Percival Everett - Wounded

Gus whistled. “It’s a terrible thing, killing somebody.” Gus was quiet and we gave the moment its head.

Morgan looked at me. “Hunt, how would you feel if a man made a pass at you? Would it get you upset?”

“Never thought about it.”

“Well, think about it,” she said.

“I guess I ought to be flattered,” I said, shrugging.

“What would you say?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I guess I’d say the same thing I’d say to a woman who made a pass at me. ‘No, thank you.’”

Morgan tore some bread from the loaf and put it on her plate.

Gus cut me a hard look.

I hadn’t meant to shut any gates, but damn if I hadn’t by accident. “I forgot the wine,” I said. “Can’t have dinner without wine.” I got up and went to the small rack across the kitchen. “Now, I think a nice Syrah would wash down a size-twelve roper just splendidly.”

Morgan softened somewhat. “Okay, cowboy, that’s what you’d say. How would you feel?”

I stood at the table, twisting the corkscrew. “I don’t know, to tell the truth. It’s never happened. I don’t know any homosexuals. Well, if I do, I don’t know that they are. Hell, I don’t know if half the people I know are heterosexual. I don’t want to know.” I pulled out the cork. “Anyway, to answer your question: I don’t know. Like I said, I guess I should feel flattered.”

“I knew some in prison,” Gus said. “They scared me.”

“Gus,” Morgan complained.

“Hell, Morgan, everybody scared me in prison. Besides, that was a different thing anyway. That raping and stuff that happens in the lockup, that’s not sex or love, that’s fighting. It’s all about power, all that macho stuff. Well, anyway, that’s how it seemed to me.”

“Speaking of macho,” I said, “how’s your mother?”

“We’re burying the battle-ax on Wednesday,” she said, sipping her wine. “She’s alive and all. I just don’t know what else to do with her.”

“Bury me next,” Gus said.

“You expect me to dig a hole in this heat?” I said. “Think again.”

“Mother’s fine,” Morgan said. “She’s as wild as ever. I was going to bring her tonight, but wrestling is on television. You know, she’s seventy and she still rides that crazy horse.”

“What’s his name?” I asked.

“Crazy Horse.”

“Oh, yeah. How old is he?” I asked.

“Thirty-six,” she said. “Can you believe that?”

I loved it. “That’s great. Senior food and what kind of hay?”

“Alfalfa and timothy. It’s expensive, but she doesn’t eat all that much. Everybody else gets straight alfalfa.” Morgan paused and studied me. “Gus, you ever notice how comfortable this man gets when the subject is horses?”

“Now that you mention it,” Gus said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.

“Watch this,” Morgan said. “Hey, Hunt. Women.” She stared at me while she said it.

Gus laughed.

“What?” I put a bit of antelope steak in my mouth. “What?”

“Sex,” Morgan said.

“Very funny,” I said. I didn’t know where to look. I drank some wine, sat back and crossed my legs.

“Look at him,” Morgan said. “He’s tenser than a Republican with a thought of his own.”

I looked at Morgan, frowning a smile. “Where’d that come from?”

“Been waiting to use it.”

“It’s true, though,” Morgan said.

“Anyway, Duncan Camp dropped off his extremely large, insane, and might I add, dangerous horse today.”

Morgan threw up her hands. “He’s a lost cause.”

The next day, I drove into town to pick up some medicine for Gus. I stopped at the sheriff’s office. There was a buzz in the street and I could feel it more than see or hear it. Three deputy rigs were diagonally parked on the street instead of the usual one. I walked up the steps and inside.

Bucky spotted me as I entered. “John.”

“Bucky.” I looked back out the window at the street. “Bucky, what’s going on around here?”

“Seems we’re national news. Seems we got ourselves a hate crime. Well, ain’t they all?” Bucky moved his unlit cigar around in his mouth.

“I just wanted to come by and let Castlebury know I talked to his brother like he asked.” I looked at the hallway that led back to the cells. “You can tell him for me. You can tell him, too, that his brother isn’t coming.”

“This guy anything to you?”

I shook my head. “No. I was going to end up firing him anyway. He’s not too swift. You’ve probably noticed.”

“He doesn’t hide it well,” Bucky said. “Tell me, what time did he leave your place on Thursday night?”

“I sent him home early, right after lunch. He screwed up the mower blade.” I looked around at the unusual number of deputies in the office. “Are you expecting trouble, sheriff?” I asked in my best cowboy voice.

“Give me a break,” Bucky said. “Hell, I don’t know.” He pulled his cigar out of his mouth and rubbed his face.

“So, Wallace did it for sure, eh?” I asked.

“There’s an awful lot of physical evidence.”

“If he did it, then he’ll get what’s coming to him, I guess.” I felt stupid saying those words.

“Yeah,” Bucky said.

“You’ll give him the message, then,” I said and turned to leave.

“I think you should tell him.” Bucky put back his cigar. “He could claim I never delivered it.”

“You know I don’t want to have anything to do with this guy or any of this. If he killed the kid, then I have no sympathy.” I sighed out a long breath, asking myself: what if he wasn’t guilty? Would I have any sympathy for him then?

Bucky said, “Just give him the message and walk out.”

A different deputy took me back to the cell this time. I told him just like I’d told Hanks, I would only be a second.

“Hey, Mister Hunt,” Wallace said. He didn’t get up from the cot this time, but just lay there.

“I called your brother,” I said.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me. I didn’t make much of an impression on him. That’s the fancy way of saying he’s not coming to help you.” I looked at the deputy who was looking at his own shoes.

“Thanks, anyway,” Wallace said.

I nodded. I turned and stepped toward the deputy and the door.

“Mister Hunt,” Wallace said.

I looked back at him. He was sitting up now, but still on the cot. He gripped the edge with his hands.

“I didn’t kill that guy.”

“Okay.”

“I didn’t kill him.”

“All right, Wallace. You tell that to your lawyer.”

“Don’t you want to know why I didn’t kill him?” Wallace lay back down and stared at the ceiling.

“Okay, I’ll bite,” I said.

“I’ll wait outside,” the deputy said.

“No,” I said. But, of course, the young man was correct.

“I’ll be right on the other side of the door. Just knock.” He walked out. The door closed with that awful click.

“Okay, kid,” I said. “Why?”

“I don’t really know,” he said.

“Jesus.”

“I mean, I know, but—” he stopped. “Mister Hunt, I liked him. I really liked him. You know what I mean? Why would I have killed him?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know, son.”

He closed his eyes and seemed to be crying.

“I’m sorry, Wallace. I just came to tell you about your brother.” I stepped over and tapped on the door. The deputy let me out.

I TOLD MYSELF,and therefore it was no doubt true, that I was not much impressed by Wallace Castlebury’s predicament. By my reckoning, killing another person made someone a bad man. I frankly didn’t believe that Wallace was innocent. And the law, though it seldom worked as advertised, was going to do for him what it could, probably a little more than it would have for me and a little less than it would have for Duncan Camp. That simply was the way it was, I told myself and reminded myself that I simply did not care.