Lord of the Mountain

by William Ollie

  And Pitch’s words came rushing back: ‘I haven’t aged, and I’ll never age, as long as I come back every thirteen years and give him what he wants.’

  And in that stunning moment of clarity, it all made sense: the bizarre story, the child’s missing heart.

  As long as I give him what he wants.

  Hastie, tossing the dead child onto the bed, fell onto his knees and threw up, drawing yet another round of abrasive laughter from Pitch, who shook his head.

  “Jesus, Jimmy,” he gleefully called out. “At the rate you’re going, you’ll be swinging that mop all night!”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Earl sat up, looking around the dark room, and found Vonda sleeping soundly beside him. There it was again: a scraping sound, coming from the front of the house. He pulled the covers back, slipped out of bed and stood up.

  Just a noise, he told himself, a tree branch rubbing a window screen, most likely. Nothing to worry about. But maybe someone was out there, a fourth member of the gang he had slain, hell-bent on taking his revenge. Earl slipped the .38 from the holster lying on his dresser, walked along the hallway, down the stairs to the living room, and heard a muffled voice outside. He stepped nervously up to the front door and peered out through the small rectangle of glass in its center, and saw nothing but shadows.

  Someone was out there.

  He knew it.

  He made his way to the living room window, drew back the curtains and the window exploded, shards of glass blowing inward as a flaming ball of liquid accelerant slammed into Earl’s midsection, spreading fire up his chest while pieces of his burning pajama top melted onto him, his skin sizzling, popping as his hair caught fire and he staggered backward, screaming and crying and flailing his arms.

  Then his wife was beside him, yelling out his name, beating at the flames.

  “Earl!” she screamed.

  “Nooo!” he cried out.

  “Earl!”

  Hands pounded his chest.

  “EARL!”

  Earl sat up. “Huh? What?”

  Vonda put an arm around his shoulders. “You’re having a nightmare.”

  Shuddering, Earl put a hand to his sweat-dampened forehead, and the telephone rang.

  “Whew.” Earl sighed, turned and put his feet on the floor, reached for the telephone and snatched up the receiver. “Yeah,” he said.

  “Earl.”

  “Alvie Ross?”

  “Earl, we’ve got a big problem.”

  Earl shook his head, trying to clear the remnants of his nightmare. “What’s the matter?”

  “One of Robert Clark’s truckers found a body on Seeker’s Mountain.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “It’s Missy Thomas, Earl. Somebody beat the shit out of her and choked her to death. It’s awful.”

  “Jesus,” Earl said, and then turned on the lamp on his bedside table.

  “What?” Vonda said. “What?”

  “A woman’s been murdered.”

  Vonda gasped. “Who?” she said.

  “That’s not all,” Alvie Ross said.

  Earl, bracing himself against the cracked emotion in his deputy’s voice, said, “Go on.”

  “I went to her house. That’s where I’m at now. The door was wide open. Her husband ain’t here. Earl… My God, Earl. Her two little boys are dead. Somebody smothered them to death in their beds.”

  “Jesus, Alvie Ross.”

  “He did it, Earl. That sorry son of a bitch killed his whole family.”

  “Where’s Missy now?”

  “I pulled her onto the shoulder of the road and covered her up with a blanket.”

  “You call Ezra Butcher yet?”

  “Not yet.” Alvie Ross sounded grim. “Those boys are working overtime tonight.”

  “No shit.” Earl thought for a moment about the three bodies he’d left in Weaver’s Creek, and shook his head. Now there were three more. “Look, why don’t you go on back to the body. I’ll call Ezra and meet you there quick as I can.”

  Earl backed out of his driveway, shifted into gear and pulled away from the house. What a day it had been. What a miserable, fucked-up day. It had taken an hour to get back from Weaver’s Creek, longer to round up Alvie Ross and his ragtag posse on the back roads of Seeker’s Mountain. Another hour for Doc Fletcher to dig the pellets out of his hip and patch him up. By the time the weary lawman had returned the pillowcase of stolen loot to a very surprised and grateful John Fraley, the clock had struck eight-thirty. The danger-induced adrenaline rush gone, Earl finally dragged his tired body home, so exhausted he could hardly eat. But he did manage to toss down a couple of belts of whiskey, and after a nice hot bath, he and Vonda had gone to bed.

