Nitro Mountain

by Lee Clay Johnson

  “Who’s calling Turner at this hour?” Turner says. “Who?” He sounds beer drunk.

  “It’s Larry. I got to tell you something.”

  “That’s better. Report findings.”

  “Listen, Turner. This is about Arnett.”

  “Where’s he at?”

  “I don’t know. But I got to tell you. I called the cops.”

  “I saw them. I’ll forgive you this time. Guess who else I saw. Him. This morning at the Lookout. Ricky and them missed him entirely.”

  “Why didn’t you take him?”

  “I didn’t say I was there. I was over on South Mountain, surveilling the place. Anyways, I know where he’s going.”

  “So why you asking if I know where he’s at?”

  “Old trooper-trust exercise. Remember? Don’t worry. You passed.”

  “How you plan on finding him?”

  “I been doing my research. He can’t stay on that mountain forever. Where’s the one place in the county he still has a friend?”

  “You tell me,” Larry says.

  “Misty’s,” Turner says. “He gonna come looking for little old Bobby.”

  “But how in the hell would he rationalize going into Bordon? You need to call the real cops about what you saw.”

  “They already had their chance,” Turner says. “This here’s mine. Listen, Larry, you let me know if you want to get in on this. We could ride again, buddy.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I’m just saying. I know you itching for some action.”

  “I’ve had enough of it. I like who I am.”

  “This could be your chance to get back in the business. A big catch.”

  “Aw, come on. I ain’t about to get mixed up in this shit.”

  “Dollars.”

  “You need to leave this to the cops. I hate to say it—I shouldn’t have even called you.”

  “I am the cops,” Turner says. “And now everybody’s gonna fess up to that and pay me for the safety I provide.”

  “Are you drinking?”

  “I’m sitting here in Misty’s right now. Staked out.”

  “Shit,” Larry says. “If I don’t hear you’ve straightened things by midnight, I’m calling Ricky myself and telling him everything you just told me.”

  “You don’t trust Ricky any more than I do. They should’ve been there for you when you were in court with Jack. They could’ve pressed your warrant, validated the CPS call and convicted that monster. Instead they made you go it alone.”

  “I don’t need any reminders. It’s done now and I’m living a good life.”

  “I know exactly what’s going on. And let me say this. What Arnett’s done is huge. Everything all over again. I know you know.” He pauses, and Larry hears him take a swallow. “And it’s right in line with what’s been going on over there for ten years on that mountain.”

  “All I’m saying…”

  “If you don’t wanna join my force,” Turner says, “stay out of it from here on.”

  “I absolutely do not. You by yourself there?”

  “I did some sweeping earlier.”

  Larry looks up and sees Sharon stepping into the kitchen. “Well, don’t make a mess of it,” he says. “If he shows up, that’s when you call the cops.”

  The phone cuts off. Sharon leaves the room and Larry just sits there. He hears her go out the front door. She stays gone for a while. Then she comes back, holding out her cell phone. “I just called the police, Larry, and told them to go check on Turner. He’s at Misty’s, right? I don’t mean to be getting in your business. But I do not trust that man. I want to make sure you’re safe. That’s the first thing I care about. I hope you’re not mad.”

  Larry stares at nothing. “No, no,” he says. “That’s the right thing to do.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  “No.”

  “Do you hate me for calling them?”

  “No.”

  She runs her fingers through his hair, and then holds his face in her hands. “You’re exhausted. Let’s go lie down.”

  “I don’t know how to handle this stuff,” he says.

  “I know it,” she says. “Why should you?”

  She gets some candles going, pours him a glass of wine, puts a chicken in to roast and boils some potatoes. She makes sure he eats a lot.

  Now she waits for all that food and the wine and TV to do what they’re supposed to do to a man. Put him to sleep. Set his mind at rest. Plus the sound of rain beginning to patter on the roof. They’re lounging together on the couch. She points the remote at the TV and turns it off so it’s just the raindrops and each other.

