Haywood put his hat back on, stood, and headed out to the parking lot, preferring to keep his own company rather than that of a dead man.
twelve
HAYWOOD WATCHED THE PARAMEDICS load up Old Man Jackson into the back of the ambulance. It had been an hour since he and his men had discovered the body, but it took that long for the county sheriff to arrive. Haywood made no mention of Michael to the officer. For all intents and purposes, it was a scene of an old man simply giving up the ghost at his appointed time. The sheriff left the parking lot behind the ambulance as escort down to South Falls.
Haywood stood alone again.
The fact that it took so long for authorities to arrive was one of the graces that Haywood found in Coldwater. It was a village where a person could be left alone, unhindered by overruling bureaucracy and authority. A man could burn a brush pile in his yard without getting ticketed, check out the max horsepower of his car on a back road, howl at the moon at night if that was his pleasure, and not worry about a policeman showing up at his door. The joke was, you could get a pizza delivered before police would respond to a 911 call, and that was how most residents preferred it. Sure, there were always issues between neighbors, but disagreements were settled over a beer at Gilly’s.
Haywood was seen by most people as the mediator of the town. He had spent most of his life here, except for the four years he was downstate at the university. His family had money the same mysterious way that rich people in small towns seem to have it. When he came back to Coldwater, he took over his father’s machine shop. His ability to manage a business, coupled with the fact that he was boss to several of the townsfolks, lent to him the air of an arbiter.
He was not the law in the village, some backwoods Boss Hogg looking to strip-mine Coldwater, but he saw it as his obligation to keep the peace where he could. His neighbors often followed his lead and direction, assuming he knew best.
Now, standing outside of Jackson’s, looking down the road that was edged by the creeping forest, he grew small inside. Michael was out there, lurking or running, he did not know. His decision the night before had begun to haunt him. Standing in those same woods, the men laying Michael in the pine box, the dirt shoveled into the grave by the glow of a half-dozen flashlights. He could feel it creeping in . . . slowly at first, tickling its way through his stomach into his throat. Guilt. The guilt of burying a man alive.
They had been too decent to shoot Michael. The suggestion was circulated several times, but no one came forward offering to pull the trigger. Perhaps Haywood should have done it. Perhaps, as unspoken leader of Coldwater, he should have taken up the call and executed Michael. Been done with it. But no, he knew—deep down inside, he knew—that he was not capable of doing it. He could not shoot a man in cold blood. So the men decided to leave Michael to fate, and now fate had released him back into the world.
Haywood could feel the forest eyeing him like a jury of angry trees.
He felt exposed in the parking lot, so he collected himself and got into his truck to await his men’s return.
Guilt was a horrible thing to bear, but fear was just as bad. Before last night, he and his neighbors suffered the latter. Now they had to shoulder both.
thirteen
KYLE WATCHED AS JAMES got out of the truck and walked inside his trailer. His own thoughts came to keep him company.
How did it get to this point?
He wasn’t a policeman, a vigilante, a hired thug. He was just Kyle, nothing more and nothing less.
Kyle’s whole life had been spent in the area of Coldwater. He had never thought of leaving, and no one in the town ever gave the idea of him leaving much consideration either. Kyle was the epitome of a Coldwater native: born, raised, and more than likely going to die within the village limit, the wider world none the wiser that he had ever graced it with his presence.
He was several years younger than Michael, had heard the stories of him through his years in school, but never knew him. Michael was a myth and a boogeyman, a tale spun up from truth and folklore. When Michael had moved back to Coldwater, Kyle had responded like the rest of the town, with a morbid curiosity and the firm resolve to keep his distance.
Now here he was waiting in his truck while James grabbed his guns to go in search of the guy.
Why had he left his house last night? Why had he gone with everyone out into the woods and buried Michael in the ground?
The guilt of the deed mixed with Kyle’s own self-awareness that he was a sucker when it came to James and Haywood telling him what to do. When Haywood had hatched his plan, James was gung ho to execute it as quickly as possible. Kyle knew he didn’t stand a chance of persuading them to leave Michael alone. He also knew that he didn’t stand a chance of not getting sucked up into the mess either. He was part of the group, even though he always felt like a weaker member.
And Frank and Earl were in on it, so that had helped his conscience at the time.
But now, sitting alone in the truck with his thoughts, the enormity of what he had participated in came crashing in and crushing his mind like molten lead. His fingers ached, and he realized he was clutching the steering wheel so tight, his hands had turned to vices. His palms sweating against the vinyl.
He hadn’t been able to sleep last night, not after he got home. All that ran through his head was the thought of a live body trapped under earth, of his complicity in the act. That sooner or later someone would pick him up on the street and put him behind bars for the rest of his life.
He was no killer, he was no judge. What business had he had out there in the woods?
