Levon Cade Omnibus

by Chuck Dixon

  “And gave them intel. Corey Blanco was burrowed deep,” Nancy said.

  “Maybe we’re not the only ones looking for Cade?” Laura Strand said.

  “I think we can safely assume that,” Nancy said.

  “Then we better make sure we find this fucker first,” Laura said. She smiled. A feral, lupine leer. The cartoon mouse was gone.

  Gunny Leffertz said:

  “A man can only hide his true game so long.”

  12

  “You’re just in time,” Levon said.

  He stepped from the shade of the carport to meet Dale pulling onto the gravel. Dale stepped out of the cab and waded through the trio of sniffing hounds. The day was a hot one, summer coming on early.

  “You gonna get that old thing running again?” Dale said. He waved a hand at the Mustang, now uncovered, in the carport. The car was dappled in patches of pink and gray primer. The original metallic green finish was faded. The windshield had a crack down the center. The hood was off revealing an engine crusted with rust.

  Uncle Fern stepped out into the sunlight. Feller trotted alongside him.

  “Got the wheels back on. I could use your help pushing her into the garage,” Levon said.

  "Sure," Dale said. He shrugged out of his uniform shirt and tossed it to the hood of the car. He wore a white tank top underneath — no body armor. His arms were thick with muscle gone to flab. They were sleeved with tattoos from wrists to shoulder. The largest was an angry cartoon ram charging above a scroll reading ‘Mountain Pride.' A big numeral one was on one forearm in red ink with ‘Army Strong' emblazoned beneath it.

  The two men pushed the car clear of the carport and angled it toward the open barn doors. With Uncle Fern walking alongside, reaching in to turn the wheel, they pushed the Mustang into the barn against a two-by-four stop nailed to the floorboards. A chain hoist was rigged up from a roof beam ready to haul the engine clear. A steel engine stand stood off to one side. A brand new Makita compressor and a shiny chest of new air-powered tools were set nearby.

  Dale leaned on the trunk, sucking in a breath. His tank top was sopping. His hair was dark with sweat. Levon offered him a longneck from a cooler packed with ice.

  “You want one or are you on duty?” he said.

  “In this heat? I’ll sweat it off,” Dale said and popped the top to take a long swallow.

  “Thanks for helping. Would have been a bitch pushing this alone,” Levon said.

  “Alone? What the hell am I?” Fern said. He gestured with a beer of his own.

  “You, old man? Like Levon wants to spend the summer listening to you bitch about your thrown back,” Dale said. He tipped the bottle and drained it in one go.

  “What brings you out here?” Levon said.

  “Lester Murdock saw some fat hogs up along the ridge near the colored cemetery. Sows and a big old male. Thought maybe you’d like to come see if we can find them.”

  “Swine season’s not till November. Or don’t deputies follow the same rules as the rest of us?”

  “Just a stalk, Goose. Just a look-see.”

  “We’ll be back by six? Merry’s coming back then.”

  “Where’s she at?” Dale said.

  “Horseback riding. She’s spending the day at the stables,” Levon said.

  “Jessie’s place,” Uncle Fern said.

  Levon cut him a look. Fern only laughed.

  “Jessie Gillis? You picking up where you left off?” Dale said. His face creased with amusement.

  “She’s Jessie Hamer now. Offered to teach Merry to ride, is all.” Levon shrugged.

  “Seems I remember the two of you doing some ridin’ on your own back in the day,” Dale said. His grin broadened to show his back teeth.

  Uncle Fern sprayed beer before breaking into a choking cackle. His face turned red.

  "All right. I'll go stalk some swine if it shuts you up," Levon said. He scooped the uniform shirt off the hood and tossed it to Dale.

  “I’m a little late getting started today. I’ll saddle the horses then we’ll go for a ride,” Jessie said.

  “I want to help,” Merry said, trotting after Jessie across the paddock.

  “You sure?”

  “I want to learn how to put a saddle on. And how to brush them and all.”

