The Hunters Series Box Set

by Glenn Trust

  Albert turned glaring at his brother, still sitting cross-legged on the bed, the television remote in his hand. “I ain’t playin’, Bain. Get out now!”

  The remote dropped from Bain’s fingers and he stood quickly. There was no doubt that Albert was not playin’. He stopped and turned at the door. “How long you want…”

  “Get out!”

  Bain scurried out into the evening. Across the road, Pete’s Place was lit up. The evening crowd of bikers and locals had arrived, filling the parking lot. He gave a backward glance at the room door and walked across the parking lot. Albert was going to have at her again, he thought. It wasn’t fair. He’d like to have at her again too, but there wasn’t any telling what kind of condition she’d be in when Albert got done with her.

  Loosening his belt, Albert stepped out of his pants. He lunged at the girl, spread eagle before him on the bed.

  When she groaned in pain, he smiled, took a handful hair and pulled her head back until she cried in pain, her eyes closed. He balled his fist and hit her hard in the cheek until they opened again, focused on him. His smile returned.

  64. Snipe Hunt

  It was strange, following his brother on I-65. Cy wondered about Clay, somewhere up ahead, out of sight…wondered what he would say if he knew they were not far behind.

  Actually, he did know. Clay would be damned angry. That didn’t really bother Cy. If having Clay pissed off was the price for his safety, he was willing to submit his brother’s wrath.

  The problem was that Clay was probably right about the outcome for Lyn if the Stinsons discovered that he and George Mackey were on their trail. Carl Stinson had intended to kill Clay. That hadn’t worked out for him. His brothers would not hesitate to take it out on the closest victim…Lyn.

  Mostly people around Pickham County were willing to let others live and let live. It didn’t matter the rung on society’s ladder. People from the highest and lowest levels of the community mixed with, and got along with, everyone else, usually. Maybe it was cultural, but they shared a sort of courteous graciousness that did not derive from status or money.

  Then there were those others. Uncle Thomas called them ‘dust bellies’, saying they were lower than a possum’s pecker, down from a tree, crawling in the dirt. Dust belly was a good name for them. Add the Stinsons’ inherent meanness to the ‘dust belly’ lowness of character and you had a poisonous cocktail of humanity.

  That summed up the Stinsons pretty well, Cy thought. Poison.

  Uncle Thomas had told them about the old days too…the feud days…when life wasn’t worth much if you crossed the wrong family. It wasn’t movies; it was real.

  Ignorant, stubborn, raised to meanness, people like the Stinsons would kill…had killed…and it didn’t take much provocation to push them in that direction. Carl’s attack on Clay was proof that things hadn’t changed much for them.

  He looked over at George. The former deputy continued to drive…insisted on driving. Cy suspected that he drove out of a desire to be ready if something happened…something that might require a level of experience behind the wheel that exceeded that of a carpenter accustomed to hauling tools to and from work.

  The former deputy’s face pointed straight ahead, but his eyes constantly moved, seeing every car and truck that passed, every pedestrian on the side of the road, every bird swooping low over the pavement. While he daydreamed, George saw it all. Cy was glad he was there.

  In Montgomery, they circled the city and left Clay’s trail taking I-85 to the northeast. Just north of Tuskegee, where black aircrews had been trained during World War II, they exited onto Alabama 186, went through the Tuskegee National Forest and picked up U.S. 80 towards the Georgia line.

  Guilt washed over him for a moment when they made the turn off I-65, leaving his brother on his lone quest. It felt as if they were abandoning Clay.

  He shook it off. George was right. They had to be in the place where they could do the most good depending on the Stinsons’ play. The word George had used…longshot…crept uncomfortably into his mind. Everything they were doing was a longshot.

  Crossing from Phenix City, they took the J.R. Allen Parkway Bridge over the Chattahoochee River. They were back in Georgia as night came on. It seemed incredible that they had only left Ruby Stinson in Jacksonville that morning.

