of a touched-in-the-head killer running around was way easier to swallow than believing a mountain lion was on the loose. But right now, Zeb was in no mood to laugh at anything. His stomach was a wet sack of cornmeal, tied closed by the knot in his throat. He had as-cended enough to poke his head into the loft, and the spotlight jittered from corner to corner, too fast for him to really see much.
Hay, stacked crooked like a child's wooden blocks.
The bright metal glint of his tools hanging on the wall by his workbench.
Night, cool beyond the chicken wire that covered the open windows.
Posts, the dull underside of the tin roofing, the hewed stakes where the tobacco hung to dry, the—
The dark thing, swooping, a sudden papery rattle breaking the strained quiet. Zeb jerked the spotlight and his trigger hand tensed.
Bat.
Goddamned no-good mouse with wings.
Zeb exhaled, his heart pounding in his eardrums. A small, warm ache filled his chest. Easy now, Zebulon. Don't be putting yourself in no hos-pital.
He'd been in the hospital last year, and that was as close to prison as he ever wanted to be. Doctors sticking things inside every hole in his body, nurses seeing him naked, people in white coats telling him when to eat what pills. Couldn't have a chaw, no, sir. Have you ever had this, this, or this?
Finally, they'd cut him open and taken out his gall bladder. He suspected it was just for the hell of it, that they really couldn't find anything wrong but didn't want to admit it. But he figured the surgery would make them happy, and he'd never needed the damned gallbladder anyway. At least they didn't take anything important, and he got to go home again, even if he still felt like warmed-over liver mush about half the time. Zeb was mad at himself for shaking. And to prove to himself that he didn't close his eyes to problems, and that, by God, he didn't have no sorry Tennessee blood in him, he walked across the loft, careful to avoid the black squares cut in the floor where he threw down hay to the cattle in the winter months. If anybody was up here, they were trespassing, plain and simple.
And if it was a touched-in-the-head druggie es-caped from the city, Zeb could handle him. No matter the ax or knife.
A shadow of movement caught his eye, and he brought up the light to see that it was only a piece of hemp rope, swaying in the breeze that leaked in from the windows.
A metallic squeak came from behind him. Zeb spun, the flashlight beam crawling over the work-bench. A short piece of stovepipe rocked back and forth. Wasn't no wind blowed that. He crept toward the bench, the pump-action shot-gun leading the way. It occurred to him that the flash-light was giving away his position. The druggie or whatnot knew exactly where Zeb was. Nothing to do but walk brave and proud. He stood John Wayne straight and said, "Come on out where I can see you."
Only silence and the muted ruckus of the cows.
"Got a gun here."
A cricket chirped somewhere amid the hay.
Zeb played the light along the wall above the work-bench. Something wasn't right. There was the pitchfork, hanging by two rusty nails. A pulley, used for raising cows so they could be properly gutted. A cross-saw. An ax. A crop sprayer with a shoulder strap. A loop of harness. A shovel. Two hoes. An old mowing bar for the tractor. Three different thicknesses of chain. And what else? What was missing?
The wall went dark and it took Zeb a second to realize that the light had been blocked. Druggie.
A face filled the circle of light, a face that looked familiar but unreal. Zeb's chest was boiling, as hot as a chicken-scalding cauldron.
Not a druggie. A . . .
Zeb's finger tightened on the trigger, and the roar of exploding gunpowder slapped against the tin roof-ing, then echoed to give Zeb's ears an extra deafen-ing blow. Pellets ripped scars in the wormy chestnut walls. And the thing that had been standing before him was blown back to hell where it belonged. Except.. .
Sweet
Hay, stacked crooked like a child's wooden blocks.
The bright metal glint of his tools hanging on the wall by his workbench.
Night, cool beyond the chicken wire that covered the open windows.
Posts, the dull underside of the tin roofing, the hewed stakes where the tobacco hung to dry, the—
The dark thing, swooping, a sudden papery rattle breaking the strained quiet. Zeb jerked the spotlight and his trigger hand tensed.
Bat.
Goddamned no-good mouse with wings.
Zeb exhaled, his heart pounding in his eardrums. A small, warm ache filled his chest. Easy now, Zebulon. Don't be putting yourself in no hos-pital.
He'd been in the hospital last year, and that was as close to prison as he ever wanted to be. Doctors sticking things inside every hole in his body, nurses seeing him naked, people in white coats telling him when to eat what pills. Couldn't have a chaw, no, sir. Have you ever had this, this, or this?
Finally, they'd cut him open and taken out his gall bladder. He suspected it was just for the hell of it, that they really couldn't find anything wrong but didn't want to admit it. But he figured the surgery would make them happy, and he'd never needed the damned gallbladder anyway. At least they didn't take anything important, and he got to go home again, even if he still felt like warmed-over liver mush about half the time. Zeb was mad at himself for shaking. And to prove to himself that he didn't close his eyes to problems, and that, by God, he didn't have no sorry Tennessee blood in him, he walked across the loft, careful to avoid the black squares cut in the floor where he threw down hay to the cattle in the winter months. If anybody was up here, they were trespassing, plain and simple.
And if it was a touched-in-the-head druggie es-caped from the city, Zeb could handle him. No matter the ax or knife.
A shadow of movement caught his eye, and he brought up the light to see that it was only a piece of hemp rope, swaying in the breeze that leaked in from the windows.
A metallic squeak came from behind him. Zeb spun, the flashlight beam crawling over the work-bench. A short piece of stovepipe rocked back and forth. Wasn't no wind blowed that. He crept toward the bench, the pump-action shot-gun leading the way. It occurred to him that the flash-light was giving away his position. The druggie or whatnot knew exactly where Zeb was. Nothing to do but walk brave and proud. He stood John Wayne straight and said, "Come on out where I can see you."
Only silence and the muted ruckus of the cows.
"Got a gun here."
A cricket chirped somewhere amid the hay.
Zeb played the light along the wall above the work-bench. Something wasn't right. There was the pitchfork, hanging by two rusty nails. A pulley, used for raising cows so they could be properly gutted. A cross-saw. An ax. A crop sprayer with a shoulder strap. A loop of harness. A shovel. Two hoes. An old mowing bar for the tractor. Three different thicknesses of chain. And what else? What was missing?
The wall went dark and it took Zeb a second to realize that the light had been blocked. Druggie.
A face filled the circle of light, a face that looked familiar but unreal. Zeb's chest was boiling, as hot as a chicken-scalding cauldron.
Not a druggie. A . . .
Zeb's finger tightened on the trigger, and the roar of exploding gunpowder slapped against the tin roof-ing, then echoed to give Zeb's ears an extra deafen-ing blow. Pellets ripped scars in the wormy chestnut walls. And the thing that had been standing before him was blown back to hell where it belonged. Except.. .
Sweet
Similar Books
