by James Grady
He opened the door to go back in and saw Matt standing there with his hands in the pockets of his yellow jacket. “Hello, Chance.”
“Matt.”
“Sit back and take it easy. I just want to talk.” Matt glanced toward the community center. “Mermaid hunting again?”
“Gambling my way to glory.” Chance felt his pistol against his ribs and wondered if there was one in Matt’s hand.
“Two days, Chance. Whatever you’re drinking on now, you’re going to piss it away. The sooner you sober up and get me my money, the sooner I won’t have to come back.”
“It’s a down economy, Matt. Smelter’s a bit slow.” Thumbing the air behind him where the stack used to be, he took a pull from the bottle.
“I’m done threatening you, Chance. I won’t do it again.” Matt turned toward his running rig. “Two days.”
Chance toasted him with the pint as he left. He sat back and stared at the bar’s fuzzy light leaking through the windshield. Dropped the bottle and went back in.
He worked through the buzz of the crowd to the bar and propped himself against it. The whiskey was taking hold and the throb in his nose faded out. Amy appeared from the back and placed a coaster in front of him.
“I thought you took off.”
“Battery shit itself again.”
“Bummer. You just can’t seem to catch a break, now, can you, cowboy?”
“Not so far.”
She glanced at the clock. “I get off in half an hour. Sit right here and when I’m done, I’ll be happy to jump you.”
* * *
“What’s wrong with your face?”
Chance opened his eyes. A small boy stood in front of him, staring. Chance sat up on the couch. “Hi.”
“Hi.” The boy didn’t blink. “Did you get hit?”
“Did I ever.” He stretched and looked around. It was a tiny living room, blank except for photos on the wall. He caught his reflection in the TV’s curved screen.
“Did you hit him back?”
“Not yet. Where’s your mom?”
The boy pointed at the closed bedroom door.
“Gotcha.” Chance stood, wobbling a bit. He’d slept in his clothes. “What’s your name?”
“Alex.”
“Chance.” He put out his hand. The boy shook it solemnly.
They sat at the kitchen counter eating Cap’n Crunch. The boy watched him and didn’t say anything. Chance heard the bedroom door open and Amy say, “Good morning.”
“We’re just having some chow here. Need a bowl?”
Amy was dressed in a long T-shirt and shorts. She stood with a hand on the counter, regarding the two boys. She glanced out the window. “You remember getting here? You were pretty drunk.”
“Yeah. Sorry about that.” Chance stole a look at Alex, who grinned through a mouthful of Crunch.
“I just didn’t want you leaving town like that.” She folded her arms and stared into the sunlight.
* * *
She drove him to Black Eagle to pick up his truck. They put jumper cables on it and sat in her idling car. Snow fell against the windshield.
“So what’s your plan?” She fiddled with a loose bit of trim on the dash.
“I don’t know. I can’t stay here if I want to keep breathing.”
“What’s your dad say?”
“As little as possible. Wants me to work for him at the shop.”
“I always liked him.”
“Swing by and say hello. I’m heading there now.”
“Nah, I have to pick up Alex in a bit. Say hi, though.”
“I will. He’s a cute kid.”
“Yeah.”
Chance stepped into the snow and fired up the truck. He pulled off the cables and leaned into her window. “Well, I guess that’s it.”
She stared. “Yeah, that’s it.” Then her hand was around his neck, pulling his mouth to hers. It was the first warmth he’d felt since he’d been home.
* * *
Chance pulled up on the office side of the shop. The Open sign wasn’t on yet, so he unlocked the door. He flicked on lights as he worked his way into the shop.
His father lay facedown on the floor in a mirror-dark pool that wasn’t oil. Chance knelt and felt his father’s neck: cold. His eyes were half open and the wound at the temple had congealed to the concrete. Chance sat down, and then eased onto his side to gaze into his father’s eyes. The dead man’s mouth looked like it was preparing to say something.
* * *
Chance kept his fingers on the wheel as he drove past the missile silo. The gun was in his hand when he reached the farmhouse. He parked in the yard and slid out of the truck, the pistol hanging at his side. Chance walked the perimeter of the house before going in.