  He had the uncomfortable feeling that they were on a wild goose chase…a snipe hunt like when he was a boy out camping with Uncle Thomas and his hunting buddies.

  They would send him and his brother into the woods with paper sacks to catch the elusive…and mythical…snipe. Now and again, one of the adults would holler into the dark and tell them to be sure and make the call so the snipe would come and get in their sacks. Then when he and Clay made the whooping sound they had taught them to use, the men would laugh. He and Clay could hear them laughing softly around their fire, but the boys made the call anyway…just in case.

  It felt like that now. The Stinsons were running them around Georgia and Alabama on a snipe hunt, and they would keep riding around in circles…just in case.

  Not long after Cy and George pulled into Columbus, Clay arrived at the Talladega Super Speedway. The gate was closed for the day and there was no way to get in.

  Worried, he turned off Speedway Boulevard into the parking lot of the International Motorsports Hall of Fame and parked in a far corner of the empty lot. There was nothing to do now except wait, hoping that Albert Stinsons would not start asking him questions about the track that he would not be able to answer.

  After a few minutes, his eyes heavy from the day’s driving he fell into a doze, his chin leaning forward on his chest. The rap on the truck’s window startled him. He jerked awake bleary-eyed wondering if the Stinsons had crept up on him, leaving him defenseless.

  “Roll the window down.”

  Clay blinked into the beam of a flashlight and rolled down the truck’s window. “What…” He squinted. “Are you…”

  “Speedway Security. Mind if I ask you what you’re doing here?”

  “Oh,” he said, relieved. “Just waiting for someone.”

  “Can’t wait here.”

  “But I’ve got to …I…”

  “Sorry.” The security officer shook his head. “No trespassing after business hours.”

  “Oh.” Clay reached for the ignition key and then blinked again into the flashlight’s beam. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “What?”

  “What’s it cost to get in?”

  “What?”

  “To the race…what’s a ticket cost?” As an afterthought, he added, “And the museum here…how much?”

  Not sure whether to be annoyed or amused, the officer looked him over thoroughly, shining the light around the pickup’s interior. Satisfied that the young man was just an overly exuberant race fan…or one not quite playing with a full deck…he gave him the information along with the order to move on…now.

  Armed with what information he had been able to gather, Clay left and went in search of a diner. He found one out by I-20 and ordered coffee. He promised himself he would be awake the next time someone tapped on his window.

  65. He Nearly Choked

  Bain walked across the lot to Pete’s Place, eyes focused on the flashing neon in the window. He stopped for a second, just inside the door, uncertain and ill at ease. They had been warned not to come back. Conscious of the two bikers watching him and the presence of Sammy Tuss at the end of the bar, he stepped up to the bar not far from the spot where his brother had stationed himself earlier.

  Unlike his brother, he did not linger at the bar. Casting a sidelong glance at the bikers who observed with an amused and intimidating curiosity, he crept off to a table in a dark corner. He raised the bottle to his lips, his eyes watching the bikers as he took a long swallow. They seemed to have accepted his presence…for now. He took another sip, placed the bottle squarely in front of him on the table, slick with wet rings and stains from the drinks of other customers
.

  His eyes darted around the room. A tingling sensation ran up his spine when it occurred to him that he might be sitting at the table Carl had occupied before he got in the fight with the Purcell boy. He shifted in his seat.

  Carl’s night drinking beer at Pete’s Place had not ended well…neither had Daddy’s all those years before. Coming to Pete’s didn’t seem to bring much luck to the Stinsons.

  Stupid son of a bitch he thought. Carl had it coming…so did Daddy. Much as he hated thinking such things about his kin, Carl was an asshole and so was…. He stopped short of thinking the same about old Clyde. A shiver ran up his spine as if the ghost of his father might read his thoughts and comeback to beat his ass.

  Still, they were blood. Carl’s death couldn’t be allowed to stand. At least, Albert wouldn’t let it stand without taking what Daddy always called his justice. Bain knew it was just meanness…ugly and hate-filled. It was what Albert lived for.

