Bull Mountain (29 page)

“I don’t believe you,” she said, and shot him in the chest.

2.

Kate was still holding the gun, standing over Simon’s body, when Val and Scabby Mike came in the front door. Mike slid his hands over hers and after a time she let go of the gun, and Mike tucked it into his pants at the
small of his back. “Mrs. Burroughs,” he said in a kind voice. “Are you okay?”

Kate nodded. “I’m fine.”

“I think you best be going, Katie,” Val said as he dropped a rolled canvas tarp on the kitchen floor next to Simon’s body.

“What happens now?” she said.

Mike gently moved her back toward the door. “We clean this up and you go home.”

“What are you going to do with him?”

“Doesn’t matter, Mrs. Burroughs. We’ll take care of this. You need to get going now.”

Val put a hand on Mike’s shoulder and moved him to the side. It was easy to do; Val was nearly twice Mike’s size. “We’re going to take him back to the mountain, Katie. Where he belongs.”

It made sense. Simon was a Burroughs. But they weren’t going to take him to the lush green banks of Burnt Hickory where
his father and brothers were buried, or the garden up near Cooper’s Field that held his grandfather and great-grandfather. They would take him deep into the backwoods by the Western Ridge, out by Johnson’s Gap. Out where the graves went unmarked, unnoticed, and forgotten. She bet they’d already dug the hole. She cupped the side of Val’s cheek and stared at the cracks in his face, dug there by
decades of events like this one, and something passed between them like static current. They shared a moment of crushing sadness that tightened her chest and suddenly made it hard to breathe. It was the kind of sadness brought on by turning corners that led you to places there was no finding your way home from. They had both looked deep within themselves and found an ugliness that couldn’t be stuffed
back inside. She’d seen that look on the faces of people before, but now she understood it. Now she owned it.

Mike had already spread the canvas across the linoleum and kicked Simon’s body into the center. He was wiping up blood from the floor with a roll of paper towels from the kitchen with no more thought than if he were cleaning up spilled milk. He smiled at her and she recognized the
sadness in him, too.

“Katie,” Val said, “you need to go. There’s no more reason for you to be here.”

Kate nodded to Mike, who went back to work on the floor; then she turned and left without another word.

She’d only just pulled the hospital-supplied Dodge Caravan onto I-85 when she heard the first noises from her passenger waking up in the backseat. She turned the volume on the radio
from low to off and adjusted her rearview mirror to get a better look.

“Where are we?” Clayton said. His voice was groggy, coarse, and dry from the pain meds, and he wanted to scratch himself all over. An IV bag swung from a special hook above the window and he rubbed at the tubing taped to the top of his left hand.

“We’re going home, baby. You just rest.”

“I been resting for three
months,” he said.

“You’ve been
healing
for three months. Now the resting starts.”

“I don’t want to rest.” He scratched at the stubble on his chin. The doctors at the trauma center had shaved him. He hadn’t shaved in more than twenty years. He wasn’t happy about that at all. Kate didn’t mind it, though. She liked his face.

“Clayton, you got shot. Twice. You should be dead. So if the
people who saved your life say I need to take you home and let you rest, then that is exactly what I intend to do. And I’m not listening to any arguments.”

Clayton sipped his ice water through the straw of a huge plastic cup and laid back against the mountain of pillows Kate had him propped on. “Well, how about some singing, then?” he said. “Will you listen to some singing?” After three tortured
verses of “Up on Cripple Creek,” Clayton faded back into the oblivion of a morphine drip. Kate left the radio down so she could listen to him breathe over the hum of the highway. After a while she was convinced it was the sweetest sound she’d ever heard. She knew eventually they would have to talk about the things that had happened out here, about the things that happened on the mountain. She
knew there would still be questions about whether or not Clayton was guilty of anything. She was sure there would be more federals at their front door with their notepads and sunglasses and their accusations. And she was sure they would deal with it. But not today. Today her husband was breathing. He was alive. He was going to be a father. The right kind of father. They were getting a late start,
but they were going to be a family. She didn’t feel one ounce of regret for what she’d done. She’d do it again if it needed doing. Several times she thought about taking a hard left and just going somewhere new. It was a new day. She had a cousin in Augusta, and an uncle she’d never met in Huntsville. They would take them in. They had to. They were family. But she didn’t take any hard turns. She
kept the van headed toward Bull Mountain. It was her home. It was Clayton’s home. It would be her son’s home.

And no one was ever going to take that away.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I’d like to thank my wife, Neicy, for being my beautiful distraction, and for always keeping me grounded (
“Baby, we got an offer on the book!” “Good, we need a new sofa.”
), and for introducing me to life in North Georgia.
Without her, there wouldn’t be a Bull Mountain. Thanks to my mom for always being supportive regardless of the swearing. Thanks to Zelmer Pulp, my writers group/gang, made up of some of the most talented people on earth, including Ryan Sayles, Chuck Regan, Chris Leek, Isaac Kirkman, and Joe Clifford. Now that there might actually be someone watching, I think we better burn down the clubhouse.
Seriously, though, Google their names and buy their books. Tell them I sent you. Thank you to Brian Lindenmuth at
Spinetingler Magazine
for holding me up high enough to be seen by the big dogs. Thank you to Ron Earl Phillips for publishing my first story at shotgunhoney.net. Thank you to Susie Henry for lending me her woman’s perspective, and thank you to Dan Adams of the Dan Adams Band (look
them up and buy their records) for providing Bull Mountain with a soundtrack. You may be living in Austin, buddy, but you’re a Georgia boy through and through. Thank you to my boys at the firehouse for all the stories. Keep it in the house, fellas.

I owe a huge debt of gratitude to my agent, Nat Sobel, for the belief he had in my work and for the pit-bull tenacity he showed in finding this
book a home. My life is clearly divided into Before Nat and After Nat. Thank you to my editor, Sara Minnich, and the folks at Putnam for taking a chance on me and the good people of McFalls County. (No plot knots, Sara, I promise.)

And last: Thanks, Dad. For hiding the remote. For the comics. For never once giving up on anything. For the ride home from New York. And for Waylon. But mostly
for being the best goddamn father a son could ask for. I miss you every day, old man. I’ll see you when I get there.

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