The Devil's Redhead by David Corbett Page B

through to some business.
    Chewy viewed the densely packed material with a shudder of astonishment. Frank slapped him on the back so hard he stumbled forward.
    â€œNow you know,” he said, “why I wanted trucks.”
    It took them an hour to load it all, stuffing it in as best they could. They repacked the tool wagon twice just to find a way to get it all, and all three vehicles sagged from their loads. Despite the cold, everybody stank from sweat. The odor had a chemical taint.
    Frank paused from time to time to study his accomplices. Mooch in particular. Ever since the kid had made that crack about wanting a stab at Shel, Frank had been afflicted with sadistic fantasies. It wasn’t wild conjecture to believe that Mooch might be the secret object of Shel’s inexplicable mood swings of late. He had to control an impulse to rush the boy from behind and deliver one good hard blow to the back of the head.

    Shel walked out the kitchen door, following her shadow down the gravel walkway to the barn. A faint wail stopped her. She cocked an ear to the wind, then turned toward the sound. After a moment it clarified—a car engine, wound out at high revolutions in low gear, tires screaming on the backroad curves. Whoever was driving preferred to redline on the straightaways rather than downshift on the turns. Probably means it’s stolen, Shel surmised. Probably means it’s coming this way, too.
    The car got waved in by the man posted as a watch at the gate. It swerved onto the ranch house side road, tailspinning into a culvert and digging itself out again, spewing mud and rock till it straightened out. It came toward the ranch house at a slightly slower speed, fixing Shel in its headlights.
    Coming abreast of her, the car slowed to a stop. The driver, leaning across the front seat, rolled down the passenger window and said, “Roy sent me to fetch ya.”
    His name was Eustace, but everyone called him Snuff. He was the youngest of the Akers brothers, named for an uncle in Arkansas. He opened the passenger door then pulled himself back up behind the wheel, waiting.
    â€œI’ve got a chore or two to see to,” she said.
    â€œYeah, well”—Snuff scratched his cheek with his shoulder—“I mean, Roy says.”
    Not now, she thought, and yet she knew Snuff was not conveying a casual invite. Roy couldn’t stand Shel, the feeling was mutual, and they only dealt with each other face-to-face when Roy’d had enough of trying to get through to Frank.
    She climbed in beside Snuff, saying, “You’re bringing me back here in ten minutes.”
    Snuff hit the gas. “Sure, sure, whatever. I got to relieve what’s-his-name out at the gate, anyway.” He faced front and smiled a prankish smile. “Had to bypass the kill switch to get this baby hoppin’,” he said. He pointed to the steering column from which the ignition cap had been pried away. His eyes glowed. “And check out these seats.” He patted the upholstery. “Is Lyle gonna shit or what?”
    â€œDon’t tell me what I don’t want to know,” Shel said.
    â€œSure, sure, whatever.”
    He drove with a quart of ale between his legs, fingers toodling the bottleneck. From the look of him, Shel guessed he was in the third or fourth day of a serious tweak. His eyes and skin looked twice as old as his years, except for a scab of acne arching high across each cheek. He wore jeans, Doc Martens, a soiled rugby shirt and a Raiders cap turned backward.
    The car broke into the clearing in which the work sheds lay. A walnut orchard encircled the compound, the trees layered four rows deep. A trio of bluetick coonhounds greeted them at the gate, which was drawn aside by another of the Akers, this one named Hack, armed with a Remington shotgun.
    Off to the side, a semitrailer container sat without wheels, planted on a low bank of cobble. It bore on its side the slogan of the company