Long Holler Road - A Dark Southern Thriller (5 page)

  “Bring the syringes,” the man told her.

  She never spoke a word as she produced two large syringes filled with more of the energetic little demons. She pulled off the tops with her teeth and placed one in Roland’s left ear. The man put his in the other ear, still holding the grip on his throat with his left hand. They began squeezing the plungers, slowly forcing the ants into Roland’s ear canals. When the syringes were empty, they jammed rubber ear plugs in behind them tightly, giving the tormentors only one way to travel. Roland was shaking in horrible, convulsive spasms and the woman thought for a minute he was going to break the ropes and leather straps that constrained him. The man had his stop watch out, timing the event to see how long it would be before Roland lost consciousness. One minute ticked off, then two, three.
This one’s tough,
the man was thinking.

  “Pull off the blindfold and let’s see his eyes,” he told the woman.

  She reached down and untied the purple scarf. Roland’s eyed were clenched tightly and the woman had to pry one of them open using both hands. Only the white’s of Roland’s eyes could be seen and the woman let go of her grip, looking at the man and shrugging as if she had expected something different.

  The man looked at the woman, back at Roland, then again at his stop watch.

  “If he is still conscious past another minute, let’s start the IV. Go ahead and check his blood pressure.”

  The woman reached under the bed that was shaking like an earthquake from Roland’s violent convulsions, and pulled out a small black pouch. She pulled the sphygmomanometer from the pouch, wrapped it around Roland’s left bicep and began pumping it up. She held her fingers on his wrist until the device deflated and looked at the man with a half smile.

  “One forty-eight over one-twenty. Pulse about one-fifteen. I think he may be in pain,” she giggled.

  “Okay, nurse. Looks like we’re going to have to start the IV. This one just don’t want to give it up.”

  The woman opened the door to a small linen closet and brought out an IV bag and began attaching the tubes, then the long, stainless steel needle.

  She stood over Roland and spoke to him in a gentle voice, “Okay, darling. We’re going to have to stick you now. You may feel a little prick. Sort of like what I felt a while ago,” she said with a taunting laugh. “And don’t worry, the muriatic acid I’m about to administer has been slightly diluted. But you may still feel moderate to excruciating pain coursing through your veins.”

  The man couldn’t help but laugh at his partner’s last statement.

  “You’re a real sicko, girl,” he laughed.

  “And you’re not?” she responded, raising her eyebrows.

  She looked back at Roland, hoping, but doubting, he could comprehend what she was saying.

  “You’ll forgive me if I don’t swab your arm with alcohol before I stick you. I don’t think we have to worry about infection at this point.”

  She had no trouble finding a vein in Roland’s rigid body. He was flexed as tight as a person could get. Once she had the needle in, she opened up the plastic valve and let the acid begin trickling slowly. She didn’t believe it was possible for Roland to convulse any more violently than he already was, but she was wrong. Once the acid began its trip through the circulatory system, his bodies defense system protested to the point that he broke the ropes that had his feet bound and began kicking the iron bed until his left foot was broken in two places. Then slowly, he started shaking less violently and began to relax as though some opiate drug were taking effect. In less than a minute, the woman checked his pulse and nodded to the man. He stopped his watch.

CHAPTER SIX

  As the time drew near for mine and Glenn’s rendezvous with destiny, our conclusion to the age of innocence, Glenn began to reassess the situation and decided maybe throwing caution to the wind and rushing headlong into a tryst with Madge might not be the best idea after all. This was what I had hoped, and had a very good idea,
would
happen. After careful consideration, Glenn decided that maybe getting to know Madge in a casual and social manner first might be the best approach. I was glad Glenn’s internal voice of reason had finally won out.

