“You okay, Bob?”
“He’s fine,” snapped Sam. “His father died here. What do you think he’s going to do, jump for joy?”
Russ seemed stricken.
“I only meant—”
“Forget it, Junior. It don’t mean a thing.”
Sam opened a flask, took a tot.
“Believe a man named O’Brian owned it, but he tenanted it out to some white-trash families. Over there, where that goddamned highway is, that was the crest of the ridge, woods-covered then. Took a deer there in 1949, and one of the white hags without teeth came out and gave me hell, shooting so close to her cabin where her damn kids were playing.”
“She was right,” said Bob.
“Yes, goddammit, I believe she was. Buck fever. I had to shoot. Silliest damned thing I ever did—that is, until today.”
“Where were they?”
“The cars were back through there,” Sam said, lifting a blackened claw and pointing. “I believe you can see traces of the little road that ran between the cornfields. About a hundred yards in. Your daddy’s cruiser was parked slantwise of the road, Jimmy’s twenty yards farther down.”
“The bodies were where they were in the diagrams?” said Russ.
“Yes, they were. Believe I answered that one yesterday. No decent lawyer ever asks the same question twice. He remembers the question he asked and the answer.”
“I couldn’t remember.”
“All right,” said Bob. “I want to go back there, look at the land.”
“Believe I’ll rusticate here,” Sam said. “You boys go on ahead. Sing out if you get lost or need me to haul you out of the mud. And watch out for snakes. Mac Jimson killed a big rattler in the road the night your daddy was killed. Scared the hell out of us. Shot it in the head. Had to. Just crossing the road. Never saw no snake act like that before.”
“A rattler?” said Bob.
“Big goddamn timber rattler. Strangest goddamned thing. All the cops around, the rattler skedaddles across the road. Mac had to shoot it.”
“I hate snakes,” said Russ.
“Hell, boy,” said Sam, “it’s just a lizard without legs.”
Bob and Russ left the old man, cut through the trees and headed across the overgrown, weedy ground. It was field now, no corn anywhere, junk land that crouched in the shadow of the highway. Bob made it to the trace of road, not road so much but simply an opening where the vegetation hadn’t grown so high because it had gotten a late start. The trace went back toward the big highway, then began to curve around. Bob got about a hundred yards back.
“Here?” asked Russ.
Bob took a deep breath.
“I do believe. Ask the old man.”
“Sam! Here?” screamed Russ.
Bob watched the old man, who studied them, then nodded up and down.
“Here,” said Russ.
Bob had never been here before. So odd. He stayed in Blue Eye eight more years and he’d never come out here and stood at the spot. Then he went away to the Marines, and then came back and went up in the mountains, and never once, either before or after, had he been to this spot.
Never laid any flowers or felt the power of the blasphemed earth. Why? Too much pain? Possibly. Too close to going under with a poor drunken mother who just could not hang on and the terrible, terrible sense of it all having been taken from them. The bitterness. It could kill you. You had to let the bitterness go or it would kill you. He knew he’d been by, though. As he remembered, Sam had driven him up U.S. 71 to Fort Smith to join the United States Marine Corps on June 12, 1964, the day after he graduated from high school.
“Here,” said Russ, consulting the diagram from the newspaper. “Here’s where Jimmy ended up parking. Now”—he walked past Bob, hunched in concentration, nose buried in the clipping before him—“here is where your father’s car was. And your dad was found in the driver’s side, sitting sideways, fallen slightly to his right and hung up on the steering wheel, his feet on the ground, the radio mike in his hand.”
“Bled out?” said Bob.
“What?”
“That was the mechanism, right? That’s what killed him. Blood loss. Not shock to his nervous system or a bullet in a major blood-bearing organ?”
“Ah, that’s what it says here. I don’t—”
“Russ, how does a bullet kill? Do you know?”
