Soil

  She opened the front door. “Then you should sleep just fine tonight.”

  On his way out, he stopped to give her one last chance. “I had to break one of your windows out, I’m afraid. I’ll take care of that tomorrow.”

  “You don’t have to do that, really,” she said. “I’ll have my landlord tend to it.”

  “Trust me,” he said, leaning in. “I don’t mind crawling under there and fixing you up.”

  She hung her head. What shameless bargaining, what priceless insurance he could provide. If it was more than pepper spray she needed, and if it was tonight that she needed it, then here he was.

  “Okay,” she said, closing the door quietly. “Let’s go down and take a look. See just how big a mess we’re talking about.”

  A hint of a sly smile crossed his face and he knew better than to speak. She led him into the kitchen, stopped and gave a listen down the hall. She opened the cellar door and descended daintily ahead of him, her nerves pulsing, a slight blush in her abdomen. He placed the gun on the kitchen counter and followed, eager to go down with her to this secret place where strange bodies could be fed what they so ravenously deserved.

  28

  Two nights later, Shoals tried and failed to raise Sandy on the phone. She was busy, playing hard to get, whatever it was women did when they were suppressing their true desires. He began to ponder Baby George’s offer. He wasn’t interested in hunting ducks with the boys, especially while Dun Spiller was away. Dun was one of the city cops going on the trip, which created an opportunity that Shoals had been waiting a year or more to exploit. He’d done a little research and learned that Dun was taking both sons, the dogs, and the neighbor too. The circumstances were too perfect to ignore, his urges too dark to suppress.

  Dun’s wife was the beautician Rochelle, whose famous curves had all the boys wondering if the goods were genuine. He’d cased the house already, found a three-inch sliver of open bedroom curtain, but had never been able to set foot in the yard for the rambunctious dogs. Dun himself was no one to cross, a chiseled-out, six-foot-six musclehead, who lacked any sense of humor or mercy or even the capacity to appreciate and satisfy such beauty as lived under his own roof. With all obstacles removed, it was Shoals’s scene to investigate.

  He followed her Friday after work. She stopped for a drink with the girls and made it home by 7:30. Shoals was already there, hunkered down in a lawn chair out back in the shrubs right beside the window. She went straight to the shower. He couldn’t ask for a better scenario.

  She came out of the bathroom wearing only a towel turban. He watched her air-dry and decided she was all natural by the way her breasts wobbled when she pranced and bent over. She stood and admired herself in the full-length mirror, the sheen down her butterscotch body, not a tan line in sight. She squirted up a palmful of lotion and began lathering her legs, reaching deep between her thighs. She kept things proudly mammalian down there, which surprised and delighted him, she being the professional groomer, always so polished and smooth in her exposed features. These were the details that excited him, the things only the most intimate loved ones or medical professionals knew about her. Holding this information granted him membership to an elite club, and it was being in the know, as much as the obvious sexuality, that excited him.

  But Shoals got greedy and brought out the video camera, perched it on the windowsill and captured her lubricated hands as they moved over her stomach and ribs, kneading her breasts, those splendid orbs slipping and twirling through her fingers with the ease and pliability that only natural flesh can achieve.

  Rochelle must have seen the pinprick of red light from the camera. She stopped cold as a wary doe in a scouted field, calmly wrapped up in her robe, and disappeared into another room. He thought nothing of it until she appeared around the corner with a high-beam flashlight and a baseball bat. He managed to scramble over the fence, but not before she recognized him and called him out by name.

  Five minutes later he was doing ninety in the Boss, his heart racing the back roads toward Silage Town. If he could reach the mud races in time, he’d have an alibi. But then his uncle called and told him to get his ass back straightaway.

  In his office, the sheriff was fuming. “Her husband is a friend of mine,” he said with characteristic stern calmness. “I practically had to beg her not to call the city to investigate this. She wants to press charges.”

  “What has she got?”

  “Invasion of privacy for sure. Did you expose yourself to her?”

