Now Vernon Ray was falling into the fantasy, becoming as self-absorbed as his father, only dimly aware that this was both the closest emotionally he’d ever get to his father and, in an odd way, the best way to get revenge for the years of neglect—he was overriding his father’s orders. He commanded three more soldiers off Mulatto Mountain, chiding them for nearly missing the action to come.
“Do you gentlemen want to live forever, or do you want to be laid out in glory with your brothers?” No good officer ever asked his men to tackle any danger or hardship he wouldn’t face himself, and Vernon Ray knew when Gen. Stoneman came thundering through the pass, he’d be standing in the dirt road himself, pistol in hand, a wide-open target. Vernon Ray could almost smell the dust, the rot of the oak leaves, the horse manure, the sulfuric tang of fresh gunpowder, the faint coal smoke of the last steam locomotive.
“Sgt. Childers, take three men and cover the west side of the mountain so they don’t dismount and follow Skin Creek into town,” he said, snapping off the palm-up salute in response to his sergeant’s salute. A few more orders and the remaining men had advanced down the slopes of the mountain and into harm’s way.
“Capt. Davis,” said Sgt. McGregor, his most trusted noncom. “If enemy troop strength matches the reconnoiters, we’re set up for a slaughter.”
Capt. Davis gave a grave nod of his head. “War is hell, Sergeant.”
“If we fall, we lose the town.”
Vernon Ray nudged the toy sergeant toward the fence line, where he would die shortly after his captain. “We don’t get to win this time. Our job is to slow them down.”
“The men are sticking with you, sir. Even the conscripts.”
“Good. That will be all, Sergeant.”
“Aye-aye,” the soldier said. He was Scottish, and such men were foolhardy and brave as long as you kept them sober. Leadership came with its own worries, and though Capt. Davis had already accepted his fate, the certainty of his followers’ deaths weighed on him, making him feel much older than his 13 years.
The ground shook with the distant rumble of a hundred hoof beats. The Room fell away, and it was 1864, October, birds taking wing as they sensed the coming calamity. The dirt roads of Titusville would be stained red before this day was done. Capt. Davis was almost ready to take up his position in the pass.
But there was one more soldier, a special volunteer, who was awaiting orders.
“Vernon Ray, you can’t sit out on the side forever,” Capt. Davis said. “You’ve got to join the dance sooner or later.”
He fondled the toy drummer boy, the one he’d touched so often that its lead was shinier and less tarnished than the other pieces. It was half the height of the other soldiers, his little kepi askew, head bent down to his instrument. The snare was cocked on his right thigh, angling the drumhead so his dull gray wrists could roll out the signals.
“I’m ready, Dad,” the drummer boy said in a small voice.
“Might get dangerous, son. Keep your head low.”
“I won’t blink an eye, no matter what. I’ll make you proud.”
“I know you will. You already make me proud.”
The drummer boy smiled at this, at least in that autumnal fantasy land, though the grim lead face stayed as set as it had been since the day it was cast. He’d drum even if he lost his sticks, even if a cannon blast took his hands. He’d beat his splintered bones against the leather head of the snare, pound until his sinews and ragged flesh fell off, he’d roll reveille until the gates of Hades opened up and the soldiers followed his cadence into the pits of Gen. Grant’s infernal prison.
Because Daddy had given him a duty.
Vernon Ray was lost in the imaginary battle, the sun filtering through the yellow-and-red forest, the wind running soft through the meadows, the creek tinkling between slick stones, the hoof beats getting louder, the whinny of horses and the clanking of harness growing louder in the narrow pass. They’d be coming around the bend any minute, horses and riders alike breathing fire, red eyes promising a swift punishment for rebellion.
And Vernon Ray found himself before the open closet, where his dad’s uniforms hung. The captain’s crisp wool uniform with its braids and epaulets, the coarse tow-linen shirts for period civilization reenactments, the white cotton blouses, the regular gray buck private’s outfit with its frayed cuffs and bullet holes. At the end of the row was the one that would soon be too small for Vernon Ray, the drummer boy’s suit with its bone buttons and knickers. As he had many times before, he touched the scratchy fabric of its sleeve.
