Tate inched forward on the bed, still holding onto the towel at his waist. “Well, hell, man, you done already got your revenge. What’s the point in killing me? I was just trying to get my family through all this without all the killing. Please, man. I was trying to do what’s right.”
Clayton’s eyes went cold and gray. “Leaving my wife to be raped and tortured is what you consider what’s right?”
“Please, Mr. Burroughs. I tried to stop it. I did.”
“Well, don’t worry. Kate stopped it. She drove a scaling knife through both of them, about twenty times each so’s I could tell. We threw their worthless bodies in a hole. It felt good doing it. There ain’t but one loose end left to tie up.” Clayton moved his cane to set the end on the carpet.
“So now you gonna kill me? Throw me in a hole, too, after I broke rank and showed you mercy?”
Clayton stood up. “No, Tate, I didn’t come here to kill you. I came here to tell you that your cousins are dead and thought you’d like to know who led me to you. Your own blood that sold you to me.”
Tate inched forward a little more, but Clayton looked unfazed.
“That bitch, Bessie May.”
“Oh, no. I haven’t seen Vanessa yet. It was Twyla. I guess she knew where you’d be. She wrote it all down pretty for me. After she helped get Kate to a hospital, she was more than happy to help me get to you. I guess you ain’t the favorite, after all.” Clayton crossed the room and set his hat down low on his brow. He twisted the knob on the door. He cracked it open and then stopped and turned around. Tate was standing now.
“You know what?” Clayton said. “I don’t want you thinkin’ I didn’t listen to what you said. You called it mercy, right? Well, one good turn deserves another, so here—” He opened his coat and removed the tactical knife he’d taken from Tate’s duffle. “Here’s your fighting chance.” He dropped the fixed-blade knife to the floor. “Goodbye, Tate. Best of luck to you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I know you don’t, but you will.” Clayton opened the door and stepped out into the night, but before the door closed, Nails McKenna leaned his head down and stepped in.
“I know you’re the one who done it.”
“What the fuck?” Tate made a quick move for the knife, but Nails kicked it under the bed and wrapped a massive arm around Tate’s neck. He pulled back on his deformed fist and squeezed the muscular black man with every bit of his strength. He lifted the six-foot Viner at least four inches off the floor and squeezed tighter and tighter. He pulled on his forearm until the veins in it bulged. Tate’s eyes went red as capillaries burst. His face turned a bright eggplant color as he tried to dig his fingers into the airtight gap between his neck and Nails’ arm. He flailed his legs, knocking over the lamp and side-table, but Nails didn’t give. Tate pushed both feet off the edge of the bed but only moved the big man back a few feet to the wall. Nails braced himself, and squeezed harder.
“I know you’re the one that done it,” he said again. Tate gurgled and tapped frantically on Nails’ arm for mercy—for just one more breath so he could explain. There was no mercy to be had. Tate finally stopped moving, but Nails held him suspended and limp. He waited out all the twitches, before dropping the dead weight to the floor.
“He was my friend.” Nails reached into his pocket and pulled out a photograph. It was the photograph Freddy Tuten had kept in his bar by the safe ever since he’d known the man. That picture of Freddy and his brother, Jacob, taken while they were both stationed in Korea, was the only thing Freddy cared about in this world. Freddy had told Nails all about the day that picture was taken one night at The Chute after everyone else had left and gone home. Freddy said he’d never talked to anyone about it before. It was the last time Nails could remember feeling human. That night meant everything to him. He laid the photograph on Tate’s body, and stood over it, replaying that single conversation in his mind between him and the only person in the world he considered his friend—a friend who was killed and dismembered for no reason. Nails stood in a trance over Tate’s body for nearly ten minutes before he used his good hand to unzip his fly and pissed all over him.
