Soil

by Jamie Kornegay

  He’d spent the afternoon studying what he’d done and what there was still to do, whether to report it as an accident and take his chances with the law, or to ignore it, take the family and go, and hope no one came upon the scene until spring at the earliest, when the mowers found the stripped skeleton in the pasture. The repeated phone calls from the deputy cast doubt over these alternatives. Shoals would have another search party trampling the woods if his calls continued to go unanswered, and when they discovered the body, the inconsistencies would mount up quick—the missing cell phone, the deceased’s dirt-filled mouth, Jay’s bare footprints all over the scene.

  No, he had to get rid of this body too, if he ever hoped to make it back to town and earn his family’s forgiveness. He had to bury everything out here, the worst of himself and his deeds, both purposeful and accidental, and so he resolved to turn it all under, give it back to the land and let her take her muddy justice.

  He brought a couple of contractor-grade plastic trash bags, along with various other supplies, flapped one open and rolled the woodsman’s corpse inside, fastened it with a knot, and stuffed the bag inside one of the blue plastic drums from the house. Lying there beneath the man, indented in the earth, were the missing shells. Jay pocketed them and inspected the ground around the body, which was saturated with black blood. He used a spade to scoop up a few wedges of incriminating earth, tossed them in the barrel, placed the woodsman’s crutches and shotgun inside, along with the spent casing he found in the leaves, and sealed the lid. He gave the barrel a shove and rolled it over the jagged terrain, the body thumping around inside like a mound of heavy towels in a clothes dryer.

  When he got to the river, Jay stopped to catch his breath. The afternoon sky had become choked with clouds, and the air was thick in anticipation of rain. He was too far upriver from where he needed to be, but he’d made preparations for this. There was no time left for mistakes and improvisation.

  He removed the barrel lid and pulled out the body bag and the gun and the crutches and then rolled the drum down to the river to dump the dirt clods and wash out the blood. He dragged the plastic bag and the woodsman’s things down to the bank and covered them with brush and tied the victim’s bandanna to the branch of a fallen tree so he would see it from the river.

  He sealed the empty drum and rolled it back through the woods to the staging area, the same riverside spot where he’d murdered the stranger’s dog nearly a month ago and where he’d also stashed three more of these fifty-five-gallon blue barrels. He’d brought along as well an eight-foot bamboo pole from the pile of salvage wood he’d been collecting for frames and supports. The piece was sturdy and possessed a nice ridged grip. He used it to pry the old washed-up picnic table from the sand and dry mud near the bank.

  He dragged the table legs up from the shore to firm, level terrain and lashed together the four plastic drums, which all fit squarely beneath the picnic table and would act like pontoons for his fledgling rivercraft. He shoved the raft down to the shore, flipped it over into the water, and scrambled aboard with the help of the bamboo pole, stepping first onto the bench seat and finally atop the table itself. It made a hilarious and improbable craft, its decking two feet off the water. It required strict balance to steady the constant wobble, and he felt like a drunkard dancing on a tabletop. The threat of toppling over was ever present, but with a little practice he found his equilibrium and gave the picnic raft a gentle shove into the current with the pole.

  Due to the vessel’s height, Jay lost a good two feet of pole, but if he didn’t drift too far into the middle of the river, he should have enough length to nudge the floor. He spent several anxious moments getting a feel for the raft. He started out at an awkward side-to-side crawl but quickly learned it was better to push from the back, careful not to thrust too deep into the river bottom lest the mud snatch the pole away from him. Soon he let the pole glide in the river, using it like a rudder, and found the bamboo and water would perform the work.

  The current was mild, and before long he was nudging himself along as if it were just a pleasant outing. For a moment he felt positively free and adventuresome, like old Huck Finn, whistling his way downriver to recover the dead man he’d stashed in a trash bag along the shore. When he came within sight of the bandanna tied to the fallen branch, he briefly considered shoving on, just bypassing the whole gruesome task, let the river take him where it may. But unlike Huck, he wouldn’t be able to hide for long. He doubted the world still held so many wide-open spaces or even nooks and crannies where one might disappear.

