Pretty Like an Ugly Girl (Baer Creighton Book 3)

by Clayton Lindemuth

  Whooeee. Tired. Got the lungs a pushing. Recall a line.

  Once a fella

  Met a fella

  In a patch a beans.

  Said a fella

  To a fella

  Can’t a fella

  Tell a fella

  What a fella means?[1]

  Seems higher I climb, colder the wind. Don’t think it’s the elevation, just the cold front settling in. And soon as I think it, the rain stop, and five minute later the snow start. Gotta get a move on, else I won’t see the tarp and Stinky Joe under it.

  Tromp along the low side a line of trees—white birch. Grab a mess of curly bark and stick it in my pocket. Even wet it’ll light a fire quick. And seeing clouds fulla snow make me wonder if I screwed a goose ’cause I only brought supply for a three day reconnoiter.

  Moving on. Got my hand on a sapling and to avoid a fallen tree, swing a little uphill. Plant the foot, and the whole ground give out beneath. I fall forward—save my hand on the sapling slow me.

  Leg go straight down. Fire shoot up my calf like a bomb blow it off.

  “! — — — — — — !”

  Suck the wind out my lungs and yank the voice out my throat. Blink hard tears and rage squirt out my pores. They trapped the fucking wood!

  I don’t move.

  Blood rush up in my head and ears and save that, the world is silent as snowfall.

  I look down the pit and see what they done: a square hole where you step if you miss the log, corralled in by the row of saplings. Pit covered by twigs covered in leaves. Each stake is an inch thick and I suspect the one shoved up my calf is too. I look on the pit and try to collect the brain. Want to jump back but mebbe they’s another trap behind? And what’ll happen to the hole in my leg when I pull out the stake? That wound gonna bleed.

  I recall what they put on them punji stakes in the foreign wars. Human shit, get infected and kill a man in days, so say Joe Burke, who was there.

  I concentrate all my wherewithal on breathing slow and steady. I got the hooch I stole. Mebbe disinfect the wound, if I can get it up inside. And while I ponder, any shit they rubbed on the stake is thawing.

  Heart jumps out the body.

  Yank my leg but—way I’s standing—thigh ain’t got the pull. Get upright, brace on the sapling, and stand with my left leg to drag the right free. That spike come out my leg and I look at it, smooth and shiny in blood. No way to know what they put on it. Maybe the black plague.

  Fucking pricks. Any man that’d sell a kid—you got no way to guess what he’d rub on a punji stake.

  Extra glad I shot that woman. Might be I only get to kill two of the Graves.

  Blood rolls out the hole, down the sock and over the boot. It think on it quick. If they’s poison up in there, mebbe flowing blood help get it out.

  Let it bleed.

  Afore I set off for Stinky Joe I wonder if mebbe I need that stake. I get on all fours then my belly in the light snow. It’s coming down hard and them thick flakes add up quick. Reach in the pit and give that peg a yank. It won’t come. I push and pull; after a minute my arm warm and tired and the stake pull out. Get a close look and I can’t see gobs of nothing on it, but it don’t take much bacteria to set a man under.

  Now I try and walk. Right leg got zero ambition. I drag it forward but can’t control the foot. And can’t push off to make the walk go forward. So I got a half walk. Pull the leg with the thigh, stop; next leg forward with the thigh, push through, pull forward, stop. Never felt so nekkid in the wood—but if somebody come upon me now, man or mountain lion—Baer Creighton’s doomed. I got my bullets but after that, nothing but a knife blade.

  More steps I take the tighter that calf get, like it cinch on itself. All I can do to keep my voice in my throat and not cuss the whole miserable creation.

  Off my right, down the hill, think I see the tarp, covered in snow. Still dark like dusk, though it can’t be but mid-afternoon. Now I cut downhill and wonder, why’d I climb up there anyway? After I shot the Mrs. Graves? Just dumb as dick.

  And I know it gonna cost me.

  With the right leg bum I head downslope sideways. Can’t control the foot enough to not fall on my ass if I walk straight. But sideways seems I got about the same control as otherwise. Boot keep the foot and ankle straight, thigh and knee do the rest. Snow already cover the leaves and the path I cut got a red splotchy line with it.

