Mike Addington

Edwards sank to the ground, watching for a lit cigarette, a movement, a sound. Ten minutes later, he backed up and crept farther up the trail, watching and listening, hammer back on the shotgun.

A glint of metal caught his eye, and Edwards froze. He saw the silhouette of a car. His gaze moved up the trail, but it was just the one car.

The trooper edged closer. He didn’t see any movement, outside or inside. He ducked low and crept silently until he reached the side of the car. Low moans came from inside.

Edwards eased up and peeked in the window. Teenagers, kissing in the back seat.

June washed her face in the creek and started back to the fields. She noticed something in the bushes on the other side. Crouching and looking in both directions, June padded across the creek and parted the bushes: boxes, boxes. What in the world were boxes doing down here?

She crawled up the bank to see what was in them. The tops were folded over, so she worked the top loose and looked in: jars, just jars. Had something in them though, looked like water. She opened another, more jars, but bigger than the others. These looked like the jars her daddy kept in the kitchen cabinet; the ones that, when he took a swallow, made him groan and clear his throat. She didn’t know why it was only for her daddy, but, if her older brother Franklin couldn’t drink any, she didn’t bother asking.

June sat back and ran her fingers through her hair, wiped her nose again, then looked back down the creek bed. She stood back up and slipped out one of the smaller jars. The lid was tight, so she squeezed it between her knees and used both hands. The lid eased open. She finished unscrewing it and sniffed. Had a slight smell of peppermint but something else too, pungent. This must be what her daddy drank. She started to put the lid back on then stopped. Nobody would know if she drank just a little, just to see why her daddy liked it so much. June tilted the jar and took a big swallow.

Fire burned her throat. She couldn’t breath. A deep wheeze came from her chest. Her stomach rolled. She wanted to throw up, but all she did was gag. She threw down the jar and crossed the creek. “That couldn’t be what daddy drinks,” she croaked.

She walked up the creek bed, and, little by little, the rumbling in her stomach was replaced with a peculiar warmth.

Russ peered at his reflection in the glass covering the movie posters and patted his hair in place. I wonder if I should turn my collar up like Clark Gable. He reached for his collar but remembered that his brother-in-law Robert and his sister Martha, who had given him a ride for his date, might be watching and decided against it. Without a hat, it probably wouldn’t look as cool anyway.

He walked up the sidewalk toward the square, searching both sides of the street. Maybe Jamie Lee was sitting in a car and couldn’t see him. No, they were all empty.

"What time is it, ma’am?" he asked the girl in the ticket booth.

The girl frowned. "I’m not a ma’am, but it’s seven forty-five. In case you can’t tell time," she added, looking at the clock behind her.

"Uh, uh, yeah, I see it now," Russ stammered. "Thanks, ma-’ . . . uh . . . thanks."

The girl blew out an exaggerated breath of air and gave Russ a derisive smile. "Can I help you, please," she asked an approaching couple.

Russ jumped back, then nonchalantly went back to the poster and patted his hair and tucked in his shirttail, again.

"She’d better get here soon. That boy’s going to have a heart attack," Robert said.

"Hush, Robert. He probably never had a date before."

"If this goes on much longer, I’ll bet he doesn’t have another one either," Robert mumbled.

Russ ambled up the sidewalk as a car pulled into a parking space. He recognized Jamie Lee’s father and mother in the front seat.

Jamie Lee opened the back door, and Russ’s heart rose. He tried to clear his throat, but his mouth was bone dry. Now she was coming toward him, calf-length green dress highlighting her tanned complexion, lush brown hair riding on her shoulders. His eyes rose, expecting to see Jamie Lee’s sparkling hazel eyes, but instead her mouth was set in a grim line, and the sparkle was gone as she strode up the sidewalk.

"Russ Downey, if you think I’m going anywhere with you and you dressed like that then you’re crazy. Look at those pants, halfway up to your knees. Hair slicked down like you have lard on it. You look like a fool, . . . a country fool," Jamie Lee almost shouted, stamping her foot.