Russ didn’t. A bullet just, uh, killed. It, uh—
“A bullet can kill you three ways. It can destroy your central nervous system. That’s the brain shot, into the deep cerebellum, two inches back from the eyes and between the ears. Instant rag doll. Clinical death in less than a tenth of a second. Or it can destroy your circulatory and arterial system, depressurize you. The heart shot or something in the aorta. That’s fifteen, twenty seconds till clinical death, your good central body shot. Or, finally, it can hit a major blood-bearing organ and you essentially bleed to death internally. A big stretch cavity, lots of tissue destruction, lots of blood, but not instant death. Say, three, four, sometimes ten to twenty minutes without help. Which of those?”
“I don’t know,” said Russ. “It doesn’t really say. It just said he bled to death. The latter, I guess.”
“It would be nice to know the mechanism. It would tell us a lot. You write that down in your book under things to find out.”
“Where would we go to find that?”
Bob ignored him, just standing there, looking about. He tried to read the land, or what little of it was left. This was a hunter’s gift, a sniper’s gift: to look at the folds and drops and rises in a piece of earth and derive meanings from them, understand in some instinctual way how they worked.
The first thing: why here?
Standing there exactly where his father had stood, he realized that in high corn, this spot was invisible from the road. Moreover, it took just enough delicate driving to steer back here without losing control and careening back into the corn; there’d been nothing in the papers about a highspeed chase. There couldn’t have been a chase! His daddy’s car would have been behind theirs, not in front of it, unless Bub and Jimmy were chasing him!
He looked about, trying to imagine it in high corn.
“You run back to Sam,” he said to Russ. “You ask him about the moon. Was there a moon? We can check, but I don’t think so, not from my memory anyhow. Ask him about the temperature, the wind, that sort of thing. Humidity. Was it heavy?”
The boy looked at him vacantly. Then puzzlement stole across the delicate features.
“What is—”
“I will tell you later. Just do it.”
“Okay, okay,” said Russ, turning away on the errand.
A wind rose. The sun was bright. Now and then a car rushed along the parkway, whose buttresses were about a hundred yards farther back. Bob turned in each direction, trying to feel the land. To the south, there was an incline. His father would have come that way. To the north, at least now, the bright roofs of the highway service buildings, the motel and the gas station, and the restaurants. But in those days, nothing but wild forests; the town proper of Waldron still lay eleven miles ahead. To the west, more incline, as the other side of 71, the road fell away toward the prairies of Oklahoma. He turned back to face the east, to face the parkway. But it hadn’t been a parkway then. It had been a ridge, obliterated in the building of the road. How high? How far? The road was a hundred yards off, but possibly the road builders hadn’t placed the road at the center of the ridge; maybe it was at its highest even farther out.
“He says no moon,” said Russ, breathing heavily from the jog. “He says stars, but no moon. No humidity. About seventy-five degrees, maybe eighty. A little breeze, nothing much.”
Bob nodded. “All right, now ask him two more questions. The first is, where were all the tenant farmers’ shacks? Were they right here, did this road run back to them? Or were they farther along? Where did this road go then? And second: ask him which direction my father’s car was parked. He said it
was aslant the road and the body was behind the steering wheel. I want to know on which side of the road that was, which direction it faced.”
Russ took a deep breath, then turned and ran back to the old man.
Again alone, Bob turned to face the highway that towered above him. He walked back through the weeds and came at last to stand next to one of the mighty concrete pylons upon which the road rested. It was cool here in the shade, though the road rumbled. Someone had painted POLK COUNTY CLASS OF ’95, and beer cans and broken bottles lay about on the gravel. Beyond the parkway Bob could see the land fall away into forest and farm over a long slope of perhaps two miles until a little white farm road snaked through the trees.
He looked back and saw that the action had played out halfway down just the subtlest slope. He saw Russ standing big as day where he had left him. He walked on back.
“Okay,” Russ said, breathing hard, trying to keep it straight. “The road evidently was an old logging trail and it ran back and up and over the ridge. This area used to be logged back in the twenties. The ‘croppers lived another mile or so down U.S. 71 away from Waldron, toward Boles. That’s where Sam shot his deer and the lady yelled at him.”
