Lord of the Mountain Read online

  “Cold?” he said, when his patient flinched.

  “Feels good.”

  “Gimme a couple more deep ones,” Fletcher said, listening for a moment or two before having Chambers lie down; after which, he took his pulse, and then felt around his chest, applying a gentle pressure here and there. “That hurt?”

  “Huh uh.”

  “How about that?” Fletcher said, and then pushed directly on the sheriff’s stomach.

  Chambers, grimacing at the touch, said, “Yeah, that smarts a little, Doc.”

  “Think you’ll ever find out who did it?”

  “Thirteen years I’ve been waiting for somebody to slip up and give themselves away. Thirteen long years. And you know what?” Chambers smiled grimly. “I think somebody just did.”

  “Oh, really.” Fletcher laid a cool hand across Chamber’s forehead. “You’ve got a bit of a fever.”

  “I was in Jimmy T’s the other day and Henry Walker asked me how my sister was doin’. One thing led to another and we started talking about them kids.” Chambers continued, his anger and frustration more evident with each successive remark: “Jimmy Tomlin’s face went to shit, got all nervous acting, changing the subject and double-talkin’ out the side of his mouth when I asked him who he thought done it. That boy knows somethin’.”

  “Maybe he just doesn’t like talking about it. Most people don’t, you know.”

  “You do this job long enough, you get to know a thing or two about human nature.” Chambers looked Fletcher in the eye. “That boy knows somethin’, Doc. And I mean to find out what he’s hidin’. And you can bet your bottom dollar, one way or another, before this day is over I will know.”

  “You can sit up now,” Fletcher said, and then put a reassuring hand on Chambers’ shoulder. “I think the stress of having to care for Mary, the kids, and you being all worked up over Tomlin is giving you an ulcer. Go ahead and put your shirt back on.”

  Doc Fletcher walked over to his medicine cabinet, opened the glass door and removed a small jar. He carried it to a sink in the corner of the room and filled a glass half full of water, dumped in a generous amount of the jar’s powdery contents and stirred it with a wooden tongue depressor he had fished out of his shirt pocket. “Here,” he said, as he returned to Chambers. “Take this. Should give you some relief.”

  “I sure hope so,” Chambers said, accepting the glass and drinking it down in one long gulp, complaining about the taste when the glass was emptied.

  Laughing heartily, Fletcher said, “The badder the taste the better the cure.”

  Chambers stood up, buttoning his shirt as he walked across the room, and lifted his hat from Fletcher’s desk. “Hey, Doc,” he said. “Have you and Marty worked anything out yet?”

  “Hell no!” Fletcher called out. “That goddamn fool—”

  “Doc, don’t use the Lord’s name in vain around me.”

  “I’m sorry, John, but he’s got me so damn frustrated, I don’t know what to do. I’ve begged and pleaded, and offered him way more money than that place is worth. And he still won’t give in.”

  “Well, his granddaddy built the place and passed it down to Marty’s daddy. Can’t much blame a man for wanting to hold onto his heritage.”

  “I guess.” Fletcher sighed. Then he offered his hand to Chambers. “Sheriff, hope you get to feeling better.”

  “Thanks, Doc,” Chambers said, giving Fletcher’s hand a firm shake. “Just send the bill over to the office.”

  Then he turned and walked away, leaving Doc Fletcher standing alone in the doorway.

  Chapter Four

  Missy Thomas laid a hand across her stomach. She was late again, and wondered how long it would be before it started to show, and what Jason might do when he found out she was pregnant. She didn’t love him, had never loved him. She’d only married him because he had given her daddy a bunch of money. It hadn’t mattered that she had fallen to her knees, begging her father to change his mind, that she was only fifteen and didn’t want to marry a fat old man like Jason. Missy could still hear his coldhearted reply:

  ‘You’ll learn to love him’.

  But there was only one man she would ever love, and his name wasn’t Jason Thomas. She would never forget the look on Elmer’s face when she told him Daddy was forcing her to marry Jason, the way her heart broke when Elmer left to join the Army.

