Soil (21 page)

When the time arrived, the crowd was called to order by a barker with a bullhorn. Distant cheers followed, and the band collapsed their tune in reverence. Motors revved, cups were raised, hoots and hollers sounded in the moonglow. A pistol cracked and the trucks erupted in a shower of black rain. They scrambled and fishtailed down the rutted lane, the crowds cheering them on. Some of the women turned away from the spray while the men held out their arms to embrace it. It couldn't have lasted more than eight seconds, a close finish. The bullhorn proclaimed one of them the winner.

Shoals decided it was best to watch from the road. If he went down to join the fun, he would drink way too fast and he might get sloppy, hustle one or two of these lovelies into the Boss and drive them to his place. He'd take things a little too fast, maybe get a little too rough, and they'd be stranded together until morning. They might get their feelings hurt, start calling daddies and boyfriends. It was not the way to go, but he wanted it terribly after such a shameful night.

A hooting truckful blew past him, some perky blondes in the back waving their arms, shaking their tails and their plastic cups. He could feel the sap rising inside him. He'd already picked out the one he would take home, could see their humpback frolic like a flash from the future.

Just then a scream arose from the mud pits. A woman's shriek. Hard to tell if it was a playful drunken girlish scream or one of true horror. He observed them bunching together. The crowd's murmur became excitable and uniform in recognition of a common danger. He jumped in the Boss and sped down the gummed-up lane toward the melee, his official blue beacon twirling on the dash.

He parked in the row and went straight for the knot of rubberneckers.

“What's all the fuss?” he called, and the crowd parted for him. Girls braced each other, and underage kids dumped their cups.

Hutch Littlejohn stepped forward and proud. “Get a look at this, Danny,” he said, pointing a flashlight beam on the ground.

Shoals took the light and squatted to the earth. “I'll be a son of a bitch.” He took a pen from his inner vest pocket and poked at the lump in the mud, turned it over.

“What is it?” asked a tipsy blonde.

Danny picked it up by the pinkie. “We've got us a crime scene, boys and girls.”

Racing fans disbanded as though he'd offered to take them all to the station. There came a frenzy of kids crawling into trucks and a long trail of taillights and mud tracks tearing toward Silage Town, rambling fast and innocent back into the night.

29

Friday night Jay talked himself into driving to town to pick up Jacob. He thought they might go to World-Mart and spend the gift card on supplies for the following weekend. He figured the cops would be too busy with weekend mischief to give him a passing thought. He'd get in and out, maybe judge Sandy's response, her sense of surprise, to determine if she was in cahoots with the law.

While preparing to leave, he heard a pistol shot across the river. He shushed the dog and listened to the sound of whining engines and raucous cheers in the distance. He stopped and felt their strange vibrations and knew it must be the mudders.

Jay followed the din down the driveway to the road and along the shoulder toward the washed-out bridge. He saw the faint corona of light over the tree line and felt the buzz of humanity across the river.

As he crossed the Tockawah, an ominous train of vehicles appeared in the distance, bearing down on him. He turned and ran, dove into a stand of rotten cane by the roadside and cowered there, watching them come, off-road by custom by sport utility by Jeep. Their faces through the glazed windshields were a drunken hodgepodge of antic fear, excitement and uncertainty, and they came a hundred strong.

This had the makings of an exodus. He wanted to press on, to witness what brand of upheaval had conquered their sacred mud sport, but something told him to go home. Whatever had made them abandon their revelry was moving this way.

He stayed up the entire night waiting until first light fell gray. A thick coating of fog was pulled over the world. He took the dog and stood at the bottom of the driveway in the empty expanse. They walked the middle of the road, across the bridge to Bobby Waterman's place, from where it appeared the riders had emerged. Their double-stripe mud tracks painted the road and left a trail of clods, which led down a gravel turnrow into Waterman's field, splaying out in a hundred directions with the attending footprints, all leading to a series of large ruts like jagged ditches cut across the rows of spoiled beans. Jay knew the farmer Waterman, had worked with him through the agency, and was surprised he had agreed to mud races on his land. He was a sober businessman and a disciple of the industrial model. He didn't have a house here, which may be one reason he'd accepted the mudders' deal. He must have opted to get any money he could from this wasted crop.

Jay and Chipper walked through the tillage and inspected the portable light towers and then heard a rumbling engine and the slow crunch of tires. Jay turned to see a faint pair of headlights coming off the foggy ridge into the bottom. It was the deputy's Mustang. He took off in a wide-legged scramble, as far as he could manage through the dense mud, whistling for the dog to follow. They ran for cover in a field of gray cornstalks spilling over with mildewed ears. They stopped and Jay strained to see through the wisps of fog. He could just make out the headlights and heard a voice calling out, “Hello!”

Chipper barked a reply.

“Shut up!” Jay hissed. Chipper barked again.