  “Hell no.”

  “She said you were taping her, Danny. Is it true?”

  “What, do you want to confiscate the evidence?”

  “This is serious, son!”

  After a dressing-down by his uncle, Shoals sought immediate counsel from another high school buddy, Jim Tom Fussell, the notorious local attorney, a few shades paler even than Shoals in his scruples. The deputy confessed his trespass while his old pal listened intently. “Okay, first off,” said Fussell, “are they real?”

  “I believe them to be.”

  “You lucky son of a bitch. And you couldn’t convince her to let you stick around and finish the rubdown?”

  “She didn’t appreciate the interruption.”

  Fussell took notes and asked pertinent follow-up questions. “This is a simple one,” the attorney assured his client. He telephoned the woman right then and there.

  “Hi, Rochelle? This is Jim Tom Fussell. Sorry to bother you at this hour, but I heard you had an unpleasant run-in earlier this evening. . . . Well, I assure you I take this matter in the strictest confidence. Were you able to identify the prowler? . . . He’s sitting right here in my office and swears to me he was not even in town at the time you described. . . . I see. Okay then, listen, Rochelle, I’ll have to insist that you not pursue this any further, okay? . . . Because my client is a respected servant of the people with a clean record, and he did you no harm. . . . Well, then, Rochelle, this could get ugly very fast. . . . Because, dear, by law your curtains were open enough that my client was able to view, without obstruction, your nakedness and lewd behavior. . . . You exposed yourself to him and committed an indecent act in full exposure to the public. By law you have committed the crime, Rochelle, and I am not afraid to bring this to trial. . . . I assure you it could easily be construed as indecent. We have some pretty damning evidence. Pretty damn impressive at that. . . . What would you say if I told you there’d been complaints in the neighborhood that he was investigating? . . . Well, the scenario that concerns me is the eleven-year-old boy on the second floor of the Baptist recreation center behind you, innocently looking out the window and catching a view through your open curtains of what you’ve been doing in your bedroom. He’s too young to be exposed to that.”

  Shoals squirmed in his chair. He’d been in a pickle a time or two stemming from his virile nature, but he had never felt like he was taking advantage of people he’d sworn to protect, even though this was technically outside of his jurisdiction. Bringing in his profession was a bad move. He knew Jim Tom was just trying to get control of the situation, but this seemed out of bounds. He tried to wave his attorney off, but Jim Tom gave him a thumbs-up and a nasty grin.

  “Fondling one’s genitalia in front of an open curtain within view of a church has always and ever will be considered indecent, at least in any community where I intend to live,” the lawyer said as he ran his hand over his own chest in lewd exaggeration, flicking his tongue out spastically over his prim goatee.

  Shoals shook his head. Dun was going to murder him. Word would spread all over town by Monday afternoon.

  “My client is willing to drop this completely and let it always remain an awkward incident between the two of you. No one else has to know. But if this gets out and his reputation is jeopardized, we’re going all the way. I’d hate for this video to go live on the internet. Don’t put your kids through that
shame.”

  There were several more painful minutes, during which Shoals could hear Rochelle screaming through the phone. Fussell mocked her anger with a chattering hand gesture. He was having a blast.

  The negotiation ended in a stalemate as near as Shoals could tell, but Jim Tom assured him it was over. “She won’t breathe a word, believe me. She’ll cool off and realize she’s got nothing to gain and everything to lose by starting a fight.”

  “You know, I should be on top of the world right now,” said Shoals, “so why do I feel like everything is going south?”

  “Forget about it, man,” Jim Tom insisted. “It’s not your fault she’s got the most bodacious tatas in town. Believe me, you’re not the first man to try and sneak a peek. Hell, I might consider getting an injunction and rigging a camera up in the tanning beds.”

  Shoals thanked his counsel, shook his hand, and told him good night.

  “Ho, ho, ho. Wait a minute, pal. Let’s see this videotape. That’s your retainer, fella.”

  “There is no tape,” Shoals lied.

