The Killing Hills

by Chris Offutt

  He tossed a rock against the cabin’s window. The man ducked, a response that amused Mick. Why duck when you’re hiding behind a tree? The man pressed a button on his cell phone, causing Mick’s pocket to vibrate. He waited until it went to voice mail, then returned the call, and began walking toward the tree. The man quickly answered the phone, whispering hello. Standing directly behind him, Mick said, “Hidy.” The man turned his head and Mick clipped him in the temple with his gun barrel. He blinked twice and took a step. Mick struck him again and he dropped.

  Mick disarmed him and went in the house for rope. He tied the man’s wrists together in front of him, then lashed him tightly to the oak. He carried the other man to the front, cut the vines, and tied him the same as the first man. They were in a sitting position, backs to the tree as if the oak had flourished from between their bodies. Two of their legs were lashed together, their thighs, knees, and ankles touching. Mick passed a final rope against their throats, snug but not too tight. If either one moved, they’d both feel it cutting into their windpipe.

  Inside he drank two glasses of water, sweating from adrenaline and exertion. With a flashlight he sat on the gray steps to the porch, examining the men’s pocket litter. Detroit driver’s licenses. One credit card each. Four hundred and sixty dollars between them. A photograph of him, an old one pulled off a military website. His face was thinner. The collar of his shirt was askew, revealing a sharp tan line. He’d been a gung-ho soldier for his first tour, less so on his second due to the waste of resources and manpower. Too many dead comrades. Too many betrayals by local contacts. Transferring to MP had reignited his enthusiasm, which was solidified by promotion to CID.

  One of his prisoners stirred. Mick carried a dipper of water from the cistern and poured it over their heads. He leaned down and smacked each in the face, open-handed. Both men sputtered, eyes blinking first from the water then the harsh beam of the flashlight. They slowly became aware of their restraints. Mick watched the sense of failure descend upon them, followed by frustration and anger.

  “That’s a bug bath,” Mick said. “Rain barrel gets full of insects. Dead though, so they won’t bite. You’re safe on that score.”

  “Fuck you,” said the back-door man.

  “You’re Frederick Clarence Kornspudt,” Mick said. “Bet you got called Cornhole as a kid. Made you tough, right? How tough are you? We’ll find out.”

  Mick shifted the flashlight to the other man.

  “And you are Vernon V. Armstrong, Junior. Don’t tell me, the ‘V’ is for Vernon.”

  “Victor,” Vernon said.

  “I knew some Armstrongs growing up. You got people down here?”

  Vernon shrugged.

  “You must be from that bunch that went north to work them car factories. Reckon it didn’t suit you. Too bad. Punching the clock might be better than out here tied to a tree like a dog.”

  “What do you want?” Vernon said.

  “There it is,” Mick said. “The top question. Seeing as how you’re tied up and I ain’t, I’m the one who gets to do the asking. So tell me, Vernon, what do you want?”

  From the creek came a cacophony of small frogs that was temporarily silenced by the massive croak of a bullfrog. A slice of the Milky Way was visible like froth above the tree line.

  “All right,” Mick said. “Nobody’s talking. You boys are hard as walnuts. Here’s what I know—somebody sent you here. What I don’t know is who and why. You can tell me or you can sleep out here and we’ll start fresh in the morning.”

  Neither man spoke. Mick stood and walked toward them.

  “Okay, sleepy time it is. I need to tie you tighter but I’m out of rope. Bungee cords will work. They might cut off some circulation. Not to worry, I’m an early riser. Your legs won’t get gangrene.”

  He cut the flashlight and spoke into the darkness.

  “Atrophy of the limbs won’t really matter because this is wildcat country. The females are in heat so the males are out chasing after them. You know how it is. They can’t help themselves. They’ll find you before the bungee cords do any serious nerve damage.”

  He climbed the steps and entered the house, making sure the screen door slammed hard. He grinned to himself. Wildcats avoided people except during August when they followed dry creek beds down to the hollers for water. These two Detroit idiots wouldn’t know that. He could hear them whispering in the yard and made a mental bet with himself that they’d respond within two minutes. Instead, one of the men called out at the forty-second mark.

