Clint McCabe would have been happy to be ignored by the mourners. He was actually sought out. Lisa came, teary eyed but distant, to murmur her condolences. The river guide crew, ill at ease in their dark suits, spoke quietly with him. Various relatives bore down on him, intent on offering sympathy and advice. McCabe wanted neither.
Finally escaping to the kitchen, he stopped short. He could see Pap there by the stove, wooden spoon raised in his hand like a weapon, fire in his eyes—eyes that accused his grandson. “You gonna burn in the fires, boy!” Old Joseph’s voice followed McCabe out of the kitchen. Running over to his truck, he grabbed the bottle of whiskey he’d stashed there and headed towards the barn.
Although he spotted the police officer sent to guard Jason, McCabe was still surprised to find his uncle inside the barn. The two men stared at each other quietly for a while. Then McCabe handed Jason the bottle.
“You don’t like this show no better than I do, do you?” McCabe asked.
“You don’t fit in no better than I do, do you, boy? I been watching you.” Jason said. He took a long swig from the bottle, but didn’t return it. “You’re a lot like your daddy, Clinton. Do you know that?” As Jason looked at his nephew, his eyes held a flat expression.
“Figured I must be,” McCabe replied. “You know where he is?”
“Dead, probably, and better off too, I reckon.” Jason took another shot from the bottle and handed it back. “Got to go now, Clinton. Remember, your grandpap was a powerful man once. Useta scare the shit outta me. But look at him now. Next it’ll be our turn.” Jason walked away. At the door he turned and said with conviction, “I’m sure we’ll meet again, Clinton-somewhere.” The barn door clattered shut behind him.
A vision of his uncle’s pale, hopeless eyes lasted in McCabe’s mind long after Jason had left. This image was sometimes replaced with Lisa’s disappointed gaze. McCabe nursed the bottle of whiskey and remembered the good times with Pap. But unbidden, Pap’s accusing words would tumble back into his thoughts. “You’ll burn in the fires, boy! You’ll burn!” When Jake finally found him, McCabe had passed out on the bales of hay.
* * * *
Although McCabe had been back at work with the river crew for several weeks, he couldn’t shake his depression. He worked methodically, but didn’t joke around anymore. The only relief he got was from the bottle he kept hidden in his gear. With only two more weeks left in the season, he began to worry about what he would do next. He’d saved very little of his pay. Between those trips to the local bars and the poker games, he hadn’t had much left. Now, he had no home to return to. Pap’s place had been taken by the bank and sold to cover his debts.
Every time the rafts passed by a big, fancy vacation house on shore, McCabe began to calculate how much the “take” would be. It’d be child’s play to rip off the TVs, DVDs, guns, copper wire and other valuables and fence them in Martinsburg or Winchester. He wouldn’t get rich, but he’d make out O.K., and at very little risk. Anyone who knew the river and hills could move in and out unnoticed. In the fall most places would be deserted. It’d be so easy. He smiled. He could do a little hunting, a little trapping. He’d get by.
Unbidden, Uncle Jason’s pale face flashed before his eyes. “We’ll meet again, somewhere,” his uncle whispered. Jason had spent a lot of time taking things that weren’t his, McCabe knew. But Jason had been a bungler and ended up a three-time loser. He was away for life. Hell! McCabe thought, he ain’t the first local man to go to jail and he won’t be he last. What am I so spooked about?
* * * *
It had sure been easier than he ever dreamed it would be, McCabe thought as he drew another “X” over a section of the Morgan County map. That last haul had netted a nice piece of change—enough to buy parts for the truck and some of the other good things in life. “Standard of living’s improving,” he said aloud. “Whole damn life’s improving.” Clint McCabe surveyed the compact trailer he had ‘liberated’ from a dealer’s lot, hitched up to his truck and brought to this deserted mountain top. Guy will never miss this little beauty. I sure as hell need it more than he does, he thought.
He flipped on the large flat screen TV he had gotten from one of the fancy cabins near the power dam. It was brand new—really too big for this little trailer. Lucky he was able to jerry-rig the electric line up here from the pole on the ridge, or there’d be no TV, no fridge, nothing. Moving over to the small refrigerator, he pulled out a beer. Man, this was the life! Trying to prop his bare feet up on the nearby bunk, he knocked over a stack of boxed ammunition.
