A Swollen Red Sun (16 page)

Hastings left town not long after Jerry Dean. Drove his old Mustang. The car he’d owned since high school. Told his wife he was going to meet Banks. It was important and he could not call him.

He arrived at the Banks home to find it abandoned. Dale’s cruiser was parked in the garage, but his Bronco was gone. So was Jude’s Olds.

Hastings grabbed the spare key from its hiding place and unlocked the garage. He left Banks a note. They had to talk. If anyone knew what to do, it was Banks. He was honest and decent. The best cop he knew. The kind of father he would be before long.

Becky had surprised him with the news. She was having his baby. She hadn’t seen the doctor yet, but those tests weren’t wrong—not two in a row. Best she could figure, she was due come May. She liked that. Didn’t want to be fat in summer.

It was the best day of Bo Hastings’s life.

Hastings let off the gas and the Flowmasters rumbled, expelled backpressure. He eased onto the gravel, careful not to rev the pipes. He passed the turkey farm and parked at the bottom of Hog Trough Road. Sat in the car and gathered his thoughts.

What mess had he stumbled into?

He began the walk up Pigg Hollow. It was cold and dark, but he felt tough. He was well armed. Well trained. And now he had two people to fight for. He’d be a father soon. Had a family to protect and a name to restore. The legacy his old man ruined had newfound potential. Hastings knew it. Believed it. Thought about calling Banks but didn’t.

He looked back at his car getting smaller and darker. Coyotes wailed in the holler.

Hastings climbed through ruts and followed washed-out sections of road until it was gone and there was dirt and he could see the outline of a trailer in the glow of dusk.

He approached the mobile home with extreme caution. Drew his gun and released the safety. There were lights on inside. He smelled weed. He pushed his fear aside. Concentrated on the stairs and the screen door above it.

There was a fat beast of a man at the counter. Shotgun beside him. Music playing in the background. Hastings blocked it out. Led with his gun and climbed the steps and opened the door. Stepped inside. Told the man to raise his hands.

Bazooka Kincaid jumped.

“Dammit, boy, you scared the shit outta me.”

Hastings grinned and lowered his weapon. “Yeah, that was the point, dumbass.”

Bazooka looked disorientated. “What ’n the hell you doin’ up here? You ain’t suppost ta be here.”

Hastings shrugged. “You tell me. Cuz I got no idea. Hell, I thought you ’n’ Jerry Dean was tight.” He looked curiously at the drying pot plants that filled the room.

“We are tight.”

“Well, don’t sound like it, bein’s he’s the one sent me up here.”

“Huh?”

“Hell, yeah, he set you up.”

“What?”

Hastings nodded. “It’s true. He told me to come up here ’n’ arrest you.”

Bazooka Kincaid was nervous. He knew about the kid and the kid knew about him, but they were not supposed to meet in person. And if so, not like this.

Bazooka Kincaid looked at the joint burning on the counter. And the shotgun. “He told you to arrest me?”

“Don’t worry, I ain’t gonna. How could I explain it?”

Bazooka looked down at the kid’s gun.

Hastings grinned. “Well, I ain’t gonna shoot ya, either. Just tell me what the hell’s goin’ on here. And what’s this stolen money shit? I thought we was in this together.”

There were large marijuana plants that hung upside down from the ceiling and gave a pungent scent of skunk Hastings had not expected.

Bazooka Kincaid panicked. He did not trust Jerry Dean, and he did not trust the kid. He grabbed the gas can from the counter and doused it over his head and chest. Poured the rest on the floor.

“Get away from me, boy,” he screamed, and Hastings took a quick step back.

“Now, calm down,” Bo said, shocked. “You’re crazy.”

“Fuckin’ right I’m crazy, you faggot! Now, put that gun down, hoss, or I’ll light us both up.” He grabbed the joint and drew off it and reddened the end.

Hastings looked back toward the door. Thought about running but fought the urge.

Herb Feeler stepped from the dark hallway and startled Hastings.

“Damn, boss. Scared the shit outta me. So what the hell’s goin’ on here? What’s this about Banks takin’ our money?”

Herb Feeler drew his gun and shot Hastings in the neck.

He fell in front of the door and died by the gas can.

Bazooka jumped, stumbled backward.

“Holy fuck, Herb … Hell, I thought you was gonna let ’im shoot me.”

