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  3

  BURNT HICKORY POND

  Clayton had arrived at the pond first. He’d already drained the first half pint of bourbon on the drive over, and now stood in the tall, overgrown saw grass that half-covered the three headstones set in a clearing between the pond and the woods. Clayton understood why Halford and Buckley would want to be buried here. The place had meaning to them. As kids the three of them spent more time here than anywhere else on the mountain, but it never made much sense to Clayton why Halford made the decision to bury their father here, too. Outside of stopping the forest fire that Buckley started once trying to flush out a hornet’s nest that burned out a patch of hardwoods near the rim of the forest—the same patch of petrified trees that gave this place its name—to Clayton’s knowledge, his father had never even stepped foot on this chunk of wetland. Gareth didn’t even fish the pond. He hated being cooped up in a johnboat. He liked to trout fish up at Bear Creek, wide open, thigh high in the rushing water. So Halford’s laying down their deddy here instead of a place like Cooper’s Field where all the elder Burroughs were buried always struck Clayton as a little odd, but Clayton stopped trying to figure out why his oldest brother did most of the things he’d done a long time ago—and now it didn’t matter. Halford was dead, and he was dead by Clayton’s hand. He was dead because that was the way life had played out, leaving neither of them little choice in the matter. At least that’s what Clayton tried to convince himself of at night before he medicated himself to sleep.

  Clayton poured a little whiskey from the second bottle over the coarse granite of his brother’s headstone and watched the liquid absorb into the stone as it ran down across the engraved letters. He almost spoke out loud to the captive company of ghosts, but the knock of a rebuilt V8 engine coming up the road stole his attention—and anything he might’ve had to say. He took another pull of whiskey, and tucked the bottle into the pocket of his Carhartt jacket. Scabby Mike circled the clearing and brought the obnoxious-sounding old beater to a stop by the pond. He’d been driving that same truck since he’d been able to shave, and there was more rust covering the old step-side than paint. “Scabby” Mike Cummings came by that horrible descriptive after an unchecked case of chicken pox scarred him real bad as a child. Clayton used to feel sorry for him when they were kids. People who didn’t know him found him tough to look at. He was pitied and often avoided. Clayton considered it their loss, because the people who did know him barely noticed the scars. Good people were just good people, and despite Mike’s position as Halford’s left hand during the past several years, that’s exactly what he was—good people.

  Today the leathery pockmarks that covered 60 percent of Mike’s face were a bright, puffy pink that resembled a case of the hives. From a distance his face looked like a thin layer of chewed bubblegum could’ve covered it. His scars were always pronounced like that during the summer’s high heat or when he was stressed, and that troubled Clayton because it wasn’t that hot out now. Mike stepped out of the truck and took off his hat. He always did that. He smiled a crooked smile from the unscarred side of his mouth. It wasn’t the warm smile he wore for occasions that involved cracking open beers to discuss how shitty The Braves were doing this year, but a smile Clayton recognized as a precursor to some sort of unpleasant news. He wondered if anyone on this mountain smiled out of just genuine happiness anymore. He couldn’t remember the last time he had.

  Another man got out on the passenger side of the truck and tipped a well-worn Cattleman at Clayton. He wasn’t sure who it was, but he looked familiar. The man was tall and fit with chiseled features. He was clean-shaven and handsome. The absence of a beard, or at least a few days scruff, on a grown man around here was uncommon, and made him look odd. Clayton tended not to trust a clean-shaven face. He thought he looked like a goon. He nodded back and watched the two men as they approached.

  “Clayton, this here is Mark—Mark Tuley. He’s one of mine.” That meant he was to be trusted with what they were about to say. He extended his hand to Clayton and his entire arm was covered in exotic black-and-gray tattoo work. Monochrome tentacles of some half-hidden sea creature slithered out from under his clean, fitted white T-shirt. That meant he wasn’t from around here either.

  “Do I know you?” Clayton took his hand and shook it. He noticed the man’s knuckles were scraped up and raw.

  “It’s been a long time, and I wouldn’t say we were friends, but yeah, we’ve met.”

  Clayton studied the man’s face, and Mark held his stare.

  “Damn, Clayton,” Mike said, “I just said he was with me, what’s with all the eye-fuckin’?”

  Clayton let go of Mark’s hand. “Who else is in the truck?”

