Liars table, p.24
Liars' Table, page 24
He smiled, and it chilled me. “Oh, I’m going to kill you, old man, but not yet. I’ve got a far better idea.”
The shovel lay five feet away from me, right where he dropped it. Could I reach it? Stand. Swing. How many bullets would he put in me before I slammed the shovel into his face? Three? Four? I suspected I was still quite low in my estimate.
“I can’t get you the money no matter how much you torture me.”
“I believe you. For once, I think you aren’t lying.”
I took a deep breath of fresh mountain air. I didn’t know how many more breaths I had remaining, and I wanted to savor each one. I was stalling, but so was he. “What’s your plan?”
Rudy smiled broader, menace on his face. “You’re going to watch me kill your grandson.”
“First, you’re going to have to catch him. He’s three counties away by now, and you don’t even know which direction he went.”
“You wish.”
The sound was soft at first, like the first drops of rain falling from the sky, but it became unmistakably clearer in the quiet of the night. Footsteps came down the trail. The more Rudy smiled, the bigger grew the pit of dread in my stomach. A minute later, my worst fears were realized. Wyatt came marching into the campsite. Duct tape covered his mouth and bound his wrists. The gorilla was behind him, pistol in hand. When they reached the center of the clearing, the gorilla shoved Wyatt to the ground and placed a foot on his back. He squirmed, but he couldn’t push back against all that weight.
Rudy turned to me and said, “How rude of me. I never introduced Ian the other night, did I?”
I was numb. Couldn’t think. I could only shake my head.
“Ian has been my right-hand man for a very long time. He’s big, of course, but people underestimate him. He’s wicked smart too, which is why I trust him.” Rudy held up his phone. “Desperate men always try something, but I didn’t know what you might do. Before we met, I called Ian and left the line open. He’s been listening the whole time. As soon as we were out of sight, he scooped up young Wyatt before he reached your car and escaped. Then he tracked my phone to find us down here.”
Ian spoke, his voice a deep bass that bored into my soul. “Found a note, too, boss.” He handed across my scribblings I had left taped to the steering wheel for Wyatt.
Rudy read it hurriedly and then mocked me. “Love, Grandpa. How sweet.”
Ian stepped back as Rudy walked to Wyatt, grabbed him by the hair, and pulled him up onto his knees. He shoved the sheet of paper in front of his face and asked, “Do you want to read it? See what Grandpa had to say?”
“Please,” I begged. “I’ll get your money.”
Rudy walked to the edge of the river and looked up to the sky as the rain began to fall steadily. His sigh was barely audible. “You’re lying again.”
“I don’t know how I’ll get it, but I’ll figure it out. Somehow. Some way.”
“Time is up. Money is gone. Cost of doing business, I guess.”
“Please.”
He spun on his heel, pointed across the clearing at Wyatt, and said to his gorilla, “Shoot the boy.”
Lightning flashed across the sky, illuminating Wyatt’s face as he squeezed his eyes shut in terror. Behind him, Ian leveled the pistol against the back of his head. I had nothing left to lose, so I dove for the shovel as a tremendous crack of thunder rattled the trees. My only chance was to connect the shovel against that pistol without knocking out Wyatt’s brains.
I had never been much of an athlete in school. I wasn’t big enough for football, fast enough for track, or agile enough for basketball. Most importantly, at least to my shovel-wielding plan, was the fact that I could never hit a baseball.
I was that kid. When I’d come up to bat in some captain’s choice baseball game during PE class in middle school, the defense collapsed from the outfield almost to the bases. The infield closed to near the pitcher’s mound. I had never, in all my years, managed to make them regret that move. There was no risk I would hit it over their heads. If I connected with the baseball, something that rarely happened, it dribbled across the field until someone scooped it up and tossed it to the first baseman. The only time I ever got on base was if a wild pitch beaned me.
I was the strikeout king. I swung at slow pitches. I swung at fast pitches. I sometimes hit a pop fly, a foul ball, or an unintentional bunt that dribbled impotently across the grass. Mostly, though, I struck out.
I was doomed the second I went for the shovel. Like every other plan I had ever made, I hadn’t thought it through. I didn’t have the skill. If I was telling this story as some tall tale, I would describe how I swung low and level. How I connected perfectly. How Wyatt’s hair flopped in the breeze created by the shovel while the pistol flew across the river. Wouldn’t that make a great story? What a great ending.
It didn’t happen.
The wet shovel handle slipped in my grip. My swing was off. Way off. At least a foot high. More like two. Way outside the strike zone. It was a swinging strike. I wasn’t in any danger of hitting Wyatt’s head. Unfortunately, I missed the pistol wide too.
As bad as my aim was, though, I couldn’t have asked for a better result. The flat edge of the shovel blade whistled through the air high above its target and slammed into Ian’s nose instead. The one thing I got right was the force of my swing. I wasn’t swinging for my life. I was swinging for Wyatt’s.
