Bull Mountain

by Brian Panowich

  “Then what happened?”

  “Deddy saw the smoke from the house and him and Jimbo Cartwright come haulin’ ass out there. We cut a break to contain it and managed to get the fire out before it spread.”

  “Was he mad?” Clayton immediately regretted asking that question.

  “Well, goddamn, Clayton, what do you think? Hell, yeah, he was mad. I toted a legendary ass-whuppin’ that night. So did Buckley.” He paused again, then brought his voice down. “But I gotta tell you, little brother, it was worth it. It was worth it to hear those little bastards screaming.”

  Clayton forced down the rest of his beer and tossed the can on the floorboard like his brother had done. Hal stopped the truck and cut off the parking lights. He popped open the last beer and downed it in three huge gulps. His belch was hearty, loud, and long. Clayton wished he could burp like that.

  “We gotta walk from here,” Hal said. He grabbed his shotgun, racked it, and quietly got out of the truck. Clayton followed suit. He thought maybe he’d been here before with Deddy, but couldn’t be sure in the dark. This part of the mountain was peppered with stills, but a lot of them were in disrepair. Ever since the focus had shifted to the crops under the northern face, this area was tended to less and less. It wasn’t abandoned, just not a priority.

  They walked about a quarter mile into the woods before they could see the dim light of a campfire through the trees.

  “Hey, Hal,” Clayton said. “Whatever happened to Big Merle? I haven’t seen him around for a while. Did his family move off the mountain?”

  “He’s dead,” Hal said. “Buckley beat him to death with a piece of stove wood and dropped him in a hole. Fat bastard wasn’t happy with his place in the pecking order—got greedy. It happens. Now be quiet, we got a job to do.”

  Hal crept silently through the trees toward the glow of the fire, and Clayton mimicked his every move. The closer they got, the quieter Hal moved until even Clayton could barely hear him from only a few feet away. When they were close enough, Clayton could see it was one of Deddy’s stills, one that was supposed to be decommissioned. It wasn’t. They stopped at a cluster of pine trees and watched a blond-haired man with a patchy beard stoke a fire under a massive copper boiler. The heat coming off the barrels felt good on Clayton’s face after the long hike through the cold woods. He tugged at Hal’s shirt to get his attention, and Hal leaned in close.

  “There’s only one,” Clayton whispered. “That’s good, right?”

  “It’s good, but it ain’t the one we want.”

  “So, what do we do?”

  “What do you do when you can’t reach a hornet’s nest?”

  Clayton didn’t take long to come up with the answer his brother was looking for. “You set fire to the tree,” he said.

  “Very good, kiddo.” Hal ruffled Clayton’s bushy red hair. “I think Deddy’s got you all wrong. Now stay here.” Hal put a finger to his lips and vanished into the darkness. He reappeared less than a minute later directly behind Blondie, who was now copping a squat by a small campfire, thumbing through a skin mag, his rifle propped up against a tree to his left. Hal drew back and hit the man in the temple with the butt end of his Mossberg. Blondie never knew what hit him. He went down hard, face-first into the dirt. It was the coolest thing Clayton had ever seen. His brother was awesome.

  “Clayton,” Hal said, snapping the boy back into the moment, “get out here and tie this pig-fucker to that hemlock tree.”

  Clayton shuffled out of the woods with a quickness. He’d always been good with the knots. He was sure Hal knew that. Hal pulled a length of paracord from his jacket and tossed it to Clayton, who bound the unconscious man in no time. Hal kicked over the huge metal boiler—the heart of the ancient still—and the coals spilled out all over the small clearing. Once some of the underbrush started to ignite from the coals, Hal used the high-octane hooch in the barrels as an accelerant, dousing the entire site. Almost instantly the small patch of woods became a blazing inferno.

  “Holy shit, Hal! How we gonna put this out?”

  “We’re not. They are.” He pointed to the man tied to the tree.

  Clayton was confused.