Clayton drove north for two hours without stopping. For the first time in a long time he didn’t find any comfort in being alone. He wanted to be with his family. He ran his hand down the length of the hickory walking stick lying across the passenger side seat of the Bronco. He’d gotten pretty attached to it over the past few days. For over a year now he’d had too much pride to use it. He didn’t care about pride much anymore. Pride had always let him down, or gotten people killed. He was done courting pride. It was time to be the man he wanted to be and not the man everyone expected him to be. That man was needed at McFalls Memorial with his wife and son, only there was one more thing to handle. He placed a call to Scabby Mike. By the time he reached McFalls County, it was all set up.
27
BURNT HICKORY POND
The sun was just beginning to come up over the water, and Clayton stood by the headstones that marked the final resting places of his father and both his brothers. This place was the most polarizing spot on the mountain for the youngest and only surviving member of the Burroughs clan. The pond was a battleground for his ghosts. Those from his childhood—of him and his brothers swinging out into the emerald water on a length of rope and old tractor tire—and those from the most recent years, and the men those children became. The ghosts of his past and present were in a constant struggle that had rooted him in shame and guilt for most of his adult life.
That was going to end today.
The pond was also a riddle. One he never thought much about until recently. It never made sense to him why Halford had buried their father there—but it did now. As Clayton watched Mike’s pick-up pull into the clearing, he moved to the back of the Bronco and popped the back latch. He removed two shovels and laid them against the truck. He pulled out a soft pack of smokes and held a crooked one in his hand for a long time without lighting it. He finally stuck it back in the pack and tossed them into the open window of the truck. He was done with that shit, too. Mike cut the engine and got out.
“Okay, man. I’m here. You want to tell me why you wanted me to meet you here? I thought we were going to finish this at the compound.”
“We are, but there’s something I want to show you first.” He grabbed one of the shovels and tossed it to Mike. He took the other one for himself. “C’mon.”
The pond rippled in the morning breeze, and the trees began to brighten in the sun. Clayton stopped in the saw grass that covered his deddy’s grave.
“Hey, Clayton, hold up.” Mike had stopped just shy of the patch of grass. “You ain’t thinking of digging someone up, are you?”
“Not someone, Mike, but something.”
Mike still didn’t come any closer.
“What’s the matter, Mike? You ain’t spooked about digging a hole, are you? You’ve dug more than anyone I know. You should be over that by now.”
“I just don’t understand, Clayton. Tell me what’s going on.”
Clayton read his deddy’s name out loud to the familiar tree line for maybe the last time. “Don’t worry, Mike. He’s not in there.”
“What makes you think that?”
“I just know.”
“Well, for whatever reason you’re thinking about doing this, maybe me being here to help ain’t such a good idea.”
Clayton sat his hat on the slab of granite. “And why’s that?”
“Because you’re the man’s son. You can do whatever you want to his grave, but I ain’t your kin. I can’t be known as the guy that dug up and defiled the bones of Gareth Burroughs. That kind of mojo can get me killed around here.”
Clayton jammed the shovel deep into the moist earth and grinned. “And that right there is exactly why I know there’s no bones in this box.”
“What right where?”
“Fear.”
“I don’t follow.”
&nbs
p; “Yes, you do, Mike. You were right. Halford wasn’t crazy. He was just our father’s son. Deddy learned early on that this whole house of cards—this whole mountain—is built on fear. It was the most valuable tool in the woodshed. I’m not tellin’ you something you don’t already know, Mike. Fear is the currency of kings out here, and whoever collected enough of it was able to keep shit flowing downhill in a straight line—away from them. Deddy was a master at it, and Halford was even better. If you convince everyone to be afraid of you long enough, it begins to get confused with respect. All the cogs in the Burroughs machine stayed oiled and running smooth for decades and the people here called it leadership, but the truth is everyone was just scared shitless of bucking them. After enough time passed, and enough stories got rewritten, it became legend.”
Mike wiped the first of the day’s sweat from his face. “I don’t know, Clayton. I didn’t stand by your brother because I was scared of him. I stood with him because I loved him.”