  “We’ll talk,” he said. “But you have to let us go.”

  “No deal,” Mick said.

  He heard another huddled conversation.

  “What do you want to know?” the man yelled.

  Mick stepped outside, flicked the flashlight on and aimed it at the men. From the stacked woodpile he hefted a chunk of oak kindling. Knives scared people more than guns, but a club was the most menacing. He assumed it was the vestige of some primitive memory, Neanderthal fear. A burning torch was the most terrifying weapon but it would take too long to assemble.

  “Who sent you?” he said.

  “Charley Flowers,” Vernon said.

  “Who’s he?”

  “Our boss.”

  Mick struck Freddie’s shin with the oak stick. He yelped and tried to scramble out of range but was held by the ropes tied to the other man. Another trick Mick learned in the desert—the jolt of impact traveled to the second man’s leg and he’d imagine the pain as his own. Freddie subsided his writhing and Mick hit him again, harder.

  “Charley Flowers,” Mick said.

  “He runs smack from Detroit to the hills,” Vernon said.

  “What’s that got to do with me?”

  Vernon was silent and Mick struck Freddie again, closer to his knee.

  “What the fuck, man,” Freddie said. “I ain’t said nothing.”

  “That’s why.”

  Mick lightly tapped Freddie’s knee twice, then drew back the stick for a hard blow.

  “Wait,” Freddie said. “Don’t.”

  “Talk to me.”

  “Fuckin’ Barney is Charley’s main man down here. Every two weeks he meets a driver at the rest stop on I-64 and gets the product.”

  “Which rest stop?”

  “The one closest to Rocksalt.”

  “Why send you after me?”

  “Charley heard you were looking for Fuckin’ Barney. Didn’t know who you were, DEA or a new player. He sent us to find out.”

  “And do what?”

  “If you were a Fed, we were supposed go back home.”

  “And if I ain’t,” Mick said.

  “Give you a warning to leave Fuckin’ Barney alone.”

  “Anything else?”

  “That’s everything.”

  “It’s never everything,” Mick said. “How’d you know about this place up here?”

  “Charley told us.”

  The air cooled sharply and the night sounds ceased. A storm was coming, a sudden wind, then lightning and rain. A good night to drink bourbon under the oak and listen to a thousand drops of water slap a thousand leaves around him. He couldn’t, not tonight. He had too much to do. He could turn his prisoners over to Linda but they hadn’t committed a crime. If they were ex-cons, she could charge them with possession of a firearm. Too much paperwork for no gain.

  “How’s your leg?” he said.

  “Hurts,” Freddie said.

  “I don’t care about Charley Flowers or his drug business. I need to talk to Fuckin’ Barney. Look at it this way. The law on the hunt for him messes with your all’s business. You help me talk to him and things go back the way they were.”

  “What about us?” Freddie said.

  “You go home to Detroit.”

  “I don’t know,” Vernon said. “Fuckin’ Barney won’t like it.”

  “So what,” Mick said. “You’re the Motor City muscle. What you say goes. Or you can tell Mr. Flowers exactly what h
appened up here tonight. I’ll give you a couple of minor gunshot wounds to make it real enough for him to believe it. The nuns got a hospital in Rocksalt but that’ll draw attention you don’t want. Problem is, it’s a long drive back to Detroit bleeding and shot. But don’t worry if that’s what you want. One shot apiece, a through-and-through, nothing vital, no arteries hit. I’ll bandage your wounds. What’s it going to be?”

  “We don’t know where he is,” Vernon said.

  “Who told your boss I was looking for him?”

  “Fuckin’ Barney’s mother.”

  Mick laughed. The old lady had fooled him good.

  “I’m hungry,” he said. “You boys hungry? Let’s eat then go visit Mrs. Kissick.”

  In the house Mick unloaded the men’s guns, opened three cans of SpaghettiOs, and carried them outside. He cut the ropes binding their wrists. Mick ate with a fork and gave them spoons.

