Bull Mountain (13 page)

CHAPTER

C
LAYTON
B
URROUGHS

2015

1.

Clayton thumped a pencil on his desk and stroked his calico beard for almost an hour before snapping the pencil in half between his fingers and using the eraser end to punch
in the number for the GBI headquarters in Decatur. He stared blankly at the blinking line-indicator light and sat through three levels of secretaries and underlings before the right person was finally connected. Clayton heard fumbling on the line, then a deep, scotch-warmed voice:

“Finnegan.”

“Charles, it’s Clayton Burroughs.”

“Well, fuck me running. How’s my favorite backwoods lawman?”

“Can’t complain. It wouldn’t do me no good if I did.”

“You got that shit right. What can I do for you, Sheriff?”

“Well, Charles, I had me a federal come in my office this past Sunday wanting to talk about Halford.” Clayton heard Finnegan chuckle.

“Again?”

“Yeah, but this fella was different. He had some interesting things to say, and some of it sounded pretty solid. I was hoping
to do a little digging on him to see if what he’s telling me is legitimate, but I’m hitting a wall. I can’t get nothing but name, rank, and serial number from them folks at the Atlanta office and I’m a little short on reliable contacts outside of the state police. Turns out you’re the best I got.”

“Well, Sheriff, if I’m the best you got, you’re in pretty sorry shape.”

“I don’t believe
that for a minute, Charles.”

“What’s the agent’s name?”

“Holly. He’s with the ATF.”

“Simon Holly?” Charles said.

“Yeah, you know him?” Clayton leaned forward in his chair, took his hat off and laid it on the desk.

“Not personally, but I know
of
him. He was one of the golden boys around here for a while before getting called up to the big leagues. Goddamn super-cop, from what
I understand.”

“Is that right?”

“Yup.” Finnegan cleared his throat and Clayton imagined the hefty GBI agent leaning back in his straining office chair, stretching his legs out under his desk, settling in to pass on some gossip. “The way I heard it, he was some hot-shit beat cop down around Mobile, Alabama. He did some digging outside his job description and ended up doing the local narco
detectives’ jobs for them. Got himself a big collar. Some local kingpin down there by the name of Fisher. You heard of him?”

“Nope.”

“Well, you know how these things get built up into legend around here, but apparently your boy Holly bent a few rules and ignored a few important people, and made Dauphin Street a decent place to take your family to again. You ever been there?”

“Can’t
say I have.”

“Used to be a shithole. Now the place is pretty nice. Like Bourbon Street in New Orleans, but clean and less crappy jazz music.”

“Sounds lovely.”

“Right. So anyway, Holly’s bosses were sitting pretty, taking pictures for the papers and such, but he didn’t make any friends with all the local cops he made look incompetent. If he hadn’t got the collar, they’d probably have
found him in a ditch somewhere. But anyway, he did, so he dipped out on the locals and made the jump to the Alabama Bureau. Pissed off a bunch of folks over there, but was getting it done, so out come the federal headhunters and it was onward and upward to better things, leaving all us state levels in his wake.”

“You said he was a golden boy around there. Was Holly GBI, too?”

“Nah, we’ve
done some interagency operations that had him working out of our offices, but as far as I know, he’s never been one of ours. Listen, Clayton, if this guy is interested in Halford and what’s going on up that mountain of yours, I’d say it was worth listening to, just to see what he has to say. He’s a little squirrelly, but he seems like a smart cop.”

Clayton scratched at his beard. “Is he good
people?” he asked.

“I couldn’t tell you if he calls his mother on Sundays, if that’s what you mean, but I can tell you he’s a good fella to have in a foxhole. The guy gets it done.”

“Well, I guess that’s what I needed to know. I appreciate your help, Charles.”

“No worries, Sheriff. Is there anything my office should know about what you got cooking up there?”

“According to Holly,
your office will be one of the first to know if the whole thing goes south.”

Finnegan sighed heavily through the phone. “We normally are, but keep me in mind all the same. We could use a win or two around here. Our darling director has us chasing dogfighting rings of the rich and famous.”

“Dogfighting?”

“It’s a long story. I’m sure you’ll hear all about it on the news.”

“Of that
I have no doubt, Charles.”

“When you gonna bring me some of that famous hooch of yours? I was the most popular man in the building when I had a jar of that Georgia Peach in my desk.”

Clayton stared down into his empty coffee cup. “I haven’t touched a drop in over a year.”

“No shit?”

“Kate says it ain’t doing our marriage any favors. I tend to agree with her.”

“I heard that.
A happy wife is a happy life.”

“Words to live by.”

“All right, then, you call me if you need a few more boots on the ground.”

“I’ll do that. Be safe out there.”

“You, too, Sheriff.”

Clayton clicked the phone down in the cradle and looked at his watch. Two o’clock. Not even close to quitting time, or Miller time for that matter. Man, he missed Miller time. By five-fifteen every
day like clockwork, he would be warming a seat at Lucky’s and warming his throat with happy-hour bourbon. Clayton’s mouth started watering right after Finnegan mentioned that jar of peach in his desk. He stood up and filled a Dixie cup with cold water from a plastic cooler by the door. He watched the big bubble break on the surface of the water in the jug and laughed a little when he thought about
how alcoholics remember only the good times. It was true he’d enjoyed himself at Lucky’s back when he was a five-o’clock regular, but the rest of the scenario wasn’t much to be proud of. He’d get home around nine to nine-thirty on a slow night, to a cold supper on the table, covered in plastic wrap, and a colder Kate on the sofa, covered in a blanket. They’d go a couple rounds of the who-can-say-the-most-hatefu
l-shit game, then she’d take the bed and he’d take the couch in the den—sometimes the floor. They would spend the next morning circling each other in silence, her waiting around for him to apologize and him taking his sweet time figuring out that he had to. He wasn’t stupid. He knew his drinking made him as mean as a copperhead, but he never hit her or threatened to leave, as if
those were flags to be rallied around, and so he always just assumed that the next drink would have a different outcome. He never understood how the buzz that made him happy at the bar turned to piss and vinegar at home, but it did. It always did. The movies always have the drunk turn it around after some kind of traumatic event. That’s not always the way it happens in real life. Clayton’s drinking
wasn’t a wildfire turning his life into a blazing inferno, it was a fine layer of rust slowly decaying and dissolving his marriage. She never told him to stop. She didn’t have to. He knew Kate would leave before she rusted completely through. Some things are worth fighting for, so he set it down and never looked back. Well, not as often anyway.

