The Killing Hills

by Chris Offutt

  “Thanks,” Freddie said.

  Mick nodded. The men got in the car.

  “You can tell Charley Flowers ever what you want,” Mick said. “But let him know I ain’t interested in him. Anybody else comes sniffing around my house and I will be.”

  Vernon drove away. Mick watched the taillights until they faded in the darkness. He could hear them going down the hill in first gear, the engine straining against the pull of gravity. When the sound dissipated he went into the cabin.

  At the foot of the hill Vernon stopped at the blacktop. The car smelled worse now. Fear-sweat always did but it was the first time he’d smelled his own. Freddie lit a cigarette and stepped out of the car, stretching his leg and putting weight on it. Vernon joined him.

  “How is it?” he said.

  “Not bad,” Freddie said. “Your family really from here?”

  “Yeah. They moved up to Detroit in the eighties.”

  “You should be glad they left,” Freddie said. “What the fuck kind of place is this place?”

  “Daddy told me it was the last National Forest the government made. The town was already here.”

  “These people really are living in the goddam woods.” Freddie laughed, a rarity in itself. The sound was coarse as if rusty from disuse. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Thought I might visit my cousins.”

  “Why?” Freddie said.

  “Get more ammo.”

  “He took us down like we were fish,” Freddie said. “I ain’t going at him without more crew. Fuck that guy and fuck this place.”

  “What about Charley?”

  “We tell him Hardin ain’t a player or a Fed. We warned him off. Job done.”

  “That old lady knows what happened.”

  “She ain’t the talking type.”

  “What if she is?” Vernon said. “Charley won’t like it.”

  “Then what, we stay down here and pop them all? Hardin, Fuckin’ Barney, the old lady, and whoever else is in that house. That your plan?”

  “Maybe my cousins’ll help.”

  “Cousins you ain’t never met. Fat fucking chance.”

  “What’s your plan, then?” Vernon said.

  “Go home and get paid. Smoke on the weed for a week. Wait for the next job.”

  Vernon studied the heavy woods that surrounded them, the shadowed land, the narrow strip of stars visible between the hills. He didn’t want to stay here, either. His pride wasn’t worth the risk of further humiliation.

  “All right,” he said. “We’ll stop in Dayton and eat.”

  In the cabin Mick lay on his back, pistol at hand, staring at the dim ceiling illuminated by a scrap of moon. He figured those two city boys wouldn’t bother him again. They’d started at the bottom, moved up to working for a big boss, and were unaware that they’d already topped out. Their confidence and energy had helped them as younger men, but they would advance no further. They weren’t smart enough, bold enough, or tough enough. Guys like them wound up dead or serving time.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Mick awoke at seven o’clock, swiftly alert, listening to a yellow-breasted warbler sing from the understory beyond his window. The sky was pale blue, etched by a strip of red above the tree line. After changing the bandage on his mule bite, he armed himself and drove off the hillside, halting at a wide spot in the road. He dug his cell phone out of the glove box and checked his phone log—two more from Germany, which he ignored. He texted Linda to meet him at the Smokey Valley Truck Stop for breakfast. She responded immediately:

  closed 5 years ago dumshit. meet at bob’s

  i-64 connector. 20 mins

  He drove to Bob’s, a gas station that sold milk, eggs, cigarettes, and fishing tackle. A shelf held a row of orange life-preservers inside plastic bags covered in dust, evidence that people in the hills were less concerned with drowning than spending money. As his grandfather said, people who can’t swim should stay off a lake. The back area had a steam table emitting the strong smell of sausage. Four older men sat in a corner with coffee, stridently debating the chances of the Cincinnati Reds. Linda was a few minutes late, her hair still damp from a shower.

  “You eat?” she said.

  He shook his head and they moved to the counter. A skinny woman with a nose ring filled cardboard plates with scrambled eggs, sausage, biscuits, gravy, and discs of blackened potatoes. Linda adjusted her equipment belt to sit in the small chair. She loaded a fork with a fragment of each food, then spoke.