Clayton tossed a shovel full of dirt and grass to the side of the grave. “Do you remember the time Hal thought you had a thing for Michelle Wallen way back in the day? He held you by your shirt collar over the quarry by Pumpkin Center. What’s that drop? About seventy-five feet?”
Mike either didn’t know or he wouldn’t say. He just stood there holding the shovel.
Clayton pushed his red hair back out of his face. “You see what I mean about time getting things confused? He would have dropped you that day in front of everyone if you’d told him the truth.”
Mike thought on that a few beats. “Hey, hold on now, how do you know what happened between Michelle and me?”
Clayton curled his lip in a smirk. “I grew up to be a detective, Mike, remember?” He shoved the spade into the ground a second time. “It makes sense Hal would use that same fear to keep everyone away from his money, too. I mean, if you were to go digging for treasure, where’s the one place you wouldn’t dream of digging up without suffering the wrath of every man on this mountain?”
Mike nodded. “Gareth Burroughs’ grave.”
“Right—because that kind of mojo can get a man killed around here.”
“You’re a pretty smart fucker, Clayton. You get that big brain from that old man in there whether you wanna admit it or not.”
“I told you, Mike. There ain’t no old man here. My father is buried out in Cooper’s Field where he belongs. Only Halford would know exactly where, and he’ll never tell. That was a last fuck you from him to me.” He tossed more dirt.
“Now that, I believe.” Mike walked over and began to dig.
“You want to know something else?” Clayton asked.
“What’s that?”
“I think Hal wanted me to find it, too.”
Mike laughed. His ability to believe that one was sketchy at best. “Oh, yeah? And what in the world makes you think that?”
Clayton looked at Halford’s headstone just to the left of his father’s, and he kept looking at it while he spoke. “Because he buried him here. Why? It never made any sense to me. I think he knew it would bother me. He knew I’d never leave something alone if I couldn’t get my head around it. I think he knew eventually I’d figure it out. And like you said, I am the man’s son, right?”
Mike thought on that and hoisted the shovel. They dug for a while until they hit something solid. Mike felt the steel point of the spade hit wood hard enough to reverberate through the handle. It was a tight, muffled sound, not hollow like a coffin. With the side of the spade he scraped back enough dirt to see the plywood underneath him.
“Are you ready?” Clayton said.
Mike nodded and they both dropped to their knees. Clayton scraped his shovel along an entire edge of the crate until it was clear. Once he unearthed a corner, he stood back up and Mike used his shovel as a lever. He put everything he had into it, but it didn’t take much to crack the rotted wood. A corner of the board splintered and gave way. He set the shovel to the side, squatted back down and helped Clayton brush away more of the dirt. No odor of death. No stink of rotten meat. They pulled at the broken chunk of wood until it snapped off in their hands.
The cash inside was banded and wrapped in cellophane. Mike reached in and pulled out one of the dense bricks of mixed bills. “Well, fuck me runnin’.”
28
BURROUGHS SUMMIT
Clayton was still filthy from the dig at the pond as he sat on the front porch of his deddy’s house and looked out at the land he grew up on. It was nothing like the house he’d lived in as a child, but even though the house was now more of a fortress than a home, he couldn’t help but feel like a kid again, sitting in the sun, wishing he could be his big brother, and knowing that he never would be. It was strange now, seeing the place vacant and quiet like this. It filled Clayton with a longing he didn’t know he still had. A longing to belong to something that was never his to begin with. The slab of concrete that used to be the floor of the family barn—the place where his father died—was still there. He thought about Twyla Viner and the story she told. It made sense. More sense than believing his father did it to himself. The slab was covered in oil stains and dried mud from when Halford used it as a place to fix up old junkers and midnight-run cars, but Clayton thought he could still see the char marks on the concrete where his father burned to death over ten years ago. It was probably his imagination, but the thought of it still unnerved him. Clayton missed his father, as mean and spiteful as he might have been, and even though everyone on the mountain had come to know this place as The Burroughs Compound, to Clayton, it would always just be Deddy’s house. He took out his phone and dialed the hospital.
