by Shelly Frome
He approached the ramshackle cabin and hesitated. Off to the right of the sagging porch and to the rear, a large black-and-brown hound was smashing up against the gate of a wire-mesh pen; the hinges of the wooden gate squeaking, the gate itself seemingly giving way with each lunge. Off to the left, a compost heap lay under a wet glistening tarp. In the haze, the splintered porch railings directly in front appeared to be resting on sections of crosshatched boards which, like the gate of the hound’s pen, also seemed about to give way. The only sign of occupancy was the smoke curling up from a crumbling chimney.
Treading as lightly as possible, Josh mounted the plank steps, eased the screen door open and peered inside. Straining his eyes, he could barely make out a rough-hewn bookcase and a clothes rack displaying what looked like butternut-grey confederate garb. The odor of moth balls competed with the pungent odor of hickory smoke emanating from the stone fireplace and hearth at the other side of the room. In the dim light cast by the embers, the only thing that caught his attention was a cluster of ramrods, cotton swabs and brushes, a dish of black powder and a dozen or so lead balls lying haphazardly atop a long oak table.
But more telling were the logs strewn around the grate, as if someone had intended to stoke the fire and add more wood when he was startled and tossed the firewood aside.
More telling still was the torn box of .45 brass cartridges and the handful dropped on the plank floor by Josh’s feet. As though, at the same time, that person had ripped open the box, pocketed a slew of bullets and taken off. Doubtless, that person was Roy Holloway.
Turning around, looking out across the porch with the howling and lurching of the hound prodding him, Josh saw that the answers lay on the trail leading away from the cabin deeper into the woods.
He took to the trail. As if the unknown terrain and what was in store for him weren’t enough, the gauzy mist shrouded the fading remains of the day. The only thing he could count on was the notion that Sonny Drew was taking in the situation, was still a law enforcement officer, had a gun and a quick-draw baton and was acquainted with both Darryl and Roy. In effect, all Josh was doing was making sure there were no complications and Alice didn’t do anything to provoke Darryl or get herself into any further mischief. At least that’s what he told himself as he hurried along.
The trail quickly narrowed, hemmed-in on one side by stretches of crumpled barb wire, brambles and briars and on the other side by twists of hickory and gum saplings as the path wound down and around and continued to fall away.
Shortly, the howls of the hound back at the cabin became muted, replaced by the quick tweet-tweet-tweet of a whippoorwill overhead. Then silence, then another quick call. Not welcoming the dusk or singing his old sweet song but accompanying his warnings with a jittery flapping of his wings as he flit from perch to perch.
Josh realized the woods and underbrush would soon be full of creatures as it grew darker, causing more rustling, calls, jittery noises, stalking and possible cries of distress. But he shrugged this off as well.
As he made his way forward, he listened for the sound of voices. There was nothing. He keyed on sighting Drew’s tan uniform, fully realizing how difficult it would be to spot through the murky, winding terrain. Now and again, he stopped, on the alert for any sudden movement. Still nothing. Finally, around a tangled mucky bend he came upon Drew’s slight frame, motionless, fixated on something lying off the path.
Catching up with him, Josh was about to speak but Drew held up his hand, casting his gaze at a spot leading away through the brush. At first glance, Josh couldn’t tell what he was staring at. As if clueing him, Drew pulled out a tiny digital recorder. Talking in a shaky low monotone, he sounded more like a rattled bystander covering his tracks than an officer in the field making notes:
“Now it’s a little after five. What we got here off Wolf Creek Trail is a razorback hog. Freshly killed, all wet and muddy from the creek yonder, at least two bullet holes in the neck, still bloody . . . Spent its last breath trying to get away from the shooter, most likely . . . must’ve happened no more than an hour ago . . . Fact is, Darryl Purdy don’t carry a gun and his truck is parked by the hunting cabin and there is yet no sign of him or Roy Holloway. There’s no proof some runaway girl is anywhere’s around neither and that is the long and short of it.”
