Pack

by Mike Bockoven

  “That’s how it is, then?”

  “That’s how it is,” Ron said.

  “It’s amazing you all lasted this long,” Willie said, heading to his truck. “Bunch of pussies, the whole lot of you.”

  Willie ranted and swore all the way to his blue and rust-colored truck, occasionally stopping to see if there was a way he hadn’t thought of to get under Dave’s skin. But Dave was already broken and Ron and Carl held firm on getting Willie out of there. Two minutes later, Willie was on the road headed back to town.

  The minute the old man turned onto the road, Ron whispered something to Carl and they were off as well. There were sympathetic looks, but no words spoken between the group. Dave and Josie stayed in their positions at opposite ends of the picnic table for what seemed like a long time.

  “One of us is going to have to go after him,” Josie finally said in a soft voice.

  “I’d like it to be you, if you don’t mind,” Dave said. “He’s heard my side.”

  Dave stood up and started walking.

  “Home is six miles, Dave,” Josie said. “Don’t walk that far.”

  “Not going home,” Dave said.

  “Then what are you doing?” she asked, but Dave was already fifteen yards away, not turning around. He knew his house was six miles away, but “Bar” was only four and some change.

  •••

  It was into the late lunch rush when Dave got to “Bar” and most of the regulars had cleared out. He was muddy and gross, he was deep inside his own head (the last two blocks had been tough with swatted-away dueling scenarios concerning his wife and Byron having sex and murdering Willie) but most of all, he was hungry. For a brief second he had panicked thinking his wallet was still at the campsite, but found where he had left it before the “scratch” the night before.

  Chuck Nesbit was working the grill and his hearing wasn’t so great. Dave had to yell to get his attention.

  “CHUCK. Come on, man! I need some food.”

  Chuck, forever putting the customer first, wandered over about two minutes later.

  “Burger?”

  “Three of them. Plus fries and beer.”

  “Someone was out late,” Chuck said. “Missed your breakfast, did you?”

  “Shut up, asshole,” Dave muttered as Chuck got back to the grill. Dave did whatever he could to distract his mind, which was producing new and original dark thoughts every couple of minutes. Unfortunately, “Bar” was not a place to go for distraction. There was a television playing college football, which helped, but Dave was beyond caring about the fate of any team from the SCC (much less two of them). That left the other patrons to look at, but there were fewer and fewer of those all the time as lunch was ending. That left staring at the bottles on the wall and vivid, vivid thoughts of sex, violence, and pain.

  It was a relief when a new customer walked in wearing a uniform.

  “Hey Chuck!” the man yelled. “The grill still going?”

  “What’s it look like?” Chuck yelled back from the grill, smoke rising over his wrinkly head.

  “Looks like you’re in a peachy mood,” Stu said under his breath, then, much louder, “I’d like a burger and fries please.”

  “Yep,” Chuck said. “Good thing, too. I’m almost out of patties thanks to Dave, there.”

  Dave looked up from the bar at the new sheriff, his hair flecked with mud, his clothes wrinkled. He was surely putting off a smell. None the less he stood up.

  “How you doing, I’m Dave Rhodes. I’m not sure we’ve had a chance to meet yet.”

  “Stuart Dietz. I go by Stu. I took over for Grey Allen a couple of weeks ago.”

  They shook hands.

  “You been camping, there, Dave?”

  “Yeah,” Dave said, running his hand through his brown hair. “I would have showered if I knew I was making a first impression today. That doesn’t happen here too often.”

  “I get that,” Stu said. “Mind if I sit?”

  “No, go ahead,” Dave said. “Glad for the company, to be honest.”

  Chuck plopped two plates in front of Dave, one with two burgers and one with the third burger and fries. They made the resounding, heavy clash of sturdy dish wear and Chuck went back to the kitchen without a word.

  “That’s … a good bit of food, there, Dave.”

  A sheepish “yeah” was all Dave could muster before diving in. Between bite two and three, when it was obvious the new sheriff wasn’t just sitting there to be polite, but to get to know one of his constituents, Dave slowed down enough to talk.

