by Glenn Trust
“I know.” Clay was thoughtful as he spoke. “I’m as ready as I can be for that. Got Dad’s old Remington in the truck. I’ll have to look for my chance.”
“Tell me where you’re going. I’ll be there. We’ll take ‘em on together.”
“Can’t do that, brother.” He thought of Cy’s kids, Thomas and Trish, running across their grandmother’s yard. He and Cy had grown up without a father. He would not let that happen to them. He shook his head. “Nope. Not gonna do that. I have to handle this myself. It’s my doing. I’ve got to fix it.”
They were silent for a while. The traffic running by Clay on the interstate could be heard from Cy’s phone. Clay was the first to speak.
“Gotta go now, brother.”
“Let me know where you are.” Cy paused, looked at George then said, “There might be a way…you know to get you some help…at the end, when you know where they are taking you…where Lyn is.”
“Maybe. I’ll try, but no promises. Things might be moving fast. There might not be time.”
“But try.”
“I’ll try.” Emotion choked his voice. “You take care, brother. Tell Mama…just take care of her. Gotta go now.” The call disconnected.
George watched the exchange quietly, wondering what it was like to have a brother, someone you were bound to like that, from birth. He figured it was something worth fighting for. The only question was how.
60. Only The Hunt
“So where we headed?”
“What?” Cy turned to George. “You’re asking me?”
George nodded. “I am. He’s your brother. I figure you should have the first say in how things are going to go down.”
Cy stared out the window across the mall parking lot. “I don’t have any damned idea.” He shook his head. “We go to Talladega, and they’re not there…we might be behind him all the way to the meeting place, wherever the hell that is…never get ahead to take them out before they can get to him.”
“True.”
“If we head back to Pickham County, go where Ruby says they’re headed…try to find them before Clay gets there…they might be there…or they might not. Either way, if we don’t get there first, Clay will have to face them alone…walk into their trap.” He rubbed his eyes, as if that would clear his mind and make the choice obvious. It didn’t. “I don’t know.”
“There’s one other option.”
“What?” Cy pulled his hands away from his face and regarded George with tired eyes.
“Head someplace in between…midway between Pickham County and Talladega. That way if they take him back to the county we can get ahead of him. If they run him somewhere else, we won’t be that far behind.”
Cy nodded. “Sounds reasonable. Maybe we should do that.” A thought occurred to him. “What if they’re waiting for him in Talladega…if that’s the place…we won’t be anywhere near to help him.”
“That’s right. Tough decision.” George nodded. “We have to take our best shot. Your call.”
The breath left Cy in a long exhale like air from a deflating balloon. It seemed that there was always a hitch in the plan. Nothing they had done had been straightforward.
He was a carpenter. He liked things straightforward, according to plan with exact dimensions. Life should have blueprints…measure twice, cut once.
There was nothing exact about anything they were doing. He looked at George. The big man was calm, waiting patiently. No doubt, he was aware of what Cy was thinking.
Cy looked in his eyes. Calm, patient but there was something else. For the first time, he truly saw what others had seen in George Mackey, burning deep in his eyes, a controlled fire. It did not matter what happened, where they went or how long it took; he would hunt the Stinsons until he had them. Whatever happened to Clay, he knew that he needed George for that.
“All right.” Cy nodded. “Let’s take your option.”
“Fair enough.” George pulled the map they had been following from the console. “How about here?” His finger pointed to a spot on the Alabama - Georgia line. “Columbus. That’s about midway between Pickham and Talladega. On the main highways north and south, east and west. It should do.”
Cy squinted at the map. “Okay. Let’s do it.”
George folded the map, stuffed it in the console and turned the key in the ignition. As the truck’s engine cranked and he pulled from the parking lot, he felt the need to say something to encourage the young man. All he came up with was, “I know it sucks. If there was a better way, I’d tell you.”
“I know.” Cy looked out the window, not wanting to make eye contact.
