by Alex Bledsoe
“Well, both of ’em. But that Bliss, she’s got that thing that makes you keep looking at the door after she leaves the room. Doesn’t she?”
Jack realized he was doing exactly that, and he felt his cheeks burn. “You caught me, old man.”
“Not me. But I do believe she just set the hook.”
* * *
Duncan hunched in his chair, staring down the neck of his beer at the liquid inside, as the rest of the Tufa filed out. How many, he wondered, would now try to go after that damn pig? And who else might die because he failed to take the shot when he had it? When he’d let the animal do the very thing he lacked the balls to do?
He closed his eyes against the vision of those yellow tusks dripping red. He only wished he could close his ears against the memory of Adam’s final scream.
“Mr. Gowen?”
He looked up. Two teenage girls stood over him. Their body language was tense and uncertain, as if they worried he might collapse, or attack them. “Yeah?”
One said, “I’m Janet Harper, from the Raven’s Caw.”
“Yeah.” He remembered the paper from high school; he and his friends used to mock it for its amateurishness. And now that he heard her voice, he realized she’d asked questions earlier.
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” she continued. “Your losses. I wondered if I might ask you a couple of questions?”
“I don’t think so,” he said.
The other girl, Ginny Vipperman, grabbed Janet’s arm. He knew Ginny from coed softball. “See? Now, come on.”
Janet pulled away. “I understand you and the late Adam Procure were out hunting the pig this morning. What happened?”
“Janet!” Ginny whisper-yelled.
He looked up at her. She was so young, and so sincere. He couldn’t decide if it made him sad, or furious. “No comment. I ain’t answering questions. Not right now.”
“Can I call you tomorrow?”
“Won’t you be in school tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow’s Sunday. And they canceled school on Monday because of the funerals.”
Of course they did, Duncan thought. Two funerals he’d be expected to attend. Just dandy. “I won’t be available tomorrow either. Sorry.”
Ginny tugged on her arm again, and this time Janet gave in and let her friend pull her away. Duncan closed his eyes and took another long drink of his beer.
He felt a slender, feminine hand on his shoulder. His first thought was that the girl reporter had returned, but it wasn’t her, or Bliss. It was Renny Procure, Adam’s sister. She wore a battered straw cowboy hat and a black tank top, the very image of the girl in a “bro-country” music video. “All hips and lips,” the boys used to say about her, but right now her bleary eyes canceled out any overt sexiness. “Can I talk to you for a minute?” she asked softly, her voice ragged from recent sobs.
He nodded. She pulled a chair up closer to him and sat so that she was almost in his face. He could smell something harder than beer on her breath, but she didn’t seem drunk.
“I can’t imagine how you must feel,” she said. “Losing your girlfriend and your best friend so close together, and in such horrible ways. I don’t have the words, or the songs. It’s been a nightmare for me, watching Mom and Dad fall apart, and me having to suck it up and handle things.”
“I’m sorry,” was all he could croak out.
“No, that’s not what I’m here to tell you,” she said, and touched his face lightly with her fingertips. “I’ve known you all my life, Duncan. We rode the bus together all through junior high, remember? I’m here if you need to talk about this to somebody who knows a little of how you feel. And I hope you’ll be here for me.”
“I will,” he managed.
She smiled, sad and tender, then kissed him on the cheek and left. He didn’t watch her walk away the way he normally would.
Now Bliss Overbay did appear beside him. Never in his life had so many attractive, powerful women been so interested in him. “Hey,” she said gently. “You ready to go home? I’ve got the truck warmed up. It’s getting late, and it’s been a long day.”
He held up the beer. “I need about ten thousand more of these if I’m planning to get any sleep tonight.”
“I have a trazodone you can borrow.”
“If I borrow it, you won’t get it back.”
“Consider it a permanent loan, then.”
He stood up and followed her outside. The parking lot was nearly empty, except for Jack Cates loading the projector screen into his truck. He waved at them, but said nothing.
