Rita Mae leaned over the cooler and Tomlin ran his hand across her ass, laughing when she slinked away—anything to take his mind off his troubles. He sent her to get him a cold beer, and then struck up a conversation with Johnny Mason at the front of the bar. He took the beer from Rita Mae and tipped back his bottle, barely listening to Mason as he absentmindedly stared out the window, waving when young Lester Hayes passed by. A police car coming down the street caught his eye, drawing Tomlin away from Johnny, until he stood directly in front of the window. When Earl Peters slowed down to cross the tracks, Tomlin’s hands started to twitch. When the sheriff looked at him, it all came crashing down: Chambers bowling ball-sized fist; Teddy Levay and Judge Croft’s maniacal laughter while Doc Fletcher worked on his nose; Pitch’s eyes; the bulging envelope.
Tomlin turned to see Johnny Mason staring at him, and felt the walls close in around him. He picked up his beer and hurried through the bar, grabbed a bottle of whiskey off of a shelf in the kitchen and poured himself a drink. From the kitchen he watched Rita Mae hand Johnny Mason another beer. Jimmy T. tossed the liquor down, enjoying the burn for a moment or two before finally chasing it with a mouthful of cold beer. Twelve-thirty in the afternoon, and here he was guzzling whiskey. But that was his routine now, and had been for more years than he cared to remember.
Tomlin had three thousand dollars buried behind his house. One thousand for each child he had taken to Pitch’s house, thirteen years ago. He still wasn’t sure how he’d gotten involved with that bastard. One night the man wandered into his tavern, tossing folding money around like confetti. The next thing Tomlin knew, he had Jolly Stapleton’s little boy wrapped up in a blanket.
How he wished he could go back to that night and change what he’d done, what he’d been forced to do. He remembered following Pitch down the stairs into the pit of Hell, laying the child on the cold, stone floor of the basement; holding Frankie Stapleton down while Pitch pulled out a huge knife and plunged it into the child, blood spurting onto Tomlin’s hands, the insane look in Pitch’s eyes as he sawed through the child’s tender little ribs, savagely ripping its heart out and placing it into a velvet sack.
Those three hellish nights thirteen years ago had almost driven him out of his mind. Why had he done it, he’d often wondered, but had never been able to come up with a rational explanation. He barely even remembered taking those kids, but the look on Pitch’s face as blood spilled onto the floor never left him.
The telephone rang and Tomlin flinched. He set the whiskey bottle on the shelf, scared to death of what the call might bring his way. When Rita Mae took a step toward the phone, Tomlin walked through the kitchen to the back door. When she called him to the telephone, he took off out the back door, and hurried down the railroad tracks.
* * *
Earl had Alvie Ross drop him and Vonda at their apartment and take the patrol car back to the station house. While Vonda packed their suitcases, Earl picked out a change of clothes, and then went into the bathroom to give her a little privacy. He took off his uniform shirt, ran some hot water and lathered up his shaving cup. After shaving and brushing his teeth, he gathered up his toiletries so Vonda could pack them away when she was ready. He changed into a pair of jeans, pulled on a cream-colored shirt and a pair of loafers. Finished dressing, he went into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of tea. While he sipped his tea, Vonda called out that she was through packing, so he washed out his glass and went to the bedroom, grabbed the suitcases and took them down to the car. After piling the luggage into the trunk, Earl slammed the lid shut, and turned to face the apartment house.
Nobody had been more shocked or surprised at the church that night than him. He just assumed they would give the job to Alvie Ross, and all things being equal, they probably should have. Alvie Ross was older, and he had more experience. He’d lived here all his life and knew damn near every single person in town. Most people liked him, and those who didn’t, still respected him. He was honest and hardworking, and never seemed to lose his temper. He had been helpful to Earl in many ways, always willing to give a suggestion or a bit of advice, but never in an imposing manner. Earl was certain of one thing: he was damn glad to have Alvie Ross Huckabee around.
Earl stepped onto the curb, pausing for a young woman pushing a baby carriage before walking up the concrete steps and entering the building, and starting up the stairs.