Sonny Drew pocketed his recorder but didn’t move, didn’t even acknowledge the fact that Josh was waiting by his side. Josh might have drawn some comfort from the fact that Drew also had a handheld digital scanner and walkie talkie in one of his belt pouches. In addition, the baton scabbard off his right hip was at the ready as was his holstered .38 service revolver. But Josh was more of a mind to get Sonny Drew on the walkie talkie to ask for some backup given his reluctance to admit that Alice was somewhere nearby and Darryl was still after her. A ploy Josh knew only too well: when the going gets tough, talk yourself out of it. Which, in effect, left Sonny Drew frozen to the spot as wary as can be; Alice hunkered down, either waiting for an opening to go through with her misguided swap or just plain looking for an opening.
Lowering his voice, Josh gripped Drew’s arm and asked what he was going to do. When that got him nowhere, he told Drew to at least call in and get some advice. When that also got no response, he pointed out that Darryl was armed with a knife and Roy Holloway had bolted from his cabin after grabbing several rounds of ammunition. If Drew didn’t want to get on the horn or was as hapless as Big Ed intimated, the least he could do was go on ahead and take some soundings. But Drew remained motionless biting his lip.
Giving up, Josh pushed on, blindly still hoping he could come upon Alice’s hiding place and spirit her away. He glanced back now and then to catch sight of Drew traipsing some twenty to thirty feet behind. Cutting through the stillness, the hound’s howling began to echo in the distance, as though it had succeeded in breaking loose and was foraging here and there for his master.
Josh bent low as he continued to work his way forward, wiping the drizzling mist off his forehead, straining his eyes, stumbling over roots, stopping every few minutes to wait and listen. All the while he kept checking on Drew bringing up the rear, seeming more and more reluctant to go on.
Then Josh stopped short. Somewhere close by he heard Darryl call out in a low singsong, “Gotcha.” Then again, “Hey, that’s right, little missy. I spy with my little eye.”
There were a few flutters and the far off baying of the hound but that was all.
Darryl broke the long silence, adding on to his singsong call. “If I was you, I’d give it up, you hear? Come clean about Bubba. And figure I won’t have to shake you to pieces no more.”
Still no movement up ahead and no reply.
“Hey, girl, I am on to you. You got it stashed and then there’s the goddamn rendezvous—got to be!”
Again Josh looked back at Sonny Drew whose eyes skittered back and forth as he pretended to draw his handgun and alternated by reaching for his baton.
“No use I tell you,” Darryl started up again, sounding more and more as if placating a wayward child. “I am walkin’ up from this creek bed, see? . . . And all you gotta do is hold still and tell me ‘bout you and Bubba and that stashed-away box that’s so all-fired important. Best make it quick afore mean ol’ Roy comes by.”
Around the next bend, Josh crouched down and tried to get a bead on what was happening. Up ahead above a thicket he could make out the rungs of a ladder propped against the trunk of a tree leading up to a broken hunter’s blind.
Another long silence as a breeze kicked up causing a crease in the gauzy haze.
Then, the next thing he knew, everything broke loose. There was Alice’s scrawny figure clambering atop one of the rungs clutching a pair of binoculars, twisting around and peering out. As Josh rose up to see what had startled her, he spied the tip of a long handled spade some thirty yards away sticking out of a web of vines and saplings; beyond that, a steep slope leading down to fallen tree limbs, their spiky branches jutting out of a creek
bed spanning across to the far bank. At the same time, emerging from the creek bed moving up the slope heading toward her, he spotted Darryl’s ratty Ole Miss cap and mop of white scraggly hair. In the distance, above the far bank atop some low-lying brush, the hound appeared in silhouette, moving in wild crazy circles, sniffing the ground. No sooner had the hound lowered its head when Alice yelled, “That’s right, that’s right! Bubba’s over there!”
Before Josh had a chance to stop her, she scurried down the ladder, broke to the near side, tugged and yanked the spade out of the tangle of vines and saplings and yelled out again. “Here! He can show you where Bubba is!”
