Greasy Bend

by Kris Lackey

  “Yeah. You don’t throw a good hatchet in the river without a reason.”

  “Good thing we grew up in the sticks.” Bond found the hatchet. “You have a plastic bag in your belt?”

  “Yeah, but only big enough to cover the handle.”

  “Hobson’s choice. Probably been in there since statehood, anyway. Whatchu eat for supper?”

  “Butternut squash and pecans.”

  “Figures.” She reached in her jeans back pocket and produced some long, shiny packages. “Have a Slim Jim. Or two. I won’t snitch to your girlfriend.”

  Maytubby took two, skinned the plastic off, ate them quickly, and pocketed the wrapping. “Thanks, Hannah.” Bond polished off three and stuffed the wrappers in her empty coat pocket.

  The first faint blue light of dawn unmasked the riverbank. A low rumble began from far away, approached fast. There was a loud boom, and the earth under Bond and Maytubby undulated. The river sloshed a little.

  “Disposal well quake,” Bond said.

  “Coincidence, Hannah. Don’t you read what big oil tells the papers?” Maytubby awakened his cell. “Jill called a little over an hour ago. No message.”

  “Late,” Bond said.

  “Or early.” He was about to tap “Jill cell” in recents when headlights swept the trees above the bridge. More headlights, followed by the low drone of engines. All coming from downriver.

  Maytubby silenced his phone and put it in his pocket. He lifted the shotgun from the sand and brushed it off. “Let’s get across that bridge before the Shriners get here.”

  Bond snapped the evidence bag off the hatchet handle, rolled off her gloves, and stuffed all the plastic in a shirt pocket. The hatchet she choked at its shoulder. Then she stuck the handle down behind the back of her duty belt, covering the head with her coat. The wood and steel hurt her back.

  They jogged along the shore, then scrambled up bank roots to the higher ground, where their cars were parked. After they leaped onto the bridge’s approach, they broke into a run. Under the trusses, the deck thumped with their footfalls. On the south bank, they jumped off the approach and ran into the underbrush just as the first vehicle rounded the last bend before the bridge.

  “You think it’s too soon to call for backup?” Maytubby panted.

  Hannah said quietly, “It’s too damn early to call for backup. At this hour, nobody but Eph on the beat in Tish. And calling Eph ‘backup’ is a stretch. Besides, maybe these folks are going to prayer breakfast.”

  “No Lighthorse down here … Renaldo’s an early riser.” Maytubby pulled out his cell and touched the screen. There was one bar. He held the phone to his ear. “He knows the lay of the land better than the rookie trooper on shift in Troop F.” Maytubby stared at the ground, then watched through the trees as several pickups parked on the side of the road, behind his Ford, and others crept onto the bridge. “Hey, Jake …”

  While Maytubby was telling Renaldo to come to the bridge along the Washita’s south bank, across the bridge from the approaching vehicles, Hannah moved her phone around until she had a bar, and then called Johnston County Dispatch.

  They put away their phones. The tinny drawl of a small engine approached the last curve, and a yellow motorcycle emerged from the trees. The rider was not wearing a helmet. His blond hair glowed in the cloudy dawn.

  “James,” Hannah said.

  “The welder’s Bronco is there. Looks like Crum’s ninety-one Ford, blue Dodge Dakota from Powell Road, Calls’ eighty-five Chevy.”

  “And that damn Jeep!” Bond said. “His ironed pants is going to get dirty.”

  “I figured Teague to be back in New Mexico by now.”

  “Here comes the silver Volvo. Sumac.” Bond paused. “Sulak.”

  There were no more headlights in the trees. “We’re missing the Supercab Ford with the monster grille.”

  “Still a circus without the elephant.”

  The sky got no brighter after dawn; the clouds sagged. The wind wheeled around to the north and swept sleet over the bottomland.

  “You got a speed loader on your belt for that old pistol, Hannah?”

  Bond grabbed a pouch on her duty belt. “One.”

  Maytubby nodded. She’d had to be nimble with the loaders in the timed CLEET exercises. Everyone else in her cohort had an automatic.

  CHAPTER 37

  Jill Milton could barely hear the cries of the wounded man on her floor. She had almost forgotten the temporary deafness that set in after a quail-hunt shot. The small room had amplified the sound. And it had that almost-sweet putrescent smell, like the artesian fountain at Sulphur. Through the smoke haze, she saw blood spatters on the door frame and rug.