  Glorious. Found the tarp.

  “Stinky Joe, I got us a ’mergency.”

  I pull back the tarp and underneath is the camouflage sleeping bag twisted up, solid ice on the top side but where Joe’s coiled, he dry and warm.

  Joe stretch. Grin. Sigh.

  I damn near got it.

  What?

  The rabbit.

  “Well I stepped on a punji stake, and I’s liable to die here in a minute.”

  It’ll take longer than that. You remember what Joe Burke said, right?

  “Just lookin’ a little sympathy is all.”

  I’s plenty warm from the walk but the heat in my leg don’t feel like when you cut a finger whittling an elderberry whistle.

  Open the bag and sit on a dry part. Pull the right pant leg up and the wool underskivvie.

  It’s like I try to drill a hole coming in at the steep angle. The stake drag and scrape two inch, then where the calf is thick, they’s a hole right in. Press the meat and pain like I never feel all my life. Work the muscle spite the agony and the blood clumps push out the hole at the bottom.

  Feel the calf and from the tightness, seems that punji almost bust out the top.

  Stake in hand, I rest it along the calf, line up the blood marks with the skin, see how deep it go.

  Shit. Pert near the whole way.

  Pull the leg all up the knee an they’s blue under the joint.

  Look out the valley. Got the interstate. Could hitch a ride mebbe. But in Flagstaff they’d say, who this man got the punji in his leg? And I say, you take payment in gold maple leaf? They say, you’s that crazy stone-cold killer wanted back east.

  I got to solve this one myself.

  Got two-day food. With the likker I stole, mebbe last a week. Got the water from the snow. But the elements ... They say these storm can dump feet in hours. Bury a man.

  Meanwhile down the hill, two hundred yard off, sits a house with all the food I want and heat to boot. Got the dead woman there—that’s nice. Suppose I could get her on the back deck. And when Mister Luke Graves come home, I just shoot him too. ’Long with that dreadlock piece a shit. Once the leg heal, drive on up to Salt Lake to the Butcher Shop and go in guns blazing. Man got to die someday. Why not Salt Lake City?

  I don’t like the look on your face.

  “Oh, you’ll like some of it. We’s headed to that house down there.”

  “You’re injured.” Girl voice.

  What?

  Turn.

  It’s the blackhair stole my shit. Snow in her hair and melted on the face. Got my pack on her back, stands bowed to hold the weight.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  “You speak English. Why ain’t you said anything back when I saved yer silly ass?”

  “If you knew, you wouldn’t speak free.”

  “Sure would. You hungry? You warm? Got no gloves on yer hands.”

  She say, “What happened to your leg?”

  “You be careful on this hill. Them pricks live in that house booby trapped the wood. Dug a pit with stakes.”

  I wave the punji.

  “Stepped in the pit and drove this thing up the calf. You wouldn’t be an itinerant med student like ole Che Guevara would ya?”

  She smile. “No. They teach English at my school.”

  “Well, you’s a hardy lass. That pack gotta be forty pound.”

  She get on her knees next me. Take my leg, with ginger fingers, push agin the calf.

  “How come you run off?”

  “You’re a man.”

  “But I saved yer silly ass.”

>   She look at me.

  “I shot the man was gonna kill you. Took ya in when you’s freezin.”

  She look away.

  Now it seems more important she gimme some kinda answer.

  “So how come you run off with all my shit when I’s good to you?”

  “You’re a man.”

  She push an prod like she want to cause some pain. More blood clumps drop out the bottom.

  “It’s already infected. See the red, up here?”

  I push off her hands. Square her by the shoulder.

  “I ain’t like them fellers. I ain’t. And you gotta do what you gotta. To protect yerself. I know it. But I ain’t one a them bastards. I hate ’em with all I got, and I got this hole in my leg ’cause I hate ’em so much I’s huntin’ ’em down. That’s they house right there. And the man runs the whole operation dug the hole and set this spike. His wife inside the house got a hole in her head I put there. You’d like it. And I know where they drove that truck with the rest you kids, and I’s goin’ there next. So don’t you put me in that same place as men fuck kids. Don’t you dare.”

