Waltz of Shadows

  We entered into the thick of the trees again, and the road was very narrow and very rough and full of holes. It bounced us so hard our guts hurt. The road veered left down a steep incline. Doc said, “Don’t go that way. You can’t get back up it.”

  Price stopped. “There’s no where else to go.”

  Doc pointed. Off to the right, if you looked hard enough, you saw that what you thought was all woods was partly camouflage netting. Just enough to blend in with the narrow road and the trees. It hung from a high wire, and Doc got out of the car and moved it by pulling a line off to the right, like pulling a curtain cord.

  Price drove through and Doc got on the other side of the netting and took hold of another wire and pulled it, restoring the camouflage. We drove on. The limbs on either side of the road brushed the car.

  “About how far?” Price asked.

  “Another half mile,” Doc said.

  Price stopped the car. He turned and looked at Doc. Doc was sweating. He looked to be having an attack of malaria.

  Price said, “You look nervous, Doc. Don’t look nervous. You’ve come to see what you like. Remember? You get nervous, you make me nervous, and I can shoot you easy as Fat Boy… All right, mighty hunters, this is where you get off.”

  I picked the rifle off the floorboard, Arnold got the shotgun, and we slipped out of the car. I took a deep breath of the chill air and looked out at the woods. I loved the woods. I hadn’t been in serious woods in years, and it had taken this kind of thing to get me back.

  I looked at my watch. Ten minutes until five. By the time Arnold and I got into place, and Doc drove on down to the sawmill, it would be ten or fifteen minutes after. Provided we didn’t run into problems.

  Price got out slowly and unlocked the trunk of the car and climbed in. Before I closed the lid on him, he said, “Remember, you got to watch my ass.”

  I closed the lid.

  Virgil was out of the car. He had the earphones in his hand. I took them and slipped them on. Virgil called Poot out of the car and adjusted something on his collar. He bent close to the dog and said, “Can you hear me?”

  “Me or the dog?” I said.

  Virgil looked up, said, “You, smartass.”

  “I can hear you.”

  Virgil held the driver side door and motioned Poot back into the car. Poot jumped in the front seat.

  Virgil said to Doc, “Well, come on. I’m not a doorman.”

  DӀlign="leoc eased out of the back seat and got up front on the passenger’s side. He looked as stiff as a corpse. Virgil got behind the wheel and rolled down his window. Poot climbed into his lap and looked out and dangled his tongue. I gave Poot a pat.

  Virgil said, “Shoot true, motherfucker. I don’t like to think I’ve made my last dollar off a whiplash settlement.”

  “Watch yourself,” I said.

  “Yeah,” Virgil said. He rolled up the window and sat behind the wheel. Arnold and I moved into the woods.

  The floor of the October woods was full of dry leaves, so we moved heel toe to minimize the sound of our walking. As we went, I moved my eyes gently over the landscape. The trees, the leaves. Watching in case we might come upon a mass of blackbirds, and startle them to flight, alerting Fat boy and Snake there was someone in the woods. It was my guess they’d know about that sort of thing.

  The land sloped down and became wet. My shoes began to take on water. We followed along the side of the slope until the land leveled off. Then we moved on toward where the light broke brightest. If my information from the Doc was correct, that would be where the saw mill and the pasture were.

  “We’re starting the car now,” came Virgil’s voice through Poot’s wire and into my headset.

  I touched Arnold on the shoulder and made a gesture with my hand that told him the car was moving. We went along a little faster. The ground grew soggy in the extreme. The trees thinned slightly.

  We came close to where the woods broke, got down low and crawled toward the break. Near the break was a recently fallen red-bud tree. We got behind that and peeked over the trunk and through a mass of dried brush.

  From there we could see the sawmill and the pasture surrounding it. The sawmill lay about an acre and a half away from us. It was big and old and clapboard grey. It had been the sort of mill where the logs had been delivered by mule and the saw blade had been under a little open air shed. A lot of work had been done on the mill to make it more of a warehouse. The formerly open air shed had been closed in.

  There was a satellite dish on our side, pulling in Mothra and Reptilicus for our friend Snake.

  Not far from the dish was an old fashioned outdoor convenience.