  A patrol officer stepped into the doorway with her pistol aimed at Jill. “Lay that shotgun on the floor and step back from it.”

  Jill looked at the wounded man and said, “Yes, Officer. I need to take one step back before I lay it down, to keep it away from him.”

  “Okay,” the officer said. Her name badge said o’keefe.

  Jill took a step back and laid the shotgun on the floor.

  A second Ada cop appeared behind O’Keefe, his pistol, in both hands, raised in the air. He surveyed the room and holstered his weapon. While O’Keefe kept her gun trained on the wounded man, the second cop patted him down and removed a subcompact revolver from an ankle holster. He slid it aside and handcuffed the wounded man. “Can you get me a towel?” he asked Jill.

  She went to the hall closet, took out a folded bath towel, walked into the living room, and tossed it to him. He wrapped it around the leg wound and applied pressure as sirens whooped up Broadway from downtown.

  Jill’s knees trembled. She looked at her wrecked banjo, its worn Mylar head spattered with blood.

  CHAPTER 38

  One by one, the doors of the pickups on the bridge and down below opened, and figures emerged in the dim light. Some held pistols, some long guns, all pointed upriver. Figures on the bridge walked out on its decking to the rusted iron railing beneath the larger truss beams. Those below walked slowly toward Maytubby’s pickup, their firearms out. The blond man dismounted his motorcycle and took something from his saddlebag.

  Maytubby thumbed his camera to video, zoomed the image all the way, and pushed the red button. His battery was at 50 percent, so the video was brief.

  Someone on the bridge shouted to the men below that nobody was behind the Ford. They moved more quickly toward it. Two stopped behind its tailgate, and one pointed to it.

  “They did talk to the pilot,” Maytubby whispered.

  One man discovered Bond’s Buick, shouted something to the others, who briefly trained their guns on it. All the men on the bridge except Richard James leaned over the rail and looked down. James, who, they could now see, was carrying some kind of short rifle, walked across the deck to the opposite railing and stared downstream.

  “Thinkin’ about what he done,” Bond said softly. “I could kill him right now.” A crow cawed in the wood. Suddenly, she rose. Maytubby raised his free hand and said, “Hannah!”

  She turned away from James and faced upstream. She had a baseball-size cobble in her hand. Reaching back, she took a step forward and hurled it with a grunt. She resumed her squat and watched the rock fly across the river and into the woods near where she had found the pistol. They heard the brush give when it landed, and so did the posse. James came across the bridge and joined the men who were jostling south to get a better view of the river bend. They were pointing toward the noise.

  The riverbank contingent climbed down onto the narrow beach and walked upriver, their guns pointed into the woods.

  “They’re going to see that stack of blankets,” Maytubby said.

  “And take no pris’ners.”

  One of the front two men on the river lunged to his right and began firing into the brush. His com
panion came around to the shooter’s left and followed suit. There were eleven shots. All the men on the bridge ran north, toward Maytubby’s pickup, spilled off the approach, and turned upriver.

  “Shall we, Hannah?”

  Bond was already on her feet when she said, “’Fore they find the dead blankets.”

  They kept their heads turned toward the men’s backs while running down the dirt road and up onto the bridge deck. They sprinted behind the trucks. Bond pushed over the yellow Suzuki as she passed. It thumped the deck like a drumhead. Coming down the opposite approach, they lost sight of the men. Maytubby shifted the pump twenty-gauge into his left hand so he could get to his truck keys. The shooting had stopped.

  When they reached the truck, Bond scissored into the bed and drew her revolver. Maytubby opened the cab door and laid the shotgun on the floor, facing away. Its buttstock rode the transmission tunnel bump. He pulled out the manual choke and cranked the starter. Just as the big eight rumbled to life, the welder slewed up the muddy bank. The gray light fetched his gray eyes, and his long sandy hair, freed from the welding hood, fanned in the wind. Through the Ford’s broken window, Maytubby heard him shout, “Here!”

