The Mountain Page 16

  “Eenee, meenie, miny, mo,” she said. “Catch a cutie by his toe.”

  Cutie.

  Not only was she ugly as sin; she was lame as hell, too. Eddie cringed when her hand ended up on his shoulder, and then breathed a quiet sigh of relief when she started up with that ‘my mother told me’ bullshit, extending the sing-song rhyme for another go round, which meant the bizarre-looking creature had her eye on Mark. Eye being the operative word—surely she couldn’t see anything out of that other misshapen hole. At least the room was dim. He would’ve hated to see her under a stark-white fluorescent light. Or wake up from a heavy night of binge-drinking to find that framed by golden rays of sunlight streaking in through his bedroom window.

  The game ended with Dolly running a hand under Mark’s long brown hair.

  “I’ll make ya happy,” she said, while Mark twisted away, and said, “You gotta be shitting me.”

  “I’ll make both of ya happy!”

  Mark looked at her, sighed and shook his head.

  And Eddie was right there with him. It was ridiculous. Everything about their situation was straight out of some cheesy straight-to-video horror flick. Everything: stealing Christmas trees, for God’s sake; chased through the woods by a pack of bloodthirsty rednecks, flying backwards down the mountainside in Mark’s mother’s Honda; the severed head bouncing along the forest floor and the headless, disemboweled corpse nailed to the broad trunk of the tree. All capped off by a band of hillbillies from hell and their grotesque relations swooping down in a murderous rampage, and… Thel.

  Where the hell was she?

  “Hey, dude, Arley. Where the hell’s our friend?”

  “Yeah, Arley,” Brenda said. “Where’s Thel?”

  “I told you,” he said. “We took her to Granny to get that leg tended to. You didn’t want her bleeding to death, did you?”

  “But… where?” Brenda asked him. “Where is she, why can’t we go see her, make sure she’s okay?”

  “Why can’t we go see her?” The mocking tone of Arley’s voice put a frustrated frown on Brenda’s face.

  Eddie didn’t say anything. What was the use, he knew the guy was lying. And he was quite sure that wherever Thel was, her leg wasn’t being ‘tended to’. They knew she wasn’t going to make it, probably left her bleeding out on the side of the mountain, or nailed to a tree like that poor guy down at the base of the cliff.

  Arley chuckled, smiling as he shook his head. “Y’all need to lighten up. Dolly, uncork that jug and give our guests here a shot of Elbert’s finest. No reason to sit around all sad and shit. Your friend’ll get better, and when she does we’ll bring her on up.”

  Dolly walked to the far end of the table and stood by Tina, who’s bowl of stew sat untouched in front of her, a fork and a spoon beside it, below a half-full glass of water. The moonshine was next to an empty porcelain bowl and some other eating utensils, directly in front of where Dolly had been seated when Mark, Eddie and Brenda were herded into the cabin. A kerosene lamp flickered in the center of the long, rectangular table as Dolly grabbed the jug, uncorking it on her way back down to Mark and Eddie, and Arley, who had walked over to join them. The pistol was back in his waistband, right beside the sheathed hunting knife he’d used on Bobby Jarvis. Not that it mattered to Eddie—he sure as hell didn’t have the nerve to make a move on him.

  “What’s your name?” Arley said. “Mark, isn’t it?” He pulled a chair away from the table and sat down between Mark and Eddie.

  “Yeah.”

  “How’s that hand, Mark?”

  He held it in front of him. The black and blue wound was swollen and puffy. Dried and crusted blood surrounded the puckered hole in the hand’s center. “Hurts like a motherfucker.”

  “Give him the jug, Dolly.”

  Dolly placed the jug in front of Mark, smiling as she said, “Here ya go, sweetie.”

  “Go ahead, man. Take you a snort, it’ll do you good.”

  Mark grabbed the jug and hefted it. He took a small sip and grinned, took a healthy drink and said, “Dayum.”

  “Smooth, ain’t it?” Arley said, and Mark said, “Damn smooth.”

  “Take you another pull,” Arley said, and Mark did. He took a drink and sat the jug on the table. Arley’s hand came up holding the pistol. He stuck it to Mark’s side, and Mark said, “Whoa, now!”

