Twilight (18 page)

Bookbinder didn’t move. He seemed to have been struck by some profound revelation. Wait a minute, he said. I believe I left that money in my other britches.

The chief was watching him. His face relaxed. All right, he
said. All cleared up. See how easy that was?

The old man had been silent a time. I never cared much for the law, he finally said. Or the law in this county anyway. They hired one old boy was a deputy and he liked to whup folks with that club he carried. Like to beat a couple of fellers to death, whupped em right up the steps to the hospital. Right near the funeral home. They got on to him about it and it pissed him off. He ask em, what’s the use of bein a law if you can’t beat nobody up?

Could you tell me the best way to get to Ackerman’s Field?

Well. If anybody could, I ort to be able to. I worked them mines back in Overton the biggest part of my life. Now the way I’m goin to tell you ain’t the shortest, but it’s the easiest. You might as well forget any other way, these old roads windand twist and sometimes they just peter out. You try to stay on the roads and you’ll just circle around and run over yourself. Go due east till you hit the railroad tracks. They growed up, but they still there. It’s about twelve or fourteen mile. The tracks run north and south. Go south and you’ll come out right in Ackerman’s Field.

And that’s all there is to it.

The old man set his cup aside and took out his pipe. He grinned. First you got to get to the railroad track, and that ain’t no Sunday drive, specially if you ain’t used to the Harrikin. Likely you’ll come up on Overton. The tracks is right near there.

Overton?

It’s just a bunch of buildins now. Nobody left but the ones in the graveyard, and if they could of left, they’d be long gone, too. When Overton went, it went like a June frost. All it was was a minin town, and when the ore run out she just folded up.

Did you live there?

Off and on. My, that was a rough place then. I was bad to drink then, and I used to spend some time in that crossbar hotel they had. I was in there one night they had me locked up with this nigger. Way in the night there was a terrible commotion. Folks hollerin, tryin to break into the jail. I was unused to folks tryin to break in. Thought it went the other way. They broke down the door and knocked out the sheriff and took his keys. Roughest-lookin bunch of folks I ever run into. Most of em drunker than I was. They had torches, and one of em was carryin a rope. Lord God, I thought. They’re goin to hang me for bein drunk.

But it was the nigger. They drug him out and hung him from a big whiteoak. Turned out it was over a whore. Theyhad this albino whore named Wanda, white as if the sun had never shone on her. Hair the color of seagrass twine, and even her eyes looked white. She charged two dollars, and this nigger offered her five, and somebody caught em together, and she swore up and down he forced her.

What did they do to the whore?

Do? They didn’t do nothin except keep on givin her two dollars. There was a lot of em in Overton back then. The miners worked the mines and the whores worked the miners and the only ones come out on top was the company bosses.

Tyler rose. All this time he had sat on the edge of the porch seemingly poised for imminent departure and now he
seemed to have come to some decision. Well, I guess I better get on. I got a long way to go.

Well. Best not rush off in the heat of the day. But I reckon you know your business. I wouldn’t worry too much about Sutter. Likely he’s forgot about you by now and he’s drinkin him a cool one somewheres.

There was a fierce intensity in the boy’s face. No. He’s not forgot. And you better worry about him, too, because he’s headed this way, and he’d just as soon kill you as anybody else. There’s something the matter with him. When he comes here, just tell him where I went. That won’t hurt me, by then I’ll be somewhere else. And whatever you do, don’t start anything with him. I didn’t mean to mix you up in this.

I ain’t tellin him jackshit. And you ain’t mixed me up in nothing. I reckon I can set on my own front porch and drink a cup of coffee with whoever I want to. But if that stuff about Sutter is so, you need to be anywhere else besides the Harrikin. You need to be out where there’s more folks. Witnesses. He won’t do nothin if there’s a bunch of folks around. I got to do it. I believe my best chance is to get to Ackerman’s Field. Get to Bellwether and tell him the whole story. There’s a lawyer there named Schieweiler trying to get Sutter sent off.

Like I said, I reckon you know your business. What I’d do is stay on the edge of the Harrikin, close to the roads, and try to catch a ride. Most anybody would give you a lift into town.

I don’t have time. He’s too close on me, and I can stay away from him better in the woods. What’s that hole down there, back in the woods? Just a big hole in the rocks, makes a whistling racket.

That’s what they call the whistlin well. I don’t know how
it makes that racket it does. Kindly a mournful sound, though, ain’t it? I knowed some old boys went down in it one time on a rope ladder. They went down to where a tunnel like branched off the shaft. They went a ways back in the tunnel, but they was leery of the shaft. Said they didn’t make enough rope. Said you’d drop a rock off in the main shaft and just grow old waitin for it to hit. Said they wadn’t no bottom, but common sense’ll tell you everthing’s got a bottom, howsomever far it may be.

Well. I’ll see you, Mr. Bookbinder.

You just remember what I said. Due east. And if you see ary ghost in Overton, ask him does he remember old Hollis Bookbinder.

