Dark Places (4 page)
Authors: Reavis Z Wortham
In the moonlit bottoms, Marty's headlights revealed bare tree trunks stacked like jackstraws in great piles. Splintered stumps lay on their sides, long roots like stiffened octopus legs splayed in irregular circles. Shallow pools of water reflected the brightest stars above.
Some of the stacks smoldered, red coals glowing in their depths. Others had burned down to huge circular piles of gray ash swirling in the random breezes. Smoke lay thick and heavy in the lowest levels, filling the truck cab. Occasional gusts kicked up sparks that flickered like fireflies. The eerie glow made Freddy think this was what Hell looked like when the old Devil wasn't home.
Or maybe he was.
Lightning flashed above the treetops like distant cannonade in the northwest. The wind freshened, whipping the smoke from one direction to the other.
Marty laughed and slapped the steering wheel. “Hot damn! Ain't this somethin'?” It was the meanest version of a snipe hunt he'd ever been on and that tickled him to death. He planned to play along with John T.'s deal for a while, but instead of robbing them like he wanted, Marty figured they'd take their keys and leave the strangers to walk out and find their car parked at the new overlook east of the dam.
It'd be a good joke on the city slickers and even if the laws found out, they wouldn't really care. Hell, they'd probably laugh, too.
They passed two quiet draglines, their enormous booms stretched high overhead. Tire tracks mixed with the prints of wide, heavy equipment treads fanned out in a tangle of trails.
“There she is.” Marty pointed toward one of the largest bulldozers in Lamar County. The giant machine dwarfed their approaching vehicles. “There's my girl.” The Caterpillar was his while he worked as contracted service to clear the future lake bottom. They circled a huge pile of timber waiting for a match.
He hit the gas to come up behind the slow-moving Impala and leaned on the horn, repeatedly stomping the dimmer switch to cause as much reaction as possible. In the backseat, John T. raised the pistol and gave the driver an order. He slammed the brakes.
Marty waved out of the truck window. “Stop! Stop! Get out quick!” With a harsh laugh, he jumped out of the truck with a two-foot pipe wrench from the floorboard, waving it like a tomahawk. He rushed to the driver's door and yanked on the handle, screaming all the while. “Get out! Get out now!”
In shock, the driver stumbled out from under the wheel with both hands in the air. “We'll do what you say!”
“Easy!” Freddy's voice quavered in dread. He followed, but much more slowly, first to keep his stomach from flipping over, and second, to maintain control of his suddenly loose bowels.
His heart beating fast, Marty grabbed the man's shirt and slung him to the ground, enjoying the power in his hands. This was
better
than a snipe hunt! Damn, that Bonnie and Clyde movie got him to going!
John T. came around the car, pushing the passenger ahead. “Keep your hands up, boys. This is a robbery!”
The frightened men did as they were ordered. John T. kept plenty of space between them and waved the barrel toward Marty and his shocked captives. “The driver's name is Harry Clay, and his friend here is Mason. We had a nice little chat on the way out here, didn't we boys?”
Freddy hung back. His voice trembled. “Easy guys, we have them now.”
“That's right!” Running fast and hot on adrenaline, Marty strong-armed Harry Clay against the car. “Don't move!”
John T. aimed the pistol from one man to the other. Mason frowned and pled with his hands. “Hey, take our money. Take it all.”
“That's what we're gonna do,” Marty said, remembering a scene in the movie. “'cause we rob banks.”
From beside the truck, Freddy spoke up with a nervous, high-pitched, voice. “Thith ain't no bank robbery. Let'th justh get their money and go.”
Harry Clay agreed. “That's right. Take our money. We won't say a thing.”
Marty snickered, enjoying the men's fear. He'd never felt such
power
before.
“Let's have it.” John T. raised the pistol and pointed the muzzle at Mason's forehead. He thumbed back the hammer. His finger barely touched the trigger.
The muzzle flash illuminated the scene like a flashbulb. Mason's head snapped back and he collapsed in a heap. Freddy, Marty, and Harry Clay screamed in shock.
“Shit!” John T. froze.
The world stopped for a moment. “Damn, son!” Marty realized they'd crossed a line in the dark, savage landscape. He hadn't intended to
kill
anyone.
Now, all thoughts of the money were suddenly gone.
John T. swallowed, aimed the pistol at Harry Clay, and thought fast. “He was going for a gun!”
“Don't.” Freddy stepped forward and tentatively reached for John T.'s free arm. “What are you
doing
?”
The situation was already beyond their control. John T. was no angel. He'd done a lot of things in the past, but murder was a whole 'nother game. He had to maintain their loose grasp of the situation, and the only thing to do was to keep up his bluff until Marty figured out their next step. Marty might be a mama's boy, but he had good ideas.
Harry Clay held out a hand. “He didn't have a
gun!”
“Bullshit.” John T.'s voice was louder but he was quickly losing steam. Already a two-time loser, he knew the next stay in jail would last for years. The muzzle lowered toward the man's knees, then the ground.
Marty jiggled the large wrench in his hand, uncertain.
