Peckerwood (16 page)

After five minutes of flat out running, which had slowed to a sloth’s pace, he fell to his knees and puked a puddle of yellow liquid that would surely kill the grass. Then he rolled over and passed out.

It felt like someone was trying to jackhammer their way out from behind his eyeballs. When he got to his feet and began the long trek to civilization, he tried to remember why he’d slept in the woods. He’d heard Wendell say ‘run’ and ‘police,’ and instinct had carried him to that spot, but he might’ve overreacted.

When he found that he was on autopilot, heading for The Gulch, he smiled.
Good old autopilot
. He was there before the jackhammer guy seemed close to getting out and Terry tried to tickle him to passivity with the hair of the dog.

Cal Dotson came in after a half hour and called out when he saw Terry. “Hoah, the man of the hour.” He beamed like Terry’d just made him a grandfather as he crossed the dark void between them and sat on the adjoining stool. Cal clapped Terry hard on the shoulder and then smacked the bar with equal enthusiasm. “Bartender, do not accept a dime from my friend here. Everything he wants today is on me. In fact,” Cal looked around and counted the patrons up to two and announced, “next round is on me.”

The bartender grunted, but the drinks were poured and didn’t have to wait long to be picked up. Cal smiled at each of his benefactees and ignored their sour expressions while he explained the reason they were celebrating.

“My friend here is a published author as of three days ago.” Nobody cared, but Cal continued. “And like all great authors, he confronts the establishment in his time and lives in mortal danger of its wrath, all the while sowing seeds of immortality in the hearts and minds of all those who read his words.” He drained his Bud and signaled for another before the empty glass was on the bar. “His ideas, once released, can never be called back or quieted. They sally forth and do not return void.”

The bartender poured himself a drink too, and said. “The fuck you going on about?”

Cal made as if he were sizing up the bartender and the clientele, then placed his hand upon Terry’s shoulder. “You look, to me, like gentlemen of the world and, as such, it may warm your hearts to hear that Terry here fucked the sheriff’s daughter.” Cal smiled at everyone in the room and indeed, there was a mumbled appreciation of this claim.

A knot in Terry’s gut slipped just a little. “And,” Cal continued, “he wrote it all down.” Terry felt his balls tingle, as Cal’s story was just now beginning to cut through the alcoholic fog that gripped his mind, “and then he published the story, every pornographic detail, in
High Society
magazine.”

The bartender raised his eyebrows and his glass. Terry saluted.

Cal gestured toward the outside world. “Everybody’s talking about it. Blaylock’s is sold out and they’re disappearing from all the liquor stores within fifty-miles. You, my friend, my hero, must take precaution. Please finish your refreshments and then go underground. Follow the drinking gourd and trust no one.”

Ah
, thought Terry.
Now it makes sense
. He began to giggle uncontrollably. The thought of Mondale finding the published account of his wild kid’s kinky habits in the hands of every deadbeat loser in town made him happy. Cal joined him and after an interval, even the bartender smiled and poured another round.

“Bitch killed my dog.” Terry managed and all three of them laughed harder.

After a few minutes, the wisdom of Cal’s advice also began to creep in. The police had already been to his house. They were probably looking for him now. Mondale was going to nail his ass. He needed to create some distance between himself and Johnny Law. Suddenly panicked, he turned to Cal.

“You got any cash for me?”

Cal shook his head. “But such as I have I give unto thee.” He took a set of keys out of his pocket and placed them on the bar. “Take care of her, amigo, and bring her back soon, but go now. Be smart.”

CHOWDER

He was arriving at the Bait ’N More with things on his mind. Behind the counter Irm was deep into a magazine. Judging from the crumpled plastic wrapper resting beside her it was a titty-rag. Irm looked like she was chuckling. Of course. What else would she be doing? He thought about Tate’s advice. He did need somebody reliable.

He leaned over her shoulder to get a peek at the reading material. Irm paid him no mind. “Something good?” he asked.

“You’re gonna have to put a leash on your pal the sheriff, dad.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“Read this.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

TERRY

Terry slapped the keys off the bar and clapped his friend on the back. Cal was right. He hadn’t thought this through that well. He really should take off for a spell. Wendell would be fine on his own for a few days. Probably have the time of his life. Maybe even ditch his virginity.

He faltered through the door and into the oppressive sunshine. He found Cal’s pickup outside and stepped into the cab. He smiled at a stranger eyeing him from across the street. He was now the famous outlaw who’d defiled the sheriff’s little girl. He was still woozy and waved drunkenly at his public, but decided to skip taking a bow.

Cal’s truck was parked in the last spot in the lot. God, it was hot out and the asphalt radiated the sun’s punishment up from below. He knew the air conditioner would not be working and considering how many beers he’d had in the last fifteen hours and his already sloppily sweaty condition, he was going to have to stop for a drink of water like pretty soon. The brightness of the astral punisher flipped the switch on his headache and the dude with the jackhammer behind his eyeballs started up again.

He opened the door and fumbled with the hand-crank as he rolled down the window, then he fell onto his right side to access the glove compartment. Please please please have some sunglasses, he prayed. There weren’t any inside and Terry added them to the list of necessities along with water, and maybe ice cream that he needed to stop and pick up.

The engine started right up and he was shifting into reverse when he heard the hood smash. Startled, he looked up into the cold dead eyes of justice.

Sheriff Mondale’s fist left a ham-sized dent in Cal’s truck. Terry glanced around and saw that they, indeed, had an audience. The Gulch emptied as well as the grocery on the corner. The clerks had abandoned their posts and stood with their faces smashed against the glass storefront to watch him die. Traffic stopped going both directions and the whole thing played out at half speed.

