by Brian Hodge
“You looking a lil tired and edgy,” Amos said, ending the sentence with a deep hroom in his throat. “Guess you got a lot on your plate these days.”
Grayson nodded solemnly, noticing that Amos’s left hand had settled protectively on a luminous, sapphire-blue stone about the size and shape of an egg, which rested on a metal stand atop the circular table next to his chair. The lighting must have shifted just then, he thought, because the gleaming surface of the object began to pulsate in curious fashion. He felt Amos’s eyes studying his, so he met the old man’s gaze and said, “Sad business that boy being killed out this way. There’s some that think it was an animal that did it, and some think it must have been a crazy man.”
“Folks do terrible things to each other, don’t they? And it’s all the worse when it’s a young’un.”
“There was another little fellow ended up in the hospital yesterday evening. He had an...experience...in just about the same place. Right out here on Yew Line Road.”
“Do tell.”
“I spoke to him and his mama this morning. He seems to not remember a thing that happened, except that he was scared out of his mind and trying to run away.”
“Them kids ought not to go traipsing through these woods and such. Just cause there’s people living around here don’t mean there ain’t still bears and what not. You know, Levi shot him a bear not far from here just a few weeks back.”
Grayson shook his head. “Don’t think he was running from any bear, least that’s the impression he gave me. And a couple of other folks—not kids—they saw something too, but they didn’t know what it was.”
“How does somebody not know what they seen?”
“Well, they claimed they never got a good look at it. But anyway, what about you and your boys? I don’t suppose y’all have seen anything that’d make you sit up and take notice?”
The pale eyes behind the spectacles sparkled jovially. “Well, I’m not sure what you mean, Mr. Mike, but I ain’t seen a thing around here but what I’ve a perfect right to see.”
Grayson cracked a little smile. “You’re sharp, as usual. Frankly, though, from all accounts, I think we’re looking for some kind of animal. And whatever it is, I’d consider it dangerous. I know your boys like to get out and wander on your land, and if they were to happen on something, and it took after them the way it took after these kids…well…it could be a bad situation. Now your grandsons listen to you, so I hope you’ll insist that they take extra care. Especially for Malachi’s sake.”
“You’re kind to be thinking about us.”
“You know I’ve always got your best interests at heart.”
Amos’s huge head nodded slowly. His hand absently caressed the blue gem. “How is Janie?”
“She’s all right. Had some kidney stones a while back, you know, but we think all that’s passed, if you take my meaning.”
“Your job. Is it a heavy burden for you?”
“My job? I been at it so long, I wouldn’t know nothing otherwise.”
Amos’s thick lips spread in a knowing smile. “You know, Mr. Mike, there comes a time that a man has to pause and evaluate where he is, what he’s doing. I reckon someone like you, who often sees the worst in people, has to take stock right often.”
“Well, I do the best I can. I like to think I do some good. I sleep well at night, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
“Yeah, yeah. But I s’pose when you’re upholding something you believe in, it puts a strain on you when those close to you believe something different. I’m wondering if what I’m talking about is why I’m seein’ that strain in your eyes, Mr. Mike.”
Grayson stiffened, not certain what Amos was talking about, but leery of where he might be leading. “I don’t follow you.”
“I’m talking about making choices, and our reasons for making the choices we do. You always done right by us because we’re kin, and you know I’ve always been right fond of you. Much as you uphold your beliefs, your law, your kinship with this family has always taken its rightful place—at the head of the table, so to speak. Wouldn’t you agree?”
He nodded, now feeling distinctly nervous. Amos was not one to mince words, but neither was he prone to speaking openly about subjects that brought the issue of the law between them. Grayson knew well enough that the Barrows lived as they saw fit; and most often, the less he knew about their affairs the better. He could more comfortably see nothing when he did not know what to look for.
“As I said,” Amos continued, “sometimes we have to make hard choices, and when it comes to it, we hope we make the right ones. All I’m saying, Mr. Mike, is that I want you to do the right thing when the time comes.”
