by D. K. Wall
I tried to beg, but my jaw wouldn’t work. Blood was running down the back of my throat. I pushed up to speak, and he smiled. The sick bastard smiled at me and raised his foot, a mud-splattered boot with a steel toe and heavy tread. He slammed it hard on top of Kevin’s head, flattening it. My friend’s eyes bulged as blood was forced out his nostrils. Those big boots slammed into him over and over.
And then it was done. He leaned over me, grabbed my hair, and pulled my head up. I cringed, sure I was about to feel the last fist of my life. He leaned into my face, the stench of his breath overpowering me. His spittle flew as he whispered, “This is all your fault, boy. Your job is to make sure they follow the rule—never let them see you. Including this one here. I’d let him live all these years for you, and this is how you repay me. You ungrateful little shit.”
He dropped my head back onto the dirt. One of Kevin’s teeth was in front of my nose. I remember being amazed at how long the root was.
He stomped back up the steps and opened the door. Before he closed it, he said, “Look at the mess you made.” And then he shut the door and snapped the lock closed.
It was almost dark outside, and I could barely see Kevin, so I dragged myself across the floor and asked him if he was okay. When he didn’t answer, I wrapped my hand around his. His fingers were icy cold, but his eyes were fluttering. He breath was ragged, whistling in and out. I think he tried to speak, but I couldn’t understand him. Or maybe I imagined the whole thing. We lay like that, face-to-face, even after his eyes dimmed and his breathing stopped.
32
Connor turned a chair at the end of the patient hall around so he could face out the window and stare at the snowcapped mountains. His mind buzzed in horror at the story he had heard. His body was balled up with his feet pulled up in the seat to his butt, his arms hugging his legs against his chest, and his chin resting on his knees. A forgotten Mountain Dew bought from the vending machines, his excuse for leaving the room, sat sweating on the table beside him.
Lost in his thoughts, he didn’t hear Heather slip out of the patient room until she wrapped her arms around him from behind and kissed the top of his head.
He leaned his head back against her and looked up into her eyes, not surprised to see them filled with tears. He wanted to cry, scream, shout, go beat the shit out of the man who had done those horrible things to his brother. With effort, he focused instead to remain steady for his mother. “How did he do it? Survive… that?”
Heather kissed his forehead and sighed. She opened her mouth, struggled for the words, then closed it again and shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Connor closed his eyes, thinking of the little brother he remembered, tottering around with picture books until he could start sounding out words. He would demand that Connor read to him, but Connor grew tired of the same stories over and over and would invent tales instead. They had argued one night after Connor had Winnie the Pooh being carted off by space aliens and the X-Men battling the aliens. Jax argued that wasn’t how the story went.
By the time Jaxon was in the first grade, he was reading at a fourth-grade level, books assigned by Connor’s teachers that Connor hadn’t cared about reading and had left lying around the house. The older boy was the daredevil, pushing the limits with his bicycle or the skateboard he got from Jared down the street, climbing trees, or wading into creeks. He loved video games and action movies but never cared much for reading. His interests hadn’t changed much in the intervening years.
His breathing tightened, and the tears he didn’t want to shed threatened. “I failed him.”
Heather squeezed him tightly. “Con, no. You never failed him.”
“Yeah, I did. I had to go off with my friends and left him all alone in that playground. If I had stayed with him, that pervert would never have come up to us. And if he had, I would’ve known better than to fall for the lost-dog thing.” He crossed his arms and hugged himself. “What kind of brother abandons his little brother?”
“A nine-year-old boy who was being asked to do far more than he should ever have been asked.” Heather squeezed his shoulders and forced him to look at her. “That’s what you were, a little kid asked to grow up too quick. You want to blame someone? Blame me. What kind of mother leaves two little kids at home all by themselves?”
Connor unfolded himself from the chair and stood to face her. He wrapped his mother into his arms, holding her tight against his chest. “Mom, no. What were you supposed to do? Sit in the house and watch TV all day while you collected some stupid welfare check?” He sighed, feeling his breath blow through her hair. “If we had stayed together, he would have been safe.”
Heather returned Connor’s hug. “Don’t play the if game, Con.”
Connor relished the comfort of his mother’s hug all the time. Over the years she’d held him that way, comforting him from a skinned knee from a fall off his bike, a black eye from a fistfight with his best friend—they made up the next day—and even the heartbreak of dating off and on in high school. With guilt, he realized his little brother hadn’t experienced the same comfort in years and had needed it much, much more. “I look at him lying in that bed and think of all of the pain he has suffered… I can’t help but wonder if I could have prevented it. It’s not an if game. I wish he hadn’t had to put up with that crazy maniac all these years.”
Her voice was muffled against his shoulder in reply. “Fair enough, Con, but you never gave up. I did. I see him in there and realize, deep down, I had assumed he was dead and would never return. What kind of mother does that?”
Connor’s stomach clenched as he hugged her tighter. “You put your energy into me because I was the one who was here. Nothing wrong with that. And I think you did a damn good job of it too.”
They hugged tighter before breaking apart, Heather sniffling back her tears. “You did turn out pretty good.”