On the drive home, Duncan looked out at the forest, already growing indistinct as dusk turned to night. Were any of those shadows the monster, passing through the woods on its way to do whatever mischief it had planned for the night? Or was it in fact long gone, chased out of its safe little hollow by the morning’s chaos?
“I think,” he said quietly, “I need to throw up.”
Without a word, Bliss pulled over, and Duncan got out. He vomited up the beer he’d drunk, and the water, but since he hadn’t eaten all day, that was all. It didn’t stop his body from trying to expel something that no mere physical process could eliminate, though. The guilt he felt, the certainty that Adam’s death today—and hell, maybe even Kera’s death, too—was his fault choked him like a rotted chicken bone crossways in his throat. No matter how his body tried, it couldn’t puke that out.
Finally he stopped, sputtered, and got back to his feet. He leaned against the truck’s fender for a long moment. The insect noises were as loud as a tropical jungle in his ears, almost drowning out the truck’s idling motor.
Bliss said softly, “You think you’re done?”
“Yeah. Got nothing left to puke out.”
“Come on, then.”
For the rest of the ride home he huddled against the passenger door, wondering how he could face … well, anyone tomorrow. Surely someone, whether it was Kera’s siblings, or Adam’s sister, or Bliss, or Junior, or Mandalay, would see through him to the truth. He could have saved Adam. He could have avenged Kera. But instead he just stood there and watched.
For the first time since he’d heard about Kera, he began to cry.
14
The night was officially cold by the time Jack and Dolph gave up. It was after midnight, and their reconnaissance of Half Pea Hollow following the community meeting had been fruitless. No sign of the monster, or anything other than some deer and one sleepy emu.
Dolph breathed heavily as he shortened the leads on the dogs. Jack, concerned, said, “You seen a doctor about that wheezing?”
“Sure have,” Dolph said as he led the two dogs to the tailgate. “You know what he said? ‘You’re an old man. Things shrivel up.’”
Jack smiled as he unloaded his M220. “We’ve got to come up with a different approach.”
Dolph unsnapped their leashes, and the dogs jumped up onto the open tailgate and went obediently into their crates. “Not that many ways to hunt pigs. You either go after them, or find a way to bring them to you.”
“Which would you suggest?”
He chuckled. “Neither one has worked out too well so far.”
Jack secured his rifle behind the seat in the cab. “They’re down in that valley, I know it. With four of us, we ought to be able to root ’em out.”
“True enough.”
“And really, the one we’re looking for is as big as the bed of this damn truck. How does something like that hide so well?” But even as he asked, he knew the answer. Hogs were shy, and easily spooked. If they heard or smelled you before you saw them, they’d vanish, and you’d never even know you’d been close.
“We got it to the trap that first night with no trouble,” Dolph said. “I suppose we can try baiting it without a pen. Get it used to coming up to eat.”
Jack looked up. “Wonder if we could get an infrared camera on a drone to help us find it?”
“Whoo-ee, listen to you,” Dolph teased. “I guess they mu
st’ve tripled your damn budget since my day.”
Jack laughed. “Well, that is a point. I don’t really have that extra thousand or so lying around in petty cash. I suppose we’ll just have to keep spending the only things we’ve got: time, expertise, and boot leather.”
Dolph closed the tailgate. “You know you can count on me, son. I still feel kind of responsible for this area.”
Jack looked around. “I still feel confused by it. I mean … how can they live like this in the modern world? No law enforcement, no civil authority, barely any schools. How has nobody noticed?”
Dolph leaned against the truck’s fender. “You want to know what I think?”
“You think we need a drink?”
“My God, you’re a mind reader.”
Jack laughed and got the hidden bottle of Jim Beam he kept under the floorboard mat, in a little recessed area he’d installed just for this purpose. Dolph opened the bottle, wiped the mouth with his sleeve and took a swallow. Then he said, “What do you think’ll happen if the Tufa decide we’re causing more trouble than we’re fixing?”