  Beyond the sawmill we could see marshy pasture land. Far left, behind the mill, was a thin stand of blackgums. Way they were growing, I knew they were bordering a small branch of water. Past that, visible through the blackgums, and well behind a scattering of sick looking water oaks, was a higher level of pasture land. There was a crop duster airplane parked out there; a yellow, Stearman biplane, designed along the lines of the old World War I aircraft. Probably great help for flying in a batch of pornography now and then.

  Out front of the sawmill, a Bronco and an old gray pickup were parked. The road Virgil would be arriving on, a couple of red clay tire tracks, horseshoed onto the sawmill property and died there.

  “We’re almost on it,” Virgil said through Poot’s wiring. I turned to Arnold and made a one inch sign with myӀ sign wi thumb and forefinger. He nodded. A feeling of elation and dread came over me. My heart began to pump hard, trying to bring up blood from the South Forty. I had to fight not breathe through my mouth. I put my mind on what I was doing, tried to think of it in a rote manner.

  It was late and cloudy and the sun was still short of setting, but we were facing west and I didn’t want to take any chance of the clouds clearing momentarily and a last ray of sunlight glinting off my rifle barrel. I got a hand full of dirt and ran it along the ridge of the barrel, dulling the bluing. Arnold did the same, even though any shot he might make was a little long for a twelve gauge pump, even if it was packing slugs. It was my job to make the long ones, and Arnold’s to ease up for the close work. I tried to remember how it was when I stalked deer, back before I gave up hunting. Man was nothing more than an animal, after all, a clumsy but ultimately more deadly form of animal. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, put my hand over the front of the scope and eased the rifle stock into my shoulder, lifted my fingers away gradually, hoping the glass of the scope wasn’t catching light. I was being overly cautious, but I’d learned to take Fat Boy and Snake very seriously.

  The stock fit my shoulder comfortably. My view through the scope was good. I scanned a little from left to right. I leaned the rifle against the tree and pulled the .38 out and opened it and saw that it was loaded with full metal jacket wadcutters. I put the .38 back, and looked up and through a clutch of branches just as Virgil tooled his car up the horseshoe drive and stopped.

  “Ball game’s started,” I told Arnold.

  “Yeah,” Arnold said.

  Virgil, Doc, and Poot got out of the car. Virgil went around front of the car and leaned against the hood. Poot sat at his feet. Doc kept looking around, as if trying to locate us.

  “Doc’s gonna fuck it up, he don’t loosen up some,” Arnold said.

  About that time I looked toward the mill, and Fat Boy was already walking toward them. He was wearing a bright lemon yellow leisure suit with a parrot green shirt. His hair shone in the sun like a metal cap. He was walking as if nails were in his shoes.

  I lifted the Marlin to my shoulder and looked down the scope. I found Fat Boy’s head in the scope and put the crosshairs on him. One shot, and his brains would be all over the marshlands. God, Jesus. I thought about what he had done to Bill and me and Arnold, and finally Beverly. I flexed my fingers and put my forefinger on the trigger. I wondered about the gun’s pull. I wondered if I could still shoot. I wanted to shoot right then. I wanted n
ever to shoot.

  Where was Snakey Poo? Where were the two cops?

  I moved my finger off the trigger, floated the scope over to take in Virgil. He looked friendly. His smile was as bright as Fat Boy’s jacket. He leaned against the hood of the car.

  I moved the scope to Doc. He was running a hand through his sweaty hair. He kept looking in our direction, then toward the trunk of the car. His feet kept shifting.

  “Easy, Doc, easy,” I said to myself.

  “I think Doc’s gonna fuck it,” Arnold said. “I’mӀaid. “ going ahead, fading left and around.” I took my eye from the scope and Arnold was already moving, at a stoop, swift and sure, heel toe, heel toe.

  I heard Fat Boy’s voice over Poot’s wiring. “Hi.”

  “Hi,” Virgil said.

  “I understand Doc thinks you’ll like what we got,” Fat Boy said.

  “Yeah,” Virgil said. “He showed me some. It’s good quality. You take the pictures?”

  Pause.

  “Sometimes… What the fuck you so shaky for?” Fat Boy said.

  “Me?” Doc’s voice. “Nothing. I’m not shaky.”