The day had waned and grown chill before Sutter came. Bookbinder dozed in his rocking chair, an old plaid shawl across his lap, but he slept a cat’s troubled sleep, waking atevery noise.

Yet when Sutter came there was no noise, just some alteration of the atmosphere so that when the old man’s eyes blinked open, Sutter had one foot uplifted in the act of stepping onto the porch, then standing for a moment in awkward indecision, then setting it down in the yard and leaning to stand the scoped rifle against the wall. Beyond him the world had gone sepia with dusk and twilight’s lengthening shadows ran like dark liquid across the packed earth yard to pool in the lower ground of the woods.

Mr. Bookbinder, he said. You recollect me?

The old man nodded. Head clouded by the tatters of
some old halfdream. Faint taste of muscadine wine in the back of his mouth.

I’m lookin for a young feller up this way, figured you might of seen him. He was fumbling about his pockets. Withdrew a worn leather wallet and flashed the old man a glimpse of a badge and a card that might have said anything. Or nothing at all. He repocketed it and the old man looked away and when he looked back at Sutter his own face held a look of almost unspeakable contempt.

You seen him?

I don’t know if I have or I ain’t. You got ary picture of him?

No. Course to hell I ain’t got no picture. You don’t need one to make you remember if you’ve seen a young feller wanderin around.

It’s been six or seven by today, Bookbinder said. Some days I get a run on em. I don’t know if I’ve seen the one you’re lookin for or not.

Sutter was silent for a time, his mismatched face an emotionless mask. The air grew faintly menacing. Bookbinderthought the face looked as if while the clay was yet wet God Almighty had laid a hand to either side of it in a sudden fit of anger and altered it slightly to mark him.

Sutter turned his head and spat into the yard. A black kid goat had come round the corner of the house and approached Sutter’s feet. It nuzzled the calf of his leg and he whirled as if he might kick it then thought better of it then abruptly bent to scratch its curly head.

I always been a respecter of age, Mr. Bookbinder, but I ain’t got time for no jokin around here. You seen that badge.
I’m a duly sworn constable of the Sixth District, and you got to cooperate with me.

I don’t know if you’re a constable or not, Bookbinder said. But I do know one goddamned thing. You’re not in the Sixth District. You’re goin to have to get further into the Harrikin than this to work that kind of shit. And just say you was a law. That constable shit don’t cut no ice with me. Far as I’m concerned you just a trespasser, and you need to get on down the line to where you’re welcome.

You a mouthy old son of a bitch, Sutter said easily. To have one foot in the grave and the other in a pile of owlshit. You tired of livin or what? His hand came out of his dungaree pocket with the switchblade knife. He thumbed the button. Bright serpent’s tongue of the blade flicking out. With his left hand he grasped the kid’s head. He twisted it upward hard. The goat’s eyes walled in its head and it bleated softly and it made jerky little motions with its feet on the earth.

I reckon a man lives alone puts a lot of store in his animals. I guess you’re right fond of these goats.

They a right smart of company, the old man said again, like a one-size-fits-all answer he kept in stock. This’n acts like a pet. I bet if I cut its throat it’d make you remember where that boy went.

Or it might make me blow a hole in the middle of you a log truck could drive through.

The goat was trying to escape. It and Sutter making abrupt little dancing motions. Be still, goddamn you, he told it. He looked up. You might if you had a gun, he told Bookbinder.

With his left hand the old man moved the shawl. It slid off his lap soundlessly onto the porch. He was holding trained
on Sutter an enormous old dragoon revolver, and its hammer was thumbed back.

It so surprised Sutter that he released his grip on the goat. When it jerked away and fled, Sutter looked down at the knife he was holding. It ain’t loaded, he said.

I done a lot of foolish things in my life, Bookbinder said, but I ain’t never threatened to kill a man with a empty pistol.

Piece of shit would likely blow up in your face anyhow, Sutter said. I don’t believe you’ve got the balls to shoot it, let alone kill anybody with it.

The old man slowly moved the barrel away from Sutter and aimed it at a locust fencepost. When the hammer fell the concussion was enormous and the top of the post exploded into fistsize chunks of rotten wood and when Sutter looked back from the post the gun was on him again. The old man was watching him with narrowed eyes.

You just crazy enough to do it, Sutter said. Hellfire. I just wanted to talk to you.

The old man didn’t say anything and the gun didn’t waver. Sutter closed the knife and pocketed it. I aim to get my rifle, he said. I’ll just be on my way.

Just don’t let the barrel point my way, Bookbinder said. Sutter retrieved the rifle. He kept the barrel pointed earthward.

You know I’ll get you for this, he said conversationally. You’re graveyard dead and don’t even know about it yet. I’ll come through your window like a cat some hot night and cut your throat where you lay.

You come ahead, Bookbinder said. And they’ll be scraping bloody pieces of you off the wall with a goddamned putty knife.

Sutter turned and went. At the yard’s edge he hesitated
and would say more, but Bookbinder raised the piece and Sutter kept going. The old man didn’t lower the gun until Sutter had vanished into the darkening wood. He laid the gun aside. His hands were shaking and he clamped them between his thighs to still them.