The Broken King

by Brian Panowich

  Clayton chewed his lip raw, snuck another peek back at the kids behind him, and then stopped spinning the rack of lighters. He pulled one from the plastic clip. It was just brushed silver—no pictures, no ridiculous idioms, no bigoted stereotypes. He slid it across the counter next to bottles of bourbon. “I’ll take that, too.”

  “All right, then. You need some fluid?”

  “Nah, I got some out in the truck.”

  “All right, then,” Pollard repeated. He inspected it on both sides and tossed it in the bag. “That’ll be twenty-six bucks.” The register said $38.32.

  Clayton gave the man two twenties. “Keep the change, Tom.”

  Pollard took the bills and inspected them, too—on both sides. Neither man said goodbye as Clayton headed out the door. He got in his 1990 Bronco, cranked up the 302 big block, and fished through the paper bag on the seat for one of the bottles of whiskey he’d just bought. He unscrewed the cap and took a hefty nip. The cold morning air filled the cab of the SUV as he rolled the window down, so he adjusted the heater vent to hit him straight in the face while he watched Reggie Cole hoof it out of the store with a couple of twelve packs of High Life. The rest of the crew followed, all of them laughing it up as they broke into a sprint. Clayton smiled and thought about his brother again. He considered stepping out of the truck, but decided not to. Reggie wouldn’t be toting an ass-whuppin’ tonight for getting caught because of him. Clayton took another sip and let the whiskey burn at the sides of his tongue before he swallowed. His eyes began to blur and he wiped at his cheek. He didn’t realize how long he’d been crying. All this thinking on Halford must’ve brought it on. The whiskey made him quick to a tear. He wiped at his face again. He barely saw his brothers while they were alive but now that they were dead, he missed them every day. The whiskey mixed with the guilt in his stomach and churned in his belly like battery acid. He pushed at the heater vent to blow away from his face. He was heated up enough. He thought about calling Scabby Mike back to tell him to meet somewhere else. Mike’s message said to meet him out at Burnt Hickory Pond. Normally, Clayton would’ve gone out of his way to avoid that graveyard. Mike knew that. It was too soon. But maybe it wasn’t. Maybe now was time. Maybe Clayton was overdue for a visit with the family.

  3

  Burnt Hickory Pond

  Clayton arrived at the pond first. He’d already drained the first half pint of bourbon on the drive over, and now stood in the tall, overgrown saw grass that half-obscured the three headstones set in a clearing between the pond and the woods. Clayton understood why Halford and Buckley would want to be buried here. The place had meaning to them. As kids the three of them spent more time here than anywhere else on the mountain, but it never made much sense to Clayton why Halford made the decision to bury their father here, too. Outside of stopping the forest fire that Buckley started once trying to flush out a hornet’s nest that burned out a patch of hardwoods near the rim of the forest—the same patch of petrified trees that gave this place its name—to Clayton’s knowledge, his father had never even stepped foot on this chunk of wetland. Gareth didn’t even fish the pond. He hated being cooped up in a johnboat. He liked to trout fish up at Bear Creek, wide open, thigh high in the rushing water. So Halford’s laying down their Deddy here instead of a place like Cooper’s Field where all the elder Burroughs were buried always struck Clayton as a little odd. But Clayton stopped trying to figure out why his oldest brother did most of the things he’d done a long time ago—and now it didn’t matter. Halford was dead. And the thought of it chilled Clayton to the bone—because he’d been the one to kill him. Some people liked to argue that point—like Kate. She would say that Halford killed himself the minute he put Clayton in the position to choose. The very second he walked into Clayton’s office with a shotgun last year and threatened the life of an innocent girl, Halford had made his decision to die. Clayton didn’t buy that. He couldn’t. His blood wouldn’t let him. No one blamed him for pulling the trigger, though. Some folks in town even called him a hero for it. Hell, most of the people in McFalls County agreed, being that Clayton was the law and Halford was an outlaw, that it couldn’t end any other way—that the outcome was inevitable. As if neither of them had any choice in the matter. Sometimes, Clayton tried to believe that, too. At least at night he did, right before he medicated himself to sleep. But with every morning sun came the stone truth. That he’d put three bullets in his big brother’s chest. Yes, Halford had been wrong, out of his mind with anger. But regardless of the circumstances, Clayton had killed his own kin—his own flesh and blood—his family’s blood. And he watched that blood bleed out all over Main Street.

