possibility, one that Luke had to consider: It was possible that Odell
had shown up and was inside the dark house, safe in his own bed—nixing any
potential trouble between the Porches and the two “townie” boys, Skeeter and
Joe Rob. Luke couldn’t imagine what Skeeter and Joe Rob might’ve done to arouse
the ire and suspicions of Fate and his sons. Odell Porch was a bully and a
hothead, not the sort of man two boys fresh out of high school would wish to
tangle with or go against. Joe Rob was a scrapper, a former high-school
football star, but he was a babe in the woods compared to ex-Marine Odell; and
Skeeter was a scrawny scrub of a young man, not at all athletic. If they had a
run-in with Odell, it almost certainly would’ve been unintentional.
Luke turned around and drove back
to town. As he was cruising down Main Street, someone shambled in front of his
truck, and he slammed on the brakes to keep from hitting the startled man.
“Corny?” Luke shouted. “What the
hell’s wrong with you? I could’ve killed you.”
Cornelius Weehunt staggered
backward and fell on his ass.
Luke hopped out of the truck and
helped Corny to his feet.
“Sorry, Chief Chaney,” Corny said,
dusting off his rump. “I...I thought something was chasing me.”
“Chasing you? Who’s chasing you?”
Corny looked around and pointed in
the direction of the sinkhole in the middle of the street. “I thought something
was fixin’ to come out of that dang hole and get me.”
“I don’t see anything now? Do you?”
“No, sir. But honest to God, I
thought I did.”
“What are you doing out here in the
middle of the night?”
Corny looked down at the asphalt,
mumbling to himself.
“What’s that?” Luke pressed him.
“I’s just keeping watch, you know,
on the hole.”
“Watching for what?”
“I don’t rightly know. Something
just told me I ort to do it. That’s all.”
“Well, get in the truck and I’ll
drive you home.”
“Yessir.”
Luke drove Corny Weehunt to the boarding
house on Poplar Street and let him out. “Don’t wake folks up when you go
inside,” he told the child-like man of thirty years. “And don’t be telling
anybody you saw something coming out of that hole. You hear me?”
“Yessir, I hear.” Corny gave him a
furtive glance, then got out of the truck, slunk up the sidewalk and slipped
inside the front door.
Luke smiled to himself and shook
his head. “Poor bastard,” he said.
Before driving home, Luke cruised
by the brick house on the corner of West Main and Fifth Avenue. Joe Rob
Campbell’s ’67 Mustang was parked behind the house. “Four a.m. and all’s well,”
he said, then added, “I hope.”
CHAPTER
11—GRAVEDIGGER’S SORROW
Skeeter raised his chin from his
chest and watched the shadow-shapes come up the ladder to the barn loft. A
flame flared, a lantern was lit, and he saw the wizened face of Fate Porch in
the lantern’s light. Skeeter had promised himself that he would not humiliate
himself further by begging for mercy. Whatever the bastards had in store for
him, he would confront it like a man. But when he saw Fate Porch, his hopes
rose and he thought he might have a chance of survival if he could appeal to
the elder man’s maturity and seasoned reasoning. Maybe the man wasn’t the
monster everyone said he was.
“Mr. Porch,” Skeeter blurted, “it
was an accident, I swear. I didn’t shoot nobody. I—”
“Shut your yap, boy,” Fate Porch
said. Skeeter saw the hurt in the man’s sad eyes, and his hopes sank. “Get him
down,” Fate told his sons.
Luther unhooked the other end of the
chain and Skeeter dropped to the loft floor, tumbling forward on his face.
“Stand up, you pussy,” Cowboy
snarled. “Told ya he was a pussy, Diddy.”
Skeeter struggled to his feet, his
hands still bound behind his back. Someone pushed him toward the top of the
ladder and he stumbled forward, lost his balance and almost took a header over
the edge
had shown up and was inside the dark house, safe in his own bed—nixing any
potential trouble between the Porches and the two “townie” boys, Skeeter and
Joe Rob. Luke couldn’t imagine what Skeeter and Joe Rob might’ve done to arouse
the ire and suspicions of Fate and his sons. Odell Porch was a bully and a
hothead, not the sort of man two boys fresh out of high school would wish to
tangle with or go against. Joe Rob was a scrapper, a former high-school
football star, but he was a babe in the woods compared to ex-Marine Odell; and
Skeeter was a scrawny scrub of a young man, not at all athletic. If they had a
run-in with Odell, it almost certainly would’ve been unintentional.
Luke turned around and drove back
to town. As he was cruising down Main Street, someone shambled in front of his
truck, and he slammed on the brakes to keep from hitting the startled man.
“Corny?” Luke shouted. “What the
hell’s wrong with you? I could’ve killed you.”
Cornelius Weehunt staggered
backward and fell on his ass.
Luke hopped out of the truck and
helped Corny to his feet.
“Sorry, Chief Chaney,” Corny said,
dusting off his rump. “I...I thought something was chasing me.”
“Chasing you? Who’s chasing you?”
Corny looked around and pointed in
the direction of the sinkhole in the middle of the street. “I thought something
was fixin’ to come out of that dang hole and get me.”
“I don’t see anything now? Do you?”
“No, sir. But honest to God, I
thought I did.”
“What are you doing out here in the
middle of the night?”
Corny looked down at the asphalt,
mumbling to himself.
“What’s that?” Luke pressed him.
“I’s just keeping watch, you know,
on the hole.”
“Watching for what?”
“I don’t rightly know. Something
just told me I ort to do it. That’s all.”
“Well, get in the truck and I’ll
drive you home.”
“Yessir.”
Luke drove Corny Weehunt to the boarding
house on Poplar Street and let him out. “Don’t wake folks up when you go
inside,” he told the child-like man of thirty years. “And don’t be telling
anybody you saw something coming out of that hole. You hear me?”
“Yessir, I hear.” Corny gave him a
furtive glance, then got out of the truck, slunk up the sidewalk and slipped
inside the front door.
Luke smiled to himself and shook
his head. “Poor bastard,” he said.
Before driving home, Luke cruised
by the brick house on the corner of West Main and Fifth Avenue. Joe Rob
Campbell’s ’67 Mustang was parked behind the house. “Four a.m. and all’s well,”
he said, then added, “I hope.”
CHAPTER
11—GRAVEDIGGER’S SORROW
Skeeter raised his chin from his
chest and watched the shadow-shapes come up the ladder to the barn loft. A
flame flared, a lantern was lit, and he saw the wizened face of Fate Porch in
the lantern’s light. Skeeter had promised himself that he would not humiliate
himself further by begging for mercy. Whatever the bastards had in store for
him, he would confront it like a man. But when he saw Fate Porch, his hopes
rose and he thought he might have a chance of survival if he could appeal to
the elder man’s maturity and seasoned reasoning. Maybe the man wasn’t the
monster everyone said he was.
“Mr. Porch,” Skeeter blurted, “it
was an accident, I swear. I didn’t shoot nobody. I—”
“Shut your yap, boy,” Fate Porch
said. Skeeter saw the hurt in the man’s sad eyes, and his hopes sank. “Get him
down,” Fate told his sons.
Luther unhooked the other end of the
chain and Skeeter dropped to the loft floor, tumbling forward on his face.
“Stand up, you pussy,” Cowboy
snarled. “Told ya he was a pussy, Diddy.”
Skeeter struggled to his feet, his
hands still bound behind his back. Someone pushed him toward the top of the
ladder and he stumbled forward, lost his balance and almost took a header over
the edge
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