In The Forest Of Harm (6 page)

Jonathan retrieved his crossword puzzle from under the register. Billy folded his arms and chewed his bubble gum, watching as the stranger roamed the narrow aisles of the grocery. Eventually he made his way back to the counter with cornmeal and coffee, plus a giant economy size of Theragran-M's, a large box of chocolate Moon Pies and three magazines—
Newsweek, Esquire
and
Field &
Stream
.

No sugar, Jonathan noted as he rang up the man's purchases. Not a blockader. Addled maybe, but not from drinking his own whiskey. “That comes to forty-nine dollars and forty-one cents.”

“Don't forget your snake chow.” Billy teased him like an insolent parrot.

The man ignored him as he withdrew a greasy wad of bills from the bag around his neck. He thumbed through it slowly, then peeled off two twenties and a ten. “Keep the change,” he said. “I don't touch silver.”

Jonathan slid the bills in the drawer and reached under the counter for a paper sack.

“I'll take 'em in here.” The man opened the canvas bag he'd brought his pelts in and stuffed his supplies inside. Then he shouldered it and shuffled toward the door.

He paused once before he left and looked back at Jonathan. “I'll be back for my money in a week or two. Make sure you keep it safe.” His mouth curled downwards in one quick, malevolent smirk, then he was gone.

Billy watched as the man closed the door behind him, then turned to Jonathan. “Man, did you get a good whiff of him? And see them piss-colored eyes?”

Jonathan frowned. “Yeah, I saw his eyes. I also saw an idiot in an Indian suit who sat there trying to goad that guy into a fight. Shit, Billy. He could've knocked the rest of your teeth out of your head. Don't you know better than to mess with a man who uses a snake for a personal security system?”

Billy plunged his hands into the pockets of his buckskin pants. “Hell, I wasn't scared of him. And I certainly wasn't afraid of his stupid snake. He's an escapee from some big-time Booger Dance if you ask me.” Billy stuck out his chest and blew a pale purple bubble. He glanced at the front of the cash register, then his jaw dropped. He sucked the bubble back in his mouth and looked at Jonathan, his eyes wide. “Uh-oh,” he said. “Lookee here.”

Jonathan walked around the counter and looked where Billy pointed. The picture of Jodie Foster was gone.

“Son of a bitch!” Jonathan ran to the door, his fingers instinctively reaching for his knife. He rushed out to the porch, ready to yell first, then throw Ribtickler, but the stranger had vanished.

“What the hell?” Jonathan craned his head in every direction, but all he saw was an empty road twisting through a silent green forest. He turned to Billy. “Where'd he go?”

Billy scowled into the woods. “Don't know. Looks to me like he's solid gone, though.”

Jonathan hurried down the length of the storefront, Billy scrambling after him. They went all the way to the gas pump, scanning the trees for a glimpse of camouflage or a swinging canvas sack, but not a twig moved. Everything looked as if it had been engraved in stone. Jonathan kicked angrily at an empty oil can. “That sunuvabitch has disappeared.”

Billy looked around and scratched his head. “How the hell do you figure he managed to steal that picture? I watched that sucker the whole time he was in the store.”

Jonathan shrugged; it was amazing how easily the man had stolen his picture and how quickly he'd disappeared. “Beats the shit out of me.” Again he tried to place this stranger; he knew all of the Cherokee mountain men and most of the white ones, too. This man had appeared from nowhere and then vanished back into nowhere again.

“I'll tell you one thing, Billy,” Jonathan said as he tested his knife's edge with his thumb. “Mr. Brank and I are gonna have a little chat when he comes back to pick up that check. If he doesn't return my picture he just might find his pelts have gotten lost in the mail.”

“You let me know when you take that feller on, Jonathan,” said Billy. “I want to get me some money down beforehand.” He scratched his head. “Wonder why he was so taken with that bulletin board?”

Jonathan shoved his knife back under his belt and looked at a crow that landed on the porch roof. Everything seemed to be flying past him that day—first Mary, then his silly little picture of Jodie Foster, now this odd stranger. “Everybody reads that bulletin board, Billy. It's like a great big scorecard that tells who's alive, who's dead, and who's about to be eaten by the crows.”

SEVEN

Ha, you smart-assed Cherokee bastard. Wouldn't sell the picture of your girlfriend, would you?” Brank wagged the photo of Jodie Foster through a clutch of bright yellow witch hazel. He'd slipped into the forest just in time to see the fun, chuckling as the Indian rushed out, knife in hand, storming up and down his storefront, followed by his little Tonto sidekick. Brank shook with laughter as the tall one hurried down to the gas pump waving that long Bowie, all set to carve him up like a pumpkin and not finding a single thing to take a swipe at. He relaxed into the witch hazel as both Indians finally gave up and trudged back, defeated, into the store.

Brank smiled. This mail drop had turned out to be a lot of fun. Buster had made the short one shit his pants, he'd made off with the Cherokee's snapshot, plus he'd gotten a good long gander at that bulletin board.