“Shit!” McCabe yelled. Looking around at the piles of DVD and CD players lining one wall, he mentally added up the number of firearms stashed under the bunks and groaned. He’d found an honest fence named Ernie down in Martinsburg. When Ernie was out of town, he had to use a dealer in Hancock. “Gotta git rid of this stuff soon. It’s running me outta here,” he muttered.
It had only been a month and he figured he’d done very well indeed. Hardly any risk. That was because he was smart, went about it scientific, like a business—which, of course, it was. A damn good business, and he was the boss! First he’d block off a section of the map in the summer resident area, then he’d methodically case each “hit.” He always took his time, never rushed, so he knew just what to expect.
If it went good tonight, he promised himself, he’d retire for a couple weeks. He’d take it easy—hadn’t even had no time to hunt—working too damn hard. McCabe flipped the channel selector. If he weren’t lonely as hell, it’d be a great life.
* * * *
Working efficiently, McCabe had piled numerous items together. The full moon flooded the large, high-beamed room, illuminating the well stocked bar and the African-looking spears mounted over the massive stone fireplace. Them spears might be valuable to a collector, he noted. Pausing, he grabbed a couple of bottles of five-star cognac. Funny, he thought, he was sure them drapes was closed last night. Most people pull the curtains when they leave. But no car in the drive, no lights. No, nobody here—just mistaken.
The blow caught McCabe on the side of the head and sent him sprawling. Struggling into a sitting position, he looked into the barrel of a 30-30. His head throbbed. “Damn!” He said as he tried to wipe away the blood running down his cheek. The 30-30 swayed back and forth close to his temple. Holding it was a young, very pale, blond woman.
“Don’t move!” she ordered in a high-pitched voice.
“Don’t think I can. What the hell you hit me with, lady?”
“I said don’t move, or I’ll shoot you.” She nodded her head in the direction of the steam iron lying on the floor near him. “Hit you with that iron. You deserved it!”
McCabe watched her. Not only was the rifle swaying—she was swaying. Her whole body moved in a slow circular movement. What the hell was wrong with her? She sounded funny too, slurring her words.
“Shit, Lady! You’re drunker than a skunk!” he hooted.
As he watched, her eyes blinked shut and she slowly spiraled to the floor, rifle slipping from her grasp. McCabe struggled over to her. Shoving the rifle out of reach, he stared down at her. God! She was beautiful! Young, maybe his age—blond hair fell over her face. Her lips were full and slightly parted. “Damn! You smell like a brewery!” He recoiled.
Opening soft, dark eyes, she stared blankly at him. “Who are you?”
“Just your friendly neighborhood crook.” He pulled a pile of small napkins from the bar and tried to mop up the blood. Hell, he must look awful. She was scared of him. No, too drunk to really be scared. Lucky blow she got in on him. How’d she do it?
Struggling to one elbow, she looked puzzled. “What are you doing here?” She demanded.
“There wasn’t supposed to be nobody here, no car outside. How’d you git here?” McCabe got to his feet. “Here, git up.”
Meekly she allowed herself to be propped up in a chair, although she kept slumping and her eyes kept closing. Suddenly her head shot up and her eyes b
linked wide open. “My car quit on me about 500 feet up the driveway. No luck—no luck in my life. Uncle Louie didn’t leave any food here, only booze.” Her eyes shut again.
McCabe looked at her. She wore a T-shirt and tight-fitting jeans. Damn good set of knockers, small waist, long legs—beautiful. And look at me, covered with blood and here robbing her house—her uncle’s house. And she thinks SHE don’t have no luck! Shit!
“Don’t even like the stuff,” she mumbled. “Roger always said I was a cheap drunk. Never drank before I married him…son-of-a-bitch!” She started moving convulsively and held her stomach. “Get me a bowl, a towel, something, quick!”
“Christ, you’re gonna puke, ain’t you?” He ran toward the kitchen, clutching his head with one hand. Grabbing a pot and a roll of paper towels, he raced back to the girl. Her face had turned gray and she was gagging. Shoving the stuff at her, he realized how ironic the whole damn mess was. Dreamed of a woman like her. Christ, look at her! Look at me! He started laughing. He laughed until he had to sit down.