To accomplish his plan, Glenn suggested we seek the aid of Snake Williams. When I heard this hair-brained idea, I had almost wished he’d just stuck to his original plan. Snake did a lot of work for the Harper’s, like cutting their grass, trimming hedges, cutting firewood or just about anything Madge could find for him to do. The William’s family was so dirt poor, I think Madge just invented things for Snake to do. Like her husband, Carl, Madge had a big heart, despite whatever other shortcomings she may have had.

  But having to endure Snake’s constant chattering and long, verbose stories that made absolutely no sense, was more than I thought I could bear. I was never much for small talk, anyway. Glenn, Tom and I could often make it through an entire day filled with several activities and speak only a handful of words between us. I was usually the quietest of the three. Snake, on the other hand, had to try and explain every move he was making, had made, or was about to make. After a few minutes you became so confused and uninterested, you just had to tune him out.

  Glenn insisted that we go to Snake’s house that afternoon, when Snake, his daddy and his brother, Frank, got home from their daily occupation of cutting pulp-wood. I protested, of course, but after seeing I couldn’t win, I begrudgingly gave in.

  We rode our bicycles into Snake’s yard late that afternoon just as they were unloading their gear from their ancient pulp-wood truck, that at one time had been a Ford. We propped our bikes up against one of the three old car skeletons that were sitting up on concrete blocks in the yard.

  “By god, boys. I ain’t seen you two since Buck was a calf,” Snake’s daddy yelled. Old Hugh Williams cussed almost every breath and used idioms that made no sense at all.

  “How’s it goin’, Mr. Williams?” Glenn asked.

  “Been workin’ like a borrowed mule, son” he answered, after spitting a long stream of tobacco juice.

  After a few more minutes of small talk with Hugh, Glenn told Snake he wanted to talk to him about something.

  “Why, shore ye can,” Snake said grinning from ear to ear. He was  tickled that we had come to see him. I doubt he had many visitors. Seeing that he was so glad we came to visit, kind of made me feel bad that I had rather have been in hell with my back broke than to be here.

  “Y’all come on in the house. I gotta git these here boots off. They’re  a-killin’ my feet.”

  Me and Glenn had already decided that if they ask us to eat supper, which they probably wouldn’t since they barely had enough to feed themselves, that we would tell them we had already eaten. That wouldn’t have been a lie, because we had. But I couldn’t imagine anything worse than sitting down to a meal with the Williams. Since the two daughters had gotten married and moved out, I knew there was no way their house could be clean. Poor Annie could barely even get around, much less clean house. Now those two girls had always kept the place spic and span when they were still at home. Besides the fear of filth and disease, there was also the fear that you might be served possum or squirrel, or maybe even some sort of road kill.

  We followed Snake around to the back of his house and into his bedroom, if that was what you could call it. It was nothing more than a three-sided lean-to that they had built on to the house, haphazardly. There were cracks in the wall big enough to throw a cat through and a little pot-belly stove in the corner that would have a hard time competing with the cold wind blowing through the walls in the winter. The upshot was that it was well ventilated and probably cooler in the summer.

  Snake’s clothes hung neatly on an old cast-iron pipe that ran across the entire room and to my surprise, the room was fairly clean and neat. My attention was immediately drawn to his wardrobe. I was expecting maybe two pairs of overalls, a couple of shirts and some sort of Sunday pants. Instead, to my utter dismay, there were four or five nice dress shirts, at least that many pairs of dress pants and two sports jackets. There were even a couple of nice ties draped across the jackets. I couldn’t imagine any scenario or event that would cause Snake to put on any kind of dress clothes, especially a tie.

  “These are some nice duds, Snake,” I said, never taking my eyes off them.  “Where in the world did you get these?”

  “I can’t tell you. I promised somebody I wouldn’t never tell. But they was give to me,” he answered, smiling proudly.

  I was wondering if he was being honest. But I didn’t believe Snake would ever steal from anybody. Old Hugh had plenty of faults, but being a thief wasn’t one of them, and he would have beaten Snake within an inch of his life if he ever caught him stealing.