  “You act like you got a fuck’n ’lectric dildo up your ass,” Fat Boy said.

  “I told him not to get out with the cold he’s got,” Virgil said. “Might even be the flu. But hey, he knew how bad I wanted this stuff. He gets sick, I’m gonna owe him.”

  “Yeah,” Fat Boy said. “No offense, fella, but I gotta look you over, know what I mean?”

  Virgil raised his arms and Fat Boy patted him down. He called the Doc over and did the same. Fat Boy said to Virgil, “Yeah, okay… You got money?”

  “Money?” Virgil said, taking on the demeanor of a hick in checked pants, “I fucking wanted to, I got money enough to feed every starving nigger in Africa. But I don’t want to.”

  Good move, I thought. Virgil was putting himself on Fat Boy’s level. Good thinking on your feet, Virg.

  “Yeah, well, they can starve them shifters in India too, for all I care,” Fat Boy said.

  “You won’t hear me play taps,” Virgil said. “Hey, these pictures, they ain’t a bunch of ’em of niggers are they?”

  “We do a little nigger trade,” Fat Boy said, “but not because I like it. A nigger’s money, or money made on niggers, spends just like anyone else’s.”

  “That’s okay,” Virgil said, “but I damn sure don’t want to see a naked nigger. I mean, you got something with a nigger girl that’s young enough and kinda white looking, I might take a peek at that, but I can’t see me puttin’ money out for it, taking it home. It’s all pink on the inside, but it’s the outside I got to look at.”

  “I hear you,” Fat Boy said.

  That’s the way, Virgil, you got him eating out of your hand. But where are the others?

  As if to answer, Virgil said, “Those the two guys? The cops?”

  I took my eye off the scope and looked toward the mill. Two big guys who looked as if they ate too much barbecue and white bread came out of the mill and started moving toward Fay Boy. That would be the cops. One of them yawned big and kept lumbering.

  Fat Boy looked over his shoulder and waved at the cops. They waved back and keptӀback and coming. Fat Boy returned his attention to Virgil, said, “Yeah, they were gonna be out here anyway, or I wouldn’t have bothered. Why a guy buying kiddie fuck would want cops around makes me wonder some. That’s funny.”

  “Wasn’t a necessity,” Virgil said. “But you can understand how I might be a bit worried, doing something like this. Got some cops around here think it’s okay, gives me some security.”

  “I’ll introduce you,” Fat Boy said. “You deal with me, you got nothing to fear from anybody. There ain’t a man-jack in this county whose dick ain’t hanging limp in my grinder. You about ready to take a little peek at the goods?”

  “Sure,” Virgil said.

  The wire’s sound went funny. I touched the headset and tried to adjust it, but it still crackled. I put my eye back to the scope and moved it around until I found Poot. Christ, the little bastard was scratching. Virgil’s voice came to me through a load of static. “Hey, boy, take it easy.”

  “Stop it,” Doc yelled at the dog. “Stop it, goddamn it!”

  The scratching stopped.

  Fat Boy said, “Your dog?”

  “Yeah,” Virgil said.

  “You ought to have him dipped.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  A long pause.

  “You are nervous, Doc,” Fat Boy said. “You boys wouldn’t be fucking me, would you? You don’t fuck Fat Boy, fellas. I’ll do the fucking, but I won’t take any I don’t want.”

  “No. No.” Doc said. “I wouldn’t fuck you.”

  “What’re you talking about?” Virgil said.

  Doc had been standing at the front of the car, beside Virgil, but now he walked in front of him, trying to show Fat Boy how friendly he was by using exaggerated arm gestures and repeating over and over that he wouldn’t fuck him. The dumb bastard was panicking, and now he was between me and Fat Boy.

  “What the fuck’s that?” Fat Boy asked.

  “What’s what?” Virgil said.

  “That,” Fat Boy said. “The mutt… That’s a wire… You fucks!”

  I realized what had happened. Poot’s scratching had revealed his wire and Fat Boy had put it together. I could see Fat Boy’s shoulder, I could see him move, but Doc was backpedaling directly into my view, continuing to block my shot. I could tell Fat Boy was drawing his gun from under his coat. There was a pop and I saw Virgil go halfway up on the hood of the car and roll off and hit the ground on his side and not move. Poot darted across the pasture, running low, making for the woods.

