A Swollen Red Sun (21 page)

He shot at a dog but missed. Blood ran down his arm in every direction. He aimed and shot again, and the mutt went down. To his right, another dog ran alongside the truck and tried to jump in. Jerry Dean slowed, and when the dog jumped up, he killed it.

He shifted into second and the ground was slick and the truck slid. Jerry Dean could drive no faster. With every bump, the knife moved, and when the knife moved, it cut a little deeper.

Beside him, a brindle pit ran up to his door. He aimed and shot, and the pit fell to the ground and howled and became food for the other dogs. Jerry Dean could not believe all the dogs he’d killed. His ears rang. He hoped he hadn’t damaged his hearing.

He got to the bottom of Goat Hill, and the girl lay dead in the mud. He looked down at the knife and cussed her. He should have waited in the basement and shot them all.

Jerry Dean straddled her body with the tires. The rush of water was strong, and it was deeper than it was the last time he’d crossed. The hood would have gone under if there had been one. The inside would fill with water and pass through the cab. He gripped the wheel.

Why’d that dumb son of a bitch take the doors off?

He pulled the belt tight and gritted his teeth. Looked down at the knife and the dead dog. Spat. The pain he felt was immeasurable. He could not believe he was still alive.

Take a lot more than a knife wound to stop Jerry Dean.

With great reluctance, he engaged the four-wheel drive and pulled into the ford. The sound of the water was thunderous. He eased the truck into second gear and pushed the pedal down. Water slammed him from the side and blew the bucket out from under him. He jammed his feet into the floor and pushed his back against the cab. The Rottweiler disappeared through the open door, and he saw the gutbucket bobbing downstream.

The force of the wave was great, and the water from the ford was freezing. Jerry Dean squeezed the wheel with all he had. The might of the water pressed against the bone handle, and he howled in maddening pain. He stomped the pedal and the fenders went under and the engine was submerged in creek water—but the Dodge pulled hard and the tailpipe pushed a gush of black smoke under the waves.

The truck bucked and jumped and the ass end slid off the ramp, but the weight of the Cummins held the front end down. Both wheels burrowed deep into gravel and pulled the truck from the ford.

Jerry Dean saw a rutted field of hacked cornstalks and felt his life seeping from the wound. He could feel nothing below his chest. When the darkness came, he relaxed his grip on the wheel and slumped over, but the seat belt held him up and the truck ran for a hundred feet before it met the cornfield and lurched to a stop and the engine died.

Kent Pace was a pumpkin farmer in the low bottoms of the county. After the creek broke its banks and the flood came, he found the bed of an old pickup truck in his yard. He grabbed his son, and they rode the four-wheeler to check the fence lines for breaks and to discover what new adventure the storm debris had brought.

Kent followed a road of deep mud to the edge of his field, and they climbed off the machine and walked toward the creek. There was a heap of metal around the bend, wedged between a tree and an overhang of ancient rock that jutted from the bluff.

He held his son’s hand and they walked toward the truck and he saw there was a cab. It was the front of the truck that belonged to the back of the truck in his field.

There was a dead boy floating inside.

Kent crouched down and studied him. Stood and raised his hand to shield the sun. Looked up the creek to Valentine Ford. Set his son on the four-wheeler and used his cell phone and called the police. Told them his name. Where he lived. There was a body in his backyard that washed down from the ford.

“It’s strange,” he said. “Only one place to cross up past me, ’n’ that’s Goat Hill.”

Farmer Pace said they’d better send somebody. He had a bad feeling about that truck.

The Reverend scaled the sandstone wall of rock and crawled through the woods. His eyes were swollen from the tears he’d shed. He’d lost a wife and one son. Was betrayed by another—
Jerry Dean Skaggs.
So many times he’d wanted to tell him:
I’m your father, Jerry Dean. This
here path you must take.

It was a righteous path that led to untold glory.

But Jerry Dean was a sinner and a nonbeliever. The Reverend would need to convert him. Wash him free of lust and want. Baptize him at daybreak in the waters of the ford.

But things had not worked out that way. Any plan he’d had for salvation had failed.

Butch raised his fists to the sky. “Jerry Dean,” he yelled, “how could you betray me?”