  Glenn spoke up, “Well, here’s what we wanted to talk to you about, Snake. We was hopin’ you’d let us help you out some when you go and work for Miss Harper. We don’t want to get paid or anything. Just help you out a little on days when we’ve not got work of our own to do. You know, just to keep you company.”

  Snake seemed pleased that we would want to hang out with him. I don’t believe he was smart enough to realize we had an ulterior motive.

  “Well, I’ve gotta mow her yard Saturday. She’s got two mowers and I could shore git done a lot quicker. I’d give you part of my wages.”

  “No, we wouldn’t want you to do that,” I told him. “We just thought we could help you out a little bit, and you know, just  hang out with you. We really don’t know Mr. and Mrs. Harper very well. It might be a good way to get to know them better, too.”

  “Mr. Harper ain’t never there much,” Snake replied, “but I usually start mowin’ as soon as the dew is off the grass Saturday mornin’. If you wanna help me, just meet me at her driveway ‘bout nine o’clock.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

  Scooter Davis had been running a successful chop-shop since he’d quit school in the ninth grade. His father before him had also run a chop-shop, as well as bootlegging, and his grandfather had been one of the most famous bootleggers in the south, making a small fortune during prohibition. In other words, the Davis family hadn’t earned a penny legally in several generations, if ever. The current sheriff, as well as other sheriff’s before him, had always had full knowledge of the Davis’s exploits, and as a result had managed to maintain a pretty good second income, besides their families always receiving very nice Christmas gifts.

  “Our old buddy really gave us a good one this time,” Scooter told Rick, his partner. “’57 Corvette’s don’t turn up everyday. Especially in mint condition like this one.”

  Scooter had never met the man who had been setting up these late night business transactions. He really didn’t care who he was as long as he kept up his occasional supply of nice cars like the one Rick had just started working on. His instructions were simple. He would receive a call about thirty minutes before the car was ready to be picked up. It was almost always within a half mile of the same spot, so he would pull his truck with the eighteen foot long enclosed bed on a small dirt road that was rarely ever used. The bed of his truck had ramps that pulled out easily, and the cars were driven up the ramp and into the truck. If for some reason the car didn’t run or if there was no key, there was a winch, powered by a powerful electric motor mounted inside the bed at the front. Scooter and Rick could have a car loaded and be gone in three minutes or less, depending on whether it could be driven or not. Most of the cars he was getting from this mysterious client all had four flat tires and either had to be driven up the ramps very carefully, or pulled up by the winch.

  As soon as the car was loaded, someone would pull up beside them wearing a ski mask and collect the money. There was never a word spoken between them. The price Scooter paid was always the same, no matter if it was a Cadillac or a Chevy Impala.

  Scooter knew there was probably something very unpleasant happening to the owners of these cars, but as long as he didn’t actually see it happen, he had no trouble sleeping at night.
Out of sight, out of mind,
was his motto. All he was doing was stealing an abandoned car. The same thing he’d been doing for most of his life. He was not guilty of harming anyone, at least not physically.

*****

  Sheriff Andrew White was reading the latest bulletins and came across another missing persons alert. “This is the fifth one of these missin’ person alerts I’ve got in the last two months and everyone of them says the same darn thing,” he was telling his secretary. “All of them were s’posed to be traveling down highway 11 to wherever it was they was goin’ and they are all men. This last one was some kinda professor from down at the University in Tuscaloosa who was headin’ for Knoxville. They all just up and vanish into thin air. Nobody’s seen hide nor hair of ’em since they left. How many does that make for the last year now?”

  “I believe that makes fifteen, if you count the one you just received,” she answered.

  “Well there ain’t that many men that are just up and runnin’ off from their wives. I’ve been tellin’ everybody for six months that there’s gotta be a connection, but nobody wants to listen to me. I may start havin’ some of the deputies patrol Highway 11 more than what we have been at night. I doubt seriously these folks are disappearin’ in Putnam County, but at least I’ll be doin’ my part.”