  “It’s a lot of work,” Jessie said. She stepped into the tidy six-stall stable. A heavy scent of animal presence hung in the air; a wet smell with a tang of cloying sweetness.

  “I don’t care. I love being around horses,” Merry said. She stooped to pat the head of a springer spaniel with a spastic tail.

  A teenaged girl stepped from a stall with a forkful of horse droppings. She flipped the fork to dump them into a wheelbarrow already piled high with dung and wet sawdust. She was a skinnier junior version of Jessie in overalls, wellies and Starbucks t-shirt.

  “This is Merry, Sandy. This is Sandy. My little girl. We’re taking out Brewster and Montana today,” Jessie said.

  “Hey. I’d shake your hand but it’s covered in shit,” Sandy said. Her voice was dry, with a lazy drawl deeper than her mother’s.

  Merry giggled. The ghost of a smile on Sandy's face evaporated as fast as it appeared.

  “Merry is into it. She wants to help me saddle and groom and the whole mess,” Jessie said. She reached over a stall door with a bridle. The head of cinnamon colored quarter horse loomed over the door. Jessie patted the horse’s neck and made clucking noises as she slid the bridle in place.

  “You got a case of horse fever, huh?” Sandy said.

  “Don’t you? You get to live around them every day, right?” Merry said.

  “They’re big, stupid animals that need hay shoveled in one end and shit shoveled on the other.”

  “So why do you do it?”

  “For money. My mom let me have four stalls. I rent them out to boarders. They pay extra for feeding and mucking.”

  “You don’t own your own horse?” Merry said.

  "Mom lets me ride Brewster if I want. Montana used to be my pony before I outgrew him," Sandy said. She picked up the poles of the barrow and rolled it to the next stall.

  Jessie had the quarter horse cross-tied in the aisle between the stalls. She called Merry over to show her how the saddle pad and saddle were put on and how to make sure it was cinched tight. They left Brewster standing, huffing softly, and brought out Montana, a buckskin pony with a dark mane and tail. Jessie put the bridle on then took it off and allowed Merry to put it on. Slipping the bit between the teeth and over the tongue was the hardest part. The sleepy looking pony seemed to be helping.

  “Montana’s an old hack pony. She takes the bit easier than most. Makes her the best one to practice on,” Jessie said.

  Merry placed the pad on the pony’s back with Jessie’s aid. She insisted on putting the saddle on herself. Looping the stirrup up on the pommel and going up on tip-toes to set it just right. They were riding western. The saddle was worn, broken in, but gleamed with polish.

  “Don’t be afraid of getting it too tight. You’re not going to hurt her as long as the cinch is in the right place,” Jessie said.

  Merry pulled the strap through the rings and secured it with a little help. Jessie tested the tautness with a tug.

  “Not bad for the first time. You might just be a natural,” Jessie said, stepping back.

  They led the mounts out into the sunlight. Merry wore a smile that almost hurt, her fist tight on the reins.

  “We’re just going on a little trail ride, okay? There’s a community trail runs around the sub-division a few miles,” Jessie said.

  Merry nodded, eager.

  “If you like this and want to ride more you need to tell Levon to buy you some riding boots.” Jessie nodded at Merry’s Doc Martin’s.

  “I know I’m going to love it,” Merry said.

  “Well, then, let’s ride.”

  Jessie steadied the pony while Merry lifted up in the stirrup and threw a leg over with ease.

  �
��Like I said. A natural,” Jessie said.

  Gunny Leffertz said:

  “War’s different for every man. Some come out worse. Some better. Some the same. It’s a fire that burns or tempers. All depends on the man.”

  13

  Dale braked the county truck to a stop on a switchback road that climbed a thirty-degree grade to just shy of the ridgeline. It was a rutted path nearly invisible under cover of a carpet of ferns. The way ahead was blocked by a big old poplar fallen across the path.

  “This is as far as we go on wheels, Goose. We hike the rest.” Dale killed the engine and climbed out. He wore his uniform shirt unbuttoned.