  “Here you go, boys,” Missy said, as she laid a plateful of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in front of her two children, smiling as Jason Jr. grabbed a sandwich and handed it to his three-year-old brother.

  Such good boys, she thought. They deserve better than this. They deserve Elmer.

  Even though she lived in a fancy house, wore nice clothes and had plenty of food, she didn’t have love, and there would always be a slap in the face or a hard punch to the gut if she displeased Jason in any way. Missy’s husband had always been cold-hearted and cruel, treating her like something bought and paid for, a slave. And even though he had never worked, and he stayed out to all hours of the night—Missy never knowing if or when he was going to walk through the door—he always wanted food when he finally did come home, and if he asked for sex, she’d damn well better give it to him… or else.

  She got pregnant the first month of their marriage, and again a month after Junior was born. Missy considered it to be a miraculous gift from God that she had gone the last three years without getting pregnant again.

  “That’s a good boy,” Missy cooed, as she wiped a jelly smear from Tony’s face.

  The telephone rang and she ran into the living room to answer it.

  “Hello?… Oh, hi, Baby… I know. I miss you, too… I don’t know if I can get out tonight. I want to…” She smiled. “I love you too, Elmer. God, I love you so much… Bye, sweetheart.” Missy touched her belly, and said a silent prayer, thanking God for bringing Elmer Hicks back into her life.

  * * *

  Tomlin hurried to a bank of telephones lined up against the far wall of the bowling alley, and dropped a coin into the slot, grateful someone was there to answer his call.

  “Hey,” he said. “We got trouble… Goddamn John Chambers knows somethin’… Like hell he don’t. I’m tellin’ you; he’s all over my ass…”

  “Relax?” Tomlin said, and then lowered his voice to a whisper, “Don’t tell me to relax. He came into the bar the other night asking a bunch of questions, lookin’ at me like he knew somethin’, then started grilling the shit outa me…”

  “I didn’t tell him anything, just a lot of double-talkin’ bullshit. But he’s on my ass now…

  “You listen to me. I saw Chambers comin’ down the street a little while ago. I didn’t want to take no chances so I hauled ass out the back door. I got halfway down the tracks and turned around and saw that big son of a bitch standing in the doorway, starin’ at me.”

  Tomlin paused as the soothing voice of reason flowed through the telephone line.

  “You think so?” he said. “Yeah, I gotta get outa town for a while, a long goddamn while.”

  He hung up and stepped out of the booth, and then walked through the bowling alley, past the snack bar and out the front door, where he crossed the road and ducked into an alley. Eyes darting back and forth, sweat pouring down his forehead, he made his way past the back door of Natali’s Bakery, turning his face away when he saw Andy Natali watching him through the screen door. He was past the rear of the Dime Store, turning the corner on Third Street when a deep, baritone voice said, “About time.”

  Then a meaty hand grabbed a fistful of his shirt, and Tomlin went flying through the air, bouncing off the redbrick wall of the Dime Store before crumpling to the sidewalk in a disheveled heap, where he looked up to see John Chambers towering over him, grimacing, sweat streaming down his pale face as he grabbed Tomlin and pulled him to his feet, and then slammed him against the wall, smiling when the frightened man grunted, and then groaned.

  “Long time no see, Jimmy T.”

  “What�
�d I do?” Tomlin whined.

  “You’re gonna tell me what you know,” Chambers said, and then grabbed Tomlin by his shirt, lifting the shorter man off the ground, higher and higher, until his feet dangled over the pavement. “Start talkin’.”

  “What do you mean?” Tomlin cried out. “I didn’t do nothin’!”

  Chambers lowered him to the ground, and then punched him in the gut, doubling Tomlin over and then slamming him against the wall. “You know what I’m talkin’ about.”

  Tomlin gasped for air and Chambers pounded a fist into his face, drawing a gush of blood that poured down his face and onto his shirt. He wilted, and Chambers stood him against the wall. Tightening a hand around the frightened man’s throat, he said, “Don’t make me ask you again.”

  Tomlin stood there, shaking, his teeth chattering, holding a bloody piece of pulp that mere seconds ago had been a well-constructed nose, as he looked into John Chambers’ hate-filled scowl. “Please,” he said, and Chambers drew back his fist.

