The Revelations of Preston Black (Murder Ballads and Whiskey Book 3)

by Miller, Jason Jack

  Hey, hey little bluebird, why don’t you stay?

  I thought I heard you singing, I thought I heard you say,

  That you loved me…

  The band launched into its next song. Should’ve been “Safe European Home” but they ended up playing “Janie Jones” instead, like an affirmation that this night, for whatever reason, wasn’t going to end up like I thought it would when it’d begun.

  “Jane?” I said.

  “C’mon.” She turned and pushed through guys in leather and girls with safety pins through their earlobes. Red Mohawks. Black eye makeup and face paint.

  “Fucking bitch,” I heard more than once. I wanted to stay and fight each of them, but knew I had to stick with Jane. I knew that she was important, even if I didn’t know why.

  “Jane,” I shouted, even though we left most of the noise behind us when we entered the lobby. I lowered my voice, and said, “So what do I have to do?”

  “You want to get Katy back?” She stopped so fast I nearly knocked her over. “You’re going to have to call her. Just pick up the phone and call her.”

  “Call who? Katy?”

  “Not Katy.” She walked toward the box office. “You’re running out of time. Hear that?”

  “Jane, wait!”

  She walked into the chilly London night as a massive bell rang a few miles away. The sign on the post said Queen Caroline Street. An elevated highway flew above us. Big red busses drifted out of the metro station down the block near a sign for the Underground. I wondered if this was the Hammersmith Odeon or the Lyceum. Couldn’t figure out why I thought it was Bond’s. I guessed right about the Cash show and The Beatles’ show. Being wrong about this one confused me.

  “Jane, please. You have to help me.”

  She turned. Green and red from the traffic signals cast her pale skin in otherworldly hues. “It’s too late. You waited too long.”

  “Don’t say that, please.” I panicked.

  “Aunt Rachael told you exactly what to do. This is her little girl we’re talking about. My cousin!”

  People waiting for the bus turned around and watched the commotion.

  “Don’t be like that. She’s tough—”

  “And do you know why she’s tough? Because she never let herself fall for guys like you. Guys who didn’t care she graduated at the top of her class.” She put her hand on her hip and came at me. “Everywhere Katy goes, she’s either climbing a mountain or coming down off one and the minute her dad left she knew she’d never rely on anybody ever again. So consider yourself lucky to be loved by her. She doesn’t play loose with her affection. You must have earned it somehow.”

  “So help me find her.” I tried to take her hand, but she backed toward the curb.

  “I can help you find her.” She watched me process. Like she knew what I thought.

  “But you’re going to have to make the call. Katy doesn’t have much time.”

  “I will. Call who?”

  “You know who. You don’t want to say it and I don’t want to say it.” She cupped her hand to her ear. In the distance a great bell chimed louder and faster. “Hear it? Big Ben?”

  She stood in the small sphere of light created by a dim street lamp, but cast no shadow. She shivered a little in her short skirt and high black boots.

  All around windows rattled as waves of sound rolled through the streets. Lampposts swayed from the growing energy of the bell’s thunder.

  “Call your fallen angel. It’s going to hurt, and you’re going to have to give something up. But she is the only one who can help you get Katy before they kill her.”

  “That’ll make things so much worse.” It scared me to think about it. I tried everything to forget about her, but every day she found a way into my thoughts.

  Jane shouted over the ringing. “Katy won’t be mad if you tell her, ‘Every girl needs a boy like she needs candy and an extra hole in the head.’ Katy’ll know what that means.”

  Jane pushed in front of a middle-aged couple waiting for a cab. They cursed as she shut the door. The black cab pulled into traffic and disappeared into the dark. The last thing I saw was the plate number—3485.

  “Calling her is a mistake!” I yelled and the people laughed, even though I couldn’t hear them over the deafening noise from Big Ben.

  I turned back to the theater’s main door, but it was locked. I kicked it, but the chains had already been pulled tight. I kicked again. Behind me people shouted stuff like, “asshole” and “tosser” but I kept kicking the wooden doors. The last place I remembered having a friend was inside.

  The door splintered.

