“But you?” Coot pointed Mark’s long-distance weapon at him with one hand. “You must have a self-esteem issue. You think the country life is below you somehow. You think you can just put on some fancy clothes, spend a couple of years in the big city, then come back here and act all high and mighty. You look down your nose at a fella like me like you got something over me. But here’s the news, dickhead. You are me. And the sad truth of it is, if you’d have just stayed up here and thrown a few dirt clods with the rest of us hillbillies, maybe I could’ve used you right now. Maybe you’d be batting for the winning team.”
“Why don’t you spare me your bullshit preaching, Cooter, and just get on with it?” Mark knew without proper training, the rifle Coot was holding would rip his arm off if he tried to fire it. It also kicked to the left, and that would give Mark his shot at grabbing what he needed from his ankle.
Coot smiled again. “Get on with what, Tuley? Killing you? Oh, I’m gonna kill you. Don’t worry on that none. We’ll get to that soon enough. But first we’re gonna make you watch.”
“Watch what? Watch you and the retard here get it on Deliverance-style?”
“See, Donnie, I told you the man’s got jokes.” Coot squatted down, laid that sniper rifle across his lap, and grabbed a handful of Mark’s hair. Donnie shoved his rifle in closer to keep him from resisting, and Coot leaned deep into his face. “No, we ain’t fuckin’ each other, Tuley. I don’t swing that way. I’m all about pussy—and speaking of pussy—right now, as we have this little chat, fate would have it that my cousin, Tate, is on his way to see that sweet piece of ass you were out romancin’ the other night, and after he torches that shit-trap she lives in, he’s gonna bring her out here for a little party.”
Mark struggled against Coot’s grip, but Donnie pressed the barrel down hard into Mark’s left eye socket.
“Then you’re gonna watch me and my boys give her something she is in desperate need of.” Coot leaned in a little closer. “Now, I don’t normally share my ladies, but it ain’t really sharing if you think about it. My cousin there is pretty straightforward, you know? But me? I’m more of a backdoor man, if you catch my meaning.”
Mark twisted and bucked under Coot’s grip and hair came ripped from the root. The pain was fierce, like an army of fire ants attacking his scalp, but it was for nothing. Donnie bashed the stock of his gun down on Mark’s head. There was no more containing it. There was no more fending it off. They beat on him for a while longer, well after he blacked out.
22
THE FIRE
It wasn’t the smoke that woke Kate up, or the stink of kerosene, or the smell of burning wood. It was Eben. He was screaming. Kate bolted upright, the first and most often fatal mistake of anyone who’s died of smoke inhalation in a house fire, but she took in only a short breath of the blue-black haze that had begun to bank down from the rafters of her bedroom. She gagged and immediately began to hack the poisonous gas back out. She instantly went blind. Her eyes swelled like twin bee stings. Panic seized her muscles stiff. She fell back down to her side and wiped at her eyes while she coughed. Out of instinct, she reached across to Clayton’s side of the bed. He wasn’t there. She tried to yell his name, but nothing came out but a thick wheeze. Her mind was frantic. She gauged the distance. Eben was still in his crib by the sound of his crying. It was still black—still night. Where was Clayton? Heat. Smoke.
Oh, my God—fire.
“Eben!” she wheezed again into the blackness, her voice a stifled croak, her lungs still struggling to expel the smoke. Her throat turned to sandpaper. That second attempt to speak brought on another coughing fit. She reached out and covered her mouth with the bed sheet. Still coughing, she spilled off the bed to the hardwood floor, landing on her shoulder. The sheet, still clutched to her face, pulled from the bed as she fell. The air was better down low and she was able to see just barely through one eye. It was like trying to stare through molasses as it was being poured onto her face. The coughing settled down. Blackened drool filled the section of sheet. She pressed her cheek directly on the cool wood of the floor and through the cotton sheet she took in as deep a breath as she could, then held it. Eben was still screaming. It was coming from every direction. Too many things were happening at once. She felt like she was losing her mind. Everything was spinning. Her heart thundered in her chest, and she was lost on her own bedroom floor. Eben’s screaming made her want to scream as well. The wood of the floor on her face wasn’t cool anymore. She had to get up. Her son needed her to get up. The monitor. It was the monitor making her son’s voice come from both sides. She focused on the further voice—his real voice. She reached out across the floor trying to remember where the door was. How could she not know the direction of her own door? Where were the windows? Where were the goddamn windows? A soft orange glow was coming from her left, or her right. She couldn’t tell exactly where. Her eyes were watering but she was able to see a little more now through both. She had to find the door. She began to crawl, sliding her belly across the floor, pulling herself along. If she could just find the wall.
