Waylon thumped the dog’s rib cage. “This here’s my buddy. Hard to believe it now, but a year ago, he could fit in the palm of my hand. Not much of a coon hound, turns out, but he’s a real sweet dog, ain’t you, Duke?” As if in answer, Duke slobbered happily on Waylon’s palm.
The door screeched again, and a skinny, stunted echo of Waylon slouched toward us. “Hey, Vernon,” Waylon called. “I got the Doc here with me. He’s that genius bone detective I was telling you about.”
Vernon nodded hello. I nodded back. “You’uns ain’t just come from a chicken fight, is you?” Vernon snickered at his own humor, and I shot Waylon a baleful look.
Waylon fished a wallet from somewhere. “Here’s two hunnerd. I thought I’d be a little flusher, but I didn’t make out as well last Sunday as I planned.”
That was my fault, I realized—if I hadn’t collapsed at the cockfight, Waylon could have stayed longer and wagered more.
Vernon took the money and shook Waylon’s hand. “I ’preciate you. I hate to ask, but we’re still having a bad time with Ralph. He’s my least-un,” he explained to me. “He’s pale as a ghost, he won’t eat, and he’s got blood in his pee and his shit—’scuse my language, Doc. Waylon, he don’t look good at all. We’re afraid he ain’t gonna make it.”
With good cause, I thought—it sounded like the child might have leukemia, but I hesitated to bring up the subject. Maybe I could talk about it with Waylon later.
Waylon clapped Vern on the shoulder, then folded him in a bear hug, almost completely enveloping the smaller man. A muffled sob issued from the vicinity of the big man’s chest. “It’s gone be all right,” Waylon said. “Y’all just hang in there; everthing’s gone be all right. Listen, I got to get the Doc over to Jim’s.”
In the distance, I became aware of the staccato thudding of a helicopter heading our way. Waylon’s head snapped up. “Shit, let’s go, Doc,” he said. “We got to be out of sight before that chopper sets down.”
He bounded off the trail and scampered behind a tangle of fallen pines. I followed as quickly as I could, hoping we weren’t venturing into a different zone of booby traps. I heard a rustle behind us, and looked back to see Duke, the hound, following us.
Once we were hidden, Waylon’s hand resting on Duke’s collar, we dared a look back toward Vernon’s hut. A sleek, black-and-gold Bell JetRanger settled into the edge of the clearing amid a whirlwind of leaves and dust. On the helicopter’s side was a five-pointed star and the words “Cooke County Sheriff.”
As the turbine engine spooled down, Orbin Kitchings emerged from the cockpit and strode toward Vernon, utterly unconcerned about the rotor still freewheeling above his head.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Waylon fiddling silently with something, but I paid it no heed until my nostrils caught a familiar and dreadful aroma: he had opened a can of Copenhagen, and I was directly downwind. I fought back the urge to gag, forcing myself to focus on the figures arguing in the clearing. As the noise from the engine and the prop died, I began to make out their conversation. “But that’s all I got,” said Vernon, his voice high and tight. “I ain’t playin’ games, that’s ever cent I have in this world. My boy’s been sick and I ain’t got no money till this crop comes in. Just come back then.”
Orbin spat. “Shit, Vernon, it ain’t worth my time and fuel to come out here for this. I told you five hundred.” Damn, I thought, if only the TBI had already bugged the helicopter. Maybe they’d have it done by his next trip.
“I know, Orbin, and I tried, but I just ain’t got it till I get this crop in. Weather stays good, I’ll get another week’s growth. That’s an extry couple thousand. You got to cut me some slack here.”
There was a pause. “What did you say to me?”
“You…you got to work with me, Orbin.” Vernon’s voice quavered. Sensing his distress, the dog squirmed, but Waylon held tight to his collar. I saw the deputy backhand Vernon, but it took a fraction of a second for the sound to carry to us. “You listen to me, you little pissant. I don’t got to do nothin’ with you. I don’t got to give a rat’s ass about you or your snotty-nosed sick kid or your crippled grandmother or any other sob story you got. And you can cry all you want to, but it don’t make a damn bit of difference to me. Are we clear on that?” I saw Vernon’s head nod slightly. “I can’t hear you. Are we clear?”
“Yes. We’re clear.”
“Good. When I come back in two weeks, that harvest moon better be shining, and you damn well better have me a thousand dollars in your hand.”
“I…I just give you two hunnerd, Orbin. Means I’ll owe you eight hunnerd next time.”