Clayton was upright when she returned to the living room, upright and sober. Without speaking, she took his hand and led him down the hall.
“Everything good with Charmaine?”
Kate ignored him, opened the door to the bedroom, and closed it behind them. Clayton reached for the light switch, but she stopped him. “Leave it off.”
She wanted to fuck him, but not necessarily look at him.
She pushed him down on the bed, and unbuttoned her blouse, letting it fall off her shoulders. She couldn’t see Clayton’s sleepy high-school smile, but she knew it was there. His inability to think of anything other than her when they were like this was always a powerful intoxicant, and Kate wanted to feel powerful right now after feeling so helpless all night. She reached around her back, unhooked her bra, and let it fall.
“This is not at all what I expected when you got home.”
Kate ignored him again, and climbed on top of him. He hustled to unbuckle his pants and Kate helped until he was able to kick one leg free. She kissed him—hard—not a trace of whiskey on his breath. His beard scratched her face. She didn’t care. She didn’t want delicate.
Not tonight. Delicate could wait until the morning.
15
HAMILTON ROAD
THE HOME OF
DANIEL ‘COOT’ VINER
BONEVILLE, GEORGIA
Coot stared out the window into the pitch black of a starless night. He looked exhausted from all the glad-handing and the drugs, but thankful for the moment’s silence. Donnie and Tate had put on a comfortable buzz and sat on the sofa as if they were waiting for permission to move. Twyla, as always, sat in her high-backed chair by the fireplace and flipped quietly through a photo album filled with pictures of a younger, prettier version of herself and her husband, Joe. The two people in the photos looked like strangers to her now. Joe Viner had been a good man—a good husband to her and a good father to the children. He’d always tried to do his best with Daniel, but when Joe first got sick, it was clear that the product of his first marriage was never going to be the same kind of hardworking and honest man his father was. His transition from Daniel into Coot was more than just a name change, as he got older. It was more metaphysical. He had molted into a different animal, like a snake shedding its skin. It wasn’t until after her husband’s throat cancer finally killed him that Twyla watched the real changes begin. Coot sold his father’s interstate trucking business—one he’d taken over twenty years to build—and used the money to invest their family in the meth trade. Coot never could say no to anything that could kill him, so before long, he was doing as much as he was selling. When the violence became too much, Twyla’s own daughter with Joe—Bessie May—had to leave. Although it broke Twyla’s heart, and left her alone in Coot’s world, she never tried to stop her. She understood it. She hoped that Coot’s son Joseph would be a reason to hold on—a reason to believe she still had a family, but now Joseph was as dead as his namesake, and she believed it might as well have been by Coot’s own hand. All the men she loved in this world were dead now, and the only ones left with her blood still running through them were the ones who’d done the killing. She had nothing now but the ache of her missing pieces. They created a vacuum that pulled what was left of her in on itself—a black hole in her chest. She held the oxygen mask to her face and tried to fill her broken lungs.
“What do you know about the people that killed my grandson?”
Coot turned to his mama. “I’m still waiting to hear back about one, but I know for sure that the other one is a fella called Scabby Mike. That name ought’a tell you why he was recognized. He’s an ugly son of a bitch. His face is all burned up, or some shit.”
“And who are their people?” Twyla sipped a glass of red wine.
Coot felt the irritation with his mother rise up again. Not because of the callous way she spoke about his son. He didn’t really care that JoJo was dead. The boy was born soft. But the way she didn’t seem bothered by how it might affect him. It just drove home the fact that he never did feel wanted by this woman. Not like his sister, her real flesh and blood. He almost smiled at his mother when he gave her the answer to her question.
“They come from McFalls County. Up in North Georgia.”
Tate slid off the sofa and helped himself to a beer from the fridge. Twyla’s hand started to tremble as she sat her wine down on a side table, and then nervously tucked at the red-and-green plaid blanket she had wrapped over her legs.
“Bull Mountain, Mama.”
Twyla’s eyes glazed over.
“That Scabby fella is a lieutenant high up the chain under Halford Burroughs.” That name hung in the air as it became apparent to the old woman that this problem was much bigger than she had anticipated.
