The man closest to the mouth of the drive was talking into a two-way radio connected to his gun strap with a length of paracord. Clayton had no doubt who was listening on the other end, and hoped it also explained why all the guns were lowered. Halford was being cordial—another good sign. Clayton wheeled the Bronco through the entourage and parked next to a variety of jacked-up, camouflaged pickup trucks, some brand-new and some as old as he was. He thought he recognized his deddy’s old Ford F-100. At least Halford had managed to keep that alive. A simple cabin made of cedar and pine stood in the middle of the clearing. To Clayton it looked frozen in time. If it was any different from the way he remembered it, he couldn’t tell. His old bedroom window faced east, and the same blue curtains he remembered from when he was a boy were still there. Two old men he didn’t recognize sat in rockers on the porch. One of them held a guitar in his lap but wasn’t playing. Two children about nine or ten sat with their legs dangling off the porch, neither of them wearing shoes. The blackened color of the soles of their feet made Clayton wonder if they ever had. One of the children held a hand-carved wooden train car. The other held a knife and was picking at a loose board on the porch. Neither of them looked up as Clayton got out of the truck and approached the front steps.
“That’s far enough, Sheriff,” a deep voice bellowed from behind the screen door. It was the man himself. Halford Burroughs stood every bit of six feet, four inches tall and took up the entirety of the doorway. He was as thick as a redwood but angular and solid like stacked cinder blocks. Clayton and Buckley had grown to resemble their father, naturally thin, cut, with ropey muscles, red hair, and fair skin—the kind that burned in the shade—but Halford retained their mother’s features. He was olive-skinned; his hair was a thick mound of dark brown ringlets that matched deep brown eyes that curved down at his cheeks. When they were kids, the girls on the mountain called them “sad eyes,” but Clayton never saw a hint of sadness in them. His beard was full and lush, streaked with gray and silver. He stood behind the screen door, unarmed, with a paper napkin draped down the front of a dark undershirt.
He pushed open the screen door, stepped out onto the porch, and let the door slam behind him. He squinted his eyes as they adjusted to the sunlight and pulled the napkin from his shirt collar. He wiped away what looked like gravy from the corners of his mouth and beard, then rolled the napkin into a ball between his palms and tossed it on the porch. The kid with the toy train scurried over, picked it up, and disappeared into the house. The screen door slammed again.
“Long time, Hal.”
“Not long enough. I don’t know what you’re thinking coming here, but it would be in your best interest to go ahead and get your ass gone.” Halford took a step forward and the porch creaked under his weight.
“If you really wanted me to leave, you wouldn’t have let me up here in the first place. We need to talk.”
“I don’t talk to cops. Even wannabe cops like you.”
“I’m not here as the law, Hal. I’m here as your brother.”
Hal laughed. It was cold and humorless. A yard full of ass-kissers joined in and Clayton gave a quick glance around, feeling uneasy. Halford took another step forward into the sunlight. “First of all, you ain’t the law up here. Hell, you ain’t hardly the law down in the Valley, from what I hear. But more important, the only brother I got done got himself killed by some friends of yours a little over a year ago.”
“I had nothing to do with that, and you know it.”
“It’s one big brotherhood, though, right?”
For the first time, Clayton felt the heat of the day. Sweat was running between his shoulder blades and down his lower back. His shirt was sticking to him and his neck was kinking up from having to look up at Halford. All of a sudden he craved iced tea—laced with a fifth of bourbon.
“Hal, I didn’t drive out here thinking we had any shot of repairing the damage between us. I’m not fool enough to think that will ever happen, but I got things you need to hear all the same. You don’t want to hear them? Fine. I’ll be on my way. But ask yourself something. Don’t you think if I drove all the way up here, after all this time, and let all these assholes you call family put guns in my face in front of my deddy’s house, that what I have to say might just be important?”
Hal chewed on that. He studied Clayton, then shot some stink-eye over at Darby, who was melting in the cab of the Bronco. The floorboard went back to being the most fascinating thing Darby had ever seen.
“Come on, Hal. It’s hot out here.”
“Fine. Talk, but you can do it from there. No way in hell you’re coming into this house. You lost that right a long time ago.”
Clayton sighed and took off his hat. He wiped the sweat off his brow with his forearm, and put it back on. He took another glance around the yard at all of Halford’s men, each face more eager than the next to hear what Clayton had to say. “I don’t think you want all these people hearing what I got to say.”
“Why not, Sheriff?” Halford held his arms out. “We’re all family here, right?”
Clayton took a step toward the porch and spoke in a hushed voice. “I think I might have . . . a way to help our family.”
Hal didn’t say a word. He just stared at Clayton like he was a complete stranger. Clayton took another wary step toward his brother and lowered his voice even more. “A way out, and I mean completely out. It’s a chance for you to retire from all . . . this . . .” He held out his arms like a scarecrow and motioned toward the gathered crowd. “I have guarantees,” he said, almost in a whisper now. “You can keep everything you have. The money. Whatever. Just shut down the dope.” Clayton looked at the tweekers by the rain barrel scratching themselves nervously. “No more looking over your shoulder. No more men with guns at your front gate. Just you and God’s country.”