Edward Lee

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  Travis cried an' cried, he did, an' when there weren't no more tears left, he just up an’ passed out right there on the porch, screamin’ in his dreams 'bout what the blasted Caudills did ta his maw an paw, but specially his maw. Head-humpin’ her! The lot of 'em!

  Those dog bastards head-humped my maw! Travis wailed in his sleep fulla the awfulest dreams...

  ........

  Next day, Travis weren't much fer talkin', no he weren't. Grandpap neither, 'cos recitin’ last night's story put a case'a blues on him somethin’ fierce. "I'se sorry, son," was the only thing he said ta Travis. "I'd'a tole ya sooner, 'ccpt it didn't seem right ta say such horrible things to a man just out the clink. What's done's done, I figured. But now I see's the truth. Now I'se see I should'a tole ya 'mediately 'cos you gotta right ta know what went on fer real."

  "I'se 'preciate it, Grandpap, an' I'se understand. An' I'se love ya fer it." Travis said, liftin' the bucket pole ta take down the creek. An' then he left, he did. An' while's he were trudgin' down the creek, he couldn't help but 'member what his grandaddy tole him last night, an' what were worse was that he couldn't do nothing 'bout it. Caudill's two boys was dead, one'a the fudge-packer disease, an' the other'a hippie drugger, and Caudill hisself were now livin' up'n a big fancy mansion in Pulaski, an' Pulsaki were so far, his grandpap's truck wouldn't get there halfways 'fore it throwed a rod or busted the crankshaft. So Travis felt mighty useless indeed, an' as he trundled those buckets down the creek, he closed his eyes an' fairly prayed:

  God, I knows full well I ain 't been much of a worthy servant, an' I’se heart-lee sorry fer my worldly sins, but—holy ever-livin '-shit, God!—if You on high'd give me the chance ta get my proper revenge fer what the Caudill done ta my fine paw an' lovin' maw, I swears to ya, I'd be a better servant to you an'yer holy needs. I would.

  An', wouldn't ya know it! It wouldn't be more'n 15 minutes 'fore God Hisself'd answered Travis Clyde Tuckton's prayers.

  ........

  Grandpap kept'a bangin' out those soleprints, hand made each an' ever one. Was hard work, but hard work made men good, he'd heard. So’s he's was sittin' there in his wheelchair, workin' on his fine boots an' shoes, when the door done swunged open.

  An' in the doorway, backed by the grand sunlight, he were standin' there, his Rolls Royce viserble behind him in the dirt drive.

  It were Thibald Caudill.

  "Hey, οl’ pappy." he greeted, all's decked up in his citified charcoal-gray suit an' queer Eye-talian shoes. "'Member me? I'se bet'eha do."

  "Thibald Caudill." Grandpappy acknowledged, seethin' on the inside, an' tremorin' in his gut. "Why's you here?"

  "Ever now an' then, ya knows, I like ta drives 'round the old homestead, ya know? Ta shows me where I comes from. So's I thought I'd drop by."

  "Ain't no reason fer ya ta drop by here, Caudill," Grandpappy croaked.

  "Aw, shee-it, Grandpappy Martin!" Caudill, then throwed his head back an' laughed, he did, the sun glarin' offa his mostly bald head with gray tricklin’ down his ears. "I see's ya still got yer dander up on account'a that foolhearty story 'bout me'n my boys killin' yer kin. Shee-it! Ain't no truth ta that. Pappy! My word!"

  Yer word. Thibald Caudill, ain’t worth two squirts 'a piss from a dead dog's dick, Grandpappy thought. 'Er two squirts'a puke, neither.

  "So's let's put alls that behind us, huh. pappy? Seein' that yer an inverlid now. what with no feet, I figured I'd come up here an' make a deal. See's. I gots me a fair load'a black buck yardhands, pick my weeds, mow my lawn an' the like, an' theys all need new boots, good 'uns, an' I'se figured you still make those fine handmade, handstitched workboots like ya used ta. So's that's why I'se up here." Caudill reached inta his jacket an' withdrew a right fat wad'a bills. "I got's six yardhands, I do, an' I figures boots as good as yours ain't gonna come cheap, so's I'll take six pair fer a hunnert dollars'a pair. How's that, ol’ man?"

  Caudill slapped the money down. It were a right lotta money, it was, but Grandpap felt it'd he a gross injustice ta take green cash from the same man who kill his daughter'n son'n law, so's he said instead. "Take yer fuckin' money an' yer devil-butt-lickin’ self outa here. Thibald Caudill. 'fore I'se up an' kill ya!"

  Caudill chuckled. "Who? You, ol' man? Don't'cha make me bust a vessel laughin’, will ya? What'cha gonna do? Beat me ta death with those slinky stumps ya got where yer feet should be?' An' then Caudill throwed his head back agin, an' let loose with a fresh burst'a laughter so loud it'd probably wake up half the folks layin' in Beall Cemetery.

