Mobley squatted down and carefully reloaded the magazine, then sat on the trunk of a fallen beech tree and removed a Miller High Life from his knapsack. He popped the cap, took a long pull, and belched once, his eyes fixed on the spot where the dead kite had come to rest as if he did indeed expect it to come to life, to ascend bloodied from the earth and take once again to the skies. In some dark place inside him, Landron Mobley secretly wished that the kite wasn’t dead but merely injured; that he had pushed back the leaves and found the bird thrashing on the ground, its wings beating vainly at the dirt, blood spreading from the hole in its underside. Then Mobley could have knelt down, placed his left hand against the bird’s neck, and inserted his finger into the bullet hole, twisting against the flesh while the creature struggled, feeling the warmth of it against him, the meat tearing as his finger probed, until finally it shuddered and died, Mobley, in his way, becoming almost like a bullet himself, exploring its body as both the instrument and the agent of the kite’s destruction.
He opened his eyes.
There was blood on his fingers. When he looked down, the kite’s remains had been ripped apart, the feathers scattered across the ground, the sightless eyes reflecting the movements of clouds in the skies above. Mobley absently touched his fingers to his lips and tasted the kite with his tongue, then blinked hard and wiped himself clean on his pants, both embarrassed yet aroused by this sudden conflation of act and desire. They came to him so quickly, these red moments, that they were often upon him before he could even register their approach and over before he could enjoy their consummation.
For a time, he had found an outlet for his cravings in his work. He could take one of the women from her cell and let his fingers explore her flesh, his hand over her mouth as he forced her legs apart; but those days were gone. Landron Mobley was one of fifty-one guards and prison staff who had been fired that year by the South Carolina Corrections Department for having “improper relationships” with inmates. Improper relationships: Mobley almost smiled. That was what the department told the media in an effort to cloud the reality of what took place. Sure, there were inmates who participated willingly, sometimes out of loneliness or pure horniness, or so they could get hold of a couple of packs of cigarettes, some pot, maybe even something a little stronger. It was whoring, nothing more than that, no matter what they told themselves, and Landron Mobley wasn’t above taking a little pussy as a thank-you for a good deed done, no sir. In fact, Landron Mobley wasn’t above taking pussy, period, and there were inmates at the Women’s Correctional Institution on Columbia ’s Broad River Road who had reason to look at Landron Mobley with more than a little respect and, yes sir, fear after he had shown them what they could expect if they crossed good old Landron. Landron, with his bleak, empty eyes seeking to fill their void with the reflected emotions of another, her lips drawn back in pleasure or pain, Landron making no distinction between the two extremes, the feelings of the other inconsequential to him but his preference, truth be told, lying in resistance and struggle and forced surrender. Landron, roving from cell to cell, probing for weaknesses in the curled forms beneath the blankets. Landron, filled with venom, leaning over a slim, dark shape, working at the head, drawing it away from the woman’s chest, paralyzing her with his weight as he descended upon her. Landron, amid the water dropping from the leaves and the calling of the bullfrogs, the blood of the kite still warm upon his fingers, growing hard at the memory.
Then one of the local rags revealed that a female inmate named Myrna Chitty had been assaulted while serving a six-month sentence for purse snatching, and an investigation had commenced. And damn if Myrna Chitty hadn’t told the investigators about Landron’s occasional visits to her cell and how Landron had forced her over her bunk and how she had heard the sound of his belt unbuckling and then the pain, oh, Jesus, the pain. The next day Landron was off the payroll and the following week he was pink-slipped, but it wasn’t going to stop there. There was a hearing of the Corrections and Penology Committee scheduled for September 3 and there was talk of rape charges being pressed against Landron and a couple of other guards who might have let their enthusiasm get the better of them. It was a major embarrassment all around and Mobley knew that if they had their way, he was going to be hung out to dry.
One thing was for certain: Myrna Chitty wouldn’t be testifying at no rape trial. He knew what happened to prison guards who ended up doing hard time, knew that what he had visited on the women in his charge would be returned one hundredfold upon him, and Landron Mobley didn’t plan on pulling no train or sifting through his food for glass fragments. Myrna Chitty’s testimony, if it was heard in court, would be the passing of a virtual death sentence on Landron Mobley, one that would eventually be carried out with a shank or a broom handle. She was scheduled for release on September 5, her sentence reduced in return for her cooperation with the investigation, and Landron would be waiting for her when she got her white-trash tail back to her shitty little house. Then Landron and Myrna were going to have a little talk, and maybe he would have to remind her of what she was missing now that she didn’t have old Landron to drop by her cell or take her down to the showers to search her for contraband. No, Myrna Chitty wouldn’t be putting her hand on no Bible and calling Landron Mobley a rapist. Myrna Chitty would learn to keep her mouth shut unless Landron told her otherwise, or else Myrna Chitty would be dead.
He took another long drink and kicked at the dirt with the toe of his boot. Landron Mobley didn’t have too many friends. He was a mean drunk, although, to his credit, he was mean sober, so no one could claim that he’d misled them into a false sense of security. That had always been the way with him. He was an outsider, despised for his lack of education, for his taste for violence, and for the miasma of debased sexuality that hung around him like a polluted fog. Yet his capacities had drawn others to him, recognizing in Mobley a creature that might enable them to dabble in depravity without losing themselves to it totally, using Mobley’s absolute corruption as a means of indulging their own appetites without consequence.
But there were always consequences, for Mobley was like a pitcher plant, attracting victims with the promise of sweet juices, then thriving as they slowly drowned in an abundance of that which they had sought. Mobley’s corruption could be passed on in a word, a gesture, a promise, exploiting weakness as water exploits a crack in concrete, widening it, extending itself deeper and deeper, until the structures were ruined beyond salvation.
He had a wife once. Her name was Lynnette. She wasn’t beautiful, not even smart, but she was a wife nonetheless, and he’d worn her down as he’d worn down so many others over the years. One day, he came back from the prison and she was gone. She didn’t take much, apart from a suitcase of mangy old clothes and some cash that Landron kept in a cracked coffeepot for emergencies, but Landron could still recall the surge of anger that he’d felt, the sense of abandonment and betrayal as his voice echoed emptily around their tidy home.
He’d found her, though. He’d warned her about what would happen if she ever tried to leave him, and Landron was a man of his word, when it counted. He’d tracked her down to a dingy motel room on the outskirts of Macon, Georgia, and then she and Landron, they’d had themselves a time. Least of all, Landron had had himself a time. He couldn’t speak for Lynnette. When he’d finished with her she couldn’t speak for herself either, and it would be a long time before a man looked at Lynnette Mobley and didn’t want to puke at the sight of her face.
For a time, Landron descended into his own private fantasy world: a world in which the Lynnettes knew their place and didn’t go running off when a man’s back was turned; a world in which he still wore his uniform and could still pick the weakest ones to take for his amusement; a world in which Myrna Chitty was trying to run from him and he was gaining, gaining, until at last he caught her and turned her to him, those brown eyes full of fear as she was forced down, down…