Bull Mountain(18)

From a safer distance, Clayton watched his brother get comfortable against a tree stump and close his eyes. Hal looked rested and content as the burning man’s screams became something else. Something unnatural. Clayton would never forget that sound. He wondered if Hal could even hear it at all, or if all he heard were the hornets.





CHAPTER





6




SIMON HOLLY

2015

1.

Agent Holly shoved his key in the lock and tried to remember the last time, if ever, he’d stayed in a motel room that still issued keys to its patrons. Not those flimsy plastic key cards with the magnetic strip, but real, straight-up cut metal keys. As soon as he opened the door to room six of the Waymore Valley Motor Inn, the smell of powdered dollar-store potpourri and stale cigarette smoke rushed his face. It was strangely comforting. As were the bland mother-of-pearl walls and the dim electric-yellow light. This was the kind of thing he was used to. All the fresh mountain air and wide-open spaces were foreign and intimidating. Being out in the open country made him feel like, at any time, he could lose his footing and spin right off the planet. The tight space felt better. More controlled.

Holly unzipped the black government-issue duffel and took out his cell phone. He’d purposely left it behind before the sit-down with Clayton Burroughs. No distractions. The phone showed multiple missed calls from the same three numbers within the space of four hours. One was his girlfriend, Clare; one had a government prefix; and one had a North Georgia area code. Calling any of the three back was going to be the equivalent of sticking an ice pick through his left eye. He tossed the phone on the end table and fished a prescription pill bottle out of the duffel, a special cocktail of ten-milligram hydrocodone tablets and twenty-milligram diazepam. He shook out the pills and washed them down with tap water from the sink. His hands were still a little shaky. He’d done his best to keep them still during his meeting with the sheriff, but today was a long time coming, and to be honest, he was surprised he’d handled it so coolly. Holly was pretty sure he’d sold the right play to the sheriff, even if he’d had to consume a year’s worth of fat and carbs at that ridiculous pool-hall diner to do it.

How do these people eat that shit every day? he thought. He needed a gym, and a shower, but he settled for three fingers of bourbon from a plastic traveler’s bottle to give the pills a swift kick in the ass. The burn of the whiskey felt good. He sank down into a chair next to the bed and let the chemicals work their magic. It was the only thing making this next part bearable. It was time to roll up his sleeves and start calling people back.

He grabbed the cell phone and punched in a number. A pocket-sized faux-leather King James Bible with gold trim sat on the desk. Holly toyed with it while the phone rang. When the person on the other end picked up, he reached out and slid the Bible into the trash.

2.

“Jessup,” the voice on the line said.

“Henry, it’s Simon.”

“Simon, where the hell are you? You dropped off the grid, and you got people around here crabby. I don’t like these people when they’re crabby. You know that.”

“I’m in Georgia.”

“And why in God’s name are you in Georgia?”

“I’m working a case.”

“You’re supposed to be working a case in Jacksonville, Florida.”

“Same case.”

The silence on the line told Holly that his partner, Henry Jessup, was trying to connect the dots before asking a stupid question. He asked anyway.

“When am I going to be briefed on how what you’re doing in the Peach State connects to Wilcombe? What do I tell Jennings?”

The pills were doing their job. Holly felt the tension ease in his neck and shoulders.

“Tell him anything you want, Henry. I’m the AIC on this, and the last time I checked, the ATF was a federal agency, meaning I can follow a lead anywhere in the continental United States. I’m tracking down a major supplier of dope in the Georgia Mountains that ties directly to the guns in Florida, and the money—and Wilcombe.”

“You are the AIC on this, but you work in conjunction with me and the federal government. There are rules here you have to follow. This isn’t some Podunk local operation in southern Alabama. This Wilcombe thing you’re so hot about is the only reason Jennings vouched to get you in here, and already you’re pulling this cowboy shit. This is the kind of thing he’s waiting on to fry your ass and take the case for himself.”

“Fuck him. He’s a suit. He has no idea how it works out here.”

“He’s your boss. And he doesn’t trust you. You move too far outside the lines on this and he’s going to bust you back down to a beat cop. Me, too, probably.”

“What can I tell you, Henry? I’m just doing my job.”

“Well, then do it by the book. Jennings and them are going to want to be briefed on this, Simon. Stop the radio silence and the freelancer shit. You shouldn’t be up there alone. I should be there.”

“Henry, you worry too much.”

“You don’t worry enough.”

“Just give me a couple of days. Let me see where this takes me and I’ll let you know the play when I have it figured out.”

“Have you called Clare?”

“Not yet.”