When James had arrived at his house last night and told him to get in the truck, he did so. He always did. But most of the time it was to go check bait piles, run up to Gilly’s for a beer, or head to the city for some car parts. He hadn’t thought at all about climbing in. But when they arrived at Gilly’s and he realized that this was the night Haywood was going to set it all in motion, he had said nothing. When he heard Haywood talk about the danger the town was facing due to Michael, he had said nothing. When he watched from the back room as Michael took his poisoned drink and slumped to the floor of the bar, he had said nothing.
The only thing he could tell himself to soothe his soul was that at least he didn’t join in with James and the others in roughing up the limp body of their victim. His hands were at least clean in that regard.
But when that pine box was lowered into the ground and the dirt began to pile up, he had kept his mouth shut.
Now he wanted to scream.
He wanted to go back to that very moment when he had heard James honking the horn and he got off his couch. That mindless moment, that moment of action that was spurred by no conscious thought. That would always be the moment in time that all others would now be defined against.
James came out of his trailer, a rifle in each hand and a backpack full of random supplies. He placed them in the bed of the truck and opened the driver’s door.
“Move over,” James said.
“What?”
“I’m driving.”
Kyle scooted over to the passenger side of the bench and put his seatbelt on. He said nothing.
They pulled out and headed north.
“What’s spooking you?” James asked.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? You look like you’re going to puke or something.”
“I’m fine.”
“Whatever.”
Kyle could see the glint of bloodlust in James’s eyes. He had seen it before, back in high school days before a football game, or before James would fight someone outside of Gilly’s, which happened more often than it should have. He had that look now as he pressed the pedal down. But for Kyle, his mind was not on the road ahead.
He was thinking of that one moment.
If he had just stayed on the couch, he could have gone on living in blind ignorance, forever content to be a nobody in a no-name town till the end of his days.
How
many more bookmarks in time were in store for him in the hours ahead?
fourteen
BACK AT JACKSON’S STORE, all the men congregated again in the parking lot, except for Murphy, who had taken Clyde home to sleep on the couch, content to let younger men chase the wicked. Haywood watched as they had all arrived, like a general surveying his makeshift army.
The six stood together in a semicircle facing their leader, except for Davis, who leaned against the building and inserted another cigarette between his lips.
“Alright. Michael has to be heading north,” Haywood said. “Most likely he will follow the river up and stay off the roads. Now, I need a couple of you to head over to the Post Road Bridge and keep a lookout for him. Keep in touch by text and let us know if you see anything.”
Haywood held his tongue for a moment as he thought about the situation they were in. The guys allowed him time to reflect.
“Stay up on the bridge. You should be covered pretty well from up top. There’s a chance he is armed now.”
“Yeah, Old Man Jackson had an old shotgun in the back room,” Kyle said, “probably the first ever made.”
“That thing still work?” Earl asked.
“Who knows? But the gun is gone,” Haywood said. “We have to assume that Michael has it. Staying up on the bridge should give you the ability to spot him but keep you safe from any potshots he might take.”
“I don’t much like the idea of sitting up high if he is armed,” Clinton said, his deep voice punctuating the conversation like a bass drum.
“Safer than being down in the woods with him,” Earl said.
The men all nodded in agreement, Davis stood back, enjoying his smoke, apparently content to do whatever they all decided.
“You really think he’d start shooting at us? You know, if he had Jackson’s gun?” Kyle asked.
“Wouldn’t you?” Clinton boomed. “I know I would.”
“I’d shoot you first, Kyle,” James said.
“Ain’t funny,” Kyle said.
“Take it easy, guys,” Haywood said. “More than likely, he’s going to lay low and just try and get away. Either follow the river or head up to the north woods. He’s not going back to Coldwater. That would be a stupid move. And he’s probably not going to double back to Springer’s Grove. That leaves those two options.”
“Makes sense,” Clinton said. “I’ll take the bridge.”
“Us too,” Frank said.
Clinton and Davis, then Frank and Earl loaded up into their trucks and kicked up a rooster tail of rocks as they pulled out of the parking lot.
Haywood turned to James. “Now, the bridge is upriver about five miles. No way he’s made it that far yet. I want you to go up to Countyline Road and drive back and forth between here and the bridge. Keep a watch for him, and let the people up there know we are looking for someone.”
“What do we tell them?” James asked.
Haywood thought about it. He couldn’t send James and Kyle door to door asking, Would you mind keeping a lookout for this guy that we buried in the woods last night? It seems he got out . . . probably pretty mad about it. “Just tell them that we got word from the authorities in South Falls that an inmate broke out of jail, and they are asking for people to be alert. Just say you are doing a public service.”
James nodded. He turned and walked to Kyle’s truck and resumed his spot in the usurped driver’s seat. Kyle stood as if balancing between two worlds.
“Something on your mind?” Haywood asked.
“No,” Kyle said.
“You sure? You look like you’re about ready to explode.”
Kyle wavered but said nothing. He kept looking between Haywood and James.
“Kyle! Get in the truck,” James yelled over the engine noise.
Kyle’s shoulders dropped as he walked to the truck and took his place in the passenger seat. Haywood watched as the vehicle disappeared north into the forest.