  At this point I didn’t even care if I got in. I grew angry. And I released it the only way I knew how. I wanted blood, but I knew that wouldn’t fly in the real world. I wanted heads on spits and hearts beneath my boot.

  I wanted a river of tears.

  A universe of blood for my Katy.

  I kicked until I felt certain I’d broken the bones in my foot. I wanted Katy in my arms. I wanted to feel her warm, soft cheek against mine. I kicked the door off its hinges. Wooden shards disappeared beneath my boot.

  My Katy deserved better than the superficial beliefs these fuckers were dishing out.

  My Katy deserved a bed of violets and a halo of cherry blossoms and a warm breeze and people speaking in the kindest of tones.

  My Katy deserved a thousand years without pain, a thousand songs in her honor. A thousand kind words in every breath. I kicked for her, because my love had been taken. Because my love was cold and hungry and alone. I kicked because somewhere, out there, my girl needed me.

  Hands reached through a crack in the door and pulled my jacket. My face hit the wood and warmed with the flush of blood rushing to the bruise. I twisted and jerked, but couldn’t get away from the door. They grasped at my face and elbows. I tried to bite whatever I could.

  Hands pulled me onto cold, dry earth. Sound hit my eardrums and died in muffled whispers that needed deciphering, half words I struggled to hear. And above me I saw a light. A grey light. An uncommitted sphere of hope.

  Somewhere behind me Joe and the guys started into “Clampdown.”

  Somewhere behind me John worked on “Tomorrow Never Knows.”

  Somewhere over my shoulder Johnny invited June onto the stage for the first time.

  I coughed and an ocean of water splashed forth onto the earth. I tried to turn, but a thousand hands held me fast to the ground. I tried to sit up, but the army above had other ideas. They covered my face and a cold wind blew through me. Shivers crept through my body. They held my head to the ground as I got pummeled with the hurricane, the cold breath of a god I thought I knew.

  I heard my name. I looked for the man who’d spoken it.

  Maybe it was John or Joe.

  I knew the voice though, and I looked, but could only see the dull light of the real world. The muddy sunlight of northern Alabama.

  “Preston…”

  Water rushed into my throat. My first instinct was to inhale and let the air fill my lungs, but there wasn’t room for air. My eyes rolled back and I coughed. My chest got tight as my lungs exploded with violent contractions meant to force the water out. I tried to roll over, but they were holding me down. I wanted to tell them to let me go, but couldn’t get the words into my throat. I arched my back and kicked again.

  “Pres…” It was Pauly.

  I tried to find him with my eyes. I wanted to see his face. I knew as soon as he looked into my eyes he’d know it was okay to let me go. I struggled for air.

  Somebody pushed me onto my knees. My view went from dull light to dark shapes. Silhouettes of trees. Outlines of faces. A splintered door. I spit water out of my mouth. Water that tasted like garden hose.

  “Push him forward.”

  When I coughed water trickled out of my mouth and down my chin. I wanted to wipe it away but could only choke and gasp. Like drowning on dry land was my punishment for taking so long. I pushed myself forward and
tried to get to my feet.

  Ben and Pauly helped, but my balance faded and I fell. An ice cream headache raged through my skull like spiders with black needle feet. I pushed my hands against my eyes.

  Pauly caught me. “Got you, man. You’re good.”

  I looked for faces. Ben and Pauly. Pauly’s friend and his family. I held up my hand. “Good,” I whispered. “I’m good.”

  Sabra wrapped a blanket around me. George rubbed his chin in disbelief.

  But nobody said anything while I tried to get my legs beneath me. Nobody said anything while I fought to get my words. They were waiting. They needed something from me. “Jane…” I said.

  “What’d she say?” Ben asked. For the first time since he showed up here he looked hopeful. “About Katy?”

  And I couldn’t remember the words. I couldn’t remember the conversation or her face. I couldn’t recall the circumstances or the players. I had a feeling, and nothing else. I had a sense that something happened, but nothing concrete. I had ideas, but no words. I didn’t want to have to apologize again. I didn’t want to be the one who ultimately failed Katy, the girl I loved. If I couldn’t prove it by helping to find her, I couldn’t prove it at all. Words didn’t come. Only an apology. Something Ben didn’t want—or need—to hear.

