Earl zipped his jacket halfway up, bracing himself against the chilly autumn wind blowing through the valley. “How goes it, Henry?” he said.
“Okay, Sheriff.” Henry smiled and stepped onto the porch. “How you like bein’ sheriff, anyway?”
“Like it just fine.”
Henry’s boots thudded on the wooden planks as he took a couple of steps forward. Sheriff’s pay must be a damn sight better than a deputy’s, huh?”
“How you figure?”
“Well, seeing how you moved outa your little apartment and into that fancy house over on the east end. And the Missus is toolin’ ‘round in this here brand new Ford, I figure sheriffs must make a hell of a lot of money.”
“Wasn’t my salary paid for the new house, Henry. The wife’s parents died and left us some money in their will.”
“Who were they, the goddamn king and queen of England?”
Henry Jr., still standing by the pump, snickered.
“How’s the motor oil?” Earl asked, and a grin spread across Junior’s face.
Henry Walker looked away, mumbling something under his breath, his face beet-red as he looked back at Earl.
There had been no more reports of break-ins. Earl wondered if they had stopped, or if Henry had decided not to press his luck by complaining about them to the new sheriff. By the look on Henry’s face, Earl figured moonshine was probably as much of the family business as the gas station.
Henry told Junior that, speaking of motor oil, to be sure and check under the hood. The look on Junior’s face and the twinkle in his father’s eye told Earl they knew exactly what the sheriff was alluding to.
Junior grinned and moved to the front of the car, where he raised the hood and eagerly went to work on the new Ford, checking sparkplugs, admiring the engine. He took off the manifold to get a birds-eye view of the carburetor, and then put it back together. Sliding the dipstick from its sheath, he pinched his thumb and index finger at its base, wiping the oil away by pulling the metal rod through to its tip, then sliding it back into its receptacle.
Henry grinned at Earl. “Motor oil?” he said. “Hell, I’m making a pretty penny off’a that motor oil.”
“Oh yeah? Selling it by the quart or by the Mason jar?”
“Both,” Henry said, drawing a laugh and a shake of the head from Earl.
Henry winked at his fifteen-year-old son, who was peering at him from under the hood. Junior rolled his eyes, and wiped his fingers across his grease-stained coveralls, twisted the cap off the radiator and looked inside. Then he screwed the cap back on, slammed the hood shut and pronounced everything to be in good working condition.
“What’s the damage?” Henry asked his son.
“Sixty cents, Daddy.”
“Come on inside, Sheriff.” To his son, he said, “Wash his windshield, Junior.”
Earl followed Henry into the gas station, leaning against the counter while Henry filled out a receipt.
“No more break-ins?”
“Huh?” Henry looked up at the sheriff. “What?”
“Break-ins. You know… motor oil?”
“Again with the motor oil.” Henry slid a pen and a piece of paper across the counter. Looking the tall policeman in the eye, he said, “I got a shotgun rigged up when I leave here at night. Anybody else busts into this place gets a belly full of lead.”
“Look, Henry,” Earl said. “Life is hard around here, and if some of these people want to drink a little shine now and then, I’m willing to look the other way. But if somebody gets hurt, I’ll haul your ass off to jail. Or worse, some poor bastard gets killed ‘cause you rigged up some half-assed booby-trap, I’ll make sure you never see the light of day again.”
Earl paused a moment to let his words sink in. “Got it?”
“Yeah,” Henry said. “I got it.”
“No more booby-traps.”
“No… no more.”
Earl signed the receipt, put the copy Henry gave him into his jacket pocket, laughed and shook his head. “Motor oil.”
“Good for what ails ya! How about it, Sheriff?” Henry pulled a quart jar of the clear liquid from beneath the counter and held it out to Earl. “On the house.”
“Hell, why not?” Earl said. He took the Mason jar and shoved it into his jacket pocket, and then turned and walked out the door.
