Nitro Mountain (20 page)

He carries the jar over to Jack's fender-rusted Cutlass resting in the side yard in a dark upgrowth of grass. Arnett had it running a few times this year for business purposes. Rachel rode in it once. Inside the car with the door shut, the sound of rain on the metal roof. Drink again, it's starting to work. Now, where's the keys? They used to be right in the ignition here. Where'd he hide them? He feels under the visor, under the seat. Flips on the ceiling light, and it glows over fast-food wrappers and empty Pall Mall packs. At least the battery's not dead. Then he checks underneath the floor mat. Boom time. The largest of the keys fits into the ignition, and the engine catches and fails. Never did start the first go-round. He pumps the gas when he finally hears it cough. Okay, this shit is working.

He swallows more of the clear corn fire, takes the handkerchief from his pocket and wipes his eyes.

He follows the front access down to 231, then hits the back roads quick as possible. A few small streets with no names, just numbers—651, 238, 119. Every now and then a cluster of trailers pops up. Both low beams are gone so he's got to use the brights, and surely the tags have expired. The gas gauge shows a solid quarter tank. The oil light's a sick, feeble orange. Be lucky not to throw a rod in this sucker. And speaking of that, he should've fucked Jennifer before he left her there, then poked her again in her bleeding bullet hole.

He's drunk as fuck and starts wondering if he missed a turn. He climbs a hill, drinks more, leaves the jar open between his legs. A familiar sycamore appears, giant and sprawling, marking the right-angle turn he's made so many times. Close now. He turns off the headlights and slows down. It's dark as hell out and the jar's almost gone. He turns his head sideways and keeps one eye open, following the lines on the road. Better not fuck this up. Keep straight, goddamn it, keep
straight
.

He pulls off onto the shoulder, just a little short of Misty's. The grass is up to the car's windows, but he can see that all the lights are off. Shouldn't there be a band playing tonight? For all the bluegrass shitheads? But it looks closed. Bob's car isn't even here, just somebody's Impala. Doesn't he recognize that from somewhere? Just getting paranoid from the buzzy buzz. Better walk over close, see who's around.

He keeps the car running—might not start again—gets out, leaving the door open, and wades through the grass and up the slope of the ditch, all this grass and gravel and shit. Plus it's nighttime as fuck out here. He slips and things go out. He wakes up on his head and now can't tell which way he needs to go. Finally he crawls up the ditch and into the side lot. He tries standing again but the ground slants under his feet and sends him reeling. He goes back and forth cross-legged until he finds the wall and leans his face against it.

There's a window and through it he can see a guy at the bar. Could that be Jones? Fuck yeah—it's somebody. He slides back down the ditch. The car's still running. He finds the open door and climbs in. Night wind rocks the car and sends more rain against the roof. The wavering lights of a vehicle appear over an invisible hill in the distance at what seems to be a crawl. They get closer and turn into a tan Bronco roaring by him in a rush of spray, splashing his car in passing, its red taillights then rising and falling and jerking with dips in the road before disappearing. Did they even notice him? Probably not. Just another junker in the grass.

He goes back to watching Misty's. Nobody's in the Impala. And whoever's in the bar hasn't come out yet. Where the hell's Bob at? Arnett's never seen the place closed this early. Maybe Jones started singing and everybody just said, Fuck it, we outta here.

Arnett hates the concept of singing, though if he had to do it he'd definitely be better than Jones. Motherfucker couldn't buy talent if it was on sale at Wal-Mart.

Somebody else's bound to show up, though, looking for some hooch and poontwang. And somebody does, that raised Bronco, coming back from wherever it went, pulling into the lot with its headlights sweeping across the lone car. The antennas are suspicious and it looks like there might be cop lights inside against the windshield not yet turned on. It stops at the entrance and two staties get out. Goddamn, that's that same trooper truck. There's a static burst of a walkie-talkie. The man in front speaks into his shoulder.

T
urner's got his phone on the bar in front of him, next to a bunch of empty Bud bottles standing like poorly set bowling pins, when he sees headlights outside. He's got a strike.

He looks out the rain-flecked window and, what the shit—his old colleagues? He better be standing up when they walk in. Show them he's in control of the situation, not sitting around on the damn job. He lifts himself off the barstool and hikes up his pants. The Bronco's still idling, and Deputy Derek and Sheriff Ricky—who could believe it?—get out in white cowboy hats.