“It wasn’t here?”
“No sir.”
“Okay. And my daddy: he was on the left side of the road. Facing east. Facing the ridge, right? Sitting sideways in his seat, with his feet on the ground, not as if he were about to drive away, is that right?”
Another look of befuddlement came across Russ’s face.
“How did you know that? It wasn’t in any of the newspaper accounts. Sam says the car was parked on the left side of the road and the door was open and your daddy—”
Bob nodded.
“What’s going on?”
“Oh, just seeing the place gets me to thinking. I got a question or two.”
“What questions?”
“How’d they get here? Through the biggest manhunt in Arkansas?”
“That was my question! Remember, I asked that question. When we were driving in the day before—”
“But when you asked it, it was a stupid question. It was stupid because we had no idea of the layout of the roads that led to the site and the kind of terrain it was. It could have been there were fifty obscure country roads, far too many for the cops to cover, all leading here. But there weren’t. There’s only Route 71, a major highway, well covered, and this little logging track that don’t go nowhere. So now it’s a smart question.”
Russ didn’t get the distinction, but he didn’t say anything.
“Then,” Bob said, “how come here? You tell me?”
“Ah—” Russ had no answer. “This is where he ran into them. He chased them, they turned off the road, he got by them and blocked them, uh—”
“You think that little road is wide enough for him to get by them? It’s night, remember, and if he slides off the road into the soft soil of the cornfield, he’s fucked. No, he was waiting for them. He was already here. And it’s off the road, out of public view, so they wouldn’t get surprised by someone coming along. How’d he get jumped by them? Hell, he was a salty old boy. He’d made two thousand arrests, he’d fought in three major island invasions, he was nobody’s fool. Yet they open up and hit him bad, first few shots? How?”
“Ah—” Russ trailed off.
“Maybe he was the mastermind of the job. Maybe he had come to get his payoff and split the take.”
Russ looked at him in horror. “Your father was a hero,” he said.
“That’s what it said in the papers, isn’t it? He was just a goddamn man, don’t think of him as a hero, because then you don’t think straight about it. No, he wasn’t in on it. He didn’t trust ’em. But he knew they was coming. Reason he swung around to park in the direction he did was so he could use his searchlight, which was mounted outside the driver’s-side window. He had to cover ’em. Hell, they were surrendering to him, that’s what it was. How’d he know where to go, where they’d reach him? Why would he believe them? What was it really about?”
Russ had no answers.
“Come on,” said Bob. “There’s only one man who can tell us.”
“Sam?”
“No,” said Bob, leading the way, “Daddy himself. He wants to talk. It’s just time we listened.”
They walked back and found Sam sitting on the open tailgate of the truck, his pipe lit up and blazing away. It smelled like a forest fire.
“You boys didn’t get lost? That’s a surprise.”
“Sam,” said Bob, “let me ask you something. Suppose I wanted to exhume my father’s body? What sort of paperwork is involved?”
Sam’s shrewd old features narrowed under his slouch hat and grew pointed.
“Now, what the hell you want to do that for, boy?”
“I just want to know what happened. The diagrams may lie and the newspapers may lie and all the official documents may be gone, but the body is going to tell the truth.”
“Bob, it was forty years ago.”
“I know there’s not much left. That’s why we need a good man. Now, what’s it going to take?”
“Well, I file a Motion of Exhumation with the county clerk and the Coroner’s Office and you have to find a good forensic pathologist. Get a doctor, not an undertaker like they got in too many counties down here.”
“Someone from Little Rock?”
“There’s someone in the medical school up at Fayetteville who’s well thought of. I could call him. Then I suppose you have to make an arrangement with a mortuary to clear out a place for him to work. Bob, you want to go to all that trouble? It was open-and-shut.”
“It’s the only way my daddy can talk to me. I think I ought to listen to what he has to say. I have to find out what happened that night.”
