Hellbender (Murder Ballads and Whiskey Book 2) (36 page)

I focused on the trailer windows as I worked my way over to the trucks. They were parked on a slope, twenty yards from the office. Above the smell of wet air and clay came a foreign scent, an odor that didn’t belong.

It was smoke. Cigarette smoke coming from the window of the second truck. I saw Darren lying on the seat, blowing his smoke out the driver’s side window. I put my finger to my lips then pointed to the cab. Ben nodded as I made a V with my fingers and blew imaginary smoke from my mouth.

I crouch-walked the best I could to the passenger side, then took a long second to catch my breath. Every step brought pain. Rain dripped from the edge of my hood, carrying salt and the tang of blood to my lips. Fainter than those tastes was the hint of coal dust.

I reached for the door handle with my left hand and slowly stood up. I lowered my gun, checked the safety, and squeezed the door handle’s button with my thumb. The faint static of country radio washed out the hiss of rain.

I flung the door open to the rain.

“Huh? Henry! You fucking—” Darren flung his cigarette to the floor mat and sat up. He fumbled for his rifle.

I froze.

Bang. Bang.

Blood spread through his t-shirt from a pair of dime-sized holes. Ben tucked Greg’s pistol into his belt and nocked an arrow. “Get down,” Ben said.

The trailer’s door swung open. Charlie stuck his head out. He waved his revolver in our general direction. “Darren!” he shouted.

But his pup never barked back.

Charlie aimed a pistol at the truck. Billy produced a spotlight from the office. From over my left shoulder Ben released his arrow with a
pfft
, like opening a can of pop, shattering the blinding lamp. Billy dropped it and pushed past his uncle to flee the trailer. Ben shot another arrow. A pinpoint of light in the trailer’s aluminum skin told me he’d missed. He unholstered his pistol and ran toward the trailer.

Charlie followed Billy down to the railroad tracks. Ben sprinted ahead. I did my best to keep up, slipping through mud and ankle-deep puddles. Stumps and half- buried rocks kept me attentive. Roots and rough stones grabbed my ankles. Ledges tripped me, forcing the air from my creaky lungs and past my tender ribs.

With every passing second a little more daylight died and the light from my fireflies grew. They pulsed in the trees, strobed over the void above the river. Ben ran on. I stopped and considered firing a shell, but knew the birdshot wouldn’t get very far.

I reloaded as I walked, fumbling and dropping shells into the slick clay. Ben disappeared into the mist ahead, swinging his bow, using it to balance as he flew over the ragged terrain like Leatherstocking. His shadowed form barely clung to the edge of my visibility. He fired the pistol once, then once again. The flashes silhouetted him against the rain.

The old bridge over the Blackwater was just ahead, but I wouldn’t make it that far, not hurting as bad as I was. Grasping my chest, I sat upstream from a coal tipple with my back to a long row of coke ovens. The old conveyor belts and hoppers hadn’t loaded coal or coke in a half-century.

The coke ovens were like little brick caves. A whole row of them sat in various stages of being returned to nature. These were small ones, perhaps only seven feet high in the center. Many had collapsed a long time ago. The rest were open, empty black spaces that I wanted no part of. They were full of snakes and spiders. And I’d had more than enough dark, enclosed spaces.

I sat on an old rail tie and kicked a rock toward the river. My legs were spent, worn out. All flexibility in my knees and hips decayed. By now they felt like pebbles grinding together. My chest hurt with every breath.

The rain increased, a torrential spit that never stopped. Rivulets grew into streams that carried muddy water to the river, which quickly rose in the canyon below. I could hear the rumble above the storm. Boulders rolling, stream banks collapsing, trees splintering as they tumbled down rocky slopes.

Downstream a train screamed at us. The shrill horn cut through the weather, reminding me that the world went on. Ben would be trapped on the other side until the train passed over the trestle.

The river tried to climb the trestle’s concrete support pillars. Rapids and colossal waves, mud and logs and a swirl of boulders a mile deep would take the whole mountain down given enough years. The train’s light swept through the trees in a wide arc, throwing shadows across the canyon. I looked for Ben.

