by Ronald Kelly
Jake stood perfectly still, holding his breath for a few seconds. Suddenly, he heard it. It was the sound of movement in the junk heaps at the foremost boundary of the salvage yard. The sound of rattling cans and old inner tubes being shifted to one side. The furtive noises of a scavenger.
Slowly, the junk dealer walked over to his dog. Loco pulled against his restraint until the links of the chain were taut. Jake sucked his greasy teeth and listened for a moment longer. The noises came again, louder this time, as if the intruder didn’t give a damn whether he was heard or not. And it wasn’t the rats that made their home in the heaps of trash and metal, either. Jake knew how his rats sounded and it certainly wasn’t they who were on the prowl that night.
A grin shown through Jake’s blond whiskers as he stooped down and laid his hand on the snap clasp that was the sole link between the logging chain and Loco’s heavy leather collar. “Okay, boy,” he said, easing back on the release with his thumb. “You heard him before I did, so you get first shot.”
Loco trembled in anticipation, leaning forward, his muscles bunched into tight coils. A runner of thick saliva dripped from the corner of this mouth and splattered into the clay dust of the yard.
A second later, Jake let him go. “Get him, old bud!” he yelled, laughing. “Tear his thieving butt clean off!”
The dog wasted no time. He shot away from the light of the building’s security lamp, his dark form instantly merging with the darkness that stretched beyond. Jake stood there and grinned, listening to the quick padding of Loco’s feet crossing the earth, as well as the fit of throaty barking that had replaced his growling.
“That’s it, boy!” called Jake, loud enough for the unwelcome scavenger to hear. “Show ‘im he can’t rip off Big Jake Abernathy and get away with it!”
As Loco tore across the junkyard, Jake thought of the rash of thefts that had plagued Harmony during the past couple of days. Fletcher’s Hardware had been broken into the night before last. The only items that had been stolen were a few cans of paint – red, yellow, blue – as well as a couple of brushes. And that wasn’t all. Just that morning, a local carpenter named Ben Allen had gone out to his pickup truck to find most of his tools gone, along with several sheets of heavy plywood and a box of ten-penny nails.
Staring into the darkness, Jake wondered if the same thief was out there at the edge of his property, attempting to pull another late-night raid.
Jake crossed his brawny arms over his chest and waited for the first scream of alarm. But, for some strange reason, it failed to come. Instead, Loco’s ferocious growling came to an abrupt halt. One second, the dog was zooming in for the kill and then the next there came a sharp, high-pitched whine, followed by total silence.
The sudden absence of noise startled Jake. Loco basically had two moods; threatening and non-threatening. When he was on the offensive, he was vocally loud, with throaty growls and coarse barks. When he was passive, he was completely silent. In all the years Jake had owned the dog, he had never once heard him whine, even when he was a puppy. Loco was either rowdy or quiet. There had never been any middle ground. Or at least not until that night.
Concerned, Jake backtracked to the office. He reached through the doorway and took a gun from a rack next to his cluttered desk. It was a Mossberg pump shotgun with eight inches sawed off the barrel. He stepped back into the yard, jacked a 12-gauge shell into the breach, and peered into the darkness.
“Loco?” he called. “Boy, where are you?”
The dog neglected to answer. But he did hear something. Something that caused the hairs to stand up on his tattooed forearms.
A low, snickering laugh.
For a long moment, Jake Abernathy felt rooted to the spot, unable to move. Something about that laughter bothered him. Or, rather, frightened him. Yes, he had to admit it. He was scared for both Loco and himself. And that was quite an accomplishment on the intruder’s part, considering that Big Jake hadn’t been scared of anything or anyone since grade school.
The junkman gathered his nerve, then started forward. He gripped the shotgun tightly, ready to fire at the first flash of motion ahead. Halfway to the edge of the yard, he heard a faint clinking, as if someone were climbing the tall chain-link fence that surrounded the property. For some reason, his mind conjured the image of a dark form – a decidedly human form – scurrying up and over the barrier like an oily black lizard. Spooked, he swiftly shook the thought from his head and continued onward.