No one was there. He set the .357 by the sink. A blinking light caught the corner of his eye: the ancient answering machine his grandmother would not give up. He walked over and pressed Play.
“Chance, it’s your dad. You remember that spot at the farm you used to hide as a kid? I put something in there for safekeeping. If you don’t hear from me for a few days, go check on it. No big deal but I thought you should know just in case. Talk to you soon, pard.”
He rewound the tape and pressed Play again, hearing his father’s voice. He rewound it again and understood—why his dad had sold the ground around him, and what was now hidden in the secret place.
He slid to the floor against the pine paneling. Some time went by. The mantel clock ticked. And he remembered hiding in the little place his dad had built for Ranger.
* * *
Chance walked to the side of the barn and it was there in an overgrowth of weeds. The little swinging door was rotting at the bottom, but painted red it blended with the shape of the barn. He pushed the door open and crawled inside.
Ranger had loved this spot in winter, and in the remains of the straw Chance’s father had put there he could still see where the dog had dug in against the cold. In the farthest corner sat a five-gallon bucket of feed.
Chance dragged it out by its handle and pried off the lid. The bucket was full of money.
* * *
He sat drinking coffee at the kitchen table that night with the pistol near his hand and a single small light that would not be seen from the road. He wrote slowly on a yellow pad, working on a draft he’d started several times.
When dawn came, he sealed the pages in two envelopes. Then he took the gun and walked to the barn.
The truck started grudgingly, warmed in the sheltered space. He drove it onto the road. More snow would soon fall under the gray pall of sky. At the county road ran a line of mailboxes. He placed the letters in his grandfather’s and put up its flag.
The town wavered on the horizon, a gray line in the air. Great Falls, his town, the place he was from. He’d never left here, really, and now he never would. The five-gallon bucket guaranteed that. He took another look and got back in the truck.
* * *
Matt’s phone buzzed and he glanced at the number. “Hello, Chance.”
“I have your money. You can come get it. You know where I’m at.”
“Better if I pick the spot, Chance.”
“We’re doing this now or I’m gone. Come get your money.”
“Okay.” Matt ended the call and turned to his brother. “Let’s go get him.”
On the far end of the line, Chance opened the pistol and loaded the sixth round.
* * *
The red Suburban cut through a light snow. Matt and his brother Donnie rode in front, two men with rifles behind them. Matt’s yellow jacket was stained with Chance’s blood despite a hard cleaning. He drove calmly, gazing ahead. The day had turned warmer despite the snow; a Chinook wind was on the way.
They turned off the county road toward the farmhouse. Matt spotted the truck parked in the yard by the house. He stopped at the cattle guard and took a hard look. Nothing moving.
They drove in and parked. The four men got out and walked
toward the house. Matt called Chance’s name.
“I’m here,” he said from behind them. He stood in the barn door and they saw his leveled pistol.
Matt stopped. “I just want the money, Chance. Then we’re square.”
“Is that what you told my dad?” He walked forward.
Matt hesitated. “He offered to pay me a couple months ago. When I went to collect he flew off the handle. That wasn’t part of the plan.”
“You forgot to mention that tidbit to me.”
“It happened after I saw you last night. I figured you’d disappear.”
“I’m here.”
Chance cocked the pistol and watched the men slowly spread out in front of him.
* * *
Two days later, after she’d seen the news, a hand-addressed letter arrived.
Amy, I’m sorry to send you this, but you probably understand by now. I fucked things up bad but you deserve to have something good. Wait till things quiet down then come out to the farm. The address will be in the news. On the south side of the barn you’ll see a little door. There’s something in it for you in a big white bucket. Don’t worry, it’s not stolen. It was my dad’s and he’d want you to have it. I also sent a letter to my lawyer. It’s a will and I’m leaving you the place. I don’t know if that will hold up but we’ll see. Obviously my lawyer sucks. But this will help you out. There’s a small chance you may hear from me again and if so I might need some of it to pay him. Thanks for everything.
Chance
Matt spoke: “Chance, put that money in my hands right now or I swear I’ll blow your new girlfriend’s brains out.”