  “What’s so important you had to meet this early?”

  “Not here.”

  “I forgot what a cranky bastard you are in the morning. Hungover?”

  “No, I quit,” Mick said. “You don’t have to worry I’m like Dad.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “And I’m cranky?”

  He ate as he’d been taught, one hand holding the biscuit. His grandfather called it a “pusher,” and Mick recalled him saying “Reach me another pusher.” They finished eating and walked to Linda’s vehicle. Sunlight seeped across the pocked lot, illuminating oil stains in rainbows of dew.

  “You still got Tanner Curtis locked up?” he said.

  “No, I cut him loose last night. You’d know that if you bothered to stay in touch. You’d also know I got another call from Germany. They know you’re here.”

  “I was due back last week.”

  “Trouble?”

  “My CO will cover for me. Worst that can happen is I’ll get an Article 15. No penalty, but they can mandate psychological counseling.”

  “I pity that poor doc if you show up.”

  “Won’t happen,” Mick said. “It’s for people with emotional problems or substance abuse. Something that made them go AWOL. They know I’m coming back.”

  “Then why’s he keep calling?”

  “I don’t know. But I’m not leaving till I see Peggy, which is not something I want to talk about.”

  “Okay, big bro. What do you want to talk about?”

  “I know who killed Nonnie.”

  Linda’s face closed down, hardening with acute intensity. She opened the door and climbed into the cab. Mick went to the other side and got in.

  “When did you find out?” she said.

  “Last night.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me then?”

  “There were some complications. By the time I took care of them, it was late and I was tired.”

  “I’ve never known you to be tired your whole life.”

  “The complications were pretty damn complicated. Point is, I know the identity of the killer. Delmer Collins.”

  “You sure?” she said.

  “I talked to Fuckin’ Barney. He was up on Choctaw that night. Delmer saw him when he was leaving. The next day Fuckin’ Barney got a little visit from a man who threatened him. That’s why he’s hiding out. It’s not the law he’s scared of, it’s Delmer’s uncle. Murvil Knox.”

  “That son of a bitch,” she said. “That’s why Knox put the FBI in my office. He arrested the Dopted Boy to steer things away from his nephew.”

  She pounded the steering wheel three times, looked at her fist, then shook her hand as if flinging water off.

  “Where’s Delmer at?” she said.

  “Finding out is my next plan.”

  “I need to see Fuckin’ Barney.”

  “Can’t do it,” he said. “I agreed to leave him out if he told me what he knew.”

  “Leave him out of what?”

  “He’s moving heroin in. They make the exchange at the Eldridge County rest stop on the interstate.”

  “Let me get this straight. You got a drug-dealer witness who won’t come forward because he’s afraid. You don’t know where the killer is or why he did it. And I’ve got a guy reporting every move I make to the killer’s uncle.”

  “About the size of it,” Mick said.

  “I got to sidetrack the FBI guy.”

  Mick nodded.

  “I can call their f
ield office in Louisville,” Linda said. “Tell them I’ve got intel on a heroin ring and don’t have the manpower to monitor it. I’ll request Special Agent Wilson for surveillance at the rest stop.”

  “Think they’ll listen?”

  “I’ll tell them any arrests are theirs, not mine.”

  “That’s a good plan, Sis,” Mick said. “Smart.”

  “Did Fuckin’ Barney tell you about the rest stop?”

  “No, I got that info another way.”

  “One of your complications?”

  He nodded, thinking about Vernon and Freddie. They were probably still asleep after driving all night. He kind of half-liked them, overgrown boys similar to hundreds he’d met on bases in Europe.

  “Anything else?” she said.

  “My gut says Delmer is still yet around here. His uncle will keep him close for control. Whatever you do, don’t let Knox know you’re looking at Delmer. His muscle scared Fuckin’ Barney and that family doesn’t strike me as scaring easy.”

  “Oh, you know the whole family now?”

  “Dad went out with the mother before he married Mom.”

  “This don’t get no better.”

  “It could get a lot worse if Knox finds out what we know.”

