Edge of Dark Water (15 page)

“They ain’t much on spelling, are they?” Terry said.

We came out of the church and halted just below it and looked down the trail at the cabin. The front door was still thrown open and there was lantern light inside. Constable Sy’s truck hadn’t moved.

“You think he’s waiting inside?” Terry asked.

“Don’t know. Seems funny he’d stay there. Maybe he’s looking for the money.”

“He won’t find it,” Terry said.

“If it’s still in your sack on the floor, it won’t take a prize bloodhound to sniff it out,” I said.

“I moved it.”

“Out of the house?”

“It’s in the toolshed.”

“Reverend keeps that locked,” I said.

“I know where he hides the key. That’s how I got it moved in there in the first place.”

“And pray tell, where does he hide the key?”

“That’s the drawback,” Terry said. “The money and May Lynn are no longer in the house, but the key is still there, shoved into a crack in the front-door frame, along the side. I saw him stick it there once. When he was gone, I borrowed it and used it to take a peek in the shed. I wanted to see what was in there. Way he locked it up, I thought he might have something in there we needed to know about. What he had was lumber and some nice tools and finally, for me, a good hiding place for the money and the ashes.”

“So we still have to go down there in broad daylight. We might as well strip off and paint ourselves barn-red and run down yelling at the top of our lungs.”

“It does present a challenge,” Terry said. “Where can we find the paint?”

“Ha.”

We went wide and came down near the side of the house, and hid up in the tree line. We stood in the trees and looked around. It was as quiet as a deaf-mute taking a nap down there. The morning light was spreading.

“What’s that on the porch?” Terry said.

I looked at what he was talking about for a long time. I said, “It looks like spilled black paint.”

“Why would there be black paint on the front porch?” he said.

“Someone had black paint up at the church,” I said. “Maybe they brought it down here to write on things.”

“I doubt that,” Terry said.

“Yeah,” I said. “Me, too.”

I don’t know how long we stood there, listening and watching, but after a while curiosity got the best of us. I pulled the pistol from my overalls and we sneaked down there and slipped up on the porch. About where the doorway started there was the black mess, and now that we was close, I could see it wasn’t paint—it was blood that had dried dark. There was lots of it.

I cocked the revolver, and we eased along to the window and looked in. I could see Uncle Gene lying on the floor on his stomach. His head was still turned around on his shoulder and his face was looking right at me, his eyes as dull as if they had been worked over with sandpaper. Jinx was right. That had been some lick Reverend Joy had given him.

On the table, on his back, stretched out and tied down with rope, was Constable Sy. Blood had dripped off the table, and the floor must have sloped slightly because the blood had ran toward the wall and out the door. I had no idea there was that much blood in a person, even a big man like Constable Sy.

“What in hell happened here?” Terry said.

I suppose the thing for us to have done was to have lit out for the raft, but we didn’t. What we had seen through the window yanked us forward as surely as if we was on a rope.

Over by the door we was careful to try and not step in the blood, but it wasn’t any use. We couldn’t help it. It was everywhere. As we went inside, our shoes, already mud-coated and sticky, stuck to the floor like flies to molasses. The inside smelled bad, really bad, and not just because of the blood. The air was rank, like body odor on top of dead things on top of old river mud on top of what was left in the outhouse.

I stood at Uncle Gene. His death didn’t heat up much sympathy. What occurred to me was that he wouldn’t leap up suddenly and hit his wife anymore. When she found out he was dead, I wondered if she would feel like a bird that had just figured out the cage door had been left open. I hoped so. I liked to imagine her burning his clothes and dancing around the fire and taking a piss on the whole mess after it had gone black and cold.

But that broken neck wasn’t all that was horrible about his body. There was something else. His hands was cut off at the wrist from jagged strikes. It was the same for Constable Sy, who had been bound to the table with wraps of rope. The lantern had been placed by his head so whoever had done him in would have a close light to work by. The jar with the buttermilk was empty, and the jar itself had bloody fingerprints on it. Whoever had done this had paused in his work to refresh himself.

