“I was talking to her in the kitchen. I remember the telephone ringing. That’s all I remember.”
“Reverend,” Earl said, glancing into the rearview mirror at the ashen-faced minister. “Do you have any idea how that sounds?”
“Yes, Sheriff, I’m afraid I do.”
Earl left Carlton Stone alone with his thoughts, and made his way down State Road 21, past the cut off to Butcher’s Holler and the side road that led to Jimmy Mitchell’s misappropriated property. Approaching the bridge, he noticed a crowd of people gathered near the spot Jonas Campbell had been fishing from the day Earl had followed the bank robbers up Seeker’s Mountain.
Earl pulled up behind the crowd, and got out of the car to find Henry Walker Jr. charging up to him, talking excitedly, “Sheriff! Sheriff! Marty Donlan done drove off the riverbank! Daddy and me was right behind him! He didn’t slow down or nothin’, just drove straight over the edge!”
Forcing his way through the crowd, Earl followed the tracks Marty Donlan’s car had made when it left the road. Thirty feet straight down, the old Ford had plummeted, finally landing nose first on the river’s bank, where it now looked like an old tin can somebody had stomped on. Laid out beside the twisted hunk of metal were Marty and his wife, Shelva; Marty Jr., and his sister. None of them were moving.
Earl raced back to the patrol car, opened the back door and knelt beside Carlton Stone. “Reverend,” he said. “We’ve got a tragic situation down there. Marty Donlan and his family drove off the embankment. They may all be dead or dying. Will you come with me and see what comfort you can give ‘em?”
Something sparked behind the minister’s eyes, as he said, “Of course I will.”
They found Henry Walker Sr., Bernie Reeves and Harvey Lain at the river’s edge.
Dear God, Earl thought as he stared down at the Donlan family. They looked dead, all of them. Marty Jr. and Wanda’s broken and mangled bodies lay crushed against the riverbank. Shelva looked like she had been through a meat grinder, her face a shredded mess of raw-red meat, muscle and tendons and ripped up flaps of skin hanging off her torso, exposing sharp-angled edges of cartilage and broken bones.
“Is anybody still alive?” Earl asked Henry Walker.
“Marty barely is,” the tough as nails mechanic answered, tears running uncontrollably down his face. And as Reverend Stone knelt beside the dying man, Henry Walker Sr. repeated what his son had told Earl, “We were right behind him, Earl. He jerked the wheel and drove straight off there like he meant to do it.”
While the reverend prayed, Earl got down on his knees and spoke to Donlan:
“Why’d you drive your family off there, Marty?”
Marty Donlan’s body was as damaged as his car. It was a miracle he was still alive. His legs, twisted and crushed, weren’t moving. A jagged rib bone could be seen within a wide ragged hole that had been ripped into his side. Dark red blood hemorrhaged from his ears, his eyes and his nose, washing over his face and neck; plenty of it still leaking from a wide, scraping gash across his forehead—so deep, Earl could see an inch-wide crack in his skull, and the ungodly mess that resided there.
Marty, coughing up a mouthful of blood, grabbed Earl’s arm and pulled him close. “I don’t know what happened,” he said, and then hacked up some more blood.
He groaned. Gasping and grimacing, he said, “One minute we were driving back to town, then all of a sudden we were flying through the air. It was like it wasn’t real…like it was a dream.”
Marty Donlan coughed up a thick clot of dark red blood.
His body bucked and his chest heaved; his mouth opened and closed.
Then his eyes closed, and he lay perfectly still.
Chapter Forty-Seven
“It’s true, then,” Alvie Ross said, when he walked into the police station to find Carlton Stone sitting in a cell. “What in God’s green earth have you done, Carlton?”
Carlton Stone, staring at the wall as if no one else was around, said nothing.
“Jesus, Earl. How long’s he been like that?”
“Since about two o’clock.”
“He’s been starin’ at that wall for two hours?”
“Yep.”
“Shit.” Alvie Ross walked over and took a seat across the desk from Earl. “Why’d he do it?”
