“You’re kidding me, right?”
“Does anything about this .45 caliber look like a joke to you?”
“So, what? You’re going to kill me now? You’re going to kill the one person capable of making you the wealthiest man in McFalls County?”
“I told you, money isn’t an issue anymore. I found my brother’s money, so that game is over. Your drug deal with the bikers isn’t happening. That only means I needed you here for one reason.” Clayton clicked back the hammer.
“You’re making a mistake.”
The gun didn’t drop an inch. He took another step toward her. “I said get on your knees.”
“I will do no such thing,” she said and then as if she was talking to the trees, quietly she said, “Take him, Chon.”
Clayton took another step and grinned. That was all the proof he needed.
Vanessa spoke louder the second time. “I said take him, Chon. It’s gone south. Take him, now.” Still nothing happened. The knocking of an old Ford engine caused Vanessa to turn and look behind her. Scabby Mike’s pick-up was coming up the dirt road toward the compound. She turned back to Clayton but was beginning to look desperate. Mike pulled through the gate and cut the engine to the truck. He reached over the seat and opened the passenger door. Vanessa and Clayton both watched as Mike kicked Chon’s lifeless body out into the gravel—a single, bloodless bullet hole above his left eye.
Clayton lifted his hands slightly and looked at Mike disappointed.
“What?” Mike said. “I didn’t do it on purpose.” Mike circled in front of his truck. “The little fucker just didn’t want to cooperate.”
Vanessa turned to Clayton and cold fire burned in her pale blue eyes. Her demeanor switched for a third time.
There she is. Clayton thought. That’s the real Vanessa. Finally.
“You didn’t have to kill him. He did nothing to you.”
“Please. He would’ve killed me sure as day if Mike hadn’t got to him first.”
“You’re a sheriff, Clayton. Not a murderer. You don’t have to do this.”
Clayton looked down at his shirt and then unpinned the silver star from above the left pocket. He tossed it in the dirt. “Not anymore,” he said. “Not as of right now.” He took a final step forward, putting the barrel of the Colt just inches from Vanessa’s pale face. “Now get on your fucking knees before I blow them off you.”
Vanessa’s hands began to shake as she stood her ground and stared into Clayton’s gray eyes, searching for an angle—for mercy. She found nothing. After a few seconds of silence, Scabby Mike produced his own gun and racked the slide. Finally, Clayton watched as Vanessa vanished and Bessie May Viner took her place. She looked humbled and weak, on the verge of tears, and then she did the one thing she had vowed never to do again since the day she left Boneville. She obeyed and dropped to her knees.
“Do it, then, you fuckin’ hillbilly. Go ahead and do it, but don’t think I’m going to beg you for anything.”
Clayton got close enough to her to see the sweat on her forehead caking up her make-up. She looked down at the gravel. “I told my mother you were no different than the rest of them.”
“You were right, and the only reason your mother is still breathing is because of what she did for Kate. Her last-ditch effort to make right all the things you did wrong.”
Vanessa looked up at him, cocked her head and stared directly down the barrel of the .45. “You met my mother, right?”
“I did. She begged me to spare you. Why would she do that if she didn’t think you were guilty?”
Vanessa didn’t drop her stare. “Well then, let me ask you a question, detective. After spending time in the same room with my mother, do you really think she could’ve driven those back roads and found Kate, much less lift her unconscious into her car? She can barely lift herself out of a chair. Did it ever occur to you that she might’ve had help?” She cut her eyes at Chon’s dead body as Mike dragged him across the gravel lot. She looked back down at the dirt and Clayton held his gun on her long enough for Mike to put Chon’s body in the trunk of the BMW. Vanessa flinched when Mike slammed the hatch.
Clayton holstered the gun. “Go home, Vanessa.”
She looked up at him. More resentful then relieved.
“It’s over. Go home.”
Vanessa didn’t waste any time getting to her feet. “Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
“And I don’t have to worry about that one?” She pointed at Mike. “Or the big, ugly one that killed Tate coming after me once I leave?”
“No, but I want you to leave my county and don’t ever come back.”