“Woulda made things easier if he had.”

Sheriff Feeler picked up the kid’s gun and shot Bazooka once in the chest.

Bazooka dropped against the stove and slid down to the floor. Herb fired a second round into the wall above him.

Sherriff Feeler stepped over Hastings and left the trailer and walked to his horse and mounted and rode down the hill.

Dale Banks left the Brandt farm in his old Bronco and drove home. It had been a long night with Olen. A night of powerful conversation and emotion. He’d enjoyed the time with his friend and was glad he could be there.

Once the night air had turned cold, they’d gone inside. Olen had taken a bath while Banks made a drink with a bottle of Early Times. It was hard to swallow, and Banks wondered if the bottle had gone bad.

He followed pictures on the wall, from room to room, the way Arlene arranged them. They told the story of a family, until it had broken. And then it was the two of them. Picture after picture.

Him on the tractor. With a chainsaw. Or a deer.

Her in the flowerbed. Or the kitchen.

But then the pictures stopped, and there were no more stories to tell.

Banks went back to the kitchen to pour out his drink. He saw a folder on a ledge where Olen sat and paid his bills. There were clippings from Wade’s numerous appearances in the town newspaper.

Banks knew Wade would be released in the next few days and wondered how the old man would take it. He’d been gone a few years, but he’d done his time, though much of it had been done in the hole from what Banks gathered.

He picked up a clipping and read it. It was old. Edges of the paper had turned yellow. Wade had outrun the cops in the middle of a snowstorm, but his car ran out of gas. They found him on the shoulder of the road with a stolen TV and a bag of magic mushrooms.

Banks left after that. Drove home and pulled in the driveway and parked and went inside. There was leftover pizza on the counter. He ate a few slices and drank some tea and brushed his teeth and went to bed.

When his phone began to vibrate on the nightstand, he woke up. Almost daylight. Banks cleared his throat and answered: Becky Hastings. She asked if Bo had left. It was late. Was he sleeping on their couch?

Banks wiped the sleep from his eyes and climbed out of bed and walked toward the window.

“Well, babe, he ain’t here.” Banks almost said he was. Tried to cover for his partner, like any good man would. But this was Hastings. A good kid. There was no need to lie.

Becky Hastings was in tears. Lying in an empty bed, sending messages. Wearing down the battery on her phone.

“Was he supposed to be here?”

“Yeah, Dale, he said y’all had to talk. Said it was important. So where the hell’s he at if he ain’t with you?”

Banks walked to the bathroom and threw water on his face.

“What time’d he leave?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “He gets home ’n’ he’s all worked up ’bout somethin’, Dale. I ain’t never seen ’im like this.”

“What’d he say?”

“That he had to go ’n’ talk with you. That’s it. He kissed me on the forehead. Told me he loved me ’n’ left.”

Banks told her he’d make a few calls and call her right back. He hadn’t talked to Bo in a while, but they’d find him. Told her not to worry.

He walked down the stairs into the kitchen in his underwear. Held his Glock with both hands, avoiding places in the floor where it was known to creak under stress.

Steph was asleep. Cell phone on her pillow.

Banks shook his head. Checked her window. Looked out into darkness and saw his own reflection. He checked Jake’s room and found him sleeping. TV on. Screen blue. Xbox controller on the floor.

Grace was asleep in her own little bed. Dreaming dreams he’d give anything to know.

Banks checked the windows and the doors. Everything looked safe. He walked back to the kitchen and sat down and grabbed his chew off the counter and packed a dip.

It was eight when he left the house in his cruiser. Wore his coat to fight the wind. It would soon be November, and there was a chill in the air that cut to the bone. The sky was gray with a promise of rain, and the roads were slick with leaves.

He drove through a smoke cloud of sweet cedar that blew from the stack of his closest neighbor. It would be a brutal winter. There was wood to split and stack. The ranks were lean. Where had summer gone?

He returned Becky Hastings’s call. She answered on the first ring. “Please tell me you found ’im, Dale?”

Banks exhaled a hard breath and told her he was sorry. He’d called twice. Left a message.

Becky sounded stronger than before. Said, “Dale, you’re his best friend… . Now, you tell me right now … is he messin’ around on me?”

Banks chuckled. “Well, God no, girl. That boy thinks the world of you.” He laughed again. Just to reassure her.