Cal stood there, in the doorway, guiltily nursing his beer while his best friend was about to be slaughtered. The sheriff walked around the front of the truck while Terry sat still and dumb. When Mondale got to the door, Terry pushed the lock down. Mondale reached in the open window and pulled up on the mechanism. Terry slapped it back down and started rolling up the window. Mondale pulled the glass completely out and the it shattered on the pavement.

The sheriff didn’t bother opening the door. He reached for Terry, who slapped ineffectually at the giant hands, and hauled his cracker ass through the window. Mondale’s grasp swallowed up Terry and held him by both hands, then by both wrists.

He slid Terry’s left hand under his right arm so that he could hold Terry’s right hand in both of his own. Terry started wailing a hysterical, high-pitched scream. “Please, no. No, no, no, no. I didn’t know, I swear.” His fingers wriggled and writhed, but eventually were subdued. When his middle finger was secured, Terry tried and failed to take a deep breath before the break.

The
snap
stopped time.

The finger dangled backward like a wet noodle. The wind leaked out of him and he sucked pathetically for more, but didn’t find any. He saw flashes of red and white, though his eyes were squeezed shut. His lower lip vibrated with his desperate breaths and no one, absolutely no one, came to his rescue.

The process was repeated with far less struggling on his left side.

MONDALE

He let the little puke slide to the ground in shock. Jesus, look at him, pissing himself in the parking lot. Mondale’s hands and arms were trembling with adrenaline and he tried hard to appear in control in front of their audience.

An audience. What the hell was wrong with him?

He took two steps back from the specimen curled like a fetus on the asphalt and gestured at that dickweed he was always running around with. “Get him outta here.”

Cal Dotson finished his beer and handed the glass to someone standing by. He slapped another bystander on the arm and together they grabbed Terry by the ankles and armpits, reasonably careful not to jostle his fingers, which dangled obscenely from his hands, which he held rigidly splayed in front of him, like a stick-figure cartoon done by a five year old. Terry’s eyes were open, but not focused on anything and it wasn’t until they laid him in the bed of the truck and, in doing so, bumped his right hand against the floor that Terry showed any sign of consciousness.

The silence that had hovered over the scene since the second snap was shattered by a hoarse yelp, equal parts fierce and pathetic.

Mondale’s phone buzzed insistently in his pocket. He took it out and checked the number. He didn’t recognize it. No name attached. Probably one of Chowder’s disposables. He opened it. “Yeah?”

“Where are you at?”

“Town.”

“Stay put, I’m coming to you.”

Jimmy looked at the crowd around him. “No good. Meet me at the spot.”

“Jimbo?”

“Yeah.”

“Have you seen?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

CHOWDER

He hung up his burner and prayed to hell Jimmy hadn’t already skinned the little fucker alive. Something in the sheriff’s voice was telling him it was a distinct possibility. The story Irm had shown him was bad news and if what she’d indicated was true, news was spreading. He started up the truck. The engine roared to life, still warm.

Every time he felt like he’d gotten ahead of the train, some wrinkle popped up and threatened to derail the whole thing. Fuck this. He was going to take Hettie and leave. Irm was a big girl. She could take care of herself and damn well learn the natural consequences of her actions. He backed the truck out of its spot and shifted into drive, then turned the wheel toward the road.

Fuck Jimmy, too. If he couldn’t keep his shit together, Chowder was through holding his hand. Fuck Spruce, fuck Hamilton County, fuck Tate, fuck Bug, fuck Memphis, fuck motherfucking Terry Hickerson. Chowder was the only thing keeping
that
little shitstain alive and he was through doing that, too. Fuck. He stood on the brakes for a car leisurely pulling into the lot as he was trying to exit.
Never mind this big-ass truck barreling toward you, asshole, just take your sweet time. You own the road.

Chowder leaned on his horn, but it didn’t have the desired effect. Instead the car stopped, half in, half out of the lot. The driver didn’t look apologetic or even startled for that matter. Slick in a tie and shades. Young guy with good hair and a gym membership actually throwing his car into park and getting out.

Chowder rolled down his window and stuck his head out. “Move your ass-wagon, shitbird.” Cocky fucker looked at him and smiled. Shiny teeth too. He put his hand on Chowder’s truck, just reached out and touched the hood like it was a wild animal he was soothing. He came around the driver’s side and leaned on Chowder’s window.

“Move your car and get the fuck out of my face before you lose your own.”

The smile again and this time he took off his glasses. He had blue eyes. Looked like a damn movie star. “Charles Thompson,” he spoke in a slow, easy-going drawl he probably practiced. Nobody’d called Chowder “Charles” since he’d dropped out of the sixth grade. “I’ve been wanting to meet you.” He held out his hand to be shook. Chowder just stared at it. “I’ve just heard so much about you and for a long time now I’ve wanted to ask you in person, did you really take that guy’s eyeball out with a spoon? That’s one of my favorite stories.”

Chowder smiled at the Assistant State’s Attorney. “You’re gonna have to be more specific. Which fella are you talking about?”

The lawyer lowered his voice just like they do in the movies. “I’m watching you carefully, Charles. Pretty soon I’ll have enough to put you away for the rest of your life, so enjoy what time you’ve got left.” He stopped leaning on the door and did a gay little two-finger salute.

Good advice, thought Chowder. With his middle finger extended out the window, he put a dog-sized dent in the lawyer’s fancy car peeling out of the lot. As he pulled into traffic, his cell phone rang.

He answered on the third chirp. “What.”

“Uh, boss, thought you’d want to hear about the sheriff.” Big Randy told him the news.