Lord of the Mountain Read online

  Lord Of The Mountain

  William Ollie

  Chapter One

  August 1929

  James Hastie wished to God he could ignore the telephone, but he couldn’t. He didn’t dare. Holed up in a dingy apartment with a baby crying in the background had set his nerves on edge, but worse than that, much worse than that, was the pressure of what might be on the other end of that jangling telephone line—the thought of it was pushing him to the brink of madness.

  He stood over the coffee table, running a hand through his straight blonde hair, wondering how in the hell he could have gotten himself into such a mess. When he snatched up the receiver, the Devil spoke his name:

  “Jimmy, Wilson Jennings still won’t sell that goddamn brewery of his. He thinks I’m bluffing. Says he has friends in the Mob who’ll track me down and cut me up into little pieces… What do you think, Jimmy?”

  “It’s only been a day. We wait him out and he doesn’t see his grandson, he’ll know we’re serious. He’ll sell.” Hastie hoped like hell he was right.

  “Jimmy, I think you should cut off a finger and mail it to Mr. Jennings. I’d like to hear what he has to say with that bloody little morsel sitting in front of him.”

  Hastie shuddered, and looked across the room at the bawling infant. “I don’t think I can do that,” he said.

  “You’re right, Jimmy. Whatever was I thinking?”

  Hastie breathed a great sigh of relief.

  “Just kill the little bastard and be done with it.”

  “Wha— what?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Jesus, Mr. Pitch. Robbing and stealing, burning down factories and whackin’ out grown men is one thing, but I ain’t no baby killer… Jesus.”

  “Jimmy.” The voice was calm, almost reassuring, “Jesus can’t help you now, you know that.”

  “Please, I can’t. I won’t.”

  “Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy, you really are starting to disappoint me.” The melodic voice, flowing through the line like sewer water, sent an icy chill down what was left of Hastie’s spine: “Look… Jimmy. Relax. Relax and think about all the money we’ve made these last few months. That’s it… yes, close your eyes and… calm yourself… yes, that’s it… close your eyes, and listen very carefully to what I have to say…”

  Jimmy Quick Hastie grew up in a Mob family. He was shrewd, and light on his feet, a quick-witted thinker who knew how to get the job done, and done right—hence his nickname. Jimmy Quick had the innocent good looks of a choirboy. He had never been arrested, had rarely been so much as questioned by the police. He had lied and cheated, robbed and stolen. He was a cold-blooded killer who had never faltered, not even when given the order to whack his own best friend. But he had never killed a child, and didn’t think he could do such a thing.

  Those were the thoughts running through his mind when he looked down and saw the telephone lying on the hardwood floor, alongside the cold, stiff, lifeless body of William Jennings’ grandson.

  Chapter Two

  John Chambers leaned back in his chair, feet on the desk as his dark brown eyes scanned the newspaper. It was a hot day in the small West Virginia town—even for August. He put his feet on the floor and leaned forward to enjoy a comforting breeze from the oscillating fan sitting directly in front of him. Then he laid the paper aside and wiped a band of sweat from his forehead with the cuff of his uniform shirt. Lord, this heat, he thought, as he reached up and touched the sheriff’s badge on his chest, an absentminded, reflective action he’d picked up his first year as a policeman, so many years ago.

  Chambers sat in the sweltering heat, thinking about his sister, Mary, and little Tommy. He was tired. He’d spent the night comforting her as best he could: her, sobbing and swigging whiskey, screaming and crying while he held her, assuring her it would be all right, mouthing words he no longer believed to be true. “Thirteen years,” he spoke softly, reverently. “He would’ve been twenty years old today.”

  This time of year was hard on her, and from here on out it would only get worse. August and October. He wondered how much more she could take, how many more birthdays and Halloweens before the pain and anguish forced her to end it all. It was coming; he knew sure as he was sheriff it was just a matter of time.

  Last night had taken a toll on him, too. His stomach ached, he felt queasy, tired and weak. And even though it was stuffy and hot in the office, his forehead felt cold and clammy.

  But as bad as he felt, he knew that she felt worse.