He snatched the dog and ran deep into the hinter field, making clumsy tracks through virgin mire, flushing out morning quail feasting in the quiet furrows. They scuttled through the woods and plunged into the Tockawah, swam back across to his side of the river. Between the fog and the trees, the deputy would not have recognized them, but it wouldn't require many guesses as to who would be wandering the bottoms on foot. Jay fully expected Shoals to show up at his place next.

At the house he scrubbed the mud from his legs and boots and the dog's fur. They tumbled inside and dried off. Chipper ran from window to window,
growling and whimpering. If the deputy came, he would be looking for a dog. Jay fetched the duct tape, told Chipper, “I'm sorry, pal,” and wrapped several layers around the dog's snout, leaving his nostrils free to breathe. He put the dog in the cellar and covered his ears from the whimpers and feet scratching against the door.

There was nothing to do but wait. He convinced himself they were establishing a perimeter, biding their time to ambush. He fully expected the SWAT teams and television vans at the foot of the drive, shooters in the woods, teams rappelling out of helicopters. Of course, if it was just the county involved, it would be a more modest affair, maybe an old-fashioned stand-off. They'd sit out front for days and finally smoke him out, some old bow hunter flinging a fiery arrow into his attic. He prepared his weapons, stashed them around the house in a handy configuration.

What probable cause did they have? He'd scoured the property foot by foot. He'd shoveled every square inch of tainted ground, even burned the hillside to eliminate all traces. They had nothing on him but speculation.

It was midmorning before the deputy showed up. Jay walked out wearing only sweatpants like he'd just woken up.

“Morning,” Shoals said.

“Good morning, Deputy, what can I do for you?”

The deputy scrutinized the scorched hillside. He looked a touch hung-over. “What happened to your yard?”

“I was burning leaves and it got away from me.”

The deputy queered his eyes in a skeptical glare, looked him up and down in half-dress. Jay noticed a blond Lab panting in the backseat. He wondered if the animal would sense that Chipper was locked up and muzzled inside.

“We found a hand over on the other side of the river last night. It may belong to our missing Ohio boy,” said Shoals. “We're gonna check your land this morning, me and some searchers. See if we can't turn up anything else.”

Jay hadn't anticipated this staggering news but managed not to flinch.

“That good with you?” the deputy asked.

They wouldn't find anything. Jay knew because he'd walked every inch
himself, the field riddled with his footprints, like a battlefield on which an army of size elevens had skirmished. But what if he'd missed something? Besides, didn't this kind of search require a warrant? To refuse, he thought, would be the worst sort of incrimination.

“I dropped a pocketknife and walked the whole property just last week,” Jay said. “Didn't see a thing. If that helps . . .”

“Not really,” Shoals said. “I have to satisfy my own curiosity.”

Jay shrugged. He felt confident that he'd covered all his bases, but the idea of them canvassing his property unnerved him deeply. Better to give them a cursory inspection, maybe even let them contaminate the site than have them come back with metal detectors and crime scene specialists.

“Then do your job,” Jay replied. He'd said it by way of invitation, but the deputy bristled, hearing a challenge in his remark.

“That's what I intend to do,” he said curtly.

“It's cool. I'll lend you a hand.”

“Is that supposed to be funny?” Shoals said. “Lend me a hand? This is a human being we're talking about.”

Jay winced. “Of course. There was no pun intended.”

“Well . . . pun taken,” the deputy said.

“Sorry, just let me get dressed and I'll join you.”

“That won't be necessary,” Shoals said. “This aint skip-to-my-lou. There's a trained method to it.”

“I understand,” said Jay, his voice mellowing, seeking favor. “I can follow directions. I'd just be interested to see y'all work.”

His ego tickled, the deputy reluctantly agreed and told him to meet them down in the front field.

Jay walked inside feeling like he'd run a mile, his heart thumping, sweat streaming.
They know
, he thought.
They know that I know
.

He put on a flannel shirt that covered the .38 Special tucked into his waistband. If they trumped up some evidence and tried to take him in, he'd have at least six chances to get away. The yellow Lab made him nervous. He'd taken precautions against animal searches, hence the burned yard, but he
wasn't certain he could match wits with a properly trained animal. What if the dog zeroed in on the spot where the dead man had lain? How far was he willing to play this gambit?

He walked down the driveway and was surprised to see nearly a dozen people gathered in his field near the road. Cars were lined up along the roadside and in the driveway as if it were a party. There was at least one deputy squad car, but mostly unmarked vehicles, including a familiar mud-streaked racing truck. Who were these people? Possibly a few wives and girlfriends. A couple of nonpolice types who could have been friends, relatives, or groupies drawn to the thrill of the hunt but unhirable for any of various reasons. Jay recognized the hotheaded mudder Hutch, who had paid him a visit last week, along with a couple of his buddies. Clearly they were in league with Shoals, just as Jay had suspected. So far he'd been right about everything. He still knew more than they did. If he could keep his cool, he might pass this inspection.

