We talked and drank until the faint, yellow glow of streetlights penetrated the dusk in rings that fell on the sidewalk and street. The tavern got louder and tension grew as wood hicks returned from their long day in the wild.
Finally, fearing some sort of incident, I said, “When we rolling out of here?” “I have a camp nearby. We can leave any time,” Greg said.
“Yeah,” Ben said. “How far?”
“Not very. We can hitch after we stock up. One must never crack the thin line between civilization and wilderness ill-prepared. Or sober.”
I wanted to roll my eyes, but couldn’t. Instead, I stood, wobbled and grabbed the edge of the table. Greg wrapped a thick arm around my shoulder as the blood returned to my head. Ben laughed from his stool, but looked like he was going to be sick. Greg encouraged him to breathe deeply.
Ben said, “Man, it’s hotter than two cats fucking in a wool sock in here. I don’t feel good.”
“We need to get him outside before he pukes.”
“Too late,” Greg replied solemnly as Ben’s cheeks expanded with the contents of his stomach.
I grabbed Ben by the arm and pushed him toward the door. Greg grabbed Ben’s pack. I sucked up the fresh evening air like a creek soaks up rain while Ben retched onto the street.
Wood hicks and engineers laughed as they passed. “Poor Ben,” I said, as he wiped his mouth.
Pulling Ben to his feet Greg said, “Have a little dignity.” He gave me a wink and set Ben on a bench in front of the grocery store. “Let’s go, Henry. This man needs a soda.”
I followed Greg into the long, narrow store. Shelves were high to account for how few rows there were. Most of the light came from the deli case where hams and cheeses glowed like artifacts in a museum. On the shelf by the counter was a carton of wooden airplanes in paper packaging, the kind with the rubber band-powered propeller. I picked one up and smelled the paper.
Greg focused on the deli and gave both the clerk and me orders with equal authority. Bread, ham, pickles, cheese wrapped in white paper, a small salami and on and on, more food than the three of us could possibly eat in an evening. When I placed my items on the counter he took a ginger ale from the cooler and pried the cap off with the opener mounted to a shelf next to the register. “Take this to him.”
The cool, wet glass felt nice against my forehead. I took my time, and a few gulps, before passing it off to Ben. Greg followed a few minutes later, handed a package to me, then beckoned Ben to “Get off of thine arse.”
Looking at the food he’d purchased, twice as much as we needed, I said, “We’re only going on an overnighter.”
“Boy, one cannot adventure on an empty stomach. Get the drunkard to his feet.” “Get your hands off me.” Ben struggled to stand, looking at me for a hint of pity.
“Pathetic,” I said.
“Am I?” Ben held my gaze. He didn’t even try to keep a straight face. When I laughed, he pleaded, “Not so loud.”
Greg hollered from down the street, “Let’s go, boys.” He pointed to the bed of an old pickup. The driver watched us approach from beneath the wide brim of his felt hat. Greg put his bags in the bed. “Hop in.”
Ben looked at the pair of hunting dogs in the back and laughed. “You shitting me?”
“Would you rather walk?” Greg climbed into the cab. “Hurry. My man Otis would like to get a move on.”
The ragged driver nodded at the mention of his name.
The old truck bounced over potholes and railroad tracks, wound through wide turns, sputtered up hills and tripped back down them like a tipsy woodchuck. Ben and I spent equal time hanging onto the tailgate and fighting to keep the dogs from sliding into us. The cool air was the only thing keeping me from getting sick. Every time I thought we’d arrived, Otis turned off on a more decrepit road, and just when I thought I couldn’t take any more, he drifted to a stop.
And that’s how we ended up in Greg’s camp next to the Shavers Fork just outside of Elkins. It was a short hike up a dark fire road to an alcove beneath a cliff that overlooked the river and train tracks. The kind of shelter that witnessed a hundred hunting parties over the last thousand years. Straggling bats left their daytime roosts to swoop down for a meal while Greg prepared a platter of cheese and Soppressata salami. I passed on the red wine, and encouraged Ben to do the same when Greg asked us if we wanted to look for glowworms instead.