“That kid in the baseball cap.” He shook his head in wonder. “And the girl with the class ring.” He hadn't thought about them in years, but there they were, both of them, grinning like they'd won some kind of prize. He chuckled as he patted the snake that lay curled next to his belly. “Guess those two are gone for good, eh, Buster?”

He remained under the bush clutching the photograph for a moment, then he studied the image the camera had captured. The young Indian stood tall, dressed in a coat and tie, his arm resting on the slender woman's shoulders as if she were made of glass. She had assumed a serene pose that made her long white neck look as graceful as a swan's. Her cobalt eyes slanted upwards, and there was a spareness about her smile that implied intelligence more than the thick red lips of sex.

“She'd be something to fuck,” Brank whispered, reaching down and softly squeezing his balls. He blew a piece of fuzz off the photograph, then buttoned it carefully inside his shirt pocket. He would take it out later, when he had the time to devote to more serious fun.

He pushed the witch hazel away from his face and crept out from under the thick green leaves. He'd have to settle the issue of the photograph with that Indian when he came back to get his money, but he would think of something. Maybe he could lure him into the forest with it and make him reveal where all that Cherokee gold was hidden. Brank chuckled. That would be wonderful, but it would never happen. Cherokees might be stupid and lazy, but they weren't fools.

He squinted through the lacy trees, checking the angle of the sun. Maybe he'd travel west for a little while and see if he could pick up Trudy's trail. It would be nice to relax down in Florida without her scaring him shitless every time the sun set. He glanced once, thoughtfully, at the store, then he shouldered his sack and walked out of the shadows. The Little Jump Off folks could rest easy. Today he was hunting his sister.

With his load lightened by thirty pounds, he slipped through the forest like a shadow, barely ruffling the leaves as he passed. The smell of damp earth rose from the ground as he traversed the crenelated ridges that led away from Little Jump Off. He searched for the chewed-up groundhog or mangled fox that would indicate Trudy's presence, but he saw only an occasional squirrel and several bright mountain grosbeaks that darted like fierce blue arrows through the golden trees.

By midafternoon hunger began to crimp the edges of his stomach. In an upland meadow he found a small clearing that had once held some farmer's cabin, and he flopped down in the cool shadows beneath an ancient charred rock chimney.

It felt good to be still, to stretch out his legs for a while. He scratched his back against the chimney rocks and looked at the trees that surrounded him. Though the sun shone bright and the breeze blew warm, the woods seemed quieter than usual, as if his presence had stilled the birds and hushed the sleepy hum of the crickets.

He untied his sack and pulled out his Moon Pies. He hadn't had chocolate in months. He freed one of the flat cookies from its cellophane wrapper and bit into it. A pleasant dark sweetness flooded his mouth, reminding him of a Christmas cake his mother had made. His mother. He wondered about her sometimes. What had she done that afternoon when his father had run back to their kitchen, Trudy in his arms, Henry nowhere to be found? She had always seemed to love him a little. Cried, he decided. She'd cried for both her children, then gone ahead and put up pickles and kraut and done all the things she'd always done while his father had waged his private war against him.

He took another bite of Moon Pie. Suddenly two rangy shadows darkened the sky. He looked up. A pair of large black birds swooped low over his head, their wingspans casting long shadows on the ground. They glided over the clearing once, then turned sharply to land in the top of a rotted-out elm. Brank stopped eating and smiled.

“Cathartes aura,”
he proudly recalled one of the Latin names Fate Lyons had taught him. Turkey buzzards. Ugly as sin. Most people despised them, but he found them to be presagers of great events. He'd often followed kettles of them to locate the dead and dying, and he regarded the birds as just another battalion in the vast army of Death.

“Hello, boys.” Brank gave a polite nod to the pair. “Something around here about to die?”

They cocked their dull red heads to one side and stared at him beady-eyed. Wings still spread, they perched in the tree as if waiting for some internal signal to swoop over and sink their talons into his flesh.

Brank frowned as he chewed the sticky chocolate. It did seem a little odd. Buzzards did not usually fly in pairs or roost so close to upright, healthy human beings.

“Join me in some lunch?” He broke off two tiny pieces of the cookie and tossed them beneath the tree. The birds remained motionless, their eyes glowering straight at him.

“Picky little bastards, aren't you?” Brank stuffed more Moon Pie in his mouth and chewed vigorously. Tossing them two crumbs had already been extravagant; he was not going to further waste his Moon Pie on such ungrateful creatures.

Their gaze stayed on his face. His cheeks grew warm and he began to feel slightly uneasy, as if the birds knew something he didn't. He patted the barrel of his gun.

“Don't forget who's got the gun here, pals,” he muttered through his food.

The larger buzzard folded its wings but continued to stare, its scrutiny sharp as the point of a knife.

Brank was about to throw one of the loose chimney rocks at them when something else caught his attention. A new sound suddenly whispered through the woods. A step. Then a pause. Then the faintest rustle in the grass.

