Evil Heights, Book IV: In the Pit

by Michael Swanson

  Lee shook his head. “I don't know. I do know they've searched with dogs, and I heard that they believe that Evie Riley was snatched away from her house by someone in a car."

  "Same thing with them nigra girls,” Carl added. “They borrowed Tom Worler's bloodhounds. If there was a track to be found, them fuckin’ dawgs would've sniffed it out. Tom told me the scent ended at the road."

  Porter stepped up and grabbed Lee's shoulders. “When you get back, you call the Sheriff's office, and you tell them to take a dog over to the Ballard house. Can you do that?"

  "Sure,” Lee nodded. “But, why don't you come?"

  Porter let him go, reeling back as if he'd been shocked. “I ain't comin’ any closer to Cherry Heights than these here woods,” he said, slipping back into his drawl. “I'd only make things worse comin’ ‘round there anyway. I got away from that house once, and I ain't never goin’ back."

  As though to illustrate the finality of his point, he walked straight over to the outhouse and went in slamming the door behind.

  After what seemed a long time of waiting, when Porter didn't emerge, the three decided to leave. Lee couldn't just walk away, but he was embarrassed to walk up to the door and knock, so he stood out front and called out. “Mr. Porter, I'm going to be leaving now. I'll mind what you said about getting home before dark."

  A muffled voice came back. “You take care boy. Hang on, don't go just yet."

  Lee heard some creaking and then the sound of paper being torn; finally, Porter emerged, still wearing the snake and pulled up his suspenders, first over one arm and then the other.

  He handed Lee a folded square of newspaper. “You give this to Javier as soon as you can. Have him tell you what it says."

  Lee held out his hand.

  Porter wiped his hand back and forth on his pants leg, and smiled, exposing grimy yellow teeth. “Sorry, boy, but I'm old. And I've been old for a long time. When I get worked up I don't have the control I used to.” He smiled even wider. “You'll find that the older you get your best pleasure in life is not from putting food in your body, but getting it out."

  Carl and Daryl were at the gate, waiting.

  Porter made his way back to the still. The fire had gone out completely. “You'd best be getting along,” he said, not looking back.

  Lee ran over to the gate and slipped out. While Carl and Daryl were struggling with the wire loop, he opened the note. Penciled in the blank edge on the piece of newsprint it read: “Ya viene la tormenta diabolico. Ten cuidado, amigo. Vuele lo mas pronto posible. Porter.” The only word Lee recognized beside Porter's name was amigo. For some reason though, Lee heard the word “cabrito” roll through his mind as they set off home.

  CHAPTER NINE: FOUND

  Carl had slung his two bottles over his back, holding the belt with one hand and his machete in the other. The bottles were clunking together as Carl walked, and Lee doubted seriously that they would make it back to Lenoir in one piece.

  "You sure were friendly with ol’ Porter,” Daryl called ahead, as Lee was walking in the middle behind Carl. “Like y'all knew each other from way back. Talkin’ all that ghost shit."

  "So?” Lee said without looking back.

  "Nothin',” Daryl replied quickly. “It's just when Earl and Whitey came along, it didn't seem like ol’ Porter took much of a shine to ‘em like he did with you."

  "What a surprise,” Lee thought.

  Despite the burden of the two bottles Carl carried and Daryl with one, they made great time heading towards home. It was refreshing to leave behind the dismal, swampy lowlands and hug the river where the bluffs ranged up high and the air was sweeter.

  It wasn't until they were more than three quarters of the way home that Carl called back, “I'm taking a break."

  There was a low gravel bar just a step down off the bank. Carl twisted his belt around off his shoulder and set the heavy bottles down in the grass. He pulled his nearly empty cigarette pack from his shirt pocket and his lighter from out of his pants and put them in the grass as well. Then boots and all, he jumped down onto the gravel bar and walked straight into the water clear up to his chest.

  "Whoo-wee!” he yelled, his call echoing back off the bluffs. “Damn that feels good!"

  Daryl and Lee wasted no time in following Carl's lead. Lee was the last in, as he had to put Porter's note on a dry rock, so that it wouldn't be ruined.

