Blood Kin

by Ronald Kelly

  Boyd stared at the hangover cure reluctantly, then opened his mouth and swallowed the whole nasty concoction. For a moment, he actually thought he would be able to keep it down. He sat perfectly still, afraid even to breathe. Then his stomach rebelled against the cure and he was hanging out of his truck window, puking his living guts up. When there was nothing left but dry heaves, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve and sat back in the seat. One way or the other, the mixture had done its job. If there had been any liquor left in his belly, it was gone now.

  Feeling a little better, Boyd started up the Ford and hit the highway again. He crossed two traffic lights, then drove through the center of Green Hollow, Tennessee. The little town boasted a population of 12,000 residents and was much like a hundred other small communities around the state. Rows of shops ran along both sides of the main thoroughfare, some of them specializing in Smoky Mountain souvenirs such as toy black bears and outhouse ashtrays made of red cedar. Green Hollow’s commerce was dependent upon the tourist trade, although not so heavily as the resort towns of Gatlinburg and Pigeon Forge, twenty miles further south.

  He passed the post office and the city hall building, which also housed the Green Hollow police department. Almost as quickly as he had entered the heart of town he was past it, approaching the far limits. As he crossed the railroad tracks and headed for open country again, he looked off toward the rural stretch of Stantonview Road. Joan would be getting the kids ready for church right about now. He recalled that hyper hour before Sunday school: Joan wrestling with curling iron, makeup, and the zipper of her dress at the same time; Paul frustrated over being unable to knot his tie; and little Bessie almost in tears because she couldn’t find the right color tights to match her dress.

  As he drove farther on, he passed the tall white Baptist Church. Guilt nagged at him, but not over his lapse of willpower this time. He generally attended church services only twice during the year—on Easter Sunday and at Christmas. And even then it was only to pacify Joan. He had never been a very religious man. The family he had grown up in had pretty much ignored God; too busy with their own individual vices to care. Boyd had had an abusive, alcoholic father and a mother who made a point of visiting “sick friends” ’til all hours of the night. It wasn’t until Boyd was thirteen that he’d found out that she was a regular at the Cheating Heart, a honky-tonk on the outskirts of town. After that, it didn’t take much of an imagination on Boyd’s part to figure out why she came dragging in early the next morning, her lipstick smeared all over her face, smelling like some fellow’s loud aftershave.

  Boyd drove the thought out of his mind. His parents were gone now, but their memory still hurt, and not just because he had loved them. He reckoned he could blame some of his problems on their behavior, but he wasn’t the kind of man to do that. He took responsibility for his shortcomings, figuring it was a cop-out to fault anyone else.

  It wasn’t long before he turned into the bumpy dirt stretch of Maple Creek Road. He drove a half mile before he reached the place he currently called home. As it came into view, Boyd scowled and shook his head in disgust.

  The trailer he rented for a hundred and fifty a month was, to put it lightly, a total dump. If the single-wide could have been considered a work of art, it would have been a masterpiece in dry rot and rusty leak spots. During a particularly heavy downpour, the trailer could prove to be as wet inside as it was outside. And the previous occupants—a burly biker and his ever-changing procession of white trash mamas—had left behind more than a few problems for Boyd to contend with. They included a herd of roaches the size of field mice and a septic tank that had a bad habit of backing up into the kitchen sink.

  Boyd couldn’t complain much. At least it was a roof over his head and the cheapest deal in town. He did miss the house on Stantonview, though. The comfort of living in a dwelling that couldn’t easily be uprooted by a tornado and tossed around like an aluminum can was one Boyd sorely missed.

  As he pulled into a drive that was more mud than crushed gravel, he was a little surprised to find another truck parked there. It was a primer gray Dodge pickup, maybe a ’68 or ’69 model. He couldn’t place the vehicle at first, until the door swung open and a man in his mid-thirties hopped out. He sort of looked like Ed Gein in bib overalls and a CAT baseball cap.