  Clayton took a sip from the second bottle and poured some of the whiskey over the coarse granite of his older brother’s headstone. He watched the stone absorb the liquid as it ran down across the engraved letters knowing full well that chunk of rock could never be satisfied. He almost spoke his brother’s name out loud. He could feel the company of ghosts beneath his feet, but the knock of a rebuilt V8 engine coming up the road stole his attention—along with anything he might’ve had to say. He took another short pull of whiskey and tucked the bottle into the pocket of his Carhartt jacket. He needed to slow down on the drinking. His felt his head getting swimmy already and he still had the weight of an entire day to face.

  Scabby Mike circled the clearing before bringing the obnoxious-sounding old Ford to a stop by the pond. He’d been driving that same truck since he’d been able to shave and there was more rust covering the old step-side than paint. He called it a classic and for the most part, folks on the mountain let him think so. Scabby Mike Cummings wasn’t the type of man you argued with unless you could call him a friend and even people chose to tread lightly when it came to his truck. Mike came by the descriptive, Scabby, after an unchecked case of chicken pox left him scarred up real bad as a boy. Clayton used to think it was a terrible name when they were younger. Kids could be cruel. He was either pitied or avoided. But Mike turned it around and accepted the name like a badge of honor. As if it made him unique. People who didn’t know him found him tough to look at. Clayton considered it their loss, because the people who did know him barely noticed the scars. Good people were just good people. And despite Mike’s position as a top lieutenant in Clayton’s dead brother’s criminal empire over the past two decades, that’s exactly what he was—good people. There was a time, of course, when the Sheriff of McFalls County would never have taken a meeting alone with a known criminal like Mike—good people or not—but that time was over. At least for Clayton it was. His sins outweighed anything this man Mike could’ve done. They outweighed the sins of everyone on this mountain combined. He thought on that as Mike pulled the emergency brake and popped open the door of his truck. The leathery pockmarks that covered sixty percent of Mike’s face were a bright, puffy pink that resembled a case of the hives. From a distance his face looked like a thin layer of chewed bubblegum. Clayton knew him well enough to know that his scars were always pronounced like that during the summer’s high heat or when he was stressed—or angry. That troubled Clayton because the morning hadn’t been a hot one. Mike stepped out of the truck and took off his hat. He always did that. He smiled a crooked smile from the unscarred side of his mouth and it solidified Clayton’s dread. It wasn’t the warm smile Scabby Mike normally wore—the kind that involved cracking open beers or discussing how shitty the Braves were doing this year. It was the kind of smile Clayton had come to recognize as a precursor to some sort of unpleasant news.

  “Shit,” he mumbled to himself and wondered if anyone on this mountain smiled out of just genuine happiness anymore. He couldn’t remember the last time he had.

  Another man got out on the passenger side of the truck and that surprised Clayton. He wasn’t sure who it was and Clayton knew most everyone on this mountain. He became a little more self-aware of the uniform he was wearing. Maybe this meeting wasn’t such a good idea. This kind of thing didn’t look good. He’d known Mike since
they were kids so some could say they were friends. But Clayton didn’t know this other guy at all. The man was tall and fit with chiseled features. He was clean-shaven, handsome, and wore a wide-brimmed hat. The absence of a beard, or at least a few days’ scruff, on a grown man around here was uncommon. It made him look odd. Clayton tended not to trust a clean-shaven face. He thought the man looked like a goon—or worse—a Fed. The man tipped his well-worn Cattleman at Clayton. The Sheriff nodded back and watched through narrow eyes as the two men approached.

  Scabby Mike spoke first. “Clayton, this here is Wallace—Wallace Cobb. He’s one of mine.” That meant he was to be trusted with what Mike was about to say. Wallace extended his hand to Clayton and his entire arm was covered in exotic black-and-gray tattoo work. Monochrome tentacles of some half-hidden sea creature slithered out from under his clean, fitted white T-shirt. That helped Clayton further determine that he wasn’t from anywhere around there, but still, his face looked familiar.