  Larry’s having the hardest time he’s ever had. She can feel him worrying. And she knows he’s worried for Jones Young, who’s like a son to him. Those two have helped each other through so much, and now Larry doesn’t know how to go about helping him. Just as she doesn’t know how to go about helping Larry.

  Palpable’s the word that keeps coming to her. Palpable. She learned that one when she took a class at the community college. She’s always liked words, and though she doesn’t know too many, palpable’s like when somebody doesn’t respect you and won’t say so but you know it. You can feel it. That’s palpable. Her first husband sure was. Or when somebody loves you so much they don’t even need to say it. That’s palpable too. Guess what Larry is?

  His feet are on the armrest right next to her head. She finds one with her free hand, squeezes it, then rolls off the couch, careful not to spill the open bottle of red onto the carpet.

  “Cork that thing, will you,” Larry says without looking.

  “Say what?”

  “Please,” he says.

  She looks at him lying there. Why won’t he quit staring at the ceiling? Ever since that phone call to Turner, she’s been waiting for him to fall asleep so she can check up on things and see if they found him. “You sure you don’t want any more wine?” she says.

  “Ask me one more time and I just might take some so you’ll quit asking.”

  “Well, then.” She pours him another glass. “Want another, want another, want another?”

  “Thank you.” He sits up and throws it back.

  “You’ll cause a leak up there if you keep staring.”

  She takes the bottle into the kitchen and looks at the answering machine for messages, even though she knows nobody’s called.

  She washes their dishes, the pot she boiled the potatoes in. She dries everything off with a hand towel, puts everything away and then opens the oven. There’s the rest of that chicken, mostly just bones and some scalded skin around the legs. She should clean that up before it dries out and sticks to the baking sheet, but she doesn’t feel like dealing with it right now. She’ll start soup out of it tomorrow morning, leave it be for tonight. She cooked a meal for a man she loves. Nothing beats that.

  In the living room, Larry’s pulled the quilt off the back of the couch and tossed it over his knees, his head turned to the side, his eyes closed. She says his name and he furrows his brow. She watches him for a while, kneels down beside him, says his name again. He’s out.

  She goes back to the kitchen, picks up the phone and puts in a request for an officer to check on the Hickory after they check on Misty’s. The operator asks her to hold. She can feel something’s up. It’s palpable.

  Driving Jennifer’s truck back to the Lookout, Arnett stops at the only station on this side of 15, fills the tank and splits before paying. He looks in the side mirror to see a woman trotting out to the pumps, cell phone to her head.

  Fuck the speed limit. Fuck the limit of speed. He found a little bit in Jennifer’s glove compartment in a baggie and it was already crushed. Probably his at one point, his now for sure. Pain erupts in his belly and causes him to swerve. Stay on the road. He never thought being a liquorholic would work to his favor, but he ain’t dead yet. It’s like he’s been training his gut for this very occasion.

  The tires
over wet asphalt sound like a long sheet of paper getting torn and torn and torn. The Buzzard Hollow sign flashes on the right. That road rolls up and down along East Ridge for hours into Kentucky, then flattens out once you hit Tennessee. A wild ride with lots of little pull-offs onto unmapped ATV trails. That girl, Rachel—she liked the drive. She wouldn’t admit it, though Arnett could tell. She’s safe from all harm now. He puts his own twist on a classic country tune he remembers Jones singing: “Her mama said, ‘No, she’s my only daughter,’ but she got buried on the Tennessee border.” Jones couldn’t ever make up a line like that. Maybe Arnett should go into the entertainment business and show everybody how it’s done.

  About a mile ahead on the left is the access road that comes up behind Nitro, right near where he buried Leon. It runs close enough to the Lookout.

  Yellow tape and traffic cones block the entrance to the access but Arnett blasts straight through, exploding the cones in all directions into the woods, tape streaming from the grille and rooftop running lights as he rattles over roots and splashes through potholes.