“All because of you.” He stared at the closed door, both dreading and wanting to go back in the room. “He’s going to be even more messed up than Dad—this is PTSD squared. How’s he ever going to get back to normal?”
Heather wiped her eyes and straightened her blouse. “Well, that’s our job. We’re going to have to be there for him every step.”
Connor looked wistfully out the window. “I’m game. I owe him that. I don’t think I’ll ever let him out of my sight again.”
33
David piloted his SUV west on the interstate through the Pigeon River Gorge, the pair of federal agents following in their own black SUV. He glanced across the highway to the point where Deputy Patterson had picked up the boy the night before and shuddered. He’d been out there, all alone, so desperate to escape the horrors. Other than the highway, though, no other sign existed of other humans. Not a single building. No power lines or lights. Absolutely nothing other than mountains and trees.
To think that kid probably was in Miller County all along, and David hadn’t figured it out. He gripped the steering wheel tightly, vowing to rescue any other kids before the sun set. But he had to find the house somewhere in that vast wilderness.
The tall mountains towered over either side of the highway, blocking the direct sunlight from the road except for a few brief hours every day. The snow berms lining the highway, the efforts from the previous night’s snow plows, were melting and sending sheets of water across the road. The road crews were busy spreading salt brine to keep it from refreezing overnight.
David slowed as he entered Tennessee and passed the turnaround point his deputy had used the night before. He took the first exit, its green sign reading “Wattsville,” and followed the two-lane road as it doubled back into North Carolina. The snowplows had cleared the path as far as the power plant, but only ruts through the snow greeted him after that, a fitting symbol of the isolation of the community. He engaged his four-wheel drive and cautiously moved down the road.
Wattsville was built in the 1920s by the utility company erecting the dam across the Pigeon River. With no roads l
eading to the area and limited access to the river, the houses, school, and community center supported the isolated families. The formation of the surrounding Great Smoky Mountains National Park and the Pisgah and Cherokee National Forests in the coming decade cemented the isolation.
As more modern power plants were built and the workforce slimmed, the school and community center were closed, and houses were abandoned. The opening of the interstate in the late sixties made things worse by highlighting how much closer Tennessee was despite the fact that the few remaining citizens of Wattsville paid Miller County and North Carolina taxes.
David understood how little allegiance the residents felt to his county. He had to think hard to come up with when he had last been in the area himself, realizing it had been on a fishing trip three years earlier. He resolved to come more often. The residents were voters, after all, even if most of them didn’t bother. They still deserved to see their sheriff.
He spied a gravel driveway on his left. Plowed clean, it snaked its way through the forest. David bumped his vehicle off the road and followed the half mile of twists and turns until he emerged into a clearing. A timber-frame house with a green metal roof stood in the center. Smoke curled from the chimney and was swept away by the stiff morning breeze.
They came to a stop in front of the house, parking side by side. David signaled to the FBI agents to stay inside the car. The reason for his caution appeared in seconds—a pair of Plott Hounds, one black and one brown brindle, raced from the back of the house and circled the arriving cars, snarling and snapping in warning to the visitors. Bred in the mountains for hundreds of years as bear hunters, the large dogs were sleek, muscular, and fierce. Loyal to their owners, they were excellent protectors against both human and animal invaders.
The front door of the cabin opened. Colonel Buck Sawyer stepped onto the wide front porch, crossed his arms, and glared at his visitors. He had close-cropped gray hair and wore a red flannel shirt, tan Carhartt jeans, and scuffed work boots. His demeanor matched the attitude of his dogs, unwelcoming of the intrusion.
David waved a tentative hello from the safety of his car. The colonel scowled but nodded in recognition. He pursed his lips and whistled, the shrill sound echoing off the nearby barn. The dogs fell silent, turned, and raced across the gravel and up the steps in leaps. They circled the colonel’s legs with tails wagging and sat on either side of him, sentinels watching the guests warily and waiting for commands.
David stepped from his vehicle and motioned for the agents to join him. Once on the porch, he extended his hand to shake while the dogs sniffed at his legs. “Good to see you, Buck. It’s been a long time.”
“Years,” the colonel replied and refused the handshake. He glowered at the other visitors standing behind David. “Still can’t believe you asked to bring Fibbies onto my land.”
The shedding of their suits for more casual clothes did little to help the federal agents blend. Dressed in blue jeans, hiking boots, and windbreakers, they looked more like city slickers out for a day hike than the mountain people who lived in the area. Roxanne remained unflustered and introduced herself. “Surprised an old army colonel has so little regard for a federal agent.”
“My upbringing in these mountains gave me a natural dislike to anything out of Washington. My time in the army confirmed it. Nothing good comes from that swamp.”
She waved her arm toward the mountains rising on the horizon. “Brings tourists to the area for the Great Smokies, right?”
“Tourists? They bring litter, traffic, and crime, but everyone caters to them, right?” The colonel harrumphed. “But they don’t let those of us who live here hunt in the park. They don’t even let us take our dogs to walk on the trails. Not to mention they evicted my ancestors—and lots of other people’s ancestors—to create your little playground.”