  Levon got out the other side and stood to scan the deep woods around them. Dale shoved the bench seat forward to reveal a gun rack bolted to the rear wall of the cab. He pulled a shotgun from the loops. A semi-auto model with an extended tube magazine and pistol grip.

  “A Beretta. Those things cost money,” Levon said.

  “You get what you pay for. You want to carry? Help yourself,” Dale said. He gestured to a Remington pump and a nicked up old Winchester lever action resting in the other loops on the rack.

  “That’s okay. I’ll go unarmed,” Levon lied.

  “Up to you,” Dale said. He pushed the seat back in place and shut the cab door. He clicked the remote, locking the truck with a double tweet.

  Dale led the way forward up the hill.

  “It’s not far. Just past the headstones in a high draw,” he said.

  Levon followed. The woods were quiet but for the rising and falling chirrup of cicadas in the trees. A cloud of white moths glided over the tops of the ferns. Above them the canopy was filling in with green shoots of new leaves as the warm weather returned.

  As they passed the fallen poplar Levon saw it had not surrendered to rot. Fresh white wood where a straight cut from a chain saw had dropped it across the trail.

  Dale was panting within moments, fighting to climb the increasing angle of the incline.

  “You’re not Army strong anymore,” Levon said. Levon was walking and breathing easy.

  “You got the good genes, I guess,” Dale said. He looked back, smiling. His face was shiny with sweat.

  “You got the same genes, Dale.”

  “Different mama, Goose.”

  “How’s the department feel about you letting yourself turn to goo?”

  “It’s not like the army. We ain’t paramilitary up here. Just pulling over drunk drivers and shit. Easy duty.”

  “No excuse to go all to hell. You used to be all-county. Used to leave me in the dust running cross-country.”

  Dale stopped and squatted to put his back to a tree. He pulled a pack of Pall Malls from his shirt and started one up. He sucked in a lungful and let it out slowly. Levon took a knee near him.

  “I could blame Iraq, I guess. That be the pussy thing to do. Got on pain pills after I got busted up. They took their hold. I was a while cleaning up. Cassie took off on me then. Can’t blame her.”

  Levon said nothing.

  “Bet you think I broke my hip falling over my own big feet. I got busted up when the truck I was riding in got flipped by an IED. Big ass truck loaded with me and my buddies went ass over like a toy, man. Compound fracture to my femur. I got a plastic hip and a shitload of pins and plates now.” Dale slapped his left leg.

  Levon sat, his back to the ridgeline.

  “Most of my buddies got burned alive. I don’t know if I crawled clear or was pulled clear. Got some burns on my legs. Nothing like some of those boys. I was three months in traction after God alone knows how many surgeries. Then they packed me home with painkillers and a medical discharge.”

  “Looks like you recovered all right,” Levon said.

  “Guess so. Cassie left. I kicked the pills with some help from the NA. Church of Christ holds meetings down in Haley three nights a week. The county took me on, me being a vet an’ all.”

  “It’s a long way back.”

  “And what about you? You ever find your way back? Back here hiding in the woods from damn near every government agency that’s got a name? Who’d you piss off?”

  “Everybody, I guess,” Levon said.

  “Least you have your little girl.”

  “She’s something to go on for.”

  “Yeah.” Dale took the last drag from the cigarette. He smeared the butt cold on his boot heel before picking up the shotgun and rising to his feet.

  They climbed until the incline eased, coming to a more level bit of ground. Through the boles of young beeches they could see the humps of grave markers above the undergrowth. Sections of a rusted wrought iron fence, knee-high, still stood in places. An old cemetery from way back in the days of segregation. No one was sure how long ago. The families moved to the cities or moved north many years past. The names and stories of the men and women buried here forgotten a long time ago.

  The wind rising up the other side of the ridge stirred the tops of the trees. Something rode up with the wind. A sharp chemical scent.

  “Smells like paint thinner and piss. Someone have a still down there?” Levon said. He paused in the forest gloom, sniffing.

  “Not a still. No one’s had a thumper up here in a long while,” Dale said. Voice low. Listening. He stopped, head turning on a swivel.