More and more bewildered, Grayson found himself shifting nervously. “Amos, I’ve always done right by you and I don’t intend to change anything now. Without you being more specific, though, I can’t rightly understand all you’re saying.”
He desperately did not want Amos to be more specific.
The old man’s hand again caressed the odd stone, which definitely appeared to radiate its own light. Outside, a cloud had passed over the sun, but in the deepening gloom, the sapphire shimmering grew brighter.
Then, to his surprise, Amos leaned close to the gemstone, one ear cocked, as if he were somehow listening, all the while studying Grayson’s face thoughtfully. At last, he settled back in his chair and closed his eyes, indicating that their meeting was over.
“Thank you for stopping by, Mr. Mike. You’ve been good kin,” the slow, deep voice said. Then Amos was asleep, his massive chest heaving slowly, his lips slightly parted.
Grayson could barely bring himself to rise from his chair. Amos, in his own way, had actually threatened him, he was sure of it. Jesus. Even when Grayson had confronted the family following Dottie Barrow’s death, he had never considered himself in danger. Levi and Joshua had made it clear they would “set him straight” if necessary, but at the time, his gravest peril seemed to be an exile from their confidence—an admittedly unattractive prospect. But all that had been made right, forgiven and forgotten.
Now, though, Grayson had come to question Amos and found himself being questioned; to what end, he feared to guess. If the family was somehow involved in that boy’s death, how could he turn a blind eye?
No. He wouldn’t. Not anymore. He was the law here, and it was time he started acting like it. Whatever his kinfolk’s plans, he could never condone killing, especially if kids were involved.
He left Amos’s room, shuffled down the stairs, and found Joshua standing at the front door gazing at the mid-afternoon sky. He forced himself to meet Joshua’s penetrating stare with one of his own.
“Granddaddy gone to sleep?”
“Yeah, he’s resting. But we had a nice talk.”
“He’s sleeping a lot these days. Reckon it comes with getting older.”
Grayson nodded. “By the way, what’s that bluish stone he’s got up there with him? It’s unusual, ain’t it?”
Joshua’s eyes brightened. “It is kinda special, yeah. An heirloom, you might say.”
“Never seen it before.”
“He’s always kept it in a safe place, least till lately. Nowadays he seems to have taken a shine to it.” He snickered at his own wit.
“Is Levi around?”
“He’s out yonder somewheres,” Joshua pointed to the meadow that bordered the road. “He’s just wandering, you know how he enjoys that.”
“Remember what I told you—it could be dangerous to wander alone, even on your own land. I still don’t know what’s out there.”
“Right, right, I’ll mention that to him. I ’spect he’s fine, though. He’ll take care of anything that bothers him, you can be sure of that. Hey, you know what?” Joshua leaned in close. “I think Levi’s got his eye on somebody. Won’t that be somethin’ if he got him a new mom for Malachi?”
Grayson dropped his jaw, then tried to close it without looking too startled. “Who’s he interested i
n?”
“Can’t say. If he wants you to know, he’ll tell you. I just mention it in case you see him around town.”
“Well, that’s most interesting.”
“I guess you’ll be getting on back to work then, huh?”
“Yeah, back to work.” He clapped Joshua solidly on the shoulder. “You take care of your granddad, now. Like you said, he’s getting up there. And you and Levi be watchful.”
“We’ll do that.”
“See you later.”
Grayson started toward his car, but Joshua called after him. “Granddaddy gave you some good advice, din’t he? I hope you got it in your head to mind him.”
He didn’t turn, but a stab of fear nearly stopped him in his tracks. He forced himself to continue on to his car and merely waved a hand in acknowledgement.
He had just reached the end of the driveway when a yellow school bus rounded the curve from the direction of town. Its flashing lights came on, and it pulled to a stop just in front of the house. Its final passenger, Malachi Barrow, stepped off the bus, crossed the road, and headed toward the sheriff’s vehicle with an inquiring expression. Grayson leaned out the window and gave the teenager a taut smile.