  The Yalahalla tugged at his jeans and shirt as it streamed past, draining the heat out of Lee like a radiator. He'd only gone in chest deep, so he dunked his head under and when he came up, Carl was close enough to have been a perfect target for a splash of water right in the side of the face. Though Lee thought about it, he didn't do it.

  Daryl was sitting in the shallows. He'd pulled his boots off and was draining them, shaking them upside down to get out all the water in the toes. He was fair game though, and Lee closed in and got him full in the face with a sweeping right hand splash.

  "Goddamn!” Daryl spluttered, dropping his boots. “I'll get yer ass for that."

  Lee withdrew back to deeper water, both arms working like pistons, blasting Daryl who had to cover his face as he lunged after. Carl joined in, still in his boots, catching Daryl from the side and blasting him with wave after wave.

  "Ain't no fair!” he yelled. “Y'all are gangin’ up on me!"

  Lee figured that now that the ice was broken it was every man for himself, so he sent a blast at Carl catching him right in the eyes. Carl broke off his attack on his brother and came after Lee firing with both barrels.

  Carl was merciless, closing in, aiming only for the eyes, and splashing each shot with stinging accuracy. Lee had to dunk under and swim for it, luxuriating in the chill of the current deep down. He was only able to swim out a little way as his blue jeans and tennis shoes acted like lead weights dragging him down and making it difficult to swim any distance at all. Out of breath, he popped up and gulped air.

  "You better run, boy!” Carl had his arm cocked back, ready for another blast should Lee get back in range.

  "Get him, Carl,” Daryl chided.

  Daryl should have known better than to attract attention to himself, as Carl came at him blasting, and all Daryl could do was cover his head and scream for mercy.

  Lee struggled in, happy when his feet touched down on the sandy bottom. He was still chest deep when he saw Carl seize Daryl by the shirt and lift him up until he could get a hand on his brother's blue jeans. Demonstrating the strength in his rangy body, Carl lifted Daryl horizontally out of the water, pressing him over his head.

  Daryl yelled, his arms flapping wildly.

  Carl held him up for just a moment, and then tossed him out into the current. Daryl made a tremendous splash when he went in on his back. Lee wisely moved further down the gravel bar making sure he'd be able to swim for it if Carl came his way.

  Standing in the waist deep water Carl beat his chest like a gorilla and let loose a tremendous Tarzan yodel, which once again echoed off the rock wall.

  "Hot damn, that feels good!” Carl called out. “I think it's time I had me a little snort."

  Daryl had drifted down near Lee. “Hey, me too,” he said, then started splashing furiously making his way out of the water.

  Carl stopped at the water's edge and plopped down on his butt to remove his water logged boots. “Daryl, fetch me that bottle right here,” he ordered, shaking out the first boot. “Mind you don't get my smokes wet, I've only got two or three left."

  Daryl ran over to the bank, one sock barely hanging onto his left foot. He took a while to untie the belt Carl had been using to carry his bottles. Once he'd slid the belt off, he walked back to where Carl was sitting, awkwardly slipping about on the gravel. He handed the bottle to Carl and fell down right beside him knocking his boots over. Carl didn't pay any attention to his boots. He pulled off the wax paper and rubber band, eagerly taking the first sip.

  "Hot damn!” he hollered out, shaking his head. “Whoo-wee, I'm tellin’ y
a, that's the real shit there!"

  Daryl pulled at the bottle. “Here, it's my turn."

  Lee stepped out onto the gravel bar, hoping that they weren't going to ask him if he wanted any. He didn't want to seem like a sissy, and so would have had to accept any if offered. But he really didn't want to drink any. He still hadn't forgotten the sharp taste and the sour, lingering headache from the drink in the tree house.

  Daryl, on the other hand, had just taken a tremendous gulp, and in an amazing display of dexterity Art would have appreciated, he was flapping one arm like a bird, while the other hand finger snapped as rapidly as Lee had ever seen.

  Luckily they weren't paying Lee any attention at all, as it was then that Lee saw it; caught on a branch just above the dark mud line marking the point the water had receded as the river had gone down. It was a pair of cut offs wadded up, but still unmistakable for what it was. What would be the chances, he thought as he walked over.

