Lord of the Mountain Read online

  Earl shook his head. “Jesus,” he said.

  “Marty, Shelva,” Alvie Ross said by way of greeting Marty Donlan and his wife. “Jason.” He nodded at Jason Thomas, who walked past him, staring through Alvie Ross like he wasn’t even there.

  “What a prick,” said Earl.

  “Yeah, thinks his shit don’t stink ‘cause his daddy owns some coal mines.”

  They followed the last of the crowd through the door, and stood side by side at the rear of the church, Earl waving to his wife, Vonda, who was seated in the third row of pews between Marty Donlan and Katie Lynn Stone, the preacher’s wife.

  Seated on the stage behind two long, fold-out tables were Mayor Levay, Judge Croft and Doc Fletcher, Evie Miller and Frannie Mitchell, the proprietor of The Dime Store, mine owners Sid Haines, Butchie Daniels and Jared Thomas. Doc Fletcher sat twiddling his thumbs, while Judge Croft leaned over and whispered something into Teddy Levay’s ear.

  The final member, Reverend Carlton Stone, stood at the pulpit, which had been moved to the side of the stage to give the audience an unfettered view of the town council. Tall and broad shouldered, he stared out at the crowd. His blue eyes, the color of the afternoon sky, were etched with sadness.

  “Welcome folks,” he called out, his deep voice resonating throughout the church. “Most of you know why we’re gathered here tonight. For anyone who doesn’t, Sheriff Chambers and his sister were taken from us today.” He looked around the pews at a few startled faces, but most people already knew why they were there. “We, as the town council, have got to appoint a new sheriff. But before we get to that, I’d like everyone to stand and join hands while I offer a prayer to our Lord and Savior on behalf of John and Mary’s family.”

  While the congregation stood and joined hands, Carlton Stone bowed his head and offered up a prayer, asking Jesus to look down on John and Mary’s families, to watch over them and comfort them in their hour of need, and to accept John and Mary into His Heavenly Kingdom. He ended his prayer by asking The Almighty to grant the town council wisdom to do the right thing, which brought a smile to the face of Teddy Levay, and a sneering scowl from Judge Croft. After finishing, Reverend Stone took a seat between Teddy Levay and Franklin Fletcher.

  “All right,” Levay called out as he stood, touching an index finger to the base of his neck, grunting and clearing his throat. “We’ve got two policemen left, Earl Peters and Alvie Ross Huckabee. You all know Alvie Ross. You may not know as much about Earl, ‘cause he’s just moved here from Charleston. Let me tell you; Earl’s a fine young man.”

  He looked around the room, trying to read the faces staring up at him, knowing this wasn’t going to be easy. “Alvie Ross has lived here all his life. There ain’t much you don’t know about him. Earl was a policeman up in Charleston. This little town of ours is poised to grow—big time. Earl’s got a wide variety of experience dealing with big city crime, and that’s somethin’ we all need to consider.”

  The crowd began to fidget and murmur; several frantically waving hands shot up in the air.

  “Go ahead, Marty.” Levay nodded at Donlan, and then touched his neck, tracing a finger across a small lump, a lump Doc Fletcher so far had been unable to fix.

  Marty Donlan stood up and looked around the room. Tall and slim, with soft brown eyes, he ran a hand through his thick head of sandy-brown hair. “No disrespect to the new deputy,” he said. “But I think we need one of our own.”

  Several people started clapping.

  Someone called out, “Damn right we do!”

  Harvey Lain, the lawyer, stood up, looked around and nodded to the crowd. “I agree with Marty,” he said, as he turned to face the stage. “I’m sure Earl’s a good man, otherwise John Chambers would’ve run him off. But I think we need somebody from Whitley.”

  All around the room, people hooted and hollered, many standing to reinforce the opinion Marty Donlan and Harvey Lain had put forth. Not a single person stood up for Earl.

  “Hold up a minute,” Teddy Levay called out. “Hold on while we take a vote.”

  Earl and his older counterpart stood in back of the room, watching the scene unfold: the crowd, ranting and raving, cheering each other on; red-faced council members arguing back and forth, some jumping out of their seats; Carlton Stone sticking a finger in Judge Croft’s face, wagging it back and forth as Croft slapped the finger away.