With each passing moment the sense of impending doom clouded over him. They had to find Michael before he ranged out of their orbit. If Haywood had just manned up the night before, had taken decisive action, put a bullet in Michael’s head, and buried him, then this odyssey would have been over and done with. Now, the longer he was on the loose, the harder it would be to keep this group focused.
Clinton and Davis were solid. Frank and Earl, not so much. James would keep Kyle in line, but this could not go on too much longer. He needed to end it. And as he stood in Old Man Jackson’s vacant parking lot, Haywood knew that it was on his shoulders alone to bring everything to a conclusion. It would be up to him to kill Michael. He couldn’t bring himself to do it last night, but he was growing more and more confident that he could do it the next chance he got.
fifteen
TWO TRUCKS IDLED ON OPPOSITE ENDS of Post Road Bridge. Clinton stood next to the open door of his truck, rifle leaned up against the cement wall of the bridge, looking down on the Coldwater River. Davis sat on the bumper, smoke from his cigarette drifting over the railing, floating southwest in the air, mimicking the current in the water below.
“You really think he killed Old Man Jackson?” Davis asked, his breath held with a deep toke.
“Hard to say. For all we know, Jackson died five years ago and nobody could tell the difference,” Clinton said.
Davis grunted half-heartedly. “I’ll give you that. But even so, I don’t think he did. I know I wouldn’t have killed the old man. If I was trying to hide, I wouldn’t leave a body out for show. I would have at least put it where no one could find it.”
“Unless you forgot”—Clinton’s deep voice was slow and steady as he scanned the riverbank for movement—“we’re not exactly experts at hiding bodies. Maybe Michael isn’t either.”
Earl paced back and forth in front of Frank’s truck on the south end of the bridge. His eyes darting from tree to tree on the embankment below. With every sound he would flinch a little, expecting a shotgun blast to come racing up at him.
“You need to calm down a little bit, you’re going to give yourself a heart attack,” Frank said. He was half seated in the driver’s seat, peering over the wall.
“Calm? How can I be calm right now?”
“I’m just saying. You look like you about ready to jump out of your own skin.”
“This has gotten out of hand. We never should have did what we did. You know what’s going to happen to us?”
“Ain’t nothing going to happen to us.”
“No? What do you think is going to happen?” Earl asked. “All Michael has to do is call the cops and that’s it. Finished. Over.”
“He had a chance to, at Old Man Jackson’s. If he was even there,” Frank said.
“Yeah? Well, how about this then . . . if he had the chance to call, and didn’t, then that means he’s going to come after us, deal with us himself.”
“I never thought about that.”
Earl stopped his pacing to look his friend in the eye. A million thoughts raced through his mind, his synaptic nerves all firing at once, and he struggled to settle his brain.
“This morning,” he said, “when I woke up, my biggest fear was the police rolling into the drive. You know, lights flashing and the SWAT teams, like on TV. But now, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to get to sleep, not knowing that Michael’s roaming around out here. I’m starting to think going to jail would be better . . . better than waiting for Michael to show up.”
“We ain’t going to jail, man. And Michael ain’t going to show up and kill us all. So stop it. Just stop.”
“How you know?”
“You just have to trust Haywood,” Frank said.
“You trust him?” Earl asked.
“I think we have no choice at this point.”
Davis stood up, stomped his cigarette out with his boot, and slung his rifle up to his shoulder. He leaned against the bridge rail and looked through his scope downriver.
“You think you could shoot him?” he asked.
“It’s a good thing James ain’t here. He’d be ready to off him in a heartbeat.”
Clinton nodded. He was a big man, and people always thought him a mean giant, but everyone knew that James was the domesticated psychopath. He was glad that he wasn’t up on the bridge with them now.
“Yeah. James seems a little bit excited about this whole affair,” Clinton said.
“But if Michael shows up here? What do you think is going to happen?”
“It’s up to Michael at that point.”
“What you mean?”
“We point our guns at him and tell him to stay put until Haywood gets here,” Clinton said.
Davis eased up from his firing position. “And if he don’t stay put?”
“Well, I guess we’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”
“Take a look around, man,” Davis said as he stuffed another Winston into his mouth. “We already crossed that bridge.”
“He’s like a chimney over there,” Earl said, his stress eating away at him as he gouged a path in the asphalt. His eyes began to ache from straining his vision at distant objects. “Davis might as well just be letting off smoke signals.”
“Come on, man. It’s just Davis,” Frank said.
The sun began to edge toward the western horizon.
“How long we supposed to wait up here?”
“As long as it takes.”
Earl rubbed his palms on his shirt. No matter how hard he tried, the sweat seemed to pour out of them. His head pounded from the anxiety of it all. He looked at Frank, and though his friend seemed relaxed, he knew him enough to tell that he was just as nervous about the whole situation. That was the one thing cool about Frank, he let Earl be the vocalized panic for both of them. He resumed his pacing.
The river passed below them with an easy current, drifting away without a care in the world.
Coldwater Page 4