“Can you connect me to Room 1108, please?”
“Please hold.”
Clayton held the line and listened to a series of beeps until Charmaine Squire’s voice answered. “Clayton?”
“Hey, Charmaine, how’s she doing?”
Charmaine’s voice was hushed, but Clayton could tell she was excited. “Oh, my gosh, Clayton. She’s awake. She’s whacked out of her gourd, but she’s awake.”
Clayton stood up and grabbed his cane. “Is she talking?”
“The doctors said she’s not supposed to, but she’s been asking for you ever since she opened her eyes. You need to get your butt down here right now—wait a minute—hold on.”
Clayton heard muffled voices as Charmaine held the phone to her chest. “Clayton, you there?”
“Of course.”
“The doctor said just for a second—here.”
He waited.
“Clayton?” Kate’s voice was dry and rough.
“It’s me, baby. I’m here.”
“Where?”
“I was just wrapping up a few things at Deddy’s. I’m on my way.”
“Don’t be long.”
“I won’t.”
“Okay.”
“Kate? Kate, I love you.”
“I’ll tell her you said that, Clayton. She’s still in and out, but I’m sure she’ll be awake again by the time you get here. Will you be long?”
Clayton heard the car coming and sat back down on the steps. “No. Not at all.”
*
The BMW pulled through the open chain-link gate and circled around the gravel lot until it came to a stop in front of the porch. Vanessa cut the engine, and Clayton watched her as she inspected her make-up in the rearview mirror, and folded her sunglasses into a case she put in her purse. Without looking like she was in a hurry at all, she finally opened the door, and stepped out. She was taller than Clayton remembered, and this time her hair was jet black, and not the golden-blonde wig she wore at Lucky’s. With her hair dark like that she looked familiar to him, but the anger spiking his blood wouldn’t allow for more questions. Clayton hadn’t even noticed anything about her before. He noticed everything now.
“Clayton.”
“Vanessa.”
“Am I early?”
“Nope.”
“Um...” Vanessa looked aroun
d the property and held her hands up. “Did they walk here? Is Leek inside?”
Clayton scratched at his beard. “Nope.”
“Are we playing games here, Sheriff?”
Clayton squinted his eyes at her. “Nope.”
“I thought we were supposed to meet here and discuss our new partnership.”
“Is that what Mike told you?” Clayton tipped his hat and scratched at his head now. Vanessa was losing her patience.
“Yes. It is.”
“Well, I reckon we must’ve got our lines crossed somewhere. Bracken is back in Florida by now, I’m sure. It seems my family has come into a small windfall. One that will be enough to hold this place together without it becoming the opiate highway you were looking to turn it into.”
Vanessa glared at him. “Is that right?”
“Yes. That’s right. It makes one wonder if it was all worth it, doesn’t it? Killing our people, attacking my family, burning our home.” If there was any looseness in the way Clayton was handling this conversation, it fell away as he counted off the events of the past few days.
Vanessa let her hands lower. “Okay. I’m not sure what you’re implying, but I’m out of here.”
Clayton picked up his Colt from behind the railing and stood up. “Stop right there, and step away from the car, Vanessa.”
She kept her back to him, facing the BMW, and considered her options, and then she did exactly what Clayton thought she’d do. She went coy. She turned to him. “Oh, c’mon, Sheriff, do you still not trust me?” She had already unbuttoned her jacket almost as a reflex. “It’s like I told Mike, and now I’m telling you, I had nothing to do with what my brother and the others did. I’m just here to do business.”
Clayton aimed the gun. All the tremble he might’ve had in his hands just days ago had fallen away and he held the gun as steady as he ever had. “Get on your knees, Vanessa.” He took the two brick steps and walked forward.
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