“I heard the Burroughs boy was dead.” Her voice was thin and breathless.
“He is. His baby brother, the sheriff, shot him down over a year ago.”
Twyla’s face turned from plush cotton to stone. Her voice lowered and lost all authority. “I have always told you to stay away from North Georgia. They don’t bother us. We don’t bother them.”
“I wasn’t the one that went, Mama.”
“So why was my grandson anywhere near Bull Mountain?”
“You mean my son, Mama? My son and that cowboy, Clyde Farr, decided to go and pull a half-assed heist. Does that surprise you? Did you even know the boy?”
Tate returned from the kitchen with three bottles of High Life and a jug of sweet red wine. “They were looking to make a cheap score, Twyla.” He handed a beer to Coot and another to Donnie and then carefully refilled Twyla’s glass. He went on to tell the old woman about the plan JoJo had sold to his friends about the robbery at Freddy Tuten’s bar in a much less emotionally charged voice. Coot moved to the front window and stared out at nothing again. As Twyla listened, the tremble fell from her hands. “I can’t believe you all allowed this to happen?”
Coot spun around and slammed his beer down on a side table. “Allowed? I didn’t ‘allow’ anything. I told that moron to stay the hell off that mountain. I had nothing to gain by him pulling this shit.”
Twyla looked disgusted. “You had nothing to gain? That’s always what matters to you, Daniel. What you can gain.”
Coot knew she was just lashing out at him, because she had no one else to lay it on, but he was sleep-deprived and worn out. He needed a bump and his temper was hot, so he fueled the argument. “What can I tell you, Mama? He’s grown.”
“He’s not grown. He’s dead.”
“And what are you saying? That it’s my fault?”
“No, Coot. That is not what she’s saying.” Everyone looked toward the front door. Vanessa rolled her suitcase in and leaned it next to the doorjamb. “She’s asking you what you intend to do about it.”
“Well, goddamn, y’all. Look what the cat dragged in. It’s about time you got here, Bessie May. You missed the funeral.”
“No, I didn’t. I was there, and I thought you looked real handsome in Deddy’s suit.” Vanessa set her purse on her suitcase, and crossed the great room to her mother’s chair.
“Well, I didn’t see you.”
“That’s because I didn’t want to be seen.” She knelt down at her mother’s chair, and took both her hands into her own. “My presence would have distracted everyone from why they were there. Which was to comfort you and Mama, and pay respect to your son. Something I don’t see any of here.”
Twyla’s expression softened back into warm cotton, as Coot’s became steely and cold.
Donnie sat up and came alive for the first time in hours. “Damn, Bessie May, you’re lookin’ right.”
“Go take my bags back to JoJo’s room, Donnie.” She squeezed her mother’s hands. “And then you and Tate can go on home. We’ll let you know what, when, and where, when the time comes.”
Tate killed his beer.
“The hell they will.” Coot motioned for Donnie and Tate to stay put. “That’s some bullshit, righ
t there, little sister. You ain’t been around for years, and now you think you can walk in here and boot out all the people that cared about him?”
“Really, Coot? If y’all cared so much, then why are you in here yellin’ at Mama and not out there doing what needs to be done?”
“I’m waiting on more intel.”
“Well, that’s a start.”
Donnie set down his unopened beer, got up, and stood next to Coot by the front door. “I’m ready for anything, Coot. You just say the word.”
“Get her bags.”
“Huh?”
“I said get her bags.”
“What?”
“My bags,” Vanessa said, without looking back. “He said pick up my bags and do as you’re told.”
Donnie looked at Coot for reassurance but didn’t find any. He stepped to the door, mumbled under his breath, and then snatched up the purse and hard shell suitcase with a huff. He disappeared down the hall into the back of the house, and only Tate watched him go. Coot kept his eyes drilled into Vanessa, who stayed focused on her mother.
“I’m here now, Mama, and we’re going to make this right, okay?”