  “Do I know you?” Clayton said as he took Wallace’s hand and shook it. He noticed the man’s knuckles were scraped up and raw.

  “It’s been a long time, and I wouldn’t say we were friends, but yeah, we’ve met.

  Clayton studied the man’s face, and Wallace held his stare.

  “Damn, Clayton,” Mike said, “I just said he was with me, what’s with all the eye-fuckin’?”

  Clayton let go of Wallace’s hand. “Who else is in the truck?”

  “What?” Both Mike and Wallace looked behind them. A younger man was fidgeting around in the cab of the truck. When whoever it was saw everyone looking at him, he waved. Clayton took him for a kid. Mike shook his head and scratched at the back of his neck. “That’s T-Ride, my sister’s boy. I told him to stay put. He ain’t quite ready for all this.”

  “Right,” Clayton said. “All this. Why don’t you tell me what all this is about, Mike?” He thumped the silver star pinned to his chest and stared directly at the man named Cobb. “And try not to forget what this badge means.”

  Mike ignored the comment, pushed his greasy brown hair out of his face, and seated the just-as-greasy baseball cap back down tight and low on his head. He gave Clayton—and then Wallace—a look as if he were unsure of how to proceed. He took a deep breath, looked at his truck, and then walked over to it. He stopped at the far corner of the tailgate and untied the bowline knot holding down the edge of a canvas tarp that covered the entire bed. He moved to the other corner and did the same. After another deep breath, he tossed it back and moved back around to the side of the truck. “C’mon and take a look at this.” He motioned for Clayton and Wallace to join him by the tailgate.

  As they walked it hit him. “Grade school, right?” Clayton said to Cobb.

  “That’s right,” Wallace said. “Fifth grade. Mrs. Summers’s class.”

  Clayton stopped walking and scratched at his beard. “Wait a second. You were Kate’s boyfriend.”

  Wallace laughed. “I was ten years old, man. That girl scared me to death.”

  “Well, I can certainly understand that,” Clayton said, and they continued toward the truck.

  Wallace said something else that sounded like casual conversation, but by that time Clayton could see what Mike had uncovered in the bed of the truck, and all the small talk he had in him dried up quick.

  “What the fuck, Mike?” Clayton’s face drained of any color and his pale skin caused the red in his beard to glow like fire.

  Surrounded by a littering of faded empty beer cans and lying in a thin bed of matted pine straw was a boy about eighteen to twenty years old. He had a thick tuft of dark brown hair, a chubby face, and a dark burst of fresh purple bruises under both eyes and across the bridge of his broken nose. He was bound, but he was moving, so immediately Clayton was relieved that he wasn’t looking at a dead body. “What the fuck?” he repeated slowly to himself this time. He was angry now. The captive in the bed of the truck adjusted himself from lying on his belly to look up and his eyes were wide and jumpy, filled with fear and confusion. His frantic demeanor calmed a little as he finally settled his attention on Clayton. His mouth was wrapped in duct tape, as were both of his hands and feet. His feet were also bare and filthy. Clayton figured Mike had taken the kid’s shoes in case he got loose. Bare feet made it tougher to run. He hated that he knew things like that. He hated the fact that neither of these men respected him enough to call him Sheriff. He hated everything about what was happening. He looked down at the boy. The white part of his left eye was completely red from a busted blood vessel where he’d obviously been dealt a good smack, and the swelling was still puffing up, so it must not have been too long ago. He thought about his new friend Wallace’s knuckles from the handshake a few moments ago. A trickle of dried blood from some unseen head wound had caked up the boy’s hair, and the left side of his face was lined with indentations from where it had been lying against the pine straw and ribbed metal of the truck bed. Clayton swung his head from the kid, to Mike, to Wallace, and then back to the kid. On instinct he took a quick survey of the pond and the surrounding area to make sure no one else was seeing this, although he knew no one was. No one came this close to a Burroughs graveyard and Mike knew it. That’s why he picked this place to meet. Clayton moved back from the truck and Mike and Wallace moved with him. He took in a deep, settling breath and blew it out slowly before speaking. When he did, he spoke as precisely and controlled as his buzz would allow.