  “Just so you boys know,” Arley said, smiling. “You pull any shit, you’ll wish you hadn’t.” He looked at Eddie, and then back at Mark. “We clear?”

  “As a fucking bell,” Mark said, and then slid the jug past Arley, to Eddie, who looked at it while Arley said, “Go ahead, man. Take you a good long pull.”

  Eddie picked up the jug and took a drink. Arley was right: it was smooth. It had a kick going down, but not much of one. He took another drink and returned the jug to the table, surprised to find a pleasant warm sensation already tingling his belly.

  “So anyway, how’d y’all come to be runnin’ through the woods like that? What’d you do to piss them boys off?”

  Eddie huffed out a breath.

  “What?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  Arley slipped the gun back into his waistband. “Try me,” he said.

  “Christmas trees.”

  “Say what?”

  “Yep,” Mark said. “Christmas trees. We were stealing fucking Christmas trees.”

  Arley laughed. “You’re right,” he said. “I don’t believe you.”

  “Yeah, well,” Brenda said. “It’s true… unfortunately.”

  “Let me get this straight. Those guys were fixin’ to kill y’all over a couple of Christmas trees. Well that’s not very Christian of them boys, now, is it?”

  Eddie shrugged his shoulders, and Mark said, “Seems like Christmas trees ain’t the only thing they’re growing up here.”

  “Why hell no,” said Arley. “They’ve got pot planted all over the mountain.”

  “Apparently,” Eddie said. “They thought we were raiding their shit.”

  “Speaking of pot there, partner,” Mark said. “Why don’t you fire up one of them bad boys? You’ve still got some, don’t you?”

  Yeah, right, thought Eddie. That’s all we need. Start smoking pot with this psychopath and who knows what’ll happen?

  Eddie wasn’t sure he wanted to find out.

  “Yeah, man,” Arley said. “Bust it out if you got some. If you don’t, I do. ‘Cause we have been raidin’ their shit.”

  What a surprise, thought Eddie, as Mark said. “Nah, he’s got some, although I wouldn’t mind doing a little taste test comparison between the two.”

  Dolly squeezed in between Mark and Arley. Eddie couldn’t believe it when she grabbed the jug and took a swig, couldn’t believe Arley didn’t stop her. After all, she couldn’t have been more than fourteen or fifteen years old, and even with that horrible-looking face, she still had a lingering aura of childhood surrounding her slender frame. But Eddie didn’t say anything. What did he care if she swilled down some moonshine? It wasn’t any of his business. He pulled the Ziploc baggy from his shirt pocket—with everything that had happened tonight, he’d actually forgotten he had it, but not Mark, no, hell no, not Rockley. That son of a bitch gets an arrow through his hand and a pig-girl calling dibs on him, and what does he come up with? Hey, let’s get high!

  Eddie unrolled the baggy and extracted a couple of joints, pulled out his lighter and fired one up. Then he handed it to Arley and placed the lighter on the table, sat back in his chair and watched the hillbilly huff down a lungful—lips pressed together, he held it in for a moment, then a moment longer, his face turning red as a torrent of smoke came out in a spasm of violent coughs.

  “Goddamn, son,” he finally said, a thin ribbon of white wavering up from the smoldering joint.

  “Kick-ass, huh?” said Mark.

  Arley put the joint to his lips, nodding as he took another long drag. He held it in a little longer this time, passed the j
oint to Mark and exhaled another thick cloud of smoke. This time it was his turn to express surprised appreciation. Mark laughed when he said ‘Dayum’. He hit the joint and Arley followed it up with, “I thought that shit down the mountain was good, but Jesus… I hope you guys have a healthy little supply of that stuff.”

  “No need for a taste-test, huh?” Mark asked him.

  Eddie fired up another doobie, and Arley said, “Comparing this to that would be like stackin’ creek water up to Elbert’s shine.” He hit the joint again, and then offered it to Brenda. She shook her head no, but he insisted. “C’mon,” he said. “Don’t be like that. We’re all friends here.”

  Right, thought Eddie, direct from Hillbilly-Heaven, Arley the friendly neighborhood psychopath.