Chance aimed the muzzle of the gun at Matt’s chest. “I’m not fucking around.”
Matt grinned and Chance caught Donnie opening his coat. Chance fired in warning but the back of Donnie’s head came open and dusted the snow red. The other men scattered as Donnie fell. Chance backpedaled across the yard, putting the Suburban between him and them. He fired two rounds into the tires on his side, then ran straight for his truck.
He reached the cab and turned the key without hope, but the engine caught, and he hit the gas. One of Matt’s men raised his weapon and fired, putting a line of holes in the International’s side. Chance shot his gun dry through the side window as he tore out of the yard.
If they killed him, she was dead. If they got past him, she was dead. He had to stop them. But the pain in his ribs was suddenly very sharp and he felt a smear of blood spreading from his side.
The truck lurched and a plume of dark smoke boiled from the hood. Neither of them had long. In the mirror, the hobbled Suburban rolled slowly toward him. They couldn’t get far—but far enough to reach him. He had to stop them here.
Chance played his last card. He put the wheel hard over and the International roared off the road and toward the silo’s fence. It struck the chain link and went through, dragging fence and DEADLY FORCE signs and tumbleweeds through the gravel compound. He pulled a tight turn, mowing through antennas and sensors before the truck rocked to a stop against the squat blast door.
Chance coughed up some blood. He upended the pistol and thumbed the cylinder release. The spent casings dropped in slow motion, the last, the empty cartridge pinging off the wheel as it fell. He fished live rounds from the coat’s pocket and reloaded with a shaky hand.
He leaned against the door and fell to the earth. Rolling onto his front, he saw the Suburban stop below, tires gone on his side. He crawled beneath the truck and set the pistol in both hands.
The men in the rig paused, deciding. In minutes helicopters would appear over the rise. Men in Humvees with guns drawn would sweep in to kill anything that moved. They were caught one way or another. They might as well shoot Chance first.
He saw them coming now. Eighty feet maybe, yellow jacket in the middle. He thought he heard the thump of rotors. He could feel his heart beating against the earth his grandfather had once run through with steel blades. The men were coming as three. Chance just needed to kill one.
PART II
The Hi-Line
Fireweed
by Janet Skeslien Charles
Farm Country
It was Jim who found the body. Ten miles off the highway. In the middle of Sigurd Sorenson’s summer fallow. Fireweed had taken root, its dull green leaves nearly concealing the blond stubble—stubborn, rigid—that stuck out of the gray dirt. In a fifty-mile radius, no other farmer let weeds onto his fields. Slumped in the passenger seat of the Ford, the dead man was not wearing a seat belt. His body leaned toward the glove compartment. A line of blood had dried on his cheek. Like a tear, someone insisted the deputy said, though that didn’t sound like her. The gun sat in the driver’s seat. The bullet had gone clean through his skull and even the roof of the car. As always, the sky was blue, but anyone who knew anything knew that snow was on its way.
* * *
I squeeze behind the counter and grab the coffee pot while Flo waits for her order to come up. I’m waitressing for one last year before I go away to college. As she serves their breakfast, four farmers huddle around the table and talk about the stranger—Who was he? How the hell’d he get out there?—at the Town Dump. That’s what we call the Town Pump—the only café in town. The only gas station too. Like a boxing ring, it has corners: one for the Ladies’ Auxiliary, one for the farmers, one for county workers, one for the hot shit posse. No one likes the posse, a handful of businessmen who act better than everyone else. “If you think you’re such hot shit, why don’t you get out of this pissant town?” Uncle Jarl responded when John Junior called him a hick, and the name stuck. The posse are good tippers, though, always making a point of contributing to my college fund.
The posse lawyer likes to give me advice while I pour his coffee. Don’t take too many credits your first semester, College Girl. You don’t want to be overwhelmed. Take the billiards class, College Girl. When you start work and beat the good ol’ boys at pool, they’ll respect you. You should wear your hair down like that more often, College Girl. It looks nice.