The picture of an animal of some kind had been carved into Constable Sy’s forehead; a duck with a ruler and a pocketknife could have made pretty much the same mark.

If Constable Sy had lived, he’d have needed two patches, cause his other eye had been scooped out, and flies was crawling around inside his head. There was a spoon lying on the table, and it was bloody, and I had a pretty good idea how the eye had been taken out.

Constable Sy had been cut and stabbed in a lot of places. You could see where his wrists had been placed on the table and struck. There was deep chop marks in the wood. His head was thrown back and his mouth was open and his tongue was torn out. His shoes was off and his toes had been whittled down to nubs so there was only the bones left, poking out like little wet sticks. The badge he always wore on his shirt pocket was missing.

I felt sick. I carefully set the hammer on the pistol down and put the gun back in my overalls pocket.

“What sort of design is that etched into his head?” Terry asked, leaning over Constable Sy. “Is that representative of some breed of cat?”

I looked at Terry, sniffed the foul air loudly so as to add to what I was about to say. “I wouldn’t hold it up as an example of much, but it looks like a skunk to me.”

“Oh,” he said.

It was spine-chilling to think we might have just missed Skunk catching up to us, or that he was out there now looking for us. I guess he saw Uncle Gene and Constable Sy as standing in the way of his progress, trying to do what he had been hired to do, so he had taken them out. Or maybe he thought they had the money, or knew where it was. Whatever the reason, if we had been here when he came, we’d have been tortured, and no doubt we’d have given up the goods, as well as our lives. Course, if he hadn’t come, and the reverend hadn’t showed up with that board, the same thing could have come about with Constable Sy and Gene before he got there. I wondered by how many minutes we had missed Skunk showing up.

A short time before, I was mostly sure there was no Skunk; now there was no way I could doubt him. No way I couldn’t fear him. He was out there, and his stinky self was looking for us.

We each took one of the tow sacks that Terry had brought from the raft and gathered up the rest of our goods, including a few tins of food and a bit of bread. Then Terry scratched around for the key he said was hidden in the door frame. He found it right off. Outside the house, standing on the end of the porch, I put my sack aside and leaned over and vomited. When I did, and Terry smelled it, it was just one stink too much. He leaned over and tossed up his insides, too.

When we was finished doing that, we scratched our feet in the dirt to get the blood off our shoes, then went out to the well and pulled up the bucket. There was a dipper hanging there on a stout cord, and we dipped water from the bucket and took turns drinking.

As we did, I looked over and seen the front door of Reverend Joy’s car was slightly open. I nudged Terry, and he saw what I was talking about right away. Hefting the flashlight, he started over there. I pulled the pistol and followed.

At the car, Terry looked through the windshield, then back at me. He shook his head, opened the front door so we could see inside clearly. The reverend’s blanket and pillow was in there. They was pushed around, not neat like he usually left them. There was blood smears from fingers all over the dash and all over the pillow and the back of the car seat. I noticed then that there was blood on the inside and outside door handle. That same smell from the house came rolling out of there like a speeding truck. It hit us hard enough we had to back up. I thought for a moment I was going to throw up again.

“He slept in the car,” Terry said. “Skunk. He killed Constable Sy, chopped him and Gene up, came out here, and spent the night in the car. That’s some guts.”

“That’s some crazy,” I said.

Terry looked down at his hand, lifted it, and showed it to me. Where he had taken hold of the car door he had gotten blood on himself. We went back to the well. I poured water over his hand and rinsed it away.

“Let’s get the money and ashes and leave,” I said.

“Gladly,” Terry said.

“You think this Skunk fellow has given up on us?” I said.

Terry shrugged. “How can we know? I doubt it. I think he likes what he does. I didn’t even consider there really could be a Skunk, but now I’m scared to death there is. I owe Jinx an apology.”