  “There’s a fire road down there. The one off Turner Mill,” Levon said.

  “Coming back to you, huh?”

  “Yeah. What’s coming back to me is that the holler is dry down there. Has been since the Lipscomb Dam was finished.”

  Dale was turned away, not meeting Levon’s eyes.

  “This ain’t hog country,” Levon said.

  Dale said nothing. He kept looking down the slope below them into the swaying limbs. A wispy haze of vapor rose through the sprouting leaves. It carried with it the acrid stink of toxins.

  “What’s this about, Dale?” Levon stepped closer.

  “Those are meth labs down there. Whole shitpot of them. Used to be run by the Pettit cousins. Remember them? You used to run with Ty Pettit. They’re all gone now. Now it’s a crew of Mexicans. And they don’t play.”

  “So what’s this mean to me?”

  “Thought you’d want to know who your neighbors are. Those labs are just a spit away from Uncle Fern’s place as the crow flies.”

  “You expect me to do something about it?”

  “You’re one who’s supposed to be the hard man, brother. Thought you might like to give me a hand,” Dale said. He faced Levon, face pinched in a sour expression.

  “Isn’t this a police matter, Dale?”

  "I ain't police anymore, Goose. County let me go a few months back."

  Dale turned back to look downhill once more. Levon stared at his half-brother, taking in the pain on the man’s face.

  14

  “Were you like my daddy’s girlfriend?” Merry said.

  “For a while. When we were kids,” Jessie said.

  They were riding easy, the horses walking, on a tamped dirt trail through the trees.

  “Before he met my mom?”

  “Long time before.”

  “But you still like him.”

  “Sure I do. Though he’s different now.”

  “How’s he different?”

  “Quieter, I guess. He used to be a real clown. I mean funny. Always making me laugh.”

  "Funny?" Merry said. There was a deep wonder in her voice.

  “You’ve known him all your life. But I’ve known him most of mine,” Jessie said. “He was very different then.”

  “He changed some after my mom died, too. But he never smiled much even before,” Merry said. Her head bobbed along as she rode.

  The trail turned from the trees to follow the grading along train tracks. The rails were orange with rust. Weeds grew up between the ties. The crunch of gravel echoed off a high wall of chipped rock on the other side of the tracks.

  “What about Sandy’s daddy? Is he a clown, too?” Merry said.
r />   “He was sometimes. He passed a while back. When Sandy was a little girl,” Jessie said.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “It’s okay. He was in the Army. A Ranger. We lost him in Afghanistan.”

  They rode quietly a while through bars of sunlight coming down between the trees.

  “Where we lived before? In Huntsville?” Merry said. “None of the kids’ daddies were in the military. But since we came to Uncle Fern’s it seems all the daddies were.”

  “That’s what it’s like up here,” Jessie said. “So many of the men go to war. Always been the way. I read once the only group who join up more than mountain folks is American Indians.”

  “I wonder why that is.”

  “Hard to think of why. Two people as hard used as us and the Indians. I guess it’s a love of the country, the idea of a free country. A sense of duty.”

  “My mom used to say my daddy just liked to fight.”

  Jessie laughed. It startled her mount who huffed in reply.

  “There’s that too. Stupid men,” she said.

  They made their way back down the slope, moving sideways on the steeper runs. Boots braced so as not to slide.

  “You’re just playing at being a deputy now?” Levon said.

  “Bought the truck at auction. I was supposed to sand off the insignia. Didn’t get around to it,” Dale said.

  “And the uniform?”

  “Only wear the shirt sometimes. Not like I’m going armed.”

  The slope eased to a ten-degree run. They found the jeep trail and walked toward where they left Dale’s truck.

  “Quit or fired?” Levon said. He tried to stay even with Dale to read his face. Dale stayed just ahead, Levon on his blindside.

  “They let me quit. They didn’t want any trouble,” Dale said.

  “What did you do?”

  “Looked out for some people. People you and me known all our lives.”

  “Turning a blind eye’s not the job, Dale.”