  Alvie Ross laughed and shook his head. “Jesus,” he said. “Would you look at this?”

  Earl put a hand on his shoulder. “Damn, how do these folks act at election time?” he said, which drew laughter from both policemen.

  The council members returned to their seats, scribbled on small sheets of paper and passed them forward to the mayor, who read them over, folded them and put them into his pocket. Then, grinning at the judge, he stood up to address the crowd.

  “Folks, taking all your comments and suggestions into consideration, your town council has discussed this, and we have decided to appoint Earl Peters as our new sheriff. We believe—”

  The crowd erupted with a series of boos and catcalling, some stomping their feet and yelling, “Bullshit!”

  “We believe,” Levay continued, shouting his words. “That Earl’s big city experience is what this town needs! Remember folks, this—”

  “This is a travesty!” Carlton Stone shouted, his deep baritone voice drowning out the mayor.

  “It’s a fair and square vote!” Judge Croft sneered.

  “Fair like Jimmy Mitchell!” the reverend screamed, dark blue veins bulging along his neck.

  “The hell do you mean by that?” Croft yelled back.

  “You sent that boy to prison for somethin’ he didn’t do and you know it!”

  Croft jumped up. “Goddamn you son of a bitch! Fuck you and—”

  “Don’t you swear in my church, you blasphemous heathen!” Carlton Stone cried out, lunging for the judge, his soft hands grabbing for Croft’s throat while Sid Haines wrestled him back into his seat.

  Teddy Levay held his arms up, waving his hands to get the crowd’s attention, then using them to quiet the congregation down. They wouldn’t stop, altogether, but when they finally did bring it down a notch or two, he continued, “Folks, I know you’re upset, but please, please, give Earl a fair chance. Hey, nothin’s etched in stone here, if we deem it necessary we can always make a change down the road.”

  Levay’s last words seemed to placate the crowd a bit, and the mayor called out to Earl, motioning the young deputy forward.

  Earl turned to Alvie Ross, who had already extended his hand.

  “Knock ‘em dead, Earl,” Alvie Ross said, offering him a friendly smile as Earl shook his hand, and then turned and walked down the aisle.

  Once onstage, he shook hands with the mayor.

  Afterward, he addressed the crowd: “Folks, I don’t know what to say.”

  “Well that’s a good start,” somebody said, and somebody else laughed, which brought forth a smile and a hearty laugh from Earl himself.

  “All I can tell you is this: I plan to honor John Chambers, who was as good a man as I’ve ever known, by running the sheriff’s office the way I think he would’ve seen fit. And if for some reason I go astray, Alvie Ross, who I consider to be my equal, will be right there to put the ship back on course.”

  This seemed to appease some of the crowd, most of whom stood up and began filing out. A few stayed behind, congregating in small groups for a final comment or two, but the name calling looked to be over with, and they finally dispersed as well.

  Carlton Stone approached Earl, offering his hand. “Nothing personal, Earl.”

  Earl grasped his hand firmly, and then patted him on the back. “No offense taken, Reverend.”

  Judge Croft walked over. Looking up at Earl, he said, “Don’t fuck up and you can be sheriff as long as you want. As for those whining bastards…” He nodded at the last remaining townsfolk filing out of the church. “Fuck ‘em.”

  * * *
/>   Jason Thomas turned onto the gravel road leading up to his property, chugging his last bit of Wild Turkey before tossing the empty pint bottle, which bounced off a tree and shattered against the rocky bottom of a dry creek bed. Hell of a thing, he thought, scratching his bald head as he pulled up in front of the two-story house. Not that he gave a damn about John Chambers, or his crazy sister for that matter. He just couldn’t believe they had pissed in Alvie Ross’s oatmeal by making that big goofy-looking bastard sheriff.

  Hell, he’s not even from these parts. He don’t know how things go around here.

  Damn sure find out if he ever fucks with me.