“Ahhhh.” He continued his conversation with the buzzards as he shifted his hearing to the woods. “I get it. You boys are hanging around because you figure you'll soon be getting some meat to eat.”

He kept his eyes on the birds, but dropped his food back in his sack and eased the gun onto his lap. He shoved a new shell in each chamber, then turned by inches to the right and peered into the surrounding forest. Tree trunks stood festooned with gold leaves while black grapevines dangled down like serpentine. Nothing unusual for a mild autumn day. Nothing out of the ordinary at all.

Then he heard it again. From deep within the trees, the long, slow rumble of a bottle being rolled down a hall. The hair rose on the back of his neck. He'd heard that sound before. Trudy was here.

Brank's heart began to race as he squinted into the underbrush, trying to catch a glimpse of her huge amber eyes. “Here, Trudy, old girl,” he crooned softly as he curled a finger around both triggers of his gun.

Again he heard the low, menacing rumble. He drew his legs up and balanced the gun on his left knee, waiting for her to make a move. Was she brave enough to attack him in the daylight, he wondered as his heart tripped and his hands grew slippery on the gun. He didn't think so. Trudy, like the trolls, preferred to prey on him at night, when his eyes couldn't pierce the darkness and his imagination made up the difference.

Brank tried to keep the gun steady on his knee. It occurred to him that just as he had followed other buzzards in times past, this particular pair must follow Trudy, waiting for her scraps. With a sick lurch of his gut he realized that for the first time in his life, he himself was, at this moment, the short end of the food chain.

“If you're thinking I'm gonna be lunch, you're mistaken, old sis,” he whispered to the fiend hidden in the forest.

He held his breath and concentrated on the trees. Gold and russet, the leaves shimmered in front of him, rustling like a woman's gown. He sat rigid, waiting. The minutes dripped by. Sweat began to run into his eyes. He could hear the rapid thud of his own heart. His hands clutched the gun so tightly they began to shake. He'd just begun to think that maybe he'd imagined the whole thing when the weeds beneath a yellow buckeye gave a single swift shudder and a roar enveloped him like a freight train. All at once Trudy stood in front of him, not ten feet away.

Huge hungry eyes now more green than amber pinned him where he sat. She was far bigger than he remembered. She crouched with her tail twitching, gauging the distance to him just as a house cat might measure a leap to a kitchen table. Shiny black lips curled away from long yellow fangs. Brank began to tremble. When he'd last shot Trudy, she hadn't looked nearly so scary as this.

EEEOOOOOOOWWWWW!

Her scream filled the universe, ricocheted through his head. He had half a second to get his shots off before those fangs sank into his throat. Mad, mad, she was so mad—he had killed her so many years before. Now he was going to kill her again. With shaking hands he aimed at her broad breast. He drew a bead on where he guessed her heart would be, then sucked in his breath and pulled both triggers.

The gun bucked as it never had before. The double recoil knocked him against the chimney. Brank's head snapped back into the sunbaked rocks, sending grit and dirt stinging into his face and eyes. For a moment he couldn't see, then when he'd wiped away the dirt, he opened his eyes. Trudy should be stretched out and bleeding like a sieve, her pink tongue protruding from those nasty black lips, but the ground was empty. The clearing was as vacant as it had been when he'd arrived.

“What the hell?” He jumped up and walked to the spot where Trudy had been. Surely he had wounded her. Surely there would be a path of blood leading to wherever she'd fled. He'd fired two loads of triple-aught buckshot from point-blank range. But there was nothing. A slight indentation in the long grass was the only sign that Trudy had ever been there at all.

Brank's gun sagged downward as he stared at the ground. All these years of tracking. All those nights that awful unearthly cry had pierced the darkness and pulled him from the edge of sleep, twisting his stomach and turning his bowels to brown soup. Always, he'd gotten up and hurried out with his gun, only to come back empty-handed. Today she'd practically presented herself as a gift and still he couldn't kill her. He felt sour inside, as if something within him were spoiling. He looked over at the tree. The buzzards stared back at him, their wings seeming to droop with disappointment.

“What the hell are you looking at?” he cried, rage boiling up inside him. “Miss your damn meal ticket?”

The buzzards did not move.

“Here.” Brank shoved another shell in the gun and raised it to his shoulder. “See if you like this.” He aimed at the smaller vulture and fired. The elm branch shattered as the bird exploded in a mist of blood and feathers. The other bird leaped into the air, spreading its broad wings and lifting over the trees before Brank had time to shoot again.

“Stupid sons of bitches,” he screamed, stamping back over to the chimney and gathering up his sack. “Stupid motherfucking sons of bitches!”

He picked up his gear and strode off into the woods. Trudy would be ahead of him now, slipping through the trees, watching and waiting for the next time he let his guard down. He would just have to try twice as hard, Brank told himself as his legs began to shake and sweat rolled down his face to cling like raindrops to the end of his beard.

“I'll get you before I leave here,” he vowed to Trudy as he pushed through a laurel thicket. “By God, I will.”