  She gathered breath again. Mick figured her hand still ached or she’d be pounding the steering wheel again.

  “What are you going to do?” she said.

  “I’m going to go talk to Old Man Tucker again. He lived all his life in these hills. If there’s a good place to hide, he’ll know where it’s at.”

  “He might.”

  “This better stay between us. No Johnny Boy.”

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “He’s off on the other end of the county for a property dispute. Man built a fence. Neighbor says it’s on his land. Thing is, they’re fighting over two inches. Fence runs a quarter mile. Neighbor says that adds up to eight hundred yards of land he’s getting stole.”

  “Both of them ort to get a new survey,” he said.

  “Neither one has the money for that. All they’ve got is dirt and guns. That’s why Johnny Boy’s there and not me. He can talk to people.”

  “And that’s why he can’t know what we’re doing.”

  Mick left the SUV, walked to her side and waited until she lowered the window.

  “What now, damn it?” she said.

  “Make sure and text me right after you call the FBI.”

  “What are you up to?”

  “Complicated.”

  He went to the truck and drove out of town, heading for the isolated ridges that marked the Carter County line. At the foot of Tucker’s hill, he downshifted to granny-gear and headed up the steep incline. A copperhead stretched itself the width of the road to capture heat. The truck provided sufficient ground vibration to alert the snake into retreat. At the top, Mick made the sharp turn that led to the dead-end ridge and Tucker’s house. A white dog trotted around the house, gave a single bark, and stood before the house with its ears laid back, scruff up, and tail stiff. A minute later the door opened and Mr. Tucker emerged in work clothes, his right hand partially concealed behind his back where Mick knew he held a pistol.

  “Mr. Tucker,” Mick yelled from the cab. “It’s Mick Hardin. I was up here a few days ago.”

  The old man nodded. Mick left the truck, watching the dog, who didn’t appear to favor the situation.

  “Didn’t see your dog last time,” Mick said.

  “Naw, he was off on business.”

  “He bite?”

  “If I say so, he’ll tear your leg off and beat you with it.”

  “Can I talk to you a minute?”

  “I reckon.”

  Tucker waved him to the porch and Mick climbed the steps, deliberately ignoring the dog.

  “What’s your dog’s name?” he said.

  “I mainly call him Dog. Makes it simpler for both of us. I’ve had seven dogs named Dog. My wife likes an overlap, a pup when one gets old, but it’d be confusing. Dog One, Dog Two. No end to it.”

  Mick nodded. The old man was more talkative than last time, and he figured it was morning coffee and a solid sleep.

  “Sleep good?” Mick said.

  “You ain’t here to talk about sleep and dogs.”

  “No sir, I ain’t. It’s about Nonnie Johnson. I got a line on who did it. I believe he’s hiding somewhere in the hills. Town’s too small. You know this land better than anybody. Where you reckon he’s holed up at?”

  A hummingbird poked its beak in the purple blossom of a morning glory. A rival bird dived toward it and they began a mid-air duel until one flew to a chaste tree.

  “There’s caves,” Tucker said. “Kids go in them and drink.”

  “Might not be private enough.”

  “Three or four old homeplaces nobody lives at. Roads are growed over.”

  “Can you show me where they are?”

  “Can’t leave my wife that long. I know the family names.”

  “That would help.”

  “Caudill. They’s gobs of them, but Boyd Caudill’s mom is the one you want. The old Branham place. And some Gibson land. All them people are gone but where they lived is still there. About like this place one day.”

  “My opinion,” Mick said. “You got some years left above ground.”

  “My wife don’t.”

  The old man cut his eyes briefly toward the door. It was rare that anyone in the hills lived into their eighties, especially a couple.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Mick said.

  The old man said nothing and Mick walked to his truck. He had often imagined a life like this for Peggy and himself—finishing their days side by side on a porch, quietly enjoying the birds, trees, and flowers. He wanted to measure time by the growth of trees.