  “You liking town so far?”

  “Yeah, it takes some adjustments, but I’m doing all right. It’s a different pace than what I’m used to.”

  “I bet,” Dave said. “I’ve always said this is a great place to live if you already know everybody and are into classic rock.”

  “I noticed that!” Stu said. “I was expecting everyone to be a country music fan out here but all I hear is that one station, what is it … “105.3 The Wolf?”

  “That’s right. I haven’t heard so much Aerosmith in my life.”

  “That sounds about right. I heard you were from Detroit, right?”

  “Worked there a while, yeah,” Stu said, going into the spiel he had done several dozen times at this point. “It’s been an adjustment, but I’m finding things pretty interesting around here. There’s certainly a lot to do. Grey Allen wasn’t … how do I put this … he didn’t do things in a very modern way.”

  “I bet,” Dave said, shoveling in fries three at a time.

  “So I’ve been getting the computer up and running and I’ve been … I’m sorry. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen anyone eat like that.”

  Dave had gotten the first burger and all the fries down and was working on the second. He wasn’t usually a glutton, but there were times, especially after a night out in the woods, where his body absolutely demanded food. During those times, consuming calories was like coming up for air after several minutes underwater.

  “I’m sorry,” Dave said. I don’t usually eat this fast.”

  Chuck took the opportunity to slam Dave’s beer on the counter and return to the kitchen, again, without a word.

  “I get it,” Stu said. “Sometimes you just gotta get some food in you. Can I ask what you do around here, Dave?”

  “Yeah, absolutely,” Dave said, being much more conscious as to his food intake. “I’m a teacher and a coach at Cody-Kilgore High, about fifteen miles away. I coach volleyball and teach a little bit of everything, but math, mainly.”

  “Mild-mannered math teacher,” Stu said. “And Barter County hamburger-eating champion.”

  For some reason, Dave found that particularly funny and a laugh bubbled out of his mouth before he could stop it. A chunk of bun went flying from Dave’s mouth and both men decided to ignore it.

  “Man,” Dave said. “I needed that. I know about ten high schoolers who could eat me under the table, though. My kid is one of them.”

  “How many kids you have?”

  “Just the one,” Dave said. “Dave Junior.”

  “Cool,” Stu said. “Hey, before I get my food, there’s a question I’m asking a lot of the folks I run into and was wondering if I could ask you.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Well, Grey Allen was around here a long time and he told me the way he did things was to get involved. He said he knew everyone personally, right? That’s going to take me some time to manage, so what I’m asking everyone to do is to give me some time to get to know you all and to kind of keep their eyes open in the meantime. If there’s anything I need to know, give me a call or look me up. If there’s anything Grey Allen did that I’m doing differently, tell me so I can see if it makes sense for me to do, too. Basically, this one guy did this job for a long time and now we all need to do this job for a little while until I get situated. Does that make sense?”

  Stu’s lunch clattered on the counter and Chuck went back to the kitchen.
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  “Yeah, that makes sense,” Dave said. “I imagine there are all sorts of things that Grey Allen dealt with that aren’t in any files anywhere.”

  “Exactly,” Stu said. “I’m basically setting up from scratch. But don’t tell anyone I said that.”

  “Mum’s the word,” Dave said, but with a mouthful of chewed food it came out as “mumbs da word.”

  Stu’s food hit the table with the same clatter as before but this time Chuck didn’t head back to the kitchen.

  “What y’all talking about?” he asked.

  “I’m introducing myself,” Stu said. “Trying to get to know everybody. Isn’t that what I’m supposed to be doing?”

  “I figure,” Chuck said, now eager for conversation. “I imagine you would have met Dave by now, unless it’s that time of the month.”

  Dave’s face was full of fries, which was good because had it not been stuffed he might have told Chuck to shut his face, making himself look more suspicious. Instead he drew in air and some fried potato into his throat and started coughing.

  “That … uh, that wasn’t exactly politically correct,” Stu said, slapping Dave on the back. “Why would you say something like that, man?”