  He’d kill that boy sure as shit and do it in a bad way. When he was done, he’d take what was left of him out to that place in the swamp where daddy had taught his greatest lesson. The boy would never be found. Between the gators and the raccoons, the buzzards and crows, his body would be gone before it had a chance to stink.

  Truth was, he would have been happy just to let things settle. Maybe threaten the boy…rough him up a little. That would have been good enough.

  It was not good enough for Albert. This was a death game. Albert wanted the boy’s blood, just the way daddy would have.

  Shit. He swallowed another gulp of beer and looked for the server. He didn’t want to have to go back up to the bar if he didn’t have to. Goddamn, Carl…goddamn, Albert…always causin’ trouble.

  He caught the girl’s eye and raised his bottle. She turned her eyes away and continued talking to some locals at a table across the room. Albert would have never tolerated it…her ignoring him like that. Bain figured he could wait. She’d get to him soon enough. One thing was damned sure. He was not going back up to the bar if he didn’t have to. There was no reason to tempt fate, or the patience of Sammy Tuss and his thugs.

  After several minutes, the server tilted her head back in a loud laugh, raised a tit, adjusted it in her tank top for the leering men and made her way to Bain’s table.

  “Drinkin’ alone?”

  “Yeah alone.” He nodded.

  “Probably a good idea.” She gave him a taunting smile and nodded at the empty bottle on the table. “Another beer?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Right.” She wandered off making her rounds before going to the bar to order his beer.

  Bain watched her, knowing that Albert would have taken matters into his own hands. You didn’t disrespect Albert…Carl neither. They’d have something to say if they was there. Bain just sat and watched, red-faced, knowing that everyone in the room saw how she treated him. Bitch, he thought, careful not to look at the bikers.

  After several minutes, the server reappeared at the table and put the wet bottle in the center.

  “Here ya go hon.”

  “Yeah.” He avoided her eyes, laughing at him, and reached for the bottle, raising it to his mouth. “Bitch,” he muttered at her round backside as she moved to another table.

  He wondered how long Albert would be going at it with the whore, Danny. He could use some of it tonight to take the edge of things.

  Turning the longneck up, he looked out over the room as he swallowed, nervous and tentative like a dog gulping its food, afraid that someone is going to take it away. He nearly choked when the big steel door up front opened.

  Shit. What the fuck is he doin’ here?

  66. Maybe This Would Help

  There was nothing out of the ordinary. Pete’s Place was busy. It almost always was in the evenings. Between locals, blowing off steam and the special business that took place in the back room under Sammy Tuss’ direction, there was always a crowd.

  Mike Darlington pulled into the lot leisurely, letting his pickup roll slowly through the gravel as he scanned the vehicles out front. The regular assortment of motorcycles was lined up in front of the door, bordered on one side by pickup trucks, some new and some dripping oil and rusting where they sat.

  Tuss’ Suburban sat alone at the end of the line of vehicles, as always. He parked close enough beside it that Sammy could not have gotten into the vehicle had he had the desire to leave.

  Three bikers by the door looked up from their conversation, watching the chief deputy park and approach. One went inside. The other two stood in front of the door.

  “You boys, got plans tonight?” Mike said casually as he walked up.

  “Naw, we ain’t got no plans.” He was the biggest of the bikers and stood with his arms folded across his chest, planted squarely in front of the door. “What the fuck business is that of yours?”

  “Not really my concern, I guess.” Mike smiled and stepped close to the big man. “Just that if you don’t move your dumb ass out of the way, you’re gonna have to cancel any plans you might have for the evening.”

  “That a fact?”

  “You can count on it.” The smile disappeared and Mike’s eyes bored into the biker.

  The quiet one, who had stood to the side, reached out and tugged the big biker’s arm. “C’mon Swain. Sammy don’t want no trouble. You know that.”

  The biker scowled at Mike whose eyes remained riveted on his. It wasn’t much of a stare down…no more than a few seconds before he stepped to the side and broke away.

