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 my? 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 never 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’m?aid. “ 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.