Eben. Think of Eben.
She pulled herself to a wall and rubbed her hand along the baseboard. She followed it until she felt the molding of the doorframe. Her instincts told her to stand up, but she only lifted herself onto all fours and stopped.
Stay low, Kate. Stay low and get to your son.
The bed sheet caught on something as she inched through the open door, forcing her to let go. She lifted the collar of her T-shirt up over her nose and mouth, wetting it with saliva, and kept going until she was completely out into the hallway. The orange glow was everywhere now. In some places, she could make out the actual flames licking the walls of the hall toward the den and kitchen.
The den. Clayton. She yelled for her husband again, this time her voice ringing out.
“Clayton!”
The thick blanket of smoke was swelling down closer to the floor. It looked alive. If the devil was a living, breathing thing, then this was what it looked like, and it was moving toward her—toward her baby. She pulled herself down the hallway opposite the branching fire and knocked over a small table that held a lamp and a few family photos. It toppled onto her and one of the picture frames cut a gash across her scalp. The pain only sharpened her. It made her angry and she focused. “Eben,” she yelled. Her throat was still coarse and burning but her voice was louder now. It hurt to yell, but she didn’t care. “I’m coming, baby. Mama’s coming.” She shoved the broken table out of her way and slid a few more feet toward Eben’s room, staying as low to the floor as she could. When she felt the baseboard of the hallway give way to the doorjamb, she pulled herself in front of it with every bit of her strength and pushed. The door didn’t move. It was closed—and cool. She reached for the doorknob, careful to keep her face covered with the over-sized T-shirt. The brass knob was cool to the touch.
Hope flooded her brain. The smoke might not have reached Eben’s room yet. She turned the knob and pushed the door open. The cool air that rushed her face was like waking from a dream. She slid into the room, cutting her hip on the brass threshold, and swung the door closed behind her, kicking it shut with her bare feet. The air in the room was cool and normal. Moonlight shone in from the window. She lay flat on her back on the floor and took a deep breath of the clean air. She allowed herself only a second to let the sweet oxygen rush through her. The feeling of relief spread through her body until she could feel the tingle of it in her fingertips. She rubbed at her eyes and scrambled to her knees. Eben was still crying like crazy, but she could see him now standing there, holding onto the edge of his crib for support and knew he was okay. He’d be okay. She’d be okay. He had saved her life with his screaming. She could snatch him up and slip out that window to the safety of the night outside. Clayton would be waiting right outside—right outside that window. She knew he’d be coming for Eben, too. “I’m here, baby boy,” she said. “I’m here. Everything is going to be all right.”
<
br /> “I wouldn’t bet on that, bitch.”
Kate twisted on her knees to see Tate Viner blending into the darkness at the foot of Eben’s crib. Without thinking, she lunged at the shadow figure. She surprised Tate but only managed to wind him a little, before she fell back to the floor. Once he got his weight on top of her, there was no contest. Her lungs had nothing. Her strength was gone. His hands covered the entirety of her neck as she uselessly picked at his calloused fingers to pry them loose. They only tightened. She tried to turn her head, to see her son—just once—but she couldn’t. If she could just motion to the window, Clayton would be there. He had to be there. He was always there.
He wasn’t.
I’m sorry, baby boy. I’m so sorry.
She repeated those words over and over in her head until a blackness settled down on her deeper and more absolute than the smoke filling her home.
