Nitro Mountain (15 page)

“Well,” Larry says, “as long as it's for medicinal purposes.”

Behind the bar, he pulls him a cold draft. Sunlight comes in the front window through the jar of pickled eggs on the counter and sends wobbly prisms across the wall. Jones has been in the Hickory this early only once, the time he had to sleep here because Larry hid his keys.

He takes a swallow even before the pint glass touches the bar. It's cold and yellow. Larry tells him to drink it slow, then goes into the kitchen. Jones puts it down and lets it sit there in front of him while he counts to a hundred and twenty.

Pans clatter back there, and by the time the beer's half done Larry comes out with a plate of scrambled eggs, toast and fried bologna. “You're looking pale. Better eat something.”

“Yeah, I better.” And like a humble bum in prayer, he picks up a fork and leans over the plate.

The van leaves exhaust hanging behind it in the road. Larry sits in a chair in his empty barroom. Jones still hasn't fixed that oil leak. Larry remembers when he was that age, but back then people had more respect. None of this sleeping around business. Well, okay, maybe there was some, but still, folks had more respect for one another. And for themselves, damn it.

He calls Tiff and asks if she can cover the bar the next night or two. “It's going to be a pretty big show this evening,” he says. “The Jaguars are playing. I might be around tomorrow to help out.”

He closes up but doesn't bother hanging the sign on the locked door. Tiff will be here on time. She's how young people ought to be.

B
ackward, that's how this world is.

Turner got suspended twice for what he calls “necessary unnecessary roughness.” When the sheriff, a man going by Ricky, suspended him the second time, Turner swung on him. And Ricky, he told Larry, vanished right in front of him, then reappeared behind him and choked him out. “He's a magical man,” Turner said. “I don't mess with magical men no more. I said this to Mr. Ricky, trying to get my job back, I said, ‘You are a magical man, Ricky, and I will not mess with you no more.' ”

His service Glock was taken from him, along with the badge (not before he xeroxed it)—the only things in life that loaned him any dignity—and though he now operates outside the force, he doesn't carry a gun because the written law is something to be respected. If Turner can't carry firearms, well, so be it, he's got something just as good.

Turner limps in place next to his hubcapless Impala on top of South Hill. The slope where he parked is worn bare from sickly cattle, hoof-patterns in the mud all around him. The wind is strong up here, and he holds down his hair with one hand while the other blocks the sun from his eyes. He squints over toward the Lookout, watching Ricky and a handful of other young uniformed fucksticks string yellow tape around the inn.

They've already been along the ridge. He heard sirens down there near where he'd been last night. Glad he didn't go back looking.

Years ago, when Jack was building this place, Turner was still an officer of the law, but he let the project go. He figured if the construction didn't cause an explosion or collapse into the earth, then the lunatic had earned it. But now he's an officer not by law but by force, the same force he had witnessed and respected in Jack, and he hopes he doesn't have to shoot Arnett, the nephew, with this damn crossbow. But he will if he has to. He once took down a deer from a hundred yards. He aimed high and the arrow just dropped right on top of it. He'd hate to see what it does to a human face. Well, probably just a quick hole and a spot of blood before the guy falls over sideways like in a western.

He reaches through the back window for the crossbow, but it's too wide and gets stuck. He pulls harder and the damn thing goes off. The arrow pierces the seat foam and hits metal. He looks around, opens the door, pulls out the arrow and loads it back into the sliding lock, nicked tip and all.

Clouds chase their shadows over the valley of trees and across the hills and over the ravine and then past the raw clapboard hillbilly palace sitting in the middle of all the mud. From here it looks like a landfill with heaps of stuff and everything smoke gray or clay red. When he passed by on the access last night, that rat bastard was probably running around in the dark. No way was Turner getting out. He'd only stepped out of the car once to let go of an arrow, just to set things straight and get them going on the right track.

The tape's up now and evidently they're done poking around. Arnett's nowhere in sight. Probably watching them from some tree. They're never going to catch him. Look at them, standing around picking their assholes.

Turner brings out his telescope and the Lookout comes into focus. That tin roof, rusted the color of dried blood. The leaning walls and collapsing porch made from unpainted sawmill slabs puzzled together to make a structure that defies all logic and gravity itself. Some stained pink sheets and shirts on the clothesline in the side yard, advertising what Arnett has been cooking and selling. Probably pretty good stuff.

