Lee Johnson - Nitro Mountain

“Say what?”

“Please,” he says.

She looks at him lying there. Why won’t he quit staring at the ceiling? Ever since that phone call to Turner, she’s been waiting for him to fall asleep so she can check up on things and see if they found him. “You sure you don’t want any more wine?” she says.

“Ask me one more time and I just might take some so you’ll quit asking.”

“Well, then.” She pours him another glass. “Want another, want another, want another?”

“Thank you.” He sits up and throws it back.

“You’ll cause a leak up there if you keep staring.”

She takes the bottle into the kitchen and looks at the answering machine for messages, even though she knows nobody’s called.

She washes their dishes, the pot she boiled the potatoes in. She dries everything off with a hand towel, puts everything away and then opens the oven. There’s the rest of that chicken, mostly just bones and some scalded skin around the legs. She should clean that up before it dries out and sticks to the baking sheet, but she doesn’t feel like dealing with it right now. She’ll start soup out of it tomorrow morning, leave it be for tonight. She cooked a meal for a man she loves. Nothing beats that.

In the living room, Larry’s pulled the quilt off the back of the couch and tossed it over his knees, his head turned to the side, his eyes closed. She says his name and he furrows his brow. She watches him for a while, kneels down beside him, says his name again. He’s out.

She goes back to the kitchen, picks up the phone and puts in a request for an officer to check on the Hickory after they check on Misty’s. The operator asks her to hold. She can feel something’s up. It’s palpable.

Driving Jennifer’s truck back to the Lookout, Arnett stops at the only station on this side of 15, fills the tank and splits before paying. He looks in the side mirror to see a woman trotting out to the pumps, cell phone to her head.

Fuck the speed limit. Fuck the limit of speed. He found a little bit in Jennifer’s glove compartment in a baggie and it was already crushed. Probably his at one point, his now for sure. Pain erupts in his belly and causes him to swerve. Stay on the road. He never thought being a liquorholic would work to his favor, but he ain’t dead yet. It’s like he’s been training his gut for this very occasion.

The tires over wet asphalt sound like a long sheet of paper getting torn and torn and torn. The Buzzard Hollow sign flashes on the right. That road rolls up and down along East Ridge for hours into Kentucky, then flattens out once you hit Tennessee. A wild ride with lots of little pull-offs onto unmapped ATV trails. That girl, Rachel — she liked the drive. She wouldn’t admit it, though Arnett could tell. She’s safe from all harm now. He puts his own twist on a classic country tune he remembers Jones singing: “Her mama said, ‘No, she’s my only daughter,’ but she got buried on the Tennessee border.” Jones couldn’t ever make up a line like that. Maybe Arnett should go into the entertainment business and show everybody how it’s done.

About a mile ahead on the left is the access road that comes up behind Nitro, right near where he buried Leon. It runs close enough to the Lookout.

Yellow tape and traffic cones block the entrance to the access but Arnett blasts straight through, exploding the cones in all directions into the woods, tape streaming from the grille and rooftop running lights as he rattles over roots and splashes through potholes.

At the switchback where the access turns downhill again, he continues straight up until trees stop him. He parks amid soft rain and walks to the top of the mountain into his own backyard. Wet and shivering, he goes to the shed for a jar. He flicks his lighter and finds a translucent blue Ball on the highest shelf, nearly out of reach. There it is, Jack’s personal stash. A good ten years old. Jack must’ve used a stepladder to get up so high. Arnett never planned to drink it until the day he met the man again and kicked his ass. But tonight’ll have to do. It’ll be smoother and stronger than that other splo. He grabs hold, then turns it to the side to judge how much is in there. Mostly full. Enough to do the trick.

The moonshine burns open inside him like a flame and thaws his shoulders. That rain’s really cold. Or it’s just him — he can’t quit shaking. Whichever, this’ll help. Another tug and he starts thinking about the new life in front of him. Two choices, neither one of them any good. But it’s better than nothing. You could sit here quiet, wait for somebody to show and then figure things out. Turner, probably. Or you could keep to your principles. Drink more. Yes. Go find what’s-his-name, the dude who fucked my girlfriend who tried to kill me — Jones. Jonesy. Jonesin’ for Jones. That’s what we need to do. We need to go find Jones. It’s all coming together now. Also, wouldn’t hurt to go see Old Bob, borrow his car and do some cash collecting.

He carries the jar over to Jack’s fender-rusted Cutlass resting in the side yard in a dark upgrowth of grass. Arnett had it running a few times this year for business purposes. Rachel rode in it once. Inside the car with the door shut, the sound of rain on the metal roof. Drink again, it’s starting to work. Now, where’s the keys? They used to be right in the ignition here. Where’d he hide them? He feels under the visor, under the seat. Flips on the ceiling light, and it glows over fast-food wrappers and empty Pall Mall packs. At least the battery’s not dead. Then he checks underneath the floor mat. Boom time. The largest of the keys fits into the ignition, and the engine catches and fails. Never did start the first go-round. He pumps the gas when he finally hears it cough. Okay, this shit is working.

He swallows more of the clear corn fire, takes the handkerchief from his pocket and wipes his eyes.

He follows the front access down to 231, then hits the back roads quick as possible. A few small streets with no names, just numbers—651, 238, 119. Every now and then a cluster of trailers pops up. Both low beams are gone so he’s got to use the brights, and surely the tags have expired. The gas gauge shows a solid quarter tank. The oil light’s a sick, feeble orange. Be lucky not to throw a rod in this sucker. And speaking of that, he should’ve fucked Jennifer before he left her there, then poked her again in her bleeding bullet hole.

He’s drunk as fuck and starts wondering if he missed a turn. He climbs a hill, drinks more, leaves the jar open between his legs. A familiar sycamore appears, giant and sprawling, marking the right-angle turn he’s made so many times. Close now. He turns off the headlights and slows down. It’s dark as hell out and the jar’s almost gone. He turns his head sideways and keeps one eye open, following the lines on the road. Better not fuck this up. Keep straight, goddamn it, keep straight .

He pulls off onto the shoulder, just a little short of Misty’s. The grass is up to the car’s windows, but he can see that all the lights are off. Shouldn’t there be a band playing tonight? For all the bluegrass shitheads? But it looks closed. Bob’s car isn’t even here, just somebody’s Impala. Doesn’t he recognize that from somewhere? Just getting paranoid from the buzzy buzz. Better walk over close, see who’s around.

He keeps the car running — might not start again — gets out, leaving the door open, and wades through the grass and up the slope of the ditch, all this grass and gravel and shit. Plus it’s nighttime as fuck out here. He slips and things go out. He wakes up on his head and now can’t tell which way he needs to go. Finally he crawls up the ditch and into the side lot. He tries standing again but the ground slants under his feet and sends him reeling. He goes back and forth cross-legged until he finds the wall and leans his face against it.