Nitro Mountain (19 page)

L
arry knocks and Sharon cracks open the door, the chain pulling taut as she peers out.

“It's okay,” he says. “It's just me.”

“I can see that.” She unlatches the chain.

He drags from his cigarette, bends and stubs it in the bucket of sand. He steps past her, leaving the door for her to shut.

“Don't bring all that inside with you,” she says, fanning out the smoke.

“It's hot in here,” he says.

He holds the doorframe to the kitchen for balance while stepping on the heel of his shoe to get it off. “I'm not working tonight,” he says. “Probably not tomorrow.”

“Don't you have the Jaguars booked tonight? That's the show you were counting on this month. We can't dip into any more savings.”

“Tiff's got it covered.” He goes into the kitchen.

“Like hell she does.”

“She's a good girl, Sharon.”

“When you're around.”

“You don't know.”

“I've heard stories.”

“We're not starting this right now.”

He picks the phone off the counter and dials Turner's number. It rings a while. Of course. It's Turner. The light angles in through the window and slips across the table. Larry hasn't been in the house at this hour of the day in a long time. Sharon's standing in the doorway watching him.

He covers the receiver with his hand. “Just a minute, Share. I'm just…”

Finally Turner answers. “Yeah, what?”

When Larry holds up his index finger, she throws her hands in the air and goes back into the living room.

“Who's calling Turner at this hour?” Turner says. “Who?” He sounds beer drunk.

“It's Larry. I got to tell you something.”

“That's better. Report findings.”

“Listen, Turner. This is about Arnett.”

“Where's he at?”

“I don't know. But I got to tell you. I called the cops.”

“I saw them. I'll forgive you this time. Guess who else I saw. Him. This morning at the Lookout. Ricky and them missed him entirely.”

“Why didn't you take him?”

“I didn't say I was
there
. I was over on South Mountain, surveilling the place. Anyways, I know where he's going.”

“So why you asking if I know where he's at?”

“Old trooper-trust exercise. Remember? Don't worry. You passed.”

“How you plan on finding him?”

“I been doing my research. He can't stay on that mountain forever. Where's the one place in the county he still has a friend?”

“You tell
me
,” Larry says.

“Misty's,” Turner says. “He gonna come looking for little old Bobby.”

“But how in the hell would he rationalize going into Bordon? You need to call the real cops about what you saw.”

“They already had their chance,” Turner says. “This here's mine. Listen, Larry, you let me know if you want to get in on this. We could ride again, buddy.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“I'm just saying. I know you itching for some action.”

“I've had enough of it. I like who I am.”

“This could be your chance to get back in the business. A big catch.”

“Aw, come on. I ain't about to get mixed up in this shit.”

“Dollars.”

“You need to leave this to the cops. I hate to say it—I shouldn't have even called you.”

“I
am
the cops,” Turner says. “And now everybody's gonna fess up to that and pay me for the safety I provide.”

“Are you drinking?”

“I'm sitting here in Misty's right now. Staked out.”

“Shit,” Larry says. “If I don't hear you've straightened things by midnight, I'm calling Ricky myself and telling him everything you just told me.”

“You don't trust Ricky any more than I do. They should've been there for you when you were in court with Jack. They could've pressed your warrant, validated the CPS call and convicted that monster. Instead they made you go it alone.”

“I don't need any reminders. It's done now and I'm living a good life.”

“I know exactly what's going on. And let me say this. What Arnett's done is huge. Everything all over again. I know you know.” He pauses, and Larry hears him take a swallow. “And it's right in line with what's been going on over there for ten years on that mountain.”

“All I'm saying…”

“If you don't wanna join my force,” Turner says, “stay out of it from here on.”

“I absolutely do not. You by yourself there?”

“I did some sweeping earlier.”

Larry looks up and sees Sharon stepping into the kitchen. “Well, don't make a mess of it,” he says. “If he shows up, that's when you call the cops.”

The phone cuts off. Sharon leaves the room and Larry just sits there. He hears her go out the front door. She stays gone for a while. Then she comes back, holding out her cell phone. “I just called the police, Larry, and told them to go check on Turner. He's at Misty's, right? I don't mean to be getting in your business. But I do not trust that man. I want to make sure you're safe. That's the first thing I care about. I hope you're not mad.”

Larry stares at nothing. “No, no,” he says. “That's the right thing to do.”

“Do you believe that?”

“No.”

“Do you hate me for calling them?”

“No.”

She runs her fingers through his hair, and then holds his face in her hands. “You're exhausted. Let's go lie down.”

“I don't know how to handle this stuff,” he says.

“I know it,” she says. “Why should you?”

She gets some candles going, pours him a glass of wine, puts a chicken in to roast and boils some potatoes. She makes sure he eats a lot.

Now she waits for all that food and the wine and TV to do what they're supposed to do to a man. Put him to sleep. Set his mind at rest. Plus the sound of rain beginning to patter on the roof. They're lounging together on the couch. She points the remote at the TV and turns it off so it's just the raindrops and each other.

