William Lashner - Fatal Flaw

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.

“You know where Grady Pritchett is now?” I asked finally.

“He owns a car lot out in Lewis County. Left to him by his daddy in the will.”

“How’s it doing?”

“Not so good, I hear,” he said with a slight smile.

“You know what kind of car he drives?”

“Black Chevy pickup, front right wheel well all beat to hell.”

“I bet, Mr. Sterrett, you know the license plate, too?”

“I won’t deny it. No telling what things you might learn through the years that turn doubts into certainties.”

“You know, maybe I’m crazed, but I could have sworn you told me you knew who did it?”

“No, I did not,” he said, sitting back.

The black dog raised his head, let out a contented moan, and turned over to let Skink scratch his belly. The brown dog followed suit and Skink subdued them both with soft rubs. “He didn’t say he knew who killed his son,” said Skink. “He said he knew why .”

I turned from Skink’s seduction of the dogs to look back at the old man. “That’s right, isn’t it?”

Sterrett rubbed his thumb along the edge of the jar.

“So tell me, Mr. Sterrett, why did your son die?”

He waited a moment, took a drink, let the alcohol settle. Maybe he had taken too much of the liquor, because as he sat there and thought, his jaw began to quiver.

“I loved my boy,” he said. “But it’s not always an easy thing to show. And when you’re working too damn hard and fighting to feed and clothe a family, sometimes you figure the showing can wait. When he was young, Jesse had a friend he could go to, but then they got confused about things and the friend died, and Jesse, I think Jesse was never the same. I tried, I did. But I knew things then maybe I shouldn’t have known and wasn’t under as much control as I might have been. How do you show a boy that you love him still when every look out of his eyes is full of sorrow and every word out of your mouth comes out in anger? I didn’t know the answer, and I live with it every day of my life. It weighs me down like it weighed down my Sarah until she just let go. I thought I was showing what I felt by arguing with him. I thought he could tell from the volume how much I cared. But volume ain’t enough. Listening maybe might have been better. That’s why he died. ’Cause I didn’t know how to show him that I loved him.”