  “Okay, okay! It was Teddy Levay and Judge Croft!”

  Chambers gasped.

  “He made ‘em do it! He made ‘em do it!”

  “You liar,” Chambers sneered.

  “No, no… it’s true,” Tomlin said, his body shaking while his hands trembled. “He made ‘em.”

  “Who’s He?” Chambers asked, and then stooped over and grabbed his gut, clutching his stomach and staggering to the wall as he cried out with pain and grabbed his gut again; rivulets of sweat tracking his face while foamy-white slobber bubbled up from his throat, frothing from his mouth like drool from a rabid dog. He clutched his belly, and then stumbled and pitched forward, a ragged gash splitting his forehead when he bounced off the red-brick wall and fell crumpling to the ground beside Tomlin, who stood wide-eyed before him—blood running from his shattered nose as Chambers bucked, heaved and convulsed; as his eyes bulged and his hands clawed at his throat, until all movement stopped, and Jimmy Tomlin took off up the alley as fast as his legs could carry him.

  Chapter Five

  Word of John Chambers death spread quickly, drawing people from all over town to the alley, where they were sent packing by Earl Peters and Alvie Ross Huckabee. A cropping of afternoon thunderclouds appeared on the horizon, pushing a much welcomed breeze into the valley as Doc Fletcher arrived on the scene to find the two solemn-faced policemen standing over the sheriff’s corpse. Giving a reassuring smile to Earl Peters, he shook hands with a tired-looking Alvie Ross, and then knelt down to examine the body, touching the cold, stiff flesh of its arm as he looked at the pained expression frozen onto Chambers’ face. Then, lifting his hand and placing his palm against Chamber’s neck, he said, “He’s been dead a while. Has anybody called the funeral home?”

  “Yeah,” Earl said. “They’re on the way.”

  Earl and Alvie Ross watched as Doc Fletcher poked and prodded. Finally, Earl asked the question everyone in town would want answered, “What in the hell happened to him?”

  “Looks like he’s had a heart attack.” Fletcher gave Chambers’ chest a gentle pat. “Rest well, old friend,” he said, and then stood to face the two policemen.

  “He looked like shit this morning,” Earl said. “Did he come see you like I told him to?”

  “No. I haven’t seen him today. Wish to God he had, maybe I could’ve prevented this.”

  “Here comes Ezra, now,” Alvie Ross said, nodding at an old black hearse rumbling down the alley, eventually coming to a stop a few feet from John Chambers, where Ezra and Charlie Butcher hopped out and opened the rear doors, and then pulled out a stretcher, hurrying over to Chambers just as Teddy Levay and Judge Theodore Croft rounded the corner.

  Croft’s hair was gray, the neatly-trimmed beard covering his face as white as snow. He had small, beady eyes, and the thick, hooded lids of an owl, and even though he stood only five-foot-five, his powerful standing in the community trumped the slight stature his physical attributes presented to all who stood before him.

  “The hell happened here?” he bellowed, but before anyone could reply to his question, he nodded at a group of children running down the alley. “Get him covered up, for Christ’s sake.”

  Ezra Butcher reached into the hearse, grabbed a sheet and used it to cover the body. Then, while he and his son lifted John Chambers onto the stretcher and loaded him inside, Alvie Ross stepped into the alley and shooed the children away.

  “Well?” Croft held his hands before him as if they were weighing-scales.

  “What?” Fletcher said. “Are you blind? Our sheriff is dead.”

  Croft gave the young doctor a scornful look.

  “I, I’m sorry, Judge,” Fletcher stammered. “It looks like he had a heart attack.”

  “Well, don’t that just take the goddamn cake!” Croft turned to Mayor Levay. “The hell’re we gonna do for a sheriff?” he asked him, as if the tragedy of John Chambers’ death was not his passing, but the inconvenience it was causing the county.

