The Front Porch Prophet Page 8

  “Who all knows about this?” A.J. had until tomorrow to be morbidly curious and wanted to find out more while there was time.

  “You, me, Angel, Jackie, and Johnny Mack. Assuming, of course, he understands how these things work. My real father, whoever he is, may or may not know. Who can say?” Eugene stood up, stretched, and started toward the yard, stumbling a bit when he stepped off the porch. He walked to the bulldozer, climbed up, and started it.

  “I’ll be right back!” he hollered as he headed down the trail. A.J. walked to the remains of the Jeep for a smoke. The porch was still too combustible for his comfort. He wondered what Eugene was doing. He knew he would have issues to address with Johnny Mack if the Cat went off a cliff. He heard Eugene down the trail, making a great deal of noise. Then the Cat hove into view, and A.J. was amazed at what he saw. Eugene was pushing the Lover up the path. As he got closer, he waved A.J. to the side and shoved the old Chrysler right in beside the Jeep, as if he had been looking for a good parking spot and finally found one.

  “Tell me you’re not going to shoot it,” said A.J.

  “I’m going to shoot it.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t want it to outlast me,” Eugene replied as he climbed down from his perch. The effort winded him. A.J. had almost forgotten the central issue during the discussion of Angel’s unusual dancing habits. Now it was back on his mind, and it was depressing. Still, he hated to see the old Lover end up like the Jeep and the tree, riddled and abused.

  “It’s your car, but it deserves better,” A.J. said.

  “Don’t we all?” came the reply. A.J. looked at the Lover, the Jeep, and the remains of the tree across the clearing. He thought of the Navy Colt.

  “If you keep getting rid of things that might outlast you, I’m going to get nervous,” A.J. observed. “Maybe I ought to hog-tie Rufus and get us both out of here before it’s too late.” Eugene looked at him with an odd smile.

  “You’re getting paranoid. I would like to see you hog-tie Rufus, though. I don’t know which way I’d bet on that deal. You’re smarter, but his teeth are sharper. If you use your bat, I think you might have a little edge.”

  “If I use your shotgun, I might have a bigger edge.”

  “That would be poor sportsmanship. What would Coach Crider say?”

  “Coach Crider dropped dead, which saved someone the trouble of killing him,” A.J. said. Coach had died of a heart attack while expressing a difference of opinion with a referee. He had spit in the official’s face a bare moment before he collapsed, so it was actually the first time in Georgia high school football history that a dead coach was ejected from a game for unsportsmanlike conduct. It was a sad moment, a true low point for the team, and the boys had not played well the rest of the contest. “Anyway, I have never claimed to be a good sport.”

  “No, you haven’t,” Eugene said. “But you are.” He lit a cigarette. “What are you going to do with Rufus after I’m gone?” The question caught A.J. off guard.

  “I wasn’t planning on doing anything with him. Why don’t you give him to someone? Maybe Jackie. He has a lot of dogs.” It was a sure bet that A.J. didn’t want him.

  “No, Rufus would kill all of them, and some of them are good dogs,” Eugene said. “Jackie would have to keep him tied. I’d rather see him dead.”

  “What do you mean by that?” A.J. asked, suddenly wary.

  “After I’m gone, I want you to shoot Rufus. Nobody is going to want him, and he’s getting too old to live wild. I don’t have the heart to do it myself.” A.J. sighed.

  “Last week you asked me to kill you. This week, it’s Rufus. Next week, you’ll be wanting me to gun down Diane and the boys. Why are you doing this to me? I don’t like killing. I don’t even hunt! If Rufus walked up right now and keeled over, I wouldn’t shed a tear, because I really hate your dog. But I don’t want to kill him!” A.J. had become upset. “Why do you keep bringing up this kind of shit?” he demanded.

  “Because you’re all I have,” Eugene said quietly, meeting A.J.’s eye. “Because I need the help.” He paused for a long moment. Then he continued. “Because I know you can do it when you have to.” A.J. stiffened. The clearing was as silent as the grave. A.J. walked to the bulldozer and climbed aboard. He fired up the old machine and sat there momentarily. Then he climbed down and walked back to Eugene.

  “You son of a bitch,” he said in a quiet voice that roared like a train. “You swore on everything you held sacred that you would never talk about that. You’re a lying son of a bitch.”

  “No, I’m not,” Eugene said. “I just don’t hold anything sacred anymore.” He sounded as if he might cry.

  A.J. headed for the dozer. Without another word, he left the clearing.

  CHAPTER 5

  Your coffee killed me.

  – Excerpt of posthumous letter from Eugene Purdue to Hoghead Crab, restaurateur

  A.J. WAS HAVING A BAD WEEK. EUGENE HAD INITIATED the process on Saturday by reminding him of an incident he had tried to forget. The human mind was a devious organ, however, and it chiseled in stone that which would be best left unrecalled. In fairness to Eugene, he had not dredged a memory that had been successfully entombed. It was always with A.J., coming to him in the quiet moments. Still, Eugene had sworn never to mention it, but mention it he had. In this regard he had proven faithless, and his breach of trust had upset A.J. For Eugene possessed the truth. Of the two of them, one was a killer. Of the two of them, one had beaten two men to death with the Louisville Slugger and had shot a third. Of the two of them, A.J. owned the bat.