  Hal explained. “This fire is going to be seen by the fella Deddy sent us here to find, and I promise you he’ll be along shortly. When him and his boys are all tuckered out from fightin’ a woods fire, we’ll pick them off like fish in a barrel. It’ll be fun. C’mon, let’s go find a place to watch.”

  “What about him?” Clayton pointed to the blond man, who was starting to come around due to the intense heat.

  “Fuck him,” Hal said. “Come on.”

  “But he’ll burn alive.”

  “And?” Hal said, beginning to lose his patience. “Get your ass up that path before I leave you here to burn up with him.”

  Clayton couldn’t move.

  The man tied to the tree by Clayton’s knots awoke completely when the fire started licking his feet and legs. He swiveled his head back and forth, wide-eyed and frantic, taking in the scope of what was happening to him. He struggled to free himself, drawing his knees up to his chin. He screamed at Clayton to help him. He begged. Clayton just stared at him—horrified. Hal gripped Clayton hard under the arm and nearly ripped it off dragging the boy back out the way they came.

  From a safer distance, Clayton watched his brother get comfortable against a tree stump and close his eyes. Hal looked rested and content as the burning man’s screams became something else. Something unnatural. Clayton would never forget that sound. He wondered if Hal could even hear it at all, or if all he heard were the hornets.

  CHAPTER

  6

  SIMON HOLLY

  2015

  1.

  Agent Holly shoved his key in the lock and tried to remember the last time, if ever, he’d stayed in a motel room that still issued keys to its patrons. Not those flimsy plastic key cards with the magnetic strip, but real, straight-up cut metal keys. As soon as he opened the door to room six of the Waymore Valley Motor Inn, the smell of powdered dollar-store potpourri and stale cigarette smoke rushed his face. It was strangely comforting. As were the bland mother-of-pearl walls and the dim electric-yellow light. This was the kind of thing he was used to. All the fresh mountain air and wide-open spaces were foreign and intimidating. Being out in the open country made him feel like, at any time, he could lose his footing and spin right off the planet. The tight space felt better. More controlled.

  Holly unzipped the black government-issue duffel and took out his cell phone. He’d purposely left it behind before the sit-down with Clayton Burroughs. No distractions. The phone showed multiple missed calls from the same three numbers within the space of four hours. One was his girlfriend, Clare; one had a government prefix; and one had a North Georgia area code. Calling any of the three back was going to be the equivalent of sticking an ice pick through his left eye. He tossed the phone on the end table and fished a prescription pill bottle out of the duffel, a special cocktail of ten-milligram hydrocodone tablets and twenty-milligram diazepam. He shook out the pills and washed them down with tap water from the sink. His hands were still a little shaky. He’d done his best to keep them still during his meeting with the sheriff, but today was a long time coming, and to be honest, he was surprised he’d handled it so coolly. Holly was pretty sure he’d sold the right play to the sheriff, even if he’d had to consume a year’s worth of fat and carbs at that ridiculous pool-hall diner to do it.

  How do these people eat that shit every day? he thought. He needed a gym, and a shower, but he settled for three fingers of bourbon from a plastic traveler’s bottle to give the pills a swift kick in the ass. The burn of the whiskey felt good. He sank down into a chair next to the bed and let the chemicals work their magic. It was the only thing making this next part bearable. It was time to roll up his sleeves and start calling people back.

  He
grabbed the cell phone and punched in a number. A pocket-sized faux-leather King James Bible with gold trim sat on the desk. Holly toyed with it while the phone rang. When the person on the other end picked up, he reached out and slid the Bible into the trash.

  2.

  “Jessup,” the voice on the line said.

  “Henry, it’s Simon.”

  “Simon, where the hell are you? You dropped off the grid, and you got people around here crabby. I don’t like these people when they’re crabby. You know that.”

  “I’m in Georgia.”

  “And why in God’s name are you in Georgia?”

  “I’m working a case.”

  “You’re supposed to be working a case in Jacksonville, Florida.”