  “Earl, Alvie Ross,” Teddy Levay said, as the hearse pulled away. “Get the word out. We’re havin’ an emergency town council meetin’.” He looked at his watch. “It’s four o’clock. Let’s say eight o’clock at the Baptist church.” Then, nodding at Croft, “C’mon Judge, Doc. We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

  “You’re goddamn right we do,” Croft said, as he and Franklin Fletcher followed Teddy Levay down Third Street.

  “Hey Earl. I’d better get out to Mary Wright’s house.”

  “Mary Wright?”

  “Yeah, John’s sister. She ain’t gonna take this too good,” Alvie Ross said, and then took off down Third Street, leaving Earl Peters standing in the alley, staring after him.

  Chapter Six

  William Pitch stared out a window from the twenty-second floor of his suite of offices high above Wall Street. Good news travels fast, and as soon as Teddy Levay got back to the courthouse, he was on the phone with Pitch, telling him about John Chambers. All these years he had worried about that Bible-toting sheriff, and now he was dead. All those years he had worried for nothing.

  When Pitch came down the mountain that first night, he had no intention of ever going back. The sack full of gleaming diamonds had provided enough money for him to live like a king for the rest of his life, and the more distance he put between him and the mountain, the less real it all seemed. And after enough time had gone by, he had almost convinced himself that it wasn’t real. But the mirror didn’t lie, and his never-changing reflection and the fear of what might happen if he didn’t return had drawn him back.

  He built his mansion and stuck around long enough to choose thirteen people to help him conduct his business. After all, he couldn’t just pop in every thirteen years and snatch up three children. Not without help. He recruited the crusty old judge and the physician, and used his money to turn a worthless bum into the town’s mayor, trusting that unholy triumvirate to pick out the rest. He made all of them wealthy beyond their wildest expectations, and then took control of that idiot bartender and forced him to bring the children to him.

  But it was Pitch who had done the dirty work.

  He changed the night he fled into the mountain: his hair, the color of his eyes, even his name. A deal with a demon saved his life. He left a part of himself behind, but something left with him, something strange and magnificent… something evil. Those first thirteen years, he had kept it in check, using it to his advantage, but now whatever had left the mountain that night had grown stronger, and Pitch could feel it taking over.

  The first thirteen years, he’d spent drinking and gambling, carousing. After all, he had been a gambler by trade, and that was the stock and trade of a gambler’s life. The last thirteen years had been spent robbing and raping, pillaging and defiling… killing.

  Pitch wondered what the coming years might bring his way.

  Before that first night, he had been selfish and greedy, but he had never been cruel. Sure, he’d killed Albert Martin and his wife, but he h
adn’t enjoyed killing them. He’d done it out of necessity, to save himself. He doubted he would ever have killed again had he not run into Scratch. Then again, had he not run into Scratch, he would have died on the mountain that night. There could be no doubting that. Sometimes he wondered where he might have ended up had Albert not caught him in his marital bed.

  Certainly not in New York City, staring down from a vast mountain of wealth.

  Pitch walked over to his bar. Laughing softly, he poured himself a shot of tequila, and then turned and looked at his reflection in the mirror, the black hair and dark blue eyes, his piercing gaze. Once, he had been frightened by what the mirror revealed, but now he marveled at the forty-one year old face that had not aged a single minute in the last twenty-six years. In all that time he had never been ill, nor had so much as a headache, and he realized, as he ran a finely manicured finger down his clean-shaven face, that he could barely remember what he had once looked like.

  He wondered if Jonathan Smith would still be waiting for him in that cave.

  Somehow he knew that he would be.

  Pitch bit into a lime wedge, and tossed the liquor down his throat, picked up another piece of lime and poured another drink. He was going to have to get over to Whitley and make sure everything was under control. With stakes this high, he couldn’t afford any more surprises.

  Chapter Seven

  Earl and Alvie Ross stood outside the church, watching the excited townsfolk shuffle through the front door. Everyone was talking about John Chambers and his sister, Mary, who upon hearing of her brother’s death had walked calmly to the rear of her house, put a sawed-off shotgun to her neck and blown her head clean off, leaving a gore-spattered wall behind her.

  “God, it was awful,” Alvie Ross said. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Ezra Butcher carried her head off in a blood-soaked pillowcase.”