Shivaree

by J. D. Horn

  Old Charlie Aarons had been dragged from his home and ripped apart in the woods that separated the house from the Dunne farm. That brought the murder count up to at least five. The Sleiger brothers were still missing, so they’d likely been casualties of Elijah’s madness, too. Bell didn’t need any more headaches, but as he turned the wide curve down by River Road, he realized he had another problem.

  “Up ahead,” Bell said, tapping the dashboard to get Rigby’s attention. About a hundred yards in front of them, at the bend, the car he recognized as belonging to Frank Mason had taken on an ancient oak and lost. “Damn it,” Bell said, easing the patrol car up behind the wrecked vehicle. He put the car in park, and scratched his head as he leaned out the window. “Stay here,” he ordered Rigby, although there was nothing to indicate the deputy had planned on moving.

  He swung open his door and climbed out, pausing for a moment to take in a breath as his feet contacted the earth. He ambled toward the car, not really wanting to get close enough to see what had become of the Judge’s boys. The car’s passenger side had clipped the oak, so he made his way to the driver’s side. The seat was empty, but what was left of Bayard was slumped over in the seat next to it. His head had connected with the dashboard and busted open like an overripe melon.

  “Not quite sure what happened, Sheriff.” A voice caused Bell to turn, nearly jump. Frank Mason was reclining in the tall grass only a few feet from the wreck, smoking a cigarette. “I think maybe someone messed with the steering.” Frank inserted the cigarette between his lips and scrambled to his feet. “Don’t suppose you could give me a ride into town?”

  Bell bit his lip. Frank and Bayard had been partners for years and, Bell believed, friends since boyhood. Still, Frank showed no distress over Bayard’s demise. “Can’t do that, son,” Bell replied. “I’ll radio in for an ambulance to fetch your buddy, but since you can still walk, I ain’t got time to taxi you around. I’ve got a man out there killing just about everyone close to him.”

  “Really?” Frank’s eyes lit up with interest. Bell forced himself not to react. He turned and took determined strides back to the patrol car, the sound of Frank’s footfalls alerting Bell to the fact that he was being followed. He looked back over his shoulder and reached in to grab the radio’s microphone.

  “Who you looking for?” Frank asked, craning his neck to get a gander at Rigby.

  To hell with it. “Elijah Dunne, know him?”

  Frank straightened. “Course. He and Ruby used to date.”

  Yes, of course, that makes sense, Bell thought to himself.

  “His new woman, the nurse, she’s out at the Judge’s house right now.”

  Bell flung the radio’s microphone back to the seat, striking Rigby. The deputy didn’t react. Bell jumped in and slammed the door behind him. He cranked the engine and shifted into reverse to clear the wrecked vehicle, then peeled out forward, leaving Frank in a cloud of dust.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  The patrol car sent a piece of gravel shooting straight into Frank’s shin. “Son of a bitch!” Frank yelped in pain and bent over to grab his leg. The stone’s sharp edge had connected hard enough to put a hole in his pants and take a bite out of his skin. “Son of a bitch,” Frank repeated, this time thinking of the officer who’d caused his problem.

  Frank started limping down the dusty road toward Conroy. He cursed the sheriff, cursed the heat, then cursed the damned horsefly that had begun buzzing him, dogging his every step. His hand managed to connect with the fly, swatting it hard to the ground, where it rested on its back for a couple of seconds, only to begin kicking its legs and rocking itself back into an upright position. Its wings began to flutter, and Frank raised his foot to crush it when a singular thought stopped him. “That you, buddy?” he asked. He knew it was madness, but for the tiniest slice of a second he wondered if it might be possible that Bayard had slipped into this pest. But no, that was just regret speaking.