“Prefect cure for a hangover,” I replied.
Greg produced a fresh joint, held it up for our approval, lit it and took a long, deep hit. I watched the smoke rise to see if any messages appeared, but could only think of the house. And Alex. My turn came, and I hoped for some sort of revelation to get me out of tomorrow’s chore. But when the smoke left my lungs it left without saying anything.
Even though the sky had cleared to produce a haze of stars, each like a single drop of dew, fear kept me grounded. I tried to seek refuge in the night, in nature, the cosmos, but each turned me away equally. My task was an earthly task, and thinking that there’d be a divine resolution made me feel really immature. Like wishing on stars, which never amounted to shit. The only solace came when I realized we would pull Billy Lewis to justice.
Greg and I chatted long after Ben fell asleep. Greg’s sad eyes never left the glow of the white coals as he spoke. When I told him my story, he empathized, saying he was happy to help. His home, Maple Hill, and all of his possessions were burned up in a fire the previous year, thus, his trek. He had nothing left, but believed with eternal optimism that something good could still be found if he walked long enough.
Greg was training me, preparing me with Kerouac and Basho quotes, justifying my actions before I even had a chance to act. He lit another joint and we talked about books and poems and Greg quoted Thomas Aquinas and Francis Bacon. He helped me to strip away the petty mental lapses that had fueled this feud for this long. I think, despite all of his mysticism, he was trying to help me maintain my humanity.
Even though I could say nothing else, I took comfort in this kindred spirit and his turtle-like effort to carry his home with him wherever he went. He reminded me that as long as I had Alex, I’d lost nothing.
And as long as Billy Lewis was free, I didn’t really have Alex.
EIGHT
Daybreak found us scrambling through the greenbrier patches and laurel brakes that draped the steep banks of the Shavers Fork. Salamanders shrank back into the moist confines of their decaying retreats whenever we kicked dead logs and small rocks loose. All of our smoke from last night sank to the lowest part of the valley, filling it as if it were a solid, becoming the fog that hid our movement from the real world.
Fortunately, dawn’s early light was creeping down the western valley slope at nearly the same rate we were. Our descent was marked by perpetual transition from sun in our eyes to shadowed, cool pockets of morning. Wiry brambles cut the shit out of my bare legs. I left more blood on the mountain than sweat.
Upon arriving at the tracks we walked upstream to a bend where the train would slow so we could board. Just before seven I heard a whistle and woke Ben and Greg up. It took a little longer for the old Shay to catch up to its chug-chug and Ben slept until the locomotive was within a hundred yards. White steam flew above the dense forest while small coal cinders rose like dying angels in the black soot. The smell of old smoke, like that from a coal-burning stove, met my nose with the punch of sulfur. Greg said to take cover while the engineer passed. We rushed into the thick rhododendron that lined the tracks. We had to lower our heads and shield our eyes to keep the ash out.
The old engine came past us, barely wheezing. The Shays were like mules, easily manipulating the hairpin curves that snaked in and out of the narrow stream valleys. But the tracks they crawled on were never meant to last. Derailments were frequent, so the little engines had to be sturdier than the ones that plied the flatlands below. I’d never seen one in operation.
We waited for an empty bed beyond the engineer’s line of sight. Ben an
d I were old pros at hopping trains by now. Greg needed less encouragement than I would’ve imagined for a man of his size. He passed us his large walking stick and fully loaded pack before struggling to pull himself aboard. The train accelerated and for a second I thought we’d have to jump off and try again later, but the old bear kicked it into overdrive and plopped himself down beside us, no more out of breath than we were. He promptly produced some vittles for breakfast and played harmonica while we stuffed our faces with ham, pickles and stinky cheese.
“You’re pretty good,” I said. “Play anything else?”
“I do a little picking. Guitar. Five-string banjo,” Greg said in a tone just shy of boasting. “Are either of you musically inclined?”
“It depends—” I began, but was quickly cut off.
“Hell yes, he is,” Ben said. “He plays a mean fiddle.”
“Ah, the devil’s instrument? Suits you. Do you sing?” He’d pulled a hunk of gruyere from a napkin and chewed on it while he talked.