When he reached the end of the junkyard, he found no evidence of anyone having ever been there. Worried, he looked around. “Loco?” he called out. “Where are you?”
At first, he heard nothing. Then, from the shadows beneath the rusty hull of a wrecked school bus, Jake caught a faint noise. A low, squealing whine more reminiscent of a whipped poodle than a hundred and fifty pounds of ferocious Rottweiler.
Jake crouched down on his haunches and peered into the darkness beneath the junk heap. “Loco? Is that you, boy?”
The thing cowering in the shadows unleashed another shuddering whimper. In the dim light that drifted from the direction of the office, Jake could barely see the shine of the dog’s eyes peering fearfully from out of the shadows.
“What the hell’s the matter, Loco?” he asked, trying to inject some gruffness in his tone, but unable to pull it off. “Did that lousy burglar scare the piss clean out of you?”
Another pitiful whimper from the animal told him that he was correct in his assumption. But who could do that to a monster like Loco? Or what?
Jake attempted to lure Loco from beneath the bus for a half hour that night, but to no avail. Finally, he gave up and, returning to the apartment at the rear of his office, retired for the evening.
~ * ~
The next morning, the junk dealer walked his property and took a mental inventory of his clutter, to see if anything was missing. There was. Oddly enough, the only things missing from the twelve-acre lot were four, antique wagon wheels. Sturdy oak wheels with hammered iron rims.
Exactly how the culprit had managed to tote four one hundred and fifty pound wheels over an eight foot fence was totally beyond him. Jake decided to call the county sheriff and report the theft. But first, he tried his luck with Loco one more time.
The dog wouldn’t budge, however. He continued to cower in the shadows of the school bus’s undercarriage, whimpering in terror and refusing to venture into the open sunlight.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Keith couldn’t seem to get it out of his head.
Since that evening when he and the others had ended their ride along Sycamore Road on the edge of the South Woods, he had thought about that dark valley choked with shadows and secrets. He recalled the expressions of uneasiness and fear on the faces of his friends, the way they had balked at exploring the place, giving some lame excuse about it being haunted.
Their hesitancy hadn’t dissuaded his curiosity, however. Several days had passed since Keith had laid eyes upon the mysterious spot called Hell Hollow and, still, he could close his eyes and feel that spooky chill run down his spine at the thought of a legend whose origin had long ago been forgotten, but was still taken very seriously by those who resided in the rural community of Harmony.
He had to go back and check it out, see for himself if there was actually something there to fear or if everyone was just shivering in their shoes over nothing. But, deep down inside, Keith knew he would never go back to the South Woods alone. Despite his swaggering attitude, he was secretly afraid to go there on his own. Part of him scoffed at the stupid ghost stories about evil laughter in the darkness, but another part couldn’t help but wonder if they were really true.
Keith had to convince Rusty and the others to accompany him to Hell Hollow… but how? He had considered his options carefully and had come to a conclusion. There were only two ways he could hope to coerce them into returning to the forbidden hollow. He could humiliate or shame them into going there, something he wasn’t sure he could pu
ll off. Or he could go another route. He could make a dare on an entirely different subject, hit a raw nerve that couldn’t be ignored, and then stack the stakes in his favor.
The day was scorching hot. Despite the trouble they had gotten into several nights ago, they had been forgiven and set loose once again. Rusty was perched atop Cyclone, Keith was on Blue Fury, and Maggie was straddling her neon pink ten-speed, which she called Hot Mama.
Surprisingly enough, Mrs. Adkins had consented to letting Chuck tag along, perhaps feeling, upon hindsight, that she had reacted too harshly. The boy had moped in his room for two days, his spirits at rock bottom, and that was something Flora Adkins couldn’t bear. Reluctantly, she gave in and was amazed at how fast Chuck had abandoned his depression when she granted him permission to accompany his friends on their wanderings along the dusty backroads of Hawkshaw County. The handicapped boy rode in the sidecar that was attached to Cyclone. Much to his delight, Rusty and Keith had painted it olive drab green with a fanged mouth and leering eyes just behind the nose, much like the fighter planes of World War II. Chuck wore mirrored aviator glasses and a John Deere cap. His iguana, Churchill, accompanied him, perched lazily atop his right shoulder.