  There hadn’t been a choice, not really. He’d known from Bayard’s expression that it was finally time. All those wrestling matches and drunken fistfights between them that had ended in draws, neither of them managing to piss any higher on the tree than the other. They’d both always wondered, and they’d both always known, they’d have to scratch that itch someday to find out. Frank had long suspected it would come down to smarts, in which case he’d win. But not knowing, well, that was what kept life interesting. Now a part of him was missing. Killing Bayard had felt a lot like cutting off his own right arm. If thine eye offend thee—words from a nearly forgotten Sunday school lesson flitted back from nowhere, buzzing around him like the horsefly that was once again circling, a tad more distant than before.

  He carried on down the road, still swatting at the bug but with less vehemence, until he registered the sound of an approaching car. A blue station wagon piloted by a prim middle-aged woman with puckered lips and disapproving eyes moved just fast enough to kick up a low thin cloud of dust around it. He clambered out into the road and waved his hands to signal her to stop. She hit the gas and swerved clean but close around him. He jumped back. “Son of a bitch,” he repeated for the third time, like he intended to seal a charm.

  He was about to set off again when another vehicle came around the bend. This one slowed as it approached him, though he hadn’t even tried to catch the driver’s eye. Two young guys in a rusting red pickup.

  “That your car back there?” the one on the passenger side leaned out the window and asked him. It was one of the Sleiger brothers. Frank thought it was Wayne, but he didn’t know the boys all that well.

  “Yes. Yes it is.” Frank noted that they seemed dressed for deep winter, even though it was probably ninety-five degrees in the shade. At the same moment, the fly that had been circling him zipped away like it suddenly remembered it had a previous appointment.

  The two men turned to face each other and exchanged a few words that Frank couldn’t make out, then the passenger stuck a gloved hand out the side and motioned with his thumb to the bed of the pickup. “Hop in back. We’ll drive you into town.”

  Frank hesitated, but only for a moment. “Much obliged,” he called out, and hefted himself over the side of the truck and onto the bed.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  Elijah moved like a man in dream, seeming to watch himself from the outside, from a distance. When his mother’s body slumped down, the pistol fell and skidded along the floor, sliding right up to the toe of his boot. Without thinking, he picked it up and placed it in Corinne’s suitcase, piling in the rest of her belongings along with it. He closed the case and sealed the latches. He grabbed the handle, and without looking down, he turned and stepped over the man he had once believed to be his father.

  He exited the house, dragging his feet so that he tripped and tumbled down the back stairs. He landed on his hands and knees, the suitcase hitting its side and tumbling some feet away. He stood, surprised to see his jeans had torn and his knee was bleeding. He felt no pain. He felt cold. Very cold. He bent over and reached for the case, missing its handle once, twice, before clutching it, but as he lifted the handle, the case fell open, Corinne’s clothes—and the gun—tumbling back down to the ground. He dropped the case and walked away, his only goal to reach the truck.

  He knew he should go find Corinne. Take her away from this place. Never set foot in Mississippi again. Yes. He would do that. But first, there was one place he had to see once more, almost like he was being called there. Almost like he had to go there to break a spell that had been put on him.

  He wove across the gray grass to the drive where his father’s—Clay’s—truck was sitting. This time he didn’t meander. He drove straight to the Cooper house, but he very nearly didn’t stop. Still he killed the truck’s ignition.

  It all looked wrong. That smell he’d noticed before inside the house had filtered out so that the air seemed dirty with it. The world felt strange. Time moved too quickly, the sun sliding across the sky in what seemed to Elijah to be mere minu
tes.

  The pull to come here had been strong, irresistible even, but now that he sat before the house, his stomach churned. It wasn’t the smell that nauseated him. It was all those times he’d tried to get Ruby out here alone, hoping his friend the hoot owl might offer an encore performance. Thank God she’d been too prissy to drink stolen shine and wrestle in the back of a truck bed at an abandoned house. His hand trembled as he ran it over his beard. He’d almost bedded his own sister. Sowed his seed in her.

