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  When the jeep dropped out of sight, Arley climbed the porch steps, crossed the hardwood planks and went inside. Cindy and Dolly were sitting at the table with the group he and Willem had brought up from the Peak, Gerald in one of the high-backed wooden chairs. He had pushed the front two chair legs off the floor and was leaning back against the wall. At the far end of the table was the girl Lewis had his way with back at the shack. Somewhere along the way, someone had slipped her pants on her. Seeing that vacant stare of hers reminded him of her boyfriend. He should’ve gutted the son of a bitch when he had the chance, no matter what Gerald said. Then he wouldn’t be standing here worrying about what was going to happen when the guy finally made his way back to town, or what the hell Willem might do if he found out it was Arley who had let him slip away.

  “What’s the matter, cousin?” Gerald asked him.

  “What?”

  “You look like you seen a ghost or something.”

  “I’ve got some bad news. Real bad news.”

  “Well, spit it out, son,” Gerald said, as Mark and Eddie turned toward them, probably hoping the law was fixing to storm the compound.

  “It’s Elbert. He passed on a little while ago.”

  “Oh my God!” Cindy said, as Gerald said, “You’re shittin’ me.” His face went slack, all the color seeming to drain from it as he rocked forward the chair and stood.

  “Huh uh. Choked on a goddamn apple core, right in front of me. Willem beat the hell outa his back tryin’ to knock it loose, but it didn’t do no good. He just… died.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Gerald said, then, “C’mon, baby.”

  “Whoa,” Arley said, as Cindy rushed across the floor. “Where d’ya’ll think you’re going?”

  “Going to see Elbert, by God.”

  “We’re supposed to keep an eye on these guys.”

  Gerald slipped his revolver from the waistband of his jeans and tossed it to Arley.

  “You keep an eye on ‘em. We’re gonna see to Elbert.”

  Cindy followed Gerald across the room, and out the front door they went. When the door slammed shut, Arley turned to his captive audience. Eddie’s eyes grew wide as Arley twirled the revolver like a gunslinger straight out of the old west, cocked the hammer back and flipped open the chamber, spun the cylinder and slammed it shut.

  “Just so you know,” Arley said. “Any of you try anything, I’ll blow your brains out.”

  Mark looked at his injured hand, flexed it and winced. “Don’t worry,” he said. “We won’t.”

  “Goddamn right you won’t.”

  Dolly, the pig-faced girl who still sat opposite Tina at the far end of the table, said, “Which one of these boys is gonna marry me?”

  Arley looked from Mark to Eddie. Grinning, he said, “Take your pick, baby girl.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Ain’t what I heard seemed to be the only thing Traber had heard all night—once from Luke Miller and once from Carl, and once from that goofy-assed bartender, Farley. The violent scene exploding behind his eyes every time he shut them wasn’t helping matters either. Thank God no one else had laid those words on him, because he didn’t know what he would have done; screamed, maybe, or pulled his Colt and shot them dead. Maybe both. Something told him he’d be hearing a lot of that shit in the coming days. If he was still alive. If what was left of the Miller brothers didn’t string him up and use his nut sac for a punching bag and the rest of him for fish bait. If he didn’t get them first—

  which was looking more and more like the way to go. Quite possibly the only way to go if he wanted to come out of this thing alive. He had to get out of here before he did something crazy, and after downing his third beer and leaving the empty bottle on an unoccupied table, that was exactly what he did.

  He walked outside, into the parking lot, where he noticed old man Edward’s pickup coming toward him. He couldn’t make out the girl snuggled up next to him, only that she was young—way too young for him. He stood for a moment, smiling and shaking his head. That old man got more pussy than he could shake a stick at, much more than he deserved. Traber figured he was paying for it. Why else would one of those little girls go off with him?

  Maybe he’s trading them for it. He is Horse-Trader-Harry, after all.

  “Trading them twenty dollar bills.”

  Traber laughed as the pickup rolled to a stop in front of Farley’s. The girl gave the old man a peck on the lips, and then scooted across the seat. The door swung open and she hopped out onto the ground, smiling and waving as the pickup shot through the gravel lot on its way back to the blacktop.

