Fatal Flaw (25 page)

32

“SO EXPLAIN
this to me,” I said to Skink as we drove out of Pierce, following the path of the river. “Jesse is crazy in love with Hailey, he promises to protect Hailey from Grady Pritchett.”

“This all from the letters?”

“From what I could tell; Jesse wasn’t exactly a Hemingway when it came to clarity. So he puts Grady in the hospital, and it sounds like the next thing he’s going to do is put Grady in the morgue. And then, boom, Jesse is found dead and Grady’s alibi is Hailey.”

“Dames,” said Skink.

“Dames? Dames? Who uses the word ‘dames’ anymore?”

“I do.”

“What were you, a sailor?”

“My daddy was. Anyways, you never can tell with a dame. First they blow hot, then they blow cold. It’s all the same to me, just so long as they’re blowing.”

“Your level of enlightenment is dazzling.”

“Thank you.”

We took a right at the Foodmart and drove over a one-lane bridge, as per our instructions. There were three roads leading off to the right, we took the one with the steepest climb up a ravine jutting into the side of the mountain. The road switchbacked once and
then again as it climbed the ravine. With a sudden jolt the asphalt gave out, and we were riding now on dirt, soaked with grease and hardened with pebbles. I checked the directions once again as the car shimmied and shook in its climb.

“It should be just up ahead,” I said, and then there it was, a ragged metal mailbox with the the address on the side, two ruts shooting off sharply to the right creating their own switchback as they rose deeper into the yaw of the ravine. A sign was posted on a tree by the drive, the words painted roughly in red:

NO TURNAROUND

I checked the address and then looked over to Skink. “Guess it’s all right to go in, since we have no intention of turning around.”

I steered the car into the drive and slowly rumbled up the pitted ruts. At a sharp turn in the climb there was another sign, this one nailed onto a post:

NO SALESMEN

“You selling anything?” I asked Skink.

“Not me, mate.”

“Me neither.”

I continued up, moving now out of the ravine toward the river, only much higher. The road was getting steeper, my ears popped, and I didn’t like that there was no barrier on the far edge of the drive, that one bad bounce could send us tumbling. On the hill above us I spied a rusted old truck, wheels missing, suspended in a mad pursuit down the side of the mountain. God knows what was stopping it from skidding off the hill and crushing us. In its windshield was another sign, this one, too, painted in red, a blood red I now noticed:

NO HUNTING

“It’s a good thing we left the shotguns and coon dogs at home,” I said.

Farther up the road there was a scraggly grove of weed trees with a sign nailed onto a thin trunk:

NO TRESPASSING

“We don’t seem to be welcome,” said Skink. “What again is the purpose of our visit?”

“To trespass.”

“I feel so much better now. Look up there.”

Another sign:

GO THE HELL AWAY

“That’s to the point, at least,” I said. “Can’t say he’s not being clear.”

I slowed down now, made two final turns up the slope, the car dipping into the ruts, its undercarriage savaged by thick weeds and loose rock. The drive rose through the trees until it ended at a turnaround. An old brown truck was parked there, facing us. Ragged wooden stairs led up to the left, and at the front of the path was one final sign:

BEWARE OF DOGS

I didn’t have time to come up with another weak witticism before something hard slammed into my side of the car and suddenly, at my window, a giant snarling face was baring its teeth and yelping like a maniac.

I turned to look at Skink. His head was thrown back, his mouth a rictus of fear. On the other side of his window a savage face grimaced, saliva falling in streams from yellow teeth.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said.

“You don’t like dogs?”

“Not ones that are trying to bite my noggin off.”

“Oh, these little pooches don’t mean any harm,” I said as the black dog on my side continued its yelping and the brown dog on Skink’s side snarled and snapped in frustration at the glass between his teeth and Skink’s neck. “They just want us to rub them on their bellies.”

“Turn around, mate, and get us out of here,” said Skink, a real panic in his voice.

“Not yet.” I banged the horn and waited. The black dog danced at the side of the car and kept up its yelping. The brown dog smashed its muzzle against the glass and snapped its jaws. The car rocked.

“Please, please,” said Skink. “Turn around.”

“What is it with you and dogs?” I said.

“Let’s just say I had an unpleasant encounter with a bulldog in my youth.”

“I hear once they chomp their teeth around something, you have to kill them to get them off.”

