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.
“Button that back up, Deputy. We’re going to be fine.”
“I don’t know, boss. You sure this is a good idea?”
“No, I’m not, but you’ll be fine. I promise.” Clayton clicked on the blue light bar, but turned it back off after seeing the faces of the men in the road.
“Maybe we should just head back,” Darby said.
“Just be quiet. I wouldn’t have brought you here if I thought you’d be in danger. I grew up with these people. If anything, I’m the one in trouble.”
“What do you mean, ‘trouble’?”
“Just stop worrying.”
“That’s hard to do, sir, seeing as two big burly jokers with assault rifles are walking toward us.” Darby squinted his eyes to get a better look at the approaching welcome party. “Oh my God, boss. The one to the left looks all burned up or something.” Darby dropped his hand to his gun again. Clayton took his eyes off the two men and put them directly on Darby.
“Listen to me, Deputy.”
“Yessir?”
“You listening?”
“Yessir.”
“These men are not going to hurt you. I promise you that. You are a sworn deputy of Waymore Valley, and these men are not looking to be cop killers. That kind of thing will rain a metric shit-ton of trouble down on this place, and they do not want that. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Darby nodded, fast and sharp, and awkwardly straightened out his hat.
“So just relax. If for a second I think something is squirrelly, I will handle it and I will get us both out of here pronto. Okay?”
“Okay, boss. I trust you.”
“Good. Now, be quiet.”
The sheriff rolled down his window and turned off the rumbling AC as the two men approached the truck. One of the men stayed back by the tree line, while the one Darby thought looked burned rested his arms on the driver’s-side window ledge and leaned in a little to inventory the truck’s occupants. When Scabby Mike and Clayton finally locked eyes, Mike smiled wide and motioned for the other man to lower his rifle.
Scabby Mike had managed to become an old man over that past year, since the time Clayton saw him last, but there was no mistaking who he was. Mike had had a severe case of measles as a child, which left horrible scarring over eighty percent of his face and body. It happened that way up here sometimes because of the mountain’s lack of proper doctoring. The disease left his skin a muddled pinkish color with the texture of pitted asphalt, and his beard grew in patchy and only on the right side of his face.
“Sometimes, that’s just how shit is,” he’d told Clayton once when they were kids. “I just thank the Lord I never got it on my pecker.” The memory always made Clayton smile.
This made eye contact tough to maintain for strangers like Darby, but Clayton wasn’t a stranger, and Mike’s face was a welcomed one. Clayton considered him a friend. Maybe the only one he had left on the mountain.
“When they told me we had company comin’ up the mountain, I was hopin’ it was you. I wasn’t really in the mood for killin’ any real cops.”
“Well, I reckon I should feel lucky, then.”
“Lucky you got me standin’ here tellin’ you to turn around. ’Cause you keep drivin’ up this here road, your luck is gonna change.”
“I need to talk to my brother.”
“Hal don’t talk to cops. You know that.” Mike shot an intentional glare at Darby, who looked away immediately.
“I thought you just said I wasn’t a real cop.”
“He don’t talk to fake cops, neither.”
“Look, Mike, I’m not here in an official capacity anyway. I’m here as his brother.”
Scabby Mike leaned down on the Bronco’s window frame and shuffled his hat back out of his eyes to look inside the truck. “So what’s Deputy Dawg here for?”
“He’s here as a witness. That’s all.”
“We don’t like witnesses up here, neither,” Mike said, and spat tobacco juice in the dirt. Darby continued to study the floorboards with great intensity.