“Says he doesn’t know. According to him he doesn’t even remember doing it. Told me he was talking to her in the kitchen and heard the phone ringing. Next thing he knew, Katie Lynn was lying on the kitchen floor with her head blown open. Said it was like he dreamed he’d done it, and then woke up and found out it wasn’t a dream.”
“What kinda shit is that?”
“Damned if I know.”
“Aw, hell. Look at this,” Alvie Ross said, nodding at the front window, at Teddy Levay and Judge Croft, who had just gotten out of Levay’s car and were hurrying onto the sidewalk.
The door opened and Levay and Croft entered the room. The four men exchanged greetings, and Croft said, “We just heard about Marty and his family. The hell happened out there?”
“Nobody seems to know, Judge,” Earl told him.
Croft’s eyes narrowed. Hands resting on his hips, he said, “What do you mean, nobody seems to know? Was it some kind of freak accident?”
“What I mean is, Marty drove his family straight off the deep end of the Main Street Bridge. He didn’t swerve; he didn’t lose control of his car.”
“Well then,” Croft said. “You do know. The crazy son of a bitch did it on purpose.”
“Maybe that mayoral aspiring cocksucker over there told him to do it,” Levay said, nodding at Carlton Stone. “Everybody knows Donlan’s his fuck-puppet. Maybe he stuck his hand up his ass and said, Hey! I know! Let’s kill our own fucking families!”
“For Christ’s sake, Teddy,” Alvie Ross said.
“I know. I’m just so upset about this whole situation… do you realize how many people have died in the last three days? Hell, at the rate we’re going, there won’t be nobody left to vote come election time.”
Alvie Ross stood up, glaring at Levay. “You think that’s funny? You—”
“Enough of that shit,” Croft said. “How’d you guys do over at Butcher’s Holler?”
“We didn’t find him, Judge,” Alvie Ross said, still looking at the mayor. “Luke’s pretty much convinced himself Jerry’s at the bottom of some old mine shaft. We checked some out, but there’s so many it’d take us a month of Sundays to go through ‘em all.”
“How about Bobby Jackson?”
“Huh uh,” Earl said. “Ezra stopped dragging the river after Marty… uh… did what he did.”
“Well,” Croft said. “Maybe Jared’s men’ll find him on the mountainside. You know how these kids get to exploring up there. Let’s just hope he’s still alive.”
Levay stepped forward. “Earl,” he said. “Do you know who William Pitch is?”
“Other than him being the man who owns that big house on the mountain? No, not really.”
“William Pitch is one of the wealthiest men in the country. He’s kind of a benefactor to the town. A Dutch uncle, you might say.”
“Hell, he owns half the fucking town,” Croft said. “People around here owe that old boy a huge debt. We’d be nothing more than a washed out mud hole without him. You know he’s talking about bringing a Coca Cola plant in next year, building a hospital?”
“You don’t say,” Alvie Ross said.
“Yes,” Croft said. “I do say.”
“Anyway,” the mayor continued. “He’s just got back to town, and when he found out we had a new sheriff, he asked Judge Croft and I to invite you and Vonda out to his place for dinner. He’d like it very much if you’d be his guests tonight.”
“He’s very impressed with how you handled yourself with those bank robbers,” Croft said. “And we’re proud too, Earl. That was a very heroic thing you did.”
“Well, gee,” Earl said. “I’d have to see what Vonda thinks about it.”<
br />
“We’ve already talked to her, and she’s delighted.”
Earl looked up at his deputy. “Alvie Ross?”
“I don’t see why not. It’s gonna be dark soon, and I don’t see much happening around here… unless somebody murders somebody else.”
Croft, chuckling, drifted off to the cells.
“Good. It’s settled then. We’ll pick you up between seven and eight,” Levay said. Then he wandered off to join the judge, who was standing directly in front of Carlton Stone.
“Look at that cocksucker,” Teddy Levay said. “And him preaching at us from his goddamn high horse like he did.”
“Teddy!” Alvie Ross called out.
“Looks like you’ll be joining your pal up at Moundsville, after all,” Croft taunted. “Tell Jimmy I said hi.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake!”
Chapter Forty-Eight
Earl arrived home at six o’clock to find a big bundle of nervous energy waiting for him: Vonda, prowling around the house, rushing here and rushing there, rattling on about this and that without making any kind of sense at all.