“Atta boy!” Henry Walker called out as he followed the sheriff onto the porch.
The water hose lay beside the patrol car, spraying water onto the dirt as Junior bent over and twisted the spigot off.
“Why aren’t you in school, Junior?”
“That boy don’t need no more schoolin’,” Henry said. “I taught him everything he needs. Hell, he can take a carburetor apart and put it back together blindfolded. Ain’t that right, Junior?”
“Yes sir!” Junior hollered, his chest puffed out with pride.
“Yessir, that boy’s got a good future ahead of him. When I go, this place is gonna be his. He’ll get my house, too. Shit, what’s he need school for?”
As much as Earl may have hated to admit it, Henry’s logic made perfectly good sense. Fifteen-year-old Junior, who already had a marketable skill, probably knew more about repairing cars than anyone else in town, including his father.
“You know, Henry,” Earl said, “You might be—”
“Sheriff, look!” Junior cried out, pointing at John Fraley waving a hand in the air as he lumbered up the street toward them.
“What the hell,” Henry said.
“Sheriff!” Fraley yelled as he stumbled across the parking lot. “The bank’s been robbed!” The left side of his face was swollen, his puffy left eye nearly shut, blood still running from the wide-open gash on his cheek, dark-red smears staining his white shirt and the front of his pants.
“What?” Earl said, even though he knew exactly what Fraley had said.
“They ripped Cathy Brooks’ dress off her and—”
“What!”
Fraley doubled over at the waist, huffing and puffing, trying to catch his breath. Then he straightened up, and said, “Three men came into the bank. I’d never seen them before. They were dressed in dirty clothes like a bunch’a filthy bums. One had a shotgun under his coat, the other two had pistols. They robbed us, Sheriff. They cleaned us out!” He looked up at Earl, touched his swollen face and winced. “I called the police station but nobody answered.”
“Goddamn it,” Earl said, silently cursing the mayor and the town council for keeping them short-handed. “You see what they were drivin’?”
“An old black, rusted-out GMC pickup.” Fraley took a deep breath, his fluttering tie flapping sideways in the breeze, as he said, “Had a Kentucky license plate… and a crack across the back window.”
“What’d they look like?”
“The leader was skinny, with short brown hair. Had a long black coat hiding his shotgun. The damn dirty thing hung almost to the floor. And there was a fat one wearin’ a blue-jean jacket. The other was just a kid.”
Earl started for his car. Halfway there, he called over his shoulder, “Which way’d they go?”
“They’re probably halfway up Seeker’s Mountain by now,” Fraley said, as Earl got into the car and slammed the door shut, fired up the engine and roared off down the street.
Chapter Fifteen
Pitch, stepping onto the curb in front of the Baxter County courthouse, a building he had been personally responsible for constructing, leaned into the window of his brand new Model A coupe. “Do whatever you want, Jimmy,” he said. “I’ll have the mayor drive me home.”
“Sure thing,” Hastie said, and then muttered under his breath as Pitch walked away: “Maybe I’ll go look at a fucking cow.” Then he pulled away from the curb, waving his arm out the window as he drove down Main Street.
On his way through the lobby, Pitch stood for a moment, admiring the West Virginia state seal etched into the polished marble floor before moving over to the staircase, where he made his way to the s
econd floor landing and went straight to Teddy Levay’s office.
“Afternoon,” he said, as he opened the door, followed by, “Don’t bother getting up, dear. I’m just here to see Teddy.”
Before Levay’s attractive young secretary could put down her magazine and stand, Pitch was through the door and into the mayor’s office, calling out, “Hello, Teddy!” like he was talking to a second grader.
Teddy Levay shot out of his chair like a Jack-in-the-box. Even though he had long dreaded this day, he raced around his desk, smiling cheerfully with his right hand extended.
“What a great surprise,” he said, grasping Pitch’s hand and pumping it wildly.