  They’d come close—many, many times. His manhood pressed tight against her, only a few layers of spun cotton between them and incest. She had always stopped him. She wanted to wait, she would remind him, until they were man and wife. Man and wife. Right now he couldn’t decide whom he hated more. The Judge? Clay? Or maybe his own mother. She’d knowingly let him carry on with his own sister. He hated Clay for lying to him to cause him to break things off with Ruby, but hell, at least the man had done something. In his own horrible way.

  He watched purple shadows fall and claim the world around him. Did the Judge know he was his father? He must have some suspicions. Elijah’s eyes darted to the rearview mirror, using the last few moments of twilight to scan his reflection in search of any traces of the Judge. Ruby had inherited the Judge’s dark coloring and fine features. Elijah looked exactly the opposite. Blond hair. Blue eyes. Strong, nearly hooked nose. High forehead. None of these features marked him as Ovid Lowell’s boy. Maybe the Judge figured if Ava had spread her legs so willingly for him, she’d spread them for a lot of other guys, too. No. It was entirely possible the Judge didn’t have an inkling.

  His eyes were still affixed to their own reflection when he thought he heard a man call out, with more than just a touch of fear in his cry. Probably just an owl, but still Elijah dropped his gaze and spun around to search for the sound’s source, surprised to see the dusk around him lit up by a whirling, fiery red light.

  A patrol car, its siren silent, but its beacon burning, was pulling up to the house. It came to a stop, and its driver killed its engine. “I told you he was probably out here,” said the voice of his one-time buddy, muffled only by the drone of crickets he hadn’t even taken note of moments before.

  “Yep, boy,” the sheriff’s gravelly voice rumbled. “You might not be a total waste of county funds after all.”

  FORTY-NINE

  “Looks like the boys are putting in overtime,” Barbara Jean said as she swept into the diner. She removed her head scarf to reveal a freshly peroxided mound of hair, parted in the center with massive curls on each side of the part. “This darned fog is gonna ruin my hair.” She patted the side of her head. Annie couldn’t see through the thick haze that had swallowed the diner, but she could see through Barbara Jean; she was fishing for a compliment.

  Annie focused on the milky white pressing up against the window and made a show of refilling a customer’s coffee. Barbara Jean was late. “The mill has ’em working double shifts,” Annie said. “At least that’s what I heard earlier.”

  Barbara Jean dashed behind the counter and slid her purse, a flashy turquoise bucket bag with a poodle appliqué, onto the shelf beneath the cash register. “Just let me grab an apron,” she called to Annie before she slipped into the kitchen. She took her precious time making her way back. She came out, still working on tying her apron.

  “Merle tell you the sheriff came by today?” Annie asked. Barbara Jean looked at her with widening eyes. Annie knew Barbara Jean’s surprise didn’t stem from the sheriff’s visit. Without a doubt, word about Dowd’s and Bob’s grisly deaths had spread over half the county within minutes of the sheriff’s visit. Annie knew that what surprised Barbara was that Annie would volunteer to talk about it. To be honest, Annie was a bit surprised at herself. It wasn’t like her to gossip, but something about the way the fog blotted out the sun left her less than less than happy to be on her own. She couldn’t understand it. Usually Annie liked the fog. She liked how it hid her from everyone, and how it hid the sight of Conroy from her, obliterating the familiar landmarks and erasing the foolish faces.

  “Oh, darlin’, that is old news,” Barbara Jean said with a shake of her newly minted curls. “The latest is that someone messed around with Frank Mason’s car. Got wrapped around a tree. Bayard’s dead. And ain’t nobody seen Frank.” She tapped the side of her nose with her index finger. “Looks like justice was served.”

  “I don’t understand,” Annie said, untying her own apron.

  “I’m just saying that someone must’ve finally decided those two boys went too far. Dowd and Bobby. They had friends around here.”

  “But,” Annie said, disappointment setting in, “I thought the sheriff figured Charlie Aarons was behind Dowd and Bob.” All afternoon, she’d been playing out a scene in her head, a scene where the sheriff came by her house, alone, just to thank her for the tip she’d given him. She’d invite him in. Offer him a cup of coffee. He’d accept and tell her it was the finest cup of coffee he’d had in forever. He’d say Mrs. Bell could learn a thing or two from her, and he’d place his hand on her hip . . .