Harry Clay's eyes flicked from one of his captors to the other. “There's money in my briefcase. Just take it and go.” His voice was weak and hollow.
Freddy whispered. “Marty, let him go and let'th get out of here.”
“Back off, Freddy.”
Harry Clay's face became a mask of fury as his terror evaporated at the realization that his brother lay dead at their feet. “This is not
right!”
“Back off, boy.” John T. found himself admiring the man for his backbone.
Behind him, Freddy moaned. “Jesuth Christh. Y'all thop it.”
“You're a
murderer!”
A gust of wind momentarily wrapped them in thick smoke. Seeing no other option and knowing they'd have to kill him because he could identify them all, Harry Clay seized the opportunity and lunged.
John T.'s pistol cracked again and red bloomed on Harry Clay's white shirt. The dying man grabbed the pistol and pushed the muzzle down. His nerveless fingers relaxed their grip and the body landed at John T.'s feet.
For the first time in his life, John T. was rattled. The local bad boy had crossed the mother of all lines not once, but twice.
Sheriff Cody Parker and Constable Ned Parker waited beside the crowded highway while Buck Johnson, the county justice of the peace, pronounced Leland Hale dead in the beams of half a dozen headlights.
Buck stepped to the fence, which was once again down, this time to allow access to the body. “Ned, you have any idea why Leland's shirt sleeve is yellow?”
“One of the Wilson brother's dogs histed his leg on him before we could call them off.”
“Helluva way to treat a dead man.”
“Leland don't know it.”
“I'god, that's the truth. He's dead sure enough, and has been for a while.”
Hands in the pockets of his overalls, Ned watched two ambulance attendants struggle with Leland's body. It was obvious the man's twisted corpse was broken, bones shattered by the impact of a vehicle.
“See them big cut marks on him?”
Buck studied Leland's face and the deep lacerations on his body. “Yep.”
“I imagine somebody hit him so hard it knocked him through the wires.”
“Well, we'll find out sure enough when we take him in for the autopsy.”
Cody lit a cigarette. He'd once again taken up the habit. “You reckon he was out here trying to get his cows up?”
“That'd be my guess.” Ned rubbed the back of his neck. “I doubt he wanted to be out for much else. Leland ain't been feeling good lately. The last time I saw him up at the store, he'd lost weight and his color was bad.”
Isaac Reader joined them. “Listen, I didn't hit him.”
“Didn't say you did, Ike.” Ned took off his Stetson and rubbed his bald head, a sure sign of frustration sparked by his childhood friend. He felt a raindrop and replaced his hat. “Buck's done said he's been dead awhile.”
Cody worried at an idea and waved at the distant farmhouse. “I wonder why he was out here at night to begin with.” He exhaled cigarette smoke through his nose. “I wonder if he was trying to push 'em back in. Had to been, and man, whoever hit him must have been a-flyin'.”
“That's what I've been studying on.” Ned stared into the night. “They came off the road to knock him thata way. I 'magine we'll see the marks here in the grass when it gets light, what we ain't scuffed out already.”
“None of this makes any sense.” Cody adjusted the weight of the 1911 Colt .45 on his hip. “A feller fixin' a fence usually has his truck close by, and he for sure wasn't standing in the middle of the road in the dark.”
“We'll find out when it gets light,” Ned said. “After everything that's happened tonight, I can't wait to see the sun.”
They stood in silence for a long moment, gulping the smoky air.
Mouth dry, John T. unrolled the crumpled pack of Camels from his shirtsleeve. He pulled one free with his teeth and held the pack out. “What are we gonna do now?”
Marty drew a deep breath, and with a shaking hand, he took one to calm his jangling nerves. They smoked in silence for a moment while Freddy stared at the corpses at their feet. Marty reached a decision and dug a set of keys out of his pocket.
“I'll make this all go away. Y'all put everything back in the car and then throw them in, too. I'll be right back.”
Freddy knelt beside the bodies as Marty disappeared into the darkness. “Thith ith murder.”
“Mason there was reaching for his gun.”
Freddy patted the corpse, feeling his pockets for the familiar feel of a pistol. “He don't
have
a gun.”
John T. reached into the open back door and withdrew a briefcase. He slapped it on the turtle hull and flicked the latches. It was filled with aerial photographs and map. “There's nothing in here but papers.”
Freddy found a thick envelope in Harry Clay's coat pocket. He rose and seeing John T.'s back to him, stuck the packet under his shirt. “I hope nobody findth out what you did.”
John T. paused for a long moment. “You meant to say what
we
did. You know, your fingerprints and Marty's are on this gun, too.”
Freddy's breath caught and he stopped himself. “Yeah, thath what I meant.”
They stopped talking when a huge diesel engine whined for a moment before rumbling to life with a hammering roar. Marty flicked on the dozer's headlights and accelerated. With a squeal of treads, it clattered and squawked loud enough to wake the dead. He piloted the big CAT in front of the Impala and lowered the blade. The engine changed pitch as the smooth steel dug into the ground. He pushed a bucket full of dirt forward, emptied it, and backed up for another load.
