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.”
“Well, then, how about I come in there and we sort this out. We don’t have a whole lot of time before we have company up here, and my arms are getting tired.”
Another thirty seconds.
“All right, boss.” Deputy Frasier appeared at the door, thin and pale like a scarecrow up for three days on a meth binge. The repeater in his hands looked to weigh more than he did, and he held it pointed at the ground, as if it were a relief to let it drop. “C’mon in,” he said, and disappeared back through the door.
Clayton holstered his weapon and followed Choctaw into the cabin.
2.
Clayton hadn’t seen the inside of this place since he was a kid. Nothing hung on the walls, and the wood-burning stove was a rusted-out firetrap. There was nothing else in the wide-open space except dust, a few cases of crushed empty beer cans, a fold-out bed against the wall with no sheets, and two black plastic garbage bags stuffed to capacity by the back screen door. One of the bags was torn open at the top, allowing a view of the cash inside. Clayton blew all the air from his lungs and let out a disappointed “Damn.”
Choctaw took a seat on the bed and laid his rifle down next to him. Like magic he produced a quart of shine from the foot of the bed and took a long, gulping swig. He wiped his mouth and held the bottle out to Clayton. “I know you’re all sober these days, but I ain’t tryin’ to be rude.”
Clayton took a seat next to him on the bed and took the bottle. He held it a good long while before screwing the cap back on and setting it on the floor.
“How did you get pulled into this mess, Choc? Was it your buddy Chester’s idea?”
The deputy laughed, which turned into a dry cough, which quickly turned into a sob. Clayton wasn’t expecting that. Not once in eleven years of knowing the man had he ever seen Choctaw cry. He didn’t think he knew how. He reached across to put an arm around the deputy’s shoulders, but Choctaw abruptly stood up, snatched the bottle, and crossed the room. “Chester didn’t get me into anything. He was a good friend—a real solid dude. He saved my life over there in that shithole desert more than once. He got dealt a raw deal with that bitch in Tennessee. He couldn’t get any real work. He needed this. I told him it was a bad idea, but what else could I do? He was my friend, boss. I owed the guy my life. You don’t know how it was over there.”
Clayton waited for the rest.
“It was supposed to be a quick payday. Nobody gets hurt and even the guy we were ripping off wouldn’t come looking for what we took. Nobody was supposed to get hurt, boss. Chester—Allen—wasn’t supposed to get killed. It just ain’t right.”