If I ever told this story at the Liars’ Table—and I never would—I would describe how his nose flew out the back of his head and landed in the fire circle. Maybe I would have an eagle swoop down and snatch it from midair.
The nose didn’t leave his head, though. It stopped somewhere deep in his brain. I doubt he even knew what happened. All I heard was his grunt as he crumpled, the pistol falling from his hand and clattering to the ground a few feet away.
I stood in shock, looking at the collapsed giant and Wyatt’s stunned face. I couldn’t believe my luck. The sound of a shot ripped through the air behind me, cutting my celebration short. Rudy, witnessing the death of his monster, had drawn and fired at me. Fortunately for me, he wasn’t as good a shot from twenty feet away as he was from point-blank range. The bullet smacked into a tree, off target by more than my shovel swing. It was just a matter of time, though, until he connected with a bullet.
Wyatt was still on his knees in the center of the open area. I needed to drag him into the woods before Rudy took out one of us. I ran toward him, hunched over to make a smaller target, but slipped in the mud and tripped over one of the rocks surrounding the fire ring. A bullet whizzed over my head as I sprawled to the ground, scraping my chin. The next bullet splashed through a growing puddle two feet to my right.
I scrambled toward Wyatt, clawing the ground to stay as low as possible. My hands wrapped around roots for leverage. Rudy screamed in frustration, and I realized his gun had jammed. He raised it above his head like a hammer and launched himself at me. The butt of the pistol caught me between my shoulder blades. I collapsed to the ground and flailed with my arms. Another bolt of lightning lit up Wyatt’s stunned face, frozen in terror. Off to his side, metal reflected in the sudden light. Ian’s pistol.
I bucked Rudy off my back and crawled through the mud. He jumped on me again, pounding my back with his fists. I did my best to ignore him as I pulled myself forward, inch by inch, until my right hand wrapped around the gun. With the last of my strength, I twisted my body and shoved the barrel of Ian’s pistol under Rudy’s jaw. His eyes grew wide as I pulled the trigger.
Lightning struck a tree fifty feet away, creating a giant flash of light that was simultaneous with an explosion of sound. I could see Rudy atop me, his fist drawn back to plunge into my face, and a spray of blood exploding behind his head. He hands fluttered to his neck and grasped the wound. A gurgling noise testified to his fight for air. He rolled off me, hit the ground, and went motionless a few seconds later.
I struggled to my feet, shocked to still be alive. Wyatt scrambled to his feet, his hands trembling with fright. His teeth chattered despite the warm evening air.
I didn’t know if anyone was left in the parking lot during the storm or if they could even have heard the gunshots, but we needed to climb back up the gorge to our car and leave before the police arrived. I wiped the pistols clean with my shirt. With my best throw, which wasn’t much, I sent them sailing through the air and into the river with a splash. They joined the other gun that was already there.
I slipped the tape off Wyatt’s mouth and hugged him. Then I grabbed the shovel with one hand and placed the other on Wyatt’s elbow. Gently but firmly, I guided him to the trail and out of the gorge, with only a glance over my shoulder at the two bodies left behind in the driving rain.
Friday
43
“C.J. would’ve liked what you said.”
I jumped. For such an imposing man, Reverend Brawley could sure sneak up on a guy. “You think it was okay? I’m not much on public speaking.”
“You were a natural up there. The best eulogies come from the heart. I’m sure he loved the stories you told.”
Harlow chortled, twisting that mustache between his fingers. “That old wild boar chasing him up around Soco Gap… I had forgotten that one. I haven’t laughed so hard in a church in ages.”
Ronnie smiled broadly. “The eagle flying away with the fish was his best story ever. That has been legend ever since he first told it. I loved that you shared it again for him.”
Chip’s eyes misted over. “The way you talked about Wanda always griping about his overalls. She always wanted him to dress better when he went to town. The silver-tongued devil would tell her he didn’t want to distract anyone from her beauty. You could tell how much those two were meant for each other.”
The sheriff brushed a speck of dust off his glistening badge. “He and Wanda sipping moonshine on their back porch… Let’s just say, I’ll pretend like I didn’t hear that one, though I admit it did make me smile.”
“Now they’re back together, just like they were always meant to be.” Brawley rested his hand on my shoulder and squeezed.
“Glad you were able to make it, Sheriff,” I said. “I know you’ve had a busy week.”
Miller County went most years without a murder at all. Three in a week was unheard of. With an election coming up, the sheriff wouldn’t have missed a chance to be around voters for anything.
“The two killed Tuesday night were on national forest property, so that makes it federal anyway. The Fibbies who showed up on Wednesday weren’t all that worried about jurisdiction, but then it turned out those two were part of the same drug organization as the guy killed Monday night. A squadron of FBI and DEA joined them yesterday. Technically, that first one is still our case, but it makes sense to let them run with it. Probably all goes back into Tennessee anyway. Doesn’t look like locals were involved.”
I swore the corner of the sheriff’s mouth twitched upward like he was smiling at the mess they’d taken from him, but he was smart enough to put his serious face back on.