  “Man,” Vernon said, “I love SpaghettiOs. It’s all I ate as a kid, you know. It’s better warm, though. This how you eat out here all the time, cans and spoons. Some kind of outdoorsy thing?”

  “No,” Mick said. “I don’t trust you with a fork.”

  “You can gouge out a man’s eye with a spoon.”

  “Shut up,” Freddie said. “I’m trying to eat.”

  Mick gave them water then rolled up Freddie’s pants leg. The thin fabric moved easily to his knee, revealing three red welts.

  “Didn’t break the skin,” Mick said. “It’ll bruise but you can walk. We’ll take your car.”

  The men nodded. Mick cut the ropes and herded them to the car with his gun.

  “Vernon drives,” Mick said. “Freddie, you’re in the front, too. I’ll be in the back. Anything gets hinky, I’ll shoot through the car seats to muffle the sound. Got it?”

  Once situated in the vehicle, Mick produced the keys which surprised both men. Freddie glanced at Vernon and shook his head in contempt.

  Chapter Fifteen

  They drove silently off the hill to the blacktop then used back roads to get to the Kissick house. The porch light came on and a man stepped out with a rifle. Mick grinned—it was the worst weapon for the situation, unsuitable for close quarters. He rolled his window down.

  “It’s Mick Hardin,” he said. “You Mrs. Kissick’s boy?”

  “Yeah,” the man said. “I’m Mason.”

  “Need to talk to your mom a minute.”

  “She done went to bed.”

  “Get her,” Mick said. “Tell her it’s business. I’ve got two boys from Detroit with me.”

  “She don’t like getting waked up.”

  “Better you do it than I start honking the horn, then tell her it’s on account of you. Now get to it. Won’t take long.”

  Mason stood motionless for twenty seconds, a child’s version of defiance, then entered the house. A few minutes later he came out, shoulders slumped with chagrin.

  “She said you can come in. But not them.”

  “Nope,” Mick said. “I can’t leave them on their own. They might take off.”

  “Can you not handcuff them or something?”

  “You got ary a set?”

  Mason shook his head.

  “Me, neither,” Mick said. “I’m getting out but I’m staying right here. Go on and get her.”

  The man nodded and went in the house again.

  “Give me the keys,” Mick said to Vernon. “Then roll your window down. A one of you leaves this vehicle, I’ll cut you down like straw.”

  He left the car and stood far enough from the window that Vernon couldn’t reach him. A half-moon had risen, suspended in the sky like a broken plate, dousing light from nearby stars. A female barred owl began her high-pitched babble followed by the calls of two males vying for her favor.

  Shifty Kissick stepped onto the porch in a long flannel robe over a nightgown and slippers. One side of the robe sagged from what he figured was the weight of a sidearm. He’d underestimated her once but wouldn’t again. Mason stood beside her with the rifle.

  “Mrs. Kissick,” he said. “I’m sorry for getting you up.”

  “What are you wanting?”

  “These Detroit boys tried to get the drop on me.”

  She peered into the dark car.

  “I don’t know them,” she said.

  “I don’t, either. I’m game to let them go and forget what they told me.”

  “About what?”

  “Your all’s family business. Heroin. Charley Flowers. All that.”

  “You can’t trust a word they say.”

  “Charley Flowers sent them down here to warn me off hunting for your son.”

  “I can see how good that went.”

  “Ma’am, I think you know where your son is. Let me talk to him and I’ll send these boys home. If I have to kill them, Mr. Flowers will have two options. One, he sends men meaner than them. Or, two, he’ll cut his losses and run smack to somebody else besides you.”

  “You’d make an enemy of me. Of all the Kissicks.”

  “I can see that, ma’am. But I’ll be back overseas. Worst that could happen is I can’t come home no more, which ain’t that bad considering how this visit’s been shaping up.”

  “You got a wife hereabouts,” she said.

  “Let me speak a little plainer, Mrs. Kissick. I’ve never threatened your family and I’d appreciate if you gave me the same courtesy.”

  She nodded.

  “Thank you,” he said. “After I talk to your boy, you won’t see me again.”

  “He ain’t here.”