  Moments later she appeared in the doorway with a couple of her friends, her body long and lean, her full breasts, the sway of her ass as she moved across the parking lot, reminding him very much of Laurie.

  Laurie.

  All this time, he had thought those clandestine meetings to be their little secret, and now it seemed like half the town knew what he was up to. But how? How could so many people have known? He hadn’t told anybody. Which left Laurie, of course. Who else? She blabbed to her friends and they blabbed to theirs, and before you knew it a valley full of wagging tongues had sent good ol’ Rance to the closet with a shotgun in his hands. All in all a confounding and misfortunate set of circumstances that had left Traber on a lonely stretch of blacktop in the middle of the night, trying to figure a way out of this horseshit. He could just hear it now, if the state investigative authorities ever got wind he was involved in this mess:

  ‘Where were you around ten o’clock that night?’

  ‘Uh… uh…’

  ‘What’s that? I didn’t hear you.’

  ‘What was the question?’

  ‘Well, let me repeat it for you, Officer Traber: Where were you the night Rance and Laurie Miller got their guts splattered all over their goddamn bedroom!’

  The idea floated down like manna from heaven. If anybody had a vested interest in Traber’s well being, it was Weaverton’s resident marijuana farmer. The last thing he needed was a change of regimes, and even if Butchie was tired of Traber constantly jacking him up for money and pot, he was quite sure the guy wouldn’t want to go from his happy go lucky business associate to Traber’s bible-toting sidekick, Rick Prescott. Not if he wanted to keep his operation running like the well-oiled machine it had blossomed into. Not if he wanted to keep his ass out of prison.

  Traber smiled. Yep, that was where he was, all right, organizing a search party to comb the woods for Mary Jackson’s little girl. “Where was I?” he said to his make believe interrogator. “Why, up at Butchie Walker’s place. Don’t believe me, get your ass over there and ask him yourself. He’ll tell you.”

  If he knows what’s good for him.

  In Traber’s mind, the key to this whole fucked-up situation was having a proper alibi, so that anyone who might ask would know exactly where he had been tonight. Now all he had to do was get over to that goddamn double-wide and make sure Butchie knew.

  * * *

  Harry Edwards pulled up in front of his two-story house, killed the lights and the engine and stepped out of his truck. He paused for a moment by the front porch stairs to stretch, and to take in a deep, refreshing breath of mountain air. What a day it had been, and what a night. The ol’ horse trader was on a roll, and he knew it. Damn right he knew it. The pretty penny he’d made off Charlie Rodgers had set the tone for a fun-filled telephone conversation with his cousin over in Asheville, who couldn’t wait to get his hands on the SUV Willem Johnson and that slow-eyed kin of his had dropped off this afternoon. A shower and a change of clothes had sent him over to Farley’s for a burger and a beer, and a chance encounter with Becca Moore and her little friends. A few Heinekens later, he and Becca headed out to the truck for a little burning of the ceremonial bush. The next thing he knew, they were going at it pretty good on Harry’s king-sized waterbed.

  Those little girls sure did seem to love the sway of that vinyl mattress, especially when he got it to roc
king like a bucking bronco beneath their tight little asses. He always liked to see the surprised look wash across one of their faces when they realized not only could the old man get it up; he could keep it up as long as he wanted—indefinitely. Becca was a sweet kid—they all were—and it made his day to think he could actually entice one of them into his bed. But he was realistic enough to take it for what it was: a good-natured romp in the hay that began with a laugh and a joke and a twinkle of an old man’s eye, and ended when they hopped off the mattress. And he would never, ever, think about trying to take it any further than that. Hell, they were young, most of them younger than his niece, even. Just to be able to lay a hand on their fresh, nubile bodies was a gift from the Lord above. And he would never do anything to queer that deal.

  Harry walked up the stairs. On his way across the porch, he glanced at the small brass thermometer perched in the wooden frame of his living room window. Fifty-two degrees. Unbelievable. Fifty-two degrees at one-thirty in the morning at the tail end of the first week of December. Harry didn’t think the harsh Carolina winter weather had ever held off this long, but here he was, standing outside in just his shirtsleeves.