“Afternoon, Malachi. Doing all right?”
“Hey, Mr. Mike. Whatcha doing out here?”
By even the most generous standard, Malachi could not be considered anything other than ugly. He was tall and lanky, with a bony, oversized head that resembled his uncle Joshua’s more than his father’s. But like Levi’s, his black hair was long and stringy, and his violet eyes gleamed oddly beneath a single, coarse eyebrow.
“I came to see your great-grandfather and your uncle. I guess your dad’s not home.”
“Daddy’s got his business and all. You been talkin’ to Great Granddaddy, I s’pose.”
Grayson almost trembled under Malachi’s knowing gaze. “We had an interesting visit.”
He snickered, its harsh sound remarkably similar to his uncle’s. “I reckon he’s still fond of you.”
“I should hope so,” he said, trying to hide his increasing apprehension. “Hey, Malachi, you knew that young Lawson boy, didn’t you?”
The bright eyes darkened. “I reckon I did. You still looking for what killed him, I ’spect.”
Grayson hardened his expression. “Yeah, I am. I guess you don’t know anything about that.”
“I know he’s dead, sure enough. Ain’t that something?”
“Let me guess. You didn’t like him very much?”
Malachi’s eyes flickered toward the house, and Grayson saw movement behind one of the windows. Abruptly Malachi said, “Well, I gotta go now, Mr. Mike. I’m gonna say goodbye, awright?”
“Maybe we’ll get to talk later.”
“I reckon. Goodbye, Mr. Mike. Goodbye.” Malachi started toward the house, and Grayson pulled out of the driveway and accelerated up the road toward town, now more anxious than ever to get away from the Barrow property. He threw a last glance in the rearview mirror, only to see Malachi standing by the front door, waving after him, his homely face five miles long.
Grayson could no longer suppress the shudder he had been holding back, for something was very different about the family he had known for so long. They had always considered themselves above the law, this much was true, and they went about their business with little or no regard for others. Hell, Grayson had personally kept their names out of every controlled substances investigation in the county for the last twenty years. They had never posed an active, physical threat to anyone who didn’t meddle in their affairs; now, though, Grayson wasn’t so sure. Above all, he was positive that his favored status had somehow become tenuous, hinging on his decision to side with the family in whatever matter they had instigated. He dreaded the idea that they were, in fact, responsible for the violence that had come to Silver Ridge, for if they were, he could no longer deny the sight of his aging but still discerning eyes.
And the Barrows knew it—even Malachi, for there could be no mistaking in the boy’s long, regret-laden wave the clear intimation of absolute finality.
Chapter 7
Thad Smallwood had never enjoyed the drive into Silver Ridge from the Midland Brewery Distribution Center in Clarksburg, even though once every two weeks it provided him with a respite from the bane of his existence—traffic grinding to a screeching halt on what ought to be wide-open road. There was no Interstate to Silver Ridge, just a few of the worst two-lane roads in the state, and despite the picturesque mountain scenery, something about the surrounding countryside always seemed desolate and oppressive. The folks at the few Silver Ridge stores where he unloaded showed every bit as much prejudice toward a black man as the poorly educated clods of the much deeper south; unlike at most of the bigger stops, they never offered him a decent meal or even so much as a soda or cup of coffee.
Today, the road seemed even less hospitable than usual. Route 201 had needed maintenance for years, but now Smallwood’s Sterling Acterra bounced and jolted mercilessly over hidden bumps and potholes, forcing him to hold back even on the rare straight stretches. It could only be his imagination, but as he drew nearer to the town limits, the curves seemed far more acute than they should have, the dips and inclines longer and steeper than ever before. Beneath the towering trees, a deep darkness smothered the highway, but sporadic mid-afternoon sunbeams cut through the canopy like gleaming blades, briefly blinding him with their brilliance.