Shoals took charge. He passed out wooden stakes and metal pins with orange flags attached. The Lab was his hunting dog, Suzie-Q, and Jay guessed right away she probably couldn't even fetch ducks, much less scout cadavers.

Shoals retrieved a black plastic bag, unsealed it, and held it to Suzie-Q's nose. She squirmed and snapped, no doubt hoping for a retrieving game. Shoals sealed the bag, which must have contained the hand, and patted her flank.

“Is that it?” Jay called to the deputy. He wanted to get a look, to try and match it with the body, maybe see the half-finger, but Shoals ignored him, tucking the goods away and calling his search party to order.

“Okay, everybody line up side to side!” the deputy yelled. He handed Jay three stakes and flags and pointed to the others.

“Newton and Bissell, y'all are gonna be the anchors. I wanna take this nice and slow. Everybody spread out to an arm's length. We're gonna march forward. You've got your sticks if you need to move anything, but don't touch with your bare hands. Keep your eyes down and in front. You see anything suspicious, tag it and holler. Anything at all out of the ordinary, I wanna know.
Once we make it to the end of the field, we'll shift down and go the other direction. Everybody clear?”

It was a leisurely hunt. Jokes were traded, insults cast. One or two carried beers in their jackets. Shoals let the dog run free, sniffing and peeing all across the field and along the edges, a curious nuisance with no sense of mission. Jay kept one eye on her and one on the ground. A silly woman at the end wearing expensive sunglasses and a ski vest flagged a bloated gray hand-shaped object, and Shoals hurried over to proclaim it a dead toad.

There seemed to be more interest among search party members in the state of Jay's field, the motivations and efficacy of his unconventional farming tactics, than in actually finding any clues to the missing person. Their ignorant comments about his beds and implements rankled him, and he grew testy.

“What the hell is this?” asked one zit-faced young deputy, swatting the eight-foot-high mud stack with his stake.

“Well, it
was
a ziggurat,” Jay said.

“A zigger what?”

“You know, a ziggurat. Modeled on the ancient Sumerian temples? Precursor to the pyramid?”

An awkward silence descended.

“It was an experiment for small-space gardening, like a cramped backyard or indoor terrarium. It's plumbed and everything. Had a rain catch on top, but I don't know where that went.”

“Rain must've caught it,” another searcher said, and the others snickered.

They complained about having to climb over the slippery railroad ties that divided his raised beds and made tasteless jokes after his watermelon trees. They poked fun at his gunked-up tractor and his piecemeal greenhouse. He considered asking them all to leave. “Come back when you have a warrant and half a clue,” he wanted to say. He was playing nice, letting them all tramp back and forth across his field, searching for something they'd never find. Shoals was way out of line. If Jay insisted on a warrant, the deputy would
probably roust a judge out of his duck blind and bring one for spite. Anything beyond total acquiescence at this point just raised suspicion.

“Hey, Danny, I didn't know your dog knew yoga!” cracked one searcher.

Everyone turned to see Suzie-Q in the middle of the field, bowed up in a mystical hunch, her legs achieving a wide and perfect parabola. A cigar-­shaped turd emerged beneath her erect tail.

“Hey, is that a finger?” cried another.

“Real funny,” Shoals replied. “Suzie, back on point!”

The dog finished by rocking on her haunches, her tail bobbing up and down with a graceful wave like an eagle's wing. One smart-ass broke ranks and staked a pin in the droppings.

The charade went on for an hour or so, and Jay grew more impatient by the minute. He sighed and straightened a collapsed beanpole tepee one of the searchers had knocked askew. When at last he turned to Shoals to complain, the deputy drew a .44 from his vest.

“Step aside,” he told Jay, raising the weapon, staring straight through him.

Jay took a leap back as Shoals let sail a thunderous volley into the field. He turned to follow the deputy's aim, and his heart nearly leapt from his chest.

There, in the precise spot where he'd recovered the body, sat the turkey buzzard pecking at the ground. Suzie-Q made a beeline for the bird.

Shoals sighted the buzzard, a good eighty yards away, its expanded wings giving him a wide target, and fired a second shot. He might have nicked it, but it was hard to tell. The bird shrieked and climbed into the air with lazy loft. The deputy sent another round into the sky but hit nothing.

The crowd of searchers gave Shoals hell for his aim. “I was trying to scare it off,” he said.

“At least you didn't hit the dog!” someone said.

The deputy frowned. He looked at Jay and seemed to channel his anger at the farmer. “I wonder what that bastard was hunting,” Shoals said.

Jay shrugged.

“When we're done in this field, what do you reckon we'd find back in that pasture or along the river there?”