A Dark Path

by Robert E. Dunn

  “They moved everyone. Whole towns. Cemeteries were relocated.”

  “Cemeteries.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  Earl nodded again. I couldn’t tell if he was agreeing or finding his own difficult answers. “Cemeteries,” he said again. “Not graves.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Laws. It’s one of those legal things. They moved the markers. They left the bodies buried. All you need for a cemetery is paper that says it’s so. The flip side of that coin is true.”

  “If it’s not a legally-defined cemetery, no one is getting prosecuted for grave robbery.”

  Earl’s cackle sounded like a rusty hinge in the wind. He held up a finger as he laughed then touched the tip of his nose.

  * * * *

  My windows were down when I finally hit the highway headed home. To my right, the sun was at nadir. A razor edge of red rippled in heat waves. Sunset was a slow motion explosion of light, casting itself on the underside of high clouds. Above them, purple graduated to black: night peeking through a curtain.

  Some people say they do their best thinking in the shower. Uncle Orson said there was no problem so big he couldn’t solve it with a fishing rod in his hand. For me, it was driving. My mind would split and one part would joyously take hills and curves in hand—the other would work behind a curtain, invisible to my driving mind, and make connections.

  The parts coming together for me were all about Earl and Tyrell Turner. I believed everything the older man told me about the past and the turbulent history of his family. When he talked about the present, I was less convinced.

  After we talked about the graveyard, I asked about Tyrell. Earl claimed not to know why he was in Taney County—or why he would have been on the old property. When I asked him where his truck was, he claimed it was in the garage. I asked to see it. He asked if I had a warrant. As I drove, I tried to keep my focus off the mental back room. Still, I could almost feel puzzle pieces being picked up and tried against each other. At least I would be home and in my own bed soon.

  Once again, I fooled myself about my destination. At least, that time, I was aware of the lie and able to join in on the conspiracy. When the little puzzle room in the back of my head wanted more pieces to play with, I turned off the highway. A half-hour later, I was parked again in the field where Tyrell Turner had been burned.

  There was a difference. It was nothing physical. Aside from additional ribbons of barrier tape, the landscape was the same. The difference was exactly like those between photographs of the scene and my drawings. It was all in what I saw. The patch of ground had gained a history, the weight of lives was upon it.

  My quiet musings were interrupted by the sound of approaching engines.

  They were distant, but not for long. In moments, the darkness was filled by the bobbling glare of headlights on rough roads. Loud pipes spit staccato burps as throttles were twisted and released. It was a show—put on for my benefit.

  The bikes sidled in, making slow circles.

  I reached to make sure my weapon was in the holster and unobstructed. Satisfied that it was, I kept my hand on the grip, ready.

  The circle flowed until it eddied into a ragged crescent with all the lights facing me. Engines died. Not in unison.

  One of the lights settled sideways as its rider put it onto the stand and got off. I took a step back and pulled at my service weapon. It wasn’t a full draw. The pistol was still—technically—within the confines of the holster. It was as ready as it could be without being aimed.

  “There ain’t no need for that shooter,” the shadowy shape said. He stepped forward and resolved into a man. There were still no features. I saw only dark arms and legs and a mane of wild hair behind the glare of headlights. He was one of those men who had been big and kept getting bigger with fast food and hard living. He had thick arms and a round gut.

  “Says the man hiding behind five other men with the light in my face.” I relaxed slightly but kept my hand on the weapon. If they were here to hurt me, they probably would not have started out by talking.

  “You’re sure a feisty one, Hurricane.”

  “Feisty? You’ve been reading too many cowboy romance books. I’m not feisty. I’m no filly. And if you call me darlin’ or sweetheart, I’ll shoot you on principal.”

  “No one’s here for gunplay.”

  “You know me?”

  “Who doesn’t?” The shadowed man pointed to the gun at my hip. “What you got back there? Nine mil? That’s a bitch gun if there ever was one.”

  “You know what the best gun is?” I reseated my 9mm pistol then took my hand from the grip. I made sure my movements were clear and obvious. The shadow man was definitely dangerous but he was there to talk.

  “What’s—”

  “Anyone that lets you do the job.” People don’t like being cut off; it puts them off balance. There was no benefit in having this guy too comfortable. “And I guarantee I can do more with nine millimeters than you could manage with a cannon.”

  He grunted a laugh. It was put on and derisive. For a guy like that, it’s the difference between being in charge and acting in charge. “We didn’t come to talk about guns.”

  “You brought it up. You have something else to say, spit it out. You’re starting to bore me.”

  “Is that why they call you Hurricane? Because you won’t shut up?”

  “I don’t know. Why do the women call you a disappointment?”

  The other men leaning on their bikes laughed.

  The shadow man stepped up alongside the handlebars of his motorcycle. The change brought him up to the edge of the bright arc. Details were still missing. What I could see were his arms. They were bare and coming from under a cut—the denim jacket a lot of bikers wear with the arms and collar sliced off. In this case, I was pretty sure there was an Ozarks Nightriders patch on the back. From what I could see, his arms were thick, muscled, and tattooed. “Knock it off,” he ordered. The laughing men fell silent. To me he said, “Okay. You got balls and a smart mouth. You’re not afraid. So can we talk?”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Anonymous.”