George drove, wishing he could make a grand promise… We’ll be there in time. I’ll save them. …anything to offer some reassurance.
There was no reassurance to offer. There was only the hunt.
61. One Thing To do
The crunch of gravel in the driveway brought Sharon to the front porch. She pushed the creaky screen door open, walked out and let it bang shut as the chief deputy’s county pickup came to a stop. Mike Darlington and Sandy Davies pushed the doors open, Sandy steadying himself with a hand on a fender. They made their way to the porch, the sheriff’s prosthetic leg dragging in the grass that needed mowing.
“Hi, Sharon,” he said heaving himself up the steps and then easing himself into one of the porch chairs. “Mind if I sit? Damned leg’s been aching all day. Funny how it hurts sometimes, where there is nothing left to hurt.”
“Don’t mind at all. You too, Mike. Take a seat.”
“Thanks, Sharon.” Mike took the chair beside Sandy.
Sandy rubbed his stump above the prosthetic, the part that was still living flesh and bone. Mike busied himself looking out at the evening sky. Unsure of what Sharon knew, or didn’t know, neither was in a hurry to get to the reason for their visit.
Sharon shrugged, sat in a chair beside Sandy and spoke first. “What brings you out here?”
Mike looked at the sheriff, who nodded for him to make the explanation. Direct as always, he got to the point of their visit without any preliminaries. “We were wondering if you knew where George is.”
Her eyes moved from one face to the other and then back to Mike’s. “He went away.”
Right.” Mike nodded, smiling. “We know that. We were just wondering where…and why.”
Sharon deflected with a question of her own. “Is there a problem?”
Mike smiled again, this time wider, in appreciation of her tactics. “No problem. It’s just that George called us today for a favor.”
“Oh.” She wondered how much he had told them and how much she could say. Nothing yet, she decided, until she knew more. “So? What favor?”
“Nothing much…just wanted to know if the Stinson brothers were around. I told him they weren’t.”
“So…favor done, then.” She smiled.
“It’s not the favor that has us wondering. It’s the reason.”
“I see.” She nodded, looking Darlington in the eye. “Well, I don’t know.”
It was true, she figured, or nearly so. She knew why George left with Cy Purcell. She did not know exactly why he had asked them to check on the Stinsons, or precisely what they were doing. It was a fine point, but in the end, not a complete lie.
“No idea why he’d be concerned about the location of the brothers of a man who was recently killed?”
“Nope.” Her eyes locked on Mike’s, unwavering.
Listening, Sandy decided to try another tack. “Sharon, is George in danger?”
The twitch in her jaw was unmistakable. Sandy acknowledged her reaction with another question. “Is there something we can do to help?”
“I can only tell you…”
She paused, considering what she could say and what she could not. George had sworn her to secrecy as had Cy Purcell. Until he released her from her promise, she could not betray it. Unless there was some reason to believe that he was in danger…then promises be damned, she would do wh
at it took to bring George Mackey back in one piece.
Her eyes narrowed, and she asked them the same question. “Is there some reason to believe George is in danger?”
“No…not exactly. It just seemed like a strange request.” Sandy paused. “And we’re concerned about him.”
“I’m concerned too,” she said, nodding, relieved that there was no immediate threat to George’s safety. “So I would ask you to keep an eye out for the Stinsons, like George said. Let him know if you see them around. If he asked, it must be important.”
“That’s all you can tell us.”
“That’s all,” she said with a firm nod.
“All right.” Sandy pushed himself out of the chair. “We’ll do that.” He started down the steps, turned as an afterthought and said, “If you hear from him, let us know? Okay?”
She nodded. “If I can.”
It was all she could say, but it was enough to raise their concerns another notch.
“Fair enough.” Sandy gave an understanding nod and descended the steps.
Driving from the house out to the county road, Mike looked at the sheriff. “She knows what he’s up to.”
Sandy nodded. “She does for a fact.”