  He guided the table to shore, moored it to a stump, and jumped into the brush. He uncovered the body bag and got plenty wet wrestling it onto the raft. He tossed the crutches on board and fished a couple of shells from his pocket and loaded the shotgun and slung it over his shoulder. He climbed aboard precariously and moved his new cargo toward the front and middle as a counterweight. When everything was settled and it seemed like the table wouldn’t flip, he set himself and turned the skiff around and began to punt his way upstream.

  The return trip was not nearly so idyllic, pushing against the flow with twice the weight aboard while racing the thunderhead that advanced from the north. If that storm let its entire payload go, they would be washed away—gun, barrels, picnic table, corpse, and all.

  By the time he climbed back upriver to the wallow, Jay was exhausted. He poled over to the bank and tied on to a drooping birch branch, shimmied across a limb and climbed to shore. He found his clothes where he’d left them, but that was not what he’d come for. He passed through the thicket and explored the clearing until he found Chipper’s mangled body. He collected the dog and scoured the ground until he found the shell casing.

  Back on the raft, he took a reverent moment to commit the pup to the river. It reminded him of what was at stake. No matter how cracked the plan seemed, it had to be executed.

  A light steady rain was falling now. The current had picked up. Soon he saw the bridge in the distance and redoubled his efforts, pushing himself along as color drained from the sky. Just when he’d grown confident maneuvering the raft, it was nearly time to cross the river. As he ventured near the middle, his pole was dipping lower and lower, threatening to crawl right out of his grip. There was no guarantee there would be a bottom to touch if he drifted too deep. Without control, he’d be no better than riding a piece of driftwood.

  He poled his way past the little sandy washout where Hatcher had introduced Jay to his coconspirator. No sign of the brute now. He pushed onward, scoping the shore. Maybe the beast had found dinner already. What then? There was no backup plan. He’d bet the farm on this roll.

  He passed into view from the road and was relieved to find no bridge fishers overhead. The rain was a mild deterrent and the rest was luck. Under the bridge the light disappeared, giving him a preview of the darkness he would soon encounter as the day slipped completely away. Water sluicing off the bridge made an echoing cascade. Even his heavy breathing reverberated off the concrete. The air filled with a deep groan, like a crypt opening. He wasn’t sure if it was the raft straining or the bridge shifting or the gator lurking around the piers.

  Jay punted a short way past the bridge, scoping out the banks of the river before he decided to head back the way he came. To turn the raft around he ventured a crossing into deeper water. He lost the bottom and clutched his pole tight while the rig drifted free. He leaned left and right, throwing his weight, searching for control of the vessel. The raft behaved at first, catching the accelerating current and moving him toward the opposite shore, but as he passed back under the bridge, an eddy near the piers snagged the craft and whipped it around. He repositioned himself, stumbling over the bagged corpse, which switched places with him at the stern. He caught traction with his pole off the port side and tried to slow the raft while pulling it to shore. It was working until he lost his footing and slid backward, causing the bow to rise. The raft nearly flippe
d backward. Jay scrambled forward on his knees, alternately guiding and braking with the pole. He heaved the trash bag forward to reassume his place at the rear while maintaining control and balance as the rain lashed down in cold, razor-edged drops.

  That’s when he felt the nudge. Something brushed against his pole. He mistook it for a log before it came again from the opposite direction, whacking the barrels. The craft shuddered and spun. He saw the ripple of stony black skin crest the surface of the water, which was churning with the weight of rain, and he watched it pass in front of the raft. He swatted it with the pole to confirm, and the creature doubled back and snapped the pole to splinters in its spring-trap jaws.

  Without his pole, the picnic-table raft picked up speed and asserted its own trajectory. He lost the beast in the rain, and then came a wallop from behind. It was pushing him ashore to beach and feast. They careened straight toward a tangle of limbs and brush on the bank. He knelt down and untwisted the knot of plastic and dumped the woodsman’s corpse onto the deck. He wrapped the shotgun in the garbage plastic to keep it dry for his last stand.

