The Mountain Page 12

  He should’ve stayed away from Laurie.

  Yeah, right.

  Like he could have.

  The worst thing about the whole affair was that he would never find himself in her bed again, would never feel those strong, muscular legs locked around him, those firm breasts and that flat stomach, the way her straight black hair smelled of rose petals, the raw musky scent that filled the room whenever they were going at it. No wonder it drew Rance from his hiding place. Lucky he didn’t come out of the closet blasting the hell out of them.

  Traber would have.

  “Well, well, what have we here?”

  Traber turned to see Luke Miller standing behind him, fire blazing in his dark brown eyes as he stared down at the policeman.

  Traber nodded. “Luke,” he said.

  “Figured you’d be busy slippin’ it to somebody’s wife,” Luke said, as his brother stepped up and handed him a bottle of Michelob. “Ain’t that right, Carl?”

  “That’s what I heard.”

  “Well, you heard wrong,” Traber told him, wondering if the Miller brothers were packing anything beneath the denim jackets they wore, and if he could plug the both of them before they drew their weapons.

  Traber took a drink of beer, and Luke said, “Oughta go buy ya couple’a lotto tickets, you should.”

  “Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

  “’Cause you’re not wearin’ your ass for a hat.”

  And that was all it took. They knew. Rance had told them all about his plan to sneak into the house, hide in the closet and mete out a little backwoods justice. Too bad for Rance he didn’t have the good sense, or guts enough to go all the way. Didn’t work out all that great for Laurie, either. Traber wondered how it was going to work out for him. No, they weren’t rocket scientists, but even a couple of dumb-asses like these two knew what two plus two added up to.

  Traber took another swig of beer, and then stood straight and tall and looked Luke Miller dead in the eye. “My hat’s in the patrol car with a badge pinned to the front of it.”

  “Oh, that’s right,” Luke said. “You’re a policeman, aren’t you, a fine upstanding, dope smoking, kick-back-taking piece’a shit lawman, just like that lowlife old man of yours.”

  “Okay, that’s just about—”

  “But hey, don’t sweat it. We don’t care about that shit. Hell, man’s gotta make a livin’ some how, don’t he?”

  “Goddamn right,” Carl said, as Luke lifted his Michelob. “We just don’t like hearin’ ‘bout people making a chump outa our baby brother.”

  Chump, thought Traber. Chunks, more like it.

  “That kinda shit we do care about… catch my drift?”

  Traber looked to Carl, and then back at Luke. Both men stood at least a full foot and a half taller than Traber, and he was well aware that hiding beneath those jackets were massive, broad shoulders, and muscles fully developed from a lifetime of maintaining the family farm. The hard lives they’d scratched out of the mountain showed in the deep lines creasing their faces. They weren’t pushovers; that much he knew, and he wondered how many bullets it would take to slow them down, because one sure as hell wouldn’t get the job done.

  “Look, boys. I don’t know—”

  “No, you look, boy. We know you been bonin’ that little whore my brother calls a wife. I know it, Carl here knows it, and Rance damn sure knows it...” Luke took a couple of steps forward and Carl came with him—close enough for Traber to smell the whiskey on Luke’s breath. “…Count your blessings and thank your lucky stars you weren’t with her tonight. And leave her the fuck alone. Or better yet, don’t. Keep fuckin’ around so me and Carl can drag your ass into the deep woods where no one can hear you scream.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice and sending his words directly into Traber’s ear, “And you will scream when we hang your ass upside down from a tree and go to work on you with a pair of huntin’ knives.”

  Traber stood his ground, because he couldn’t allow himself to back down, and he damn sure wasn’t about to let them see the fear squirming through his guts, even though he was quite sure they could smell it on him. “Is that it?” he said, as Luke backed away. “We about finished here?”