  “What?” Both Mike and Mark looked behind them. A younger man was fidgeting around in the cab of the truck. When whoever it was saw everyone looking at him, he waved. Clayton took him for a kid. Mike shook his head, and scratched at the back of his neck. “That’s T-Ride, my sister’s boy. I told him to stay put. He ain’t quite ready for all this.”

  “Right,” Clayton said. “All this. Why don’t you tell me what all this is about, Mike?”

  Mike pushed his greasy brown hair out of his face, and seated the just-as-greasy baseball cap back tight and low on his head. He gave Clayton—and then Mark—a look as if he were unsure of how to proceed. He took a deep breath, looked at his truck, and then walked over to it. He stopped at the far corner of the tailgate and untied the bowline knot holding down the edge of a canvas tarp that covered the entire bed. He moved to the other corner and did the same. After another deep breath, he tossed it back, and moved back around to the side of the truck. “C’mon and take a look at this.” He motioned for Clayton and Mark to join him by the tailgate.

  “Grade school, right?” Clayton said as they walked.

  “That’s right,” Mark said. “Sixth Grade. Mrs. Summers’ class.”

  Clayton stopped walking. “Wait a second. You were Kate’s boyfriend.”

  Mark laughed. “I was twelve years old, man. That girl scared me to death.”

  “Well, I can certainly understand that,” Clayton said, and they continued toward the truck.

  Mark said something else, but by that time Clayton could see what Mike had uncovered in the bed of the truck, and all the small talk he had in him dried up quick. Surrounded by a littering of faded empty beer cans, and lying in a thin bed of matted pine straw, was a boy about eighteen to twenty years old. He had a thick tuft of dark-brown hair, a chubby face, and a dark burst of fresh purple bruises under both eyes and across the bridge of his broken nose. He was bound, but he was moving, so immediately Clayton was relieved that he wasn’t looking at a boy’s dead body. The captive adjusted himself from lying on his belly to look up and his eyes were wide and jumpy, filled with fear and confusion. His frantic demeanor calmed a little as he finally settled his attention on Clayton. His mouth was wrapped in duct tape, as were both of his hands and feet. His feet were also bare and filthy. Clayton figured Mike had taken the kid’s shoes in case he got loose. Bare feet made it tougher to run. He hated that he knew things like that. The white part of the boy’s left eye was completely red from a busted blood vessel where he’d obviously been dealt a good one, and the swelling was still puffing up, so it must not have been too long ago. He thought about his new friend Mark’s knuckles from a few moments ago. A trickle of dried blood from some unseen head wound had caked up the boy’s hair, and the left side of his face was lined with indentations from where it had been lying against the pine straw and ribbed metal of the truck bed. Clayton swung his head from the kid to Mike and Mark, and then back to the kid. On instinct he took a quick survey of the pond and the surrounding area to make sure no one else was seeing this, although he knew no one was. No one came this close to a Burroughs graveyard and Mike knew that. That’s why he picked this place to meet. Clayton moved back from the truck, and Mike and Mark moved with him. He took in a deep, settling breath and blew it out slowly before speaking
. When he did, he spoke as precisely and controlled as his buzz would allow.

  “Who the hell is that? And why was it so important to bring him here—to me?”

  “He’s a fuckin’ Viner!” T-Ride yelled from the sliding back window of the truck.

  “You shut up,” Mike said, “and shut that goddamn window too, before I take a boot to your ass.”

  T-Ride slid the window shut and watched as Clayton waited impatiently for someone to start talking.

  Mike tipped his chin up at Mark. “Go ahead, Mark. Tell him.”

  Mark watched the beaten boy in the truck flop around violently and grunt from under the silver tape. “His name’s Joseph Viner. They call him JoJo. He’s Twyla Viner’s grandson.”

  “Are those names supposed to mean something to me?” Clayton said flatly.

  “Not likely. They’re a small outfit outta’ East Georgia. Would never have made McFalls County radar. The old woman isn’t really a concern anyway; she’s more of a figurehead these days since her husband died a few years back, but her son—this little shit’s deddy—Coot, they call him—he’s about as mean as they come. The whole crew hails from a place called Boneville.”

  “Where the hell is Boneville?”

  “Exactly.”

  Clayton was getting tired of the cryptic answers. “Mike, you and your buddy here need to start tellin’ me what the hell is going on here.”