  Jason got out of the car, slamming the door and almost tripping over his own feet as he staggered across his lawn, coughing a couple of times and spitting out a ball of phlegm, grinning when a shadow passed by the living room window. Footsteps thudded off the wooden planks as he crossed the porch, turned the doorknob and found it to be locked. Moonlight reflecting off his bald head, he stood on the porch with his gut hanging over his belt.

  “Missy, goddamn it!” he shouted, and then pounded his fist against the door.

  The door opened, and Jason saw his petite young wife trembling before him in her nightgown, her silky blonde hair lying across her thin shoulders. “How many times I gotta tell you not to lock this door?”

  “I’m sorry, Jason” she said. “I forgot.”

  Missy hadn’t forgotten. She didn’t feel safe up here, all alone in the middle of the night, and she wasn’t going to leave the door unlocked because her husband was too drunk, or just too lazy to dig the house key out of his pocket. She stood before him, sighing in relief when he walked by without laying a hand on her.

  “What’cha got to eat?” he asked on his way to the cupboard, where he fumbled around, knocking a couple of cans and a bag of flour to the floor before finally locating a fifth of Jack Daniels, which was quickly opened, the bottle put to his lips and a mouthful of whiskey guzzled. “Well?”

  Missy went to the icebox, pulled out some fried chicken and placed it on the counter, turned back to get a bowl of green beans and the leftover cornbread while Jason gnawed a piece of a chicken breast, and then tossed it back onto the plate.

  “Shit’s cold,” he said.

  “Then I guess you should just come on home for supper every now and then,” she muttered, and then gasped as if she couldn’t believe the words had spilled from her mouth.

  “Oh, is that what you guess?” he said, and then backhanded her, sending Missy flying backwards, knocking food off the kitchen counter and a porcelain bowl smashing against the wooden floor, a wash of green beans scattering across it as Missy fell to her knees.

  “Is that what you guess!” he shouted as he stomped across the floor, grabbed her arm and pulled her upright.

  “Stop it,” she said, her trembling lip already starting to swell. “You don’t have the right to hit me.”

  “I got all the right I need, bitch,” he said, laughing and grabbing her by the throat, and then shoving her against the wall.

  “You leave me alone. I ain’t gotta take this anymore.”

  “Oh, you’ll take it, all right. You’ll take whatever I give you.”

  “No, I won’t,” she said. “I’ll leave.”

  Eyes narrowing, Jason put his face so close that their noses touched, his foul, whiskey breath washing over her, as he said, “You ever leave me, I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you, and I’ll kill those two little bastards upstairs.” He punched her in the stomach and she doubled over, crying out in pain as he laughed. “And you know what, Missy? Won’t nobody do a goddamn thing about it when I do.”

  Jason grabbed a handful of Missy’s hair and marched her bent over to the kitchen counter, grabbed the Jack Daniels and took another swig, and then held her down and ripped the nightgown from her back. Then, loosening his belt and letting his pants fall to his ankles, he grabbed his cock and leaned over, his sowbelly flattening across her back as he shoved himself inside… forcing himself deeper as he grabbed the bottle and poured whiskey on her head, her shoulders and back.

  “Stop, Jason,” she pleaded. “God, stop it!”

  “Stop?” he said. “I’m just gettin’ started!”

  Chapter Eight

  Early October

  Vonda Peters sat in her apartment, humming along to a cheerful tune playing on her radio. In the five weeks since John Chambers’ death, the Peters’ family circumstances had risen considerably, along with their social standing. Dinners with Judge Croft and his wife were the norm, drinks with the good doctor. Good natured Teddy Levay seemed to have taken a personal interest in their well-being. Earl, who had settled into his sheriff’s position, was pleased with the way things were progressing. Vonda had been sure there would be a conflict between Earl and Alvie Ross Huckabee. After all, Alvie Ross was ten years older than Earl and had lived here his entire life. But Earl said there were no problems. He and his deputy got along just fine. Both she and her husband seemed to have become acclimated to the small town environment: Earl, patrolling the town, Vonda teaching at the elementary school.

  Vonda smoothed a wrinkle on her skirt, and then stood and walked into the kitchen to pour a glass of tea.