  By the time his house key was in the lock and the door slammed shut behind him, Becca Moore had become a distant memory, replaced by thoughts of the silver Saturn SUV that lay hidden in the barn, and the easy money it would soon bring his way. All he had to do was hop in it tomorrow, drive across a few mountains and turn it over to Chop Shop Chucky, collect his bounty and high-five his cousin, and then spend the rest of the afternoon doing whatever the hell he wanted. Who knows, maybe he’d head over to Charlotte for a couple of days, stay the weekend and take in a Panther’s game. Nothing like a little organized violence to get the blood to pumping. And why not stay a couple of days, there wasn’t likely to be a stampede brewing down at Horse Trader’s Car Mart this weekend. Hell, he deserved a bit of a vacation after his little windfall this afternoon.

  Harry ran his hand along the wall until he found a switch, stroked his hand upward and light flooded his living room. On his way across the hardwood floor, he scooped his remote control unit off the coffee table and fired up the fifty-two-inch Sony television sitting along the far wall, bringing forth a highlight reel that played in the background as one of ESPN’s talking heads began rattling off college basketball scores.

  “Atta baby,” said Harry as a Carolina Tar Heel soared across the screen on his way to a rim-rattling dunk, and the talking head called out, “Look out belowwww!”

  Harry laughed and jacked up the volume, tossed the remote onto his La-Z-Boy recliner and made his way down the hallway to the bathroom, where he turned on the light and positioned himself in front of the toilet. The sound of an engine filtering through the Sports Center theme song kept him from unzipping his pants. He hurried back to the living room, wondering who the hell could be coming up his driveway this late at night. By the time he reached the front window, footsteps were thudding across his porch. He parted the curtain an inch or two, smiling at the red Camaro sitting in his driveway. Charlie and Tina, probably drunk as hell and come by to gloat, or to bust his balls about that two-headed coin.

  What the hell, Harry thought on his way to the front door. Tomorrow was Saturday and none of them had to work. Might as well invite them in for a beer or two, smoke some of that kick-ass weed Charlie always seemed to have on him.

  Harry’s smile disappeared when he opened the front door to find Willem Johnson standing on the porch in that buckskin jacket of his, smiling and nodding his head. Beside him stood a giant freak of nature blocking out most of the Camaro, and part of the old Army jeep that was parked in front of Harry’s barn. Harry had thought Willem’s little sidekick earlier in the day to be a fucked-up-looking piece of shit, but this guy was off the charts, with his malformed face and a disgusting lump of flesh for a nose, and that cockeyed eye-hole slid halfway down a mug that looked like it had spent the last ten years doing a two-step mambo with the ugly-stick; standing there in his grimy bib-overalls, grinning at Harry like he knew something Harry didn’t, the rancid smell of him twisting the old man’s stomach as it wafted in through the doorway. Behind him sat the red Camaro Harry had sold to Charlie Rodgers earlier in the day, the same Camaro he’d seen Charlie and Tina in tonight. And now these two cocksuckers had it?

  Something else they had, too: a smarmy look that said ‘go ahead, make a play and see what happens’, a cocky, overconfident look that kept Harry from hauling ass to his den and grabbing his shotgun—something told him he wouldn’t make it very far if he tried it. The same something that told him the stain on the giant’s clothing and shoes wasn’t red paint. All of this adding up to one thing: he had to be careful, tread lightly, find out what was going on here and how his niece played into it.

  Nodding past the giant, he said, “The hell’d you get that?”

  Willem smiled. “Same place I got the last-un,” he said.

  Harry looked from Willem to his deformed sidekick, then back to Willem, whose confident demeanor had turned to one of sheer triumph. The mountain man looked him square in the eye, smiled and said, “Reckon you’ll be givin’ me two-thousand dollars for this one.”

  Harry stood his ground as his little speech came rolling down memory lane:

  “I made this deal with your daddy a long time ago, and as long as Elbert’s around I’m gonna honor that deal.”

  …as long as Elbert’s around…

  If Elbert was around, Willem wouldn’t be here, but there he was, all right, standing on Harry’s front porch in the middle of the night, demanding his two-thousand dollar bounty. A swaggering lout full of piss and vinegar, staring him down as if he wouldn’t mind seeing what might happen if Harry said no. Maybe because he already knew what would happen. Maybe he couldn’t wait to get started, him and his freak relation.