A couple pigs follow the troopers around and scatter when kicked at. The dogs slink and jog in a wide ring around all the action. They've known nothing but beatings followed by meals of uncooked rice and gunpowder. That's how Turner used to do it, too. Keep them crazy. Great hunters.

He watches the cops gather around Ricky, who's speaking to everyone with his hands in the air everywhere.

“Y'all ain't gonna find this bastard,” Turner says, then mouths words to match Ricky's arm movements: “Just, uh, I don't know, go, uh, go get him, go find him, he's got to be somewhere up here, just go get him, hear me?” Ricky goes into the house, and the rest of the men load into patrol jeeps and drive back down the access in a tight line.

Whatever Turner has to do to find Arnett and put him away, it'll happen. This could win him his badge back.

Ricky comes out onto the porch shaking his head, looking around. He gets into the last vehicle left, a tan Bronco with tall antennas, and skids out in a furious tail of gravel dust.

“Ooo-hoo, boys, somebody's frustrated,” Turner says.

As the Bronco rolls down the access, he looks up at the widow's walk. There's movement up there. He raises his telescope.

Arnett, looking over the railing.

Son of a mother.

And what the hell's he holding? Turner adjusts the focus. A fiddle case?

Arnett opens a trapdoor and disappears.

Turner waits.

Finally Arnett comes out the front door carrying nothing besides that same case. He starts walking down the access, then cuts off into the woods. Dangerous bastard. Just like his uncle-daddy.

Turner Rides Again,
the headlines will say. Picture of Big T standing next to a new cruiser. He scratches the hives breaking out around his groin. Every time his job called for bravery, he got hives like this. At least they don't attack his face. Haven't yet, anyway. So long as they stay in the pants, he can pretend he'll do his duty, no problem. The burn after the scratching feels good. He pisses his underwear just a pinch to hydrate the welts.

So. He'll follow Sapple Lane back down to 231. Cruise that stretch for a while. That's the direction Arnett seemed to be heading. Turner works through his trousers with a clawed hand and continues scanning over to East Ridge. Down in there lies Arnett's mother. It's where Jack used to stash his shine too. He'd bury it in his wife's grave—the one spot nobody ever dared to go. But that ain't the deal now. This is some bona fide bullshit.

Where would Arnett go now that his last refuge is gone? Easy: where he's
not
supposed to go. Misty's. He'll go looking for Bob to ask for money, a place to hide, and that's where Turner will grab him.

A
rnett wipes cobwebs and dust off the window with his fingers, trying to make out who the hell's parked over there on South Hill. He looks harder but still can't tell. Can't even be sure there is anybody. All he sees in that big pasture is a carlike splotch. It ain't the cops. They already left.

He eats three cans of beans and gets ready for the hike. He can't wait any longer, got to go somewhere. If anybody's watching him, waiting for him, he'll throw them off. He'll walk out the front door like a normal man who just killed out of self-defense, start down the access a little ways and make them think he's headed for 231. Then he'll loop around through the gulch over to the other side of the mountain, jog down the western access to 15 and hitch a ride into Ashland. It's a long walk, but that's what's got to happen. He'll get a room at the Lakewood. They go by the hour there. Buy himself some time to decide what to do.

Burrs are clinging to his shirt and pants by the time he steps out onto 15 with the fiddle case in hand. On the other side of the road are cedar posts holding up miles of wire. In the tall grass beyond, bony heifers stand motionless with their heads bowed. Crazy that they know how to stay alive.

He goes back into the bushes on the westbound shoulder and through the leaves he can see every car coming down off the mountain. Heat dances in the distance. No cars at all.

The cows drift closer, heads lifted and mouths chewing sideways circles in stupid curiosity. His stomach twists in pain. A truck roars toward him but it's some kind of business rig. Can't do that.

Finally a sedan comes crawling through the heat waves like a mirage. He steps onto the shoulder holding his thumb out.

He pulls on the handle but it's locked. When the electric window whines open a crack, he feels air-conditioning and smells chewing gum. “Where you going?” the man behind the wheel asks. “Do you smoke?”

“Just into Ashland,” Arnett says.

“Do you believe in aliens?”

Arnett ignores that. “Yeah,” he says. “I smoke.”

“I can't take you, then. You're the test subject of a long-term extraterrestrial experiment. That's why they have you smoking. I'm at risk already. They're probably tapping this conversation right now.”