  Things had certainly changed since the day her father had gotten into it with his customer, Earl wandering into the furniture store just as they were about to come to blows, somehow able to talk sense into both men, each man giving a little before finally coming to terms both could live with. Vonda watched the big policeman handle her hardheaded father as if he were a child. The Clifford Collins she knew would never have reached that agreement—even if it had been fair for both sides—had Earl not been there to steer him gently toward it.

  She knew from the minute she laid eyes on him that he was her ticket out, away from her strict father and domineering mother, and the stifling Baptist upbringing they had forced upon her. The fact that Earl was tall and handsome, with a strong athletic body and a steady job, was not lost on Vonda, either.

  She seduced him, plain and simple, ravaging him, doing things to him and letting him do things to her no one had done before. She hooked him like a fish, and he loved it: afternoon blowjobs, sex-laced evenings at his apartment when her folks thought they were at the movies.

  Vonda’s parents thought the world of Earl, and rightfully so: nice clean-cut policeman with a good head on his shoulders. ‘That boy’s going places,’ her father liked to say, and Vonda was bound and determined to go with him.

  Vonda stirred a spoonful of sugar into her tea, smiling as she remembered the day she’d told Earl she was pregnant. He cried, and she thought that was so sweet, the big policeman on his knees, his massive arms looped around her slim waist, pressing his face gently into her belly. She wasn’t pregnant. She was sick and tired of waiting for him to pop the question, and had decided to give him a little nudge in the right direction. They married a month later, and when she faked a miscarriage a week after that, Earl never suspected a thing.

  Vonda returned to the living room just in time to hear the weather report predicting afternoon thunderstorms. She sat on the couch, sipping her tea, picked up a magazine and somebody knocked on the front door. She stood up and crossed the room, opened the door and found a short, stocky man with bushy brown hair fidgeting nervously in the hallway, a boxer’s nose pushed over and flattened onto the side of his face.

  “Ma’am,” he said, and then handed her an envelope and walked away, leaving Vonda staring wide-eyed at its contents.

  Chapter Nine

  Robert Harrison checked his watch as he entered the elevator, smiling because he had timed it just right. Make the bastard wait, he thought, and then pressed the button that would carry him to the twenty-second floor of The Harper Building. As the elevator began its ascent, he whistled a tune: Blue Skies. And why not? There was nothing but blue skies for Robert Harrison, owner of the top real estate firm in the state, a man whose prime holdings included the Woolworth Building, the brand new
Howard Trust Building, a multitude of shops in and around Fifth Avenue, and Harrison’s newest venture: part-owner of a steel mill that would be providing the lion’s share of materials for the Empire State Building, due to begin construction next year.

  He had absolutely no reason, nor the desire to sell any of his holdings, and that was exactly what he’d told the man who approached him at John Astor Junior’s dinner party. Still, the man had been hounding him all week, offering up ‘the deal of a lifetime’ on a daily basis. One bold statement after another had finally served to bring Harrison downtown this morning. Even though he thought the guy was full of shit, and really didn’t know why he had agreed to come, he had, and so here he was.

  Harrison stepped off the elevator, carrying his briefcase as he walked down the hallway into a large lobby. The first thing he noticed was a big crystal chandelier hanging in the middle of the room, the second was a beautiful young woman sitting behind a large desk.

  “Can I help you, sir?” she asked him.

  “Robert Harrison to see Mister Pitch.”

  “Oh… of course.” She stood up, waving an arm at the dark walnut door behind her. “Right this way,” she said.

  Harrison followed her into a large office, where William Pitch and another, much younger man, stood at the window looking down on Wall Street. Hanging on the wall behind an expensive cherry desk was Renoir’s The Bathers.

  “My God,” Harrison said, crossing the room to get a closer look at the lovely creatures frolicking naked on the canvas. “That can’t be…”

  “An original print?” Pitch laughed. “You bet your ass it is.” He walked over and put an arm around Harrison’s shoulder. “Look at the tits on that redhead, would ya?”

  Harrison took a step back. “That, sir,” he said. “Is a work of art.”

  “That, sir,” Pitch replied. “Is a work of art with a great set of tits.”

  What an undeserving bastard, Harrison thought, as Pitch chuckled and rolled his eyes.