  Eyes is wet from the leg pain. Mebbe the snow. Got myself riled. So much hate for these evil sonsabitches—and she say I’s one em? I save her from the Cephus so I can poker myself?

  “Get the fuck outta here. I don’t need ya. Go on. Shoo.”

  I give her a shove. Joe perk up. Girl roll sideways to the snow. Struggle with the backpack to get her weight situated and her feet back underneath.

  “Go. Fuckin’ ingrate!”

  The girl pushes up with bare hands in the snow and gets her feet. Step back a few. Look around at the sky, the snow, the hills, the house. The trail of blood, most covered in fresh white. Now her face is wet with melted snowflakes, and her mouth pulls back and her eyes taut.

  “You—the storm—you can die.”

  “Mebbe so. But I won’t tolerate bein’ near ya.”

  She look at me a long time, but I don’t look away. I done my part to save her once, and if she hell bent on death in the cold, wants to talk shit to me, then fuck her.

  She turn. Go back up the hill where she come from, each step slow like she got a mountain chained her ass.

  Watch her trudge till she’s a flash a color in the trees. Each step she take, the world is more silenter. The air colder. Then I can’t see the backpack no more.

  I got the dog.

  “Hey you fuckin’ brute. I still got you.”

  Didn’t see that coming.

  “What’s left to do? I ain’t a kid fucker.”

  Fetch that bottle of Canadian whiskey, sketchy Crown Royal XR shit. Pull the top and gurgle a good swaller.

  Make a man believe.

  If I live through this punji shit and make it to Salt Lake City—and survive the killing I intend there—I’s moving to Canada. Someone up there’s gonna school me on whiskey.

  Gurgle more. Taste like they pulled all that’s good and righteous out a jug a likker an put it in a single bottle. Then mebbe polished it in Rita Hayworth’s hair. Something. Down the gullet so smooth and easy, a feller wanna drink the whole thing. Two three pulls, I’s about there. Gulp like it spring water.

  Shit go to work quick. Ain’t been appropriately lubricated in weeks; now I got the leg wound I got the time. An nothin’ cure the pain like a good knock out drunk. Finish the bottle. Lordy the taste is like honeyed milk and cinnamon.

  Stinky Joe stands. Hold my eye.

  Once a feller

  Met a feller

  In a dusty barn.

  Said a feller

  To a feller

  Can’t a feller

  Tell a feller

  That girl didn’t mean no harm.

  You’s a dumbass.

  She liable to freeze out there,

  And you run her off.

  Mebbe she come to get help—not give it.

  And you got yer high and mighty up.

  Oughtta be ashamed.

  Dumbass fuckin’ redneck brute.

  You only wish you was a dog.

  “Not you too. Shit.”

  Joe stretch ass high, get the pucker hole up in the wind and decide agin it. Run off, lift a leg to a tree. Come back.

  That girl looked pretty wore out. Like she coulda used yer help.

  “I got some rights too. I won’t be accused.”

  You better go after her.

  “How? Lookit this snow.”

  You got here in it.

  “Fuck me.”

  Pull down the wool skivvy. Pantleg over. Try to get on my knees an pack the bag.

  You don’t need that. Jest get the house.

  I look at Joe. Got the drunk on, don’t exactly know who to trust. My talking dog or my doodlefucked brain.

  Joe cock his head.

  Once a feller

  Said a feller

  Getcher dumbass to the house.

  “All right all right.”

  I get on my feet and find they don’t got the balance they used to.

  Start up the hill, after the girl.

  Hey! The house is thataway!

  I look up the mountain. Then left to the house. “What I climbing the hill fer? House thataway.”

  You’d just step on more spikes up there.

  “And ’sides. They rigged the wood with traps. I’d prolly step on more spikes.”

  Joe sniff the ground, head for the house. Stop and look back.

  I start down the hill, right leg out, and zip slip boom that’s it.

  Black.

  Got the pounding in the brain like log traps swinging agin the noggin from both sides and hitting at the once.