“I don’t know. They’ll stop talking to us?”
“Let me tell you a little story, son. Back around 1986 or so, during those glorious Reagan years, I got a call about some fellas out spotlighting deer over on the other side of Needsville. I drove out and, sure enough, caught ’em at it. They took off, and I followed ’em. We were on a stretch of road that was dead straight for a good two miles, and while I was looking right at ’em, they turned off onto a side road. Keep in mind I wasn’t a minute behind ’em, and I had my eyes on them the whole time.”
He took another drink before continuing. “When I got to the spot they turned, the road wasn’t there. There was nothing, just shoulder, and ditch, and field. Not a sign of them, no dust in the air, no headlights in the distance. Just nothing.”
“What did you do?”
“I drove up and down that stretch of road for half an hour. They hadn’t reached the curve ahead, which went the other direction anyway, and they sure hadn’t doubled back. They’d turned onto a road that just flat-out disappeared.”
“That’s not possible.”
“Of course it’s not. That’s why I came back when the sun came up. What you reckon I found?”
Jack shrugged.
“A road, just as pretty as you please. Wide enough for two cars to pass. Led up into the hills, past a whole bunch of old houses. Finally found the truck I’d seen parked in front of one of ’em. Rousted ’em out of bed, made ’em show me their firearms, and walked around their property. But of course, I didn’t find any proof of anything.”
“Of course.”
“Now, I grant you, the first thing anybody would say is, ‘You must’ve just missed the turn in the dark.’ You’ve known me for a long time, Jack. You think that’s what happened?”
“No,” he said honestly.
“Then how would you explain it?”
“I can’t.”
“I can. The Tufa have their own ways here. They don’t bother nobody, and more importantly, they don’t tolerate nobody bothering them. As long as you remember that, you’ll get along with ’em fine.”
“So you never did catch them poachers?”
Jack chuckled. “Never had to. Stopped in at the Catamount Corner—this was back when Mr. and Mrs. Goins ran it, before that gay fella and his New York boyfriend took it over—and just let ’em know that this sort of hunting was bad for everybody. About two weeks later, I heard from a friend at the hospital in Unicorn that a Tufa fella had been brought in, one who lived in that house where I found the truck I was chasing. Seems a buck deer just crashed right through the front window and gored him in the nuts while he was sitting on the couch.”
“That’s poetic.”
“Ain’t it? So see? Things do get handled here. It’s just … different.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. You about ready to go home?”
“I’m so tired, I might fall into bed and miss.”
Jack thought about Bliss’s offer at the fire station, but like Dolph, he was beat. And he had to come back tomorrow. “All right. I’ll pick you up in the morning and we’ll see what we can find during the day.”
He drove the old man home, but kept thinking about the look in Bliss’s eyes.
* * *
Duncan was back at the roadhouse on Monday for the first of the two funerals. He doubted he could survive it, but he had no choice. He was both the grieving boyfriend of one victim, and the lamenting best friend of the other.
These weren’t funerals in the traditional sense, of course. They were memorial services, or wakes, since neither had any body to display. And except for the crumbling remains of an old chapel of ease that nobody in their right mind ever visited, there were no churches in Cloud County. Brownyn Chess was married to a Methodist minister, and he’d spoken at funeral services in the past. But Duncan doubted Junior Damo would ever ask him to speak for any of his people. And both Kera and Adam were his.
Adam’s service was first, and was held at the Pair-A-Dice. There was some talk of holding it at the old Shine Cave, but past attempts at similar events had not gone well. Now the roadhouse’s tables had been pushed to the wall, and a dozen rows of mismatched chairs set out. Only about two dozen people attended, every one of them family except Duncan and his brother, Poole. Junior Damo didn’t even put in an appearance, which was pretty much the way old Rockhouse Hicks would’ve behaved.
Renny arranged a display with Adam’s old banjo, baseball cap, and favorite cowboy boots, a sort of stand-in for the coffin. And she stood in her black dress, playing long mournful notes on her fiddle, sliding in and out of every sad song she knew. And she knew a lot.