“If he was following us, after taking a sleep, he might be going along the river now,” I said. “Mama and Jinx are on that sandbar waiting on us. If he gets there first—”

I let that hang.

Terry hustled over to the work shed and unlocked it. It was tight in there with lumber from the reverend’s projects. There was a birdhouse in the corner, almost finished. Terry moved toward the back, bent down by the wall, and pulled at one of the boards. It creaked and the nails slipped out. There was a surprising lot of room between that board and the outside boards. Inside was two good-sized lard buckets.

Terry pulled them out by their wire handles and set them on top of the lumber. He found a screwdriver, used that to pry open the lids. Inside the cans was something wrapped in old hand towels. He took out first one, then the other, unwrapped them. There was a fruit jar wrapped up in each hand towel. One held the ashes, the other had the money.

“I wanted you to see how I arranged the money and what’s left of May Lynn,” he said. “I preferred you to know what was what.”

“Now I know,” I said. “Close them up, and let’s get.”

We gathered up our tow sacks. I put one can—I don’t even know which one—in my bag, and Terry put the other in his. I shoved the pistol in my overalls and we got out of there.

W
e figured since Skunk must have a bit of squirrel blood in him from living in the woods, he would take the shorter, surer route of moving close to the river. The way things grew along the river from the reverend’s house to the raft was thick, and we thought for us the better choice would be to do as we had done before. Go wide. Maybe that way we could stay away from Skunk.

Skunk. It was so hard to get the idea of him being real wrapped around my mind. Finding out he was real was like finding out the Billy Goats Gruff was real and didn’t like you personally.

In the daytime it wasn’t so scary traveling through the marshes, and at first we was making good time. We saw lots of snakes as we went, even a spreading adder, which isn’t all that common. They ain’t poisonous, but they can give a person quite a start, rising up like they do with their head fanning out like they’re a cobra.

We also saw what the snakes was looking for—mice and rats. There was one spot we come to where they ran through the marsh grass thick as fleas on a mangy dog’s hide. There was lots of crows cawing, and we could see where wild hogs had torn up the land. The heat from the day made the marsh heat up and smell bad, but compared to what we had smelled in the cabin, it was like French perfume. That thunder we heard the night before we could hear again, and there were new flashes of lightning in the daylight sky.

“That rain seems determined to come,” I said. “But it keeps taking a rest.”

“I can’t say that I blame it,” Terry said. “A rest would be nice.”

He was right about that. After trudging through the mud the night before and after seeing what we had seen, we got so tired that when we came to a run of shady cottonwoods, we stopped under them without even discussing it. We tossed our bags aside and sat down and leaned against the trunk of one of the trees and closed our eyes to rest. And though they say there’s no rest for the wicked and the good don’t need any, exhaustion caught up with us like a train and run us over.

I dreamed of Hollywood again, and it was the same dream as before, with us on the raft with May Lynn’s ashes, but this time, as we sailed, no one waved as we went past. All the pretty people looked fine, but they stunk bad enough to gag a maggot. It was a stink that brought me awake.

When I opened my eyes, it was almost dark. I thought I had been asleep only a few minutes, but we had slept most of the day away. I sniffed the stinking air and glanced at Terry beside me. He was awake. I started to say something, but he reached out and touched me gently, said, “Shh.” He pointed. I looked.

Way down in the direction of the river, running through the dying light, was a man shape. The shape was dark and wore a derby hat; something bright was pinned to it. The shape’s hair was long and kinky and it stuck out from under the hat on the sides and rolled down the man’s neck like a large wad of copper wire. Something flopped along the side of his head as he ran. His face in the twilight looked like polished mahogany washed in blood. He had a walking stick with him, and as his feet lifted I saw they was way long and wide. I thought for a moment that whoever this was wasn’t human. Course, the smell told me who it was. It was Skunk. But maybe Skunk wasn’t human.

We watched until Skunk was way beyond us and was swallowed up by where the ground sloped toward the Sabine. After a while, I said, “Some master tracker. Here we was, and he didn’t see us asleep under a tree.”

