Emeline circled to the steps and climbed. From inside she took the blanket she slept with and returned to the porch. She turned the Adirondack chair to face the burning tree and sat in it.
The sun climbed over the horizon and mist floated above the lake. Emeline turned the Adirondack chair to face the orchard instead of the ash of the walnut tree, but after an hour with Angus’s hind end protruding into her peripheral view, she realized there was yet another dog to deal with.
Emeline retrieved the rifle from the chicken wire and shifted several cages lower and stood in front of Widow McClellan’s bitch. Emeline cycled another round and cocked the hammer.
She released the crate door and stood back.
The dog growled but remained in the back of the crate.
“You can stay here if you want. You start to look or sound like the other, then you’ll get what he got. If you stay here, you’ll sleep in the house and your name will be Ruth.”
Emeline backed away. Half way to the house she again drew the rifle. Ruth had come to the front of the crate and peered at her.
“You can come and go as you please.”
Ruth leaped to the ground and trotted toward the burned McClellan house.
Back on the porch, with the sun fully above the horizon, Emeline telephoned Sheriff Heilbrun.
Ruth returned ten minutes later, and after a few growls, allowed Emeline to scratch her shoulders. She lay at Emeline’s feet.
Would Emeline move to the town house or stay on the farm? This place had potential. Crisp beams of gold warmed her bare arms. The farm was silent save Ruth’s thumping tail, and the chickens. The cattle… birds… frogs.
Perfectly silent.
Emeline shifted her broken leg out and nestled into the chair. Her coffee cooled, barely sipped, in a mug cradled on her lap.
Ruth perked her ears and lifted her neck, then climbed to her haunches. She watched a black and white car park by the Fairlane.
Standing beside his car door, Sheriff Heilbrun spent a long moment studying the ass and legs hanging out of the dog kennel, then approached the porch. He looked at her hands. He walked slowly.
“You said you had a rough night. That Angus in the kennel?”
She nodded. “That’s Mister Hardgrave.”
“You want to say what happened?”
“He was trying to take the dog out and got mauled.”
“Where’s the dog?”
“Still in the pen. Angus’s body blocked him in. I got a rifle and shot him.”
Heilbrun nodded, sat on the porch steps. “What else?”
“Angus said Jacob was down by the lake. Shot in the chest, but I didn’t see it, so I don’t know who did it. Brad Chambers—that’s his Fairlane—he’s in the barn. He was shot through an artery in the leg and bled out. By the time Angus brought him in from the woods, there was nothing I could do. We had him on the kitchen table until he died, then moved him to the barn. Angus wanted pancakes. I don’t know where the other dog is, and I don’t know who else might be dead in the woods. I didn’t look. I figured if Angus came back, he’d killed anybody that came for him.”
Heilbrun studied the cast on her leg. “You seeing Doc Fleming on that?”
“Not for a week.”
He nodded while he exhaled. “Both McClellans. Deet, Angus, Jake, Chambers, and four Pitlakes—all dead inside of two, three weeks. And you, or this farm, at the center.”
“The Pitlakes?”
“House burned to the ground night before last. All four died in the fire. Three had bullet holes in them. I talked to Angus and Brad that night. They happened to be passing by at one in the morning. I did some poking around and found Pitlake filed at the county seat to get a white Farmall he said he bought with the dealership in 1947. The dealership he bought from your daddy.”
“I was seven then, and not part of this farm ‘til a month ago.”
“That’s about when everything went to hell. No, I’m not saying anything. I talked to Doc Fleming and you being on your feet is a small miracle. I don’t imagine you could coax Angus to poke his head inside the pen of a fighting dog unless that’s what Angus wanted to do. As to the others, we’ll match the bullets up and sort it all out. You mind if I pour a cup of coffee and use your phone? I got a feeling this is going to take a while.”
“Help yourself. I’ll be right here.”
