A Swollen Red Sun (10 page)

That got Banks’s attention, and he froze.

“Oh, boy,” Jackson said. “Look at that face, man. Somebody’s been a bad cop.”

Banks felt like he’d just been run over by a semi.

“It’s true, then,” Jackson said.

“What money? What’re you talkin’ ’bout, convict?”

Jackson had a used car salesman grin that revealed a face full of meth mouth, bits and pieces of teeth in assorted states of decay.

“You
did
do it. For real
.
You really are bat-shit crazy, Sheriff.”

“First of all, I ain’t the damn sheriff, I’m a deputy. Second of all, asshole, I ain’t the one out robbin’ my own kin and killin’ their dogs. So don’t try ’n’ confuse your own white-trash existence with mine.”

“You don’t understand, man. You need me. We both want the same thing.”

“Yeah, what’s that?”

“See Jerry Dean go back to Algoa.”

Banks was in a tight spot, and he worked hard to bully up a poker face.

“Bullshit,” Banks said. “He’s your dope connection.”

“Yeah, Sheriff. I mean, Deputy, he is. But you don’t understand, man. I want
off
the shit, I do. It’s just too dang hard. And him comin’ ’round beatin’ on me and pushin’ that shit in my face don’t help none.”

Jackson was desperate, but Banks saw honesty in his words. “Just what exactly are you tryin’ to sell me?”

“I ain’t tryin’ ta sell you nothin’—but I’m gonna end up dead or in prison myself if he don’t go back. And that ain’t what I want, man.”

Banks removed his Skoal and thunked the lid. “Well, that’s the smartest thing you said all day.”

“That’s because I know it’s true. I want off that shit. I got plans. I’m openin’ a small engine shop. I can work on lawn mowers all day long, man.”

Banks never considered himself a good liar, but he held his own when he asked Jackson what money he was talking about.

Jackson put his head down and looked at the dirt.

“You know, the fifty-two g’s one of y’all took.” Jackson looked up at the deputy. “Man, I’m tellin’ ya, you don’t know what y’all’ve gotten yourselves into.”

Banks shook his head and lied poorly. “I ain’t got no idea what you’re talkin’ ’bout, convict. What would a low-life shit bum like Jerry Dean be doin’ with that much cash?”

“It ain’t all his. He splits it up with his guys, you know?”

“His partners?”

“Yep.”

“And who’re these partners?”

“C’mon, man, I cain’t say.”

“You best tell me.” Banks gave the mace a quick shake.

“All I know’s one of ’em’s a cop. They supply dope to the prison. But you didn’t hear none of this from me.”

Banks was genuinely stunned. “You’re tellin’ me there’s a cop in on this?”

“You mean you really don’t know?”

Banks didn’t answer. He had never considered the idea, nor had he expected it.

“Well, yeah.” Jackson shrugged and turned his palms up. “There’s a cop in on this.”

“A cop …” Banks shook his head in disbelief. He couldn’t finish.

“Yeah. Damn, man. There’s a cop involved.
Now
you know.”

Banks was dumbfounded. “I can’t believe a cop’d be stupid enough to get in cahoots with you idiots.”

Jackson threw his arms up dramatically. “Why’s that so damn hard to believe? You cops ain’t no better’n the rest of us. Hell, y’all’re worse. You think that badge is a right to steal.”

Banks spit brown juice in the weeds. They stood at the edge of the lower forty. Under a pecan tree where Sandy had spent many summers. It was her favorite spot to nap in the shade while Olen worked the land.

Banks looked at the fresh mound of dirt. Made more spit. Told Jackson to be straight with him. His future depended on it.

“Listen, all I know’s what he mumbled last night. He was madder’n I ever seen him. But more’n that … he was worried.”

“Go on,” Banks said.

“We’s smokin’ that shit, you know, gettin’ ready for my uncle—but I was hopin’ he wouldn’t come, I was.” Jackson looked nervous. Tried to swallow but had a hard time of it. “I need water, mister.”

Banks just stared at him.

“So anyway,” Jackson said, “Jerry Dean come by the house, and he’s madder’n a wet cat. He starts shakin’ me down, man. Like he always does. Takes the rest of
my
dope I got stashed and starts smokin’ it up. Says how you stole his money.”

“How
who
stole his money?”

“I dunno. I thought it was you. Thought that was why you showed up at my place.”

Banks shook his head. “Well, you thought wrong.”