  Hardly a day went by that he didn’t think of his nephew and the other children. And even though it had been nearly thirteen years, he had not given up hope of finding the person who had taken Tommy that Halloween night, Johnny Briscomb the night before, and little Frankie Stapleton the day before that. He wondered what had happened to them, why, and most importantly, who. John Chambers was sure it was somebody who lived here in Whitley, and he was determined to find him if it took the rest of his life. He kept a wary eye on damn near every man in this town, watching, waiting for some tiny telltale sign, like Jimmy Tomlin fidgeting nervously when Chambers brought it up in front of a group of men the other night, talking in circles when Timbo Ledbetter asked him who he thought had done it, averting his eyes when Chambers looked at him. Tomlin had something to do with it. Chambers could feel it. It was written all over his face.

  He stood up, his stomach roiling on his way to the bathroom, his sweat-stained shirt clinging to him like fly paper as he entered the room, where he turned the cold water on, splashed some on his face, and dried off. Chambers looked at his pale reflection in the mirror, shook his head at the sight, and then tossed the towel across the sink and left the bathroom. By the time he returned to the office, Earl Peters was thumbing his way through the newspaper Chambers had left on the desk.

  “Hey, Earl,” Chambers said. “How’s it going?”

  “Damn, Boss. You look like shit. You all right?”

  “Rough night,” Chambers said, as he sat down behind his desk. “All’s quiet?”

  Earl set the paper down. “Alvie Ross told me somebody broke into Henry Walker’s Esso last night. Busted the lock off the back door. Henry said they stole some motor oil.”

  “Motor oil.” Chambers shook his head, rubbed his chin, and then walked over and stood eye to eye with his six-foot-four deputy, something nobody else in town could do. “How you liking it so far? You moved in all right, had a few weeks to get adjusted.”

  “Well, I gotta tell you, John. I was leery about comin’ over here.”

  “Big change from Charleston, ain’t it?” Chambers smiled. “No bright lights, just a couple of taverns.”

  “No library, no movie house, sub par school system.”

  Chambers laughed. “Got that from Vonda, did you?”

  “Well, she is a school teacher.”

  “Know what else we don’t have? Robberies, rapes and murders. About the biggest crime around here is somebody—”

  “I know, somebody breakin’ into Henry Walker’s Esso. Which, I might add, seems to happen far too often.”

  “That very thought has occurred to me, too,” Chambers said. “Why do you think that is? Or better yet, what do you think they’re really taking out of that gas station?”

  “Moonshine?” Earl hadn’t believed for a minute someone had broken in to steal motor oil.

  “Bingo.”

  “Why’s he reporting it to us?”

  “Hell, he’s so mad about it he’s got to tell somebody. I believe he’s hoping we can figure out who’s doin’ it, because he sure as hell can’t.”

  “But… shouldn’t we be doing something about that? Making shine is against the law.”

  “Well, Earl, I allow folks around he
re to have a vice or two, long as they ain’t hurtin’ nobody. Jimmy Tomlin sells a shot or two of bootleg whiskey down at his beer joint, miners run their poker games over at the lodge. And Henry Walker?” Chambers laughed. “Folks ‘round here might lock me up if I bust up his still. I take it you ain’t had none of that shine yet.”

  “Uh, no. That would be against the law, too.”

  “Give it a try, son.” Chambers winked. “Pure as the driven snow and kicks like Jim Tilly’s mule. I guess what I’m saying is, long as nobody’s gettin’ hurt, we’re gonna overlook a thing or two. The rich folks up at that mansion do whatever the hell they want, drinkin’ and gamblin’ and doin’ God knows what else up there. The poor folks around here need somethin’ to take their minds off their troubles—God bless ‘em.”

  Earl sat on the edge of Chamber’s desk. “About that mansion,” he said. “What’s a fine piece of architecture like that doing out here in the middle of nowhere?”

  “Pitch Place?” Chambers pulled a handkerchief from his front pocket and wiped it across his forehead—“Some rich industrialist showed up out of nowhere back in nineteen-ten.”—ran the hanky across the back of his neck and returned it to his pocket. “Built that baby and left town. Hardly anybody has ever seen him. I know I never have.”