From the Author
Nothing Save the Bones Inside Her is an Indie published novel, which is another way of saying I published it. The novel has no significant marketing budget, no publicist, no team of Big Six publishers trying to figure out how to earn back the two million dollar advance they paid. In short, this book will pass away more quickly than most unless its readers keep it alive.
How? By spreading the word.
Before I mention a few things that are helpful to authors in general, let me point out that Nothing Save the Bones Inside Her is a moral story, as was my debut novel Cold Quiet Country, and my recent release, My Brother’s Destroyer.
I believe in absolute right, meaning, I believe a divine being created right and wrong, and that in the end, right will prevail. God will prevail. Each of my novels rests on the foundation that evil is real, wrong is wrong, and the struggle to defeat it is a heroic struggle, whether the outcome is secure or not.
I don’t subscribe to hopeless writing. I love rural noir because the darker the dark, the lighter the light. I hope that’s what you take away from this and all of my work… that the impossible fight is always worth fighting.
If you found value standing beside Emeline as she overcame her internal and external foes, please consider doing any or all of the following:
First, sign up to receive advance notice of price promotions, giveaways, new releases, and calls for advance readers. I will guard your email address with my life, and only send a message when one of the events above warrants it. I appreciate how loyal my readers are, and this email list allows me to be loyal in return.
Tell a friend. Tell ten, or two hundred, that you enjoyed Nothing Save the Bones Inside Her.
Spread the word on Twitter, Facebook, or some other social media forum.
If you belong to a book club, suggest this title.
Follow me on Twitter @claylindemuth and consider re-tweeting some of my tweets. Or friend me on Facebook—I accept all requests.
Write a review on Amazon or Goodreads. Or all of the above. Even a couple of lines about what you enjoyed about the story can help others make a decision. One of the most difficult obstacles for a self-published work to overcome is the reader’s worry that the work will be inferior, poorly formatted or edited, or just boring as hell. An effective review might address some of those concerns.
Write a blog review, or contact a blogger you know who is on the lookout for Indie creativity.
Or, if you know someone in media who likes to interview authors…
Whatever you do, please know that I am very grateful to you for purchasing Nothing Save the Bones Inside Her. I truly hope you found value in it, and I will feel deeply indebted if you help spread the word. Thanks—ten million thanks—
—Clayton
PS… Don’t forget the preview of My Brother’s Destroyer below…
Acknowledgements
This story would not exist but for the early encouragement of my wife Julie Lindemuth, and my great friends Loren Fairman and Dan Youatt.
My wife Julie has been a constant champion of my efforts, a dedicated beta reader, an insightful sounding board, and an all-around advocate of my career as an author. Of all the many blessings I’ve received in life, I am most grateful to God for her.
While I wrote the first version of this novel, Dan Youatt read it page by page and always came back telling me it sounded like a real story. As every author knows, hearty support like that is priceless. Thank you, Dan.
No one could ask for a better beta reader or friend than Loren Fairman. His insights increased clarity and cleverness, but most all I am indeb
ted for his unflagging support. For the last six years he has been a true friend in good times and bad, and I am grateful.
Another great champion of my work has been Jedidiah Ayres. Aside from delighting me with his devastatingly evocative prose, he has gone out of his way as an ambassador of noir to introduce me to local and national authors, invite my participation in Noir at the Bar events, and drink beer and coffee while bullshitting about the art. Although I wrote six novels before meeting him, I didn’t feel like an author until he brought me into the community. That’s pretty cool. Thanks Jed.