“Ain’t neither one of us ever had no luck. Shit! What a pair we make!” The throbbing in his head finally quieted him. Gotta git out of here. What am I doing? He thought as he staggered to his feet and moved unsteadily toward the door.
“Help!” Her voice broke his stride. “You can’t leave me like this.”
“Can’t leave you! Lady, are you crazy? You oughta be glad I’m leaving. I just tried to rob you.”
“Well, then you owe me.”
“You’re crazy. I’m gettin’ outta here.” He reached the door.
“I think I’m going to be sick again. Oh God,” she moaned. “If I could just make it to the bed.”
McCabe’s hand was on the door handle. He turned in time to see her heave herself out of the chair and fall flat on the floor. She started to groan. That did it! Cursing under his breath he headed back toward her. “C’mon,” he mumbled as he half dragged, half carried her down the hall. She landed on the bed like a sack of potatoes and stared up at him.
“You O.K.?” He asked tentatively.
“No, I’m not O.K..” Tears began to well from the dark eyes. “No car, no money, no food.” She paused to wipe at the tears. “No husband, no job, 300 miles from home—stuck in this, this wilderness! Not O.K. at all.” Her eyelids fluttered closed, but the soft sobbing continued.
“Look, would you like a cup of coffee of something?” McCabe shifted uncomfortably. His head was throbbing. He had to get out of here!
She didn’t answer. He edged nearer the door. “Wait!” she tried to raise her head. “Oh, my head!” She groaned.
“Your head! What about my head? You tried to kill me!” he shouted at her. “What do you want from me?”
“You scared me half to death, sneaking around like that! It’s your fault, not mine. Now you owe me!” Her head sank back on the pillow.
“Owe you!” he snorted. “You really are crazy! It’s not my fault you got yourself sloshed, or your car broke down, or your old man left you, or any of the rest of it!”
“I left him, the son-of-a-bitch!” she retorted, then meekly asked, “Could you please get me a Coke? It would settle my stomach.”
“Sure, be right back.” McCabe ran for the door. On the way out he picked up the phone. As he had hoped, it was dead. But the girl probably had a cell phone and she could positively I.D. him. Sooner or later, she would.
A few minutes later he reached the Jon boat he’d left at the dock. Crazy girl! Asking the local thief to put her to bed! Even drunk as she was, it was a very dangerous thing to do. But as he pulled out into the current, the image of her dark, tear-filled eyes followed him. “Damn!” He shouted, “Don’t never have no damn luck!”
Five hours later, just as the dawn was breaking over the purple mountain ridges, McCabe found himself back at the same dock. “Fool!” He muttered, “You’re nothing but a damn fool!” Grabbing a sack of groceries and a small toolbox, he walked cautiously toward the house. Circling back to the bedrooms, he identified the window of the room where he’d left the girl. She was still there, sprawled on the bed, her blond hair spread out around her. Wish things had been different, he thought.
He found the blue Honda with New Jersey plates halfway up the long drive and ended up working about two hours. Thank God he hadn’t needed any parts! Before he left he scribbled a note on the back of an envelope, “From one loser to another, hope your luck turns.” As he left the note on the front seat, his eye fell on a copy of the Morgan Messenger. The banner headline read, ‘Vacationland Bandit Strikes Again.’ Just upset her to read this, McCabe reasoned as he took the newspaper.
* * * *
For the next two weeks he purposely stayed away from that section of the river. He was busy enough hunting by day and thieving by night. What a great life, he thought—plenty of money. Not a problem in the world! According to town gossip and the local papers, the ‘State Boys’ didn’t have a clue. Yeah, things were great, McCabe kept telling himself. Every time he unloaded down in Martinsburg, he hit his favorite bars. Through his fence, Ernie, he had met a very friendly and experienced woman named Diane. She got off on sex and money—not necessarily in that order. So what was the problem?
The problem was that most nights he couldn’t sleep at all. The blonde girl kept invading every dream. Her long hair was falling over his chest, her long legs entwined with his. Christ, he couldn’t stand it! The more time he spent with Diane in Martinsburg, the hornier he got. It wasn’t supposed to work that way!