  It were mighty embarrassin', it were, fer Grandpappy, ta have this rube walkin' inta his home an' makin' a mockery of him. But, lo, there weren't nothin' Grandpap could do, not confined ta the blasted chair an' with no feet!

  "Yeah. I’ll’se bet'cher still humpin' dogs, ya old cracker, huh? So poor out here ya probably got's ta blow yer nose in yer hand whenever ya git hungry? Ain't gots nothin' but crusty sticks fer feet, ain't got no life 'cept ta sit here starin' at the wall. Why don't'cha do the world a favor, ol" coot, an' dig yerself a big hole an' buries yerself."

  Caudill's fat face gleamed in the sunlight, an' turnt fairly pink from the next round'a laughter. An’ ol’ Grandpap Martin, right then he could'a put a gun ta his head was how low and disgraced he felt. But then—

  Then-

  Then front door swang open.

  An’ it were Travis who walked in.

  ........

  Cummings parked in a wooded dell just off of the old Governor's Bridge. Just after noon. Gloved, now, he very carefully wiped down each bag of cocaine with isopropanol to eradicate his prints in the event anyone found the empty bags. Then he slit each bag—all 10 of them—and dumped them over the side, where they splashed gently into the burbling creek below. There's going to be some high fish in Russell County today, he thought. Keeping the cocaine would've defied even his ethics. Even if he did have a way to sell it. he didn't want to contribute any more to the denigration of America. The money would be enough. And killing Spaz and Dutch?

  Fuck them, he rationalized. They were drug dealers.

  Next, he knew, he'd have to stash the money, give that fire he'd set, as well as its potential consequences, plenty of time to cool off. He wasn't too keen on the idea of driving around in a federal police car with a trunk full of $100 bills. But where could he make the stash?

  The sky, bright, cloudless, gorgeous, beckoned him. He pulled out of the dell and eventually cruised back to the Route. The afterimage of what he'd done remained surprisingly neutral. Killed two guys, burned a shack, dumped 10 keys in the drink, and walked with enough cash to fix the state deficit. Cummings shrugged. But it was all for something more important, wasn't it? It was for Kath. It was for the kind of life she deserved. And those two dealers? The world wouldn't likely miss them.

  He pulled over around the next bend: a girl in ragtag clothes was limping along the shoulder. A hill girl. Give her a ride, he thought. It was easy to be charitable when you had a bag of c-notes in your trunk.

  "Howdy," she said. 'Thanks much."

  "No problem."

  “I'se—" Then she stalled. The car, true, was unmarked, but Cummings himself wasn't, not in his navy-blue police tunic and gold badge, and not with a gunbelt around his waist. "Relax." he said. "I'm not looking to hassle anyone."

  “You're ATF, ain't ya?" she said.

  “That's right."

  She fell silent. Of course. She probably had relatives who ran moonshine. I'm the big bad government, he realized. To her. I'm the guy who makes her life that much harder.

  "Where you headed?"

  "Up near Filbert."

  "No problem."

  He cruised on, over long rolling roads, side-eyed her once or twice. A pretty little girl, 16 probably, ample-bosomed. A trace scent of sweat hovered off her, something Cummings had grown used to. She was a stereotype sitting right next to him: the barefoot hillgirl, lank dark hair flecked with straw, peevish, unbra'd be
neath the thread-bare sundress.

  "Pretty day."

  "Shore is."

  "Let me ask you something." he said, finally remembering his talk with Jan Beck. You got a couple hundred grand in the trunk, try earning your pay today, Stew. "You ever heard of a guy named Travis Clyde Tuckton?"

  "Oh, shore. Nice fella 'fore he went up ta the county prison. Never knowed him well, but he were nice." Her hair, now, was a brunette tumult in the open-windowed breeze. Plain, pretty. A simple girl with fine hair under her arms. "He's still up there."

  No, he's not, honey. He got out, skipped his parole, and now he's...fucking people's brains. Nice fella, huh?

  "Well, I heard his folks got killed, and his house burned down." Cummings tried to bait her.

  "Yeah." was all she replied.

  "Well, Travis got released recently, and with his house burned down, where would he go??

  Her eyes narrowed. Her hands lay in her lap like small white birds. "He in trouble agin’?”

  "Naw, naw, nothing like that. State tax office owes him money, that's all. Like to know where he's staying, so he can get his proper refund."

  "Oh, well." she spoke right up at the lie. "I doubt he'd come back here. This county's dead."

  "Yeah, you're probably right. But if he did come back here, where would he go?"

  She brushed hair out of her eyes, picked out a strand of straw. Cummings couldn't help but notice the high, full breasts, and the nipples distending through sweat-moist cotton. "Well, he's got a grandpap on his mama's side. Jake Martin. But he's problee dead b'now. He was old, an' he didn't have no feet, doctor hadda cut 'em off likes 'bout over five years ago on account of some disease. Hadda ol' cottage up the woods offa the ol' Tick Neck."