  “Yep, that about does it,” Carl said, smiling as if it was all a joke, a bit of good-natured ribbing between friends, but as Traber tipped back his bottle and downed some more beer, he knew there was nothing funny about the mess he found himself in tonight. Common sense told him to let it go, just let it die and be done with these Bozos, but a little voice riding his shoulder wouldn’t let him. After all, what was one more lie added to the pile of half-truths he was constructing. And he definitely needed to add to the groundwork if he wanted to deflect the suspicion that was sure to come whistling down the pike, sooner or later.

  “’Cause if you’re finished, I’ve got something to say…”

  Carl took a drink of beer while Luke folded his arms across his chest.

  “… I don’t know where you get your information from, but I ain’t done any of that shit. That girl’s fuckin’ around on Rance, she damn sure ain’t doing it with me.”

  “Ain’t what I heard,” Luke said.

  “I told you.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Carl said, chuckling and draining the last of his Michelob, wiping a forearm across his mouth and setting the bottle on the bar when he’d finished.

  “Like I need that kinda headache,” Traber said, huffing out a derisive breath, quite proud of the whimsical look on his face: a stunned mask of disbelief asking how anyone could possibly believe such a thing of him. He sat there, clutching his bottle of suds while Luke and Carl peered down at him as if he were a bug that needed squashing.

  “Just remember what I said, Officer Traber.”

  Carl sniggered as Luke narrowed his eyes.

  “And remember this: anywhere you are, we’re right around the corner. Right, Carl?”

  “Damn straight we are.”

  “Yeah, well, good, if I need a turnip I’ll know just where to find you.”

  “Damn sure won’t have to look far. Will he, Carl?”

  “By God.”

  Luke finished off his beer. Placing the empty bottle on the counter, he turned and led his brother across the bar. They stopped at the door and looked out at the dance floor, then back at Traber. Luke said something and they both laughed. Then they were out the door and into the Carolina night, leaving Traber wondering where they were going, and how much time he had before the Miller boys found their baby brother lying stiff on his bedroom floor.

  The band started up with another country tune; this one Traber knew well. He sat on a barstool and took a deep breath, surprised at how tired he felt. It really shouldn’t have been much of a surprise, though, not with Luke Miller’s threat blanketing him like a heavy fog; pressing down on his shoulders, his arms and his legs until the stress from it all had left him in a state of near exhaustion.

  He’d stood up to them. He hadn’t backed down. But that didn’t make their threats any less grave, because Traber knew they wouldn’t hesitate to follow through on their violent promise, which brought him right back to where he was moments before he’d painted the bedroom wall with Laurie’s guts:

  How the fuck do I wiggle my way out of this shit?

  He took another swig of beer, closed his eyes and saw Rance clutching his mangled throat, Laurie laid out on the floor, the shocked look of surprise still frozen onto her face as blood pooled beneath her—Traber had never seen so much blood. He opened his eyes and looked down at the floor, and almost fainted. A dark splotch roughly the size of a quarter stained his pants, just above the knee. He wondered if Luke or Carl had seen it, and if it would come back to them later. Or maybe he was just overreacting. His pants were stained, so what? Could’ve been anything: beer, grease, dirt—anything. Although Traber knew it wasn’t any of those things. He lifted his leg to look at the bottom of his shoe, halfway expecting to find the leather sole sticky and red. And what a wrinkle tha
t would add to this whole sorry mess if he’d left bloody footprints back at Rance’s house.

  “Well, well, well.”

  Traber dropped his foot down, turned and saw Farley standing behind the counter, nodding as he pulled a couple of beers from the cooler—the old redneck handed them to his busty niece and she hustled down to the opposite end of the bar, Traber’s eyes following the rhythmic sway of her ass as it moved away from him.

  “Didn’t see you come in.”

  “Huh?” Traber said, looking back at Farley.

  “Didn’t see you come in… been here long?”

  “Oh yeah, good little while.”

  “Could’a used you a couple hours ago.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Bob Thurgood and that crazy red-head of his about started a riot in here. Crazy bitch cracked ol’ Buck Withers upside the head with a beer bottle.”

  “No shit.”

  “Goddamn right.”