  At the switchback where the access turns downhill again, he continues straight up until trees stop him. He parks amid soft rain and walks to the top of the mountain into his own backyard. Wet and shivering, he goes to the shed for a jar. He flicks his lighter and finds a translucent blue Ball on the highest shelf, nearly out of reach. There it is, Jack’s personal stash. A good ten years old. Jack must’ve used a stepladder to get up so high. Arnett never planned to drink it until the day he met the man again and kicked his ass. But tonight’ll have to do. It’ll be smoother and stronger than that other splo. He grabs hold, then turns it to the side to judge how much is in there. Mostly full. Enough to do the trick.

  The moonshine burns open inside him like a flame and thaws his shoulders. That rain’s really cold. Or it’s just him—he can’t quit shaking. Whichever, this’ll help. Another tug and he starts thinking about the new life in front of him. Two choices, neither one of them any good. But it’s better than nothing. You could sit here quiet, wait for somebody to show and then figure things out. Turner, probably. Or you could keep to your principles. Drink more. Yes. Go find what’s-his-name, the dude who fucked my girlfriend who tried to kill me—Jones. Jonesy. Jonesin’ for Jones. That’s what we need to do. We need to go find Jones. It’s all coming together now. Also, wouldn’t hurt to go see Old Bob, borrow his car and do some cash collecting.

  He carries the jar over to Jack’s fender-rusted Cutlass resting in the side yard in a dark upgrowth of grass. Arnett had it running a few times this year for business purposes. Rachel rode in it once. Inside the car with the door shut, the sound of rain on the metal roof. Drink again, it’s starting to work. Now, where’s the keys? They used to be right in the ignition here. Where’d he hide them? He feels under the visor, under the seat. Flips on the ceiling light, and it glows over fast-food wrappers and empty Pall Mall packs. At least the battery’s not dead. Then he checks underneath the floor mat. Boom time. The largest of the keys fits into the ignition, and the engine catches and fails. Never did start the first go-round. He pumps the gas when he finally hears it cough. Okay, this shit is working.

  He swallows more of the clear corn fire, takes the handkerchief from his pocket and wipes his eyes.

  He follows the front access down to 231, then hits the back roads quick as possible. A few small streets with no names, just numbers—651, 238, 119. Every now and then a cluster of trailers pops up. Both low beams are gone so he’s got to use the brights, and surely the tags have expired. The gas gauge shows a solid quarter tank. The oil light’s a sick, feeble orange. Be lucky not to throw a rod in this sucker. And speaking of that, he should’ve fucked Jennifer before he left her there, then poked her again in her bleeding bullet hole.

  He’s drunk as fuck and starts wondering if he missed a turn. He climbs a hill, drinks more, leaves the jar open between his legs. A familiar sycamore appears, giant and sprawling, marking the right-angle turn he’s made so many times. Close now. He turns off the headlights and slows down. It’s dark as hell out and the jar’s almost gone. He turns his head sideways and keeps one eye open, following the lines on the road. Better not fuck this up. Keep straight, goddamn it, keep straight.

  He pulls off onto the shoulder, just a little short of Misty’s. The grass is up to the car’s windows, but he can see that all the lights are off. Shouldn’t there be a band playing tonight? For all the bluegrass shitheads? But it looks closed. Bob’s car isn’t even here, just somebody’s Impala. Doesn’t he recognize that from somewhere? Just getting paranoid from the buzzy buzz. Better walk over close, see who’s around.

  He keeps the car running—might not start again—gets out, leaving the door open, and wades through the grass and up the slope of the ditch, all this grass and gravel and shit. Plus it’s nighttime as fuck out here. He slips and things go out. He wakes up on his head and now can’t tell which way he needs to go. Finally he crawls up the ditch and into the side lot. He tries standing again but the ground slants under his feet and sends him reeling. He goes back and forth cross-legged until he finds the wall and leans his face against it.

  There’s a window and through it he can see a guy at the bar. Could that be Jones? Fuck yeah—it’s somebody. He slides back down the ditch. The car’s still running. He finds the open door and climbs in. Night wind rocks the car and sends more rain against the roof. The wavering lights of a vehicle appear over an invisible hill in the distance at what seems to be a crawl. They get closer and turn into a tan Bronco roaring by him in a rush of spray, splashing his car in passing, its red taillights then rising and falling and jerking with dips in the road before disappearing. Did they even notice him? Probably not. Just another junker in the grass.

