by Rob Riggan
But that felt like a long, long time ago, Eddie thought as he watched Charlie, a caged lion pacing the main room under those unforgiving bare lights shining on that urinal-green institutional paint. The man hadn’t been in a true laughing mood about anything for weeks, though here he was yukking it up with the boys, at least showing his teeth like he was laughing, acting more boisterous than Eddie had ever seen him. Normally Charlie was quiet and commanding at such times, for it had a necessary calming effect on that pack, and he knew it. The boys were obviously loving this Charlie Dugan, their new buddy. Eddie just wanted the hell out of there. All he could see in Charlie’s smiles was a serpent rising above that room about to gobble everything, just like the one that appeared to Pharaoh, but there was no hint of God’s hand in any of this.
“We want the press, sheriff?” someone called out.
“No.” For just a moment, the smile disappeared and the truth of that night and Charlie’s state of mind were revealed. Charlie was a master at publicity, a showman, and not having a camera along for job like this? That’s how you got reelected! Eddie began to wonder if Charlie intuited something or just plain intended it. At least Trainor looked disappointed, so there was some satisfaction.
For the first time in all his years with Charlie, Eddie was suddenly scared—for Charlie, for all of them, but especially for whoever was out there they hadn’t encountered yet. Eddie couldn’t leave him; no one else who was there could see what was going on or begin to understand it. Instead they were feeding it. Eddie watched Trainor bring Charlie his Remington twelve-gauge, the automatic he carried on whiskey raids. He didn’t require that kind of weapon for a gambling raid, which went by a different set of rules. In a confined area, the force of his presence was always enough, along with that little .38 of his. But as though to say, Now we’ll really have big fun, Trainor handed Charlie the shotgun and gave him a little smile. Charlie looked at the gun blankly for a second, then took it and led them out.
They went in four cars to Rance’s Bottom, down in the northeastern part of the county, an area of ragged woods, half-grown-back fields and the occasional old farm. They were going to Billy Sheffler’s place, a big turn-of-the-century house Sheffler’s aunt had owned. The last person to do any farming there, she had left it to her only heir, Billy, a mean little turd, no good at all, like Eddie knew some people were. This one liked to stomp around in big boots, his collar turned up; sometimes he even wore a headband like he might be a hippie, only he was as peace-loving as a rattlesnake. He lived in the house now and then and rented it some, but it stood empty much of the time. He was all over the country. Got busted in Tennessee, they’d heard, and was part of some kind of ruckus up in Virginia. Something else out in New Mexico. Then they’d heard he was back in the area, but they thought the house was rented, that he wasn’t living in it. Maybe it was rented—that way, he probably figured he couldn’t be held responsible for whatever happened there.
The blacktop ended on the far side of Jessup, which consisted of three dozen or so small houses, a little grocery store and a gas station tucked in beside Trotter Mill Number 3, a brick building that took up three or four blocks and cast their cars in dim, steamy light as they glided by. They crossed some old fields for a mile or two before descending into the bottom where Bug Creek ran. It was addictive, running at night like that, headlights out as they got close, just a slice of moon. To Eddie, it was like flying through the land, not touching it somehow. A little chill climbed into his stomach and tickled so he wanted to smile. Everyone whispered.
It reminded him of the first night he went back into the sheriff’s office working for Charlie, not Mac anymore, and found all this resentment. He’d felt that kind of aloneness. Charlie had called him in. Standing waiting with him was the motliest crew Eddie had ever seen—the new deputies, all of whom he recognized, but only two as trained law-enforcement personnel. They hadn’t been issued uniforms yet, and some were wearing cowboy boots, others Sunday dress shoes and still others sneakers, along with sweaters and every color and type of jacket, blue jeans and slacks, even a couple of cowboy hats. Hell, he’d have wagered their mamas had packed their lunches.
But they were all duly sworn in and had their badges, if nothing else. Charlie issued pistols and holsters, keeping a Remington pump twelve-gauge for himself that later got replaced by the automatic. They were going to hit a still up in Rainer Cove, which could be bad enough in the daytime but was pure hell to find at night, and all the more dangerous if shooting started because no one would know who was shooting at whom, especially in that crowd of yahoos. Eddie was the only one in full uniform, and they looked on him like an interloper, but that was politics, and he never did give a tinker’s damn what those yo-yos thought in that regard.