  “Boneville is a piss-ant little town down around the eastern border of Carolina.”

  Clayton’s blank expression never changed. “For the last time, why do I give a shit?”

  “Well,” Mark continued, “this peckerwood kid was part of a crew that botched a robbery out by Prouty Hollar. You know the place? A club called The Chute—” He stopped and looked at Mike, unsure of what he was allowed to say.

  “It’s fine, Mark. Go ahead.”

  “Right, The Chute. A big fella named Freddie Tuten runs it. It’s an old outpost building that your deddy was using as a dry-house until—”

  Clayton took the small bottle of whiskey from his coat. “I know where it is, Mark. I’ve lived here my whole life.” He sipped the bottle and put it back in his coat. “I still don’t even see why you even give a shit, Mike. Why would anybody want to rob old Tuten’s place anyway? He’s never got more than a few hundred bucks in the safe. What were they expecting to find?”

  Mark tried to answer, but Mike cut him off. “That ain’t the point, Clayton. I don’t think you’re seeing the big picture here.”

  “Well, then why don’t you enlighten me, Mike? I keep asking for the point, and I keep getting more bullshit.”

  Mike stepped up close into Clayton’s face, frustrated that he needed to even explain. “The point is, that club they tried to hit? It’s been an unofficial cash cow for the Burroughs family for years. You know that. Everyone knows that. And because of that fact, the place carried a certain amount of untouchability. It’s one of the only places still earning anything at all for the people up here after the Feds came through and shut almost everything else down.”

  “And you said Tuten handled it, so why should you or I care about some group of two-bit tweekers robbing a bar?”

  Mark stepped in between the two men. “Because, Mr. Burroughs, if we are now living in a place that isn’t feared by the ‘two-bit tweekers’ of the world, then you, your wife—and most importantly—your son, are all in danger. In fact everyone living on this mountain is.”

  Clayton was quiet for a minute as he stared at this man with the clean-shaven face. He didn’t look like a goon anymore. He looked genuinely concerned. He looked at Mike, who nodded in agreement. Mike was the one in charge of things up here now that Halford was dead. It was odd to see him take a backseat to this Mark fella.

  “Do you believe my family is in danger, Mike?”

  “I believe if something isn’t done about what happened last night, then it will be.”

  Clayton lit a smoke. “Where are the rest of them?” he said, and walked past them to the tailgate of Mike’s truck.

  “The rest of who?”

  “The rest of this kid’s crew. You said he was part of a group.”

  “Nails McKenna happened to them.”

  Clayton coughed up a lungful of smoke. “No shit.” He hadn’t heard that name in a while. Everyone standing knew no further explanation was necessary, so he looked down at JoJo. “Cut him loose, and send him home.”

  “Clayton, I think that’s a bad idea.”

  “He’s a kid, Mike. He’s just a dumb kid who did something stupid that got all his friends killed. It’s a lesson learned.” He was still staring at JoJo. “Right, son?”

  The kid grunted under the duct tape.

  “This kid threatened your life, man. Once Tuten got him talking, he wouldn’t shut up. All he talked about was how the Burroughs’ time in North Georgia was over. He talked about how it was only a matter of time before him and his deddy come to claim it. He also said... Wait a minute, you know what? Why don’t I let him tell you?” Mike raised his hands in mock defeat.

  “Go ahead, Mark,” he said. “Do it.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “The man said cut him loose, so cut him loose. And start with the gag.”

  Mark didn’t argue. He pulled a fixed-blade knife from a sheath attached to his belt and bent over the tailgate. The kid pulled back at the sight of the huge blade and grunted again beneath the gag, but Mark grabbed a handful of the kid’s hair, yanked his head across the truck-bed, and pinned it down.

  “I’m going to do my best to only cut that tape off you, but if you keep wigglin’ like a sissy, I might end up cutting off some other shit, like a nose or an ear. You listening to me, JoJo?”

  A muffled consent came from under the gag, and the boy held still while Mark cut across the back of the sticky gray tape and not-so-gently yanked it free, along with some skin and clumps of dirty hair. The boy tried to talk, but despite being freed of the duct tape, his voice was still muffled.