He felt a cold wave of nausea run through him and spit juice on Jackson’s boot. He drove him back to his mama’s trailer and told him he would see him soon. It was in his best interest, Banks said, not to mention this to Jerry Dean.

Jackson swore he wouldn’t.

Banks spent the rest of the afternoon at the Brandt farm. He fed Olen’s cows and chickens. Saw to it that they had water. By a quarter of five, he arrived at the hospital. Olen was waiting out front. He met Banks at the curb, before he could park.

“You OK, Olen?”

“Just get me the hell outta here.”

“Sure thing, buddy. They
did
release you, right? You didn’t just sneak out, did you?”

Olen looked at Banks. “What if I did?”

Banks fought a grin. “Well, then I guess I’m helpin’ you escape.”

Olen nodded. “You damn right. Hell with them doctors.”

Banks had a good laugh and encouraged Olen to relax. “You hungry over there, hoss?” Banks asked. “I know that hospital food ain’t exactly home cookin’.”

Olen said he was starving. The food at the hospital was tasteless, and his iced tea had no flavor.

“What sounds good, partner? How ’bout a Silver Dollar?”

Olen said that’d be fine. He hadn’t had a Silver Dollar burger in … He tried to recall but wasn’t able.

“We’ve had many a burger there, haven’t we, old buddy?”

Olen looked back in time, nodded. “Lots of burgers, that’s right.”

The Silver Dollar was a metal shed nailed to a dirt parking lot on the side of Highway 19—a straight shot across from the Swiss processing plant. It had a reputation for the biggest cheeseburgers in a hundred miles. Burgers so monstrous they were served on kaiser buns and held together by wooden spears. They came with a steak knife to saw through the meat. The two had been eating there for years.

While they waited for the food, they chatted with the regulars who crowded their table to hear from Olen Brandt. Seemed the whole county knew what those tweakers done to his dog, and they were angry.

Olen told what he remembered. The death of Tom Cuddy. A wild turkey. A Chevy made of rust. He didn’t tell anyone he’d seen his family, or how badly he’d wanted to join them.

A short, round man with two chins who was stuffed into a pair of bib overalls said, “What color was that truck?”

Olen cocked his head and squinted. “It was”—he paused—“it was yella ’n’ white, I think. With a dark bed, I think. I know it didn’t have no gate on the tail end.”

The fat man shook his head. “I think I know that truck.”

Banks winced.

“Yeah, that’s that Skaggs boy from out yonder at Helmig Ferry.”

Suddenly, the room was filled with deep breaths being taken and hushed conversations. But no one was surprised.

“What’re y’all doin’ ’bout that, Dale?” someone asked.

Banks set his coffee cup down on the counter. Said they were looking into it.

“Well, we can’t be havin’ farmers out there gettin’ carjacked,” said the fat man.

The others agreed.

Banks nodded his head. Said that was true. “I’m pretty sure we’ll catch these turds. Just give us a few days to work the case.”

“What’s to work?” asked the fat man. “That Skaggs boy’s lower than a copperhead’s peter.” He nodded to the two ladies present. “Pardon my French, ladies—but you know what I mean, Dale. That Jerry Dean’s the same one shot that bald eagle a few years back.”

That got everyone talking and sounds of great disgust radiated from the crowd.

Banks knew it was true. Jerry Dean damn near outran Sheriff Feeler one night back when Herb had been a deputy. It was the first year he’d run for office. They were on a straight stretch outside Morrison. Jerry Dean was weaving back and forth across the white line when Herb ran up on him.

Herb followed. Gave him plenty of room. When the swerving got erratic, he lit him up. But Jerry Dean had other plans. He made a run for it, and did a fine job of running until he swerved to miss a ten-point buck and slid his truck into a wheat field.

The cruiser Herb was driving was the one and only car with a video camera so the episode already had the making of a country legend.

The chase ended as Jerry Dean stumbled drunkenly from his truck into the path of Herb’s cruiser and got hit by the bumper and thrown on the hood, his drunken face up close against the windshield.

When Herb searched the truck, he found a dead bald eagle riding shotgun with a wing blown off. Jerry Dean swore he’d found it on the road. Said he planned to glue it back on and turn him loose.

The arrest made big news. Because Herb arrested Jerry Dean with a bald eagle
and
because he hit him with his car. In an election year, that was gold. Herb Feeler was in like Flynn. He traded his cruiser for the sheriff’s truck. Then he strutted into office in a Stetson with a Fu Manchu and took the first of many steps he hoped would lead to the governor’s mansion.

