"Ain't no reason fer ya ta drop by here, Caudill," Grandpappy croaked.
"Aw, shee-it, Grandpappy Martin!" Caudill, then throwed his head back an' laughed, he did, the sun glarin' offa his mostly bald head with gray tricklin’ down his ears. "I see's ya still got yer dander up on account'a that foolhearty story 'bout me'n my boys killin' yer kin. Shee-it! Ain't no truth ta that. Pappy! My word!"
Yer word. Thibald Caudill, ain’t worth two squirts 'a piss from a dead dog's dick, Grandpappy thought. 'Er two squirts'a puke, neither.
"So's let's put alls that behind us, huh. pappy? Seein' that yer an inverlid now. what with no feet, I figured I'd come up here an' make a deal. See's. I gots me a fair load'a black buck yardhands, pick my weeds, mow my lawn an' the like, an' theys all need new boots, good 'uns, an' I'se figured you still make those fine handmade, handstitched workboots like ya used ta. So's that's why I'se up here." Caudill reached inta his jacket an' withdrew a right fat wad'a bills. "I got's six yardhands, I do, an' I figures boots as good as yours ain't gonna come cheap, so's I'll take six pair fer a hunnert dollars'a pair. How's that, ol’ man?"
Caudill slapped the money down. It were a right lotta money, it was, but Grandpap felt it'd he a gross injustice ta take green cash from the same man who kill his daughter'n son'n law, so's he said instead. "Take yer fuckin' money an' yer devil-butt-lickin’ self outa here. Thibald Caudill. 'fore I'se up an' kill ya!"
Caudill chuckled. "Who? You, ol' man? Don't'cha make me bust a vessel laughin’, will ya? What'cha gonna do? Beat me ta death with those slinky stumps ya got where yer feet should be?' An' then Caudill throwed his head back agin, an' let loose with a fresh burst'a laughter so loud it'd probably wake up half the folks layin' in Beall Cemetery.
It were mighty embarrassin', it were, fer Grandpappy, ta have this rube walkin' inta his home an' makin' a mockery of him. But, lo, there weren't nothin' Grandpap could do, not confined ta the blasted chair an' with no feet!
"Yeah. I’ll’se bet'cher still humpin' dogs, ya old cracker, huh? So poor out here ya probably got's ta blow yer nose in yer hand whenever ya git hungry? Ain't gots nothin' but crusty sticks fer feet, ain't got no life 'cept ta sit here starin' at the wall. Why don't'cha do the world a favor, ol" coot, an' dig yerself a big hole an' buries yerself."
Caudill's fat face gleamed in the sunlight, an' turnt fairly pink from the next round'a laughter. An’ ol’ Grandpap Martin, right then he could'a put a gun ta his head was how low and disgraced he felt. But then—
Then-
Then front door swang open.
An’ it were Travis who walked in.
........
Cummings parked in a wooded dell just off of the old Governor's Bridge. Just after noon. Gloved, now, he very carefully wiped down each bag of cocaine with isopropanol to eradicate his prints in the event anyone found the empty bags. Then he slit each bag—all 10 of them—and dumped them over the side, where they splashed gently into the burbling creek below. There's going to be some high fish in Russell County today, he thought. Keeping the cocaine would've defied even his ethics. Even if he did have a way to sell it. he didn't want to contribute any more to the denigration of America. The money would be enough. And killing Spaz and Dutch?
Fuck them, he rationalized. They were drug dealers.
Next, he knew, he'd have to stash the money, give that fire he'd set, as well as its potential consequences, plenty of time to cool off. He wasn't too keen on the idea of driving around in a federal police car with a trunk full of $100 bills. But where could he make the stash?
The sky, bright, cloudless, gorgeous, beckoned him. He pulled out of the dell and eventually cruised back to the Route. The afterimage of what he'd done remained surprisingly neutral. Killed two guys, burned a shack, dumped 10 keys in the drink, and walked with enough cash to fix the state deficit. Cummings shrugged. But it was all for something more important, wasn't it? It was for Kath. It was for the kind of life she deserved. And those two dealers? The world wouldn't likely miss them.
He pulled over around the next bend: a girl in ragtag clothes was limping along the shoulder. A hill girl. Give her a ride, he thought. It was easy to be charitable when you had a bag of c-notes in your trunk.
"Howdy," she said. 'Thanks much."
"No problem."
“I'se—" Then she stalled. The car, true, was unmarked, but Cummings himself wasn't, not in his navy-blue police tunic and gold badge, and not with a gunbelt around his waist. "Relax." he said. "I'm not looking to hassle anyone."
“You're ATF, ain't ya?" she said.
“That's right."
She fell silent. Of course. She probably had relatives who ran moonshine. I'm the big bad government, he realized. To her. I'm the guy who makes her life that much harder.
"Where you headed?"
"Up near Filbert."
"No problem."
He cruised on, over long rolling roads, side-eyed her once or twice. A pretty little girl, 16 probably, ample-bosomed. A trace scent of sweat hovered off her, something Cummings had grown used to. She was a stereotype sitting right next to him: the barefoot hillgirl, lank dark hair flecked with straw, peevish, unbra'd beneath the thread-bare sundress.
"Pretty day."
"Shore is."
"Let me ask you something." he said, finally remembering his talk with Jan Beck. You got a couple hundred grand in the trunk, try earning your pay today, Stew. "You ever heard of a guy named Travis Clyde Tuckton?"
"Oh, shore. Nice fella 'fore he went up ta the county prison. Never knowed him well, but he were nice." Her hair, now, was a brunette tumult in the open-windowed breeze. Plain, pretty. A simple girl with fine hair under her arms. "He's still up there."
No, he's not, honey. He got out, skipped his parole, and now he's...fucking people's brains. Nice fella, huh?
"Well, I heard his folks got killed, and his house burned down." Cummings tried to bait her.
"Yeah." was all she replied.
"Well, Travis got released recently, and with his house burned down, where would he go??
Her eyes narrowed. Her hands lay in her lap like small white birds. "He in trouble agin’?”
"Naw, naw, nothing like that. State tax office owes him money, that's all. Like to know where he's staying, so he can get his proper refund."
"Oh, well." she spoke right up at the lie. "I doubt he'd come back here. This county's dead."
"Yeah, you're probably right. But if he did come back here, where would he go?"
She brushed hair out of her eyes, picked out a strand of straw. Cummings couldn't help but notice the high, full breasts, and the nipples distending through sweat-moist cotton. "Well, he's got a grandpap on his mama's side. Jake Martin. But he's problee dead b'now. He was old, an' he didn't have no feet, doctor hadda cut 'em off likes 'bout over five years ago on account of some disease. Hadda ol' cottage up the woods offa the ol' Tick Neck."
Tick Neck Road, Cummings thought. South county. He'd heard of it. just had never been up there. Lost his feet? Probably diabetes-related gangrene, and she's right. He's probably dead. Hill folk didn't go to doctors much. Cummings was pissing into the wind.
"Here's your stop." he said and pulled over at the crossroads. The sky opened bright and blue before him. A swarm of birds passed.
"Thanks much," she repeated, opening the door.
"Sure—hey, wait." There was something else he could ask, wasn't there? The plaster casts. A sole imprint that wasn't indexed in the stale computer. Handmade boots. Jan Beck had posited.