  “Then what’s there to talk about?”

  “We didn’t do it.”

  That got my attention. “Tell me exactly what you didn’t do.”

  “We didn’t kill that black kid.”

  “Who’s we?”

  “Forget it.” The shadow man stepped back like he was going to remount the bike.

  “Who did?” I made it a question but made my voice loud and bold, like a command.

  He paused. “We don’t know.”

  “But you want me to believe you didn’t.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “Truth doesn’t need to hide behind blinding lights.”

  “What world do you live in?”

  He had me there. Who could deny that neither the truth nor innocence were perfect defenses within the legal system? “Okay. I’m listening.”

  “I already said it.”

  “Look. You want to tell me the truth, that’s fine. But I need more than, ‘We didn’t do it.’

  “Off the record?”

  “I’m not a reporter. I’m a cop. Everything is on the record. If you want to get ahead of this, that’s what you want. Show me you want to help. Show me something with a little teeth.”

  “Don’t tell her anything,” one of the other shadows said.

  “Let’s get out of here,” added another.

  “Go then,” I said. “You’re wasting a chance.”

  “Story of my life.” The big shadow in the center turned and remounted his bike.

  “You know there’s no silver out here.” It was a swing in the dark, but maybe it connected.

  The man remained straddling his bike but di
dn’t bring it upright or start the engine. “What do you know about it?”

  “I know it’s a story that’s nothing more than a legend.”

  “That’s not really our deal,” he said, “but I’ll pass it on.”

  “Tell me why at least.”

  “Why what?”

  “You said you didn’t kill Tyrell Turner.” I felt a twinge of guilt dangling the name like bait, but I needed something.

  “I said we didn’t kill him.”

  “We? You mean the Nightriders?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Okay. Not the Nightriders. Are you saying a Nightrider killed him?”

  “I’m not saying anything more. Figure things out for yourself.”

  “He was only twenty years old.”

  “That’s old enough, isn’t it?”

  “Why did he die?”

  “He got in somebody’s way, I guess. You be careful you don’t do the same.” The big shadow stood and jerked the bike off the stand then started it with a high rev roar. The other bikes followed, and soon the air was screaming with their sound and billowing with their exhaust. Short of shooting someone, I couldn’t do anything but watch as they circled out and disappeared the way they came.

  Chapter 8

  Surprisingly, my sleep was that of the dead. There were no dreams of other times or violence. No ghosts visited me. Instead it was filled by, or perhaps empty with, the void. There was peace in the infinite absence. There was also a sense of something impending. It was as if my mind knew that awareness of emptiness was in fact denial of it. If the darkness was not empty. . .

  Morning came early and hot. I greeted it with decision. Rather than thoughtlessly pulling on the usual formless clothing to hide behind, I carefully dressed in a suit. It was nothing special. It looked good—even if I was saying so. When everything was in place, I checked myself in the mirror. I looked like a woman.

  Downstairs, I stopped on my way out to talk to Nelson. The corner near the fireplace was his work space. The floor was still covered by a drop—on which sat his easel with my favorite painting. It was of our boats—separate, but drifting together. We, that is the boats that were us, rode the same water in different light. Impermanence, but forever with meaning.

  The painting had been damaged by someone trying to do the same to me. It almost worked. I had it conserved and repaired. After that, I got into the habit of saying something to the image each morning. That morning I said, “Thank you,” and went out the door.

  My first stop was at the Taneycomo Café—where I was not a stranger. A dozen pairs of eyes shifted my direction when the bell over the door tinkled. The usual response would have been silent nods of greeting, a few raised hands, and—always—one or two calls of Hurricane. There were no happy greetings. Every gaze that turned my way seemed to signal a kind of betrayal. Their cop was a woman, wearing women’s clothing. It was a mixed blessing. Their reevaluation was clear. I wasn’t sure the judgement was positive.

  Someone in the back, one of the regulars at the big table, called out, “Hurricane blew in.”

  It seemed as if a spell broke all at once. The waitress told me how good I looked. One of the octogenarians gave a quavering wolf whistle. Another in the little old man crowd said, “Arrest me.”

  I exhaled for the first time since walking in. All seemed right with the world. I sat at a table, honestly basking in the attention.

  Duck walked in. Our jailer was a regular at the early breakfast too. We often crossed paths as I was avoiding sleep and he was avoiding his return to work.

  “Hurricane?”

  “Don’t call me that,” I told him. “You can sit down.”

  “Don’t mind if I do.” He ordered the artery clogging special, then turned to me. He didn’t say anything.

  “What? No smart comment? No contribution to your sexual harassment file?”

  “Yeah. . . I mean, no. Wait. What?”

  “Brilliant conversation, Duck.”

  “Yeah. Sorry it’s just. . .”

  “Just?”

  “Everyone has a surprise or two in them I guess. I’m sorry. You look nice.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re turning into a gentleman in your old age, Duck.”