  Boyd frowned as he put the half-ton into park. “Dudley Craven,” he said to himself. “Wonder what he wants?” Dudley had been in the same class as Boyd, at least until the tenth grade when the mountain boy had dropped out of high school. Dudley had always been the butt of cruel jokes by his more fortunate classmates. They had always made fun of his homespun haircuts, the dirt behind his ears, and the hand-me-downs he had been forced to wear. He had never fought back at the insults, however. Dudley had always endured them with the patience of Job and gone about his own business.

  Boyd climbed out of the truck, his head pounding a little less severely and his equilibrium back. “Howdy, Dud,” he called out to the man.

  The farmer walked up, his hand outstretched. “Boyd,” he replied with a nod. “It’s been a while.”

  “Yeah, it certainly has,” said Boyd. He took the man’s hand and they shook. “What can I do for you, Dud?”

  “Well, I was hoping you could do me a favor,” said Craven. He swallowed a couple of times, like he was nervous about something. “I recall you do some carpentry work every now and then.”

  Boyd nodded. “That’s right.”

  “Well, I got a job for you,” said Dud. “That is, if you want it.”

  Boyd thought about the severance check in his pocket and knew it wouldn’t go far. “Yeah, Dud, I’d be interested in anything you’ve got for me. What kind of work are we talking about?”

  Dud Craven glanced around, as if he expected to find someone eavesdropping on their conversation. “Uh, could we talk somewhere in private, Boyd?” he asked.

  The carpenter shrugged. “Sure. Let’s go on back to my workshop here.”

  They passed the trailer and walked to a prefab building that one of the former residents had erected out back. It was a simple structure, twenty by twelve, with a single garage door and a smaller entranceway at the back. Boyd took a key ring from his pants pocket and unlocked the big door. He swung it up, rolling it back on its tracks. Inside stood a lathe, jigsaw table, band saw, and half-a-dozen unfinished projects. At the rear of the shop, next to the back door, was a cluttered workbench sporting power tools and a big shop vise with padded jaws. Next to it stood rows of lumber and thick blocks of oak and pine. Along with his clothes, the only things Boyd had taken with him had been his tools and materials.

  Dud stood in the open doorway, looking back at the deserted stretch of dirt road. “Uh, could you close the door?” he asked.

  “I guess so,” said Boyd. He turned on the inside light, then pulled the door shut with a clang.

  For a moment, Dud said nothing. He simply stood there, his hands stuck down in the baggy pockets of his overalls.

  “So, what’s all the secrecy about, Dud?” asked Boyd.

  “I dunno, Boyd,” he finally said. “I reckon I just didn’t want anyone to overhear us.” He hesitated, then went on. “This is kind of a private thing.”

  “Oh,” was all Boyd said. He was beginning to wonder if the butter had slipped off Dud’s biscuit.

  The farmer reached into a bib pocket, his hands shaking a little. He fumbled with a piece of paper, then handed it to Boyd. “Think you could build that for me?”

  Boyd unfolded the paper and took a look at it. It was a drawing of a long, rectangular box. The rendering was amazingly precise, completely with the proper measurements and dimensions. Something bugged Boyd about the blueprint, though. It took a moment of studying before he realized what it was.

  “Dud,” he said, looking up. “You know what this looks like?”

  The man nodded. “A coffin. And you’re right. That’s what it is.”

  A shiver ran down Boyd’s spine. “You want me to build you a
coffin?”

  “Yep.”

  Boyd shook his head. “I don’t know, Dud. I’ve never done anything like that before.”

  Dud reached into a side pocket and brought out a thick bankroll held together with a rubber band. “I’m willing to pay you good money to do it,” he offered.

  Boyd was surprised, to say the least. “How much?” he asked.

  “Four hundred dollars,” said Dud. “Two hundred now, and two when you finish.”

  Boyd stared at the wad of money in Dud’s hands. There must have been five or six hundred dollars there. He knew Craven was a poor dirt farmer and far from rich. That must have been his life savings, or close to it. “Dud,” he said, not knowing exactly how to ask. “Why do you want me to build this for you?”

  Dud Craven looked down at his muddy work boots, then lifted his eyes again. “I’m dying, that’s why.”