“It’s good to be back, Teddy,” Pitch said, and then crossed the room to an open window. He leaned out over the sidewalk below him, and saw a brand new Ford racing down Main Street—Pitch wondered who owned it. He took a deep breath of cool mountain air as the car disappeared around a corner, and turned back to Levay. “Hard to imagine I built most of this town, or my money did.”
“And one hell of job you did, too. One hell of a job.”
Pitch smiled at the kowtowing mayor. “Kind of you to say so, Teddy.”
He walked over and sat down behind Levay’s desk, leaned back and put his feet on the desktop. “You ready for tonight?”
“Yes, sir. All set,” Levay said, even though he had no idea of what might actually transpire up at Pitch Place.
“Thatta boy!” Pitch said, then, “Gonna have to get your hands dirty this time, Teddy.”
“What, exactly, do you mean by that?” Teddy asked him.
“You’ll see. Just come up to the house tonight and join a few of your friends for a little party.” Pitch, looking Levay in the eye, chuckled. “We’re going to have a special guest tonight. Very special.”
“Look, Mister Pitch… ” Teddy had been working on this speech since the night he and Doc Fletcher had met at Kelly’s diner. “I looked the other way last time. I did my part. I don’t want anything to do with whatever the hell you’ve got planned.”
As if the words were tsk, tsk, tsk, Pitch said, “Teddy, Teddy, Teddy.”
“I’m serious.”
“Sure you are.”
“Look—”
Pitch took his feet off the desk and leaned forward. “Teddy,” he said. “Refresh my memory. What were you before we met?”
“A peddler.”
“That’s right, and now look at you. Mayor Teddy Levay. Make-Hay Teddy Levay—top dog. You’ve done well for yourself, Teddy. I’d hate to see you throw it away now.”
And that was all it took, as the words “What do I have to do?” leaked from his mouth like air from a nearly-deflated balloon, drawing another chuckle from Pitch, who said “Just put on some nice clothes and come up to the house tonight, about eight o’clock.”
* * *
Earl arrived at the stationhouse hoping to see the town’s only police car parked outside.
It wasn’t.
He pulled up to the curb and got out of his car, swung the door shut and ran up the steps, through the entrance and over to a desk, where he got behind a two-way radio and keyed the mic a couple of times.
“Car One,” he said, wincing at the absurdity that, here the bank had been robbed, and the town had only one police car: Car One.
“Come in… Alvie Ross, you there?”
He keyed the mic a few more times. “Alvie Ross!” he shouted. “Come in Car One!” He paused for a moment, wondering where the hell his deputy could be, and how they could have been so unprepared. But how could anyone have foreseen something like this, in a town where the biggest crime is somebody jaywalking across Elm Street, or old lady Travis buying a jar of Henry Walker’s White Lightning?
Maybe the eighty-year-old spinster’s the one stealing all that motor oil.
The thought drew laughter from Earl, despite the grave circumstances facing him.
“Aw, fuck it,” he said, and then walked across the room and snatched a shotgun and a box of shells from the gun cabinet. Propping the gun against the wall, he put the carton of shells on the desk. He thought about changing out of his navy-blue coat into his uniform jacket, but he didn’t see any reason to advertise who he was. And he sure as hell didn’t want to spook some as yet to be identified robbers into taking a shot at him.
Grabbing the shells off the desk, he took one last look around the office, and then hurried outside, banging the door shut behind him as he headed for the sidewalk. When he got to the car, he opened a rear door and laid the shotgun across the back seat. Then he slammed the door shut and tossed the box of shells through the open driver’s window, got behind the wheel and turned the ignition, and pulled away from the curb.
Earl sped down the road, alongside a train rumbling down the tracks, pounding the steering wheel in frustration because he knew he couldn’t beat it to the railroad crossing. The front door of Henry Walker’s Esso Station was shut when he passed by it, the Closed sign hanging in the window. Earl hoped John Fraley would be all right, because he’d looked like hell when he staggered up to the gas station.