  Brenda accepted the joint, and Eddie passed his to Arley. Mark said, “Speaking of shine…” and Eddie pushed the two-tone ceramic jug down to him. While Arley hit the joint, Mark tipped back the jug. Dolly stood beside him, smiling and running a hand up and down his back. Brenda sat across from them, watching Arley blow out another stream of smoke. At the far end of the table, Tina stared down at her bowl of stew as if she were gazing into a crystal ball. Eddie didn’t much feel like toking his brains out, but he slipped a pack of rolling papers out of his pocket, dipped into the baggie and went to work on another joint to keep the rest of them happy.

  More importantly, to keep Arley happy.

  On they went, Mark and Arley and Brenda, (even Dolly got in on the action)

  passing the pot and the jug back and forth until the joints were nearly gone; Arley cracking jokes as if he were amongst a couple of drinking buddies instead of a group of freaked-out captives he and Willem had marched up there at gunpoint. He dropped the smoldering nub of a roach and crushed it against the floor, picked up a freshly-rolled joint and said, “This is some dynamite shit. Them assholes shoulda been asking you for pointers instead of chasin’ you through the woods.”

  Them assholes.

  And that brought it all back home: Butchie Walker and his boys massacred on the side of the mountain, Butchie screaming while that crazy son of a bitch Willem waved a skewered eyeball at the full moon; the massive arm of the giant swooping down with a blood-stained ax blade to put a stop to Butchie’s high-pitched shrieks.

  Eddie shook his head, looked over his shoulder, and then back at Arley.

  “Who’s guitar?”

  “Huh?” Arley said. “Oh, that. That’s Gerald’s.”

  “Oh yeah? He any good?”

  “He’s all right.”

  “Oh, Arley,” Dolly said. “You know he can’t play that thing! Why he ain’t even—”

  Dolly flinched when Arley said, “Shut the fuck up!”

  Eddie flinched a little too. Just like that, Arley had gone from the friendly neighborhood psychopath to one who looked like he could snap at any moment. Dolly turned away, staring down at the floor, as Eddie said, “Mind if I take a look at it?”

  Arley turned toward him, eyelids drooping across his bloodshot eyes. Eddie thought it showed a marked improvement—at least he didn’t have to see the lazy, dead eye staring off into a world no one else seemed to have access to.

  “What are ya,” Arley said. “Some kinda guitar-man?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Help yourself, brother. Like I said: we’re all friends here.”

  He flicked some spent ash onto the floor while Eddie scooted his chair away from the table and stood up. As he started across the room, Arley slid loose his pistol, jammed the barrel into the side of Mark’s neck and looked over his shoulder at Eddie. A sharp, metallic click filled the room when the hammer was cocked back.

  Brenda gasped, and Mark said, “Goddamn, dude!”

  Eddie turned, and Arley said, “Just remember what I said about tryin’ anything. I’d hate to have to blow your partner’s head off, ‘specially now that we’re all gettin’ along so good together.”

  “Dude,” Mark said, an uneasy grin spreading across his face. “What the fuck?”

  Arley lowered the weapon, smiling and easing the hammer back into place. “Just fuckin’ with ya, brother.” He slid the pistol back into his waistband, grinning. “Man, you guys’re gonna like it up here. Ain’t they, Dolly?”

  “They sure are.” Dolly hiked her dress up to her waist, past a small patch of black pubic hair. Rubbing herself against Mark’s hip, she said, “Especially this one.”

  Brenda sighed and shook her head, and passed what was left of a joint over to Mark. “Here you go,” she said. “You look like you could use some of this right about now.”

  “You can say that again,” Mark said, as Dolly dropped her gown back in place, giggling while Mark clamped the joint between his lips.

  Eddie stepped over to the couch and ran a finger across a thin layer of dust coating a hard-shell guitar case that obviously had not been opened in quite some time, popped the latches and swung open the lid.

  Yeah, right. Gerald’s. Where the hell’d Gerald get a five-thousand dollar Martin guitar?