“Only one thing to do then.”
“Yep.”
“I’ll drop you off and see what I can see.” Mike grinned. “I might turn up a Stinson somewhere. I wouldn’t mind that at all.”
Sharon watched the pickup disappear behind the trees with one thought on her mind. You had better come back to me Mackey, or there’ll be hell to pay.
62. A Thought
Cruising along the county road Mike Darlington slowed and entered the community of Judges Creek. He came in from the north, through what was considered the town’s upscale neighborhood. Deputies had designated it ‘Upper Creek’ out of long practice. The homes were generally small, most dating back seventy years or more. Locals didn’t think of it as upscale. Words like that didn’t apply out in the country. Judges Creek was just home.
Twenty or so small frame houses were scattered about the roadside, some in clusters where families had shared land. They were universally white in color, although one daring soul had painted the trim and porch railing a dark burgundy color. What made them upscale in contrast with the remainder of the community was that they were neat, with well-tended lawns and gardens.
Mike lifted a hand at an elderly man out in his front yard pushing a lawn mower in the evening air. The old man returned the wave, recognizing the deputy. Grasshoppers whirred and buzzed, stirred up by the mower. Their wings caught the setting sun as they rose swarmed and then sank back down into the grass behind the mower.
Mike watched from the truck, moving along slowly. Not hurrying was the custom for all movement in Judges Creek.
Continuing a half mile, he came to a crossroad where he stopped, although there was no stop sign. The crossroad was really just a dirt track that led off on one side to an old plantation house that had fallen to ruins. He peered up the drive into the gathering gloom of the trees lining the way. A few of the outbuildings, slave shacks and service buildings, nothing more than rotted timbers and rubble now, were visible.
On the other side of the road, the trail led off into marshy woods that had once been vast fields of sugar cane. When the Civil War ended, the freed slaves were no longer compelled to perform the backbreaking work of planting, harvesting, pressing and cooking out the sugar. The fields had lain dormant until the surrounding forests reclaimed them.
He moved on slowly and entered the ‘Lower Creek’. Residences here were primarily trailers and mobile homes. Most were in reasonable shape although the farther south you progressed the more run down they appeared.
The worst was the trailer where the Stinson brothers resided. He pulled into the weed-grown lot and got out. The putrid scent of death assaulted his nose. He blinked it off and stepped carefully through the weeds and grass, alert for snakes.
As the odor had attested, the dead dog still lay by the front porch. No vehicles were present, but he mounted the steps to knock on the trailer’s door.
He had promised George he would check around for the Stinsons. Besides, their conversation with Sharon had confirmed that George was into something. They weren’t quite sure what, but if he needed a favor, it was important. George did not make such requests lightly.
As he expected, no one came to the door. He peered through the filthy windows. The place was empty.
Making his way through the weeds back to his pickup, Mike continued his slow patrol south on the county road. After a couple of miles, he came to the small shack sitting at a bend where Ruby Stinson and her daughter Lyn lived. It too, was run down but was in better shape than it had been, since Clay Purcell had started working on it.
There was no sign of the Stinsons. He hadn’t expected any, but Chief Deputy Darlington was thorough if anything. Rattling the front door to make sure it was locked, he scanned the yard. All appeared secure. A robin hopped around in the grass under a tree searching for a worm.
Other than the fact that no one was around, everything seemed normal. Ruby Stinson was in a Jacksonville hospital, recovering from her nearly fatal beating. Lyn was most likely with her mother.
Mike turned the pickup around and went back to the crossroads. He was not yet satisfied with his efforts. If the brothers were around the county, he intended to find them.
The setting sun cast its orange glow up the tree-shrouded lane to the old plantation house. He made the turn onto the dirt drive and let the truck roll towards the ruins at idling speed. When he reached the pile of rotted timbers that had been the house, he stopped and looked around, not sure what he was looking for. Nothing, he decided.