“We were in a fortunate spot,” Terry said. “We were hard to see here in the shadows. I speculate that after he abandoned the car, he found someplace to sleep more comfortably out here in the open. It’s more his natural way of doing things. Had we not taken to the higher ground, birds would be pecking our remains right now. What I presume he’s doing is following what Constable Sy told him when he was tortured. That we had taken to the river. He isn’t actually following a sign because he believes we’re downriver on the raft, so he doesn’t need to look for any indication we’re on land.”

“But isn’t there a place where he’ll cross our sign from this morning?” I said.

“If he does, he’ll know where we came from and where the raft is, or he’ll turn and come back for us. Or he’ll do one first and then the other.”

“Then we need to get to the raft first,” I said.

“So we’re going to fly over his head?”

“No,” I said. “We’re going to sail under his feet.”

“You mean the river?”

“Of course I mean the river,” I said.

“And how are we going to do that? Swim for miles? Ride a fish?”

“One thing for sure is we need to get down to the water, and we need to get there fast, and we need to do it well behind Skunk’s trail…Good grief, did you see his feet?”

“I did, and it couldn’t have been feet.”

“Oversized shoes?” I said.

“Like snowshoes. You know what those are?”

I shook my head.

“They’re made long and wide to walk on snow. Those shoes he had on were made to walk on the marsh and move quickly and not bog down. He would know that from being on wet ground so much.”

“Come on. I got an idea, but we have to hurry.”

We jumped up and grabbed our bags and started toward the river, crossing Skunk’s trail as we went. The riverbank was full of trees, and there was underbrush and blackberry vines to contend with, too. Close to the river the bank was falling off from being washed by rain. Roots from trees stuck out all over. Below them was a thin line of damp sand and gravel. We swung off some of the roots and dropped onto the wet sand, went along close to the river for a good long ways. I looked around and around, but didn’t see what I needed. Terry and me kept going, and finally, I saw a dead tree above us, sticking out of the bank. It was short—ten feet long—and thick. The limbs had mostly dropped off of it from rot. The top of it had long ago come loose and fallen away and been washed downriver. Its weight was causing the rest of it to lean out toward the water and its roots was springing out of the ground.

I laid aside my bag, scuttled up to the high ground, and crawled out onto the tree. “Come on,” I said. “Help me.”

Terry was looking at me as if I had suddenly lost my senses. But he put his bag down and climbed up and behind me on the dead tree.

“Bounce,” I said, and began bumping my butt up and down.

Terry followed the plan, and we bounced for quite some time before I heard the roots slipping completely loose of the bank. The dead tree fell.

It struck the ground below, throwing us off it. When we looked up, we saw that it had broken nearly in half. We had to stand on it and bounce with our feet until the pieces were free of one another.

I opened my bag, looked inside, grabbed a ball of twine, and slung the bag over my shoulder. I used twine to tie the bag to my overalls strap, and then I wrapped a couple runs of twine around it and my waist, so that it fastened to my back. I cut the twine loose with my pocketknife, cut another run of it, tied a loop of it to the handle of Constable Sy’s pistol, then made a loose necklace of it; the gun hung around my neck and down on my chest. After that, I helped Terry tie up his bag in a similar fashion, though he didn’t have an overalls strap to help him out like I did.

I put the knife away, said, “Come on. Push.”

We shoved the log out into the water, and I practically leaped at it like a lizard. Terry followed suit, and away we went, down the river. The log tried to turn loose of us at first, but we found places on either side where we could hang, and that balanced it out.

By this time twilight was gone and night had dropped down on us like a croaker sack. But the black was lit now and then by lightning. It was sizzling across the sky in bright runs, and thunder was banging out like someone striking a number ten washtub with an ax handle.

The water was cool and it was hard to hang on to the log, especially now that we was in a wider and swifter part of the river. It started raining hard enough it was like bullets slamming onto our heads; it made the river run even faster. To make matters worse, the old tree was loosing bark, and it was chock-full of ants that bit me and made my skin feel like hot tacks were being knocked into it.