The Reverend climbed rock hills and stumbled through washed-out ditches. Shivering from the cold. His shirt torn from his body in the flood. The sun was distant and gave little heat.

Below he heard sirens. They had found Jerry Dean, and somewhere poor Junior lay drowned. His new wife’s body had fallen by the water’s edge, and the Reverend yelled for Mama. His broken voice echoed in the holler.

Mama had betrayed him, too. Shot his wife in one of her fits. She’d been known to have them. She’d killed his first wife, too. Jerry Dean’s mom. She’d been the first one he’d taken, years after he had raped her and given her a son. He swore one day he would have her again, so he waited for her to raise the boy. Then he kidnapped her and brought her home and locked her in a cage.

But Mama’s insecurities boiled over, and jealousy got the best of her. One day while the Reverend went to town, Mama shot her with a pistol and fed her body to the dogs.

Mama promised him she’d changed, but the Reverend was a fool to believe it.

He struggled for breath and climbed until he found a well-trodden path used by hogs. It was heavily furrowed, and the mud holes filled with rain. He leaned against a tree to rest, and a loud noise crashed behind him. The Reverend held his breath, made his body still. Something behind him grunted loudly.

The Reverend looked from around the tree at a wild hog that hadn’t seen nourishment in a great while. It came at him with yellow eyes and a thick rancid froth at its mouth and slammed him from the side.

The Reverend cartwheeled through the air and landed on his stomach, wind forced from his chest. He heaved, tried to stand, but the hog snorted and rammed him with its head. Drove tusks through yielding flesh.

The Reverend sucked air and hollered and ribs broke loose from their cage and punctured lungs.

He rolled to his side and began to stand when the hog threw his head down and butted him. Knocked him back to the mud and crushed bones in his face. Wild sounds came from the beast as it bit him.

Another boar came running, and it charged the hog that had attacked the Reverend. There was a powerful conflict of brawn. Hogs crashed to the mud. Fought with their heads and plunged tusks into hide.

When the Reverend tried to stand, he was free. But he stood in great pain and bled abundantly from the wound. Broken ribs floated inside his lungs. He coughed, and blood burst from his mouth in a luminous mist and stained the leaves.

He made his way up the hill, and when he passed the pen, he saw his dogs were free. He found two dogs in the driveway. Both dead. He shook his fists and cursed Jerry Dean—and then he saw Mama, beside the house. The dogs had eaten the parts of her face that had not been shot off.

The Reverend limped into the shed and returned with a can of gasoline. He saturated the shed and made a wet line to the house. Doused the kitchen and the living room and took a seat in his chair. His family was gone. They waited for him on the other side.

He reached beside him and picked up a glass pipe and poured crank in the bowl. Leaned back in his recliner and kicked over the gas can with his foot.

He struck the butane torch and burst into flames and burned in his chair. The fire gave voice to his powerful screams, and the house burned up around him.

And there was no God waiting on the other side to call him home.

Banks called the station and said he would not be in for a while; he was taking a few days off. They said that was fine. They understood. Deputy Trent Tallent would fill in for Banks. He said he could use the hours.

Banks looked into Sheriff Feeler a little closer and did not like what he saw.

Herb was as crooked as a dog’s hind leg. That much Banks knew. Herb had a wife and a son—and according to Jackson, as well as his own detective work, a girlfriend he kept on the side.

Her name was Sue Ann Johnston. She was thirty-six but looked fifty-six, had two busts for possession and a face that showed a road map of drug use. She had a daughter that her mama raised and a tattoo on her wrist.

It was a butterfly that had been poorly constructed. Or perhaps it was a flower; Banks couldn’t tell. But she had looked at him queerly when he entered the Fuel Mart in his uniform and bought a can of Skoal.

Banks met her cautious stare with his own and wondered if she knew. About the money. Or the kid. Would she call Herb Feeler as soon as Banks left and tell him where he was? He compared evidence with instincts and allowed his curiosity to drive him. He had a thousand questions but no one to ask.

How deep into the rabbit hole had he stumbled?

Banks dug a little deeper and learned she was kin to Jerry Dean. He smiled to himself as the pieces fell in place. They were a cluster of lowlifes that ran in circles. Some connected by blood, some connected by drugs.