John T. immediately realized what Marty had in mind. He started the motor and added the Impala's headlights to the job. “Help me here, hoss.” Without a word, Freddy gathered the papers and pitched them into the car. With the diesel growling in their ears, they wrestled the limp bodies into the backseat, John T. grunting and cursing at their dead weight.
Marty widened and deepened the excavation until it was big enough to swallow the sedan. Satisfied with the results, he drove the dozer out of the pit on the opposite side.
John T. crossed his arms. “All right, take and pull the car down in there.”
Freddy's stomach rolled. “Why me?”
“That'll be your part.”
Wiping the cold sweat on his face, Freddy was afraid he was going to puke. “But I helped you load the bodieth. That thould be enough.”
The sounds of shrieking treads and the throbbing engine filled the bottoms as Marty steered the enormous machine in a circle.
John T. took another sip of beer, his eyes never leaving his skinny boyhood friend. Freddy's throat ached and he wanted to cry. He swallowed the lump and moved on numb legs toward the car.
“Hey!”
Freddy flinched, anticipating a bullet.
John T. grinned at him. “How about some of that J.T.S. Brown you got in your back pocket?”
Giving John T. the whiskey and shaking from relief, Freddy settled into the seat and shifted into drive. The Impala's fouled interior smelled thick and coppery from the congealing blood, making Freddy gag.
The radio warmed up and “Help!” blared from the speakers. The Beatles hit, combined with the night's events, was surreal. Freddy gave the foot feed a little gas and the tires slowly rolled over the soft soil.
In seconds he was at the bottom of the deep pit and killed the engine. Broken roots jutted from the sides like severed nerve endings in a raw, torn wound. The rich odor of damp dirt washed over him. There wasn't enough room to open the door. He climbed out the window and onto the roof.
He still half expected to feel a bullet in his own brain, but when he glanced up, the bulldozer was nearly overhead with a bucket of freshly turned dirt.
Frantic to get out of the pit, Freddy jumped onto the trunk and leaped out of the way as the first load fell. He stumbled out of the crater and across the broken ground. John T. steadied his balance. Another load fell onto the hood, and they watched the car disappear.
“I need to puke.”
Without taking his eyes off the bulldozer, John T. shrugged. “Who's stopping you?”
Freddy stepped into the darkness and vomited over and over, until there was nothing left but thin bile. When he returned weak and shaking, the Impala's resting place was indistinguishable from the surrounding landscape. John T. handed him the bottle and Freddy rinsed his mouth with the harsh whiskey.
Beyond a nearby dragline, the storm approached with a rumble of thunder.
When the car was completely buried, Marty pushed a smoking tangle of thick limbs over the freshly turned dirt, repeating the process with a pile of unburned wood. Fifty yards away, debris burned fitfully, coals glowing as the half-green timber smoldered. Marty scooped a load of coals that fanned alive with fresh oxygen. He dumped the fire onto the brush pile and flames licked upward.
Finished, he backed away, killed the engine, and climbed down to join them beside the truck. “How 'bout that?”
“Smooth as a baby's butt.” John T. handed him the open pint of whiskey. “Hey, did you see those kids we passed out on the highway?”
“Yep.”
“Wasn't that girl Ned Parker's granddaughter?”
“Yep.” Freddy stopped, afraid of what John T. was thinking, especially after what they'd done. “It could have been thomebody else, though.” He shivered when John T. turned his dead gaze on him.
Thick smoke boiled as the rising breeze fanned the coals. Freddy shook his head. “Thoth men are justh
gone
.”
Marty joined them and beamed, mistaking the statement as praise. As was his nature, he rebounded quickly from any crisis. “You're right.” He took another long drink of bourbon. “Now we can go on home and nobody'll ever know what happened. We're 'bout done with this lake, and by Christmas, it'll all be underwater.”
“But it wath murder!”
“Yep, that's a fact, sure as shootin', and we're all in it together. So the best thing to do is forget about it. What's done is done.”
“Forget about it?” Freddy was stunned. “How'n hell can I
forget
about it? They're dead and their familieth won't never know what happened.”
Their argument was interrupted as the coals burst into flame. The wood over the buried car quickly became a small inferno as the increasing breeze fed the fire.
Freddy wouldn't leave it alone. “Now we're going to drive off and thath's it?”
“It's over.” Marty's patience was wearing thin. “We buried the bodies. We buried this conversation at the same time.”
“Suits me.” John T. paused and brightened, his mood warmed by the bourbon. “Let's go to Frenchie's café and get some eggs.”
They climbed into the truck, with Freddy once again in the middle. He thought about the bundles of hundred-dollar bills he'd found in Harry Clay's inside coat pocket. Now, stuffed in his waistband, it was enough to get him out of their one-horse town and away from the sudden strangers sitting beside him.
John T. tossed out the empty bottle. “That was some quick thinking back there, burying the car.”
“What makes you think it was the first time?” Marty asked. He liked the way it sounded, tough.
John T. shook out his last Camel as the truck reached the high ground and pulled onto the dirt road. “Son of a bitch.”
Down below, wind sparked more than a dozen fires back to life, giving the devastation the eerie appearance of a battlefield, or an atomic bomb's ground zero.