  Lee reached down and pulled them free of the snag. They looked like his, even though they were thoroughly caked with mud. The snap and zipper weren't undone, and they were heavy, too. Maybe it's just mud, he thought as he reached into the pocket.

  No! It was still there! Lee carefully closed his fingers on the spearhead and pulled it out. He almost turned and called to Carl and Daryl, but instantly decided to keep his mouth shut. He'd been to the county convention center once for a rock show, and knew collectors sometimes paid a lot of money for genuine artifacts like these. He knew it'd be better if he didn't share this with Carl and Daryl. He did risk a few moments to turn his back to them so he could conceal it while turning it over and appreciating the scalloped facets along the edge and the beautifully clear stone. Happily, he tucked the piece of quartz into the pocket of his blue jeans and turned around holding up his cut offs.

  "Hey, ya'll, lookie what I found."

  Daryl and Carl turned at the same time, looking back.

  "What the hell ya’ got there?” Carl yelled.

  Lee walked over, holding the pants out with both hands. “My cut offs. I lost ‘em a couple of weeks ago. Can you believe it?"

  Daryl was already starting to slur. “Who gives a shit?"

  Carl took another drink. “Well ain't it your lucky day. Was there any money left in the pockets?"

  "Probably was a turd,” Daryl laughed “A big ol’ hairy feller."

  Carl, holding the bottle up, shoved Daryl, knocking him over where he sat. “That's a good one, Daryl."

  Lee could see they'd already drunk quite a bit, and knew the stuff was as fast acting as it was powerful. They didn't call it lightening for nothing. “Hey!” he caught their attention. “If y'all are gonna sit here and drink the rest of the afternoon, I think I'll just head on home."

  Carl raised his arm, twirling his hand around. “Suit yourself."

  Daryl had wrestled the jug back, and took another swig. “You sure you can find yer way home?” He swallowed another gulp then wiped his lips. “Or are you gonna be scared the boogie man's gonna chase ya?"

  Lee knew absolutely where this was headed. A few more shots and Daryl would want to fight, and Lee would have to mop up the gravel bar with his drunken butt. And if Carl got involved...

  Lee wadded up his cutoffs. “I'm gonna be heading on y'all. It was fun. Hey Carl, thanks for letting me come."

  Carl waved again over his head.

  Lee stepped up onto the bank and picked up his bayonet.

  "Aw why don't ya stick around,” Daryl whined after him. “We might wanna do a little corn holing if we get blind drunk. I'd bet your round brown would be sweeter ‘n’ Dora's."

  "You know, Daryl,” Lee heard Carl say as he picked up the trail, “I think there's somethin’ the matter with you. Why don't you shut up and go get me my smokes?"

  It was turning evening when Lee came up on the Willis house. Whitey, Dora and Alton were in the back hanging out by the mud hole.

  "Where the hell's Carl and Daryl?” Whitey called out, as Lee emerged out of the path.

  Lee swung his bayonet back over his shoulder. “They're enjoying a taste of shine out on a gravel bar about a mile or so back."

  Whitey jumped up like someone had hit him with a rock. “Shit, they'll drink it all up. Alton!” he called out, “Run on in and fetch Earl!"

  Dora, who was there and had changed into a pair of shorts and a small top, gave Lee a smile he had no trouble understanding. He replied with a friendly shrug, hoping to let her know, no offense, but maybe some other time. And it wasn't lost on him at all that for such an otherwise thin girl, she sure did look like she was becoming a bit thick in the middle.

  Leaving the Willis house behind it wasn't long before he came up out of Spit Creek, having walked right through the mud and water at the bottom, not caring if he got anymore wet and dirty, if that was even possible. Javier's Chevy was parked on the road in front of the house, so he turned right and jumped the ditch walking right up onto Javier's porch. The door was open, so he pounded on the frame.

  The front room was decorated like nothing he had ever seen. Facing the T.V. was a green, plastic couch sitting next to a hairy orange lounge chair. On the wall was a broad painting, done in flaming reds, yellows and gold, brushed onto a shiny, black velvet background. It depicted a towering matador sweeping a cape before an enormous, charging bull. Along the other wall near the corner was an alcove of stone with a painted ceramic figure of a woman adorned with a halo and surrounded by little white candles.