“Only when I have to.” Honestly, I wasn’t in the mood. But I knew that Greg was just trying to get my mind on something else.
“How about a little rail music, then?” Greg said. “Make the trip go a lot faster.”
“Not now. I’m a little froggy. From the smoke.”
“Go ahead, boy, if not for me then sing for the sake of singing. Who’ll hear you besides the turkeys?” He tapped his walking stick into the spread he’d prepared on the wooden bed of the train. “And it’ll eliminate the awkwardness of forcing you to sing for your breakfast.”
“Well, I don’t know about you all, but today isn’t a singing kind of day. At least not for me, anyway.” It made me angry that they weren’t taking this seriously. I watched the mountains that flanked the tracks and it occurred to me that everything about this was wrong. The air tasted different, the sun looked funny.
“You all right?” Ben said. “Who crapped in your coffee?”
“Sorry.” I closed my eyes and wondered how I could go for so long without a home. I lay down, and pretended to sleep so I didn’t have to talk any more. I wondered if I’d even recognize home if I ever saw it again. Maybe I was afraid that, like Greg, I’d have to keep moving in order to keep living.
After an hour or so the train slowed and Ben announced it was time to disembark. The trail to the Lewis’s cabin crossed the tracks just past the fire road nearby. He took the revolver from his pack, loaded the cylinder and slapped it shut. He shoved the gun into his waistband before creeping to the edge of the flat-car.
The slow-moving train released us to an easy landing. I stumbled and rolled to a stop in a mossy clearing. We backtracked to the old dirt road that switch-backed up the mountain.
Greg looked up at the steep terrain and said, “And we are coming this way why?”
“Back door,” Ben said, even though we were still at least a half-mile away. “What will we do once we get up there?” Greg quizzed Ben like a Union soldier about to cut and run before Fredericksburg.
“Don’t know. But Homer said he was alone, so we got that going for us.” It seemed to me that Ben struggled to avoid slipping back into Army mode, and I respected his decision.
I said, “It’s your choice, man. Nobody’s going to think a thing if you meet us up the road. It’s not your fight.”
“And when we’ve finished, how do we get out?”
I said, “It’s easier to stay out than get out.” Greg held up his hand. “Lead on then.”
The old road was still muddy, the cool air and dense canopy didn’t let sunlight so easily fall to the forest floor. Dark muck, thick with last year’s pine needles, crept over my ankles and up my legs. We sloshed and slipped through puddles, stirring old wet leaves. The scent brought memories of hunting season, even though I didn’t hunt. I’d only ever shot a gun a few times in my life. I was hoping this wasn’t going to be one of them.
It was a strenuous climb, the thousand or so vertical feet from the tracks to the mountaintop. The terrain didn’t favor movement in this direction. At the top, Ben and I waited for Greg in an outcrop of silver sandstone. When Greg got closer, Ben took his pack, and started spreading out our food. His casual attitude made me mad.
“Is this a fucking picnic?”
Ben stuffed a hunk of cheese into his mouth and said, “We been up and down this mountain like a whore on Saturday night. I thought a bite to eat might be in order.”
When I didn’t say anything, Ben added, “You need to take ten and get your head together. Get some food. You don’t know when you’re going to eat again, right?”
I nodded, and quietly picked at some bread. I didn’t mean to snap at Ben.
He unstrapped his bow and gave it to me along with a few arrows from the quiver. He said, stuffing a pickle into his mouth, “You won’t need more than one.”
Nuthatches and vireos hopped from branch to branch in the maples overhead as we moved out. Their chatter provided the noise that allowed us to get close without having to worry about being heard.
After twenty minutes, a strange smell permeated the air. An outhouse and an old fire. Food and synthetic scents. Soap and tobacco. I said, “Right where you said it’d be.”
I walked ahead, and was finally able to see the cabin and his truck in a clearing. The structure was an imposing affair with a large wraparound porch and detailed stonework around the foundation. Heavy spruce timbers held up a shingled roof.
I should burn the son of a bitch while he’s asleep. “Let’s go.” Ben drew his gun and crept past me.