  Where was Charlie… and Tina?

  My God, Tina.

  “Well by God,” Harry said, cracking a smile, even though his face was pale and his guts were turning to ice. “That ride looks like its worth two grand.”

  “Damn right it is,” Willem said, and his grotesque companion added, “Damn right.”

  Willem took a step closer to Harry. “Well now,” he said. “You just put that cash money in my hand and she’s all yours.”

  “Don’t keep that kinda money ‘round here. You come on back tomorrow and I’ll have it for you. Around ten or so, gimme enough time to get to the bank.”

  “Ten o’clock, huh? Easy as that.”

  “Yep, easy as that.”

  “A wise goddamn decision, old man.”

  Harry shrugged. “Business is business, son. Just bring her on back tomorrow and we’ll do the deed.”

  “Fuck that,” Willem said, nodding toward the Camaro. “We’ll leave her be, leave her sittin’ right where she is. Me and Arley’ll come down tomorrow and get the money. You won’t stiff us… If you know what’s good for you.”

  “Well, I ain’t stiffed nobody yet.”

  “Damn sure won’t fuck with us, will he, cousin?”

  The giant cocked his head at Harry, as if regarding a strange species of bug he’d never laid eyes on until this very moment. Then he huffed out a laugh, and said, “Damn sure won’t! Not this one!”

  Willem slapped his cousin’s shoulder, and cocked his head toward the jeep.

  “C’mon, cousin, we got shit to do.” On his way down the front porch stairs, he called out to Harry, “Keys’re in the ignition, Horse-Trader!”

  Harry didn’t know what to do, run to the den and grab his shotgun and haul ass across the yard? He could catch them coming down the driveway if he hurried. Then what? Kill them? Blast off a handful of fingers and they’d tell him what they’d done with Charlie. They’d done something to him—he didn’t just hand the Camaro over to them. And what about his niece? What about Tina? Jesus… Tina. Maybe Charlie had dropped her off at home before he ran into those two, and where the hell did he run into them, anyway?

/>   The jeep rumbled down the driveway, and Harry sighed and shook his head. Tina was in trouble. He knew it. He could feel it. He didn’t believe for one minute that Charlie had dropped his niece at home. Just the other day, Harry’s sister had called up bitching about Charlie keeping her little girl out—half the night Linda had paced the floor, until Tina finally came sneaking in at three-thirty in the morning. No. Wherever Charlie was, Tina was with him. Harry just hoped they were both still alive.

  Where did they run into those two?

  Harry knew there was only one place their paths could have crossed: Rickert’s Mountain. And he was quite sure he knew where. Charlie had taken her up to that piece of shit Lover’s Lane shack he’d heard the kids talking about, and somewhere up there they’d run into the mountain men.

  Harry closed the door. Turning and walking across the living room, he stopped at the La-Z-Boy, grabbed the remote and turned off the TV. Then he hurried down the hallway, to his den. Moments later the gun cabinet was open and a Mossberg 500® Pump Action Persuader® was in his hands.

  Somewhere on Rickert’s Mountain was Harry Edward’s niece, and Harry meant to get her back. And if he found out she was dead, he’d kill every single one of those inbred sons of bitches for what they’d done to her.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Dolly.

  She was a doll, all right, the kind you find on the cover of one of those horror books lining the shelves of Barnes and Noble, with its face all melted away and a fucked up eye staring off into the distance. Eddie could barely stand to look at her, yet, strangely, he found that he couldn’t look away. He looked away when she came around the table and laid a hand on his shoulder, though. She stood behind the vacant chair between Mark and Eddie, a wide grin plastered across her face. “This one,” she said, and then giggled and moved her small hand to Mark, who let out a disgusted groan when she started playing eenie, meenie, miny, mo with the two of them. The only thing preventing Eddie from elbowing her in the face was the crazy, gun-toting mountain man standing behind him—he thoroughly believed the guy would make good on his promise to ‘plug’ them if they tried anything.