Vanessa didn’t need to be told again. She scrambled to the car, and turned the engine over before she even had the door closed. Mike moved to stand next to Clayton and they watched her circle the lot. Within seconds she was gone, leaving nothing but a cloud of dust.
Mike tucked his gun back into his pants. “You sure about this, Clayton?”
“I am.”
“Even after what she did?”
“I am.”
“She didn’t hesitate calling her little buddy to kill you.”
“I know.”
*
Clayton walked back to the porch and picked up his cane. “What did you do with the gun you shot the little guy with?”
“It’s with him in the trunk of her car.”
“Is it traceable?”
“To him, maybe. It was his.”
Clayton laughed a little and took a seat on the front steps.
“What?” Mike said.
“Nothing, man. Give me a minute.” He laid his gun down on the porch next to him and took out his phone. He tapped in a number and it only rang once.
“Special Agent Finnegan.”
“Hey, Charles.”
“Well, hello there, Hayseed. I must’ve hit the white-boy lottery, getting to talk to you twice inside of a week. What’s up?”
“I can’t talk long. I just wanted to let you know I’ve got a line on your Fannin County murder.”
“Do tell.”
“The car you asked me about. I got a call from a buddy who said he just saw it up by Burroughs Summit.”
“What buddy?”
“Does it matter?”
“I suppose not. You sure it’s the same car?”
“Pretty sure.”
“How long ago?”
“Just now. There are only three main arteries that head off Bull Mountain. If you can get your people in place, it’ll be like shooting fish in a barrel. You can sew up Sheriff Kirby’s murder”—Clayton smiled at Mike—“and who knows what else you’ll find.”
“I love it when you talk all cryptic like that, Hayseed.”
“Well, just be quick about it or you’re gonna miss the boat on this.”
“Okay, I’m on it, right now.”
“Wait, Charles, one more thing.”
“Shoot.”
“The job you mentioned last time we spoke—with the Atlanta office. Is that still on the table?”
“You’re damn right it is.”
“Are you free to talk about it anytime next week?”
“Clayton, I work for the GBI. I’m always free.”
“Then it’s a plan.”
“What about your current gig? Do you think the fine, upstanding citizens of McFalls County can do without their fearless sheriff?”
Clayton looked over at the glint of silver in the gravel. “Well, seeing as I just quit, I reckon they’ll have to.”
“Well, hot damn, Hayseed. Dinner, then?”
“Only if you’re buying.”
“That’s a deal.”
“We’ll talk again soon. Right now, you need to go clear a murder.”
Clayton ended the call. Mike sat down on the steps next to him. “You were never going to kill her, were you?”
“No, Mike. I’m not a murderer, and believe me, life in prison will be worse than death for a woman like that.”
&
nbsp; Mike shook his head. “See? Halford was right to be afraid of you.”
*
Mike made his way off the summit and Clayton watched him go. Once the old truck had disappeared from view, he walked to the Bronco and opened the back latch. He leaned his walking stick on the bumper and pushed the McFalls County-issued duffle bag full of plastic-wrapped wads of cash to the side. He lifted out two five-gallon jerry cans of gasoline and carried them one at a time to the porch. It took him about ten minutes to soak both the inside and outside of the house. It took less time than that for the Zippo he’d bought a few days ago at Pollard’s to light up the trail he made out into the lot. There was no one around for miles, and he’d made sure that Mike would be busy enough with his share of the money to not have to come back. The house was far enough away from the wood line for it not to be a risk for a forest fire so there was no reason to even call County Fire when he was done. The parts of the old house that were still made of wood went up instantly and oddly, Clayton felt no remorse. He watched it burn long enough to make sure the job was thorough, and then tossed his cane into the back seat, cranked the Bronco and pointed it south toward McFalls Memorial. His whole life he’d been pulled in two directions. Would he be the man at the top of the mountain or the one crushed underneath it? Clayton had made the decision to be neither. He never even looked in the rearview mirror as he cleared the gate. He turned on the radio in the Bronco and let the sound of Waylon Jennings fill the inside of the truck as the highest point of Bull Mountain burned away.