Larry's having the hardest time he's ever had. She can feel him worrying. And she knows he's worried for Jones Young, who's like a son to him. Those two have helped each other through so much, and now Larry doesn't know how to go about helping him. Just as she doesn't know how to go about helping Larry.

Palpable
's the word that keeps coming to her.
Palpable
. She learned that one when she took a class at the community college. She's always liked words, and though she doesn't know too many,
palpable
's like when somebody doesn't respect you and won't say so but you know it. You can feel it. That's palpable. Her first husband sure was. Or when somebody loves you so much they don't even need to say it. That's palpable too. Guess what Larry is?

His feet are on the armrest right next to her head. She finds one with her free hand, squeezes it, then rolls off the couch, careful not to spill the open bottle of red onto the carpet.

“Cork that thing, will you,” Larry says without looking.

“Say what?”

“Please,” he says.

She looks at him lying there. Why won't he quit staring at the ceiling? Ever since that phone call to Turner, she's been waiting for him to fall asleep so she can check up on things and see if they found him. “You sure you don't want any more wine?” she says.

“Ask me one more time and I just might take some so you'll quit asking.”

“Well, then.” She pours him another glass. “Want another, want another, want another?”

“Thank you.” He sits up and throws it back.

“You'll cause a leak up there if you keep staring.”

She takes the bottle into the kitchen and looks at the answering machine for messages, even though she knows nobody's called.

She washes their dishes, the pot she boiled the potatoes in. She dries everything off with a hand towel, puts everything away and then opens the oven. There's the rest of that chicken, mostly just bones and some scalded skin around the legs. She should clean that up before it dries out and sticks to the baking sheet, but she doesn't feel like dealing with it right now. She'll start soup out of it tomorrow morning, leave it be for tonight. She cooked a meal for a man she loves. Nothing beats that.

In the living room, Larry's pulled the quilt off the back of the couch and tossed it over his knees, his head turned to the side, his eyes closed. She says his name and he furrows his brow. She watches him for a while, kneels down beside him, says his name again. He's out.

She goes back to the kitchen, picks up the phone and puts in a request for an officer to check on the Hickory after they check on Misty's. The operator asks her to hold. She can feel something's up. It's palpable.

D
riving Jennifer's truck back to the Lookout, Arnett stops at the only station on this side of 15, fills the tank and splits before paying. He looks in the side mirror to see a woman trotting out to the pumps, cell phone to her head.

Fuck the speed limit. Fuck the limit of speed. He found a little bit in Jennifer's glove compartment in a baggie and it was already crushed. Probably his at one point, his now for sure. Pain erupts in his belly and causes him to swerve. Stay on the road. He never thought being a liquorholic would work to his favor, but he ain't dead yet. It's like he's been training his gut for this very occasion.

The tires over wet asphalt sound like a long sheet of paper getting torn and torn and torn. The Buzzard Hollow sign flashes on the right. That road rolls up and down along East Ridge for hours into Kentucky, then flattens out once you hit Tennessee. A wild ride with lots of little pull-offs onto unmapped ATV trails. That girl, Rachel—she liked the drive. She wouldn't admit it, though Arnett could tell. She's safe from all harm now. He puts his own twist on a classic country tune he remembers Jones singing: “Her mama said, ‘No, she's my only daughter,' but she got buried on the Tennessee border.” Jones couldn't ever make up a line like that. Maybe Arnett should go into the entertainment business and show everybody how it's done.

About a mile ahead on the left is the access road that comes up behind Nitro, right near where he buried Leon. It runs close enough to the Lookout.

Yellow tape and traffic cones block the entrance to the access but Arnett blasts straight through, exploding the cones in all directions into the woods, tape streaming from the grille and rooftop running lights as he rattles over roots and splashes through potholes.

At the switchback where the access turns downhill again, he continues straight up until trees stop him. He parks amid soft rain and walks to the top of the mountain into his own backyard. Wet and shivering, he goes to the shed for a jar. He flicks his lighter and finds a translucent blue Ball on the highest shelf, nearly out of reach. There it is, Jack's personal stash. A good ten years old. Jack must've used a stepladder to get up so high. Arnett never planned to drink it until the day he met the man again and kicked his ass. But tonight'll have to do. It'll be smoother and stronger than that other splo. He grabs hold, then turns it to the side to judge how much is in there. Mostly full. Enough to do the trick.

The moonshine burns open inside him like a flame and thaws his shoulders. That rain's really cold. Or it's just him—he can't quit shaking. Whichever, this'll help. Another tug and he starts thinking about the new life in front of him. Two choices, neither one of them any good. But it's better than nothing. You could sit here quiet, wait for somebody to show and then figure things out. Turner, probably. Or you could keep to your principles. Drink more. Yes. Go find what's-his-name, the dude who fucked my girlfriend who tried to kill me—Jones. Jonesy. Jonesin' for Jones. That's what we need to do. We need to go find Jones. It's all coming together now. Also, wouldn't hurt to go see Old Bob, borrow his car and do some cash collecting.