  And now this.

  Earl pulled up to the stop sign, and took a right on Sycamore Street. Passing Judge Croft’s two-story home, he eased to a stop in front of Jared Thomas’ house. Lights were on in the living room, several cars parked at the curb. Jason Thomas’ newly purchased Pontiac Oakland All American Six was parked in the driveway. Earl couldn’t help but admire the fine-looking sedan.

  He stepped on the gas, hauling ass through the east end of Whitley, past Henry Walker’s gas station, through town and across the Main Street Bridge. By the time he reached the mountain’s top, Alvie Ross was sitting in the police car on the shoulder of the road, the twin beams of his headlights cutting a path through the thick, early morning fog illuminating two pale legs sticking out from beneath a dark blanket several yards away.

  Earl parked his car a few yards ahead of the corpse, got out and made his way back. “Alvie Ross,” he said, nodding at his ashen-faced deputy.

  Alvie Ross looked tired, deflated, as if he’d aged ten years, nothing like the happy and energetic man Earl had left on the back roads a few hours ago. Earl knelt beside the blanketed body and took a deep breath.

  “It’s bad, Earl. Real bad.”

  “Fuck it,” Earl said, and then pulled the blanket away, gasping at the bloody and swollen lips, the sightless eyes, the tongue still lying across her shattered front teeth; her bloated neck a mass of purple and black bruises. Earl shook his head, rising to his feet as headlights rounded the curve behind them, revealing Ezra Butcher’s velvet-curtained hearse, which rumbled to a stop beside Earl’s car. Moments later, Ezra Jr. and his kid brother climbed out of the meat wagon.

  “Good God,” Charlie Butcher said when he saw the traumatized body, while his older brother looked on with the detached disinterest of someone having grown accustomed to scraping mangled bodies from the torn and twisted metal of automobile wreckage.

  “He’s gonna fry for this shit, Earl,” said Alvie Ross, who took off his policeman’s cap, ran a hand through his gray hair and returned the cap to his head. “Let’s go find that son of a bitch.”

  “I already know where he is,” Earl said. “Saw his car parked in front of his daddy’s house on my way up here.”

  Ezra Jr. and Charlie pulled a stretcher out of the hearse, rolled it over to Missy’s corpse and lifted her onto it. Junior covered the body with a clean white sheet, and they pushed the stretcher back to the hearse.

  “Why don’t you follow me to my house?” Earl said. “I’ll leave my car there and we’ll go on to Jared’s.”

  The two policemen walked up behind the hearse just as Ezra Jr. was slamming the double doors shut. Charlie ran around to the passenger door, and Ezra Jr. asked Alvie Ross, “Where’re the boys?”

  “Upstairs at the end of the hallway, last door on the left.”

  “You know who done it?”

  “We got our ideas,” Earl told him.

  “God, I hate this,” Junior said, and then climbed into the hearse.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Lights were on inside 23 Sycamore Street. Cars still loomed by the curb. Loud voices and raucous laughter echoed from inside the house as Earl stood on the front stoop, Alvie Ross by his side. He pounded a fist against the door and the laughter stopped. Moments late
r, footsteps approached and the door swung open, revealing a tall, heavyset man with thick, curly-brown hair and a beard. He wore gray pants and a red and white-checkered flannel shirt. Earl pegged him to be around thirty years old.

  The man looked at the two policemen—almost as if he were expecting them, Earl thought. He nodded at the older man. “Alvie Ross,” he said.

  “Harold. We’re here to see Jason.”

  “C’mon in.”

  They followed Harold through the foyer, down a hallway to a smoke-filled dining room, where three men sat around a card table in the middle of the room, ribbons of smoke drifting up from two ashtrays on opposite sides of the table, pushing their way into the hazy cloud above it.