But once Herb’s political ambitions had come calling, he’d wanted to put his thug life behind him. Either way, Wade was a millstone once he was free. Now the kid was gone. So was Bazooka. Wade might be next. Which left Jerry Dean, and Banks wondered if Herb didn’t have plans for him as well. One way or another.

Banks had a bad feeling about Herb Feeler that kept gettin’ worse. He would do what it took to keep his pockets swelled. He had a ranch to pay for—and a wife and a kid and a crank whore—and the salary of an elected official in Gasconade County would only stretch so far.

It was easy to see how things had happened. Banks knew that as well as anyone.

But Herb had killed the kid. Banks knew it and could not forgive him. He also knew he’d best act fast before Herb started thinking about ways to get rid of
him
. Because sooner or later, if he hadn’t already, he would.

Jerry Dean Skaggs woke up in a hospital bed with his hand chained to the railing and a colostomy bag attached to his gut. It had been a long two days. The memories of what he’d seen and felt were dim. There’d been an ambulance ride and bright lights and strange voices. Doctors wearing masks.

But the rest was a blur of bewilderment and painkillers.

He took a deep breath and winced at the pain and watched dark fluid drain from under his gown. It filled a clear plastic bag that hung from his bed. He could not believe he was alive. He smiled despite the handcuffs and the bag and hoped he could make a deal.

Herb Feeler was the man they were looking for. Jerry Dean had done no wrong.

Except for stealing the truck and the tanks and killing those dogs. Then he thought about Mama and winced. Then he remembered the Desert Eagle and hoped it was lost in the ford.

A man walked through the door and introduced himself. His name was Dr. Chadwick. He said Jerry Dean was lucky.

“How you figure that, Doc?”

“Well, you’re alive, aren’tchya?”

Jerry Dean closed his eyes. Said that might be true, but things could always be better.

He looked down at his colostomy bag.

“You got a few people wanna talk to you, son.”

Jerry Dean nodded. “Reckon I do.”

“You feel like talkin’?

“Reckon I don’t.”

The doctor said, “OK.” He checked the numbers on a machine and grabbed a clipboard and left the room. Told Jerry Dean he didn’t blame him.

Jerry Dean had spent the whole morning thinking until he’d come up with a plan. He would not talk without his attorney. Not that he had one or could afford one. But that was the best he could do until he figured things out. Perhaps he would represent himself. Be his own attorney, and if he lost, he would demand a mistrial on the grounds of inadequate council. Jerry Dean knew a thing or two about the law.

This was not his first rodeo.

The best idea he came up with was just to play dumb, which would not be too hard. He’d say he smoked crank with the Reverend, long into the night, until the Reverend had finally lost it. Then he’d shot his wives and drowned his son. He’d even killed his dogs.

Son of a bitch was crazy. Jerry Dean had been lucky to survive.

That was a good plan. He’d done his best to save the girl. He would paint himself a brave man. Maybe the town would, too. He’d get a pardon from the mayor. Or a key to the city, however that worked. After all,
he was bringing down a crooked cop. Maybe he’d be famous. Do interviews. He thought about a piece of land he would buy and the double-wide he would put there. Hell, he could pick up Earl Lee’s place cheap, now that he wouldn’t be needing it. He could buy it from Bay Bank for a song.

And then he thought of all those beautiful pot plants waiting for him to harvest.

Jerry Dean smiled again at the thoughts of his future. Smiled so hard it hurt. He’d do his best to lead by example from here on out. And perhaps one day, when this was all said and done, and the fame had worn down and the dust had settled, he would find himself a new girl to replace the one he’d lost. Enjoy the hero’s status that bringing down police corruption would provide.

He coughed and his gut filled with pain and the bag moved. Jerry Dean closed his eyes as he floated toward a deep siesta and dreamed the dreams of champions.

Wade Brandt left prison a free man and made a promise to himself never to return. He was leaving Algoa for the last time and never coming back.

He had made that promise before—and inside he’d done what it took to survive—but this time, he swore, was different. He would walk out those gates a changed man. Into the arms of the woman who had saved him, through her letters and her phone calls. She had even sent pictures, though in them she’d been younger and prettier and substantially thinner.