  “Now open,” Mark said. “And I swear, boy, if you try to bite my fingers, I don’t give a damn what this man says, I’ll gut you like a pig right here.” He gave the kid another good look at his knife and JoJo lay as still and quiet as a copperhead. He opened his mouth as wide as he could, and Mark used two fingers to slowly pull out about four feet of slobber-covered pink cloth. Mark felt a little strange doing it, like he was performing a magic trick, and then finally tossed the belt to Freddie Tuten’s bathrobe into the gravel. JoJo hacked and licked at his dried-out teeth as everyone watched. When he could talk, he did.

  “My deddy is gonna fuckin’ kill y’all.”

  “Your deddy is a crack-head who couldn’t kill time.”

  “Fuck you, faggot.”

  Clayton put his hand on Mark’s shoulder and moved him aside. The kid stared at him with a teenage cockiness, pumped up more on adrenaline and curiosity than fear.

  “You ain’t been talkin’ five seconds, and already I don’t like you, but you’re in a hole, son, and I’m gonna try to help you out.”

  “You want to help me, ginger? Then make that ugly motherfucker and his boyfriend cut me all the way loose, and then go lock your doors, before Coot gets here with the cavalry.”

  “There ain’t no cavalry comin’ for you, son. I’m the only shot you got.”

  The boy squeezed his eyes into slits and stared hard at Clayton’s face. The red hair, the calico beard. The tan shirt and hat. Clayton saw the recognition wash over the boy’s face.

  “Well, fuck me, you’re him. The sheriff that shot down his own brother.”

  “Careful, boy.”

  “Man, that’s some cold shit, right there. I heard all that business left you a drunk with a gimp leg.”

  Clayton stood back and let the tailgate down.

  “You got a limp dick, too? That’d be a shame ’cause I hear you got yourself a real pretty wife.”

  Clayton tilted his head a little, and Mike put a hand on
his shoulder. Clayton shuffled it off, and put his cigarette out on the rusty flap of metal. “This is your last chance, JoJo. Shut up and listen before you lose the only friend you got here.”

  “Friends? We ain’t friends. But that pretty wife of yours? Now, we could be friends—real good friends. I’ll tell you what. I ain’t makin’ no promises for you three homos, but you let me go, and I’ll see what I can do about lettin’ her off with just a little kiss on my pecker.”

  Mike swung so fast that Mark didn’t even see him throw the punch until it connected to JoJo’s jaw, but Clayton pushed him back. “No,” he barked and moved back to take his coat off. “Get this piece of shit out of there and bring him over here.” Clayton walked into the soft earth near the edge of the pond. Mike and Mark each grabbed JoJo under his armpits and dragged him out of the truck. He hit the ground with a thud, taking the force of the fall to his shoulder, but the boy just started laughing. “Go ahead,” he said. “Rough me up all you want. I can take it, but y’all know as well as I do why you didn’t kill me last night, and it’s the same reason you ain’t gonna kill me now.”

  “Bring him right here.”

  Mark and Mike dragged JoJo to the water’s edge and laid him on his back. His head touched just enough of the pond to send ripples out across the green sheet of glassy water. Clayton ignored the pain in his leg and squatted down next to him. “And why’s that, boy? Why do you think you’re still breathing?”

  JoJo smiled wide like a shark, a bit of blood smeared across his yellow teeth. “Because you know I’m tellin’ the truth. You know my deddy will rain fire down on this place like you ain’t never seen. You know you ain’t got the juice no more to stop us, and we’re gonna start with that sweet piece of tail back at your place.”

  Clayton smiled at the boy, right before he grabbed him by his shoulder and his belt and flipped him over face down in the pond. Clayton stood and watched JoJo try to raise his face out of the three to four inches of water, but with his hands bound behind his back and his feet taped together, all he did was cause himself to sink deeper into the muck. A gurgling sound came from the water and Clayton cupped his ear. “What’s that, JoJo? I can’t hear you. How’s that shit-talkin’ working out for you now?” Clayton wiped his muddy hands down the legs of his pants while JoJo flopped around like a fresh-caught fish. Mike and Mark moved closer to the water, but Clayton held out a hand and the two men stayed back. Clayton picked up his coat from the ground where he’d tossed it and fished out the whiskey. He cleaned it off and tossed the empty bottle into the water behind him. By the time he’d put his jacket back on a fine layer of bubbles had formed around JoJo’s head and his body began to twitch in the sand.