  Over fits of coughing Dave shot Chuck a look that said “I’m not in the practice of killing people, but in your case …”

  “I didn’t mean nothing by it,” Chuck said. “I’ve, uh … dishes.”

  As he beat his retreat, Dave cleared his throat a few times and smiled at Stu.

  “Small towns, huh?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  After sitting for a second, Stu started eating and Dave took a long draft of his beer and reverted to the only neutral territory available after making such a distinguished first impression.

  “So,” Dave said. “You a Cornhusker football fan?”

  •••

  A few hours later after Stu had headed out on patrol and Dave had returned home to an empty house, Kenny Kirk and JoAnn were still on the road. Although he was financially comfortable and owned several businesses vital to the community, the house he and JoAnn shared was humble, old, and lived in. The staircase creaked whenever anyone got near it, the fuses blew with alarming regularity, and one of the bathrooms on the second floor had a noticeable sag in the middle, denoting structural decay. The consequence of the house’s age was it groaned and squeaked anywhere you went and it was very hard to sneak up on someone.

  This made it particularly surprising that Mr. Stander had been able to break into the house and sit in a chair without making so much as a peep or alerting any of the neighbors. Kenny and JoAnn were gone, of course, and would stay gone for a bit, much to Mr. Stander’s increasing frustration.

  He was a patient man, but even this was pushing it. After sitting in the house from the late afternoon until after sunset, the tall man in the bow tie let out a long sigh and pulled himself out of the (admittedly very comfortable) lounger in the living room.

  “No wonder no one’s found them yet,” he said to the empty room. “Who in their right mind would want to spend time in such a dump?”

  Stander made no effort to not set off the symphony high-pitched squeaks as he tread the floor out of the living room and out the back door.

  AN EXCERPT FROM THE DIARY OF J.P. CODDINGTON BARTER COUNTY, 1876

  June 22, 1867

  I fear the loss of the Railroad will be the death of this town.

  The county elders lobbied for the Railroad to come through, but there was resistance, particularly from Homer Rhodes and his group. There was ample discussion in the First Baptist Church over the weekend and much was discussed, but not decided. There was talk of what the Railroad would bring, both good and bad, and how we might grow prosperous with or without the tracks going just south of town, but I do not think the arguments against the train hold any water at all.

  Homer Rhodes swears there is oil under the ground and that the right men with the right equipment might get at that oil quickly. Once the wells are built it would be a “short road to progress and prosperity” he said. Neither I, nor my friends have ever heard of oil being found here in this part of the country and his promises rang hollow in my ears. The Railroad is a known thing, proven to be a boost to the towns and counties they encounter. Why a man would push against such progress is a mystery to me.

  I was going to say as much in the meeting, but Mr. Rhodes and his crew of men are a boorish lot. They silenced many a naysayer yelling such phrases as “we’ve been over this” and “next question” to the point where civilized discourse, even among the educated, was a fool’s errand. I left frustrated to a point as did Mr. O’Conner, Mr. Smith and several others. We commiserated at the local bar a bit later, and I’m afraid I had too many drinks and am paying the toll for it today in a sour stomach, among other ailments.

  To add misery to my condition, I also found the oddest pile of animal remains very near the doorstep of my home this morning. If I’m not mistaken, it was a deer at one time but whatever had taken after the pitiful creature left some doubt. The head was either gone or in such small pieces as to be unrecognizable. The hide had been torn open, as if all at once. I am at a loss to what force on heaven or Earth could do such a thing or how the doomed creature ended up on my doorstep, for all intents and purposes.

  Needless to say the entire scene churned my stomach and I vomited on the mass. After a few shovelfuls of dirt I composed myself and was able to move the carcass to a more suitable location.

  May my fortunes improve.

  PART 4 - HOME OF THE WOLF

  Carl Eakes was not much of a talker in the normal course of affairs, but he was one hell of a gardener.