In this life, you never know what might lie around the corner. One day you’re walking a beat in the city, the next, sheriff of a growing town. One day you’re the sheriff, the next day might find you lying dead in an alley. No one knows when their time is up, not Earl, not Vonda, certainly not Clifford Collins, who sure as hell hadn’t known last night would be his last on earth.
Earl was having a hard time with his in-laws passing, but as much as it was bothering him, he knew it had to be tearing his wife apart. He still couldn’t believe they were dead. He’d almost dropped his coffee cup when the attorney called to tell him that Clifford and Odette Collins had died in their sleep, killed after a faulty gas line had filled their house with noxious fumes.
Earl entered the apartment and found his wife standing in the living room, staring out at the street. He walked up behind her and laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. Without turning around, Vonda put her hand on top of his, and felt his reassuring touch. She wiped a tear off her cheek and leaned into his strong body. With a sigh, she turned and buried her face into his chest.
“I just can’t believe it,” she said.
Earl put a hand on the small of her back, leaned over and kissed her softly on her neck. “It’s God’s will, baby.”
Vonda stepped back, staring at him as if he were crazy as a scowl spread across her face. “God, huh? You think God did this?”
Earl stood in front of her, searching for a comforting word or two, but there was nothing he could say to ease her pain. Finally, he asked if she was ready to go, watching as she shook her head and walked slowly away.
On the way through town, Earl passed the alley where John Chambers had died. He turned the corner and caught the stop light at Third and Main. When the light changed he pulled away. Shifting gears, he headed down Main Street, passed the courthouse and saw Teddy Levay standing on the sidewalk in front of the bleached-white marble building. Earl stuck his arm out the window and waved, turned to Vonda and said, “What do you think of our mayor?”
“I don’t know enough about him yet.”
“Yeah, me either.”
“He did make you sheriff.”
“Yeah, well, that’s something. Alvie Ross sure don’t think much of him.”
“Why?
“Well, for one thing, we’ve been trying to get him to okay another police car ever since I got here. When John was alive, we had three policemen and one car. And that’s another thing. With John Chambers gone, we need another deputy. But Levay keeps dragging his feet.”
“Maybe Alvie Ross doesn’t like him because he made you sheriff?”
“Nah.” Earl smiled. “He didn’t care about that. He doesn’t trust him. Him or Judge Croft.”
When Earl pulled onto State Road 21, Vonda asked who Jimmy Mitchell was.
“What?”
“Jimmy Mitchell. You remember, that night at the church? Reverend Stone accused the judge of putting him in jail for something he didn’t do.”
“Yeah, I asked Alvie Ross about that.” Earl slowed, downshifting as he came upon a coal truck ambling down the road. “That’s one of the reasons he doesn’t think very highly of our mayor and his friends. You know who Sid Haines is?”
“Yes, he’s a mine owner. And if I remember right, he was sitting beside Judge Croft on the stage that night.” Vonda brushed a lock of blonde hair away from her forehead as the coal truck turned into Godby’s Branch.
“Right, that was him. Anyway, Jimmy Mitchell was an old hermit who owned a little piece of land near one of Sid Haines’ mines. Sid wanted to buy the property but Mitchell wouldn’t sell
. It wasn’t much, but that land was all he had. Alvie Ross said he farmed it just enough to keep himself alive.”
“What did Haines want with it?”
Earl shifted gears and sped up. “One night, Haines called John Chambers and told him Jimmy Mitchell had broken into his house and stole a shotgun and some money. Said he and his son came home and saw Mitchell running away. Chambers and Alvie Ross came out and took Haines over to Jimmy Mitchell’s place. He wasn’t home, but just when they were about to leave, Jimmy come walking up the road. When they told him what he was accused of, he denied it, invited them in to look around. Soon as they stepped in the front door, Haines spotted his shotgun leaning against the wall.”
Earl slowed down, turned off the main highway and took a side road, continuing on for a minute or two before Vonda asked where he was going.
“Mitchell swore up and down he was innocent. Said he didn’t know how that shotgun got into his house.”