*
Clayton woke up sweating. The light and haze surrounding him threw off his senses, but the fire spreading from the fireplace and swiftly moving its way across the carpet and up the walls sharpened him and brought him quickly into the moment. He was on the floor between the couch and the coffee table. The heavy oak table was slow to burn and was serving as a barrier between him and the flames. That table had most likely been what kept the flames off him and kept him alive. He was suddenly aware of the throbbing pain and the knot on the side of his head. He had been hit. A man was in his house. How long had he been there? How long had Clayton been passed out? Where was... “Kate!” he shouted, and pulled himself out of the crevice he was in. He knew fire. He’d been around enough firemen to know he had to stay low. He looked toward the hallway leading back to the bedrooms. It was engulfed. “Kate!” he yelled again. No answer, nothing but the crackle of the red-and-orange beast chewing away at his home. His hip and leg were killing him, but the pain only made him move faster. He crawled his way into the kitchen, which was the path of least resistance and pushed the chairs and kitchen table out of his way from underneath. Huge flames rolling over the door and licking at the ceiling blocked the entrance to the house. It was so hot. The air was thinning and the acrid taste of phosphorous was making his mouth fill with spit. He looked up at the window above the sink. He wasn’t sure he could get through it, but it was the only way out. He had to make it work. If he could get outside, he could move around the house to the bedroom windows. “Kate!” he screamed a final time; still no response. He crawled to the cabinets under the sink and opened them. He pulled out a red-and-white checkered tablecloth Kate kept under there for when company came over. He carefully pulled himself upright and grabbed a blender off the counter. With as much force as he could muster, he took the heavy steel base of the blender and smashed the window, knocking out the frame and most of the glass. The cool night air rushed at his face but it also fed the flames that had followed him into the kitchen and were now covering the archway. The heat on his back was unbearable. He wrapped his fist with the tablecloth and ran a padded hand around the edges of the window, clearing the rest of the glass. He ignored the pain in his leg as he awkwardly got a foothold on the counter and pulled his entire weight through the hole he’d made. For the second time in twenty-four hours Clayton fell to his knees, this time after tumbling through a massive thicket of red-tipped azaleas. The small branches cut his face and tore at his clothes, but he quickly dropped flat and rolled several feet out into the cool, dew-covered grass. He didn’t allow himself to rest in the comfortable safety outside, as he scrambled to his feet and made for the back of the house. The pain in his leg and side was practically unbearable. “Kate!” he yelled over and over as he ran. The windows to the bedroom were dark and still locked. That meant no one had come through them. He banged on both of them with the fist he still had wrapped in the tablecloth. He knew that if the fire hadn’t pushed its way in there already, busting the windows open would only pull it in, so he held his bare hand up to the glass. It was hot on his palm, but not enough to burn him. He looked in and could make out the shape of the bed. More importantly, he could see that Kate wasn’t in it. “Where are you?” he said out loud, but immediately knew the answer to that question. He knew exactly where she’d be if she were able to get out of the room. He continued around the house to Eben’s window. It was wide open. A tidal wave of relief rushed over him.
She got out. She got to Eben and they got out.
He was panting, and leaned down on his knees as he screamed her name again. He still got no response from her, but this time he could hear something. He could hear Eben crying. The boy was still in the house. Clayton pulled the collar of his shirt up to cover his nose and mouth and stuck his head into Eben’s window. His son was on his back still lying in his crib. The baby’s screams chilled Clayton’s blood. He’d never heard anything like it.
“Hold on, buddy, I’m coming.” He shook the tablecloth free of any shards of glass, balanced himself on the window ledge and tossed the red-and-white material into the crib. Clayton stretched his arm into the room as far as he could, grabbed hold of the crib’s railing and pulled. Once it was where he could reach down into it, he covered the baby with the tablecloth and pulled his son out of the window and into the safety of his arms.
Then he collapsed.
He fell on his back into the grass with his eyes closed, and held his son close to his chest. Eben kept screaming but he was safe. They were safe. His eyes popped open.
Kate.
