d been found.
The zipper cut into Fred’s penis, but he gritted his teeth and managed not to cry out, even though ants were swarming his legs, already up to the kneecaps he had planted in the urine-soaked mound. He’d pissed all over himself on his way to the ground, but he didn’t care, because he had the drop on that big son of a bitch.
On his hands and knees, his heart pounding, the frightened bandit peered out from his hiding place, and saw the slowly moving man taking slow, deliberate steps as his grim and determined advance continued.
Fred leaned back against the truck, pulled his pistol and brushed some ants from his thigh. His knees were in piss and his penis hung from his open fly, but that was the least of his worries, because the footsteps were drawing near. Quietly, he lay down on his belly and peeked out from behind the rear wheel of the truck, aiming his weapon at the stranger, who was no more than twenty yards away from him now.
His cousin said something about pussy, and the kid laughed.
The snick-snack of a round being jacked into a chamber echoed through the night, and Fred fired, the crackling shot like lightning smacking a tree, as fire exploded from the barrel and the big man grabbed his chest.
Earl dropped the shotgun and staggered backward, his heart hammering, his left arm instantly numb as he fell to the ground, struggling to draw a breath; smoke rising from a ragged hole in his coat as Clarence yelled “What in the goddamn hell!” from inside the shanty, while the fat slob Earl had been following ran toward him, hollering, “I got him! I got him!”, pistol drawn, his limp cock jumping up and down as his pumping legs carried him across the weed-strewn yard.
And Earl thought, Jesus, not like this.
He reached out for the shotgun but it was too far away, looked up and saw a bucktoothed idiot jumping up and down, dancing and pointing his gun at him.
“Get out here, Clarence!” the man hollered, and turned his head to the shack, while behind him a man stepped through the doorway, shotgun leveled, finger on the trigger, hand wrapping the barrel as his threadbare black coat hung down around his ankles, and Earl put his hand under his coat and grabbed his pistol, pulled it and the dancing idiot looked back at him, eyes wide as Earl pulled the trigger, and kept on pulling it while his assailant danced awkwardly backwards, each shot flailing his arms as his eyes bulged and his body contorted, the bullets punching through his stomach and chest pushing him along like a marionette being jerked by invisible wires. While beyond him, a kid running through the doorway bumped the thin man’s elbow and the shotgun roared to life, exploding the dancing idiot’s head in a bloody shower of skull and gristle and chunks of brain, dropping his lifeless body onto the wounded sheriff, who pushed the bleeding carcass off him and tossed his empty gun, rolling as gunfire erupted and bullets from the kid’s revolver punched the patch of ground Earl had just vacated, one of them tearing a hole in the dead bandit’s backside.
Earl saw the shotgun on the ground beside him, and the black-coated bandit snap his barrel shut. He grabbed the stock and rose up, firing wildly as the kid cried out and Clarence pushed him into the shack, and ran in close behind him.
Earl, scrambling to his feet, ran across the yard as a shotgun barrel appeared in the doorway. Fire exploded from the barrel and Earl dove for the truck, his open coat flapping in the wind as pellets shredded the fabric, and angry little bee-stings penetrated his hip.
His chest was killing him. His left arm, no longer numb, still hurt like hell.
But he was safe, for now, behind the truck.
He looked down at his chest, pulled back his coat and gasped. The bullet had hit his badge, and was still lodged there. The badge had dug into him. He ripped open his shirt, yelping at the pain, as blood trickled from a small hole buried inside a fist-sized purple bruise directly over his heart. Earl licked his lips and tasted copper, touched his cheek and saw a sticky red smear on his palm. He used his shirt to wipe his face, and then looked down at the blood and the gory bits stuck to it, his stomach lurching at the thought of the mess that had rained down upon him when that bandit’s head exploded. He brushed a hand across his head, and a couple of leaves fluttered to the ground.
He should be dead—he knew that—but he wasn’t.
“Hey!” Clarence called from the house. “Hey, Mister! You still alive out there?”
Earl kept quiet, hoping he would venture out to see for himself.
“Yeah, you ain’t dead. I blowed your coat all to hell, but you’re okay. I saw your big ass crawl behind my truck. How’d you find us, Lawman? You are a lawman, ain’tcha?”
“Followed your smell.”
Soft laughter emanated from the shack.
“I know you’re hurt—hurt real bad. My cousin shot you. Be dark soon. Then me and my boy’ll come finish you off. Maybe we’ll gut ya. Dress ya down like a buck. Eat your liver and kidneys. Play baseball with your heart… Maybe you should just crawl away while you still can.”
Another roaring blast dug two holes into the ground. Beneath the truck, dirt flew up and pelted Earl’s legs.
He was safe behind the truck.
But for how long?
The man was right. The sky had turned gray. Light was fading quickly, dusk was upon them. Shadows crept across the yard; several empty spots along the trees and bushes had already filled in with the blackness that would soon surround them.