“But,” Vonda said. “There it was.”
“Exactly.” Earl downshifted, and turned onto an old gravel road. “Alvie Ross believed him. Said it didn’t make sense for Mitchell to take the gun and just leave it sitting in his house like that. Especially if he had to take off running away like Sid Haines and his boy claimed he did. As you well know, the preacher believed him, too. Didn’t do him no good, though. Jimmy Mitchell’s been locked up seven years now. While he was in jail he couldn’t pay his property taxes, didn’t have any family. And guess who ended up with his land.”
“Why would someone as well off as Sid Haines go through all that trouble to get, as you called it, a little piece of land?”
Earl slowed down, stuck his arm out the window and pointed up the road. “See up there? That dirt road leads to one of Sid’s mines.” He pulled up beside the railroad tracks and stopped, letting the car idle. “See that clearing over there?”
“Yeah?”
“See the railroad tracks running under that big old elm tree?”
“What about it?”
“That’s where Jimmy Mitchell’s house used to be before Sid Haines screwed him out of his land and sold it to the railroad.”
Earl glanced at his watch as he turned back onto State Road 21. It was already one o’clock, and they still had a three hour drive ahead of them. He probably shouldn’t have gone by Jimmy Mitchell’s old place, but it hadn’t added that much time to the trip. Alvie Ross had told him the story the same way, and seeing the railroad tracks had really driven his point home. From the disgusted look on Vonda’s face, she had obviously gotten the picture. With the car window rolled all the way down, Earl rested his elbow on the window frame and drove up the road, winding his way toward the mountaintop.
“Here we go up Seeker’s Mountain,” he said.
“Seeker’s Mountain, Ward Rock Mountain,” Vonda said. “What’s with these names?”
Earl laughed, glad to see his wife thinking of something other than her parents.
“There’s a big old rock formation up on the mountain. The Indians used to go there to ward off the evil spirits… Ward off?” he said. “Ward Rock?”
“That makes sense.”
They passed a gravel road that cut a path straight up and into the mountain.
“That road goes up to the mansion I keep hearing so much about. Alvie Ross says—”
“I’d rather hear about the mountain.”
“Well, according to John Chambers, back at the turn of the century a sheriff led a posse across Virginia, chasing a murdering thief across the state. He’d killed the sheriff’s brother and his wife.”
“The sheriff’s wife?”
“No, the brother’s wife.”
“Oh,” Vonda said. “Did they catch him?”
“Every town they stopped at, the sheriff said, ‘I seek the man who killed my brother and his wife’. Somebody in Whitley had seen a desperate-looking stranger disappear into the woods at the base of Ward Rock Mountain, his clothes dirty and torn, as if he’d been chased across—”
“So they caught him on Ward Rock Mountain?”
“I didn’t say that.” Earl grinned at her. “Two men went up the old dirt road in case he tried to double back. The rest followed the path the stranger had taken. A couple of hours later, those two men came back down. None of the others were ever seen again.”
“What?”
“That’s right.”
“What about the murderer?”
“They never found him. Far as anyone knows, he didn’t come back down either.” Eyes sparkling, Earl gave Vonda a mischievous look. “Guess what night that all happened on.”
“I’ll bite.”
“Halloween.”
“Oh puh-leeze.” Vonda snorted, and then said, “You still didn’t explain why this is called Seeker’s Mountain.”
“‘Cause the last place they stopped before they got to Whitley was Weaver’s Creek. They said the same thing there as all the other stops.”
“Yeah, I know.” Vonda said. “We seek the man—”
“Right, and then they crossed the mountain into Whitley. Anyway, those people in Weaver’s Creek called them The Seekers. They were the last people to ever see them. They named it Seeker’s Mountain.”
“I thought somebody in Whitley told them he’d disappeared into the mountain.”
Earl laughed. “Hey, it’s legend. What’dya want from me?”
Three quarters of the way to the top, Earl craned his neck toward Pitch Place.
“What a view that must be,” he said, as Vonda, staring at the mansion until it dropped out of sight, settled back into her seat, and made herself comfortable for the long ride.