  Tick Neck Road, Cummings thought. South county. He'd heard of it. just had never been up there. Lost his feet? Probably diabetes-related gangrene, and she's right. He's probably dead. Hill folk didn't go to doctors much. Cummings was pissing into the wind.

  "Here's your stop." he said and pulled over at the crossroads. The sky opened bright and blue before him. A swarm of birds passed.

  "Thanks much," she repeated, opening the door.

  "Sure—hey, wait." There was something else he could ask, wasn't there? The plaster casts. A sole imprint that wasn't indexed in the stale computer. Handmade boots. Jan Beck had posited.

  The girl remained leaned over, fresh cleavage like a beacon. There was something pleasant or even erotic about the faint sweat-scent.

  "You know anyone around here who makes boots, shoes, leather gear ?" he asked.

  Her bland face pinched up in some perplexion. "Well, yeah, an' that's a might funny ya asked."

  "Why?”

  "On account of what'cha asked before."

  "I don't get it." Cummings admitted.

  Her face seemed to float before the sky. "See, there was a fella who made boots 'round here, fine boots they was, an' it's the same fella I'se just told ya ‘bout. Jake Martin. Travis Tuckton's grandpap."

  ........

  She'd given directions, at least to the best of his comprehension. The information put a fast spark in him. Yeah, this Jake Martin, he's probably dead, state cops've probably already cheeked it out, but—

  Header, the word came like a spirit's voice. Head-humpin'.

  Cummings had more important things to worry about now, like where to secret a veritable shitload of bands of $100 bills that he'd ripped off of a drug dealer he'd murdered. But the case—this bizarre, inexplicable set of sexual homicides—had long-since put a hook in him. At the very least, it couldn't hurt to look into the loke.

  Off Tick Neck, he thought. He was there now, cruising slowly up the road's winding cant. There were a lot of side roads, but...

  No mail routes, no addresses. Anybody who lived back here wasn't a legally censused resident. These roads had no street names, some of them weren't even on the county map grid.

  Cain't's remember too good, the girl had told him just before she'd left. But I'se think ya turn 'cross from the deadfall, the big 'un. You'll's see it...

  Just when Cummings would give up, there it was: a deadfall of logs, branches, and cut brambles. The county left them all the time after storms, but this one. Cummings noted, was large as it was old. Rotten and falling in on itself. He veered left up a dirt-scratch lane barely wide enough to admit the car.

  Wound up and around. And—

  Wham.

  A cottage, just like the girl had said. Ramshackle old place, falling in on itself like the deadfall. Ivy growing up rotted sideboarding, missing shingles like missing teeth. A human pock in the woods. But—

  What the fuck?

  This was the craziest thing he'd ever seen. A squatter cottage, yes, but parked right before the crumbling front porch sat a gleaming Rolls Royce Silver Shadow.

  Guess this old man Martin's not dead after all, Cummings assumed, but the rest was folly. A hillfolk shoemaker? Must sell a lot of shoes to be able to drive a car like that...

  Cummings pulled right up. If he wanted the element of surprise, he'd blown it royally: anyone in the cottage would be able to hear his car ease up. But, wait—

  No, he thought.

  They wouldn't be able to hear at all. Because another sound permeated the surrounding woods.

  A high-pitched screech.

  A... Cummings' ponderings were guillotined by what he next thought. It couldn't be. No cop was that lucky.

  The screech sounded like a power tool. A power drill.

  No way. no way, he thought. He disembarked, walked up to the house, peeked into a side window.

  Cramped room. Would've been large were it not for all the junk. Tools, leather sheets hanging. Rows and rows of hand-carved wooden shoeblocks. And—

  A table.

  No way, no way, Cummings thought yet again, but this time the thought was drained as a bled pig.

  The screeching ceased. Then a voice erupted, a crotchety, old hillbilly voice.

  "Get it, son. Ooo-eee! Cut yerself a good peckerhole in that cracker head! I ain't lyin' ta ya. Travis! This here's the white trash bastard who done head-humped yer maw!"

  Was Cummings gazing into a rent in hell? On the table lay a well-dressed man, on his back, a cleanly cut hole gushing blood as a ham-hock hand withdrew a knife from the hole. The hand belonged to Travis Clyde Tuckton, the boy whose photograph Cummings had already seen at the state crime lab. And sitting off from the table was a wizened, whiskered old man in a wheelchair. A man with—

  No feet, Cummings recognized.

  Jake Martin. Tuckton"s grandfather...

  "I'se so pissed. I'se in a swivet. Grandpap!"

  "Only fittin' an’ proper, son. Just like it says in God's book. An eye fer a eye!"

  "An" a heads fer a head!"

  Cummings stared.

  The boy, a big, brawny, short-haired lad with a surprisingly friendly face, lowered his trousers and promptly inserted his erect penis into the hole in the corpse's head. Then, biting his lower lip in a perverse rage, he grabbed the corpse's ears, and—

  Began to hump.