The log kept dipping, though, and pretty soon there were no more ants. There was just us and that log, the rainstorm, and the dark water. The lightning flashed and lit up the sky in such a way that the riverbank was clear and bright for a moment—and I saw Skunk squatting on the side of the bank between two trees. He was sitting there like a statue, watching us rush by.

I could see he had the mud shoes strapped on his back, because they was poking up over his derby. The water ran along the rim of his hat and leaped off at the front. The badge he had taken from Constable Sy was pinned to his derby. What I had seen flopping along the side of his face was a dead bird, dangling head-down on a cord fastened up in his copper hair. Jinx had said it was a seasoned bluebird, but it didn’t look all that seasoned to me, and I couldn’t have told you in that glimpse if it was blue or black or plaid, but it was a bird. I spied a hatchet hanging off his belt, and a big cane knife in a sheath, near big as a sword. He clutched his gnarly walking stick in the middle. I could see his face in the flash. It was reddish, like an old penny, and squashed into shape, like a gourd that had grown funny. He seemed about as interested in us as a fly was in arithmetic.

Then we sailed on, and the long run of lightning was gone. I had to yell over the roar of the river, “Did you see that?”

“See what?”

“It was Skunk. He must have crossed our trail below, cut back, and made for the river, found our new trail.”

“That’s not good news,” Terry said.

There was another flash of lightning. I glanced toward the bank, and there was Skunk, running along, dodging through low-hanging limbs and jumping over bushes like a rabbit.

“Worse news,” I said.

“I see him,” Terry said.

And then we didn’t see him. The flash was gone and the thunder boomed and the river churned on.

The water carried us along and the rain picked up and the lightning kept flashing, more often now, and the thunder came up behind it quick-like; it was so loud it made the water in the river shake, and it made me shake, too.

I don’t know how long we sped on like that, but in time the river began to narrow again, which is the way the Sabine does, and we was coming to a place where we could see a sandbar poking out into the water from the shore. I immediately thought that would be Skunk’s moment to reach us.

Way the lightning was coming now, our wet path was lit up every few seconds. I used the flashes to look toward the bank, then toward the sandbar, but I didn’t see Skunk. Maybe the rapid river had carried us so far beyond he couldn’t catch up.

It was so damn miserable being out there in the water on that fraying log, I was thinking maybe we could get off of it at the sandbar, go through the woods the rest of the way. If we were ahead of Skunk, maybe we could stay ahead.

Whatever the good or the bad of that plan, the idea got dropped, cause there was a long lightning flash, and I saw Skunk running above on the bank. He would be coming up on the sandbar about the same time as we was, though it lay below where he was on the bank by a good twenty feet.

“Paddle wide,” I said.

We each had just one arm to spare on either side of the log, and our legs to kick with, but we went at it, thrashing around like a monstrous catfish. The log veered, but Skunk jumped. I saw him do it in one long flash of the lightning. He looked for a moment like he was pinned in midair. The tree limbs in the background looked like bony fingers clutching at him. Then he came unstuck and landed on the sandbar as gentle as a cat. The lightning went away, and it was so dark you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face.

“Kick,” I screamed above the growl of the river. And kick we did, thrashing our legs in the water and pulling with our free arms.

When the lightning flashed again, there was Skunk, running out to the tip of the sandbar just as we were about to sail around it. He wasn’t no more than ten feet away when I grabbed that pistol on the cord around my neck, swiveled it toward Skunk, and told Terry, “Duck.”

Terry bobbed his head down and I fired. I didn’t even know if that pistol would work, cause it had gotten some water, that’s for sure, but the shells was tight, and it fired. There was a brief, bright blast, and I saw the bird under his hat cut loose and fly away. Skunk startled and stopped, and then there wasn’t any light, though I could tell even in the dark that Skunk had moved his arm real quick, and then I heard Terry scream.