“Get us the hell out of here.”

Just then a shot rang out.

Skink and I ducked down and stayed down.

“Maybe you should pull out your gun to be safe,” I said.

“I didn’t bring no gun.”

“I thought you were bringing a gun.”

“Across state lines on a fool’s errand? I don’t think so, mate.”

“What good are you without a gun?”

“Plenty damn good. I’ve got fists of iron and nerves of steel.”

“Except when it comes to dogs.”

I cautiously raised my head and peeked out my window. On the staircase leading up the hill a man now stood, cradling a shotgun, the dogs sitting calmly on the step beneath him. He was an old man, thick and unshaved, sparse clumps of hair standing out from his huge head. I sat up slowly, my hands raised to show I held nothing in them. I whispered for Skink to do the same.

I leaned over to open the window. The gun jerked in the man’s arms. I sat up straight again, gesturing my intentions. The gun settled, and the man nodded.

“Are you Mr. Sterrett?” I said, sticking my head carefully out the now open window, my hands still in sight.

“Who’s looking for him?” said the man.

“My name is Victor Carl. I’m a lawyer from Philadlephia, and I haven’t come to help him or to sue him. I simply have some questions.”

“Didn’t you see them signs?”

“Yes I did, I surely did. But I’m not a salesman or a hunter. I didn’t see a sign saying no lawyers.”

“Guess I’ll be putting one up tomorrow.”

“But until then I’d like to ask Mr. Sterrett some questions about his son.”

“Which one?”

“How many does he have?”

“Five boys, three girls.”

I whistled. “And Mrs. Sterrett?”

“Gone now going on five years.”

“I guess the eight kids wore her out.”

“Not the ones still around, they didn’t. It was worrying about the ones that warn’t.”

“I’ve come to talk about Jesse.”

“He’s one of the ones that warn’t.”

“I know he is, Mr. Sterrett. I’m trying to find out why.”

“Hell, I can tell you why.”

“I was hoping you could.”

“You a connoisseur of fine wine, boy?”

“Not really,” I said.

“That’s handy, ’cause I ain’t got none. But I got some corn liquor that I save for special occasions and, you being a lawyer and my dogs being hungry, I’m guessing this qualifies.”

“Is it any good?”

“Course it ain’t no good, but it works.”

“It will pin our ears back, is that it?”

“Like six-inch nails.”

“That would be just wonderful. Especially for my friend here,” I gestured at Skink, “who could use a little cosmetic surgery. But I was wondering if you might help him out a bit. My friend is afraid of dogs.”

“Afraid of these old hounds? Tell your friend Fire and Brimstone here wouldn’t hurt a soul. All you need do is rub they bellies and they’ll be your slaves for life.”

THE HOUSE
was just a ways up the path, perched on the hill as if it was getting ready to jump off and fly. Or maybe jump off and not fly. Its walls listed, its paint peeled, its porch sagged low in the middle. Weeds sprouted tall around it, and to the side sat a pile of old metal, twisted fencing, rusted buckets, a refrigerator with its door still dangerously on. We sat out on the wreck of a porch, avoiding the patches where the wood had collapsed through. We each held a glass jar of the corn liquor, a clear, toxic brew that burned all the way down the throat and then set fire to the stomach. I liked it, actually, and was afraid of it all at the same time. Sterrett sat on a big
old setting chair, the jug resting by his side, I sat on a crate, Skink sat stiffly on a rocking chair, the dogs curled at his feet, as if Skink’s discomfort was for them like an old familiar blanket. And the view from the porch, well, the view from the porch was astounding.

It flew down into the valley, capturing a swath of green pasture and the tiny sway of cattle before it picked up the flow of the river, with its white froth pouring around jutting rocks. A hawk soared beneath us on patrol, gliding between the sheer cliff faces of the mountains rising on either side. We sat and sipped and listened to the silence, which wasn’t actually a silence at all but a riot of insectile rattles and bird twitters, the scurrying footfalls of rodents, the strange, forbidding rustle of the undergrowth.

“You could sell this view,” I said.

“Yep,” said Mr. Sterrett, “but why would I?”

“The dogs seem to like you, Phil,” I said.

“My luck,” he said.

“What was it that bulldog did to you anyway?” I said.

He scowled and didn’t answer.