Chapter Twelve
October 28th
Maudie Mason looked out her window, and saw God’s majesty at work. The crisp smell of autumn that hung in the air, yellow and brown and orange leaves rustling in the wind, some fluttering to the ground as tree branches swayed gently in the breeze. Above the peaceful and serene landscape, wispy white clouds floated across a sky as clear and blue as Maudie’s eyes, while the bright sun shining down on the valley painted the treetops a rich, golden hue. Maudie had spent her entire life on Ward Rock Mountain, and could think of no place that she would rather be.
Wood popped and crackled in the hearth as the last remnants of a fire began to die out. A rocking chair creaked and Maudie turned to see her mother sitting in the rocker, reading the family bible. And couldn’t help wondering how much time the frail old woman had left.
Maudie looked at a framed photograph of her husband sitting on the mantelpiece. She sighed and closed her eyes, and it all came rushing back: her brother bringing young John Henry Mason home for dinner; thirteen-year-old Maudie reciting her wedding vows, the gathered families laughing and throwing handfuls of rice; the love and joy of their wonderful life together, the children, the years flying by; the cave-in at the mine, mangled bodies hauled from the mountainside, and, finally, Maudie placing a single red rose on John Henry’s casket moments before he was lowered into that deep, dark hole.
Too soon, my love, she thought. Much too soon.
She opened her eyes and stared at the picture, and at John Henry’s old double-barreled shotgun hanging on the wall above it—untouched since his death, so many years ago.
“You okay, baby?” her mother asked.
“Yeah, Mama.” Maudie smiled, thinking that at sixty-seven years of age, she was still her mama’s baby. “Can I get you something from the kitchen? A glass of tea, maybe?”
“That’s all right, darlin’.”
“Well, all right then,” Maudie said, and then walked across the room, to the front door, which she opened to step out onto the porch. Several chickens ran across the dirt yard as she closed the door behind her, cackling and pecking at tiny bits of feed strewn about the ground. A calico cat jumped out of an old oak rocking chair, stretching lazily, and then walking across the porch, stopping just long enough to rub itself against Maudie’s ankles.
“Hello, T
abby,” Maudie said, rubbing a foot along the purring cat’s side as an engine rumbling in the distance drew her attention to an old battered truck, lumbering up the road carrying Maudie’s granddaughter, her husband and Missy Thomas, who held a small child in her lap. Three more boys rode in the truck’s bed. Chickens squawked and scattered around the side of the house when the truck pulled into the yard—Tabby jumped down onto the ground and raced after them.
When their company piled out of the truck, Maudie made her way into the yard.
“Hey, Vernie,” she called out to her granddaughter. “Paul.” She nodded at a short, stocky man dressed in bib-overalls and a faded, red-flannel shirt, who made his way to the rear of the vehicle, scooped a boy into each arm, and then gently lowered them to the ground. The other child, Billy, who had already hopped out of the truck, made a beeline for an old tire hanging from a rope that was tied to the branch of an elm tree.
Vernie Borders walked up to Maudie. “Hey, Granny,” she said, and then wrapped her arms around her grandmother and hugged her tight. “How’s Granny Ruth?”
“Granny Ruth’s just fine!” the little old woman called out from the porch. She too had heard the truck, and had ventured out to see who it was. From the look on her face, she must have been delighted to see her great granddaughter, and the children playing by the tire-swing.
“You know Missy, don’t you, Granny?”
“I sure do,” Maudie said. And to Missy, “How you doin’, pretty girl?”
Missy, holding three-year-old Tony in her arms, blushed. “I’m good, Miss Maudie,” she said, and then lowered her son to the ground and put a hand on his small, delicate shoulder; the other she waved at Maudie’s mother. “Hey, Granny Ruth.”
“Hey there, little girl,” Granny Ruth said as she waved back. She shuffled across the porch and sat down in the rocker, laughing at Billy, who was swinging back and forth in the tire while his brother, Mike, and little Jason Thomas, wrestled and rolled on the ground.
Lord of the Mountain Page 5