  As a vocation, he owned a small towing business that Kenny Kirk had helped him get started. He had a good-sized wrecker, bigger than any in the area, and the boy knew how to drive it. When he was in high school he had dreamed basic dreams—diesel mechanic, law enforcement, something with computers. While he had gone to school and was a diesel mechanic (one dream down!), he hadn’t taken to working on the clock for a number of reasons. One was his garden.

  He owned a modest home in “town” with a two-acre-wide backyard where he grew vegetables, flowers and had a very small orchard. When late March rolled around and the temperature was tolerable he lit outside and would check his compost piles, start tilling and fertilizing the soil and making ready. In the spring it was planting then constant watering, weeding, watering, separating, watering, pruning and watering. By July the harvests started. By September there were buckets and buckets of tomatoes and cucumbers, squash and potatoes, melons, carrots, onions, peppers and anything else you’d want from a garden.

  Then there were the flowers. Peonies, mums, roses, lilies and so much more, rows and rows of fragrance and color that led to an entire insect infrastructure of bees and hummingbirds and yellow jackets and mantises and ants and spiders. Everywhere in Carl’s garden was life and when the life started to fall away and peel back as the weather got cold again, Kenny ate fresh salsa and crunchy salads and cut sweet melons and put strawberries on his ice cream. He even fermented some of his apples into the best goddamn cider in a three-county area, but he didn’t tell too many people about that. There might be laws and such.

  His neighbors always knew he was in the garden because Carl was a loyal listener of 105.3, The Wolf, Central Nebraska’s Classic Rock. The station was sometimes hard to get in Cherry, but Carl had rigged up a 25-foot antenna to his shed and was able to play The Wolf at a reasonable volume any time he wanted. His neighbors were cool with it, so his backyard was Carl’s favorite place in the world. It was him, his plants, and AC/DC, Aerosmith, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Rush, Styx and even the occasional foray into Metallica. When James Hetfield would come through his speaker system, Carl swore the whole garden lit up.

  It was mid-October when Dilly had his first “scratch” so his garden was producing a fermented smell that you get when plants die. Two days after they had run in the woods then fought at the cam
pground, Ron was the first to come by and he specifically asked for some cider.

  “Where you at?” Ron said.

  “Not close. Maybe a three.”

  “Well I’m at a six and I need something to drink. Normally I don’t,” Ron said. “But I think this calls for it. Don’t you?”

  “Probably,” Carl said. “It’s been a good year for apples.”

  “That’s not why I want to drink.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s because we’re cracking up.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s because that’s about as nasty and mean as I’ve ever seen Willie and I don’t know if all of us are going to be together much longer. Something’s bothering Willie and it ain’t about Byron. We all agreed on that.”

  “Yeah, we did,” Carl said. He stood up and headed into the kitchen, returning with a pint glass full of homemade hard cider. He handed it to Ron, who was off again. The big man didn’t usually talk but when he did it came in torrents making it very hard for the much smaller Carl to get a word in edgewise.

  “It was kind of brilliant what he did, really,” Ron said, as if Carl was unaware. “He knew he had Dave by the balls, man. He knew he would have to tell Dilly everything in front of the pack. Willie knew he had him and he may have just destroyed that family tonight. Plus, I don’t know if Dave will ever run with Willie again after what he did.”

  “I don’t know,” Carl said. “People fight all the time. They get over things.”

  “How the hell does a man get over that?” Ron said. “I couldn’t promise I wouldn’t have killed Willie where he stood if I was Dave.”

  “Yep,” Carl said.

  “Instead, there’s a guy who’s been cheated on and second-guessed and forced to kill one of his friends and his son has to hear about the two worst things in his life back to back. I couldn’t get over that.”

  “So whatdya think will happen?”

  Ron was now up wandering the garden, going full blast, his volume and hackles up. Carl had been friends with Ron for coming up on fifteen years but they were friends in the way that Marcie and Peppermint Patty were friends in the Peanuts cartoons. Not quite bad enough to be a motormouth like Kenny Kirk, Ron could get worked up and go for a while, and Carl knew it was best to let him go, kicking at decaying plants as he went.