  “Shoulda cracked him with one of those tits of hers if she wanted to do some real damage.”

  Farley laughed as Traber drained the last of his Budweiser, and sat the bottle on the counter.

  “Want another?”

  Traber shrugged. “Sure, why not?”

  Farley leaned back into the cooler and pulled out a bottle. Uncapping it and placing it in front of Traber, he said, “What was them Miller boys giving you hell about?”

  “Who says they were giving me hell?”

  “Oh, I don’t know… the way they were looking at you, maybe, like they were a cunt hair away from kicking your teeth in.”

  Traber smiled, rubbing a hand across the rough stubble of his cheek. “Don’t miss much, do ya?”

  “What can I say?”

  Traber picked up his beer and took a drink. “Aw, they think I been screwin’ around with Laurie Miller.”

  “Well, you have, haven’t you?”

  “Hell no.”

  “Ain’t what I heard,” Farley said, smiling at the consternated look that settled across the lawman’s face.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  At the edge of a clearing near the top of Rickert’s Mountain stood a weathered log cabin, surrounded by tall pines and fir trees. Tarpaper and tin made up the roof. Sturdy oaken planks fashioned by Willem’s great-grandfather made up the hardwood flooring. Two more wooden structures stood several yards up, on either side of the narrow path that ran from the giant rock formation known as Rickert’s Peak, all the way to the top of the mountain. High above that loomed the two-story abode of Elbert Johnson. Built many decades before Mark and Eddie were even born, this rundown encampment was the only home Arley and Willem and most of their brothers and sisters and country cousins had ever known, and likely ever would know.

  Elbert’s had been a hard life, but a good life; one that had spanned the influenza pandemic of 1918, the Great War and the multitude of conflicts beyond that. Many a battle had been waged while Elbert roamed his beloved mountain—Korea, Vietnam, Panama and Desert Storm. Presidents had come and Presidents had gone, governments toppled and born again. While hurricanes and earthquakes raged in faraway places, Elbert grew strong and tall, waiting for the day he would take his rightful place as patriarch of the Johnson clan. And as his father passed and many of his brothers and sisters found lives away from the mountain, Elbert did just that. It had been a long life, full of the pain and strife of endless hours spent working the land, hunting and fishing, clawing and scraping a living with his bare hands to keep his women and children fed, until he could finally ease up a bit and let his children pitch in. Now, as he sat in the dim glow of three kerosene lamps strategically positioned around the two-story log cabin his father, his uncles and grandfather had built so many years ago, he worried about the family’s future. It had been a bitter pill to swallow, but he’d finally come to grips with the sad fact that, as little sense as Willem and that half-wit boy of his had, it was up to them to keep the family going.

  Elbert took a swig of moonshine, sat the brown-and-white jug on the floor and leaned back in his rocking chair. He didn’t think much of the young girl Gerald had taken up with lately, and he damn sure didn’t care for the nonsense she’d been filling his head with. Nothing but trouble, as far as Elbert was concerned. Her and her crazy ideas added up to foolishness, plain and simple, and no matter what she said, none of it made a bit of sense. So what if she was educated and he was just an old mountain man?

  Educated.

  If she was so smart, she wouldn’t be swooning over Gerald like he was some kind of matinee idol. Of course, he couldn’t much blame Gerald—she was a fine looking girl, with her long brown hair and full breasts, and that tight little ass of hers. Hell, Elbert wouldn’t have minded dipping his wick there a time or two himself—if he could’ve gotten the limp son of a bitch to wake up long enough to do it. No, he couldn’t much fault the boy. Be hard to turn something like that down. But sweet piece of ass or not, she was trouble. He knew it the moment he’d laid eyes on her. It was bad enough the boy had brought her up from town. Even if she had said nobody would be looking for her, Elbert didn’t believe it. They might not come up here, but they’d damn sure be beating the bushes somewhere, if they were any kind of family at all. But then her and Gerald come marching that other little girl up the road and into Lewis and Gerald’s cabin: no pants on, hair all messed up, staring off in the distance like she was dreaming, sleepwalking with her pants slung over her shoulder, nothing on her legs at all, that dark, triangular patch of hair at the split of her legs, and those long legs of hers… all this and his goddamn Willie didn’t even notice. Son of a bitch might as well have been dead for all the good it was doing him. Well, hell, at least it could still piss right.