She wanted to go.
She didn’t want to go.
She looked in the mirror and frowned.
“We don’t have to go,” Earl said.
“Are you crazy? Of course we do. We’ve already said we would. How do I look? Is the dress too plain, the makeup too much?”
“You kidding? You look fantastic!”
And she did. A navy-blue velvet dress with metallic gold trim on the neckline. A matching gold belt adorning her slender, hourglass figure. Her blue eyes sparkling, her makeup meticulously applied. Not a single strand of her straight blonde hair out of place. She looked absolutely radiant. And those were the first words out of Teddy Levay’s mouth when eight o’clock rolled around and he and Judge Croft walked through the front door.
“See?” Earl said. “I told you.”
“What?” Teddy asked him. “Told her what?”
“Aw, nothing. She’s just a little nervous.”
“Now, now, nothing to be worried about.” Croft winked at Vonda. “Just a gathering of old friends.”
“Oh, she’s just excited,” Levay said, then, “Well? All set? Ready to go?”
Vonda joined her husband by the fireplace, straightening his tie and smoothing the lapels on the tweed jacket she had laid out for him.
“Mm,” she said. “You look good.” She patted his side and felt the bulge from his service revolver, and asked him what in the world he was doing with that.
“What?” Levay said.
“This,” Vonda said, then, pulling back his jacket, “You are not taking a gun to a social gathering.”
“Vonda, I’m—”
“No,” she said. “I won’t have it.”
“Oh, leave him alone,” Croft said, smiling. “He’s the sheriff, for chrissakes. What’s he gonna do if he gets called away on an emergency? Or, as Alvie Ross so eloquently put it: What if somebody murders somebody else?”
“Oh… All right,” Vonda said. “But I don’t like it.”
* * *
Earl was surprised to see all the cars parked along the circular drive of Pitch Place, awed by just how stunningly massive the three story, white-columned house actually was. Judge Croft and the mayor, leading their guests onto the huge porch, stood for a moment, ringing the doorbell until a nervous-looking young man swung the door open.
“How are ya?” he said, in a thick New York accent, and then led the four guests down a long hallway to the library, where many of the town’s most prominent citizens were sitting around drinking and smoking and discussing the news of the day. There was Doc Fletcher and Sid Haines, the Abbot Twins and Robert Clark. Frannie Mitchell sat on the couch next to Evie Miller, whispering in her ear, and… Arleta Briscomb? The hell was she and her crazy son doing here? She wore the same dark shawl and gray cotton dress she’d had on at her place. The dress soiled and wrinkled. Earl wondered if she ever took it off. She scowled at him as he passed by her.
“This way, fellas,” Hastie said, nodding at the bar on the far side of the room.
On their way across the floor, bits and pieces of idle chat caught Earl’s attention:
“I heard he drove off the road on purpose… My God, did you see that car… Ezra said there wasn’t much left of her… and she was such a pretty woman… Why in the hell would a preacher shoot his own wife?”
“Maybe she caught him fuckin’ a cow,” Arleta cackled, drawing laughter from the Abbot twins, and a gap-toothed grin from her red-faced son.
Teddy Levay stepped behind the bar, and Hastie made his way back to the door, closing it behind him as he exited the room.
“Vonda? Earl?” Levay said. “Name yer poison.”
“Gin and tonic for me.”
“Make ‘em strong,” Vonda said.
Levay, grabbing a handful of ice, said, “Strong it is.”
Drink in hand, Vonda allowed Judge Croft to lead her across the room, where he introduced her to Frannie Mitchell.
“Vonda,” Frannie said. “I am so glad to finally be able to sit and talk with you.” She took the much younger woman by the hand and patted the plump leather cushion beside her, and Vonda took a seat between her and Evie Miller.
“Well, Sheriff,” Sid Haines called out from across the room. “Can you tell us why the preacher killed his wife? We’re all dying to know.”
“No, Mr. Haines. I’m afraid the reverend hasn’t come forth with a rational explanation.”
“Is there anything we can do?” Doc Fletcher said, as he sidled up next to Earl. “Maybe if I stopped by to see him.”