  “Good decision.” The smile was back and Mike pulled the door open. He spoke over his shoulder as he entered. “You boys might not want to be out here blocking traffic when I come out. Fire code hazard and all. Hate to have to arrest anyone on a nice night like this.”

  The heavy door slammed behind him and heads turned to see who the newcomer was. Sammy Tuss’ head did not turn, his eyes focused on the ever-present newspaper. The biker who had come in to warn him of the deputy’s presence stood at the bar nearby. Mike walked directly to Tuss.

  “Nice crowd tonight, Sammy.” Mike stood leaning back against the bar beside Tuss, so that he could see the room as he spoke.

  “Not bad for a weeknight. What brings you in tonight, Deputy?” Sammy turned his head, eyes moving around the room. “Things are quiet. No problems.”

  “Nope, no problems. Came in for some information.”

  “What kind of information?” Sammy’s eyes narrowed.

  “Nothing much…relax.” Mike grinned. Sammy Tuss giving information to the law would not sit well with a number of his customers and partners, many of whom were undoubtedly watching from around the barroom. “Just a face.”

  “A face? Whose face?”

  “The Stinsons. You know them, right? One of them was killed here few days ago…knifed.” Mike shook his head. “Not much of a loss to the world as I understand it. Mean son of a bitch…that’s what everyone says, at least.”

  Tuss nodded. “He was, and you’re right, no great loss, but…” Curiosity crossed his face. “Why do want to know about the Stinsons?”

  “No reason.” Mike shook his head. “Just checking…you know…keeping the peace and all. No problems for you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “You want them to know you were asking about them?”

  Mike raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

  “No reason,” Sammy said with a smile, mimicking Mike’s good old boy demeanor. “Just that one of them is here now. Didn’t know if you wanted me to point him out to you.”

  Mike nodded and the smile was back on his face. “Actually, thanks for asking. No, I don’t want him to know.”

  “Fair enough.” Sammy kept his eyes on the deputy. “Then you should know that sitting off in the back corner to your right is one of them…the youngest.”

  “Bain Stinson.”

  “If you say so.” Sammy shrugged. “Don’t really give a shit what his name is. If that’s all you needed, I’ll get back to my paper a
nd you…” Tuss smiled. “Well, you can leave whenever you want, Deputy. I mean having the law here and all….it’s kind of bad for business, if you know what I mean.”

  “I’ll bet it is,” Mike laughed. “I’ll leave, but I need you to do one more favor for me.”

  “What’s that?” Tuss’ annoyance showed in his voice and on his face.

  “Have one of your boys come outside with me so I can talk to him.” Mike looked at the crowd of bikers standing at the bar and spotted the ones who had blocked the door when he was coming in. “That one there. The big one.”

  “Swain?”

  “Yeah. Have Swain come outside with me.”

  “You locking him up?”

  “Nope. That’s not my intention at least. Of course, that might depend on him.” Mike shook his head. “All I want is to pass some time out front, and I need someone to pass it with me.”

  Sammy Tuss assessed the situation. Darlington was a hard-assed deputy, but he had never been known to lie. If he said he wasn’t going to arrest Swain, then he wouldn’t unless Swain got stupid…which was a distinct possibility.

  He looked at the bikers and caught the big biker’s attention with his eyes. A jerk of his head and Swain came to him, tensed and ready to take on the deputy if that was what Sammy wanted.

  “Relax, Swain. I just want you to go outside with the deputy here.”

  “Why?” The biker eyed Mike suspiciously.

  “He just wants to talk. I told you to relax.”

  “What’s he want to talk about?”

  “Stop asking fucking questions. Walk outside with him like I said.” As an afterthought, Tuss added, “And don’t get stupid.”

  Mike pulled his elbows off the bar and stood up straight. “Let’s go.”

  Big Swain’s eyes moved from Sammy to Mike and then back to Sammy. With a sigh, he shrugged and said, “Fuck.” Then turned to the door and started walking.

  Mike followed him. When they were out in the night air, Mike stepped to the side of the door. “Come here.”