Then what?
When it was pitch black.
Maybe they would slip out the back, come at him from opposite ends of the house. He might get one. But he might not. He could end up dead, or worse… They could slip out the back and haul ass up the mountain, or down it. They might already be gone.
While I’m cowering behind this goddamn truck.
He crept to the cab of the truck and stood up, jacked a shell into place and Clarence’s shotgun boomed, disintegrating the passenger window as Earl ducked under fragments of exploding glass.
So much for that, he thought, and then fired through the doorway, the pellets cutting through the air smacking a wall inside the shack, as the guy said, “Shit, Lawman. Damn near gave me a shave with that one.”
Earl smiled and pumped another round into the chamber, felt his pocket for more shells, but that part of his coat was gone. Now he really was worried. He had plenty of ammo for his revolver, but the gun was lying by the headless man in the middle of the yard. He didn’t know how many shells were in the shotgun, but he didn’t think there could be many left.
And it was getting darker by the minute.
He had to do something.
He had to get out
of there before the Devil threw his blanket of pitch-black over the land. Raising the shotgun, he aimed it at the doorway, waiting for Clarence to show his face. He leaned against the truck, finger on the trigger, and felt something hard push against his side.
He reached into his remaining coat pocket and pulled a Mason jar from it.
Good for what ails ya!
He had forgotten all about it, and was damned surprised it had made it through everything unscathed. He leaned the shotgun against the truck, screwed off the lid and gulped down a mouthful, sending the homebrew down to his stomach, where it spread warmth throughout him like ripples through a disturbed puddle.
John Chambers was right: this shit is pure as the driven snow.
Hopefully, he’d live long enough to compliment Henry Walker on his craftsmanship.
“Gettin’ dark out there, son!” Clarence called out, and then laughed.
“Come on out!”
“Soon, Lawman… real soon!”
Carefully, Earl placed the moonshine on the ground by the front tire, took a knife from his pocket and pried the blade open, held the metal lid securely and punched a hole through it. Blade in the slit, he wiggled it and the hole widened. Then, using the knife to cut a strip of fabric from his shirt, he closed the knife and returned it to his pocket.
A shotgun blast pounded the truck, then another. The truck shook and Earl’s shotgun slid sideways, fell to the ground and fired, sending pellets whizzing over the dead man’s chest, into a tree trunk.
“Nice shootin’, boy! You okay out there?”
Earl didn’t answer. The man thought he was wounded. Maybe he’d think Earl had weakened, or slipped into unconsciousness, save them both a lot of trouble by storming the truck.
Earl dipped the torn fabric into the moonshine, leaving only a three-inch strip dry. He threaded it through the lid and screwed the lid back in place; grabbed his shotgun, pumped another round into the chamber and leaned the gun against the truck. Rising up, he peered over the truck bed. Gunfire from the doorway rocked the truck, and Earl steadied the shotgun with his hand.
The shack, only ten yards away, was an easy target. He pulled matches from his shirt pocket, struck one, touched its flame to the fabric and the homemade fuse ignited, stood up and tossed the jar through the right front window and a whoosh like sheets ruffling on a windblown clothesline erupted inside the shanty.
“God!” the kid cried out.
“OH GOD!” he shrieked, while his father screamed, “Nooo!” and Earl grabbed the shotgun and hefted it to his shoulder.
Fire erupted in the tiny shack, amidst the terrified shrieks and shouts of the people inside. Seconds later, flames crackled, licking the curtains and curling around the window frame, sending fire racing to the rooftop.
A flaming body shot through the doorway, screaming, arms flailing as Clarence followed close behind it, his shotgun blazing.
It took only a split-second for Earl to realize the ball of flame was the kid, that his father must have flung him out the door for cover. Earl fired, pumped and fired again, the first shot blowing a fist-sized hole through the boy’s chest, blood and gore and burnt pieces of flesh splattering the wall behind him, hurling him into his father while flames engulfed his head, his skin, popping and sizzling as he knocked his father off balance. The second blast pulverized Clarence’s left shoulder, slamming him against the burning structure. His arm, shredded by the blast, dangled at his side like a snapped tree limb, blood gushing from the gory pit that had been chewed out of his shoulder, as the shotgun fell to the dirt and he crumpled to the ground, the flaming human candle who had once been his son, now lying across his lap.
He sat there, staring up at the sky as if he didn’t realize his clothes had caught fire. Then he yelled. One arm hanging limp by his side, he shrieked and pushed the kid away from him. Flames spreading rapidly up the disabled bandit’s long, black coat, he screamed and tried beating them out, but they were already starting to engulf him.
“God help me!” he cried out.
And whatever he had done, he didn’t deserve this.