Josh moved in closer by a willowy stand of tupelo gum, Darryl spun around and gazed below. There at the bottom of the slope was the tall sinewy figure that belonged to Roy Holloway. He had on a gray tunic gathered at the waist by a thick leather belt and what looked like a holstered cowboy gun. No hint of apprehension on his lean craggy face that Josh could tell. Not even when Josh moved past the gum saplings, Sonny Drew caught up to him and Alice inched forward did Holloway so much as flinch. It was as though all four staring down at him had crossed the line into some time warp. It wasn’t this century or last. It might as well be 1861, and anyone foolhardy enough to have strayed this far was fair game.
Another spurt of memory as Alice shouted, “But he wasn’t packing an ol’ six-shooter! He had a rifle and he shot Bubba dead!”
“No,” Darryl said. “Can’t be. Tell me she’s lyin’, Roy. Tell me she is clean outta her head.”
“Across the creek, up the bank where the dog is whining,” Alice said, pointing frantically. “You don’t believe me? Go see for yourself.”
Josh struggled to come up with something. Alice was no more than ten yards straight ahead hovering by a clump of brambles and twisted vines. Though Sonny Drew had brushed up against him, he was frozen, not about to do anything let alone step in. Out in front, in the open at the top of the slope Darryl’s slack-jaw kept working away as he glanced over at Alice and then back down at Holloway.
Darryl shambled down the slope a few paces and halted, his fingers twitching by his knife sheath.
“Roy, you gonna deny you done for Bubba? Come on now, you got one last chance.”
Josh knew it was only a matter of seconds but had no way of stopping it.
Standing his ground, looking up at Darryl, there was a flicker of a smile on Holloway’s lips daring Darryl to make the first move.
As if obliging him, Darryl flicked out his switchblade and drew even nearer. “Bubba was kin, you son-of-a-bitch.”
Bracing himself, egging himself on, Darryl yelled out, “I swore you’d best not come at me with that dumb-ass Reb cap gun. I goddamn warned you!”
With the flash of his blade, it all went to pieces. Three shots rang out, Alice screamed, Darryl crumpled to the ground. The hound yelped and sprang away from the far bank as Holloway walked up the slope towards Darryl’s prone figure taking his sweet time. Alice bolted past Holloway dragging the spade, muttering, “No, no, not me . . . not like the others, not me too.”
Another flicker of a smile as Holloway pivoted and called out, “Hold it, missy . . . right there.”
Josh jerked the baton out of Sonny Drew’s scabbard the second Holloway swiveled the old revolver, cocked the hammer back and took aim. Screaming, Josh rushed down and cracked the baton across Holloway’s wrist. The shot flared, splattering rocks and mud, the gun flying out of Holloway’s hand. Totally out of control now, Josh rammed the butt of the baton into Holloway’s rib cage, lashed out again and again until Holloway dropped to his knees, a look of disbelief registering on his face. Josh kicked the gun further away into the mucky weeds, flung the baton back at Sonny Drew and yelled at him to goddamn do something.
Ignoring the scampering hound and Holloway’s muted moans, he scanned the tracery of twisty shapes and shadows until he caught a glimpse of Alice emerging from the creek on the other side searching here and there. With her arms flailing every which way, she finally retrieved the long-handled shovel and set her sights on some spot above the short rise.
In his rush to catch up with her, he stumbled over a fallen tree, its jutting dead branches scraping his cheek. He picked himself up, waded across the chilly water and wiped the blood away onto his drenched jacket. Then he glanced back, trusting nothing.
The baying of the hound dissolved into pitiful whimpers which, in turn, gave way to Sonny Drew’s sputtering call for backup. Dropping the walkie-talkie, Drew groped for his service revolver. Clutching it with both hands, he placed himself a few feet above Holloway as Holloway made aborted attempts to scour around on his knees for his old six-shooter, his good left arm extended, his fractured wrist held against his ribcage, the soaking-wet hound blocking his every move. He kept this up as if possessed, trying to shove the hound away with his shoulders, the shaking weapon in Drew’s hand deterring him as well. Repeatedly, Holloway tried to get around Drew and the hound but to no avail until his movements subsided into slow motion and he finally collapsed onto his side.