  The trunk popped up, and Price came out on my side, hitting the ground with one foot and throwing himself out of the trunk. He rolled across the ground and swung his .45 up with both hands and fired from a prone position. The shot hit Fat Boy and spun him around like a bӀound likallet movement, spun him away from Doc, spun him so that he was facing me. The .45 slug had punched Fat Boy on the high right side of his yellow jacket. The jacket bloomed a stain; it looked as if someone had hit him with a rotten tomato. Fat Boy stagger-stepped in my direction. I cross-haired him and put one in his face. Part of his jaw leaped away on a red wet wave. He spun again and hit the ground face first.

  I lowered the rifle to take in a quick overview. I saw Arnold on the left, coming wide of the cops, almost directly behind them. The cops weren’t looking in his direction. They had their handguns drawn and were blazing at Price, who was barely visible. He had practically melted into the earth. Turf exploded all around him. I saw his leg jerk once as a slug skidded across the ground and burned into him. He lifted up the .45 and snapped off a round, not hitting anything, then got tight with the dirt again.

  Doc was lying on the ground nearby, his hands over his head. He was screaming repeatedly, “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!”

  Not a single shot had come near him.

  I worked the bolt of the rifle, tossed a casing. I threw the stock to my shoulder, scoped one of the cops and fired. The cop’s mouth became bigger and his legs went into a split. His legs slowly folded together, supporting him on his knees. His ruined head dangled. His gun was pointing at the ground. I couldn’t figure what was holding him up.

  Arnold’s shotgun boomed and the other cop lost his head in a red white spray that bathed the cop I’d shot. Arnold’s cop hit the ground faster than a box of lead, and now mine began to melt off his knees.

  All of this had occurred in a matter of seconds.

  I pushed the listening apparatus off my head, climbed over the fallen tree, and moved out into the open. Price got up and hopped on one leg over to where Fat Boy was. Fat Boy wasn’t dead. He had started crawling, worming toward the woods. Fat Boy lifted his head and looked up at me. His face wasn’t a face. His piggy eyes were surrounded by splashes of blood. A tooth fell out of the ragged, red gap the Marlin had made, or maybe it was
a chunk of bone. His tongue flicked about in the open wound like a snake on a steam iron; Price leaned down and put the .45 to the back of Fat Boy’s head and pulled the trigger. Fat Boy’s head hit the dirt. Price fired again for good measure. The second time Fat Boy took the load he didn’t twitch.

  Arnold came to my side. Doc eased to his feet and turned his back to me and faced Price. From the way Doc’s shoulders were wobbling, I could tell he was breathing hard enough to blow his lungs out. I was breathing pretty hard myself.

  “I’m okay,” Doc managed. “Goddamnit, I didn’t get hit at all.”

  Price looked at him, said, “Well, just once you did.”

  He shot Doc in the forehead. The blast blew Doc past me, sent him skidding onto his back.

  I jerked the rifle in Price’s direction, “Price, you idiot!”

  “He had to go,” Price said, opening his free hand, lowering the .45 to his side with the other. “Him eating it was part of the plan all along. He was shit, and I just flushed him.”

  “He’s right,” Arnold said. “Let it be, Bubba. We still got Snake to deal with.”

  Price limped over to the front of the car and looked down at Virgil. He bent and felt for a pulse in Virgil’s neck. He straightened up and leaned on the car. His face was pale and sweat beaded. He said, “That sonofabitch has written his last brief.”

  “Don’t be so broken up about it,” I said.

  “World won’t miss one less lawyer,” Price said.

  Price slid down the car suddenly and sat on the ground next to Virgil’s body, his back to the bumper. He put his .45 on his thigh and let it rest there. “I think I’m through for a while,” he said. He patted Virgil on the head. “Me and him will hold things here.”

  Arnold pumped the twelve gauge, tossing a casing. He said, “Bubba, it’s time to rehabilitate Snake.”

  34

  You go wide right,” Arnold said, “I’ll go left.”

  It had grown dimmer and cooler in the last few minutes. I had just now become aware of it, and I had become aware of a tingling sensation in my hands from firing the rifle.