David stood silently. He had heard the rant before from many of the longtime locals. Buck needed to get it out of his system before anything productive could happen.
“Hell, Washington at least acknowledged they treated the Cherokee poorly with the Trail of Tears, so they let ’em have a casino on their reservation to earn some money from them tourists. But we hillbillies didn’t get squat when they took our land. Just a bunch of empty promises like the Road to Nowhere. You know what I’m talking about, agent?”
Roxanne shook her head and stayed silent. David worked to keep the smile off his face, knowing she understood the game as well as he did. Buck needed to work himself down.
“Family cemeteries are up there, centuries old. And they promised people they would be able to visit them anytime they wanted. Even promised to build a road to make it happen. Eighty years ago, that road was promised, and it’s still not built. They lied to the mountain people to get them to move. And they continue to lie to them every year when some slick politician promises this time will be different if only you’ll give him your vote.”
Figuring Buck was about done, David took the time to interject. “Blame me. I asked the FBI to Miller County to help me find the worst kind of man there is.”
Buck glowered at the agents for a minute longer before slowly turning to the sheriff. “What type of man?”
“One who hurts kids.”
David knew his tactic had worked as Buck’s eyes flicked across the faces of his visitors. Without another word, he pushed open the front door and waved them inside.
34
Connor stuck his head through the door and scanned the hospital room. “Mom’s not in here, is she?”
Jaxon sat up in the bed, smiling at Connor’s return. “She went to the cafeteria to get some lunch.”
“Awesome. I have a surprise.” He slipped inside and let the door latch shut behind him before setting a grease-stained white paper bag on the bed tray. He ripped open the bag and unwrapped a cardboard tray full of thick, hot french fries. “Fresh from Abe’s Market.”
The smell filled the room, making Connor salivate. Jaxon picked one up, bit into it, and closed his eyes, clearly savoring the taste. “Wow, these are awesome. I’ve never tasted something so good. What are they?”
Connor picked up a fry and inhaled the scent himself. “French fries. You don’t remember these?”
“A strip of potato typically cooked by being fried in deep fat,” Jaxon recited as he stuffed another one into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully with his eyes closed.
“You really don’t remember sneaking over there from the park to get these?” When Jaxon shook his head again, Connor waved his hand in dismissal. “Doesn’t matter. Guess you were too little.”
Connor puzzled over why his little brother lacked memories of so many of the things they had shared. The experience of surviving in that horrid place had taken more than years. He decided to see what he could replant. “Mom would let us ride our bikes around the park while she read a book or something, but we weren’t allowed to leave. Right across the street from the entrance, though, was Abe’s Market—just a little convenience store, but it’s got a deli in it, and man, is the food awesome.”
Jaxon chewed, his attention rapt on Connor as the older boy continued. “Mom stopped at Abe’s all the time for groceries, and we would go watch Abe’s wife make sandwiches and stuff. We loved to eat there, but Mom couldn’t afford that. But when we got cravings for these fries, we would scavenge the park for change. If we searched the trails and dug in the sand, we usually came up with enough money. Then we would sit on the curb out front of Abe’s and eat them all before going back in the park. That way, she’d never know what we’d done.”
Jaxon chewed, his mouth crammed full of fries. He swallowed and mumbled, “Was that the same park? You know, that day…”
“Oh, God, I’m such an idiot. I shouldn’t have… I mean… Stupid of me to mention the park.” Connor crumpled into the chair and watched his brother chew.
“It’s okay, Connor. The park’s a fun place. Lots of good memories. The swings. Riding bikes to it. Stuff like that. It’s the only one in
town, right?”
“Yeah, it’s the only park here in Millerton.” Connor leaned back in the chair and sighed, wondering how such crystal-clear memories were lost on Jaxon. “When you get out of here, I’ll take you down there. I mean, if you want. I’d get it if you never wanted to see the place where it happened.”
“I do want to go… if you’ll take me.”
“Of course.” He chewed a fry. “Abe’s son runs the deli now, but he makes the food just like his mom used to. I’ll buy you one of those hot-roast-beef sandwiches you always wanted. I can afford it now ’cause I’m working.”
“You work? What do you do?”
“Assembly-line stuff in one of the factories here. One of the maintenance guys is teaching me how to weld on my breaks. Says I’m a natural. I’ve been thinking about going to community college to learn more about it. I know it’s weird for me of all people to actually want to go to school, but this is different.”
“Sounds like a cool place. Maybe you can get me a job there too.”
“No way.” Connor laughed at the disappointed look he received. “Mom’s probably already figuring out how to get you enrolled in school. She would’ve kicked my butt if I hadn’t graduated.”
Jaxon paused, a french fry dangling from his hand. “But… I’ve never been to school.”
Connor cocked his head. “You went to first grade.”
“I meant, you know, not in ages. Not that I remember.”
“I hadn’t really thought of that.” Connor clasped his hands, interlaced his fingers, and rested his chin on them. “Guess we’ll have to figure out how to get you caught up, but I’m sure Mom will. Must be some way.”
“I don’t know. Seems like it would be easier to just get a job instead.”