I smile. Flo frowns. Though nearing retirement, she’s as nimble as the roller-skating teen she used to be. Truckers of all ages flirt with her. When she crosses her arms like that, she has the intimidating presence of a bouncer.
I move on to the farm table.
“Sorenson’s is a hell of a place to die,” Uncle Jarl says as I refill his coffee.
He’s right. Now that Sig’s in the nursing home, his farm is downright dismal.
Talk shifts to Sig. The first farmer to pull his tractor out of the Quonset to plow in the spring, the one with the highest yield. He lived on crackers and sardines washed down with vodka, and remained a bachelor until the age of fifty. Most people thought he was too smart to get hitched. He surprised everyone by marrying the Widow Crawford, who was half his age, and even adopted her son Billy. She’d been pretty then. How was anyone to know she wasn’t just a drunk, but a mean drunk? Once she hit Sig with a skillet and fractured his cheekbone. Not that he ever pressed charges.
“Phyllis,” the men say, remembering the dead.
“Her boy’s not much better.”
“Billy’s all grown up, turned thirty-one this fall.”
They nod.
Then my uncle says the worst thing you can about a man: “He has no ambition.”
“Did you see Billy’s summer fallow? I heard the damn car was half-hidden by fireweed.”
We live in constant drought. Weeds show apathy. Weeds take what wheat needs. And like gossip, weeds spread. If a farmer doesn’t take care of the problem, they become someone else’s problem.
The conversation swings back to the stranger. He’s been dead for five days, maybe more. “Of course it wasn’t Billy who discovered the body. He hasn’t spent a minute on the farm since harvest.”
“Heard he’s hiring custom cutters next year. Custom cutters! Do you know what that costs?”
“If only Sig had sold me the land, dumb bastard.”
; “I heard the Ford in the field had New York plates.”
“I heard New Mexico.”
Either is suspicious.
“Maybe it was a suicide,” John Junior, the posse banker, says.
“I tell you right now,” Uncle Jarl says, “he didn’t kill himself. And the killer didn’t walk ten miles back into town. So there’s an accomplice. Someone who knows Billy Sorenson doesn’t look after his land. Someone who knows us.”
My uncle has birthed colts and babies. He’s roped calves as well as his share of thieves who think that if no one lives on an old family homestead, everything from the light fixtures to the wood-burning stove is theirs to steal. An ambulance-crew beeper squats on his buckskin belt. He skinned the deer himself. Uncle Jarl dresses like a hillbilly and blows his nose with a big red handkerchief, but everyone listens to him because he’s usually right.
* * *
According to the stranger’s driver’s license, Randall Sullivan was forty-two and had green eyes. No one could recall seeing him when he was alive. Not at church. Not at the grocery store. Not at the Town Dump. Anyone could have killed him. In a farming community, there is no shortage of guns. You never know when you’ll come across a badger or a rattlesnake. My whole life, my uncle’s had his rifle tucked in the gun rack of his truck. (Ford, Chevy, Ford, Chevy—never new, always alternating between dealers in Good Hope or south of here in Chaplain, so no one’s nose gets bent out of joint. We spend a great deal of time making sure all noses stay straight.) Though Uncle Jarl’s pickup changes every few years, the rifle doesn’t. We don’t lock our doors. The gun cabinet is only locked in December, to keep prying eyes away from the gifts stashed inside.
* * *
Children talk about the stranger and worry about dying. At the grocery store, they see dead bodies hidden behind quarts of Neapolitan ice cream. On the farm, the creak of the Quonset door sets my cousin Mindy on edge. Suddenly she wants to live in town like her friends. She hates the haunted howl of the wind, the desolate whistle of the train. She never gave much thought to the bogeyman but now believes he’s taken up residence in the barn and won’t tend her steer. She’s half my age but tougher than I am. For the last three years, she’s raised a bull to auction off at each county fair, earning a 4-H Best in Show ribbon and enough money to pay for a year of college. Four years ago, when I first moved to the farm, Uncle Jarl bought me a calf. The whole school year I babied Brutus, so much so that when the time came to sell him off for organic hamburger, I couldn’t do it. He spends his time in the pasture, an obese bull who hobbles over when he sees me.