They decided to explore the northern edge of Harmony, a mile or so past Hill’s General Store. They had stopped at the little store along the way and bought a few snacks to take with them. By the time they reached the steel and concrete bridge of the Duck River Bridge, they were hot and exhausted. They parked their bikes in the shade of a big hickory nut tree, thankful to get away from the blistering eye of the August sun for a while. They pulled out their snacks, which consisted of Royal Crown Colas, banana moon pies, salty Tom’s peanuts, and two-penny bubble gum.
The four lounged around the base of the tree, eating and joking around. They discussed some things that had been on their minds lately: who would win that year’s World Series, a gruesome murder that had taken place on Interstate 24 scarcely ten miles away, and a rash of petty thefts that had hit Harmony out of the blue.
It wasn’t long before Keith had finished his peanuts and soda pop. He reached into the back pocket of his shorts and brought something out into the open.
“What’s that?” asked Chuck as he poured a little soda into the cup of his palm and held it up to Churchill. The green lizard dipped his wrinkled head and began to lap at the beverage, his tiny pink tongue darting eagerly.
“Just some baseball cards,” said Keith, tearing open the foil pack.
Rusty eyed his cousin with suspicion. “I didn’t see you buy that back at the store.”
“I didn’t,” grinned Keith. “I lifted it.”
Maggie’s eyes widened. “Keith! That’s stealing!”
“What’s the big deal?” he asked. “It didn’t cost more than a dollar.”
“That’s not the point,” said the girl, seeing genuinely disappointed in him.
“She’s right,” said Rusty. “You oughtn’t to have ripped off Mr. Hill like that. He barely makes a living off that place as it is.”
Keith rolled his eyes. “It’s just some stupid cards, that’s all,” he said, unable to understand their outrage. “Besides, what’s the difference between stealing this and swiping a watermelon out of someone’s patch?”
“There’s a big difference,” said Rusty.
“Yeah? And what would that be?”
“Like I said before, swiping a melon is sort of a tradition around these parts,” proclaimed the lanky boy. “Kids have been doing it for ages.”
“Right,” nodded the city boy. “And where I come from, kids have been palming baseball cards since they first came out. So what’s the difference?”
Rusty opened his mouth, but found that his argument was losing steam. After considering the comparison for a moment, he discovered that, in reality, there really was no difference between the two at all.
“I think you ought to go back and pay Mr. Hill for what you took,” said Maggie.
“Yeah, right!” snorted Keith. “And have him rat on me to Grandpa? That’s just what I need right now, to have the old man on my back even more than he is now.” He stuck the cards in his hip pocket and looked over at the girl with the long blond hair. For some reason the expression of deep disappointment on her pretty face bothered him. He felt his heart sink. For the first time since he could remember, he actually felt guilty for taking something that wasn’t his.
“Aw, come on, guys,” said Chuck, stretched out in his garbage can sidecar, his hands folded behind his head. “Cut the dude some slack. He’s not from the Bible Belt, you know. He’s from the wicked old city. It’s an urban thing, ain’t that right, Keith?”
Keith laughed and traded a high-five with the boy. “See, the man here sees me for what I am. Besides, it’s just a misdemeanor at best. It’s not a major crime like bank robbery or murdering someone with an axe!”
Maggie frowned. “I still don’t think it was very nice.”
The boy felt that nagging sensation of shame tug at him again. Why did he care what Maggie thought of him anyway? He remembered her skinny-dipping in Goose Creek with him and Rusty, as well as the soft feeling of her hand in his as she led him through the dark pine grove during their escape from Old Man Perry’s watermelon patch. Suddenly, he thought he knew the true reason why her disappointment bugged him so. He was developing a crush on Maggie. Just the thought of it made him feel a bit queasy, as well as more than a little scared.
Quickly, he knew he must change the subject. He looked over at the Duck River Bridge. The narrow bridge was painted the same dull green as the Harmony water tower, its framework of riveted steel girders resting atop thick pillars of water-stained concrete. Below it ran the muddy channel of the Duck, winding its way toward Normandy Lake, then eastward to the mighty Tennessee River.