Sterrett said, “I heard tell once they get a bite on you—”

“I hear that one more time,” interrupted Skink, “I’m going to burst a vessel.”

“Skink apparently had himself some sort of childhood calamity,” I said.

Sterrett looked at me, then at Skink, then back at me. “I know some about them childhood calamities.” He raised his jar slightly. “You want more?”

I took a sip from my jar, felt the liquor roil down my throat and ignite the eggs and grits and grease of my breakfast, and shook my head no. Skink glanced at the dogs, drained his jar, and held it out for more. Sterrett hoisted the jug and poured.

“I understand that Jesse was a ballplayer,” I said.

“Yep.”

“Any good?”

“Damn good.”

“Did you ever play?”

“Some, but not as good as him.”

“It must have been hard, when he died.”

“He didn’t die.”

I glanced at Skink.”No?”

“He was kilt. Simple as that.”

“The police chief and the coroner ruled it an accident.”

“Yes they did.”

“But you don’t believe them.”

“No I don’t.”

“Why’s that, Mr. Sterrett? What makes you think they were mistaken?”

“Warn’t no mistake.”

Sterrett took a sip from his jar and then rose without speaking and walked slowly off the porch and to the rear of the shack. I stood to follow, but one of the dogs, Fire or Brimstone, I didn’t know which was which, raised his neck and growled, and I sat right down again. We waited a few moments and a few moments more. Skink looked down at the dogs and reached a hand slowly to touch the fur on the black dog’s back. The dog picked up his head, Skink jerked his hand away. Sterrett came back around the side of the house, made his slow way up the steps and into his chair.

“So you think it was a conspiracy, is that it?” I said, starting right again where we had left off.

“Let’s just say they was all in the game.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The card game. High-stakes poker, every other Thursday at the Chevy dealership. Chief Edmonds, Doc Robinson, Gus Pritchett, Larry Cutlip, and whatever other fool they could get to join ’em. Word was sometimes even Reverend Henson sat in, throwing away his paycheck.”

“Pritchett?”

“That’s right. He owned the dealership, the five and dime, the Quick Mart, and most of the rest of the county, not excluding the judge.”

“Let me guess. He’s Grady Pritchett’s father.”

“Was. Dead now.”

“So was he a winner or a loser in the game?”

“He was rich enough it didn’t much matter. What mattered was that Doc Robinson was a drunk and Edmonds never saw a straight
he wouldn’t draw inside to, and the two of them was in so damn deep they couldn’t see the stars ’cause they pants was pulled too high.”

“They owed money to Cutlip, the gambler?”

“That’s right. And the thing about old Larry was, he was a hard man.”

“A man you didn’t want to stiff.”

Sterrett shook his head. “And right after my boy’s death, Cutlip falls into money and busts out to them bright lights in Vegas, and them boys, they rule it all an accident.”

Skink’s hand was now halted in the air just above the black dog’s back. He took another sip and then reached down, tentatively scratching the fur. “Who were they protecting?” he asked.

“That’s the question, isn’t it?”

“You said you knew who killed your son,” I said.

“Never said such a thing. Don’t know for sure.”

“But you have suspicions.”

“I might, yes.”

“You think it was Grady Pritchett?”

“Ain’t right to start spouting off without knowing for sure.”

“But you think it was Grady and that his father bought off the chief and the coroner by paying their debts to Cutlip.”

“Never said such a thing. Don’t know nothing for sure. This man you’re representing, did he really kill Hailey?”

“No,” I said. “I don’t think so.”

“What do you think about it?” said Sterrett, talking now to Skink.

“Oh, I think he did it, all right,” said Skink, bending over to scratch the underside of the black dog’s neck. “I think he killed her dead, and now his lawyer is trying to wiggle his arse free.”

I stared hard for a moment at Skink, hurt, as if betrayed.

“Well, he asked,” said Skink.

“See there,” said Sterrett, turning back to me. “A man never does know for sure. If I knew for sure, I’d a done something about it by now. But I can tell you this, it warn’t no accident.”

I didn’t say anything, hoping he would interject himself into the uncomfortable silence, but he didn’t. He stayed quiet, as if the silence wasn’t uncomfortable to him, and we listened to nature settle
into the afternoon as the corn liquor settled into our blood. We sat there for a long time in the quiet. The brown dog scooted around Skink’s legs and whined quietly until Skink scratched his neck, too.