  He goes back to watching Misty’s. Nobody’s in the Impala. And whoever’s in the bar hasn’t come out yet. Where the hell’s Bob at? Arnett’s never seen the place closed this early. Maybe Jones started singing and everybody just said, Fuck it, we outta here.

  Arnett hates the concept of singing, though if he had to do it he’d definitely be better than Jones. Motherfucker couldn’t buy talent if it was on sale at Wal-Mart.

  Somebody else’s bound to show up, though, looking for some hooch and poontwang. And somebody does, that raised Bronco, coming back from wherever it went, pulling into the lot with its headlights sweeping across the lone car. The antennas are suspicious and it looks like there might be cop lights inside against the windshield not yet turned on. It stops at the entrance and two staties get out. Goddamn, that’s that same trooper truck. There’s a static burst of a walkie-talkie. The man in front speaks into his shoulder.

  Turner’s got his phone on the bar in front of him, next to a bunch of empty Bud bottles standing like poorly set bowling pins, when he sees headlights outside. He’s got a strike.

  He looks out the rain-flecked window and, what the shit—his old colleagues? He better be standing up when they walk in. Show them he’s in control of the situation, not sitting around on the damn job. He lifts himself off the barstool and hikes up his pants. The Bronco’s still idling, and Deputy Derek and Sheriff Ricky—who could believe it?—get out in white cowboy hats.

  Here we go.

  Turner walks behind the bar. Be cool. Don’t get excited. But he can already feel those hives burning his balls.

  Ricky pulls open the door, a clipped mustache and straightened teeth. When he first joined the force, he had braces. Turner taught him a lot. He had even arrested Ricky’s brother Ray a couple times, first for fighting, then for running off during a work-release program from jail. Ray was a beast, no possibility of rehabilitation. That was what had turned Ricky on to getting into law enforcement from the get-go. His braces eventually came off and that little faggot turned into one of the toughest cops around. And now here was this situation.

  Derek’s standing behind Ricky with his hand at his baton.

  Ricky nods at Turner. “Thought that was your car out there.”r />
  “You still thinking that? Then you sure are sharp.”

  “Don’t start barking,” Derek says.

  “Who are you waiting on?” Ricky says.

  “What makes you think I’m waiting?”

  Derek steps up to Ricky’s side. “I’m telling you, man.”

  “Derek,” Ricky says, “show some respect. Turner’s no longer with us on the force, but I have the suspicion he might know a few things we don’t. Concerning this guy, Arnett, and the boy he killed. Leon, I believe? Might I be correct in any of this?”

  “You talked to Larry,” Turner says. “So you already know.”

  “I talked to Larry, yes. I believe he’s still a little bent out of shape by how he and you were dealt with.”

  “Fired, you mean.”

  “Why don’t you let it go,” Derek says.

  “Larry’s wife called us,” Ricky says, “and she told us to check on the Hickory. We did that. Folks there said they’d just driven over from Misty’s because you showed up and made everybody leave. Which seems to be the case.” He looks around the empty room. Knocked-over chairs, half-drunk beers. A couple jackets. Even somebody’s purse.

  “I don’t know about much of that,” Turner says.

  “What else don’t you know? Be honest and clear. If you lie or withhold information, you will go to jail. This is me helping you. Now, why are you here?”

  “Because you missed Arnett,” he says. “I was watching.”

  “Yeah. From South Mountain. We saw you. So he came back after we left?”

  “He was on the roof the whole time and he just went walking off on foot.”

  “Where was he going?”

  Turner points at the little notepad Derek’s scribbling in. “You know, if you spent half as much time looking around as you do practicing your ABCs…”

  “It’s just so I don’t have to look at you.”

  “Ooo, whoa, yeah,” Turner says. “There it is.”

  “Where was he going?” Ricky says to Turner. “What direction?”

  “Are you trying to get me in trouble?”