  “Pitch Place?”

  “Yeah, that’s his name, William Pitch.” Chambers leaned forward into the cooling breeze. “You might say he’s the man directly responsible for you coming here.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “According to Mayor Levay, Pitch sunk a huge chunk of money into Whitley. Built this police station, provided a building for the fire department. New businesses sprung up: the Dime Store, jewelry store, apartment buildings, more mines are up and running, and now this little town’s fixing to get big. Ol’ Make-Hay Teddy Levay and the town fathers said we needed another policeman, and here you are.”

  Earl laughed at the mayor’s cornball nickname.

  Chambers grabbed at his stomach and winced.

  “You all right?”

  “Yeah, I’ll be okay.” Chambers stood up and crossed the room. “I’ve got to go take care of something.”

  “Oh yeah? Business or personal?”

  “Both,” Chambers said, as he lifted his Stetson off a set of deer antlers mounted on the wall, calling over his shoulder to Earl on his way out the door not to bother writing up a report on the break-in.

  * * *

  Jimmy Tomlin grabbed two bottles of beer out of the cooler, opened one for himself and handed the other to Johnny Mason, who tossed a couple of coins onto the counter, and said, “Thanks.”

  “No problem,” Tomlin said. “Here at Jimmy T’s Bar and Grill, we aim to please.”

  He picked up a rag and wiped up a section one of his Saturday afternoon regulars had just vacated, and threw the rag on top of the cooler. Then he walked into the kitchen, where he found Rita Mae Toler stooped over the sink. Hands in the dishwater, she looked up, smiling, and for the second time in the last five minutes, he asked her, “You almost done in here?”

  “Just a minute,” she said. “Jeez, what’s the hurry?”

  “I told you. I got shit to do.”

  Tomlin returned to the bar, nervously drinking his beer. It was that time of year again, the time of the year he so dreaded. He wasn’t sleeping well, and he rarely had an appetite anymore. Before he knew it, he would be back, and that rich bastard would be looking for Jimmy Tomlin. Tomlin wondered how he had ever gotten mixed up with him in the first place. That part had always been a little hazy.

  Thirteen years ago a man strolled in with his fancy clothes and big diamond ring, buying beers for everybody, tossing money all over the joint. He sat down at the bar and struck up a conversation with Jimmy. The next thing Tomlin knew he was driving his old jalopy up to the mansion with a thousand dollars in his pocket, and Jolly Stapleton’s little boy bound and gagged in the trunk of his car.

  And Jolly wasn’t too damned jolly after that.

  A day later, he took that other boy.

  Why, he wondered, did I ever let myself get involved in this?

  Tomlin noticed Johnny Mason signaling for another beer. After placing a bottle on the counter, he scraped the change from the bar and dropped it into his pocket. Then he picked up his own bottle, guzzled some beer and returned to his thoughts. He had assumed all that was over with, a one-shot deal. After all, he had never heard from him again. Until last week when goddamn Teddy Levay comes in telling him about his wonderful news: Pitch is coming to town and the son of a bitch can’t wait to see his old pal, Jimmy T.

  No wonder I can’t fuckin’ sleep. John Chambers snooping ‘round all these years, asking the same questions over and over, all of a sudden lookin’ at me like he thinks I know somethin’. And now this!

  Tomlin finished off his beer, slid the top of the cooler back and grabbed another, selected one more and took it down the bar to Timbo Ledbetter, who had just shown him his empty.

  “Sure is a hot one,” Ledbetter said, as Tomlin handed him his beer.

  “You got that right, Timbo.”

  Ledbetter’s empty clattered into an aluminum trash can beneath the bar as Tomlin tipped back his bottle, gulped down half its contents and placed it back on the counter. Then he walked to the front and looked out the window, and saw John Chambers coming down the street with a pissed off look on his face.