  * * *

  He took the long way through the country, barely driving sixty, and he didn’t have any particular place to go. He didn’t want to go home. He’d be too tempted to watch the video. He certainly couldn’t bear visiting his mother.

  He wondered how this would affect his run for sheriff. The only proof was under his seat, a small unmarked cassette. It was tempting to stop on a bridge and throw it in the river, but that would be like dumping the Mona Lisa. He tried to convince himself that everything was fine, that it would all blow over. He could twist it any way he wanted. Neighborhood watch. He was checking on a fellow officer’s family, all of it just a misunderstanding. But this sort of sensitive information, if it found its way into the wrong hands, could be devastating to him.

  As he rounded one of the darkest curves on Silage Town Road, his headlights honed in on the ass end of a rusty Pontiac Bonneville splayed out in the lane. He swerved to the left to keep from hitting the car. A handful of black kids went wide-eyed in his beams. He ripped the wheel back to the right and just missed hitting a dog in the oncoming lane. The Boss spun around and nearly flew off into a kudzu gulley, but Shoals managed to glide it to a backward stop on the shoulder. He shuddered and inhaled as his heart swallowed a gush of adrenaline. The slalom stripes on the road painted a story of near disaster. He saw the motorists hooting and jumping.

  A biblical rage flared inside him. He erupted from the car and gave them all a rawhide cussing. A wail of depravity and damnation that found everything about them to insult.

  One of them with large bleary eyes and wild wiry hair charged back, “Who da fuck you think you is?”

  Shoals ran over and got right in his face, threw back his vest with the shield. “I’m the goddamn sheriff, you spook motherfucker!” he cried, the Colt on his leg offering silent validation. “And who’re you? Was this your bright idea, to leave this piece of shit out in a blind curve?”

  There came no response, neither from the tall bold one, nor from a string-bean teenager with nervous eyes pacing behind the car, nor from the cool woman with tight lips and a bandanna tied around her head, standing in the weeds. They were all young but wised up quick. They’d probably heard the stories of furious white men who should never be crossed alone on a country night.

  “Don’t you know what the shoulder of the road is for?” Shoals hollered. He put his finger in the big one’s face. “Now get this goddamn wreck out of the road before I stomp a mudhole in your ass and walk it dry, boy!”

  The kid off to the side ran into the woods. The big one turned to look and then shrugged. “Who gonna help push?”

  The three of them tried to heave the car forward, but it wouldn’t budge. “Put it in neutral, dipshit!” Shoals barked.

  The woman hopped inside and put it in gear. At this point Shoals was so dosed he could have flipped the car into the ditch by himself. He helped push the whale out of the road and asked if they needed a tow. No one answered.

  “Are you deaf and dumb?”

  “Can’t pay for no tow,” the man said, a bit too snippy for the deputy’s taste.

  “What’s the matter, your welfare check hasn’t come in?”

  The man simmered.

  “You could afford to put this stupid-ass spoiler on a goddamn Bonneville. That’s a waste of good cash if you ask me.”

  Everyone panted in the nervous dusk. A truck driving in the opposite direction barely slowed down.

  “You live close?”

  “Close enough.”

  “Close enough to walk?”

  No one dared give away the address.

  “Wait here.”

  Shoals stormed off, his arms churning, his scowl cutting deep into his face. “Your inspection sticker’s out of date too!” he yelled, smacking the car hood. “And whose fucking dog is this?” Even the mutt, standing anonymously across the road, ducked his head in deference to the crazed deputy.

  Shoals jumped in the Boss and threw a shower of gravel over the stranded motorists.

  When he was back in range, he called a tow truck driver he knew out near the highway. The sheriff’s department would be charged, but it was better than somebody getting killed. These country dopes didn’t have the sense to operate precious machinery. The fact that they were ever granted licenses in the first place was proof of a broken bureaucracy.