I stepped toward the river to let the train pass. Its cars were empty like baby birds, waiting for a mama bird to fill their bellies. Coal cars and flat wagons going back up the mountain, empty-handed. The sound was the same as the sound that started this all, the clack-clack that lulled Ben to sleep the morning after my house had been destroyed.

Clack-clack. Clack-clack. Clack-clack. Clack-clack.

When the last cars finally blew past I walked toward the old trestle. Ben was already on the bridge headed my way. I stopped a few yards beyond the old coal tipple. “He’s not down here! Go back,” Ben said, pointing frantically.

“What do you mean? He has to be down there.”

“No. He stopped. He’s hiding.” Ben set his bow in the gravel and unshouldered his rifle. He took a knee to catch his breath.

“He’s in the coke ovens then.” I made sure my safety was off. “Wait a second,” Ben said. “Wait for me.”

But I’d already let him fight too much of my battle. This one was mine. I peeked into the first oven, saw that it was empty, then moved on.

“Wait up, man,” Ben said. “I should go ahead of you.”

The second one had collapsed. Its roof lay on the ground. Locust trees and greenbriers took root in the fallen brick.

I took a look into the third. In the dim light I could see old beer bottles, brass bullet casings and old rubbers. It was the same in the fourth.

“Hey,” Ben said as he ran to join me. “What’d I tell you about doing something stupid?”

“You said ‘don’t do anything stupid.’ But I can still fire a fucking gun.”

“Yeah? Then why didn’t you shoot Darren?” “Fuck you, Ben.”

Ben shook his head. “That’s not what I meant. I’m sorry. I just want to finish the mission.” He shook his head and laughed, then corrected himself. “I just want to wrap this up.”

Ben turned to look over his shoulder as we walked back upstream. “We caught Darren off guard. Charlie and Billy know we’re coming.”

I said, “Because of what Darren did to your dad I can swallow that. But Charlie is mine. Don’t even think of trying to take this from me. All right?”

Ben didn’t say anything for a long time. “I got you. But I don’t feel bad about doing what I did to Darren.” He kicked a cobble toward the river, turned and headed back toward the trestle. “Fucking Charlie’s probably half-way to Thomas by now anyway. I think we lost him.”

“No. He can barely walk so he’s got to be here somewhere. Check the tipple. Maybe he went up that way.” I pointed to an old road that led past the coal tipple and up the mountain.

Ben grumbled as he made his way toward the rusting fossil. I returned to the coke ovens. Afraid that Ben might be right, I searched more diligently, as if determination alone would make Charlie Lewis materialize.

To my left, Ben crossed the drainage ditch adjacent to the tracks and began the short climb up to the tipple. He weaved through the maze of rusty legs that held the hopper up over the tracks. He didn’t say much, but what he did say resonated with me. I was afraid that if we lost Charlie we’d never settle this.

Ben yelled. Silhouetted by a flash of gunfire, he tumbled backwards from beneath a hopper and landed in the drainage ditch at a scary angle. His rifle rested on the slope near his feet. I could see blood rushing down his face.

In an embrace of pain, I ran toward him and fired a shot. At what, I wasn’t entirely certain. The coal tipple was too far out of range for the old break-action shotgun.

Ben crawled through a scattering of brass rounds for his rifle.

From the shadows Charlie called, “Nobody move. Now you boys just stay put.”

“You all right, Ben?” I yelled.

He gave me a frail ‘okay’ with his right hand, which was just a few inches shy of being able to reach his rifle. “Hit my fucking head when I fell.” Brass rounds tinkled through the rocks as he shifted his position.

Another shot came from within the ruin, this one meant to back me away. Charlie Lewis stepped cautiously into the rain, aiming his pistol at Ben.

But I refused to lower my shotgun. It was the only move I had left. “No way, Charlie. There’s two of us. You’ll only get a chance to take one of us out before the other one gets you.”

Charlie Lewis laughed. For a second he ignored Ben and stepped toward me. “You think I really believe that you’d be okay with me taking a shot at him instead of you? Or do you think you can scare me, boy?”

“No. You’re like the coon dog that stops to bark at the bear instead of running.” I planted my feet and took aim. With about twenty yards between us, aim meant everything. “I don’t think anything scares you.”