  * * *

  John Chambers whipped out his handkerchief, wiped his forehead and the back of his neck. He couldn’t wait to get his hands on that little bastard. Chambers meant to find out what Tomlin was hiding if he had to beat it out of him, and he was in just the right mood to do it. His head hurt and his back ached; his stomach a bubbling jug of acid as he crossed the railroad tracks, nodding at a couple of old-timers sitting on a bench.

  Once inside Jimmy T’s, he spotted a half-full beer bottle sitting in front of an empty stool at the end of the bar. He slapped Timbo Ledbetter on his back and asked him how he was doing, and if Jimmy Tomlin was around.

  Rita Mae Toler stepped up to the bar. “He ain’t here, Sheriff,” she said, while Johnny Mason said, “He’s in the back.”

  “Well?” Chambers said, arms crossing his massive chest. “Is he here or isn’t he?”

  “He ain’t here, Sheriff,” Rita Mae told him. “Ain’t seen him all morning.”

  Johnny Mason, rolling his eyes, nodded at the swinging doors at the back of the bar.

  “Dammit, Rita Mae,” Chambers said, and then hurried into the kitchen, where he found a sink full of glasses, knives on the table and a meat cleaver hanging beside the griddle, but no Tomlin as he made his way to the back door and pulled it open, stepped outside, and saw Jimmy Tomlin hurrying down the railroad tracks.

  Chapter Three

  Franklin Fletcher, fingers interlocked behind his head, leaned back in his chair and looked up at the spinning ceiling fan, wondering what exactly it was going to take to get Marty Donlan to change his mind. He’d offered Donlan twice as much money as his building was worth. Hell, he could build a brand new place and put his furniture store in there. But no, Donlan flat-out refused to sell, which was a royal pain in the ass, because the store sat right next door to Doc Fletcher’s office, right where Fletcher wanted to put his pharmacy. Times were changing, the town growing, and Doc Fletcher was bound and determined to have Marty Donlan’s building, come Hell or high water.

  Fletcher opened his desk drawer and felt around for the bottle of Jack Daniels he kept stashed under an old hat. Bottle in hand, he unscrewed the cap and poured a generous amount into the waiting shot glass, and then drank it down without benefit of a chaser. “Shit yeah,” he said. “Just what the doctor ordered.”

  Heavy footsteps thudding across the wooden porch drew Fletcher out of his chair, onto his feet and into the outer office, where he found his secretary greeting John Chambers.

  “Howdy, ma’am,” Chambers said, and when he saw the doctor, “Hey, Doc.”

  “Joh
n,” Fletcher said. “What a surprise. Come in, come in.” He led Chambers into his office and motioned for him to have a seat. “How can I help you?”

  Chambers sat down and put his hat on Fletcher’s desk. “Stomach’s killing me, Doc. Head feels funny, light.”

  “Yeah, you are a little pale there.” Fletcher grabbed the stethoscope lying on his desk. “Come on over here. Take off your shirt and sit down on the table.”

  Chambers stood up. Crossing the room in three long strides, he sat on the edge of the treatment table, his long legs dangling over the side, his feet resting on the floor.

  “How’s Mary doing these days?”

  “Not worth a damn,” Chambers said as he unbuttoned his shirt. “Today’s Tommy’s birthday, or would’ve been.”

  “I know.” Fletcher sighed and shook his head. “Bad business there, John. Bad business.”

  Chambers laid his shirt across the table. “I was up all night with her. She’s never gotten over it, you know, and to tell you the truth, I ain’t either.”

  “No, I don’t think anyone could ever get over something like that.” Fletcher placed the flat-metal end of the stethoscope against the sheriff’s chest. “Take a deep breath for me.”

  Chambers took a breath, and then let it out.

  “John, have you got any idea who might’ve done it?”

  “Gotta be somebody from around here, Doc.” Chambers drew another breath, held it for a moment and exhaled. “Wasn’t no strangers seen hanging around back then, and I sure don’t think somebody blew into town and snatched three kids on three different nights.” He gave his head a disgusted shake. “I just wish to God we could’ve given ‘em a decent Christian burial.”

  “Lean over,” Fletcher ordered, and then rapped sharply on the sheriff’s back with his index and forefinger. He placed the cool head of the stethoscope on Chambers’ back.