  Juana came out of a back doorway wiping her hands on a towel.

  "Oh, Lee,” she smiled. “How are you?” Of course, as when Javier spoke, the “You” came out as “Jew."

  Lee thought, quickly remembering his lesson. “Muy bien, Sra. Fuentes."

  She clapped her hands, her face lighting up. “Excelente,” was the only word he grasped as she fell into a liberal dose of machine gun Spanish.

  "Excuse me, Sra. Fuentes,” he said apologetically. “Is Javier here?"

  She crossed her arms to show she was trying to be angry. “That perisozo. He's taking a siesta.” She uncrossed her arms and drank from an invisible bottle. “I'll go wake him."

  "That's okay,” Lee took the note out of his pocket. “A man we know asked me to give this to Javier."

  He held out the folded square of newsprint. “Sorry, it's a bit damp."

  She pinched it between her fingers, like she might a spider she'd stomped, just before flinging it to the chickens. “Did you fall in the river?” There was that luscious sounding “Jew,” again.

  "Sort of.” Lee caught her peering over his shoulder so he looked behind to see the mud he'd tracked up onto her clean porch. “Sorry."

  "I'll give the note to Javier,” she said, opening her towel and putting the note in, tamping it slightly.

  "Hasta luego,” Lee hoped remembering the Spanish lesson would absolve him from tracking up her porch.

  "Vaya con dios, chico,” she replied.

  CHAPTER TEN: ALONE AGAIN

  Lee ran the rest of the way home, his tennis shoes squishing with each step.

  It was quickly becoming dark. Coming out of the short cut, he couldn't help but notice how dark and forlorn the Riley house looked. The tricycle with the bent wheel was in the same place it had been for days and days. He wondered if there was anyone there, or if Darlene Riley was inside, sitting alone drinking and watching the T.V. screen flip madly.

  He'd run around the backyard, opening the side gate and heading directly to the laundry room's back door. It was locked, so he pounded on the frame.

  No one came, so he pounded again and hollered out, “Maggie, Dad, it's me Lee, let me in!"

  The car was out front, he could hear the T.V. and the lights were on, so he knew they were home.

  The twilight was in the last shade of gray, and everything was still in the backyard. He could feel how wet he was, though it had to be as much from the sweat of running, as from having been in the river an hour or so ago.

  The door
opened, and Maggie looked out.

  "Lee Coombs!” She said startled. “What on earth happened to you?"

  He'd put his bayonet and the cut offs down next to the steps. “I slipped and fell in the river. Could you have dad bring me some pants, so I can leave my dirty clothes in the laundry room?"

  She swatted at a mosquito that tried to get in. “I just can't believe you, coming home like that. Do you think I'm ever gonna get those clothes clean?"

  "That's why I came ‘round back.” He tried the sensible approach. “I wouldn't think of coming in the front door all dirty like this."

  He could see it had worked, as her tight expression loosened.

  "If you did, I can tell you you'd get the whipping of your life,” she said. “You stay right there,” she wagged a finger at him. “I'll get Ted to fetch you out something, but you jump right in that shower, you hear?"

  "Yes ma'am,” he answered to her back.

  While he waited, he called out for Flapjack, clapping his hands and whistling. It was strange that the second he clanked the handle on the gate the duck hadn't come running. For just a brief moment he thought, “He must have finally flown away."

  His dad appeared at the door with a couple of towels. He took one look at Lee and began laughing. “Damn, son,” he said. “Do you think you could have got just a little dirtier?"

  "Come on, dad,” Lee came back, “The mosquitoes are getting thick out here."

  "You take your stuff off out there and leave it on the stoop."

  "Dad,” Lee complained. “I'm outside."

  Ted stepped out, and immediately swatted a mosquito, which had gone straight for his face. “I don't think you need to worry about anybody looking. Come on, be quick, ‘fore we get eaten alive."

  Lee sat down pulling off his shoes and socks at the same time. Next went his t-shirt, and he was just unzipping his pants when they heard it.