Although I have always been a great believer in Emeline, Angus, and Maul’s story, I have also been too close for objectivity. I am deeply indebted to the authors, reviewers, and readers who answered my call for help in deciding whether to publish this novel. Although their voices were not unanimous they gave me tremendous insights into the story and its audience. To them I am indebted for their honesty, advice, and generosity:
Rob Pickering
Aaron Reed
Judy Erslon
David Odeen
Ashley Tschakert
Jen at ChicksDigBooks.com
Lee French, (author of Dragons in Pieces)
Gonzalo Baeza, (author of La Ciudad de los Hoteles Vacíos)
Philip Thompson, (author of Deep Blood)
Les Edgerton, (author of The Bitch, The Rapist, and more)
Gabino Iglesias, (author of Gutmouth)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Clayton Lindemuth writes noir because that’s where he lives. He runs marathons. Reads economics. Is a Christian apologist, a dog lover, and eternally misses Arizona. Clayton is the author of Cold Quiet Country, Nothing Save the Bones Inside Her, My Brother’s Destroyer, and other volumes not yet released. He lives in Missouri with his wife Julie and his puppydog Faith, also known as “Princess Wigglebums.”
Preview of my brother’s Destroyer
One
I see the bastards ahead, fractured by dark and trees. Twenty—more. They voices led me this far. I touch the Smith and Wesson on my hip. They’s a nip in the air, harvest near over. Longer I’m still, colder I get.
One of these shitheads stole Fred.
Problems for him.
I’m crouched behind an elm, pressed agin smooth bark.
It’s dark enough I could stand and wiggle my pecker at em and they wouldn’t see. They’s occupied around a pit. Place swims in orange kerosene light with so many moths the glow flickers. Hoots and hollers, catcalls like they’s looking at naked women. Can’t see in the circle from here, but two sorry brutes inside are gutting and gouging each other. Two dogs bred for it, or stole from some kid maybe, or some shit like me.
All my life I got out the way so the liars and cheats could go on lying and cheating one another. I can spot a liar like nobody. But these men is well past deceit.
One of these devils got hell to pay.
Fifty yards, me to them. I stand, touch Smith one more time. Step from the tree. A twig snaps. I freeze. Crunch on dry leaves to the next tree, and the next. Ten yards. If someone takes a gander he’ll see me—but these boys got they minds on blood sport.
Sport.
I test old muscles and old bones on a maple. Standing in a hip-high crotch, I reach the lowest limb and shinny. Want some elevation. See men’s faces, other side of the ring—and if I don’t see dogs killing each other, that’ll be fine.
I know some of these men—George from the lumber yard, and the Mexican runs his forklift. They’s Big Ted; his restaurant connects him to other big men from Chicago and New York. Ted’s always ready to do a favor, and tell you he done it, and send a monthly statement so you know your debt. Kind of on the outskirts, Mick Fleming. And beside him is Jenkins. Didn’t expect to see the pastor here.
“Lookit that bastard! Kill ’im, Achilles! Kill ’im!”
Why looky looky.
That’s Cory Smylie, the police chief’s son, shouting loudest. Cory—piece a shit stuffed in a rusted can, buried in a septic field under a black cherry tree, where birds perch and shit berry juice all day.
I make the profile of Lucky Jim Graves, a card player with nothing but red in his ledger.
The branch is bouncy now, saggy. Stiff breeze and I’ll be picking myself off the ground.
I think that’s Lou Buzzard. The branch rides up my ass like a two-inch saddle and each time I move, leaves rustle. But I want to know if that’s Lou ’cause he’s a ten-year customer. Be real helpful if these devils was already drinking my likker. Little farther out and I’ll see.
Snapped limb pops like a rifle. I’m on the ground and the noise of the fight wanes, save the dogs. Hands move at holsters and silver tubes sparkle like moonlight on a brook. These men come prepared to defend the sport, and got more dexterity than I could muster on two sobers.
“You there!”
Voice belongs to a fella I know by reputation, Joe Stipe. We’ve howdied but we ain’t shook. A man with a finger on every sort of business you can imagine, including mine. Got a truck company, the dog fights, making book, and a few year ago sent thugs to muscle me out of my stilling operation. We ain’t exactly friendly.
Men gather at Stipe’s flanks as he tromps my way. “Grab a lantern there, George. We got company.”
I sit like a crab. The light gets in my face.
“Why, that’s Baer Creighton,” a man says.
“Baer Creighton, huh? Lemme see.” Stipe thrusts the lantern closer.
“That’s right.”