  “Same case.”

  The silence on the line told Holly that his partner, Henry Jessup, was trying to connect the dots before asking a stupid question. He asked anyway.

  “When am I going to be briefed on how what you’re doing in the Peach State connects to Wilcombe? What do I tell Jennings?”

  The pills were doing their job. Holly felt the tension ease in his neck and shoulders.

  “Tell him anything you want, Henry. I’m the AIC on this, and the last time I checked, the ATF was a federal agency, meaning I can follow a lead anywhere in the continental United States. I’m tracking down a major supplier of dope in the Georgia Mountains that ties directly to the guns in Florida, and the money—and Wilcombe.”

  “You are the AIC on this, but you work in conjunction with me and the federal government. There are rules here you have to follow. This isn’t some Podunk local operation in southern Alabama. This Wilcombe thing you’re so hot about is the only reason Jennings vouched to get you in here, and already you’re pulling this cowboy shit. This is the kind of thing he’s waiting on to fry your ass and take the case for himself.”

  “Fuck him. He’s a suit. He has no idea how it works out here.”

  “He’s your boss. And he doesn’t trust you. You move too far outside the lines on this and he’s going to bust you back down to a beat cop. Me, too, probably.”

  “What can I tell you, Henry? I’m just doing my job.”

  “Well, then do it by the book. Jennings and them are going to want to be briefed on this, Simon. Stop the radio silence and the freelancer shit. You shouldn’t be up there alone. I should be there.”

  “Henry, you worry too much.”

  “You don’t worry enough.”

  “Just give me a couple of days. Let me see where this takes me and I’ll let you know the play when I have it figured out.”

  “Have you called Clare?”

  “Not yet.”

  “She’s called me worried about you. She said you’re not answering her calls, either. She thinks you’re in Florida.”

  “Jesus, Henry, what are you, my mom? I’ll call her when I get a chance.”

  “I don’t like lying for you, Simon. It’s getting to be a habit.”

  “Look, Henry. I am following a lead, you’ll just have to trust me on it.”

  “Whatever you say, partner. Just don’t leave me with my dick in my hands. As soon as you know something, I know something, okay?”

  “Okay. Thank you.”

  “All right, man. Be careful around those rednecks and call your woman.”

  “Right.”

  “Seriously, Simon. Be careful.”

  Holly hung up. He poured another glass of bourbon and hit redial on the missed local call. A male voice picked up on the first ring.

  “Goddamn, Holly, I’m freaking out here.”

  “I told you not to call me on this phone.”

  “Don’t worry, chief, I’m on a burner. I was just calling to tell you I got a team ready for this thing. We’re—”

  “Stop,” Holly said. “Stop right there. I told you not to call me on this phone, and you did. That means you can’t follow simple directions. If you can’t follow orders, then I can’t use you. If I can’t use you, then I’ll have to dispose of you. Do you hear what I’m saying?”

  “Yeah, I hear you, but—”

  “No, just stop talking. Be where I told you to be, and do what I tell you to do. If that doesn’t work for you, then the deal is off.”

  “Roger that, boss. I get it.”

  “Do you? Are you sure? Because if you don’t, I’ll find someone else that does, and you—you they find with your hands tied, your arms broken, floating ass-up in the river. Are we clear on this?”

  “Crystal.”

  “Good.”

  Holly slapped the phone closed and hammered back the bourbon. What was it the sheriff had said earlier about finding good help?

  “The pickin’s are slim.”

  Indeed.

  Two calls down and a good buzz. He contemplated calling Clare back but decided against it. He tossed the phone back on the table and picked up his wallet. Behind the two neatly creased twenties and Uncle Sam’s credit card was a small photograph of a brown-haired woman barely into her twenties, sitting in the grass with a small boy—a toddler. Holly held the picture, careful of the worn edges, and laid it where the Bible had been. There wasn’t a day that went by that Holly didn’t take a minute to stare at the woman and the boy in that photograph.