Finally, one cold, misty evening in mid-October, he deliberately picked up a pair of binoculars acquired the previous night. Silently, he moved through the woods to a high bluff overlooking her house—her uncle’s house.
“Yeah,” he grunted, “car’s still there. Thought she might be back in New Jersey by now—back to civilization.” But no, he noticed a thin spiral of smoke rising from the stone chimney. Then his gaze shifted to what looked like and old sheet hanging between the flagpole and a pine tree. Squinting, he read the message printed in big red letters, “HEY, LOSER—COME TO DINNER—6 P.M.
“Now I know that woman’s crazy!” But McCabe grinned and started back toward the trailer at a fast trot. Well, she just may be crazy, he thought, but she sure don’t know how crazy the McCabes are!
* * * *
Twenty minutes later he landed the boat some distance downstream and made his way carefully to a spot behind the house. After about a half an hour of watching and listening, he slid in through one of the rear windows. He made out the sound of guitar music—not anything he recognized, definitely not ‘country.’ When he was sure she was alone, he walked into the living room and sat down on the couch. He could hear her in the kitchen. “Hey, honey,” he shouted over the guitar beat. “It’s past six, where’s dinner?”
She bolted out of the kitchen, a pot raised defensively. Eyes round with surprise, she gaped at him.
“How did you get in here?”
“Same way I did before, but this time I was invited.” He grinned at her. She looked even better than he remembered.
“How about getting those muddy boots off the coffee table, Mister ah, Mister…?”
“McCabe,” he filled in helpfully. “Sorry ma’am, just habit.” He quickly got to his feet. With a flourish he handed her the paper wrapped package he’d brought with him. “Us McCabes don’t accept no invitations without bringing something along.”
“Funny, I thought you McCabes usually left with something instead!” She grinned back at him. Her hand brushed his as she took the soggy package. “What’s in it?” she asked suspiciously. “And why can’t you come to the door like a normal person?”
He blinked. “It’s squirrel, ma’am. Best damn thing in the world if you bread it and fry it up, make a little gravy. Tastes like chicken.”
“Squirrel! I know nothing about cooking squirrel. And the name is Allison, Allison Martin, Mr. McCabe.”
“No, not ‘Mr. McCabe’, just McCabe. That’
s what everybody calls me.” He was beginning to feel uncomfortable. “Some idea you had about the message out there on that ol’ sheet.”
“Well, I just wanted to thank you properly. You were very kind—fixing the car and leaving that bag of food. I wasn’t sure when you’d see the invitation, but that didn’t matter. I can always whip up something. Don’t worry, I never reported anything,” she added quickly. “And I, well…I guess I hit you pretty hard.”
“Oh, I’m healing up good, don’t you… Shit! The damn squirrel’s leaking!” He scrambled to scoop up the sticky, dark blood that dripped onto the cream-colored carpet. “Sorry, Ma’am…er, Allison. I didn’t realize the squirrel was…I mean…do you have a rag, or something?”
She raced toward the kitchen like a woman chased by demons. “It’s all over my white sneakers,” he heard her moan.
Well, what else can I expect, he asked himself. She’s horrified, disgusted, thinks I’m a caveman or something. Christ! I’ve really screwed this one up!
During the promised ‘thank you dinner’, Allison kept up polite chatter. McCabe ate silently. The food was terrible! No gravy, no biscuits, terrible! Thank God her uncle kept a well-stocked bar. She’d tried to talk him into wine with dinner, but he said he never touched the stuff. He took a long swallow of whiskey. She said she wasn’t much of a drinker—not her style—no matter what idea he may have gotten about her. Well, maybe, he thought. How should he know? She was drinking Coke with her dinner. He tried to focus on her words instead of her full lips.
“So I’m officially on the substitute list at the area schools now,” she was saying. “I’ve worked three days in a row and I can see why they can’t keep subs!” Her voice trailed off as she watched him.
Beautiful girl, he was thinking. Bet she would be something else in the sack. After all, she has been married…how long did she say…almost a year. Well shit! Oughta be broke in by now! He studied her from under half-closed eyelids and smiled.
“Mr. McCabe!” She said sharply and glared at him. “I’m not one of the items on the menu! I don’t think you’ve heard a thing I’ve said.”
Wicked Women and Other Stories Page 6