  Jason Thomas sat by his white-haired father, a self satisfied smirk on his face as he dragged a pile of poker chips his way. Four shot glasses and glasses of water sat around the table. A pitcher of ice water and a half-full fifth of Jack Daniels sat in front of a tired-looking man to Jason’s left—Micah Hanson wore a suit and tie, as if he’d just stepped out of Sunday morning services, and looked like he would much rather have been home in the comfort of his bed than sitting around a poker table. His black hair, slick with Wildroot hair oil, was parted straight down the middle.

  Jared Thomas looked up at Earl and Alvie Ross, and in a deep baritone voice rivaling the town’s Baptist preacher, he said, “The hell are you two doing here?”

  “You know why we’re here, don’t you, Jason?” Alvie Ross said.

  Jason looked at his father, shrugged his shoulders and laughed. “I ain’t got the slightest idea.”

  “What happened to your head?” Alvie Ross said. “Get in a fight tonight?”

  “Slipped and fell. What happened to yours?”

  Harold laughed and shook his head.

  Earl walked over and stood between Hanson and Jason Thomas. “Where’s your wife?”

  “Better have her ass home in bed where she belongs.”

  Harold laughed again.

  Eyes fixed on Earl, Jared Thomas gulped down a shot of whiskey.

  “She’s dead.”

  “The hell you say.” Jared looked shocked.

  “Found her up on Seeker’s Mountain a couple of hours ago, all beat to hell and strangled to death.”

  Alvie Ross, glaring at Jason, said, “You killed her.”

  Red-faced, Jason pounded his fist against the table. “I ain’t killed nobody, you hillbilly son of a bitch.”

  Alvie Ross thumbed open his holster, and laid his hand on his service revolver.

  “I’m the hillbilly son of a bitch gonna throw your ass in a cell.”

  “Hold it, son,” Jared said. “He didn’t kill her. He’s been here all night.”

  “That right, Mister Hanson?” Alvie Ross said. “Y’all just happen to be here playin’ poker till three o’clock in the goddamn morning? On a Tuesday night?”

  Hanson glanced at Jared Thomas. “Yes,” he said. “Yes we have.”

  Earl laid a hand on Hanson’s shoulder. “You sure about that?”

  Hanson nodded his affirmation.

  “Your grandbabies are dead too, Jared,” Alvie Ross said, all the while staring at Jason. “Smothered to death in their own beds.”

  Jason gasped, leaned forward and put his face in his hands. “Oh, my God,” he said.

  “Yeah, right. How about it, Jared? You still say he’s been here all night?”

  “You know me, Alvie Ross. I thought he’d done something to those babies, I’d kill him myself.” Jared raised his right hand. “Hand to God, he’s been here all night.”

  “Mister Hanson?” Earl said.

  Hanson nodded his head. “Yes. Hand to God.”

  “Look, Alvie Ross,” Jason said. “I know you don’t like me. I don’t like you, either. But do you really think I could kill my own children?”

  “Well, if you didn’t, who did? Who in the hell do you think smothered your children, and then beat your wife to death and left her on the mountain?”

  Harold took a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket, shook one loose and lit it.

  Jared tossed down another shot of whiskey and looked at Alvie Ross. “I’ll tell you who. That goddamn Elmer Hicks. He’s been pining for Missy ever since those two got married.”

  “Elmer Hicks,” Alvie Ross said, scoffing at the suggestion.

  “You know, I bought Missy, paid her daddy two hundred dollars and he made her marry my boy. Maybe that son of a bitch finally went crazy and decided if he couldn’t have her, nobody could.”

  “Goddamn right,” Jason said. “He’s been after her ever since he got back from the Army. Missy told me the son of a bitch wouldn’t leave her alone.”

  “You’re telling me Elmer Hicks broke into your house, killed those two boys and forced your wife into his truck, took her up the mountain and strangled her to death. That’s what you’re telling me.”

  “I’m telling you I didn’t do it, and before you come bustin’ in here with your goddamn bullshit you should talk to somebody who had a reason to kill her.”

  “I am,” Alvie Ross said. “I’m talking to you.”