That was the first night he drove, too. Charlie had a sense of timing about such things. Having a driver added authority. It wasn’t the Dodge, though. That, too, would come later. It was MacIntosh’s Ford with the big county markings on the side, the big bubblegum machine on top and a lot of blue smoke out the tailpipe. Charlie got in the front seat beside Eddie while two federal Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms boys got in the back. The others piled in other cars, including two vehicles owned by the new deputies, one a Plymouth all jacked up in the rear and with huge tires, so you had to wonder if this wasn’t Winston-Salem or Hickory, and whether maybe they should have been chasing that deputy instead.
They drove north, out past the fairgrounds and over the river, and he remembered nobody in his car saying a word, though the feeling of misgiving could have been cut with a chain saw.
“I hope you know what you’re doing, sheriff,” one of the ATF boys said finally.
“I had to do something, Lee. The pressure’s on me, was the moment I won the goddamn election. Get this started right, it’ll be fine.”
“Well, maybe me, you, Eddie and Wendell here shoulda done it ourselves. I’d feel a good sight safer.”
“Takes some guts to bring Jesse and his camera,” Wendell added, referring to the Gazette & Reformer photographer crammed in one of the cars behind them. His disapproval was unmistakable. It was gospel: you told the press what they should know. You never let them see for themselves—that was asking for it.
“Wendell, if this goes the way I hope, starting tomorrow I’m going to be the biggest damn hero this county’s had in a while. Top rooster. I’ll be able to promise shit and deliver less, if I want to.” At that point, Eddie thought he heard an undertone of self-mockery in Charlie’s voice, like this strutting was what he knew they wanted, not necessarily what he believed—the law-and-order costume that people would mistake for the real thing. That was the irony Eddie thought he heard. He liked it. “A little law and order in the hen yard might even open some purse strings and get me some of the equipment I need. If it fails, I won’t be hog swill.”
“Amen,” Wendell said.
“Just what are you amening?” Charlie had snapped, and in the laughter and easing of tension, he’d felt Charlie’s smile. He’s liking this, Eddie thought, all the layers. And he’s willing to take risks. You could trust such a man. But how far will he go? Eddie suddenly wondered, not believing he’d ever find out.
That night was thick with the smell of pine and an earlier shower, and within seconds of getting out of their cars everybody had mud on their shoes and up their pant legs, along with a wonderful air of expectancy. Caught them boiling, too, the mash full of maggots, the worst Eddie ever saw. Charlie went in first, almost catlike, if a charging grizzly can be a cat at the same time. When the man stirring the mash looked up, then jumped for his rifle, he caught the butt of Charlie’s shotgun on the side of his face, putting an end to any thought of shooting by anyone.
The sun was just coming up when they’d returned to Damascus, feeling so high that the sheriff's office looked almost pretty in the golden, misty light. It was like Eddie’d just been laid for the first time, the night had been so sweet. And that photographer had gotten a hell of a picture. It h
ad appeared across half of the front page, making Charlie top rooster for sure. That had been the beginning, but that was years ago.
“Who you leaving to watch the cars?” Junior asked, leaning over from the backseat and yanking Eddie out of his recollections—that past time that seemed to make sense. Five of them were in the lead car, and Junior had made sure he was one of them. Charlie had no cage in his car because he sat in the back so much.
“Why, Junior,” Charlie said over his shoulder in a paternal tone, “you said you didn’t expect too many out here tonight. Should we all just go the hell in?”
“Like Indians coming over the ridge? Why, I think that’d be just fine, sheriff.” You can sure tell he loves the idea, Eddie thought. Yessir, Junior’s sure feeling good. But it’s a bad setup if I ever heard one, and it isn’t Charlie. It isn’t his way. He hasn’t even seen the layout. But Charlie hadn’t been himself all that night.
Eddie went ahead and stuck his neck out anyhow: “Why don’t we leave a couple of specials to watch the cars, along with J. B., let them take names and pitch in if it gets out of control? Maybe snag a few come their way.” He didn’t usually make suggestions, and Charlie almost always listened if he did.