  “Darlin’, I don’t know what you’re going on about. What would that half-blind old coot have to do with any of this?” She approached Annie, coming closer than she ever had. Annie didn’t like her nearness. She began to take a step back when Barbara Jean leaned in and whispered. “No. You mark my words. The Judge and his boys are on their way out around here. When it all comes out in the wash, we’re gonna find out things are changing. Out with the old, in with the new. There’s a new boss in town. We’ll know who soon.”

  Barbara Jean spun around, leaving Annie to fold her apron. Annie went behind the counter to retrieve her purse from her customary pigeonhole. She emptied the cup, where she kept her tips, into the purse and, without another word, made her way out of the diner and into the mist.

  Eight blocks, only eight blocks east and three blocks south, between the diner and her home. Even when she took her time, when she let herself lapse into a daydream about how life could be, it took her at most ten minutes or so. Tonight she set out with a quick and determined pace, the Elks Lodge next to the diner soon swallowed by the mists behind her, the Woolworth coming into view. She cast a glance in through the window. The store was closed, but she could see a young fellow sweeping and another stocking goods on a shelf. Walt Kimble, the man she recognized as the manager, stood by the open cash register. Walt was a regular at the diner. He’d brought the boys by, too, for lunch just this afternoon. As she passed, the three stopped their actions and walked in unison to the window. They stood side by side, staring at her. Annie looked away and picked up her pace.

  There weren’t many people on the street. That was good. She nodded at the women she knew by name. When a man passed, she turned her gaze downward. She didn’t fear they’d leer or make an advance under the cover of the fog. She feared their eyes would fall on her, and they’d hurry away.

  Four blocks. Only four more blocks. She’d turn onto her street. Soon she’d be home. She’d make a cup of tea. Just like every night. Maybe tonight she’d do something special. Put a splash of her father’s leftover bourbon in it. She’d put on her mother’s robe, pull the cat onto her lap . . . no, of course, she’d poisoned the cat. She patted the pocket in her uniform, to feel the bottle of thallium still there. She decided then and there that tonight would be the last night she’d face alone. Tomorrow she’d wait till the lunch shift when the place was full of those dirty mill workers. Then she’d slip it in. A bit in the coffee. A bit in the stew. A bit in the gravy. Maybe she wouldn’t get many of them, but she’d take more than a few with her. They’d know then. All of them. They’d know how badly they’d hurt her. And by God, they’d be sorry.

  But the best part was that it would finally be over. All over. She’d never hear another snicker. Never hear a whispered word of sympathy. Bless her heart. Never catch the sight of her own ugly reflection.

  A man’s hand caught hold of her arm, and she jumped bac
k. Over the years, the few hands that had reached out for her were always rough in their handling, intending to taunt or terrify her, never to caress or soothe. She didn’t scream. She’d learned not to. Something about screaming egged them on. Still her heart pounded.

  “Hold up,” he said as she tugged, trying to free herself from his grasp.

  “Let go of me,” she snapped, realizing that the man who held her was no man at all. It was Merle, the teenager who washed dishes at the diner. Something was off about him, though. Merle had dark eyes. But here in this foggy twilight they now appeared to be filled with tiny blue sparks.

  Merle held tight.

  “Let go of me. What do you want?” She gave another hard tug, and she slipped from his grasp.

  “She wants to know why you won’t help her.”

  “What are you going on about? Help who?” She pulled her arms around herself and stepped back.

  “Miss Ruby,” the boy said, his spotted face leaning in close.

  Annie had had enough of the boy. She only knew one Ruby in Conroy. “You talking about the Judge’s Ruby?”

  Merle nodded.

  “You’re crazy, you know. Ruby Lowell is dead. Has been for months now.” She turned, but again she felt his hand on her. It slid into and from her pocket before she could react.