“I’ll make you proud,” he whispered, and it was neither the captain’s nor the toy soldier’s voice, but his own.
He slipped out of his Incredible Hulk T-shirt, the cool air of the room sharpening his nipples to tiny purple points. He kicked off his bedroom slippers and shucked down his pants. The underwear would have to go, because though the briefs were cotton, the waistband was a synthetic blend covering rubberized elastic, neither of which was extant during the War.
With trembling fingers, he wrested the uniform from its hanger. It smelled of campfire smoke and cobwebs. He slid his one bare arm into the woolen sleeve, enjoying the delicious scraping inflicted by the fabric. It was a little tight in the shoulders, but he shrugged into it until it rested comfortably. He was aware of his runaway heartbeat—
ratta-tat-tat
—as he buttoned up the front of the coat. Next he stepped into the matching knickers, sliding them up until the cloth tickled his penis. All the leather boots were adult size, and most rural children in those days wore no shoes anyway. He took the small kepi from its place on the rack, where it was tucked between a grandiose French cavalry hat and a felt fedora. He perched the slanted Rebel cap on his head, the brim tipped low just the way the toy soldier wore it.
Vernon Ray stood at attention for a moment, as if undergoing the captain’s inspection. Then he gave the Confederate Army salute and opened the cedar cupboard.
The snare drum was on the middle shelf, the largest object in the collection. The horsehide head was girded in place by a steel band, which itself was attached to the wooden shell by neat rows of brass tacks. A series of pig-gut strings held the head tight and could be adjusted to change the tone of the snare. A bridge of woven steel ran just beneath the head, designed to give off the signature rattling sound as the drumhead vibrated.
He lifted the drum carefully by its canvas strap, slinging the strap around his neck and almost knocking off his cap in the process. The drum’s weight felt comforting against his abdomen. He collected the hand-carved drumsticks and gave them an experimental twirl. He had his own drumsticks, rubber-tipped ones bought in the music store at the mall, but these had an entirely different balance and feel.
Like the bones of war.
“I’m ready, Dad,” Vernon Ray whispered.
He turned toward the table and the mock battle. Capt. Jeff Davis would die this day, but he would die proud.
Vernon Ray turned his left wrist up and rested the tip of the stick against the snare head. He clenched the stick in his right hand and raised it several inches above the horsehide.
“Awaiting orders, sir,” he said.
Do it, Earley.
Tears welled in his eyes, but soldiers didn’t cry, only scared little boys. He wanted to blink, but he promised his dad he wouldn’t. A freshet of salt water threaded down his left cheek and he licked it when it reached his lips.
Stoneman’s unit was closer now, the horses hammering out their own cadence, static in the air as if the sky were holding its breath.
Vernon Ray drove the right stick solidly against the drum, following with a snap of the left, then again with each stick, letting the pattern roll into a flourish. He would sound the advance, encourage the troops against long odds, stand firm in his duty amid the cries of agony and rage and panic.
He slapped out the cadence—
ratta-tat-tat
—the drumsticks blurring, the air moving with
the action of his hands, the beat echoing off the cheap paneling, punctuating the bravery of those who repelled the invaders who sought to destroy the homes and hearths the Home Guard stood united to defend. The tears flowed freely, cooling on his face, but he was smiling.
The toy soldiers on the table didn’t hold their positions, though. They retreated, their stiff lead bases vibrating back away from the road and into the cover of the forest, winding up the slopes of Mulatto Mountain. Vernon Ray pounded harder, certain that if he stayed strong in the face of flying steel, the men would rally and return to their posts. But the soldiers turned tail in the face of Stoneman’s superior force, or their fear of looming death, or their lack of faith in the Confederacy. They scrambled madly up Mulatto Mountain, scaling the papier-mâché until they huddled around the Jangling Hole, seeking entrance among the mouse-gray boulders.