  When they capsized, everything went black. Jay felt himself in the river and the slap of the heavy wood as the table landed on top of him. He cradled the plastic-wrapped gun and offered the corpse out ahead of him. Water passed over him and then released him, and he held his breath until he felt a violent tug and his hands were empty. He took up the weapon and stood. Froth flew in his eyes and it was impossible to discern from the splashing whether it was mud or flesh. He heard grunting and thrashing but saw nothing. He flailed backward onto a slick tongue of land and into the claws of vegetation at the river’s edge, scrambling away deep into the belly of night.

  43

  The first drops of rain pecked the windshield of the Boss as Shoals eased up the driveway toward Mize’s. Reception on his phone flickered in and out. Maybe that’s why he couldn’t raise Leavenger after repeated attempts. The house was black, not a wick of light in the place. He sat in the driveway waiting for someone to come slinking out. Finally he killed the engine and got out, sat against the car listening to the loose pellets of rain brush the trees and gravel. It began to stream before long and he ducked under the carport, pulled out his pocket flashlight, and nosed around. No one answered his repeated knocks, so he tried the knob and let himself in.

  He called out for Mize and flipped the light switch, all to no avail. He waved the light around the mudroom and found what he thought to be a pair of men’s shit-stained underwear draped over the washtub. Upon closer inspection he determined the rusty stain to be blood. Shoals lifted the sopping wet skivvies with a screwdriver and dumped them in a plastic grocery bag for evidence, then made his way into the kitchen. Just looking for clues, he’d convinced himself. A fifth of good tequila called to him from the counter. He uncapped it and took a glass from the neat row in the cabinet and poured several healthy swigs. He meant to add a splash of water at the sink tap but nothing came. The place must be abandoned, Shoals decided. He walked room to room, swinging his beam, expecting at any moment to stumble upon slaughter. But each room was spare and orderly, no signs of struggle or wrongdoing. Just a mild rotten scent like dead mouse or leftover garbage.

  After a complete sweep of the house, Shoals came back to the living room and explored the bookshelves while the tingle of liquor made its own course through him. The book titles meant nothing to him, just represented ages of wasted time. He was interested to find a little wooden box containing marijuana dust and some paraphernalia. And then he discovered a child’s shoe box filled with photographs.

  He found a votive candle stuck to an empty CD case and lit it, sorted through the images by candlelight. They were mostly of the baby—sleeping, eating, standing, crawling, sitting up in the wading pool, sniffing a beer bottle, gobbling a mango. The baby, stupefied, propped up on his mother, looking over Sandy’s shoulder, a nice view of cleavage.

  There was Mize standing awkwardly beside another man, had to be his father, similar build and facial expression. He appeared sheepish next to the old man, more out of shame than out of reverence. There were friendly shots of the couple in their fairer days, always cuddled up and smiling. He collected the photos of Sandy and set them aside—her laughing, holding a football in the yard in a big jersey with a bandanna tied around her head. Intent, slicing birthday cake. Frustrated in glasses.

  He was mystified as to how a loser like Mize had won her heart, how he’d managed to lure her into the sack enough times to make a child, an admittedly cute little sucker. And he was curious about how he ultimately lost her. Had he taken his life for granted? Why? To Shoals it was unforgivable. He was never one to covet another man’s possessions, but he was touched by the rare desire to trade places with Mize, to go back to the start if only to look over his shoulder and imagine how he would do things differently. To solve the case at least.

  He helped himself to another glass of tequila and went back to the photo box. “Lord have mercy,” he proclaimed, his attention snared by a well-­handled photo, the wife in a flimsy bathing suit, which must have been taken years ago. He sat down in an easy chair and studied every millimeter. It deserved to hang in a museum, he believed. A candid classic of cheesecake photography. She was young and hopeful, very playful, suggestive. The look on her face said, This suit won’t last long past the shutter.