  Yeah, it was Gerald’s, all right, and Mark was the King of England and Eddie the man in the moon. The black finish, which had not a speck of dust on it, gleamed in the flickering light of the kerosene lamps. Eddie lifted the guitar and moved the case further down the couch. He sat on the armrest, strummed a chord and smiled, surprised that even with all the shit they’d been through tonight—and who knew what kind of trouble they were facing now—the rich, dulcet tone of the exquisitely crafted guitar could so easily pry a smile from him.

  He closed his eyes and began to pick out a simple three-chord progression, a soothing and somewhat haunting melody he had recently made up, one he enjoyed playing around with and often came back to.

  In the background, Brenda said, “So what exactly are you talking about, what do you mean when you say we’re gonna like it up here?”

  “Yeah,” Mark said. “What’s up with that shit, you guys planning on keeping us up here permanently or something?”

  Arley took another toke. Smoke flowed freely from his nostrils as he tapped the joint, sending a smattering of ashes free-falling to the floor.

  “’Cause I gotta tell ya,” Mark said, “I’m not so sure—”

  “Look, just consider yourselves our guests. Are we forcin’ you to stay here? Let’s just say it’s in your best interest to want to stay here, ‘cause, well, the alternative…”

  Still picking, his hands still coaxing gentle and soothing tones from the guitar, Eddie looked up. Arley was facing away from him, toward Brenda, who sat on the opposite side of the table. Dolly stood behind Mark, her small head lithely bobbing back and forth in time with the music. Mark was staring at the pistol grip protruding from Arley’s waistband, so close it was that all he had to do was reach down and grab it, and he was thinking about doing it; Eddie could see it in his eyes. A look of fear and grim determination coexisted in those eyes. Eddie wondered how much longer his friend would live if grim determination won out. He did not like the dire implication of Arley’s last statement, and he was quite sure Mark hadn’t liked it either.

  “You really are a guitar man, aren’tcha?” Dolly said, as Eddie continued to play.

  Arley twisted around in his seat. Then he stood up, turned the chair around and sat back down, crossing his legs and leaning back, still sucking down smoke from what was left of his joint. Eddie was glad, because now he didn’t have to worry about his friend; the gun was on the other side, much too far away for him to even think about making a play for it.

  Strains of music filled the room. Even Arley’s head was bobbing up and down. He closed his eyes and Eddie thought Mark was going to do something crazy, and why not, maybe something crazy, something bold and brazen was needed to get them out of this. But Mark didn’t do anything, and Eddie was glad—the last thing he wanted was to see his best friend bleeding out on the hardwood floor.

  ‘cause, well, the alternative…

  What was the alternative, wind u
p gutted on the mountainside like Butchie’s pal, or maybe an ax to the head like good ol’ Butchie himself? Eddie kept the tune going, because right now, that was the only thing keeping him from doing something crazy.

  “When we’re married,” said Dolly. “We can all sit around and listen to him play.”

  “Married,” Mark said. “Okay. Arley, dude. What’s this married bullshit? First it’s that big-assed cousin of yours, now it’s her. Just for the fucking record: we’re not getting married, I’m not getting married—to her or anybody else.”

  “I don’t know,” Arley said, smiling as Eddie’s fingers crawled up the ornate fretboard. “You might not like the alternative.”

  Arley snickered as Mark blurted out, “There you go again with that shit. Look, you and that big son of a bitch and cousin Willem don’t have the right to hold us here. You know that, don’t you? Be reasonable.”

  “Cousin?” said Dolly. “Willem’s his daddy.”

  “What’dya mean, daddy? Every one of them was calling each other cousin all the way up the mountain… Right, cousin?”

  Arley, smiling and nodding his head, looked over at Mark and laughed.

  “Well, what is he, your cousin or your dad?”

  Probably both, thought Eddie, just as Arley confirmed it by saying, “Both.”

  Mark sighed and shook his head. “You’re kidding.”

  “Actually, he’s my brother, too.”

  “Oh. My. God,” said Brenda, while Eddie, still playing the guitar, thought, Un-fucking believable. But it really wasn’t all that hard to swallow. Just look at them: Arley and his fucked-up eye, Dolly, whose face more resembled a swine’s than a human’s, not to mention that grotesque-looking Lewis-creature. No telling how many of these inbred freaks were roaming the forest.

  Talk about a grim fucking fairy tale!