They would hide today in the Hole and live through Stoneman’s Raid, but their end would come soon enough.
The important thing was for Vernon Ray to hold his line, drum until the Grim Reaper harvested with his steel blade, stand tall, make his dad proud—
The Room exploded with the bright fury of a cannonade, and Vernon Ray blinked.
His dad stood in the doorway, hand on the light switch. “And just who do you think you are, you sorry little sack of civilian shit?”
CHAPTER NINE
“Look at this long list of environmental violations,” Cindy Baumhower said, spreading the sheaf of papers on Littlefield’s desk.
The sheriff sat back in his chair, the hinges squeaking and driving rusty nails into his skull. He rubbed his crew cut, hoping the headache would magically rise into the ceiling. Cindy Baumhower was normally more of a thorn in the side than nails in the palms, but tonight her crusading-journalist bit was merely annoying. If The Titusville Times wasn’t such a convenient mouthpiece when he wanted to crack down on any type of public nuisance, he would show her the door and lock it behind her.
But besides her drooling desire for a Pulitzer, or at least a few state press association awards, Cindy wasn’t so bad. At least she had ethics and when he gave her information off the record, it stayed off the record. In a small town, gossip could mean the difference between reelection and unemployment.
“You know that’s not my jurisdiction,” Littlefield said. “That’s the state’s problem.”
“Christ, Frank, the Department of Environment and Natural Resources is just a rubber stamp for developers and industrialists. The lobbyists in Raleigh are practically blowing the governor. And who wants teeth when you’re getting a good hummer?”
“You forget, Bill Willard is a Republican and the Democrats have had a hammerlock on the capitol since Reagan.”
“This is about rich and richer, not right and left.”
Cindy jutted out her chest, but Littlefield forced himself not to look at it. She wasn’t much younger than Littlefield, but her freckles and sun-bleached hair, along with her ardor, gave the impression of a college co-ed. Her blue eyes were radiant and piercing, and Littlefield knew better than to meet them for too long at any one stretch. She reminded him of Sheila Story, and that hurt way too much.
“I’m sorry, Cindy,” he said, regretting that he’d let their relationship get on a first-name basis. As always, that made lying a lot more difficult.
Cindy swept up the papers and shoveled them into her hemp tote bag, which bore a pot leaf and the slogan “Legalize It.” She claimed not to smoke the stuff herself, and Littlefield was inclined to believe her. He’d arrested more than one bong-huffing member of the Hemp Liberation Movement, but all things considered he’d much rather have ganja gangstas in his holding cells than meth junkies or dry drunks. Stoners tended to stay mellow and never complained about the food.
“Okay,” Cindy said. “What about financial wrongdoing?”
The sheriff kicked his boots up on his desk and crossed his legs. “Depends. If it’s interstate, it’s federal, and these days practically every white-collar crime involves the Internet in some way.”
Cindy snorted in derision. “So I should check with your fraud division?”
Littlefield’s staff consisted of 12 officers, and between four and eight were on duty during any given shift. With J.R. looking like he’d be on a long leave of absence, there would be a gap in regular patrols, and drug investigations would have to be scaled back. While drug busts made for good photo ops, people generally were more concerned about their houses being broken into, the old “Hitting close to home” theory of law protection. No way could the department afford an extra shift or two devoted to Cindy’s latest vendetta against Budget Bill, even if there had been some decent evidence.
“Bill Willard’s never been accused of anything shady,” Littlefield said. “Truth is, I think you don’t like him just because his photographs have gotten more recognition than yours.”
Like many small-town reporters, Cindy took her own photographs, and though she clearly had an eye for composition, Willard’s equipment was thousands of dollars finer than what the Times could provide. “That’s not fair, Sheriff.”