“Well, if that’s the case, then somethin’s wrong, Dale.
Somethin’s wrong.
I feel it in my heart. This ain’t like him.”

Banks sat at the end of his road with his foot on the brake and listened to her cry.

He said, “I don’t know where he might be. He was pretty shaken up over Mr. Hanson. Guess he told you ’bout that?”

“Yeah, he told me and it upset him bad, but he won’t talk about it.”

“Uh-huh. Guess that don’t surprise me none. Bo ain’t exactly a talker.”

“Dale, I’m worried. Somethin’s wrong here, I know it.”

“Becky, I promise you—” He saw a note under the windshield wiper that silenced him. He put the car in park.

She’d stopped crying again.

Banks opened the door and stood up. “Lemme jump off here a minute. Call ya back.”

“OK,” she said, and told him again this wasn’t like Bo.

Banks hung up the phone and pulled the slip of paper from behind the wiper and sat down and closed the door and read what the paper said.

Dale,

I know about the money. It’s OK I can fix this. Headin’ up past Barstow’s to straighten things out now. I’ll take care of this. Got good news to tell you, too.

Bo

Banks sat behind the wheel and a sensation of absolute fear overcame him.
Hastings knew about the money?
He drove the back of his head into the seat rest and closed his eyes. There were more thoughts inside his head than he was able to accommodate.

Banks pulled onto the road. He did not know where to go or who to trust.
Nobody was above temptation
. Every cop confronted it, and he hated himself for his own weakness. He wondered who the dirty cop was.
Winky?
The son of a bitch complained a lot, but he was true blue. Then again, so was Hastings. Then again, so was
he
.

Banks tore down the two-lane road with the tires barking.

He didn’t have a choice anymore. He picked up his phone and called Sheriff Feeler. Told him what he knew: Hastings was missing, his wife worried. Banks had a bad feeling where the kid might be.

“You need to get some guys up there, Herb. I’m a half hour out.”

“Where’s this at again?”

“Some trailer out past Ned Barstow’s turkey farm.”

Sheriff Feeler said he knew the place. He’d round up a posse. Help was on the way.

Banks passed Barstow’s and saw Hastings’s Mustang by the creek. Fought off a gut full of nausea and stopped. Got out. Saw both doors locked. Dust up ahead from the cruisers. He climbed back in the car and dropped it in gear and threw gravel as he climbed the hill.

At the top, there were two cruisers and a Dodge pickup that belonged to the sheriff. Winkler and another deputy, Trent Tallent, stood in front of a trailer with the windows broken out and a yard littered with debris. Everyone looked sick.

Banks knew it was bad. He pulled up in the yard and put the car in park.

Sheriff Herb walked toward him. Told him, “Don’t get out.”

Winkler, right behind him. “You don’t wanna see this, Dale.”

Banks pushed Herb aside. “What the fuck’s goin’ on up here? Where’s Bo?”

Winkler stepped in front of him. “Get back ’n your car, goddammit. We got state comin’. This is bad.”

Banks shoved Winkler hard, put his weight behind it. Winkler went down in the leaves. Arms fell limp to his side. He stayed on the ground. Yelled at Banks.

“Don’t go in there, Dale. The kid’s dead.”

Banks slowed his steps when he got to the porch. Looked back, saw the sheriff helping Winkler to his feet. He turned toward the trailer and walked up the steps and opened the door. Hastings lay on the floor, the side of his neck blown out. Skin alabaster white, eyes open. Carpet soaked in blood.

Across from Hastings was the rifleman. Massive through the chest and shoulders, with a wide gut to match. Mess of red hair and freckles.

There was a hole in his chest that Banks could see from the door. It was a small red circle, and at that moment it was hard to believe that a small red circle could kill a man.

He turned and saw their faces. Everyone looked guilty.

Banks walked down the steps and away from the trailer and puked in the weeds.

Many hours later, Banks was back at the station, deep in thought while the state processed the crime scene. They did their own investigation, and it didn’t look good. Rumors had already started: off-duty cop found dead beside Kincaid, known felon.

A gunfight late at night in a trailer full of pot plants.

There were things being said about Hastings and none of them good.
There was something about that guy
, they said.
Had a little too much of his daddy in him
. Even in death, they were against him. No one called him a thief, but no one called him a hero.