He reached under his jacket and pulled a box of matches and a pack of Lucky Strikes out of his shirt pocket, shook the pack until a cigarette jumped halfway out, and then guided it to his lips. Then he downshifted and slowed to a stop at the railroad crossing beside Jimmy T’s Bar and Grill, eased the car out of gear and sat behind a line of vehicles waiting for the slow-moving train to clear the tracks; struck a match and lit up, tossed the match out the window and pulled the harsh smoke into his lungs.
It had been a rough couple of months for Earl and Vonda, and it didn’t seem to be getting much better. The strange and untimely death of Clifford and Odette Collins had hit them hard. And although the money was nice, the car and the new house on the east end of town, the miserable way they had come by their newfound wealth didn’t sit right with Earl. He felt downright guilty about it, as if he’d somehow had something to do with their deaths.
Earl took another drag on his cigarette, flicked the spent ash out the window and looked down the tracks at the caboose. Earl worried about Vonda. When John Chambers died, Teddy Levay took an interest in her and Earl, inviting them to his home for dinner, to Judge Croft’s for drinks. And Vonda welcomed the attention. Earl could tell she looked forward to their little get-togethers, and she would get angry if he told her he didn’t want to go. Which he was prone to do, since he didn’t exactly relish the thought of hanging around those stuffy pricks. Something sure had changed, lately. Sure, she put up a good front, and most days she actually seemed all right. But she wasn’t. She hadn’t been the same since the day she found out her parents had died.
The train rumbled by; the crossing arm rose, and Earl took one last puff on his cigarette, flipped the butt out the window and stepped on the gas. He was hurrying up Main Street when he looked up and saw someone leaning out an open window of the mayor’s office. Earl thought it odd that he had never seen him before. Then his thoughts turned back to business at hand as he floored the gas pedal, and raced as fast as his car would take him toward the Main Street Bridge.
Chapter Sixteen
At the far side of the bridge, an aged black man in dusty old work clothes looked down at the river. His name was Jonas Campbell. He was short, but muscular in his scuffed brown leather boots, his dirty old ball cap and his faded tan jacket. And he had been around this town longer than most folks could remember.
He turned when Earl pulled up beside him, got out of the car and walked to the front of it. “Jonas,” he said when he reached him. “How long you been up here?”
“‘Bout forty-five minutes, Sheriff.”
“You see an old beat-up truck come through?”
“Yessir,” Jonas said. “I sure did. Come across ‘bout the time I got here, laughin’ and whoopin’ and’a hollerin’.”
“Where’d they go?”
“Straight up the mountain. Don’t know what they was so happy about, though.”
/>
“I do,” Earl said, and then stepped over beside Jonas and looked at the river, at the steep bank running down to the water’s edge.
“Long-ways down, ain’t it?”
“Damn sure is,” Earl said, then, thanking the old man, he hurried back to his car, and drove away.
Earl knew he had one thing going for him: if they were headed for Kentucky they wouldn’t have gone up Seeker’s Mountain. They would have traveled west along the river, past Butcher’s Holler until they crossed over into the neighboring township. But even though he knew which way they had gone, he still had one very big problem. Seeker’s Mountain was riddled with old dirt roads that wound their way deep into the woods, some merging with long-forgotten trails. Earl could roam around for days and still not find them up there. And no telling what kind of people he might happen across. The best bet, he decided, was to cross the mountain into Weaver’s Creek. Maybe someone had seen them pass through there—they’d be hard to miss. If he went too far, he could always backtrack to the mountain and start up one of the old dirt roads. Or better yet, go back to town and round up a posse. Either way, it wasn’t looking good. Time was passing, too much already gone, and he was just now leaving town. He hoped like hell he would find them. There were a lot of good people around these parts, and a great many of them were going to be hurt by this.
Lord of the Mountain Page 8
