Ray drove the right stick solidly against the drum, following with a snap of the left, then again with each stick, letting the pattern roll into a flourish. He would sound the advance, encourage the troops against long odds, stand firm in his duty amid the cries of agony and rage and panic.
He slapped out the cadence-
ratta-tat-tat
-the drumsticks blurring, the air moving with the action of his hands, the beat echoing off the cheap paneling, punctuating the bravery of those who repelled the invaders who sought to destroy the homes and hearths the Home Guard stood united to defend. The tears flowed freely, cooling on his face, but he was smiling.
The toy soldiers on the table didn’t hold their positions, though. They retreated, their stiff lead bases vibrating back away from the road and into the cover of the forest, winding up the slopes of Mulatto Mountain. Vernon Ray pounded harder, certain that if he stayed strong in the face of flying steel, the men would rally and return to their posts. But the soldiers turned tail in the face of Stoneman’s superior force, or their fear of looming death, or their lack of faith in the Confederacy. They scrambled madly up Mulatto Mountain, scaling the
papier-mâché
until they huddled around the Jangling Hole, seeking entrance among the mouse-gray boulders.
They would hide today in the Hole and live through Stoneman’s Raid, but their end would come soon enough.
The important thing was for Vernon Ray to hold his line, drum until the Grim Reaper harvested with his steel blade, stand tall, make his dad proud-
The Room exploded with the bright fury of a cannonade, and Vernon Ray blinked.
His dad stood in the doorway, hand on the light switch. “And just who do you think you are, you sorry little sack of civilian shit?”
CHAPTER NINE
“Look at this long list of environmental violations,” Cindy Baumhower said, spreading the sheaf of papers on Littlefield’s desk.
The sheriff sat back in his chair, the hinges squeaking and driving rusty nails into his skull. He rubbed his crew cut, hoping the headache would magically rise into the ceiling. Cindy Baumhower was normally more of a thorn in the side than nails in the palms, but tonight her crusading-journalist bit was merely annoying. If
The Titusville Times
wasn’t such a convenient mouthpiece when he wanted to crack down on any type of public nuisance, he would show her the door and lock it behind her.
But besides her drooling desire for a Pulitzer, or at least a few state press association awards, Cindy wasn’t so bad. At least she had ethics and when he gave her information off the record, it stayed off the record. In a small town, gossip could mean the difference between reelection and unemployment.
“You know that’s not my jurisdiction,” Littlefield said. “That’s the state’s problem.”
“Christ, Frank, the Department of Environment and Natural Resources is just a rubber stamp for developers and industrialists. The lobbyists in Raleigh are practically blowing the governor. And who wants teeth when you’re getting a good hummer?”
“You forget, Bill Willard is a Republican and the Democrats have had a hammerlock on the capitol since Reagan.”
“This is about rich and richer, not right and left.”
Cindy jutted out her chest, but Littlefield forced himself not to look at it. She wasn’t much younger than Littlefield, but her freckles and sun-bleached hair, along with her ardor, gave the impression of a college co-ed. Her blue eyes were radiant and piercing, and Littlefield knew better than to meet them for too long at any one stretch. She reminded him of Sheila Story, and that hurt way too much.
“I’m sorry, Cindy,” he said, regretting that he’d let their relationship get on a first-name basis. As always, that made lying a lot more difficult.
Cindy swept up the papers and shoveled them into her hemp tote bag, which bore a pot leaf and the slogan “Legalize It.” She claimed not to
He slapped out the cadence-
ratta-tat-tat
-the drumsticks blurring, the air moving with the action of his hands, the beat echoing off the cheap paneling, punctuating the bravery of those who repelled the invaders who sought to destroy the homes and hearths the Home Guard stood united to defend. The tears flowed freely, cooling on his face, but he was smiling.
The toy soldiers on the table didn’t hold their positions, though. They retreated, their stiff lead bases vibrating back away from the road and into the cover of the forest, winding up the slopes of Mulatto Mountain. Vernon Ray pounded harder, certain that if he stayed strong in the face of flying steel, the men would rally and return to their posts. But the soldiers turned tail in the face of Stoneman’s superior force, or their fear of looming death, or their lack of faith in the Confederacy. They scrambled madly up Mulatto Mountain, scaling the
papier-mâché
until they huddled around the Jangling Hole, seeking entrance among the mouse-gray boulders.
They would hide today in the Hole and live through Stoneman’s Raid, but their end would come soon enough.
The important thing was for Vernon Ray to hold his line, drum until the Grim Reaper harvested with his steel blade, stand tall, make his dad proud-
The Room exploded with the bright fury of a cannonade, and Vernon Ray blinked.
His dad stood in the doorway, hand on the light switch. “And just who do you think you are, you sorry little sack of civilian shit?”
CHAPTER NINE
“Look at this long list of environmental violations,” Cindy Baumhower said, spreading the sheaf of papers on Littlefield’s desk.
The sheriff sat back in his chair, the hinges squeaking and driving rusty nails into his skull. He rubbed his crew cut, hoping the headache would magically rise into the ceiling. Cindy Baumhower was normally more of a thorn in the side than nails in the palms, but tonight her crusading-journalist bit was merely annoying. If
The Titusville Times
wasn’t such a convenient mouthpiece when he wanted to crack down on any type of public nuisance, he would show her the door and lock it behind her.
But besides her drooling desire for a Pulitzer, or at least a few state press association awards, Cindy wasn’t so bad. At least she had ethics and when he gave her information off the record, it stayed off the record. In a small town, gossip could mean the difference between reelection and unemployment.
“You know that’s not my jurisdiction,” Littlefield said. “That’s the state’s problem.”
“Christ, Frank, the Department of Environment and Natural Resources is just a rubber stamp for developers and industrialists. The lobbyists in Raleigh are practically blowing the governor. And who wants teeth when you’re getting a good hummer?”
“You forget, Bill Willard is a Republican and the Democrats have had a hammerlock on the capitol since Reagan.”
“This is about rich and richer, not right and left.”
Cindy jutted out her chest, but Littlefield forced himself not to look at it. She wasn’t much younger than Littlefield, but her freckles and sun-bleached hair, along with her ardor, gave the impression of a college co-ed. Her blue eyes were radiant and piercing, and Littlefield knew better than to meet them for too long at any one stretch. She reminded him of Sheila Story, and that hurt way too much.
“I’m sorry, Cindy,” he said, regretting that he’d let their relationship get on a first-name basis. As always, that made lying a lot more difficult.
Cindy swept up the papers and shoveled them into her hemp tote bag, which bore a pot leaf and the slogan “Legalize It.” She claimed not to
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