  He felt a stirring in his loins and might have been moments from intimacy had he not heard that most pleasing and dreaded of sounds, the chuck-chuck of a pump shotgun being readied. At the edge of candlelight, a barrel emerged from the shadows, followed by Mize, drenched and bedeviled, a look of queer menace all about him. A jolt of adrenaline raced up the deputy’s bones. He’d left the flashlight facedown on the shelf, and his gun was tucked under his leg. “Well, well, well,” he said with boozy cheer and peaceful intentions. “Look what the storm blew in.”

  “Where’s your warrant?” Mize asked.

  “No, just came for a friendly visit,” the deputy replied.

  “I don’t find it so friendly.”

  “But you just got here,” said Shoals. He remained pasted to his seat, trying to squirrel away the bathing suit photo into his pocket. “Hope you don’t mind I let myself in. Didn’t want to stand out in the rain.”

  Mize looked around, trying to piece together the scene. He noticed the box of photos on the floor, the glass of tequila on the armrest.

  “Look, I’m not trying to hide anything,” said Shoals. “Put the gun down and have a seat.”

  “You’re trespassing,” Mize replied. “You think you got special rights over and above me?”

  “Well, I kinda do. Don’t want to abuse them, but maybe it appears to you that I am.”

  Mize held quiet, his weapon still trained. For him, the explanation would never be good enough.

  “Okay, I guess you could say I’m here on official business,” Shoals said with sternness, speaking to reason, trying like hell to talk the gun to rest position. “It’s not all good cheer and conversation.”

  “Unless you got a warrant or a goddamn good explanation, you better get your ass out of my house or we’re gonna have some real trouble.”

  Shoals moved his leg millimeter by millimeter, trying to maneuver the holster free, to put the weapon within clean reach. “What have you been doing out in this weather?” he asked, trying to stall, to draw something out of Mize. He seemed crazed and unreliable. “You look a wreck, friend.”

  “Once more,” Mize said. “Tell me what you want, or get the fuck gone.”

  Shoals came to the bottom of his drink and set it aside. “A friend of mine has gone missing, called me yesterday evening and told me he was coming to see you. A fella named Leavenger. You know him?”

  “How come every time somebody comes up missing, you start nosing around here?”

  “Well,” said Shoals, “I started asking myself that same question. It intrigued me.”<
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  “It doesn’t have anything to do with my wife, does it?”

  So he knew. They’d obviously been in contact.

  “What would your wife have to do with this?”

  “You think I don’t know what’s going on?” cried Mize with a quake in his voice. “You got something on me I suggest you bring it or leave me alone. I got no time for this cat-and-mouse shit.”

  “I don’t have a damn thing,” Shoals replied. “My friend Leavenger, on the other hand, has made some interesting accusations. Interesting enough that I would be well within my rights taking you in for questioning. I didn’t want to play it that way, but your peculiar brand of hospitality gives me cause to reconsider.”

  Mize lowered the gun ever so slightly. “I don’t know any Leavenger. No one has been here in a week.”

  “You might remember Leavenger. Strange older guy, limping around, trying to get revenge for you killing his dog?” said Shoals. “It’s doubtful you’d forget him. Actually, I was hoping to get to you before he did. He aint altogether right, and I was aiming to protect you from whatever crazy idea he had rattling around in that hollow skull of his. But now I’m starting to wonder if I was trying to protect the wrong fella.”

  He caught Mize withering a bit. Shoals wasn’t sure if he could take him in peacefully. If Mize was guilty, he might be prepared to go all the way. They had that, among other things, in common.

  “And as for that pretty wife of yours,” said Shoals, licking two fingers and rubbing them together with his thumb, “I’d hate for her to get drug into this as an accomplice.”

  He reached over and plucked out the candle and rolled to the floor. The shotgun erupted with thunder and flash and a shatter of glass. Stray shot nipped Shoals in the side, the tender meat just above the hips. He yowled, whipped out his Colt, and returned fire, a couple of wild rounds that scarred up the walls if nothing else. He heard screeching feet in the kitchen and crawled out in blind pursuit.