“Why don’t you just watch your driving, Eddie.”
The silence that hit the car was so deep that Eddie could hear a tiny whistling of the wind around the doors.
“Hell, Eddie,” Trainor chirped from the backseat, reaching over and patting his shoulder, “don’t you want to see some chickens fly?” Everybody except Eddie laughed, and even Eddie suspected Trainor meant well, was just trying to ease his embarrassment, but still he nearly resigned on the spot.
It almost worked, though, they hit them so fast. They knew they were in trouble the moment they saw all the cars scattered through the trees in the yard and around the nearer barn. There were two barns, a little one close by the house and a great big one glowing faintly in the moonlight, off quite a ways under some sycamores at the edge of a huge field. Not even working at it, Eddie counted more than fifteen vehicles, and who knew what other cars might be hidden nearby? A lot of people had to be in that house.
“Jesus, Junior!” one of the men exclaimed.
“I didn’t know, honest!” For once, Junior sounded a little worried.
But Charlie didn’t hesitate. It was clear he’d made his mind up even before they started out: he was hunting. “Do the best you can, boys. Get as many as you can,” was all he whispered, then released them. Half fanned out around the house, while the rest of them went right up the steps and across a huge front porch to the door, sounding like a troop of dragoons. The shades were drawn, so they couldn’t see what was going on, but they knew people were in there because of the lights and music. With a nod from Charlie, Junior tapped on the door: knock, knock, knock.
Almost at once, the porch light came on—so quickly, in fact, it caught the waiting men off guard. The door opened just a crack, and Eddie saw eyeballs, by which time Junior, holding up the warrant, started to read out loud, like he was in church and it was the Gospels. He got only about half a sentence in before the door slammed and the most hellacious commotion broke out inside, like the whole house was turning over, doors slamming, glass breaking. A lot of hollering, too, outside the house as well. Charlie just backed across the porch, lowered a shoulder and ran right through the door, knocking it clean off its hinges. The boys crashed in on his heels and spread out in all directions. People were yelling and running everywhere.
That house was so big and had so many hallways and rooms, and there was so much confusion, and Charlie was moving so fast, Eddie lost sight of him almost at once. Women were there, too—he heard them screaming before he saw them. Then Junior came tromping down the stairs dragging a man by his collar like a sack of meal, and Eddie saw it was Billy Sheffler, his face all bloody. Cards, bottles, broken furniture, puddles of liquor and beer—once upon a time, Eddie thought, this was a beautiful house. Glass kept on breaking as people took the express lane outdoors.
About the time they started hauling people into the living room, Charlie reappeared and, shoving his face in the face of each of the prisoners, his eyes small and fierce, he asked the same question: “Where’s Doc Pemberton?” It was like he had no doubt Pemberton was there, or had been. Eddie didn’t believe it was because of anything Trainor said, but Charlie’s own intuition. People could be scary that way, and he knew Charlie was one of them. But all he got for his effort were shaking heads, downcast eyes and “I ain’t seen him,” stuff like that. Eddie could see Charlie didn’t believe it. He knew Doc was there.
“Whooee, sheriff, look here!” one of the boys cried, and he and Harold Jeffers, one of the black deputies, waddled in loaded down with tip boards, a tip machine and decks of cards. Then a couple of the others started dragging in gallon jugs of moonshine they’d found in the kitchen.
When Eddie turned to see Charlie’s reaction, he’d disappeared again. Eddie began to run. He ran from room to room, upstairs and then back down, looking here and there, but he couldn’t find Charlie. That bad feeling he’d been having grew a lot worse.
Then he saw him standing in a hallway at the back of the house, staring at a closed door. Most of the shouting was outside by then, and it was like Charlie was surrounded by a pool of silence. Eddie didn’t think Charlie even knew he was there. He looked flushed and angry, not the sheriff of the famous cool demeanor and unmistakable, if confusing, sympathy—confusing because people couldn’t believe any lawman actually knew he was made of the very stuff they were, that their sins might just as well be his own.