Earl pumped the handle, pulled the trigger and the hammer clicked on an empty chamber. He tossed the rifle aside and hurried to the bloody corpse in the middle of the yard, shrieks and screams and blazing heat filling the air around him, smoke and flames and crackling wood as he picked up his discarded revolver, turned and saw the front wall collapse on the burning man.
He took a few steps forward, but a searing wall of flame stopped him dead in his tracks. The whole shack was one big ball of kindling. Black smoke, yellow and orange flames rose high into the dark night, the fire roaring, writhing and hissing like a huge glowing monster. Earl wondered if it would spread up the hill and set the whole mountain on fire, or just burn itself out here and now.
The rear wall fell and flaming embers rushed forward, spewing sparks that snapped and swirled and drifted upward in the breeze.
Earl, hurrying backwards away from the blaze, looked down at the kid’s charred body, and wondered if he would ever be able to eat barbecued meat again. Somehow he doubted that he could. He thought of how pointless it all had been. John Fraley’s caved in face. Three people dead. He himself almost killed. And for what? Money. And now that money was so much smoke and ash riding along on a chilly October breeze.
Pointless.
A goddamn tragedy.
He looked at the truck. It was awfully close to the fire. What if the flames reached it? The gas tank might explode, spraying burning fuel into the treetops. Then the woods would go. He holstered his weapon, trotted over to the truck and looked into the window.
And saw a plump pillowcase sitting on the floorboard, below a set of keys that dangled from the truck’s ignition.
“I’ll be damned,” Earl said, smiling when he saw the crisp bills in the half-open sack. He opened the door and got behind the wheel, started up the motor and backed as far away from the flames as he could. Once outside, he walked up the hill and gathered up his shotgun. Then he went back to the truck to fetch the money. On the way back to his car, he glanced at his watch.
It was six o’clock.
Back home, miners would be laughing and drinking at Jimmy T’s.
Vonda would be keeping his dinner warm.
Earl could hardly wait to hold her in his arms.
Chapter Seventeen
Pitch stood behind the bar on the second floor of his colonial mansion. To his right was a wall lined with bookcases; before him, a fine walnut desk beside a red-brick fireplace. A blotter and a telephone and an antique Tiffany lamp sat on the desk. He looked down, admiring the gleaming hardwood floor, buffed and polished to perfection. Two rooms over, a feast stood ready and waiting, tables full of roast beef and fried chicken, steaming platters of vegetables. Fourteen placements of the finest china and sterling silver the state had ever seen sat around an intricately carved oak table.
He twisted the cap off a bottle of Jack Daniels and raised it to his lips, enjoying the Tennessee sipping whiskey that slid down his throat, and the cool and refreshing ice water that followed.
They would be arriving soon: Levay, Croft and the rest of the group. They had gotten off easy the last time, kept their lily-white hands clean. The mayor, the judge, the good doctor, all had taken their fistfuls of money, and then looked away while he and that pathetic little bartender did the dirty work. The others had done nothing whatsoever to earn their keep.
But they would… this time.
If they knew what they were getting into they would turn tail and run. But they were greedy, and he knew it. Times were hard, and harder times were just around the corner. No one would thumb their noses at the mountain of cash he would be spreading around tonight. None would be willing to give up their houses and properties, their plump little bank accounts.
They would gather downstairs in the great hall, carved out by the finest craftsmen money could buy, bow at the feet of that unholy statue and summon the Lord of the mountain. And
when that power came arcing down from Ward Rock, there would be no turning back.
Pitch crossed the room, opened the French doors and walked out into the invigorating breeze blowing across his balcony. Long fingers of smoke rose in the distance, curling out of chimneys and drifting up into an overcast sky that blanketed the stars, spreading a gloomy darkness across the valley. Headlights moved through the streets as a whistle sounded, a freight train rumbled down the tracks at the edge of town, and faint yellow light glowed from the windows of an engine whose stack belched black smoke from it.
He looked out across the horizon at Ward Rock Mountain, and thought back to the last time he had ventured up that godforsaken trail:
Halloween Night
1916
Pitch rode up the dirt road, dreading what waited at the end of the line as he passed the last house, traveling another thirty or so yards before dismounting and tying his horse under an old elm tree. Though it had been thirteen years to the night since he had last been here, the place was as familiar to him as the whores, the saloons and beer palaces he’d virtually lived in since leaving so many years ago.
He looked up at the full moon casting a pale light over the mountainside, patted his horse and took a couple of steps up the road, looking for the path that would lead him back to the cave.
He paused by a puddle of water and glanced down at his reflection, remembering what had brought him back to this place: the killing… the children. After all this time, he still found it hard to believe, but the truth was there, staring up at him from the puddle. Pitch had not aged a single minute since Aincil Martin and his posse had chased him up the mountain, not one second.
It seemed like only yesterday, instead of the thirteen years it had been.
A blink of an eye.
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