  The woman who wasn’t Clare.

  CHAPTER

  7

  COOPER BURROUGHS

  1950

  1.

  “Tie those last few off and load them on the truck.” Cooper wiped the sweat from his forehead. “Take a few minutes if you need to, but I ain’t looking to be out here all day.” Cutting and baling marijuana could be exhausting work and the process took up most of the sticky, humid summer months, but Cooper knew he paid well, and his men knew they weren’t going to do anything the man himself wouldn’t do. Still, the heat of a Georgia summer could wilt a man’s back and cook his brains. Delray and Ernest had been humping it since sunup and it looked like they hadn’t made a dent in the day’s workload.

  “Damn, Cooper, we ain’t never gonna get all this done. It’s hot as the devil’s balls out here, and I done sweat out every bit of water in me. We could use a break.”

  “The only thing you’re sweating out is last night’s liquor, Delray. So that makes your problem your own. If you’re still looking to get paid, then you need to get the rest of those buds baled and packed before I lose it to the sun.”

  “I don’t mind working, Coop, but goddamn, man, take it easy.”

  Cooper dropped the tightly cinched bundle of tacky green plants to the ground and wiped his brow again. “How much money did you make last year taking it easy?”

  “Last year I was running the stills over on the southern side.”

  “I didn’t ask what you did, Delray. I asked how much you made.”

  “I reckon you and Rye always done me pretty good.”

  Cooper pulled a thin stem of cannabis out of the bunch at his feet and popped it in his mouth. The casual mention of his dead brother didn’t go unnoticed. He shook it off. “Well, I reckon you made about half all year of what I paid you the last three months.”

  Delray shifted his lips over to one side of his face as he thought on that.

  “Well, don’t go trying to do the math,” Cooper said. “I don’t want your brain fryin’ any more than it has to before we get this truck loaded. Just get yourself some water and stop all your bitchin’ before I get a couple of womenfolk out here to show you up.” Cooper looked up toward the truck and called for his son. “Gareth?”

  Cooper’s boy looked down from where he was positioned in the truck bed, straightening the bales as they were tossed in. “Yes, Deddy?”

  “Get up there to the main house and bring these sissies a pitcher of tea. Plenty of ice.”

  “Yessir.” Gareth hopped off the truck and made his way into the h
ouse.

  Delray pulled down tight on the twine in his hands. Ernest tied it off, picked up the bale, and tossed it toward Cooper a little harder than he should have. Cooper caught it and slung it into the bed of the truck. “If you got something to say, Ernest, spit it out.”

  It looked like Ernest had a lot to say but wouldn’t get a chance to right then. He squinted at something in the distance over Cooper’s shoulder, and Cooper turned to look as well. One rider. Horseback. Nobody rode horses wild-west-style on the mountain anymore but a fella named Horace Williams, one of the old-timers that lived out by Johnson’s Gap. All three men watched the rider approach in the heat.

  “What are you doing out here, Horace?” Cooper helped the old man off the horse.

  “We might have us a problem out by the Gap.”

  “What problem?”

  “Well, me and my boy Melvin was out riding through there a few days ago and we saw one of the old stills running.”

  “Which one?”

  “The big one way off the pass. The one Rye used for the peach he’d run into Tennessee.”

  Cooper took off his hat and used it to rub the sweat off his forehead. “I shut that one down.”

  “Yes, sir. We knew that. That’s why I come to tell you.”

  “And do I even need to ask who was running it?” Cooper asked the question as if he already knew the answer. Delray and Ernest were all ears.

  Horace hung a toothless smile on his face. “It was Valentine. That colored fella Rye was so fond of. Him and a few of his kin. It looked like they were casing up a load to reopen Rye’s old route.” It made a little more sense to Cooper now why this old-timer would want to ride way out here in the heat to give up a neighbor. Rye’s Negro friends were never that popular up here in the first place, and without him around to say any different, old-timers like Horace were itching to see them get run off.