EPILOGUE
T&A TRAVEL STATION
HART COUNTY, GEORGIA
1972
Annette rifled through what was left of the cash she had, and separated out the eleven dollars she needed to pay her check. That left her with eighty-nine dollars and sixty cents. She felt like the money should’ve lasted more than two weeks. She also thought that, after two weeks, she’d be out of the state, but there she was. At least she was out of McFalls County. That thought thrilled her. She’d never even seen flat land before, but every time she began to feel good about herself she stopped it cold by thinking about her children. She nearly burst out crying again. She’d already done it twice since walking into the truck stop, and people had begun to stare. Although, maybe it was because of the way she looked. She hadn’t taken a shower since those nice people who gave her a ride in Habersham bought her a room at the Motel-6. After the shower in that place, with those cute little bottles of fancy soap, she’d felt the cleanest she’d felt in years, but that was over a week ago, and now she felt like a filthy hippie. She was only a few days away from standing at an intersection holding a cardboard sign. Her hair was so greasy she had to pull it back in a bun to keep from scaring herself in the mirrors of gas-station bathrooms that had become her new method of hygiene.
“Should I take that?” the waitress said as she passed, pointing at the check and the cash on the table.
“Oh, yes, ma’am. Thank you.”
“No problem, honey. I’ll be right back with your change.”
“Oh, no, that’s okay. You can keep it.”
The waitress, a large woman with blue eye shadow and the prettiest shade of bubblegum lipstick rested a hand on the money and gave Annette a sweet smile. “Are you sure, honey?” She leaned in a little. “Don’t take this the wrong way, or nothing, I’m not trying to get into your business, but it looks like you could really use the extra money more than me. I don’t mind you not leaving a tip. You weren’t any trouble at all.”
“Oh,” Annette said. “Thank you. It has been a little rough lately. I haven’t quite found the right path yet, if you know what I mean.”
“Honey, some of us never do.”
“I really like your lipstick,” she blurted out without thinking. God, she missed wearing lipstick.
“Well, thank you, sugar.” The waitress smiled. It was a kind smile. “I’ll be right back.” She picked up the cash and the check for Annette’s breakfast, and started off, but Annette reached out and stopped her. She kept her voice down. “I hate to ask, ma’am, but are those showers over there open for just anybody?” She pointed to the doors leading to the stalls.
“No, honey. I’m sorry. Those are just for our long-haulers. If they caught a pretty young thing like you in there, there ain’t no tellin’ what kinda Hades would break loose.”
Annette suddenly felt embarrassed like she’d pressed her luck. “Oh. Okay. I was just wondering.”
The big woman offered up another smile but this time it was weak and sad. The kind Annette was used to. The waitress walked off toward the register. After a few minutes she came back with a dollar and some loose change and set it on the table with her receipt. She leaned in and kept her voice down, too. “Listen,” she said. “I told Hector to close off the showers for cleaning, so no one would go in there. So if you’re quick about it, you can go clean yourself up if you want, but don’t dilly-dally. I don’t want Hector sniffing around and getting either of us in trouble.”
“Oh, my god, thank you.” Annette was quick about gathering her things.
“If you want to leave your stuff right there, I can watch it for you. Just make sure you take your cash with you. I can’t be responsible for that. There’s already some soap and shampoo and fresh towels in there, so you should be good to go.”
“I don’t know what to say, ma’am. Thank you.”
“I suppose that’ll be good enough.”
Annette showered quickly and redressed in the same clothes she’d been wearing. She slipped back out from behind the big yellow sign that said closed for cleaning, and only a few people pointed and whispered. She didn’t care. She felt good. She went back to the booth, and collected the rest of her things; there wasn’t much. A Dollar General bag with some clothes she’d found, a pair of flip-flops, a thin blanket, and the Gideon Bible she’d taken from the motel in Habersham. When she picked up the yellow plastic bag she saw something inside it she didn’t recognize. She reached in and pulled out a tube of lipstick. It was the prettiest shade of bubblegum. She looked over at her waitress. The big woman winked at her, and Annette mouthed another thank you at her from across the diner. She scooped up the money and the receipt, and headed out the door. She hadn’t made it a quarter of the way across the asphalt parking lot before a man’s voice hollered out. “Hey, good lookin’, where you headed?”