Sam slept on the way back and when they pulled up to the old house where he’d lived and raised his kids and married his daughters and his sons and buried his wife, they waited for the stillness in the car to wake him. But it didn’t.
“Sam?” Bob finally said softly. It was twilight, with the sun lost behind Rich Mountain, which towered over Blue Eye from the west.
Sam made some wet, gurgling sound in his sinuses, stirred a bit but then seemed to settle back.
“Sam,” said Bob a little louder, and Sam’s eyes shot open.
He looked at each of them.
“Wha—where—what is—”
“Sam, Sam,” said Bob, grabbing the old man’s shoulder. “Sam, you been sleeping.”
But Sam’s eyes lit in panic and his body froze in tension.
“Who are you?” he begged fearfully. “What do you want? Don’t hurt me!”
“Sam, Sam,” said Bob calmly, “it’s Bob, Bob Lee Swagger, Earl’s boy. You just done forgot where you was.”
The old man was shaking desperately.
“You’re okay, Mr. Vincent,” said Russ. “Really, it’s fine, you’ve forgotten.”
But Sam’s eyes flashed between them, wide with horror.
“It’s okay,” said Bob. “It’s okay.”
14
Earl eased into the cornfield road. The dirt felt soft, and he progressed slowly. Around him, illuminated in the shafts of his headlights, the stalks of corn towered, eight feet tall and quivering ever so gently in the breeze.
Off the shoulder of the road, in the field, the earth looked loose and he was afraid if he got off into it, he could get stuck. Wouldn’t that be a goddamn mess!
The road curved a little to the left, until eventually it paralleled what, from the darker texture of the night, had to be the rise of Ferguson’s ridge. He’d taken a deer on the ridge, though several miles away. That same day, some sharecropper woman had given Sam a tongue-lashing for shooting so close to her children. Served him right, though to hear him tell it, Sam’d never made a mistake in his life.
When he was about a hundred yards in, that is, so far in he couldn’t see the U.S. 71 for the thickness of the corn, he halted the car and
tried to think. He wanted to be able to put the light on Jimmy and Bub. That meant he had to turn the car. He got out, looked around, kicked at the shoulder and the dirt off the shoulder to tell if it would support the weight of the Ford. It appeared that it would. He climbed back in and painstakingly ground the wheel toward the left, cranking the car in a tight turn until the front wheels were just about off; then he spun the wheel in the opposite direction, backing slowly. This put him on the left side of the road, pointed outward. He turned off the engine, then leaned out the window and tried his spotlight. It threw a harsh circle of white light down the road that collected in a vivid oval a hundred feet out. With one hand he pivoted it, tracked it up and down like an antiaircraft searchlight, then turned it off.
He looked at the radium dial of his Bulova. Nine-fifty. Ten minutes to go.
Why am I so nervous? he wondered.
He’d been nervous in the war, or at least on the night before an amphibious operation.
Reason to get nervous. Amphibious operations were tricky and dangerous. At Tarawa, the Traks had run aground on coral a thousand yards out. It was a long walk in through the surf laden with equipment, with the Japs shooting the whole way. You get through that, you could get through anything.
But just some little goddamn nervous thing was flicking at him. He felt cursed. He’d made a big mistake today. He hadn’t meant to but he’d sure as hell wanted to and so he did it and now what? So he’d clean it up tomorrow. He’d clean up the mess he’d made, he’d be a man. These things could be handled and to hell with everything else. He knew he’d do it. He just didn’t know what it was to do.
It was all running together on him, the whole goddamned, messed-up day. Shirelle Parker Jed Posey Pop Dwyer Jimmy Pye Lem Tolliver Bub Pye Miss Connie Longacre Sam Vincent Buddy Till Edie White Pye Edie Edie Edie his son Bob Lee Shirelle dead missing her underpants her eyes eternally open the barking dog Mollie “He’s got it, she’s here.”
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