He struggled to make it to his knees. He needed to set Eben down somewhere safe and go back in, but before he could stand, he noticed something that took him a few seconds to process. Kate’s Jeep—it wasn’t there. Kate wasn’t there. Where would she go? She would never leave Eben in the middle of the night without letting Clayton know. She would never just leave. Another tidal wave washed over Clayton as the reality of the situation made his head spin.
Jesus Christ. No—
He carried Eben and limped to the Bronco parked next to where Kate’s Jeep should’ve been, and nestled the hysterical baby into the safety-seat in the back. He swung open the driver’s door and snatched the handset from the radio. His first call was 911, and then he switched it over to the channel he knew only one person would be listening to.
“Mike! Come in. Mike!”
“Clayton?”
“Mike! I wasn’t the target. They didn’t come for me.”
“What are you talking about, Clayton?”
“Mike, they have Kate.”
23
LITTLE FINGER RAPIDS
Coot Viner laid his Smith & Wesson .357 on a particleboard shelf inside the shack he’d found out by the small rapids. The inside of the four-by-six shed was covered in Freddy Tuten’s dried blood and it stank like hell. Tate was effective in extracting information, but his methods were sloppy. Coot stepped to the entrance and took a piss directly out the front door. It made a puddle in the dirt and mud. He zipped his jeans, and cupped his fingerless gloved hands together over his mouth and breathed heavily into his palms to try and keep his face warm. The mountain wind had turned cold and cut through the trees and off the water like a thunderstorm of razor blades. He pulled his baseball cap down tight over his brow and rubbed his hands together for the friction as he stood on the rickety front stoop of the shack. His wind-chapped cheeks were a brighter shade of pink, and the weather shift made him eager to get home, but that changed when he saw the headlights appear from the main road above him. He called out to Donnie who had been down at the water’s edge, drinking whiskey straight from the bottle.
“Heads up, cousin. It’s game time.”
Donnie had done enough amphetamines to make him immune to the biting weather and was trying to even himself out with the liquor. He screwed the cap on his bottle, joined Coot at the shack, and pulled out a fat baggie of a yellowish caked-up powder. He huffed a bump off one of his overgrown pinky nails. Coot felt at his own dwindling supply in his jacket pocket. He looked at Donnie’s baggie with envy.
“Y
ou’ve had enough, Donnie. Save the rest for the drive home.”
Donnie didn’t argue, but snorted another bump anyway. He held the open baggie out. Coot snatched it and huffed a bump off his key to the Tracker. The fire and rush of adrenaline from the dope instantly warmed him up. They both watched through watery, bloodshot eyes, as their cousin maneuvered Kate’s canary-yellow Jeep Wrangler through the trees until it came to a stop in the clearing next to Coot’s Tracker. Tate got out of the Jeep, cupped a lighter, and lit a smoke.
Coot wiped his sore nose with the back of his hand. “You burn the house?”
“Yeah.”
“The sheriff, too?”
“Yeah.”
“You watch him fry?”
“No.”
“So how do you know he’s dead?”
“He’s dead, Coot. I promise you.”
“You promise me.” Coot mocked his cousin’s choice of words.
Tate lifted his hands in the air. “I brained him, and I set him and the place on fire. What else you want?”
“Nothing. How about the kid?”
Tate hesitated for just a second and pulled in a chest full of warm smoke. “Coot, Twyla said not to hurt anybody in the family. We shouldn’t even be out here.”
Coot grabbed him by a handful of his coat. “I don’t give a damn what Mama said. I asked you a question. Did you handle the kid?”
Tate yanked himself free of Coot’s grip. “Yeah, I handled the kid, but when all this is said and done, that shit is on you. You’re the one who’s gonna tell Twyla what happened, and you can leave me out of it. I’m not going to answer to her for you going off the reservation on this.”
“I’ll handle Mama.”
“You better.”
“You threatening me, Tate?” Coot sniffed at the meth stuck in his nostrils that was making his nose run.
“Calm down, Coot. I’m just sayin’. I did what you asked, like I always do without question. I just don’t want that woman pissed at me—and she’s gonna be pissed.”
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