Letting it be for now, Josh continued on after Alice until he spotted her wandering along the rise, muttering, “Not just Bubba, but two others . . . two more around here . . . two together, another two . . .”
Raising the long handle as high as she could, she plunged the spade into the molding leaves, then dug again and again until she uncovered the rotting handles of a wheelbarrow and plunged the spade there as a marker. “‘Way down deep to China . . . two lost souls on the highway of love . . . they’re here . . . they’re still there . . .’”
The second he reached her side, she stepped back and included him in her blurry survey. “Right, bloody teddy bear . . . but he’s okay, that’s cool. Then we got bloody Darryl, dead but not buried like Bubba here . . . or like these two down there. Long, long time ago . . . does anyone still remember?”
He tried to talk to her, give her some kind of comfort. But her beady little eyes kept darting around, her thoughts suddenly racing ahead about a cigar box, making a getaway and finding a way to still cash in. Before he could try again to calm her down, she bolted, heading away through the low-lying brush.
Glancing back one last time, he saw that nothing appreciably had changed. Bent over, still holding his fractured wrist against his side, Holloway tried in vain to get to his feet as Sonny Drew shoved him back down. The hound scurried between Darryl’s body and his master, sat on its haunches and started up again, completely at a loss.
With no other choice, and seeing that Holloway had had it by this point, Josh left the whole shambles in Drew’s hands and took off after Alice. He worked his way through the shrouded drizzle and prickly scrub, losing his bearings at least a half dozen times. Straggling along, he kept at it till he reached a makeshift plank bridge that forded the creek. Crossing over, almost losing his balance, he skirted around until he came upon the compost heap and the cabin. By then, Alice had already ripped out a cross-hatched section of rotting wood under the sagging porch, retrieved a cigar box and discarded an oilskin wrapping and rusty shotgun by the steps like so much trash.
Scuffing forward, the muscles in his legs cramped and aching so that he could barely walk, he tried to get Alice to wait up. But she kept on hustling past Darryl’s red pickup and Drew’s cruiser, through the overarching oaks, onto the muddy and pitted cul-de-sac at Piney Woods Road and didn’t stop till she climbed inside the splattered Chevette. And even then, shivering and jabbering nonstop, she hugged the cigar box for dear life, yelling back at Josh to get a move on, gun the motor and take them the hell out of there.
32.
“I don’t know about this,” said the sandy-haired doctor as he scanned Alice’ chart. “What’s your name again?”
“Josh.”
“And your relationship? I still didn’t catch it.”
“Never mind. Just talk to me, will you?”
Another shake of the head. “Okay. Her internal temperature checks out, so we can rule out hyp
othermia. But we still have the question of trauma. Though she won’t admit it, she’s obviously been badly shaken up. You couple that with the last time we saw her. After that likely concussion when, out of the blue, she ran out of here.”
“I know, I know,” Josh countered, “because she received a call that set her off. Okay, granted she’s just been through something, but now it’s finally over and done.”
“So you say. But the issue is still the aftermath. The issue is medical. As it stands, she is in no condition to leave. And you yourself could use some attention. Your eyes are bloodshot, you look like it’s been some time since you slept, your–”
“Fine, I get it.” Self-consciously Josh ran his fingers across his scraped cheek which was still caked with streaks of blood and unzipped his muddy windbreaker. “But the thing of it is . . . You see, I promised it was only going to be a routine checkup, just in case. Isn’t there some way you can at least compromise?”
They had been going on like this in the corridor outside one of the examination rooms in the ER for at least ten minutes. Josh had tried different ploys to sidestep what had happened and appear to be someone who could be entrusted with Alice’s welfare. But he was obviously doing a lousy job.
Shaking his head yet again, the doctor slipped his bifocals into the top pocket of his scrubs and reluctantly gave it some more thought. But only because there was no way of pinpointing how emotionally resilient Alice was. His decision—which certainly wouldn’t placate Alice but was as reasonable as it was going to get—sent Josh back into the windowless room to break the news and try to persuade her it was no big deal.
Initially, however, all he could do was get her to stop pacing around in the generic pajamas the nurse had foisted on her and quit re-examining the items in the cigar box.