They rode in silence to the Brandt farm. When they pulled in Olen’s driveway, Banks said he’d fed the livestock and tended the chickens.

“I set a dozen or so eggs on the porch. Inside that sun hat on your readin’ chair.”

Olen thanked him. “You didn’t have to do that, Dale. I don’t know how to repay you.”

“Aw, horseshit, Olen. Now, you don’t owe me a dang thing, and you know it. I’ve spent my life out here. Givin’ a friend a hand in return’s the least I can do.”

Olen wanted to fill the air with tears, but instead he laughed. He laughed at the thought of Banks on the Allis-Chalmers, in his uniform. Laughed at the thought of Banks in the chicken house.

He looked over, saw Banks had a stern look on his face.

“Before you even ask, yes, that damn rooster tried to attack me, Olen. Thought I’d have to mace him.”

Olen threw his head back and let out a sharp hoot.

They each drank a Coke and watched the fading sun go down from the old man’s porch, where it fell behind the barn in a pink death and burned into a purple ball that became night.

“You gonna be OK out here by yourself, old-timer?”

Olen took a deep breath. Face pale and tight.

Banks gave the old man’s shoulder a firm squeeze. Bid him good evening and promised to call in the morning.

Olen said, “OK.”

He thanked Banks again for all he’d done. When Banks drove away into the darkness, and when the last hint of red taillight began to fade, Olen finally realized he was alone, and he did his best not to cry.

Jerry Dean spent the night on Goat Hill and made a promise to himself never to return. He and the preacher smoked fresh product from a tall glass hookah that pulled the crank through fruit-flavored water that pooled in the bottom of a clear oversized bowl.

It was a two-man operation. One man would light the bowl with a butane torch while the other man hit the mouthpiece. Gravity pulled the smoke down into the water, and they sucked wisps of strawberry meth up the glass neck.

Butch Pogue soaked chemicals in coffee filters during the production of crank. When the batch was complete, he immersed the potent filters in fruit punch, then drank the punch over ice in a plastic shaker. He called it Jehovah’s Blood, and it propelled them into the night like rocket fuel—though the conversations it brought forth both mesmerized and terrified Jerry Dean.

The Reverend proclaimed himself a prophet. Said he’d taken a new wife. She was a young and beautiful soul who filled them with hope and enriched their lives with promise. The prophet said they kept her in the basement.

Jerry Dean was aghast when he looked at the old house, and his mind was invaded with unimaginable horrors at the thought of what might be in that basement.

Jerry Dean had only seen one of the Reverend’s wives. The big wife with the dirt face. She hadn’t left the hill in twenty years, not even when Butch did his stretch.

But Mama was a big-boned stocky
bulk
of a woman who knew how to work a knife. Jerry Dean was convinced she could take care of herself. She could live off the land in the Reverend’s absence as well as any man.

The cultivator and the preacher had smoked speed all night. Until the Jehovah’s Blood got the best of the Reverend, and he began to rant. It was a spiritual awakening that washed over him and cleansed Butch Pogue in a wave of Holy Gratitude.

Jerry Dean was getting out there about as far as he cared to go. His mind was warping and bending. But he was trapped. His place was on the hill until the Reverend said it wasn’t.

Butch stood on his soapbox and beckoned his family as he pounded his chest and gave thanks to the sun. He cast out the demons that slept in his mind and admonished the devils that swam in his heart. Screamed, “We have all been forgiven,” over and over again.

Jerry Dean turned and saw them stumble from the farmhouse. The big woman and her slow son and her husband’s new wife—her long brown hair combed to look straight, curls semi-restrained but ungovernable.

Butch Pogue tore off his shirt and flung it to the ground. “We do this for you, Oh Great One,” he screamed, voice dry and breaking. “I offer you this sacrifice.”

He yelled for Junior to bring him a pig.

Butch Pogue Junior was a man in body, but his mind was dawdling and unhurried. He’d never seen a movie or been to school. Jerry Dean wasn’t sure if he’d ever been down the mountain, and it would not surprise him to any degree if he hadn’t.

“C’mon, boy.
Bring me a pig,” the Prophet demanded.

Junior did as he was told. He nodded his head and shuffled his feet and disappeared into the woods for a longer period of time than Jerry Dean was able to account for—yet he was in awe of the strange ritual he found himself a part of. A bizarre ceremony with a perverted lunatic, a retarded son, and a stolen bride.