  Jason jumped to his feet. “Goddamn you—”

  Jared Thomas stood up and put a reassuring hand on his son’s shoulder. “We’re not getting anywhere with this shit. Unless you boys have some kind of evidence, we’re finished here.”

  “You’re right, Mister Thomas,” said Earl, who had stood quietly by while Alvie Ross had his say. “We’re not getting anywhere here. But I’ll tell you what. You don’t do something like this without leaving some kind of evidence behind. And I promise you, that evidence is going to tell us who killed that little girl.”

  “And if it points at him,” Alvie Ross added. “These cocksuckers can hand to God ‘til the cows come home, and your boy’s still gonna walk that last mile.”

  Earl and his deputy crossed the room. When they got to the doorway, Alvie Ross stopped and turned to Hanson. “See you in church, Deacon.”

  When the front door slammed shut, Jared turned. Eyes narrowing, he looked at his son. “Boy, I ever find out you killed those babies, I’ll put you down like a rabid dog.”

  “I told you. The bitch hit me over the head with a goddamn frying pan. When I came to, my boys were dead. That whore killed my babies and ran off to her boyfriend. I killed her. Goddamn right I killed her.”

  “Goddamn right,” Harold said.

  “Well,” Jared said. “You’d better hope those two don’t find a way to pin this shit on you.”

  “Those two?” Jason said. “Fuck ‘em.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Earl put the car into gear and pulled away from the curb, leaving Jason Thomas and his father behind him. “I don’t know, Alvie Ross,” he said. “I mean, he’s a mean-spirited prick, no doubt about it. But I can’t see a man killing his own sons.”

  “That son of a bitch. He did it, Earl. And there’s not a goddamn thing we can do about it.”

  “What I just told Jared? That ain’t no bullshit. You can’t commit a crime like that without leaving some kind of evidence behind. Something will put the finger on him or it won’t. If it does, we’ll haul his ass in and try him for murder.”

  “Yeah, well, this town only has one judge, and he and Jared Thomas grew up together. That old prick won’t find Jason guilty. He’ll throw an innocent man in jail, but he ain’t about to send his huntin’ buddy’s only son off to prison.” Alvie Ross sat back, arms crossing his chest. “We might have to put a little backwoods justice on his ass.”

  Earl slowed down to cross the railroad tracks in front of Jimmy T’s. “No,” he said. “We can’t. We won’t. We’re not lynching anybody around here. Not while I’m sheriff.”

  “The hell are we going to do then?”

  “Plenty. We get Micah Hanson and ol’ Harold off by themselves, see if they won’t change their stories. Hanson sure as hell didn’t look too happy about being there.”

  “You can forget about Harol
d Carter. He was raised up with Jason. He won’t talk.”

  “We keep after Hanson then. He might, if he’s lying.”

  “He’s lyin’.”

  “What about Elmer Hicks? Could he have done this?”

  “I don’t see it, Earl. They were lovers before Jason came into the picture, but—”

  “Look, Alvie Ross,” Earl said, as the car started across the Main Street Bridge. “Jason did pay her daddy for her hand in marriage, right?”

  Alvie Ross sighed. “Yep,” he said. “That’s a well known fact.”

  “And that could’ve been eating away at Elmer all these years. Maybe he did go off the deep end. Maybe he went to her and she rejected him. Maybe something she said sent him into a bloody rage. Maybe he did all this.”

  “I can’t see it.”

  “Yeah, and I can’t see a man murdering his own sons.”

  “So what now?”

  “We need to talk to Elmer.”

  “Now?”

  “Right now. I want to see what his state of mind is.”

  “What a day,” Alvie Ross said, shaking his head.

  “No shit.”

  Alvie Ross looked up at Pitch Place as they made their way across Seeker’s Mountain. “Goddamn bank robbery, and now this. We haven’t had a murder around here since Charlie Harmon killed Chester Parks in a barroom brawl. Hell, that was ten years ago. Busted him upside the head with a beer bottle. Ol’ Charlie killed himself up at Moundsville two years later.”