The weed-choked grounds, broken glass, scattered beer cans and bottles and general odor of decay reminded him of the Stinsons’ place, dirty and shabby. He sat for a moment considering the old ruins. Backing carefully to avoid the broken bottles and debris, he rolled back to the county road. As he made the turn north, out of Judges Creek, he had a thought.
63. His Smile Returned
The door swung open, banging into the wall before it closed. Bain jerked his head up, pulling his eyes away from the Gilligan’s Island marathon.
“What the hell’s a matter with you?”
“Nothin’.” Albert stumbled in and fell on the bed. He looked around red-eyed. “Where they at?”
“The girls?”
“Who the fuck you think I mean?”
“You ain’t got to get so nasty about it.” Bain nodded at the bathroom door. “In there, where you said leave ‘em. Ain’t heard a sound from ‘em.”
“You ain’t checked on ‘em?”
“Once, right after you was gone. They was cleaning…you know takin’ baths and all…figured I’d leave ‘em be.”
“You ain’t seen ‘em since?”
“No.” Worry crept into Bain’s voice. Shit. Albert was pissed again. The panic in his eyes worked its way down to his half-open mouth. “Th-think s-s-something's w-wrong?”
“How the hell am I s’posed to know. You was here and as usual you ain’t did shit.”
“But I…”
“Shut up.” Albert rose from the bed, crossed to the bathroom and put his ear to the door. “Quiet in there.” He looked at his brother. “If they ain’t there, I’m gonna beat your ass.”
There was no way to escape the tiny room. Bain knew it. Short of knocking a hole in the wall, the girls were in there. Even so, heart racing, dry-mouthed and pale, he watched Albert pull the chair out from under the doorknob and step into the bathroom.
Danny stared at him from the tub, standing fully clothed and dry. A movement to his side caused him to turn.
The blow from the towel bar Lyn had pried from the wall struck him on the shoulder. The room was too confined for her to get any power behind the swing. He deflected it while reaching up to grab her by the throat.
Lyn gasped. Then her eyes opened wide and the gasp
ing ceased, his hand closed hard around her trachea, cutting off air.
Danny lunged at him from the tub. His fist came up catching her under the eye and she fell backward banging against the tiled wall and the porcelain.
“You comin’ after me you little bitch.” Albert leaned close to Lyn, pushing her up against the wall, his face inches from hers, hissing the words through clenched teeth. “No wonder your daddy used to beat you senseless. Seems like it didn’t do much good.”
His grip on her throat loosened and she sank to the floor gasping for air. Albert stepped to the tub and grabbed Danny by the hair, jerking her to her feet. He dragged her from the tub, her feet rising limply over the edge then falling to the floor as he pulled her.
“Leave her be.” Lyn could only croak out a hoarse whisper through her bruised larynx.
Albert’s boot caught her in the thigh. “Shut the fuck up.” He dragged Danny out of the bathroom and pushed the door closed behind him.
“Jesus, Albert. What you got to beat the hell out of ‘em for?” Bain had watched from the bed.
“You’re a fuckin’ idiot. Been better off if Daddy had drowned you when you was a baby…runt of the litter…weak.” He shook his head and threw Danny on his bed.
“Don’t talk like that.” Bain’s face reddened.
“Like what? You gonna do somethin’ about the way I talk, little brother?”
“No…it’s just…”
Albert opened his trouser fly and turned to Danny. “Come at me, will you? Gonna pay a price to pay for that, girl.”
What’s goin’ on, Albert?” Bain spoke as he had when they had hidden by the porch watching on of Clyde’s lessons. Twenty years later, he was still asking his brother how things were, trying to follow the meaning of things and the ugliness that always surrounded them.
“Shut up, Bain.” It was the answer he received to most of his questions. “Shut up and go get yourself a beer.” Albert reached down and grabbed the waistband of Danny’s shorts, pulling them roughly down and over her legs, throwing them in a corner of the room.