“Don’t tell Larry,” another says.
“He ain’t here tonight,” Stipe says. “What the hell you doing, Baer? Mighta got your dumb ass shot.”
“I was hanging in the tree because you’s a bunch a no-count assholes and I’d rather talk to a bag of shit.”
They’s quiet, waiting for something let em understand which way things’ll break.
Not tonight, boys. But I’ll goddamn let you know.
The hair on my arms floats up and static buzzes through me. I look for the man with a red hue to his eyes. Ain’t hard to see at night—it’s always easier at night—and it’s the one said, “Don’t tell Larry.”
I don’t try to see the red, or feel the electric. Gift or curse, I subdue it with the likker. Got it damn near stamped out.
“It’s just Baer,” Stipe says.
The men disperse back the fight circle, where a pair of dogs still tries to kill each other. Stipe lingers, and when it’s just him and me, he braces hands on knees so his face is two feet from mine. I smell the likker on him.
My likker.
“Come watch the fight with us assholes.” Stipe looks straight in my eyes. “And later… you breathe a word of this place, I’ll burn you down.”
“Didn’t come so I could write a story in the paper.” I crawl back a couple steps and work to my feet. My back and hips feel like a grease monkey worked em with a tire tool, but I won’t show it. We’s face to face and Stipe’s a big somebody; got me by a rain barrel. The fella give me the electric stares from the fight circle, that circle of piss and blood and shit and clay.
Expected to see Larry here. After thirty years of meditation, I don’t know whether to blame myself for stealing Ruth or him for stealing her back.
“I believe what you said about the newspaper, Baer,” Stipe says. “So what brought you to my woods?”
I meet his eye for a second or two and take note of his bony brow. “Nothing to say on that.” I turn and after a step he drops his hand on my shoulder. Spins me. I get the juice like I stuck my tongue on a nine-volt. His eyes pertineer shoot fireworks. He’s so fulla deceit and trickery, he’s liable to shoot me straight.
I lurch free.
“You remember what I said. I’m going to burn you down. I’ll find every sore spot you got and smack it with a twenty-pound sledge. You’ll pull your head from a hole in the ground, Baer, just to see that awful sledge coming down one last time. You best get savvy real quick. Don’t mess with a man’s livelihood.”<
br />
Heard rumors on Stipe going way back—how his truck company made lots of money after his competition died under a broke hydraulic lift with a sheared pin. Curious, is all. Got them lugnuts by his side when you see him in town, like he’s some president got a private secret service. Always some jailhound on the work release with a mug like a fight dog after a three-hour bruiser.
“They’s no such thing as impunity, Stipe.”
His look says he don’t ken my meaning and that’s fine as water. You’ll smack me down and every time I look up, I’ll see Fred. I’ll shove that impunity down your throat and you won’t know you’re filling up on poison. That’s what I’m thinking, but words ain’t worth a bucket a piss. I back away. His eyes is plain-spoke menace.
I’m so torqued I got to look for my voice. “Ain’t quite time to call it war. But I’ll let you know.”
I tramp into the woods and every square inch of my back crawls. I get far enough the static don’t bother me; bullets do, and if I was twenty years younger I’d run in spite of low-hanging limbs. But I’m fifty and my hipbone feels like it was dipped in dirt, so I stomp along and eventually I’m deep enough into the woods I turn.
Stipe still looks my way, but him and his boys is all shadows, demons.
Farther out, when the fight circle’s a slight glow through distant trees, I rest a minute on a log. They know I live and work at home. Wasn’t thinking I’d tip my hand just yet, but part of the curse of seeing lies is not being worth a shit at telling them. And knowing the bastard who stole Fred was in that crowd works agin my better judgment. It’s hard to hold your tongue while the plan sorts out—you want to let the bastard know something god-awful brutal is coming his way.
I stand, work my joints loose. I come to Mill Crick and follow south a mile, and pause at my homestead, a tarp strung tree to ground, a row of fifty-five gallon drums, a boiler and copper tube.
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