  When Maytubby ducked behind the dash to grab the pump, the welder fired three shots through the intact side window of the Ford’s cab. When he paused, Bond brought up her revolver in both hands, rose on her knees, dropped the blades of her hands onto the bed’s panel, and shot him in the chest. As she fired, Maytubby reached through the driver’s window and twisted the side-view mirror downward. Then he rolled out of the cab with the shotgun and slammed the door. Sleet hissed against the Ford’s old steel. Maytubby raised his head and looked through the ruined windows. The fat, drunk Powell Road guard appeared next, struggling up the lattice of roots. When he found solid ground, he gaped at the body in the dirt and looked around, confused.

  “Police! Drop your weapon!” Maytubby shouted, bracing the shotgun on the Ford’s hood. The guard seemed confused, began firing in the air and cursing. He staggered a few steps and fell on a heap of Greasy Bend trash. “Uuuuugh,” he moaned. And then he was quiet. Maytubby and Bond could hear him rasp above the river sound.

  A third form materialized from the sleet, also unsteady as it clambered up the bank. He was wearing a bright orange watch cap over long, stringy hair. And orange socks. He waved a pistol uncertainly as he squinted against the sleet.

  “Lon Crum!” Maytubby yelled. The man halted. “Police! Drop your gun and run! You do not want to die for these worthless bastards!” A few more shapes appeared far behind Crum, who immediately did as he was told, dropping his pistol and lumbering past the Ford down Greasy Bend Road. Maytubby pulled his shotgun off the hood and ducked behind the Ford.

  A burst of what sounded to Maytubby like machine-gun fire came from the river. He heard thok, thok, thok, then crashing brush, a cry, and a thump from where Crum had gone. “Bump stock,” Bond said from the pickup bed. Whoever fired it was lying prone on the beach, shooting over the bank. “I’m coming over,” Bond said just before she pivoted over the panel on Maytubby’s side of the truck. She quickly rose in a crouch, wincing at the hatchet in her waistband. As the barrage resumed, clanking against the pickup, they each planted their feet behind one of the Ford’s tires. Some of the rounds kicked up dirt under the truck. “This Ford is about to look like Bonnie and Clyde,” Hannah said.

  Indistinct voices and snapping brush came from the river. The bump-stock fusillade stopped. Maytubby bent and looked into the side-view mirror. The prone man was rising, and two men were duck-walking on the beach toward him, holding pistols. One was very tall. The other was Duncan Calls.

  Hannah was watching Maytubby. “Smart,” she said.

  Maytubby rose and threw his pump on the hood. He fired at the bump-stock man, ejected the spent shell, and fired at the tall man before taking cover again. A cascade of single shots struck the Ford, but the bump stock was silent. Bond rose above the panel and emptied her revolver at stooped forms. When she fell into a crouch, she snapped open a pouch on her duty belt, released the revolver’s cylinder and ejected the casings, took out a speed loader, inserted the cartridges, and flipped the cylinder shut.

  Maytubby checked the mirror. It had been hit by a bullet and gave him only a kaleidoscope—several images of each man in thin triangles. One man staggered away. The tall man was in a crouch behind the riverbank roots. Calls had disappeared.

  Another series of semiautomatic shots struck the Ford. “Yeah, yeah,” Hannah said. “You feelin’ those Slim-Jims, Bill?”

  “I am, Hannah. Manna from heaven.” He fell prone on the ground and fired two more shots from the twenty-gauge before scrunching up behind the front tire. He was answered by a dozen more pistol shots—quick but, by their frequency, from a single gun.

  Maytubby glanced up at the mirror and saw, in two of the triangles, an Oklahoma Highway Patrol car inching along Greasy Bend Road from the south side of the bridge. “Renaldo’s here,” he said to Bond. He looked in the mirror again and saw another man crabbing toward the tall man. “We have a new shooter, Hannah.”

  “Yeah, and where’d Snaggletooth and Richard go?”

  “Good question.”

  They both spun around to search the road and woods. Nothing. A loud barrage from the river erupted, and they turned to face it. Maytubby took a knee at the front fender and fired his last round from the shotgun. He dropped the pump and drew his Beretta. Bond stood up and spent three of her speed-loader rounds on two scurrying forms.

  Maytubby saw multiple tiny Renaldos advancing with their rifles down Greasy Bend Road. The trooper knew Maytubby’s pickup and would size up the situation without help.