Twyla looked at her daughter, and nodded. That’s when the tears finally came. Coot flopped down on the sofa and pulled a plastic baggie the size of a golf ball from his shirt pocket. He cut out two lines of crank on the coffee table.
“I don’t need you makin’ anything right. I’m going to handle this my way.”
“No,” Twyla said. “That’s not what I want.”
Coot rolled up a dollar bill and snorted the dope. He leaned his head back over the sofa to let the burn drain down his throat. The gray-and-black lion tattoo on the center of his chest heaved and showed its teeth through his unbuttoned flannel shirt. His eyes teared up from the burn and he set the dollar bill down on the table for Tate to use. He waited for Tate to lean down to do his line, and then told him to go join Donnie in the back of the house, and that he’d be right out. Coot focused his bloodshot eyes on the women in his house and spoke clearly so he wouldn’t have to repeat himself.
“I would never hurt either of you”—he looked at Twyla—“because my deddy loved you”—and then at Vanessa—“and you’re my blood, but here’s the news. I’m going up Bull Mountain to get me an eye for the one they gouged out, and you’re either on board or in the way, and that’s all that needs to be discussed.”
Twyla’s tears turned to a full-on sob and Vanessa held her as Coot stood up and grabbed his beer. He took a long swig before smashing the bottle against the wall on his way out of the room.
16
THE COMPOUND
Mark pulled the Tundra up to the gate and let the window down. T-Ride had already jumped to attention the moment he saw the truck coming and was standing outside the truck’s door like a puppy waiting to be let outside to pee.
“Hey, Mr. Tuley. Man, that’s a nice truck. About how much does something like that cost? I want me a truck like that one day. You think you’d ever want to sell it? Hell, I mean, not now or anything, but if you did, I could make payments to you or something. It’s pretty badass.”
“Slow down, kid. You got your eye on the wrong prize. A truck is just a truck. Believe me. If you keep working hard like you’re doing, then all good things will come.” Mark turned his stereo down. “Hey, why are you always on gate duty by yourself? Doesn’t Mike have anyone else he can put out here with you?”
T-Ride puffed his chest out a little. “Uncle Mike says I gotta get in my share of grunt work. He doesn’t want the rest of the crew thinkin’ I get a free ride just because him and me are kin. I can take it.”
“I know you can, T. I’m just concerned about you out here alone.”
“Don’t sweat it, Mr. Tuley. I’m under constant surveillance out here, and besides, there’s only one way in and one way out. Nobody is gonna get the jump on me. I can promise you that.” He tapped at the assault rifle hanging off his shoulder.
“All right, kid. I hear you, but be careful all the same. It’s a dangerous time up here.”
T-Ride leaned down on the window ledge. “It’s always a dangerous time up here, Mr. Tuley.”
“I reckon you’re right, son. Go ahead an’ buzz me in.”
“Roger that, sir.” T-Ride looked up at the probing security camera and spoke into his radio. The gate clicked and the chain-activated pulley system roared to life. The gate started to move, and T-Ride tipped his hat at Mark as he backed away from the truck.
“Just remember what I said, kid. Always watch your six.”
“Yessir. I will.”
Mark pushed a button and the window slid back up. He eased the truck through the open gate and parked in front of the compound. A few minutes later he was seated at the oak table in the war room with Scabby Mike, Ernest Pruitt, Lo-Fat, and Nipper.
Mike sipped a beer. “So you finally met with Kate?”
“Yeah,” Mark said. “And she’s about as stubborn as she ever was.”
“I told you.”
“I took her out to Papa’s place so she could see a little bit of the good Halford did up here.”
Ernest spat tobacco into a Styrofoam cup lined with a paper towel. “Yeah, boy. I saw you. I also saw you tryin’ to put your hands on her.”
Mike shot Mark an angry look. “You did what?”
Mark made light of it. “Oh, c’mon. I was just trying to soften her up some. That’s what I was there to do, right—soften her up in order to get her to get Clayton to play ball. That’s what you asked.”
Mike was genuinely pissed and slapped his ball cap on the tabletop. “I asked you to talk to her, you peckerwood. Not try to fuck her. Goddammit, Mark. Some things never change.”