  Come aware with Stinky Joe licking the nose. Somehow, though I recall planting my face in two inches snow, I’s inside the bag snug. Feel down my side to Smith, and he’s cold ready to shoot, was ready all the time. Joe whine and I open the eyes. Dark out. Joe quit licking and the face is cold. Moon high and bright—got the camouflage tarp over me. Bottom side agin the ground numb cold. Got the pain up the leg like a fire, up in my thigh. Recall the whole sordid mess I’s in.

  “Ah. Fuck.”

  Use your words, Baer.

  “How you set up the tarp?”

  That was the girl.

  “She still here?”

  Nope. Dunno where she went.

  “How long ago?”

  In dog time?

  “Fuck. My other bottle around?”

  Up the hill a couple feet. You didn’t fall far.

  “Can you grab me that other bottle?”

  Hunh?

  “Can you grab me that other bottle?”

  Okay. I’ll stand watch.

  Close the eyes and let the brain settle in for the full mortal experience. Half afraid to see the leg. Throbs like nothing ever in the history man. Without looking I feel the swelling, like the cellulitis mebbe. Get the dirt infection and it move so fast, all you get is hours.

  All the people I killed quick, all the mercy I showed, and I got to go like this. Dog won’t even fetch a drink.

  Try and lift my head, but the throb is only worse. Close my eyes and let the pain float through and above; that don’t work, so mebbe I just own it. All right, I’s here.

  Come git me.

  I got a knife. I’ll cut the leg off at the knee. Something. Can’t let that poison keep going. Though the throb is murder, I squint hard and get to the elbows. Roll the side. Unzip the bag and toss it open. Pull out the leg and press about the calf and knee. Twice the normal size. Thigh growing.

  Was it the woman, Lord? Was that it? I shouldn’t a shot the woman?

  I throw the cover back over me, try and stay warm.

  “Fuckit. Come git me.”

  Open the bag all the way. Unzip the coat so it’s flannel agin the freezing air.

  “Fuck all this shit. Fuck y’all. I’s from North Carolina.”

  Close my eyes.

  Wait.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Finch Graves pulled a magaz
ine from the rack and opened it. The cover photo showed a log cabin on the side of a mountain, similar to his father’s, but grand on a scale that boggled his brain. The inside spread showed the details. Cobalt sky. Blazing orange and red trees. A deck made of the exotic, super-dense tropical hardwood Ipe, that spanned an acre and was covered in teak lounges. In front, a dark lake reflected the cabin mansion’s majesty toward heaven, where it seemed only a personality as vast as God’s might fully appreciate it.

  $3,232,999.

  It was the kind of house Finch could own, someday, if he went all in with his father and brother.

  In fact, Wayman’s profits could buy it in less than a year, if his numbers held. No expansion needed, and not counting the wealth he’d already created in past years.

  “We’re closing the office, now,” the red headed woman said. She’d allowed him to stand by the front window the last hour.

  Finch stood in the real estate office where he’d several times met Agent Lou Rivers.

  “No problem,” Finch said. “I’ll wait for her outside. Thanks.”

  He replaced the sales magazine on the rack and exited.

  He’d sat at a bus station in Salt Lake City until dawn. Ate a scary ham salad sandwich from a vending machine and napped on the bench. He bought a ticket, boarded the first bus to Flagstaff, and quickly dozed. When he woke two hours from Flagstaff, he pondered the only two escapes from his predicament that seemed possible.

  He could continue his present Lone Ranger course. He could try to explain to the FBI, without the recorded evidence, how his father and brother not only trafficked in brown kids, but sold them to murderers and ground them into sausage when it was done. He could hope to live long enough to testify in court.

  Or ... he continued a line of introspection begun after killing the man who’d been sent to whack him.

  In truth, he felt unconflicted. Their sole interaction was when the man attacked him. Examined from every angle, Finch had not broken a moral code. It wasn’t like killing a kid.

  And he felt pretty good about it. Not just that he’d defended himself against a mortal threat and totally kicked ass.

  He’d killed a man.

  The power of putting a gun to another man’s chest and pulling the trigger—it was incomparable. He could possibly understand how serial killers became addicted.