  “Stay where you’re at!” The voice came from behind Maytubby and Bond. “Drop your guns! Hold your fire over there, Teague! It’s Rick. I got ’em.”

  “Shit,” Bond said into the truck panel. She and Maytubby threw their pistols out.

  “Stand up, put your hands on your heads, and turn around.”

  They did as they were told. Sleet spun around the golden visage of Richard James. He had the bump stock of an AR-15 assault rifle snugged against his shoulder, his right hand tight around the rifle’s pistol grip, its barrel pointed at them. He let his left arm dangle.

  “Well, if it isn’t Bumfuck’s finest,” James said. “An Indian cop and a cracker bitch. Where’d you get that policeman belt, big sister?” He extended his left arm and made a fishtail gesture with his hand.

  “Why’d you kill her, James?” Bond said flatly.

  He dropped his free arm and chortled. “You know my name. Huh.” He squinted. “Oh, yeah. The amazon speed-trap deppity. Small world. Well, Ms. Lang saw me with my boss at the fried-pie Sinclair station in Davis.”

  “You get the fancy hooch for doing that?”

  James blinked and shook his head. Sleet stuck to his hair. He put his left hand on his hip. “Damn. Really.” He laughed. “No, big sister, the Blanton’s is nice, but I got a lot more than that. Somebody told me you were in that river last night. You said you were noodling.”

  Behind James’ left hand, Bond and Maytubby saw someone in a crouch, walking very slowly toward them on Greasy Bend Road. The shape slowly picked up speed.

  “I somehow doubt that. If you don’t tell me where the gun is, I’ll gut-shoot you and the Indian and leave you to shit yourselves to death. If you do, I’ll kill you clean. First this world, then nothing.” James paused. “What’re you looking at?”

  “Just your sorry ass,” Bond said. She and Maytubby recognized Eph a second before he fired his pistol. The round clanged into the Ford, barely missing Bond, and James spun around. As he unleashed a burst of automatic fire, Bond found the hatchet head under her coat and pulled it from behind her duty belt. She grasped the bottom of the handle as her noodling foster father had taught her with a stump for a target, leaned back like a pitcher, and launched
the hatchet firmly but gently so that it spun end over end. The blade lodged in James’ right shoulder. His rifle spattered fire into the earth as he fell.

  Bond and Maytubby retrieved their pistols and ran toward James. They heard, behind them, the boom of a big rifle, then a smattering of bump-stock and pistol fire, then another boom. Eph ran toward them, waving his pistol. “I got ’im!” he yelled. “First shot!”

  When they met over James, who was bleating on the ground, Eph gestured at the hatchet with his gun. “What the hell is that?” he said.

  “Holster your gun, Deputy,” Bond barked.

  Eph frowned and did so.

  “You saved our lives,” Bond said to him.

  Eph’s eyes widened. He said, “Really?”

  “Get his rifle and take it back to your cruiser,” Bond said. “Make sure the safety’s on, keep your finger out of the trigger guard, and point it away from you. Check on that guy you passed in the ditch. Call ambulances from Tish and Ardmore.

  Bond stared at the hatchet. “I should pull that thing out and let you bleed out. I ain’t your big sister, either. I was a big sister once. Before a jackal like you killed her. That was the word you used, right?”

  James writhed and sobbed.

  “Hannah,” Maytubby said, “I’m going in after Calls.”

  “Yeah,” she said, holstering her revolver.

  More whip cracks from the river. Maytubby ran to the edge of the brush and used his gun and free hand to part brambles and oak saplings. This time, he couldn’t silence his movements.

  There was no need. Even before he gained the clearing, he could hear Calls grunting and panting. Maytubby stopped and watched as he pawed at the earth beside the stack of Hannah’s blankets. Even as sleet sifted down through the trees, the man’s sweatshirt was soaked with sweat.

  “Duncan Calls!” Maytubby said, training his pistol on him, “You’re—”

  Calls flipped in the dirt and reached for his holster. Maytubby stomped on the hand and set his pistol against Calls’ throat. “We have James’ gun.” Maytubby pulled Calls’ pistol from its holster and threw it into the brush. “As a citizen of the Chickasaw Nation, you are under arrest for assault and eluding a police officer.” Maytubby recited the man’s rights as he lodged his Beretta under Calls’ skull and pinned him to the ground. “You want to sell me a coffee machine?”