“Calm down. I didn’t do anything of the sort. I was just softening her up.”
“I’d like to soften you up.”
“All right, Mike. That’s enough.” Ernest spit another string into the coffee can. “Mark is still my grandson, and I won’t sit here and let you threaten him. Let’s move on.”
The table was quiet for a moment, and Nipper and Lo-Fat felt uncomfortable and out of place. Mike finally broke the silence and spoke with a more level tone. “So did you tell her about the money?”
“Yes.”
“And what did she say?”
“After telling me we were a bunch of lying, thieving heathens, she said she’d take bringing it to Clayton under consideration.”
“And what exactly does ‘under consideration’ mean?”
“It means she’s not that hip on doing anything that might involve her husband in something else that could get him killed, and frankly, I don’t blame her. We don’t need Clayton. I can find where Halford stashed the cash. I just need more time.”
“Time isn’t on our side, Mark.”
“I’m aware of that.”
Ernest spit again, and Mark took one of the apples from a bowl on the table and carved off a piece. Another man—the man with the scar around his ear—entered the room and waited for permission to speak. Mike tipped his chin to him. “What’s up, Tank?”
“We’ve got a problem at the gate.”
“What kind of problem?”
“Visitors. The unwanted kind.”
Mark chewed and swallowed the apple slice. “What was that you were saying about time, Mike?”
Scabby Mike stood and hustled into the other room. He joined a half dozen other men who were already looking at a massive set of monitors in the living room. He returned almost immediately. “It’s Coot Viner, and he brought himself a posse.”
Mark laid his knife and half-eaten apple on the table. “Stay here, Papa. We’ll handle this.”
Ernest stood slowly with both Nipper and Lo-Fat’s help. “I’ve been warrin’ on this mountain long before you were born, boy. I ain’t about to sit this one out.” He grabbed a .30/30 from a rack on the office wall and walked out the door. Nipper and Lo-Fat followed. Mark sighed and pulled his gun. He dropped the magazine, inspe
cted its inventory and slapped it back in place. He returned the gun to its holster and took another bite of the apple. When he finally stood, he stopped in the kitchen to get some iced tea before following his grandfather and the rest of them outside.
*
The sound of racking shotguns and slides being pulled back was loud enough to rattle the floorboards on the porch, as Mark slipped out the door to see who Mike was already aiming at. The convoy outside the fence consisted of two mid-size pick-up trucks toting at least four men each, and a Geo Tracker carrying the man in charge of the parade. Mike stood on the steps and trained his .440 on the ugly Tracker as it rolled to a stop at the edge of the fence. The rest of Mike’s men did the same. More than a dozen barrels lined the porch rails. The Tracker’s door opened and Coot Viner stepped out. His blond hair and pale skin glowed in the dark. He was tall and thin, but looked like he hadn’t missed a workout in ten years—he was prison fit. His collared shirt was unbuttoned and his sleeves were rolled up, revealing small patches of jailhouse tattoos. The lion on his chest was clearly something he liked to show off, but from the porch the tattoo looked more like he’d painted chest hair on himself. Mike took the man for a fool immediately. Coot’s eyes were so blue they looked unnatural and Mike took notice of them even at the fifty-yard distance. Mike also took notice that Coot wasn’t armed. In fact, as far as he could tell, none of the men that came with him were either. Two men that Mike assumed were Coot’s first and second in command walked around to the driver’s door of the Tracker and joined him. One man was thick and dopey looking. His shirt untucked in the back and a belly that hid his belt buckle—a hoss, Mike thought, but not much else. The other man was a midnight-skinned black man about the same size in bulk but much more proportioned. His movements were the exact opposite of the fat-boy. They were smooth and deliberate. He moved like a shadow. His skin color and dark tactical clothing made him blend into the darkness, and Mike had to squint just to make sure he was there. One thing that seemed easy to tell—at least outwardly—was that dopey and the shadow also appeared to be unarmed like everyone else in the party. Mike spat over the porch, and kept his gun firm to shoulder. “Turn it around, Viner. You got no business here.”
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