The kindness of the waitress inside had Annette feeling good about herself for the first time in two weeks, so she let herself answer. It felt strange talking to another man other than her husband without the fear of consequences, but she welcomed the feeling. She walked up to the side of the burgundy Peterbilt, where a handsome, middle-aged man with blue eyes and shaggy blond hair sat behind the wheel.
“I’m not quite sure where I’m going yet, mister. Why you asking?”
“Well, because wherever it is you’re headed is a place I’d like to be headed myself.”
“Is that right?”
“Yes, ma’am, it is.”
“You promise to be nice to me?”
“I got no choice. That’s the way my mama raised me.”
Annette smiled. The blond man did, too. She liked his smile. The trucker motioned to the other side of the cab and she climbed in. She looked at herself in the huge side mirror, and pulled the lipstick out of her bag. She covered her chapped lips with pink bubblegum and blotted it on the receipt from the diner. She felt pretty again.
“So what’s your name?” the man said, and stuck his hand out for her to shake. Annette suddenly felt that rush of sadness again. She didn’t want to tell him her name. It would be like invoking a ghost, or maybe this man would know her husband. He might even try to take her back. She’d rather die than go back. The trucker sat there with his hand out and waited, but Annette didn’t want to answer him. She didn’t want to be Annette anymore. She felt ill and looked down at the receipt in her hands that was now covered with pink kisses. The waitress had written something on the back.
Good luck out there, honey.
—Twyla.
Annette felt renewed. She smiled at her new friend and shook his hand. “I’m Twyla,” she said. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“The pleasure is all mine, Miss Twyla. I’m Joseph. Joseph Viner. How about we just start driving and see where the road takes us?”
We hope you enjoyed this book.
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Acknowledgements
About Brian Panowich
Also by Brian Panowich
An Invitation from the Publisher
Acknowledgements
My friend and fellow writer, Jordan Harper, wrote in the back of his extraordinary debut, She Rides Shotgun, that writing novels is hard. I think he was half right. Writing and revising and rewriting my own debut, Bull Mountain was a sheer and utter joy. Writing that book, without the slightest bit of expectation as to what would become of it, was probably the most fun I’ve ever had standing up. The part of me that agrees with Mr. Harper would want to amend his statement to “Writing a second novel is hard.”
Because it was.
There’s a huge difference between writing a story in the dark, creating a world all your own, word by word and page by page that no one may ever be a part of—and then trying to do it again in the bright light of day. The expectation and amount of people counting on you, from your publisher and editor, to your family and friends, all the way down to the readers you owe everything to, is similar to living inside a pressure cooker set to eleven. The transition from being a firefighter and part-time short story writer to published novelist being ushered around Italy and compared to master writers like Steinbeck and Mario Puzo can be, to put it lightly, pretty damn jarring. I got lost in the dark quite a few times during that journey and I owe a massive debt of gratitude to Nat Sobel and Judith Weber, for turning on the light, never giving up, and talking me off the ledge a lot more than once. I love you both, and I always will.
The following people also helped me believe that not only could I do this job, but I could also continue to have fun doing it; The Southern Independent Booksellers Association, and all the wonderful bookshop owners, that hand sold my first novel and made my career possible. The independent bookstore is one of the last magical places on earth and I’m blessed to have met so many. Go and find one out in your hometown and see what I’m talking about—you’ll never want to leave. The International Thriller Writers Association for taking me in and making me one of their own. There is no elite club, folks. These people love what they do and make me love it even more just by being around them. Matt Blackwell from Barnes & Noble—AKA Thunder Smoke Mandando—my friend and easily one of the kindest people on earth. Reba Brown, Kat McCall and Steven Uhles—for forming such an unlikely and beautiful alliance. David Hutchison at the Book Tavern, Chuck Box—for taking the time to help me figure out the road map to where I really wanted to be. Reed Farrel Coleman—just for being Reed. Damn, you’re cool. Zach Steele of the Broadleaf Writer’s Association and Joe Davich at Georgia Center For The Book for bringing Georgia into the light. Chuck Reece and The Bitter Southerner. Ellen and Gary at The Foxtale Bookshoppe and Nic Cheetham, for the polish—you were right, the last line fucking sings.
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