“Rusty,” he said, “how long would you say that bridge is?”
His cousin shrugged. “I dunno. A hundred and fifty feet. Maybe two hundred. Why?”
“I bet I could beat you across it,” he said with a smug grin. “Blue Fury against Cyclone. One on one.”
“You’re on, cuz!” said Rusty without hesitation. He spat on his palm and traded a handshake with the city boy.
“Wait just a second,” said Chuck. “There’s got to be something at stake here. What are ya’ll betting?”
Rusty thought for a moment, then eyed the iPod clipped to Keith’s belt. “If I win, I get to borrow that fancy music machine of yours,” he said. “Chuck can download me some Southern rock and bluegrass, and give it a taste of some good music for a change.”
Keith cringed at the thought of country music twanging through his headphones, but didn’t let it show. His smile only broadened as he made his wager. “Okay. And if I win, we go to Hell Hollow and take a look around. All of us.”
The red-headed farm boy turned as pale as a bed sheet. “Uh, no deal. I’m pooped anyway. Wouldn’t be a fair race, me being so tuckered out and all.”
Both Maggie and Chuck seemed relieved that Rusty had backed off from the challenge. But Keith wasn’t about to give up so easily.
“I knew you wouldn’t do it,” he said, leaning back against the trunk of the tree. “You brag about how fast that crummy bike is, but when it comes down to putting up or shutting up, you chicken out. I guess you know I’d leave your butt in the dust.”
Rusty’s face reddened and his eyes narrowed. “Oh, yeah? Well, you’re wrong about that, cuz. I accept your challenge!”
“And what about our wagers?” asked Keith. “My iPod against a trip to Hell Hollow? With no backing out on either one?”
Chuck and Maggie looked on the verge of protesting, but Rusty wasn’t about to be called a coward again. “You got it! But ol’ Cyclone’s gonna be the winner by a yard, maybe even more.”
“We’ll see about that,” said Keith, getting up and stretching. Using tools they kept in the bottom of the makeshift sidecar, they disconnected the contraption from the frame of Rusty’s bike. A short while later
, they approached the bridge, leaving Chuck and Churchill sitting in the shade of the hickory tree. Maggie rode her bike to the other side of the bridge, where she would determine the winner. “You guys be careful,” she called back to them as she pedaled across. “If somebody decides to cross over while ya’ll are on it, you’re dead meat.”
Both boys knew what she was referring to. The Duck River Bridge was one of the few one-lane bridges left in rural Tennessee. There was a flashing yellow light at both ends of the bridge, as well as boldly painted sign that read SINGLE LANE – PROCEED WITH CAUTION. If a car or pickup truck decided to cross the bridge while they were racing, they would barely be able to squeeze by on either side of it. There was scarcely fourteen feet of asphalt from one railing to the other.
“This ain’t gonna take but thirty seconds at the most,” said Rusty. “We’ll be okay.”
Keith looked across the bridge and saw the worried look on the girl’s face. He felt that fluttery sensation in his stomach again. “Yeah, don’t worry about us,” he said.
“Are you guys ready?” called Chuck, loading his mouth with three pieces of bubble gum.
Keith hunched over Blue Fury like a dirt bike rider at the starting gate. “Let’s go.”
“Ready when you are,” added Rusty. His lanky frame hugged that of Cyclone, as if boy and bike were a part of one another.”
Chuck nodded. “Okay, let’s do it. On your mark… get set…” He stretched the gum with his tongue, then blew a pale pink bubble as big as a softball. The bubble swelled until it burst with a loud pop. “Go!”
Together, the two started forward. Heat waves shimmied from the cracked asphalt of the bridge, as well as the framework of girders above and around them. Gears clashed and pedals pumped, building speed and propelling the boys and their bikes across the rural bridge like stones from a slingshot.
“Come on, Rusty!” yelled Chuck, so psyched that he would have leapt to his feet if he had been physically able. Churchill left his master’s shoulder and scampered to the top of his John Deere cap, as if seeking a better vantage point.