  “She said…” I could only see the cab disappearing into the darkness.

  I fell back onto the blanket and put my hand over my eyes. My breath, which should’ve been so sweet, burned my lungs. My breath…

  I’d rather it had been a noose.

  “She said…”

  Lies came to me. Possibilities. Half-truths. I knew they wouldn’t know. I knew I’d die with the secret of what really happened.

  “She said that Katy—”

  My phone rang. Katy’s beeped immediately after. Pauly picked it up and read the texts. I tried to reach for it. To slap it out of his hand.

  He stared at the screen. “No message. Just a phone number. Maybe from like another country or something. Look.”

  I looked at Katy’s phone and tried to make sense of what I saw on the display. But the numbers looked random. Meaningless. Definitely not a phone number. <34.924610, -85.675317>

  Ben took the phone. He studied the message for a few long moments. Then he smiled and showed Andre and George.

  “This’ll work.” Ben smiled.

  George said, “That’s real close.”

  “What?” I asked. I tried to sit up.

  “Map coordinates.” George held up the phone and smiled. “This is where we’re going to find her.”

  Once George saw the spot on the map, he suggested we travel up the Tennessee River by boat, and into a mile-long backwater known as Long Island Cove. He felt we could make our way up the seven-hundred foot high bluff and if we got into trouble, there’d be no fast way for anyone to pursue us by water. But Ben wanted to keep his own mode of transportation at hand, so Pauly and Andre worked out a compromise to have the boat on the river, with Andre and George engaging in a little overnight fishing expedition while we went in from the road.

  We all exchanged phone numbers. Last thing George said was, “If things go to crap meet us under the Hogjaw Valley Road Bridge, tout suite.” He repeated it so many times that all I could think of as I climbed into the car was, Hogjaw Valley Road Bridge. Hogjaw Valley Road Bridge…

  My hair was still wet when we split. I let Pauly sit up front and navigate because he knew roads a heck of a lot better than I did. Nadhima and Sabra had packed us a lunch—cornbread and sliced ham and a few cans of Grapico.

  As soon as we got on the highway I got a text from Joe.

  We followed the Tennessee River north out of Versailles. The low hills never let us see much more than some sad, lonely farms and the river, which looked more like a long, mud-filled lake. We finally crossed over it on a tiny steel bridge. Just two little lanes and a lot of water below. I said, “You think Andre will be there? This is a long trip by boat.”

  “Preston… What’re you thinking? Have some faith.”

  “Yeah. I know.”

  “We’re fine,” Ben said. “This is going to be a quick in and out. Like fucking a prostitute.”

  As soon as we hit dry land on the other side I knew we were getting closer. The highway crept through the trees and up the bluff on the river’s eastern side. The same hill George showed us on the map. The steep terrain dissolved my expectations about what kind of operation this would end up being. Thick woods and a steep hillside were a far cry from the flat South I’d seen yesterday and this morning. And as much as I knew I should’ve kept my mouth shut, I knew I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. “You scared?”

  Neither of them spoke up. Like they were playing some kind of game to see who had the biggest balls. “Whatever.”

  “Yeah, man. I’m scared. That what you want to hear? You want to spend the next twenty minutes peeing our pants and blowing our noses? She’s my cousin, man.” Ben punched the dashboard when he said it. “Course I got the butterflies in my belly, but talking about being scared ain’t going to get Katy Bear back. So you got to learn to control that fear, Preston Black, or I’ll slap you to sleep and dare you to snore.”

  Anger made my face hot, but I bit my lip even though it didn’t make me feel any better. “Well, I never learned to control my fear. I don’t know what you know and I didn’t see the shit you saw and I know you buried friends. And I’m scared shitless. I’m afraid of closing my eyes for too long for fear they’ll forget what she looks like. So if you think I’m a pussy, or whatever, sorry to disappoint you. I just want her back.”

  I had more to say, but knew better than to say it. Instead I watched northern Alabama roll by, trying to figure out a way to make the impossible happen.

  Ben reached behind the seat and put his hand on my knee. He patted it a few times.