  “Who the hell is that? And why was it so important to bring him here—to me?”

  “He’s a fuckin’ Viner!” T-Ride yelled from the sliding back window of the truck.

  “You shut up,” Mike said, “and shut that goddamn window, too, before I take a boot to your ass.”

  T-Ride slid the window shut and watched as Clayton paced and waited impatiently for someone to start talking.

  Mike tipped his chin up at Wallace. “Go ahead, Dub. You tell him.”

  Wallace watched the beaten boy in the truck flop around violently and grunt from under the silver tape. “His name’s Joseph Viner. They call him JoJo. He’s Twyla Viner’s grandson.”

  “Are those names supposed to mean something to me?” Clayton said flatly.

  “Not likely. They’re a small outfit outta East Georgia. Would never have made McFalls County radar. The old woman isn’t really a concern anyway, she’s more of a figurehead these days since her husband died a few years back, but her son—this little shit’s Deddy—Coot, they call him, he’s about as mean as they come. The whole crew hails from a place called Boneville.”

  “Where the hell is Boneville?”

  “Exactly.”

  Clayton was getting tired of the cryptic answers. “Mike, you and your buddy here need to start tellin’ me what the hell is going on. Have you forgotten I’m the law around here? I shouldn’t be anywhere near this—this—bullshit.”

  Again, Scabby Mike showed little concern for Clayton’s position as Sheriff. None of the boys from Bull Mountain ever did. He just answered the Sheriff’s earlier question. “Boneville is a piss-ant little town down around the eastern border of Carolina.”

  Clayton’s disgusted expression never changed. “For the last time, why do I give a shit?”

  “Well,” Wallace picked up, “this peckerwood kid was part of a crew that botched a robbery out by Prouty Hollar. You know the place? A club called The Chute—” He stopped and looked at Mike, unsure of what he was allowed to say.

  “It’s fine, Dub. Go ahead.”

  “Right, The Chute. A big fella named Freddie Tuten runs it. It’s an old outpost building that your Deddy was using as a dry-house until—”

  Clayton took the small bottle of whiskey from his coat. “I know where it is, Wallace. I’ve lived here my whole life.” He took a big swig from the bottle and put it back in his coat. “I still don’t see why you brought me into this shit, Mike. No robbery was reported to my office.”

  Mike looked amused for a second but it faded. “Of course not
, Clayton. Tuten’s place ain’t exactly up to code, you know?”

  Clayton did know and he was getting hotter by the second. The whiskey in his blood wasn’t doing anything to calm him down, either. He shook his head as if to shake off a bad dream. He wanted out of there. He wanted to just turn and leave, but instead he asked a question he didn’t really care to know the answer to. “Why would anybody want to rob old Tuten’s place anyway? He’s never got more than a few hundred bucks in the safe. What were they expecting to find?”

  Wallace tried to answer, but Mike cut him off. “That ain’t the point, Clayton. I don’t think you’re seeing the big picture here.”

  “Well, then why don’t you enlighten me, Mike? I keep asking for the point, but all I keep getting is more bullshit.”

  Mike stepped up close into Clayton’s face, seemingly frustrated that he needed to even explain. “The point is, that club they tried to hit? It’s been an unofficial cash cow for the Burroughs family for years. You know that. Don’t act like you don’t. Everyone knows that. And because of that fact, the place carried a certain amount of untouchability. It’s one of the only places still earning anything at all for the people up here after the Feds came through and shut almost everything else down.”

  “And I’m guessing since it wasn’t called in, that Freddy Tuten handled it, so why should I care about some group of two-bit tweekers robbing a bar?”

  Wallace stepped in between the two men. “Because, Mr. Burroughs, if we are now living in a place that isn’t feared by the ‘two-bit tweekers’ of the world, then you, your wife—and most importantly—your son, are all in danger. In fact, everyone living on this mountain is.”

  Clayton was quiet for a minute as he stared at this man with the clean-shaven face. He didn’t look like a goon anymore. He looked genuinely concerned. Clayton looked at Mike, who nodded in agreement. This whole ordeal felt surreal to Clayton. Mike had been the one in charge of things this far up the mountain now that Halford was dead and it was strange to watch him take a backseat to this Wallace fella.