Abe raised an eyebrow. “I thought some locals were seen there on Monday?”
“The Fibbies think it was probably just witnesses who skedaddled. Doesn’t fit their profile. They’re big believers in that profiling crap.”
“Do they have any leads?”
“Not much. They’re pretty sure it’s some drug war, maybe even the cartels or something, but it doesn’t sound to me like they got anything solid. Lots of boot prints, but you’d expect that from all the fishermen along the river. By the time we found the bodies, that blasted thunderstorm had washed away most of the evidence. Found pistols in the water, but they’re mostly useless. Plus, their bodies had lain there overnight and been gnawed on long before those hikers found them. Probably coyotes.”
Levi snickered. “Maybe it’s that big old mountain lion C.J. always swore he saw up there.”
Tommy rolled his eyes. “Ain’t no mountain lions. How many times have I got to tell you that? If he saw anything, it was a bobcat.”
Harlow groaned. “There are at least two mountain lions. My daughter’s boyfriend’s cousin’s pa saw one up there. Had pictures and everything.”
Tommy laughed. “I saw those photos. So blurry you couldn’t make out nothing. Looked like a regular old barn cat to me, not that a barn cat would be opposed to taking a chunk out of some human who offended it.”
People had been debating for decades whether mountain lions roamed our woods. I didn’t know who was right. Nor did I care. I just wanted to put the past week behind me. I was thankful when Wyatt came up to the group and asked me, “You ready to go home?”
“Yeah, it’s about that time.”
Levi asked, “What’s your hurry?”
“Dinner date with my wife. I never miss.”
Reverend Brawley asked, “We’ll see you both at church Sunday morning?”
Wyatt looked a little unsure, but a promise was a promise. We had a whole lot of penance to make. “We’ll be here.”
Abe asked, “You coming for breakfast tomorrow? We’ve missed you this week.”
Everyone had given me space to mourn the death of my best friend. Other than going to have dinner with Shelby, I hadn’t left the house the last few days. I missed their stories and the camaraderie, so I would go back. Just maybe not every day. “Monday.”
“You got big Saturday plans or something?”
I threw my arm around Wyatt’s shoulders. “My grandson here has the day off. The two of us have a day of fishing planned.” Yeah, I had finally been able to start calling him that. Seemed silly I had avoided it all these years.
“Coogan’s Cove?”
Wyatt and I looked at each other. “Nah, we’re tired of that place. Have to change things up some.”
Abe shrugged. “Can’t wait to hear about the fish that got away.”
“I wouldn’t want to do something as plain as that.”
Their eyes grew wide. Mouths dropped open.
I waited, like a good storyteller does, until I knew I had my audience hooked. “I’ll have a much better story for you.”
They begged me to give them a hint, but I didn’t. I hadn’t made the story up yet, but I had time. It would be a doozy.
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Acknowledgments
Growing up in the Carolinas, I thought every town had at least one Liars’ Table. It might be a table in a diner or fast food restaurant, a bench in front of a gas station or general store, or men leaning against pickup trucks in front of the feed and seed store, but the key element is always the same—stories the teller swears to be true but no one really accepts at face value.
I spent many nights as a teenager at a campfire with other Boy Scouts honing my storytelling skills and listening to others do the same. In my responsible adulthood period in the corporate world, I traveled the globe and learned how similar people everywhere are—including the love of tall tales.
Now I’m blessed beyond belief to be settled back into my beloved Carolina mountains spinning yarns again. I hope you enjoyed meeting Purvis, C.J., and Wyatt.
As always, I have to thank the amazing editing team at Red Adept—Lynn McNamee, Sara Gardiner, Darlene Gardner, and Irene Steiger. They help me get the story in my head down on to paper which is no easy task. And, of course, they get to corral my creative use of commas, an even harder job.
The incredibly talented Glendon Haddix of Streetlight Graphics takes my story and captures it in the beauty of his cover designs. He outdid himself again with the Liars’ Table.
None of this would be possible without the cheerleading and coaching of Todd Fulbright. He’s always the first to hear my ideas for the next story and is my sounding board when I get stuck.
And, yes, we’ve already had hours of conversations about the next novel and the early drafts are coming together.
Finally, Dear Reader, I thank you as well—not only for reading my tales but for your emails, social media posts, and letters. You don’t know how much your kind words inspire me to write the next book.
D.K. Wall
About the Author
D.K. has lived his entire life in the Carolinas and Tennessee—from the highest elevations of the Great Smoky Mountains near Maggie Valley to the industrial towns of Gastonia and Hickory, the cities of Charlotte and Nashville, and the coastal salt marsh of Murrells Inlet.
Over the years, he’s watched the textile and furniture industries wither and the banking and service industries explode, changing the face of the region. He uses his love of storytelling to share tales about the people and places affected.
Today he’s married and living in Asheville. Surrounded by his family of rescued Siberian Huskies known as The Thundering Herd, D.K. is hard at work on his next novel.
For more information and to enjoy his short stories and photographs, please visit the author’s website:
dkwall.com
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