Bull Mountain(74)
Clayton slowed the Bronco down and pulled over to the side of the road. “Get out, Simon.”
Holly twisted his face into an expression of surprise. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Nope. Get out.”
“I’m not gonna do that, Clayton.”
The sheriff dropped the shifter into neutral and let his foot off the clutch. He put an arm up on the seat and turned to Agent Holly. “Look, the place we’re headed is less than two miles up this road on the left. It’s about a fifteen-minute walk. By the time you get there, I’ll most likely be sitting on the front porch waiting for you, Choctaw sitting beside me, sipping iced tea.”
“I’m not going to let that happen, Sheriff. I can’t even begin to tell you how many protocols I’d be breaking if I did what you’re asking me to do.”
“Something tells me a man like you doesn’t give a rat’s ass about protocols. Besides, you can tell anybody that asks I forced you at gunpoint.”
It was Simon’s turn to smirk. “And you think anyone will believe that?”
“Anyone who knows about me drawing down twice in the past two days will.”
“And what if there’s more than just your deputy waiting up there?”
“Won’t be anyone I don’t know.”
“You know all his ex-military buddies turned hijackers?” Holly saw in the sheriff’s face that he hadn’t thought of that, but Clayton shook his head dismissively.
“If I get there, and it looks like I just stepped in shit, I’ll pull back and wait on you.”
Holly still didn’t move to open his door. He sat with his arms crossed like a stubborn child.
“Look, Simon, this is the only way I know I’ve got an honest shot at not getting this kid killed like his buddy Bankey. I can tell him I came alone, and I won’t be lying. If he thinks a fed is creeping around, it could spook him into doing something stupid. It’s only a fifteen-minute walk. I need you to do this. Goddamn, it’s not like I’m asking for your gun. Just get out and meet me there.”
Holly unclicked his seat belt and popped open the Bronco’s door. Before he was fully out, he turned to Clayton and said, “You know, I’ve been running marathons my whole adult life. I can cover two miles in a lot less than fifteen minutes.”
Clayton tipped his hat. “Well, I best be on my way, then.” He dropped the shifter and punched the hammer down as soon as Holly had both feet on the road, letting the vehicle’s sudden motion slam the door closed. Holly shielded his face from the kick-up of dust and red dirt. When the Bronco was far enough from sight, he brushed the road spray off his dark blue suit, chewed a couple Percocets, and pulled out his cell phone. Not the burner phone he let Clayton throw out the window, but the one he was issued by the United States government. He chewed the pills into paste, punched in a number, and held the slick black smartphone to his ear. As the phone rang, Holly smiled his shark’s smile and began to jog up the road toward Johnson’s Gap.
CHAPTER
24
CLAYTON BURROUGHS
WESTERN RIDGE, JOHNSON’S GAP
2015
1.
Clayton pulled the Bronco over and cut the engine just before he reached the clearing where the cabin his great-grandfather had built sat quiet and serene. His deddy had brought him here a few times when he was little, but something about the place never sat right with Gareth. Clayton always got the impression his father was never comfortable here. Choctaw came out here all the time. He swore Bear Creek was the best trout fishing in all North Georgia. Clayton just took his word for it.
The midnight-blue Camaro that Choctaw had thrown most of his extra bones into restoring for the past five or so years was parked out front. No other cars. If someone else had been out here with him before, they were gone now. Clayton could breathe a little easier. The driver’s-side door hung wide open and gently rocked in the breeze. The cabin was covered in the shadows of the heavy canopy of trees and brush surrounding it. Clayton could easily slip in from the back and surprise anyone inside, but he was going to play this completely straight. Even he was aware of just how foolish his next move was, but he wasn’t taking any chances at getting anyone else killed on this mountain, except maybe himself. He carefully slid his Colt from his holster and held it up over his head, letting it dangle on one finger. “Choctaw,” he yelled, “you in there? It’s me, Clayton.” He walked up the gravel drive toward the front porch and glanced in the open door of the Camaro as he passed it. Dry blood the color of coffee grounds stained most of the front seat. It looked a few days old, most likely from the hijacking. No fresh blood at all. A 20-gauge shotgun lay across the seat. “Choctaw,” he yelled again, and this time the curtain shuffled slightly in the window next to the door.
“It’s just me, James. I just want to talk. I’m here to help you with whatever this is.”
“You alone, Sheriff?” Choctaw yelled back.
“Yes, I am, James. Are you?”
“Are you sure?” Choctaw asked, still concealed within the cabin.
“Have you ever known me to lie to you, Deputy?”
Thirty or so seconds passed as Choctaw mulled that over. Finally he yelled back.
“No, sir.”