  “Dying?” was all that Boyd could say at first.

  “Cancer,” Dud told him. “I’ve got maybe two months, three at the most.”

  Boyd sighed heavily. “Sorry to hear that, Dud. I really am.” He thought for a moment. “Don’t want to sound morbid, Dud, but you could’ve gone over to Peck’s Funeral Home in town.”

  “No,” said Dud flatly. “I want it to be handmade. And, besides, I don’t want it getting all over town. That’s why I came to you first.”

  Boyd looked down at the drawing on the paper. “What do you want this made out of? Pine?”

  “Oak,” said Dud. “The best you can find. With iron hinges.”

  Boyd scratched his head. “Well, you know, Dud, oak is kind of expensive these days…”

  “I’ll pay you a hundred extra,” the farmer said quickly. “That oughta take care of the lumber.”

  “Yeah,” agreed the carpenter. “That should cover it.” He studied the diagram again. “You’re sure about this, Dud?”

  “I’m sure. Well, how about it? Will you make it for me?”

  Boyd nodded, even though the very idea of building such a thing gave him the creeps. “Yeah, Dud. I’ll do it.”

  Dud seemed to be relieved. “Good.” He slipped the band off the roll and handed Boyd three hundred dollars in twenties; a down payment of two hundred and a hundred for the materials.

  Boyd folded the bills and stuck them in the pocket with the severance check. “When do you want it?” he asked.

  The farmer thought for a moment. “As soon as possible. Think you could have it done in a couple days?”

  “Well, Dud, that ain’t much time,” he said. Then he remembered that he really didn’t have a hell of a lot else to do. “But I’ll try. I can do that much for you.”

  Dud shook Boyd’s hand again. “I’m much obliged to you, Boyd.”

  Boyd looked at the man for a long moment. “Ain’t there nothing they can do for you, Dud? Radiation or chemotherapy?”

  The farmer stared at him dumbly for a second, as if he couldn’t figure out what Boyd was talking about. Then he seemed to understand. “No, they sure can’t. It’s gone too far.” A look of sadness crossed his unshaven face. “Nobody can help me now.”

  Boyd clapped a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

  Dud looked up. A crooked little grin was on his face. “No more than I am.”

  After the garage door was opened and Dud was on his way back to his truck, Boyd walked to his workbench and sat on the barstool that stood there. He looked at the paper, then out the open door. Dud was backing his old Dodge past Boyd’s truck and out onto the rutted stretch of Maple Creek Road.

  Boyd shook his head. Something wasn’t right about the whole business. It just didn’t add up.

  First of all, Dud was lying about the cancer. Boyd could tell. Not only because of the way he had said it, but because of the way Dud had looked in the face. When he was twenty-four, Boyd’s father had died of lung cancer. It had been ten years ago, but Boyd could still picture the way his face had looked. The pasty, almost yellowish pallor of his skin, the hollow look of doom in his eyes, as well as the sharp light of pain and fear that glinted there. Dud’s face showed none of those signs. He looked scared, but it was for some reason other than the one he had given. In fact, Dud looked healthier than Boyd did and probably was.

  The other thing that bothered Boyd was the drawing itself. He remembered Dudley Craven as a student who was happy if he stayed within a C or D average. He hadn’t been the most scholarly one of the bunch.

  Boyd looked down at the paper in his hands. The drawing of the coffin was a precise one. The dimensions were flawless. And the numbers and letters of the instructions had been written in an elegant hand, not the uncertain scrawl of a farmer who didn’t set much store in reading and writing.

  It was plain as the nose on Boyd’s face. Dud Craven hadn’t been the one who had drawn up the plans for the casket.

  But if he hadn’t, then who had?

  Chapter Ten

  Stan Watts pulled past the ticket booth with no trouble. The sawhorse with the word CLOSED painted on it had been moved to the side, allowing free entrance to the drive-in.