  Danny sped with sick urgency over the empty back road. He started to despair ever so slightly, having never spoken to citizens that way. Any other day he would have seen an opportunity to help, a lesson to impart instead of a fool to insult. He’d need several stiff drinks and some primo tail to come down from this angry high.

  He turned onto the Tockawah Bottom road and let the engine unwind. Down near Mize’s place he wondered if word of his indiscretion would ever reach Sandy. He could write her off if that happened. The night before she’d only offered him a taste, and now he wanted the whole pie. But she wouldn’t come tumbling into bed with a back-alley perv. She was too smart and good. He needed her to reform him, if only just a little.

  Across the river, a crowd had assembled off to the right in one of several acres of fields spread out and segmented by thin stands of river birch. He pulled over to the shoulder and got out, leaned against the warm car, and watched the scene in the bottoms below.

  Two rented light towers, fed by a sputtering generator, stood at either end of the field, streaming down their halide glare on the track, which was a single muddy lane running the width of the field. Trucks were parked in semiorder along the turnrow, all the way to the road, and a ragtag rock band hacked out dubious classics while guys in jeans and tight white T-shirts clomped around in the mud, their faces obscured by low caps. Some of them were draped with girls in snug jeans or hot pants, their wrists laden with bracelets and sloshing cups of amber desire.

  Two large mud trucks were parked at one end of the track, waiting for sport. Men in coveralls fussed underneath, running from one end to the other, perched on step stools and peering under the hoods.

  When the time arrived, the crowd was called to order by a barker with a bullhorn. Distant cheers followed, and the band collapsed their tune in reverence. Motors revved, cups were raised, hoots and hollers sounded in the moonglow. A pistol cracked and the trucks erupted in a shower of black rain. They scrambled and fishtailed down the rutted lane, the crowds cheering them on. Some of the women turned away from the spray while the men held out their arms to embrace it. It couldn’t have lasted more than eight seconds, a close finish. The bullhorn proclaimed one of them the winner.

  Shoals decided it was best to watch from the road. If he went down to join the fun, he would drink way too fast and he might get sloppy, hustle one or two of these lovelies into the Boss and drive them to his place. He’d take things a little too fast, maybe get a little too rough, and they’d be
stranded together until morning. They might get their feelings hurt, start calling daddies and boyfriends. It was not the way to go, but he wanted it terribly after such a shameful night.

  A hooting truckful blew past him, some perky blondes in the back waving their arms, shaking their tails and their plastic cups. He could feel the sap rising inside him. He’d already picked out the one he would take home, could see their humpback frolic like a flash from the future.

  Just then a scream arose from the mud pits. A woman’s shriek. Hard to tell if it was a playful drunken girlish scream or one of true horror. He observed them bunching together. The crowd’s murmur became excitable and uniform in recognition of a common danger. He jumped in the Boss and sped down the gummed-up lane toward the melee, his official blue beacon twirling on the dash.

  He parked in the row and went straight for the knot of rubberneckers.

  “What’s all the fuss?” he called, and the crowd parted for him. Girls braced each other, and underage kids dumped their cups.

  Hutch Littlejohn stepped forward and proud. “Get a look at this, Danny,” he said, pointing a flashlight beam on the ground.

  Shoals took the light and squatted to the earth. “I’ll be a son of a bitch.” He took a pen from his inner vest pocket and poked at the lump in the mud, turned it over.

  “What is it?” asked a tipsy blonde.

  Danny picked it up by the pinkie. “We’ve got us a crime scene, boys and girls.”

  Racing fans disbanded as though he’d offered to take them all to the station. There came a frenzy of kids crawling into trucks and a long trail of taillights and mud tracks tearing toward Silage Town, rambling fast and innocent back into the night.

  29

  Friday night Jay talked himself into driving to town to pick up Jacob. He thought they might go to World-Mart and spend the gift card on supplies for the following weekend. He figured the cops would be too busy with weekend mischief to give him a passing thought. He’d get in and out, maybe judge Sandy’s response, her sense of surprise, to determine if she was in cahoots with the law.