Eddie heard the boys calling for Charlie again. He figured they must have rounded up over twenty people, and that at least twice that number were tearing across the countryside. But Charlie couldn’t hear. He was somewhere else. Eddie didn’t move.
“Anyone look in here?” In contrast to the storm raging over his face, Charlie’s voice was very quiet, almost reflective.
Startled, Eddie ventured, “Looks like a closet to me.” But the words echoed in his ears like suddenly he was only an audience, that what he was about to watch had already been written.
In the next instant, the heel of Charlie’s boot slammed that door right at its lock. The door flew inward. Bright light poured into the hall. It wasn’t any closet. Eddie moved fast then, but he needn’t have. When he got to him, Charlie wasn’t moving. He was half crouched, like an animal about to spring.
Later Eddie would remember the wallpaper in that room, what he could see of it around Charlie. It was ugly yellow and faded, torn here and there, something like white roses and vines running up and down the wall, some plaster showing. He saw an overturned table and several overturned chairs, and a blanket lying in a heap on the floor, along with a mess of cards and spilled glasses. Leaning against the wall was the one upright chair, a captain’s chair with arms that curled around its occupant, and Eddie saw what, or rather who, had caught Charlie’s attention; he was just sitting there grinning, like the drunk fool he was.
Eddie reached out to restrain Charlie, but before he even touched him, Charlie whipped his arm around and slammed the Remington into the middle of Eddie’s chest. “Hold this!”
“Dugan!” Eddie had never called him that, ever.
Charlie turned. If he’d been on the verge of ugly, it was nothing to now. His eyes grew narrow and kind of out of focus. “Don’t ever speak to me in that tone again,” he said. Backing Eddie into the hall, he slammed the door in his face.
XXV
Eddie
It was chaos at the jail, people making phone calls, muttering, yelling, being booked, while the bondsman flapped around like it was his first meal in weeks. Most of the charges, however, were just of nuisance value, and a lot of people were being released on their own recognizance; they weren’t going anywhere and never had. You could always issue a capias and drag them in if they didn’t show, because you always knew where to find them, just like escapees from the work camps, most o
f whom showed up at home.
Earlier they’d found one of the deputies, Stamey Kibler, Junior Trainor’s cousin, lying unconscious in that big barn they’d first seen a ways off from the house in Rance’s Bottom. They brought him back to the house, arms draped over two deputies, blood pouring down his head from a big, rising lump. But he was conscious by that time, and the wound was seen to be more superficial than it had first seemed.
Stamey didn’t know for certain who it was he’d chased into that dark barn. He said that on the way to it, the man had fallen against an old wheel harrow in the high brush. Stamey knew it was a wheel harrow because he was just about to grab the man when he fell over the same damn piece of equipment and broke his flashlight. The man had gotten to his feet and, limping badly, run off again, then ducked into the barn rather than cross the huge field that lay beyond. The barn, with a central alley and lots of haymow above, was pitch dark except where the moon, beginning to disappear behind some clouds, peeked through the boards.
Stamey had seen the man and called “Halt!” when he jumped out a back window of the house—later determined to have been the same room where Dugan busted in and found that surprise grinning in a captain’s chair, the only chair still standing, that being just before Dugan ran Eddie back out into the hall and slammed the door. On that evidence alone, Dugan had no doubt who had jumped out the window, and who in the darkness of that barn—after Stamey called out, “Boy, you are in a world of shit! Now come on out. I don’t want to have to shoot you over some nonsense!”—had stepped out of the tack room and slammed Stamey in the head with a piece of an old singletree.
Eddie had to agree with Dugan that the fugitive probably was Pemberton. It was the only thing they agreed on that night.
Charlie had made a big show of examining Stamey right there in the yard in Rance’s Bottom, sympathizing and cooing over him. There was quite a crowd by then, with the addition of some state troopers and a couple more deputies called in to help haul all those people back to Damascus. But it had all seemed false to Eddie, exaggerated somehow. It was fine to be sympathetic with an injured man, but Stamey had also been a damn fool to chase whoever it was into that barn alone without a light or backup. Charlie usually picked up on that sort of thing and was able to be critical even while being supportive, a gift Eddie always admired, especially given what Charlie had to work with. That way, he kept the lid on. But not that night.