  The gesture fell way short of putting my mind at ease, but that simple act of consideration calmed me down. Made me feel secure. Let me know I could trust him. “It’s all good, man.”

  “What the fuck’re you talking about?” Ben said, flipping his palm up and beckoning with his fingers. “I want food. Can’t take my meds on an empty belly.”

  “Get the fuck out.” I gave Pauly the bag and Ben laughed. I said, “You know what? I’d appreciate a little respect for the way I feel.”

  “I know you would. That’s why I ain’t going to give it to you.” Ben shoved his hand into the bag and pulled out a can of pop. “This is a lesson for you. That you can’t dwell on this shit. You have to trust me.”

  I nodded.

  “What’s that?” Ben said, trying to find me in the rearview mirror.

  I kept my mouth shut while Pauly pointed out our left onto County Road 97. Ben’s hazing routine got old fast. As soon as we picked up a little speed, I said, “Yup.”

  “Look, Pres. Rachael knows we’re bringing her back. Bet you twenty bucks we’re back at Andre’s before Rachael and Chloey and my old man come rolling in to check on their Miss Katy. And I bet you another twenty Katy’s going to be ready to play in the ATL on Friday.”

  “He’s right bro,” Pauly said. “Be positive. I barely know this guy and I’d follow him just about anywhere.”

  “You barely know him and that’s the problem,” I said. “So what’s the plan?”

  “Plan?” Ben jammed the rest of a big slice of cornbread into his mouth. “Shoot first, that’s always step one. We’ll figure out the rest when we get there.”

  “Is that official Army protocol?”

  “You ain’t going to find that in the Army FM 21-50. That’s in my field manual. The Ben Collins 01-01.” He held his breath like he intended to riff on the theme a little longer, but I cut him off.

  “What if shooting first isn’t the way to go with this? What if—”

  “Jesus, Preston. We got to take a look first. You think I’m making this up as I go? Have to know what we’re dealing with
, man. Then we’ll make a plan—”

  Pauly cut Ben off. “Yinz both need to shut the fuck up. Bitching like a pair of nanas with their babushkas in a bundle ain’t doing squat right now. You want to know how it’s going to go down today? There’s your sign.”

  Along the side of the road a small white cross had been planted next to a row of rusted-out mailboxes. None of us had anything to say as we passed by.

  Ben said, “Tell me we ain’t dealing with the same Westboro Baptist fucks that protested at X and Kenny’s funerals.”

  All around, kudzu grew up into the trees and around old fences. But the cross had been cleared recently.

  “No, man,” I said. “Different fucks.”

  Written across its white face were four words in large black letters—JESUS WON THE BATTLE.

  “Shit just got real,” Ben said, rolling down his window. “Stay sharp.”

  About a quarter mile ahead we saw the next sign on the left—a junked car wrapped in barbed wire, the word REPENT written on the side. A large white cross made of two-by-sixes with Hypocrite you will DIE! painted in large black letters sprung from a rusted-out hole in the roof. Across the hood they wrote SEX. READ REV. 21-8.

  “You shitting me?” My face got hot and I made a fist. “Tell me this ain’t the first place cops should’ve looked.”

  I almost kept going, but we rounded the bend to the sight of thousands of crosses of various size, constructed of different material, planted on both sides of the road for as far as any of us could see. Ben slowed and shook his head. Barbed wire had been strung throughout, draped over some of the crosses like a never-ending crown of thorns. In some places they wound new galvanized wire over top of rusted wire. Crosses went up and over red clay mounds and on rocky alcoves that looked like they’d been bulldozed out of the hills for the very purpose of displaying crosses. A large cross at the top had NO ICE WATER IN HELL FIRE painted across it. The one next to it said Everyone in Hell from SEX USED WRONG WAY!

  Ben laughed as he read some of his favorites out loud to us.

  The crosses popped up in groups of three and four. Big ones crowned hilltops like cross shepherds watching over flocks of white baby crosses. Ancient washing machines and refrigerators and cars had been incorporated into the setting. One rusty dryer sported the message You will DIE! in hand-painted block letters. An old burn barrel next to a natural gas well had been painted white so the artist could write Hell is HOT HOT HOT!