“Damn straight. Nothing scares me. Not your pap and all his wind. Not that aunt of yours.” He waved his revolver, like it was a prop, and took another step toward me.

“What about Odelia and Darren being dead? Who do you have left, Charlie?” A cough rose in my chest. I fought to suppress it and raised the shotgun a hair. “Odelia begged. Darren didn’t have much of a chance to. But I bet you’ll beg, Charlie Lewis. I bet you’ll beg.”

“Shit, boy. You’ll—”

I fired a shot, but Charlie was too far out of range. Birdshot ripped through his shirt. Patches of blood peppered it instantly.

Ben lunged for his gun and rolled to his knees. Charlie turned at the shuffle and caught the butt of the old hunting rifle with his jaw. He covered his face with his arm and fired a random shot as Ben clubbed him again. Charlie fell to the ground.

I ran to get closer, snapping the old break-action as I moved. I managed to get a pair of shells into the gun and snapped it shut. In a fit of grinding ribs I raised my weapon. My heavy breathing made it difficult to aim. I’d have to be right next to him if I wanted to hit him. Ben stepped between Charlie and me, then dropped an elbow into Charlie’s neck.

“Ben! Get out of the way.” I moved in closer and began to circle.

Ben pushed his elbow into Charlie’s throat and tried to twist his pistol out of his hand. Charlie’s eyes bulged as Ben put his weight onto him. Charlie twisted and bucked, but couldn’t force Ben off.

“Just hold him there, Ben.” I dropped my aim and shuffled over.

“The gun! Fucking shoot him, Henry.” Ben turned.

“He ain’t got it in him,” Charlie said to Ben in a spray of forced breath. “Put the gun down, boy. Maybe I let both of you walk away.”

My breathing was heavy. The premeditation made me dizzy. That’s what made this one different. It wasn’t self-defense. It wasn’t even survival anymore. This was ugly. I fell to my knees at Charlie’s head.

“Fucking chickenshit cocksuckers. The both of you.”

Ben hit Charlie in the collarbone with a fist-sized cobble of gravel. He hit it again, drawing blood. Ben whaled on Charlie. In the wet air, still too thin to drown in, Charlie’s cries finally came. They floated above the noise of the river’s tumbling boulders.

“Boy, I’ll serve my time,” Charlie said.

I put my hands into my pockets and found Katy’s thistle amongst a pair of shotgun shells.

“Bang.” I flicked one of the shells toward the river. “That one was supposed to be for you.”

I took the other shell and set it on the tracks between his hands.

“Maybe you’re sorry enough to shoot yourself? Make it easy on us? But I know you ain’t got sorry in you, so you can just look at it, make it the last thing you see before we roll you into the river.”

His expression changed. With bared teeth he said, “You going to finally show a little backbone, huh? Now that I’m down?”

He shouted into Ben’s face, “I’ll show you backbone since all you got for role models is a drunk and a teacher.”

I handed Ben the shotgun. I said, “Stick it in his mouth.”

“Finish him, Henry.” Ben cracked open the shotgun to see if it was loaded.

“Go ahead. Do what you want, boy, but things I said will be with you long after I’m dead. ‘Cause you know I speak the truth about your old man and your pap. I ain’t never met a Collins that wasn’t chickenshit.”

“Open up,” I said. I dropped my knee into Charlie’s collarbone, forcing a howl from the old man.

Ben pushed both barrels down to Charlie’s tonsils.

I started to unwrap Katy’s thistle—the package she’d given me when we left the mine. It reminded me of Janie and Katy and the way Charlie and his kin took so much from us all. I unwrapped the only thing in this whole world I had left.

My fingertips were cold. I put the fern-wrapped thistle to my mouth and began to bite at the twine. Spines from the thistle poked through the ferns, making my lips bleed. Charlie watched me strip away the ferns that wrapped the prickly thistle like a cocoon wrapped a moth. The spines bit my finger. More blood. “What’s a few more drops in all this? Right, Charlie Lewis? They’re invisible in the rain. Just like tears. Just like a firefly in the face of the Milky Way.”