“Greg, you can stay here if you want.” I held my hand in front of him.
“Not a chance, brother.” Greg flipped open the cylinder of his revolver and gave it a spin. Like a father with a newborn, he said, “Colt Single Action Army.”
We crept toward the porch. Ben and Greg slid off their packs then deposited them at the bottom of the stairs. I ascended. Ben clicked to get my attention.
I turned and he gave me the signal to wait, pointing at his gun. The windows were open to the breeze.
I listened.
And waited.
And waited.
Finally I reached for the door. It swung open easily, revealing a great room with a massive stone fireplace at the southern end. On the floor were Billy’s things: a pack, Doritos and Mountain Dew and a case of Coors. A Playboy and a Penthouse. A fresh roll of Copenhagen. A sleeping bag lay unzipped on the floor by the hearth; I pointed it out to Ben.
He whispered, “Outhouse?”
I shrugged my shoulders and skulked through the big open space. At the back of the room were an icebox and a wood-burning stove. Large steps led up to a loft. I motioned to Ben to go up. Through the back window I could see a few of the outbuildings and a tool shed with a butcher table on its side. About a dozen pairs of antlers had been nailed above the doors. A trio of rusty traps hung from the eaves on the side of the shed.
We searched the buildings, but didn’t find a thing. After fifteen minutes we regrouped at the back door.
“I didn’t come all this way for nothing.” Ben didn’t say anything. He just shrugged.
“Billy!” I yelled. “Billy Lewis, get your ass out here!”
“Jesus Christ, Henry, you’re about as handy as a pocketful of paper assholes. You know that?” Ben said, “We’ll check the woods. Stay within sight of each other. I guarantee he’s halfway to White Sulfur Springs by now, though.”
We spread out, walking away from the ledge overlooking the river toward the deep forest, looking in rock outcrops and listening for footsteps. I kept turning back to the house thinking he was going to double-back on us. We ultimately made a half-circle that went back toward the cliff over the river. On a warm breeze I smelled cucumber.
“Ben,” I whispered. “Do you smell that?”
I followed the smell to a broken rock outcrop with a wide view to the south. “Smell what?” Ben said, falling a bit behind me.
I ignored him and walked along the ledge.
I didn’t step on twigs or leaves. I was silent. Like a buck.
“Damn.” The scent was too ephemeral and I reckoned I’d imagined it. Turning, I caught Ben and Greg giving each other a look. “Go back to the fucking house then. Don’t waste your time if you don’t believe me.”
“Henry, we got to go. He probably heard us and bolted.” Ben tucked his pistol back into his belt.
“Seriously, go back. I know what I’m looking for.” I walked along the edge of the outcrop and the smell grew stronger. A chorus of rattles drew my attention to a small depression. I would’ve walked right by it if it wasn’t for the noise. I proceeded tentatively, taking small steps, waiting for the ground to strike.
And there he was.
“Ben!” I jumped back and was surprised I hadn’t pissed myself a little. Lightning bolts of adrenaline jumped through my skin and I could not shake off the willies. “Ben, holy shit. Look at this.”
Ahead of me, a mass of writhing scales carpeted the forest floor, diamond patterns meant to blend in with the stones and leaves that littered the ground. Copperheads clung together, tentatively creeping toward a patch of sunlight above the river. Some of the rattlesnakes were bigger around than my forearm.
“What the fuck?” Ben said. “Man…”
“A den,” Greg said. “These signs shall follow them that believe. In my name shall they cast out devils. They shall speak with new tongues. They shall take up serpents.”
“Stop it.” I saw Billy beneath the snakes. “Look here.”
I flung a black snake way with Ben’s bow. It reared its head, rose to the height of my knee and swayed. I flicked at another. I thought it was a copperhead, but it bit its tail, made a hoop and rolled toward the river. “Fuck me.”
Ben and Greg followed my lead. But the snakes kept crawling back, rattling angrily. Greg finally said, “Just stop,” and disappeared into the trees.
Hellbender (Murder Ballads and Whiskey Book 2) Page 16
