Bull Mountain(38)

Clayton filled the Dixie cup again and gulped it down and tossed the paper cup into a small wicker wastebasket. He walked out into the reception area, where Cricket was sitting at her desk with Darby Ellis, Waymore Valley’s second, and only part-time, deputy. They were chatting with hushed voices. Their conversation stopped completely when Clayton entered the room, like high school kids straightening up for the teacher. Cricket had her elbows on her desk and her fingers interlaced, cradling her chin. She looked upset, as if she had been crying. Darby sat on the edge of her desk with his cowboy hat balanced on his knee. Cricket sat up straight and awkwardly shuffled papers around on her desk. Darby stood up and held his hat to his chest. “Good afternoon, Sheriff,” he said.

“Darby,” Clayton said, and stood in front of Cricket’s desk. He gently lifted her chin until her eyes, red and puffy, met his. “Are you okay?” he said.

“I’m fine, Sheriff.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“No, sir. I’m fine, really.”

Clayton looked at Darby, who shrugged. He either didn’t know or wasn’t telling, and that was fine by Clayton. He wasn’t in the mood for office drama. “Where’s Choctaw?”

“That’s a good question,” Cricket said almost too sharply, as if Clayton had hit a nerve. “He hasn’t been here all morning.”

“Did you try his cell phone?”

“I did. I left several messages. Should I try him again?”

“Nah. Just tell him to call me when he gets in.”

“Yessir.”

“Um, Sheriff,” Darby said, cutting in between Clayton and the front door, still holding his hat at his chest, fingering the rim. “An officer from Cobb County come and picked up our prisoner early this morning.”

“I know that, Darby. I was here.”

“Right. Um. I’m just saying that I don’t have anything going on right now, if you need me to help you with anything. Um, since Deputy Frasier ain’t here and all.”

Darby Ellis was a good kid. Clayton had taken him on as a volunteer right outta high school just because he admired the kid’s enthusiasm for the job. He created a part-time position last year because he figured if Darby was going to spend every waking hour at the station, he might as well be getting paid a little something for it. He aced the deputy exam and shot pretty good at the range, but he wasn’t quite what Clayton liked to think of as quick-thinking. Of course, Choctaw wasn’t that far ahead of him. Clayton chewed at his bottom lip and scratched his beard.

“All right, then, Darby. C’mon.”

Darby smiled a big farm-boy smile. “Where we headed, boss?”

“To see my brother.”

Darby lost the spring in his step and stopped cold.

Clayton pulled the Colt Python from his holster, spun the cylinder to ensure it was full, and with a flick of his wrist locked it back in place. “So, are you coming?”

Darby double-checked his hip for his own service weapon, relieved to see he had it, and put on his hat. “Yessir.”





2.


The tree limbs slapping against the roof and windows of Clayton’s Bronco brought him back to a different time. Although Waymore Valley was considered a small mountain community, this place beyond the civilized was a different world altogether. His and Kate’s house was at the base of the mountain, a stone’s throw from paved roads and streetlights, but up here Halford had taken up residence in the house they’d lived in as boys—their father’s house. Clayton hadn’t been this far up the mountain in years. Even after Buckley died or what had happened to his father, Clayton never passed over the invisible line Halford had drawn in the clay. The Bronco’s tires dug into the twin trenches of red dirt while Clayton navigated through his childhood stomping grounds. He spun the steering wheel with the inside of his forearm, making turns without thinking, anticipating dips and drop-offs he’d ridden through a hundred times over with his brothers. This place was his home, no matter how unkind it had been to him. Clayton knew he would always be welcome, but the badge had no business here at all. If a thing existed up here, it was because it belonged here. And if it didn’t belong, the people who lived here made damn sure it didn’t stay. Clayton had struggled with which side of that fence he was on ever since he could remember. The sadness this place brought him was almost equal to the pride it filled him with. He thought sometimes there was nothing he wouldn’t do to sit in a beat-up johnboat out by Burnt Hickory Pond and watch his brothers pretend to fish while they drink warm beers with their shirts unbuttoned and their chests poking out. They acted like it was a chore to have him tag along, but they would always bring a few bottles of Sun Drop or Peach Nehi just for him. He took notice of that kind of thing. He doubted Halford would be up for going fishing today.

Clayton shifted into low gear and swerved the truck off the service road onto a trail cut between two gorgeous red maples. The sun was high above the ridge, lighting up the leaves, coloring everything around them shades of orange and purple. He was always surprised at how beautiful it was up here, but he wasn’t at all surprised to see the two men standing in the heavy shadow of the tree line, holding AK-47s. Darby didn’t take it well at all. The young man braced himself and unsnapped the thumb break on his holster. Clayton let the clutch out and stopped the truck.