  “Would you mind calling him. Won’t take but a minute.”

  “What do you want from him?” she said.

  “Who he saw on Choctaw. What time. The kind of car they were in.”

  “He won’t like it.”

  “Ma’am, you don’t like getting woke up. I don’t like having these Detroit boys in the car. The fact is, none of us likes any of this. So if you get him on the phone, we can quit the not-liking and get some sleep.”

  In the dim light of the porch her face showed nothing, which impressed him. Briefly he wondered how he’d have turned out with her as a mother instead of a shut-in who collected clocks. He’d be moving dope through the hills and Fuckin’ Barney would be in the army.

  “Phone,” she said to Mason.

  He handed her a cell phone. She pressed a single button and after a few seconds began talking too quietly for Mick to hear. If things went sideways, he’d give her a leg wound while Mason was lifting the rifle. Seeing his mother hurt would rattle him and Mick could pick him off easily.

  She passed the phone to her son who brought it down the three steps and across the yard. Mick moved toward the rear of the car.

  “Just set it on the hood,” he said.

  Mason glanced at his mother who gave a quick nod, and he did as he’d been told.

  “Mason,” he said, “I need a little favor. How about you aim your rifle at these boys in the car while I’m talking to your brother.”

  Again he looked to his mother for approval of the request. She nodded and Mick picked up the phone. The contact name said “F.B.” Mick held it to his ear.

  “You’re a hard man to find,” he said.

  “I ain’t wanting to be found.”

  “I know you were up on Choctaw the night Nonnie Johnson got killed. I want to know who all was up there.”

  “I ain’t telling you nothing.”

  “I ain’t the law,” Mick said.

  “It ain’t the law I’m worried about.”

  Mick cocked his head, thinking rapidly. Whatever Fuckin’ Barney knew had caused him to hole up. He was afraid of somebody.

  “Who are you hiding from?” Mick said.

  “Are you deaf? I ain’t saying nothing. Only reason I’m talking is Mommy asked me to.”

  “I understand that,” Mick said. “You’re loyal to your mother.”

  “Damn right.”

  “I’ve got two boys from Detroit
here.”

  “Mommy done told me.”

  “Listen at me a minute, will you? I can call my sister right now. She’ll bring the State Police and the FBI. They’ll hear all about Charley Flowers and how you’re selling smack for him. They’ll lock everyone of y’all up, your mom, too. You don’t want the Detroit mob on your ass. And you’re too good a son to let your mom go to jail for you. So how about you tell me what I want to know.”

  “You’re a fucking prick.”

  “I’ve heard that a thousand times. Tell me something I don’t know. Who killed Nonnie? Who are you hiding from?”

  Fuckin’ Barney talked for two minutes. Mick ended the call and waved Mason back toward the house. He tossed the phone in the yard and nodded to Mrs. Kissick.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” he said. “One more thing.”

  “Ain’t that ever the way of it,” she said.

  “Don’t tell nobody else where my papaw’s place is. It’ll go a whole lot rougher next time.”

  “You’re your father’s son, all right,” she said. “You know he courted me right here about forty years ago.”

  “You didn’t like him?”

  “Oh, I did. But he was bad to be wild back then.”

  “I’ve heard that,” Mick said. “See ya.”

  He got in the back seat, gave Vernon the keys, and told him to drive back to the cabin. He ordered them to sit under the tree, which they did with swift obedience. It was another interrogation tactic, one he’d derived from learning about the training of young elephants. They were chained to a stake for the first few years of their lives. When the chains were removed, the trainer drove a stake in the ground and the elephants stayed close to it.

  While Vernon and Freddie sat, he searched the car carefully, finding nothing.

  “All right,” he said. “You two can go.”

  “What’re you looking for?” Vernon said.

  “Spare ammunition.”

  He returned their unloaded pistols.

  “Sorry about the leg,” he said.

  “Don’t hurt much,” Freddie said, shrugging. “Can I have my knife, too?”

  “You can get that kind anywhere,” Mick said.

  “My uncle gave it to me.”

  Mick tossed it to him.