At last Adam’s father, Porter, stood up and walked to the microphone. He spoke about his son in flat, nonspecific terms, and then his mother, Vandeline, played and sang an acoustic version of Adam’s favorite song, Nickelback’s “Photograph.”
Duncan fought down the memories of all the times he’d teased Adam about this song, and his liking for Nickelback in general. “They sound like every band from the early 2000s got put into a blender, and this is what came out,” he’d told him. But Adam’s fandom was unwavering.
Then Duncan was asked to speak, but he demurred. Let them think I’m overcome with grief, he thought. I’m sure as fuck overcome.
When the ordeal was finished, lunch began. It was a typical Southern add-a-dish affair, with far more food than any gathering this size could eat. The idea was to have enough leftovers to tide the grieving family over for a few days.
Each dish had been sung over as it was prepared, soaking up the music of grief and loss, until some swore they could taste those very emotions in the glazed ham and mashed potatoes. Duncan couldn’t taste anything; he had no appetite, and couldn’t imagine ever having one again.
He was the unmoving center of the room, staring into space as people pulled out tables and set them up all around him. He didn’t even look up when they sat directly behind him, bearing mountainous plates of food.
“Hey,” his brother, Poole, said. He still didn’t look up. “You want something?”
“Nothing they’ve got here.”
Poole patted him on the shoulder and went to get in line for the food.
Duncan recognized the voice of Adam’s mother, Vandeline, from somewhere close behind him, and tried not to listen, but he couldn’t help it once he realized she was talking about him.
“I remember when Adam and Duncan here were little boys,” she said. She tousled the back of Duncan’s hair. “They used to run up and down the creek, seeing who could cram the most crawdads into an old mason jar.”
She kept rubbing his hair, and every muscle in his body tightened. He knew people watched him, the grieving best friend, in the same way they watched NASCAR, and for the same secret reason: They hoped to see a crash, and blood, and horror.
“They’d sleep over at each other’s house on the week
ends,” she continued. “I’d have to make them go to sleep, and even then, they’d stay up all night whispering.”
Her fingertips tickled the hair at the back of his neck. His jaw muscles almost spasmed as he clamped his teeth shut against any reaction.
“Some nights they’d stay up playing music together, especially when they got electric guitars. They’d get the most god-awful howling noises out of those things.”
Now she ran her fingertips along his ears. He kept his eyes focused straight ahead, not wanting to see if anyone was watching. His entire field of vision was the painted cinder blocks of the walls across the room, where the layers almost, but not quite, hid the texture of the concrete.
“They were such good friends,” one of the other women with her said. “They didn’t even fight over Kera.”
“They surely were,” Vandeline agreed, finally taking her hand away. “They surely were.”
* * *
“This is turning into a snipe hunt, not a pig hunt,” Dolph said through a yawn as he climbed into Jack’s truck.
“Yeah,” Jack muttered. After less than four hours’ sleep, they’d gone as deep into Half Pea Hollow as they could, following tracks and looking for sign. They’d glimpsed some normal-sized wild pigs but found no evidence of their monster. The dogs had done no better.
“How ’bout the elk we saw?” Jack said, searching for a bright side. Elk had been reintroduced in 2000, but they were still rare. “When I was training, I had to help put collars on some of the bucks. Did you know that in rutting season, elk breed eight to twelve times a night?”
“That’s why you hardly ever see them,” Dolph said dryly. “They’re exhausted.” He buckled himself into Jack’s truck. “You know, maybe that big pig has moved on out of your jurisdiction.”
“I should be so lucky,” Jack said, starting the engine.
“There’s always the chance that Max’s shot did get through, and it just took a while for it to finally die.”
“It killed somebody else. Not bad for a zombie.”
“You and I both know how dumb some animals are. You can shoot ’em through the heart, and they’ll run a mile before they realize they should fall over. I wouldn’t rule it out.”