Russ looked at the ground. "Jamie Lee, all I had was my overalls," he stammered. "And I didn’t think you’d want me to wear those," he said, almost whispering now.

"Well, I’m not being seen with you. I’d be the laughing stock of town. You go on in by yourself," she said, storming back to the car. "And don’t talk to me ever again," she called over her shoulder.

A frown crossed Calvin’s face, then he heard a snap. Myron reached for his shotgun.

“Don’t move,” Buel said.

Myron picked up a stick instead and added it to the fire. “Animal maybe.”

“Maybe, may be something else too,” Buel whispered. “Give it a minute. If it’s the Feds or State, they’ll come rushing in. It’s too late for us to do anything if there’s a bunch of ‘em. If it’s one or two. . . .”

Calvin, now sober, nodded, and the others made a show of relaxing.

A few minutes later, Buel stood up. “I got to piss,” he said loudly, walking down the mountain, away from the light. “Calvin, stay here for five minutes then go back up the trail,” he whispered as he walked away.

Calvin took the extra shells Myron slipped him, picked up the shotgun and headed up the trail. “We’ll come along in a little bit,” Myron said.

Buel circled back up the mountain, easing through the woods. Rustling bushes caught his attention. He paused in midstride, then heard low voices. Long, slow strides brought him closer.

“One’s leaving the fire. They heard us. I know’d it. We gotta get outa here,” a soft voice said.

“Maybe so, but they don’t know where we are. You back out slow now, then we’ll hightail it.”

Buel heard the voices. Two of them. Coming toward him too. He could hear them brushing through the undergrowth. Now their breathing, their smell: scared.

The pistol butt crashed down on one man’s head. He thudded to the ground.

Russ loaded and drove the last of the cases toward the quarry. Just as he reached the bend in the road that the quarry was on, lights came on, and a car roared from the other direction. Russ jammed on his brakes as the car cut him off.

A man with a broad-brimmed hat got out and walked over to Russ’s car and opened the side door. He pushed the case of whiskey over and sat down. Cold gray eyes focused on Russ. “What do you think you’re doing?” Buel said.

Russ met his stare. “Getting this whiskey outa my house. The law’s on to it.”

“What law?”

“Edwards.”

Buel lit a cigarette. “How come he didn’t take the whiskey . . . and you?”

Russ shook his head. “Soft spot for my wife is all I can tell you. Said he’d be by tomorrow to search my property.”

“So that’s what you’re doing, moving the whiskey? Not trying to hide it from me are you? Say the law took it?”

“No!” Russ almost screamed.

“Don’t get uppity with me.” Buel looked in the back seat. “Where’s the rest of it?”

“The other side of those rocks, by the pit.” Russ took a breath. “Most, anyway. I slipped, and a bunch of it fell off into the pit.”

Buel face turned harder. “How much?”

“Eight cases.”

Buel flipped his cigarette out the window and leaned back in the seat. “That’s about eight hundred dollars worth. What I could get for it in drinks and what it’ll cost me to replace. Guess you owe me eight hundred dollars. You got it on you?”

Russ’s jaw dropped. “How do you figure that? You came to me—“

Buel stopped him with a shake of his head. “My whiskey. You broke it.” His eyes bore into Russ, then he leaned back and settled into the seat. He seemed to be thinking. “I hear you been in the army. In your experience, what’s the best way to kill a man? Where you wouldn’t get caught?”

Russ studied Buel, then looked away, feeling the threat.

“I’m waiting for an answer.”

   “. . . guess, I guess maybe throw ‘em in a pit like that one up there,” Russ said. “Water’s deep . . . real deep.”

Buel didn’t speak for a few minutes. “Let’s go see where you put my whiskey. What’s left of it.”

Russ didn’t move.

Buel nudged him with an elbow. “Won’t nothing happen, . . . unless I don’t get my money.”