  Elbert sighed and shook his head, hooked a finger through the jug’s ceramic eyelet and hoisted it to his lips, hardly noticing the burn as the shine slid down his throat—so many years had he been drinking the homemade brew, it may as well have been mineral water sloshing around the jug. A pleasant, warm sensation spread out from his belly, into his arms and down his legs. But it did nothing to quell the storm that had been brewing since seeing those three come up the trail.

  The distant rumbling of an engine drew his attention, and he returned the jug to the hardwood floor, groaning as he stood up from the chair. Elbert got around pretty good for an eighty-seven year old man, but not so well as to hide the limp that had been afflicting him these past five years, and as he crossed the floor, the pain crawling up his leg put a grimace on his face.

  At the window, he parted the curtains, watching as Willem and Arley came up the trail with yet another set of townsfolk: two young men and another little girl. And look at that shit: nothing on but a goddamn bra. One with no pants and a shirtless little thing wearing a bra. Sweet little girl, except she didn’t look too sweet now, not with the weary and defeated slump of her shoulders, and that sad, fearful look painting her face. Elbert wondered what Arley and Willem had done to bring that look about—no telling with those two. He also wondered who those boys were—they didn’t look too happy either, and one of them was holding his hand like something was wrong with it. And where the hell had Lewis gotten off to? The three of them took off down the mountain when all that shooting started up, and now look at this shit.

  A fire rose in Elbert’s belly that had nothing to do with the moonshine he’d swallowed. He let the curtain fall closed and walked over to the door, opened it and stepped out onto the porch. The jeep pulled up in front of Gerald’s place, Willem driving, the girl by his side, Arley in the back with those other two, grinning like he’d just found somebody’s wallet lying on the trail. He’d found something, all right. He hopped out of the jeep, waiting while the two strangers slowly climbed down, their heads swiveling around as if surveying the landscape—looking for a way out, Elbert figured. They helped the girl onto the ground, Willem turning and looking up at Elbert, a sheepish smile creasing his face while the old man gave him back a cold, hard stare, the same kind of look he
used to give him right before tearing his ass up for catching him in some stupid bullshit he damn well knew he shouldn’t have been into.

  The three strangers stood for a moment before Arley ushered them onto the porch and in through the front door. Moments later, Arley returned, and he and Willem began climbing the hill to Elbert’s house, grinning and talking amongst themselves as the patriarch kept that cold eye trained upon them… up the trail and on up the steps, until they stood directly in front of him.

  “Elbert,” Willem said, the old man grunting his reply as he backed through the doorway, and the two men followed him into the house, smiling, almost as if they were sharing a secret. But Elbert didn’t think they had much of one, not the way they were shoving them young folks across Gerald’s porch. And he figured it was just about time to put an end to this horseshit.

  “You wanta tell me what the hell you boys think you’re doin’ down there?”

  “Nothing much,” Willem said. “Just brought a couple of Cindy’s friends up for a visit.”

  “Friends, huh? What about that other little girl Gerald and her marched in here a while ago like they was draggin’ her off to a prison cell.”

  Arley looked at Willem, both men still sharing that secretive smile.

  “Come up the trail, pants slung over her shoulder, pussy hangin’ out all over the place, shufflin’ along like she’s in a goddamn trance…”

  “That’s another one of Cindy’s friends,” Arley said.

  “Friends? They didn’t look like friends to me.”

  Arley chuckled, and Elbert said, “You think this is funny, you cockeyed son of a…” He shook his head and turned to Willem. “Boy, I think it’s about time you told me what the hell’s goin’ on here.”