The only thing worse than being on a first-name basis was when she shifted into that cold, professional demeanor. He tensed a little as she came around the desk, thinking he’d rather be anywhere else at the moment, even at The Jangling Hole after sundown.
“Are you in Budget Bill’s pocket, too?” she asked, standing over him, hands on her hips.
“Why in the world would you say a thing like that?”
“You sure buried my sexual assault charge.”
“Hell, Cindy, your own paper was afraid to run that incident report. There was just not enough evidence to make an arrest, much less get an indictment from the Grand Jury. He would have sued you and half the county.”
“Well, I hope one day he squeezes your tit and see how you like it.”
Littlefield let his gaze flick to her chest. Not that he had to do much letting. His eyes seemed to take off of their own free will, like other parts of him did whenever crazy women infected him with sweet madness. “Budget Bill’s an upstanding citizen,” Littlefield said. “He’s got a right to develop Mulatto Mountain. Maybe people like you think it’s immoral—”
“People like me? And just what kind of people is that, Sheriff?”
The sheriff took his feet off the desk and sat forward, but she didn’t back away as he’d expected. She was less than a foot from him, much too close for a professional relationship or to respect personal space.
The sheriff swallowed hard. “All I’m saying is he follows the law, and I follow the law. Check with the planning department. He has all his permits and he even took out a bond for the road.”
“Can’t you block the site in the interest of public safety?”
“What are you getting at?”
Cindy twisted her lips and sighed out one corner of her mouth, spreading fine tendrils of her hair. Maybe she knew how fetching the mannerism was and used it to keep him off guard. But the sheriff got the impression she wasn’t as calculating as some women he’d known. She genuinely seemed not to notice the effect her simmering, subtle sex appeal had on men.
Or maybe Littlefield was just an old pervert. He’d been called worse.
“I monitor the scanner, remember?” Cindy said. “Crime beat? So how’s Officer Perriotte?”
“Fine. He’s under observation. But I guess you knew that already.”
Her smile would have made the Grinch proud. “Privacy laws kept the hospital from giving out his condition,” she said. “But I have my sources.”
Bat your goddamned eyelashes and you could win over Marcus Welby, House, and Dr. Doolittle. “No visible injuries.”
“Just some head trauma. On the inside.”
“That’s undetermined at this point. Could be stress, epilepsy, hell, even low blood sugar.”
“Three shots fired.”
“That’s undetermined, too.”
“Doesn’t that trigger an internal in
vestigation? I’m assuming your officer was the one who fired the shots, since Sandy in records said no incident report had been filed.”
Littlefield had not yet got around to filing an incident report simply because he wasn’t sure which lie to put on it. He’d been hoping to avoid it altogether, even though Hardy Eggers, Mr. Ayinari the Pakistani store owner, and Willard all knew the police had been on the property responding to a complaint. And those three boys . . . .
He stood, towering a foot over Cindy, and she backed up half a step. “I’m looking into it,” Littlefield said through tight lips.
“You looking into the Jangling Hole while you’re at it?”
Littlefield forced a laugh that sounded like he was choking on a biscuit. “Not you, too, Cindy. Why don’t you save that one for your Halloween feature? You know, where you crank out some cheesy local ghost story and pretend it’s in the interest of serious paranormal research.”
Her blue eyes sparked ice and then fire. “I do my job and you do yours.”
“That’s all I want.”
“Just like you did in Whispering Pines in 2002,” she said.
The sheriff’s lips worked like a trout trying to learn French.
“I did some checking,” she said. “You covered that one up pretty good, but I found a few people willing to go off the record. So is Archer McFall still considered a missing person?”
“That case is cold,” he said, though in his heart it was as closed as a coffin lid on a rotten corpse. Not that McFall had been considerate enough to actually leave a body. Well, he’d left behind several bodies, but not his own, though Littlefield believed he didn’t really own one, just borrowed them from time to time.
“You have a lot of holes, Sheriff. In your stories, and in your soul.”
Scott Nicholson Library Vol 2 Page 61