Here we go.

Turner walks behind the bar. Be cool. Don't get excited. But he can already feel those hives burning his balls.

Ricky pulls open the door, a clipped mustache and straightened teeth. When he first joined the force, he had braces. Turner taught him a lot. He had even arrested Ricky's brother Ray a couple times, first for fighting, then for running off during a work-release program from jail. Ray was a beast, no possibility of rehabilitation. That was what had turned Ricky on to getting into law enforcement from the get-go. His braces eventually came off and that little faggot turned into one of the toughest cops around. And now here was this situation.

Derek's standing behind Ricky with his hand at his baton.

Ricky nods at Turner. “Thought that was your car out there.”

“You
still
thinking that? Then you sure are sharp.”

“Don't start barking,” Derek says.

“Who are you waiting on?” Ricky says.

“What makes you think I'm waiting?”

Derek steps up to Ricky's side. “I'm telling you, man.”

“Derek,” Ricky says, “show some respect. Turner's no longer with us on the force, but I have the suspicion he might know a few things we don't. Concerning this guy, Arnett, and the boy he killed. Leon, I believe? Might I be correct in any of this?”

“You talked to Larry,” Turner says. “So you already know.”

“I talked to Larry, yes. I believe he's still a little bent out of shape by how he and you were dealt with.”

“Fired, you mean.”

“Why don't you let it go,” Derek says.

“Larry's wife called us,” Ricky says, “and she told us to check on the Hickory. We did that. Folks there said they'd just driven over from Misty's because you showed up and made everybody leave. Which seems to be the case.” He looks around the empty room. Knocked-over chairs, half-drunk beers. A couple jackets. Even somebody's purse.

“I don't know about much of that,” Turner says.

“What else don't you know? Be honest and clear. If you lie or withhold information, you
will
go to jail. This is me helping you. Now, why are you here?”

“Because you missed Arnett,” he says. “I was watching.”

“Yeah. From South Mountain. We saw you. So he came back after we left?”

“He was on the roof the whole time and he just went walking off on foot.”

“Where was he going?”

Turner points at the little notepad Derek's scribbling in. “You know, if you spent half as much time looking around as you do practicing your ABCs…”

“It's just so I don't have to look at you.”

“Ooo, whoa, yeah,” Turner says. “There it is.”

“Where was he going?” Ricky says to Turner. “What direction?”

“Are you trying to get me in trouble?”

“I promise you,” Ricky says, “you're the last person in the world I care about right now.”

“That gives me hurt feelings,” Turner says.

Derek laughs, then stops when Ricky cocks his head at him. “Where was he going?”

“Like I say, he was walking. Could either be somewhere along 231, or anywhere on the back access. Or East Ridge. Might as well check Buzzard Hollow while you're at it. And how about Kentucky, too?”

“All right,” Ricky says. “So if you have no assumptions about Arnett's whereabouts, why are you sitting in this bar with the lights out?”

“Thinking,” Turner says.

“There's a lie,” Derek says.

T
hrough the rain-spattered windshield, Arnett watches the cops leave Misty's, get into their Bronco and pull out, the tires peeling and yipping over the wet road.

“About fucking
time
,” Arnett says. “Daddy go get drinky. Go listen to somebody whining about somebody with no love in their life. Daddy's thirsty.”

He steps out of the car holding the fiddle case and moves through the tall wet grass without hurry. He decides not to be drunk anymore and only trips a couple times. Rain's just an idea he can take or leave. He walks through the waterfall coming off the roof and slides into Misty's like the old days when he was just a drinker getting into innocent crimes, and later when he worked here for a year. He's too drunk to be surprised when he sees Turner standing behind the bar, his back to the door, taking something off the top shelf.

“I thought y'all left already.” Turner begins pouring himself a drink. “I told you everything I know about that murdering son of a bitch.”

Arnett takes a seat at a booth and opens his fiddle case. “What'd you just call my momma?”

Turner looks around.

“So them bastards're after me because of you?”

“I didn't say bull to them.”

“Now you can say it to me.”

“What do you want, Arnie?”

“Let's start right there. Don't call me that fucking name again. How about some respect. Got any of that? Go ahead. Call me that fucking name again.” He's definitely still drunk—can almost see two Turners—but feels a lot clearer than he did a minute ago. He'll shoot Turner. Both of hims. He will do that. That's what's about to happen. “Now where's this guy Jones at?”