Tom Piccirilli - November Mourns

Shad was surprised. It was the most emotion she’d shown him in years. “What happens on that road, Mama?”

“There’s bad will.”

That was true everywhere you went. “Who did it to her? Did somebody hurt her? What was she doing there?”

“They don’t prove love with their teeth,” she said, and the bishop nodded. He appeared weaker, grieving, and she glanced over and gave him a look of anguish. “They leave their marks and they can even kill, yes, but it’s all in vain. Listen to me, they don’t demonstrate, you see. They don’t represent. They don’t represent the savior. Instead, it’s the land. One with the river. It’s him. He represents.”

A word that had a whole different meaning in the can-the gangbangers and car boosters used it all the time. She kept at it, swaying now. “But he can demonstrate his belief on his belly. Our Lord, our Lord. My God. But they all manifest nothing more than poison. Do you understand that?”

“No,” he told her.

Manifest wasn’t a word his mother would know, even in the afterlife. It was a word he wouldn’t have known himself before all the books in prison. “You stay away from there. They will take you.”

The white bishop, acting the guardian, raised his shepherd’s staff over Shad’s body on the bed. The band of cloth around his neck continued to flap and waver as if buffeted by winds. As guide, he shook his arms and allowed the bells to ring quietly.

Shad’s hands tightened into fists, the sheets twisted and bunched around him. Mags had been a part of the spot inside him that no one could touch. She had kept him alive in prison and now he’d never be able to thank her. He began to sob in his sleep but the despondent sound choked off quickly.

Groaning once, he dreamed of revenging himself on whoever had taken his sister from him, and soon began to whimper. His mother clawed the air, advanced like an animal, and sprang at him. The moment they touched he opened his eyes, flailed aside, and coughed blood onto the floor.

Chapter Four

THE TEMPERATURE HAD DROPPED DURING the night. Over the wide curve of the ridge the countryside sloped into an area lined with virgin stands of more slash pine. The scent of matted cedar rose and wafted along the rutted road. Around them grew thin white oak and the heavy grasses only occasionally trimmed back by the chain gang road crews. Off to the east were thickets of briar and heavy thistle that could flay a hiker who’d taken a wrong turn.

Shad stood staring at the hard-packed earth where Megan’s body had been discovered, trying to confess to her how sorry he felt, through the endless veil.

“My pa tells me this is a bad road,” Shad said.

Dave glanced over. “Mine says the same.”

“He ever explain why?”

“You know the history of the area. The plague victims. It gets him edgy. Something left over from their fathers and grandfathers, I suppose.”

Shad thought of his old man twisted out of shape, his mother’s elusive warnings that would probably never be unraveled. “There’s more than that.”

“There always is.”

Deputy Dave Fox, dressed in his sharply creased gray uniform, crossed his massive arms over his chest. He shifted his stance until the leather of his gun belt creaked. With his jacket partway open, you could see that the neatness… the straightness of his pinned tie was so perfect it appeared to be nailed to him.

You couldn’t get away from the feeling that Dave was about a hundred years displaced. Someone who should’ve been out there driving cattle across the plains, fighting Indians hand to hand, or walking down the middle of a boomtown street heading for a shoot-out. Shad had always held a tremendous admiration for Dave, even in school when they were kids. Back then, it had bordered on something like reverence. Now Shad didn’t know what it was. Maybe the same thing.

After joining the local police force at eighteen, Dave had broken up the Boxcars ring in Okra County, all on his own. Over on Route 12, with the whores’ rusty trailers out back, the hole in the wall barroom had become a hot spot of loaded gambling and contaminated moon in the space of six months. The white slavery ring had brought in underage girls from as far off as Poverhoe City. The Southern mob guys would come around for some fun and go off their nuts, and they still held lynching raids when they got drunk enough.

Dave had kicked it all down in about two hours. Killed three men and the madam, who’d just finished beating a teenage girl unconscious with a car antenna for not being perky enough with a businessman from Memphis. He arrested seven other thugs before Sheriff Increase Wintel even showed up. Dave had been shot twice in the thigh by a.22 and it hadn’t slowed him up a step. He received a commendation and had his photo taken with the governor.

“I’ve never been out this way,” Shad admitted.

“Not even when you were blocking moonrunners for Luppy Joe Anson?”

“I only did it for one summer, and he had no buyers anywhere near here.”

“None of them do, but sometimes when they’re trying to slip the highway patrol, they come out because of the turnoffs, hide in the brush or around the creeks. Powder the cops’ faces tearing along the dirt roads and kicking up dust.”

“It doesn’t work. I stuck closer to town.”

“That’s why you never got caught.”

Some of the runners, they were only in it for the game. If the police weren’t involved, coming at them from all sides and putting up roadblocks, it just wasn’t any fun.

“What’s over that way?” Shad asked, looking up the trail. It annoyed him that he didn’t know the lay of the land here, as if it had been hidden from him. “Is it just the trestle leading to the other side of the gorge?”

“Pretty much. The road heads into the mountains, threads north to the trestle bridge. There’s a trail on the other side of Jonah Ridge that peters out in some bramble forests. Used to be sort of a lovers’ lane, a hundred forty or so years ago, before the war and the outbreak of yellow fever. They’d go courting and bring their whole families. There’s nice grasslands around in summer, wildflowers all over. Horse and buggies would head up toward the gorge and couples would picnic after church, quote scripture and sing gospels.”

His mother telling him, They die up there.

Shad got that feeling again, that someone was focusing on him, calling up their forces and aiming their intent. He wavered on his feet and began to sweat. He saw nothing, but still sensed movement around him-flitting, dancing even. The back of his neck warmed and his ears were suddenly burning. He concentrated but couldn’t center himself. It took a minute for the November breeze to cool him.

Dave asked, “You okay?”

“Yes.”

Leaning back against his patrol car, Dave said, “Probably started getting its reputation right around the time of the Battle of Chickamauga. Some captured Union troops were corralled up there by the Rebs and tossed into the gorge.”

Shad hadn’t thought of that in a long time, but now that he heard it, he abruptly remembered the story. “I almost forgot about that.”

“It’s not the kind of Civil War moment people put plaques up about to commemorate. After that, the hollow had its share of epidemics. Yellow fever in 1885. Cholera in 1915. When the disease reached its worst they’d bring whole wagons of the sick into the hills and leave them there.”

“Jesus.”

Dave spoke with great clarity, completely without emotion. “Suicides would come up this way too.”

“That’s right.”

“The lonely, the elderly. They’d throw themselves off the precipice.”

Shad caught vague, fleeting impressions of Mags around him, and spotted her pale hand again. Reaching, trying to touch. It was time to get down to hearing whatever facts there were.