“To be honest, Doc, the reverend seems to have lost his mind.”
Fletcher stepped up to the bar and whispered something to Teddy Levay.
Across the room, the door opened, and in walked William Pitch, wearing a tailored black suit and a pale blue shirt. A black, western-style string-tie looped through a solid silver medallion dangled from his neck, the gold-encrusted P in the medallion’s center drawing the attention of Earl, who thought he looked more like a preacher than a celebrated captain of industry.
All eyes followed Pitch as he crossed the room, smiling, moving slowly, calling out greetings as he made his way to the bar.
“Earl,” Teddy Levay said, when the town’s benefactor reached them. “This is William Pitch.”
“Well, good evening, Sheriff,” Pitch said, smiling and offering his hand. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you,”
“Yes, sir, nice to meet you.” Earl, surprised at how cold Pitch’s hand felt, was impressed by the man. His suit, which had to have cost more than Earl made in several months; his fine house, worth more than he could make in several lifetimes. All the wealth, the power and position he had accumulated, and he couldn’t have been more than four or five years older than Earl himself.
What must it be like, Earl wondered, to have so much?
“Doc, you old son of a bitch, how are you?” Pitch said, laughing, playfully slapping Fletcher’s back as he nodded at Mayor Levay, Judge Croft and Sid Haines, who had walked over to join the conversation. “Good to see you boys again.”
“We’re all delighted to have you back,” Fletcher said, then, “How about a shot of tequila?”
“I’d love some. How about you, Sheriff? You ready for another gin and tonic?”
“Sure, why not?” Earl said, and then frowned.
“Something wrong, Sheriff?”
“Just wondering how you knew what I was drinking.”
Pitch gave Earl a warm and friendly smile, and looked deep into his eyes. “Oh, I make it a point to know everything about my people, Big Earl.”
Earl glanced over his shoulder at Vonda, sitting between Evie Miller and Frannie Mitchell, laughing and giggling. At the edge of his vision, he noticed Pitch winking at them. Pitch, who strolled across the room to the couch, leaned over and put a hand on Vonda’s bare shoulder, smiling as he whispered something
into her ear.
Earl took a step toward his wife, and Doc Fletcher grabbed him by the arm.
“Here you go, Earl,” he said, and handed him another drink. “Earl here was just telling us about poor old Reverend Stone, Mr. Pitch.”
“Yes, a terrible tragedy, just terrible,” Pitch said on his way back to the bar, where, upon receiving a shot glass and a slice of lime from Croft, he bit into the lime wedge, and threw a shot of tequila down his throat. “Hell, Judge, get that bottle for me, will you?”
“Right away, Mr. Pitch,” Croft said, scrambling behind the bar and grabbing a bottle of Jose Cuervo, which he sat on the polished oak countertop. Then he picked up an ornate silver bowl filled with slices of lime and placed it there as well.
When Earl sat his half empty drink on the bar, Pitch asked him about Marty Donlan and his family. “Why’d he do it, Sheriff?”
“I don’t know. He died before he could tell us.”
“And the reverend? Why in the world would a reverend murder his wife?”
“It doesn’t make any sense that he would.”
Pitch, smiling, grabbed the tequila and bit into another lime wedge, turned up the bottle and guzzled a mouthful. “It’s like a goddamn nightmare, isn’t it? All the shit that’s been happening around here lately, bank robbers, murders and missing children. Like a bad dream you can’t wake up from.”
Sid Haines laughed and put a hand on Earl’s shoulder. “Pretty goddamn fucked-up, is what it is.”
“Have a shot with me, Sheriff.”
“I don’t think so.”
Pitch looked Earl in the eye. “C’mon,” he said. “What are ya, some kinda pussy?”
Earl stared back, barely able to keep from telling the rich prick to go fuck himself—and for the first time, noticed his eyes, which seemed to be glowing, and they were deep, like two gentle pools of swirling water, a relaxing flow that seemed to tug at Earl’s subconscious. For a brief moment or two, he found that he couldn’t turn away from them… then he didn’t want to turn away.
Lord of the Mountain Page 25