  As he drove up the sloping grade, he was sure he had never seen the theater lot look so empty. In fact, it looked a little too empty. There was only one other place in Green Hollow that Stan could compare it to, and that was the city cemetery out back of the town hall building. The whitewashed posts with their gray metal speakers looked like strange tombstones, while the concession stand resembled a mausoleum, albeit one with gigantic hamburgers and fries painted masterfully on its front, just below openings where the movies were projected from.

  The chief of police kept his eyes on the low building as he drove along the side lane to the last row. He could see a couple of Green Hollow police cruisers parked next to it, along with the maroon station wagon of the Sevier County coroner. John Prichard had been notified after Stan was, but the medical examiner was a notorious early-riser. Stan had been in the shower when his second-in-command, Jay Mathers, had called and told him to get out to the drive-in theater as fast as he could. Stan had hardly had time to dress and grab a bite to eat before he was on the road.

  Stan’s belly grumbled. His breakfast of wheat toast and strawberry preserves hadn’t done the trick. Stan’s biggest meal of the day was his first. He was accustomed to a plate of scrambled eggs, sugar-cured bacon or country ham, a half-dozen buttermilk biscuits with jelly, and a pot of hot black coffee to wash it all down. Whenever he missed his customary breakfast, Stan always felt thrown off course, which, in turn, made him as irritable as a grizzly bear.

  But just looking at the number of vehicles that had been called to the movie lot early that Sunday morning, Stan knew that things were bound to be worse than usual. If what Jay had told him over the phone was true, they would be a hell of a lot worse.

  He parked his unmarked Lincoln next to the coroner’s car. When he climbed out, he saw Jay Mathers and Officer Bill King standing beside the concession stand. They were talking to Cliff Beshears, the owner of the Green Hollow Drive-In. Cliff looked pale and shaken. Stan was surprised. He had known the man all his life and he had never seen him look so frightened before.

  Stan walked to the three, his face as grim as theirs. “Where is she?” he asked.

  “Out in the woods back yonder,” Jay told him.

  “Bad?”

  Bill King ran his hand nervously across his mouth. There were traces of vomit on his blue uniform shirt. “Yeah, Stan. Pretty bad.”

  The chief turned his eyes to Beshears. “You’re the one who found her, Cliff?”

  The man leaned against the cinderblock wall, looking like he might pass out. “Yep. I usually don’t come in and set up till three or four in the afternoon, but I pull a big clean-up on Sundays. You know, scrub down the snack bar, pick up the trash out in the lot, stuff like that.” He glanced toward the back of the building, his eyes edgy. “Well, this morning I was toting some trash out to the dumpster there and I spotted something out in the woods about fifty feet away. It
was white, so I figured it was some paper the wind had blown out there. It wasn’t.”

  Stan looked over at Jay. “Where’s Prichard?”

  “He’s with the body,” said the officer.

  Stan nodded and headed toward the woods out back of the concession stand. Jay and Bill followed, but Cliff stayed put.

  They picked their way through the heavy brush, until they reached the crime scene. Jay already had the yellow tape up, running from tree to tree. Stan hated crimes that took place in the forest, particularly homicides. There was a sinister air to outdoor killings that was strangely absent in a more urban setting. When someone was gunned down on a street or sidewalk, you could outline the body in chalk and go from there. But out in the middle of the woods amid dead leaves, raw earth, and shadows, it was much trickier. Much more to overlook, if you weren’t extra careful.

  The county coroner was kneeling next to the body of the girl, snapping pictures with a Nikon. He looked up long enough to greet Stan. “Morning, Chief.”

  “Morning, John,” he said. He stepped to the side, so he could get a good look at the body. The moment he saw the face he knew it. “Damn! It’s Jamie Bell. She goes to school with Lisa.” The last time he had seen the pretty blonde was a couple of nights ago. His daughter had had her over for pizza and homework. He could still see her sitting at his kitchen table, laughing and joking around with Lisa, stuffing her face with cheese and pepperoni.

  “A darned shame, is what it is,” said Prichard. He put his camera away and opened his black bag. It was like a doctor’s bag, except it contained rubber gloves, a measuring tape, and a flashlight.