  “You’re not the only one who’s more than a nickname,” he said before he grinned broadly.

  “I’ll drink to that,” I said raising my coffee cup. I took a sip then told Duck, “I’m glad I ran into you this morning.”

  “We run into each other all the time.”

  “I wanted to ask you about the guys we sent over Sunday.”

  “You mean old Johnson Rath and Cherry Dando. What about ‘em?” He laughed hard and jolly then added, “I tell you, Dando was madder than a scalded cat about your uncle getting hold of him. I don’t blame Orson for the attempted ass kicking—or Dando for hiding. That’s a comeuppance that’s long overdue.”

  “So you know what all that noise was about?”

  “Well hell yeah. I was surprised you didn’t—”

  I literally saw a thought blooming in Duck’s eyes.

  “You don’t know?” he asked. All of his good mood and laughter seemed to drain with the color from his face.

  “Know what?”

  “That’s not for me to say.”

  “Duck? What’s going on? What are people trying to keep from me?”

  His breakfast started arriving, three plates full of eggs and bacon, pancakes, and a side of grits with toast. Duck stared down at the feast then he looked up at me. I couldn’t say if the regret in his face was because I was keeping him from eating or for something else.

  “Hurricane. . .” he said not yet even reaching for his utensils. “Katrina. . .”

  Definitely about me.

  “You reach a certain age. . .” He took a breath shifting his thoughts. “You live—you live long enough—you come to realize that the past is full of promises we never even knew we made. You see? There are things we know that maybe we wish we didn’t.”

  “Like?”

  “Like things that hurt when you hand them over to the owners of the present.”

  “I never took you for the poetic type, Duck.”

  “I’m not. But I know the place of an old man isn’t to give away secrets that aren’t his.”

  “How bad can it be?” I asked as gently as I could. “If it was so long ago.”

  “Some things never get to be long ago. You should know that. Some things are always new wounds.”

  A darkness passed over Duck’s eyes. I realized that he was thinking of other things, and not everything was about me. I took a last sip of coffee. It had cooled. When I sat the mug down, I did so carefully. Despite the noise of the café, I was afraid of breaking his reverie. That happened when I scooted back my chair to leave him in peace.

  “Did you know I used to ride with those guys?” he asked. “It was different back then. We liked to ride and that was all that mattered. I was a founding member of the Nightriders. Bet you didn’t know. We were riders, not bikers. There was no politics no drugs. I bet you didn’t know.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Most of us served in Nam. Most of us had buddies who were black. Hell, all of us had been with Vietnamese women. The color of your skin wasn’t such a big deal out there. Back home. . . Then there were the guys like Johnson Rath. He was hateful from birth. When he came back from his two hitches in the Navy, he carried a whole new bundle on his shoulders. Maybe it was a different kind of hate. Maybe it was just a new level. For him, skin was everything. And he had a plan—a plan that wasn’t about riding. It was about race and war. Militias and guns cost money. So it got to be about that too.”

  “So what was it that made you leave? The racism or the war?”

  He shook his head. The movement was slight and seemed difficu
lt, as if his thoughts had turned to heavy stone. “I didn’t leave. They put me out like a flea-ridden dog. My own friends. Buddies I had known for years. I’m a race traitor. Bet you didn’t know that either. Bet you couldn’t imagine.”

  Duck put a fat finger to his eyes. He was hiding them more than wiping them. I stood to leave. He was a man who needed a bit of privacy.

  Before I could excuse myself, he said—from behind still covered eyes—“Cherry Dando is a bastard. We were friends once. Don’t hold that against me.”

  I didn’t know what to say. That didn’t matter, it turned out. I said, “I promise,” by reflex and because I felt sorry for him.

  Duck took his fingers from his face and grabbed up his silverware without looking at me. “The paperwork should be in from the bondsman. I’ll be opening the door for Dando and Johnson after I finish up my breakfast.”

  He should have been clearer with his suggestion. I went straight over to the jail intending to have a talk with both Johnson Rath and Cherry Dando. The overnight jailer wouldn’t give me access. The sheriff had left explicit orders that I could not interrogate or even chat with either man. When Duck showed up, still brushing at his face with a wadded napkin, he said he only intended that I could see them outside, away from his responsibility or control.

  So I went outside to wait, and watch, from my truck. In less than a minute, Earl Turner’s black truck pulled slowly to a curb. If a vehicle could move suspiciously, this one was managing it. The Chevy stopped, but didn’t park. I could see the woman inside craning her neck to see the jail’s entrance. After a moment, she eased the truck forward for a better view, but kept the engine idling. If we were sitting in front of a bank rather than a jail, I would have thought she was positioning for a quick getaway.

  When I was sure her attention was on the jail, I stepped out of my truck—carefully opening and closing the door to create as little noise or eye-catching motion as possible. The fact that I was not wearing boots helped. My sensible shoes made no sound as I closed the distance between our two trucks. It occurred to me that everything I was wearing served as an aid to stealth. Anyone familiar with me would never expect me to sneak up on them wearing a medium-blue, silk blend suit.