Clayton filled the Dixie cup again and gulped
it down and tossed the paper cup into a small wicker wastebasket. He walked out into the reception area, where Cricket was sitting at her desk with Darby Ellis, Waymore Valley’s second, and only part-time, deputy. They were chatting with hushed voices. Their conversation stopped completely when Clayton entered the room, like high school kids straightening up for the teacher. Cricket had her elbows
on her desk and her fingers interlaced, cradling her chin. She looked upset, as if she had been crying. Darby sat on the edge of her desk with his cowboy hat balanced on his knee. Cricket sat up straight and awkwardly shuffled papers around on her desk. Darby stood up and held his hat to his chest. “Good afternoon, Sheriff,” he said.

“Darby,” Clayton said, and stood in front of Cricket’s desk.
He gently lifted her chin until her eyes, red and puffy, met his. “Are you okay?” he said.

“I’m fine, Sheriff.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“No, sir. I’m fine, really.”

Clayton looked at Darby, who shrugged. He either didn’t know or wasn’t telling, and that was fine by Clayton. He wasn’t in the mood for office drama. “Where’s Choctaw?”

“That’s a good question,” Cricket said
almost too sharply, as if Clayton had hit a nerve. “He hasn’t been here all morning.”

“Did you try his cell phone?”

“I did. I left several messages. Should I try him again?”

“Nah. Just tell him to call me when he gets in.”

“Yessir.”

“Um, Sheriff,” Darby said, cutting in between Clayton and the front door, still holding his hat at his chest, fingering the rim. “An officer from
Cobb County come and picked up our prisoner early this morning.”

“I know that, Darby. I was here.”

“Right. Um. I’m just saying that I don’t have anything going on right now, if you need me to help you with anything. Um, since Deputy Frasier ain’t here and all.”

Darby Ellis was a good kid. Clayton had taken him on as a volunteer right outta high school just because he admired the kid’s
enthusiasm for the job. He created a part-time position last year because he figured if Darby was going to spend every waking hour at the station, he might as well be getting paid a little something for it. He aced the deputy exam and shot pretty good at the range, but he wasn’t quite what Clayton liked to think of as quick-thinking. Of course, Choctaw wasn’t that far ahead of him. Clayton chewed
at his bottom lip and scratched his beard.

“All right, then, Darby. C’mon.”

Darby smiled a big farm-boy smile. “Where we headed, boss?”

“To see my brother.”

Darby lost the spring in his step and stopped cold.

Clayton pulled the Colt Python from his holster, spun the cylinder to ensure it was full, and with a flick of his wrist locked it back in place. “So, are you coming?”

Darby double-checked his hip for his own service weapon, relieved to see he had it, and put on his hat. “Yessir.”

2.

The tree limbs slapping against the roof and windows of Clayton’s Bronco brought him back to a different time. Although Waymore Valley was considered a small mountain community, this place beyond the civilized was a different world altogether. His and Kate’s house was
at the base of the mountain, a stone’s throw from paved roads and streetlights, but up here Halford had taken up residence in the house they’d lived in as boys—their father’s house. Clayton hadn’t been this far up the mountain in years. Even after Buckley died or what had happened to his father, Clayton never passed over the invisible line Halford had drawn in the clay. The Bronco’s tires dug into
the twin trenches of red dirt while Clayton navigated through his childhood stomping grounds. He spun the steering wheel with the inside of his forearm, making turns without thinking, anticipating dips and drop-offs he’d ridden through a hundred times over with his brothers. This place was his home, no matter how unkind it had been to him. Clayton knew he would always be welcome, but the badge had
no business here at all. If a thing existed up here, it was because it belonged here. And if it didn’t belong, the people who lived here made damn sure it didn’t stay. Clayton had struggled with which side of that fence he was on ever since he could remember. The sadness this place brought him was almost equal to the pride it filled him with. He thought sometimes there was nothing he wouldn’t do
to sit in a beat-up johnboat out by Burnt Hickory Pond and watch his brothers pretend to fish while they drink warm beers with their shirts unbuttoned and their chests poking out. They acted like it was a chore to have him tag along, but they would always bring a few bottles of Sun Drop or Peach Nehi just for him. He took notice of that kind of thing. He doubted Halford would be up for going fishing
today.

Clayton shifted into low gear and swerved the truck off the service road onto a trail cut between two gorgeous red maples. The sun was high above the ridge, lighting up the leaves, coloring everything around them shades of orange and purple. He was always surprised at how beautiful it was up here, but he wasn’t at all surprised to see the two men standing in the heavy shadow of the
tree line, holding AK-47s. Darby didn’t take it well at all. The young man braced himself and unsnapped the thumb break on his holster. Clayton let the clutch out and stopped the truck.