  Chapter Seventeen

  A natural leadfoot, Linda loved speeding over the blacktop with the lightbar flashing. She enjoyed the power of the SUV, its willingness to grip the blacktop tightly, and top a hundred in a quarter-mile straight stretch. The road was officially County 519 but was locally known as the Clearfield Road, the Poppin Rock Road, or the Going-to-Paragon Road. It ran south past family cemeteries and fields of corn, following Lick Fork Creek to the community of Zag. She slowed as she approached the county line. The emergency call had designated a gravel lane this side of Morgan County with a Grand Prix in a ditch. Two people were unhurt but “not acting right.”

  Linda found the road easily, her car raising a billow of white dust on the crushed limestone. The Grand Prix had missed a sharp curve and gone into the ditch. The color of the right rear quarter panel didn’t match the rest of the car, having been added from a junkyard. Patches of Bondo had flaked away to the raw metal in various spots, each leaking lines of rust as if weeping red tears. She ran the plates. The car was registered to Roger Crawford, a name Linda knew as a small-time seller of weed. She parked and approached the vehicle. A young man lay asleep on his side in the back seat, hands tucked between his drawn-up knees.

  Two people in their early twenties sat on the ground with their backs against a downed tree. Their clothes were dirty, both shirts marred by burns from cigarettes. The woman’s head lolled back against the bark. The man watched Linda as if nothing could surprise him.

  “Roger,” she said. “That you?”

  “Yep.”

  “Who’s your little friend here?”

  “My sister.”

  He nudged the woman with his elbow and she looked around like a child waking from a nap.

  “What’s your name,” Linda said.

  “Shawna,” she said. “I go by Shana.”

  “Uh-huh,” Linda said. “Looks like you all ran off the road. Who was driving?”

  “Me,” Roger said, “but it wasn’t my fault.”

  “What happened?” Linda said. “Deer run in front of you?”

  “No,” he said. “It was his turn to drive.”

  “Who?” Linda said.

  “Jackie.�
��

  “Guy in the back seat?”

  “Yep,” Roger said.

  “Who is he?”

  “Jackie Ray,” Shana said. “He’s my boyfriend.”

  “Uh-huh,” Linda said. “I see. It was your boyfriend’s turn to drive and Roger wrecked. Is that right?”

  They both nodded and smiled, and Linda understood they were too high for mere weed. It had to be opiates.

  “You all got any drugs on you? Or weapons?”

  “Yeah,” Shana said.

  “No,” Roger said.

  “Well,” Linda said, “which is it.”

  “Pills but no guns,” Roger said.

  Shana nodded eagerly as if expecting a reward for a correct answer.

  “Let me have them,” Linda said.

  In slow, jerky motions they dug into the pockets of their jeans and handed over opaque plastic containers. Linda examined them. Both were from the same pharmacy in Tampa, Florida, prescribed by the same doctor. Sixty milligrams of OxyContin, fifteen pills per bottle. Each had five missing.

  “You got any more in your car?” Linda said.

  “Yep,” Roger said.

  “Okay. I’m detaining you. Don’t try to run off or I’ll have to arrest you. You want that?”

  They both shook their heads without speaking.

  “Good,” Linda said. “Stay here.”

  She walked to the car, knowing they were too stoned to run. The front floorboard had a coffee can full of cigarette butts. In the glove box she found four candy bars and twenty-four vials of OxyContin, the prescriptions filled at four different drugstores. She opened the rear door. On the floor was a half-eaten cheeseburger and an empty container of Oxy. With a sense of dread, she prodded Jackie, then pressed her fingers to his carotid artery and felt no pulse. She tugged his arm but rigor mortis prevented it from moving which meant he’d been dead for a few hours.

  She went to her car and requested an ambulance, then called the State Police. She returned to Roger and Shana, wondering how long they’d been driving with a dead man in their car.

  “Roger,” she said, “I got to ask you. Y’all coming back from a run to Florida? Get some Oxy?”

  “Yep.”

  “I had the idea you were a weed man only.”

  “I was,” he said. “People want Oxy now.”