Smallwood didn’t think he’d ever been so uncomfortable in his twelve years of professional driving.
Odd; by now he should have come upon the Chicken House, which was the only place around to get decent home cooking, and he had somehow missed seeing Buck Wagner’s Texaco, which had to have been a couple of miles back. And the eons-old billboard for the Skylark Motel (“We’re here for YOUR comfort!”)…had it been taken down since last month? No way he could have passed it by.
The road veered sharply to the left, which somehow didn’t seem proper, but he braked normally to go into the hairpin curve. Then his foot jammed the pedal to the floor because, a shockingly short distance ahead, the road abruptly became a narrow dirt path, which vanished into a wall of pine trees that solidly blocked his passage.
“Jesus God-a-mighty!” he exploded as the truck shivered and shook to a sliding halt, only a few feet shy of smashing into vast boles that could not possibly grow where they were growing. A cloud of hot, fetid dust billowed up and swirled around the cab, completely obscuring his view for a long minute, during which time torrents of sweat began to stream down his forehead to sting his disbelieving eyes.
His mind zoomed back over the last several minutes of his trip. He had not made any unusual turns or been detoured by construction. His eyes had never left the road, and by every indication, he had followed the exact same route he had taken once every two weeks for the last ten months. His truck was not equipped with a GPS system, but his sense of direction was faultless; he had ceased needing a map to this locale by the time his first haul to it had ended.
So where the hell was he—and how did he get here?
The only thing to do was back up the truck, find a place to turn around, and drive until he found a familiar landmark. He must have somehow taken a wrong fork, regardless of how certain he had been of his route. He couldn’t worry about that now, though, for negotiating this narrow, winding road in reverse would take all his concentration; hazardous as hell, but under the circumstances, necessary. He was just about to shift into reverse when a distant, electric blue flash in the woods ahead captured his attention. He leaned forward and peered into the distant shadows, hoping to catch another glimpse of it. A second later, he did. And again a few seconds after that.
He shut off the engine, shoved the door open, and dropped to the ground, landing on dry but yielding gray-brown loam. He took a few steps toward the trees, his eyes anxiously seeking the source of the light—which flashed again, evidently a long way off, somewhere down the narrow path in front of the tr
uck. When he glanced up, he realized that these trees were easily the tallest he had ever seen—their tops so high they actually seemed to reach the clouds! The sight of them sent his head reeling, so he turned his eyes back to the path, his heart racing with apprehension, his feet reluctant to take the first step into the silent darkness of the woods.
It was damned quiet out here. Not the first birdcall or insect chirp or sigh of the wind; only the soft crunch of his feet on the earth as he strode forward, penetrating the veil of shadow beneath the awful black pines. He stifled the urge to call out because his voice had no business intruding on this eerie, silent cavern of wood, and though his heart implored him to turn around and get back in the truck, the flashing blue light mesmerized him, beckoned him like a ghostly hand through the artificial night. So he trudged on, glancing around constantly, warily, half-expecting something to materialize out of the darkness, some subtle vibration to shatter the overpowering absence of sound. And as he drew near to the source of the light, he finally broke into a run, recognizing but not quite accepting what he was seeing.
It was a dogshit brown Ford Crown Victoria bearing the insignia of the Byston County Sheriff’s Department, its blue lights flashing erratically, the driver’s door hanging suggestively open. The car was empty, its engine off, though when Smallwood peeked cautiously inside, he found the keys in the ignition. The hood was still warm.
So here the car was, tucked in among the densely packed pines with absolutely no means of ingress. It could not have passed between the trees from the direction he had walked, nor any other that he could determine. By all indications, the vehicle must have been dropped here—yet it bore no sign of damage, and not a tree limb above it appeared bent or broken. Besides, these pines rose hundreds of feet above his head, and in the lush evergreen canopy, he saw no significant breaks.