  Most people never foresee their dates with destiny, and A.J. was no exception on that fateful day years past. He and Eugene had decided to try their luck at a trout stream that ran on the mountain to the north of Sequoyah. Their wives were both out of town, and Eugene and A.J. had decided on a fishing trip to while away the afternoon. Actually, Eugene had proposed another plan, a scenic tour of some of the finer topless clubs of Atlanta. But A.J. vetoed the idea, although it had been touch and go for a moment when Eugene described the Panther Club, a bistro that featured nude interactive water volleyball.

  They met early in the day. It was a fine morning, and the air held a hint of summer. They left their vehicles and began the long hike to the trout stream. Eugene carried the rods and a large tackle box. A.J. ferried his bat and a backpack loaded with food and a six-pack of beer. They walked briskly, exchanging easy conversation.

  “I can’t believe it,” Eugene said. “We could be chest deep in wet, naked women right now. But no, you want to go on a fishing trip. I can’t believe it.” He sounded disgusted.

  “You’re married,” A.J. responded. “If you want wet, naked women, take a shower with Diane.” He swatted the bat at a movement in the leaves beside the trail.

  “This is different,” Eugene explained. “A little variety in wet, naked women never hurt anybody. These are nice girls. Girls just working their way through college. Girls helping their sick mamas. It’s a look-but-don’t-touch deal. If you touch, some big guy breaks off your hands and throws you in a dumpster.” He had a patient, instructive tone.

  “So we drive to Atlanta,” A.J. recapped, “pay a twenty-five dollar cover charge, rent a bathing suit for another twenty-five, and get in a pool with naked but pure college girls with sick mamas who want to play volleyball?”

  “There! Now you’ve got the idea!” Eugene seemed excited.

  “Send Diane to college, and then take a shower with her,” A.J. suggested. “Her mama’s already sick.”

  “I don’t know why I even try,” Eugene said, disgusted again. “You’re hopeless. Saint fucking A.J. I don’t know why I even try.” He shook his head.

  “I’ll take off my shirt while we fish,” A.J. said, “but that’s as far as it goes. If you touch me, I’ll have to break off your hands.”

  They walked until they entered a small depression not far from their destination, where they decided to take a break. A.J. passed a
sandwich and a beer before securing his own. They could hear the rush of the stream in the distance. It was a pleasant scene, a moment of peace in a world of bother. A.J. reclined, intending to let the trout work up an appetite. The aroma of marijuana floated from Eugene’s side of the swale. He closed his eyes and drifted.

  His eyes snapped open when he heard voices from beyond the ridge at his back. Then he heard a shrill scream followed by loud cracks of rifle fire. He bolted to his feet and looked at Eugene. Then he grabbed his bat and scrambled to the top of the small embankment with Eugene matching each step.

  The scene in the clearing below burned into their corneas. They saw three hard-looking men in camouflage garb armed with automatic weapons. They were ranged around a young woman who sat on a log in front of a small tent. About ten feet away sprawled a motionless figure, the apparent recipient of the rifle shots. The woman was staring at the remains of her companion.

  “Goddamn,” whispered A.J. “They shot him in cold blood.” It was unclear whether the man had been running or fighting, but it was a moot point since dead is dead, and he was certainly that. The largest of the scoundrels walked to the poor boy and nudged him with his toe, then laughed and rejoined his companions. They all three looked down at the girl. “Oh, shit,” A.J. breathed.

  “What are we going to do?” Eugene hissed.

  “I think we are going to die,” A.J. said.

  “The next time I want to go to the titty bar, we’re going to the titty bar,” Eugene whispered fiercely. “Wait for me. I’ve got a gun.” He slid down toward their trappings.

  A.J. knew good advice when he heard it and was going to wait, but delay was removed as an option when one of the men grabbed the girl’s long, black hair and dragged her to her feet. With his other hand he clawed her shirtfront, violently exposing her. She struggled and was backhanded to the ground. Then he dropped to his knees and held her wrists with one hand while fondling her with the other. The second man knelt and began to undo her jeans while the third unzipped his own.

  A.J. knew the time for waiting was past. Live or die, Eugene or not, he couldn’t stand by and watch the scene unfolding below. With no conscious thought, he was up and moving toward the campsite. He ran fast and quiet and was among them before they were aware of his presence. Upon his arrival, their cognizance increased dramatically.

  A.J. came in screaming and swinging. The man who had ripped the girl’s shirt turned just in time to receive all of the Louisville Slugger across the bridge of his nose. He was dead when he toppled over. A.J. then swung in the opposite direction and caught the second man in the temple. He was fueled by fear and rage, and he was a big man swinging hard ash. The smack of the bat echoed through the forest, and the man knelt lifeless for several seconds before gravity brought him low. The lone survivor started for his rifle, but at that moment Eugene began shooting his.22 pistol. The shots confused the brute, and he stopped. A.J. threw the bat at him and knocked him down. The man came up with a rifle, which he tried to aim at A.J., who grabbed one of the weapons no longer needed by the departed and beat his adversary to the draw by a whisper. Their eyes met and they froze, the other’s rifle partially raised and A.J.’s locked, loaded, and aimed at the black heart of his quarry. He had the drop, and to his right, Eugene also held a bead.

  It was silent on the killing ground. The acrid smell of cordite lingered with a richer, coppery aroma. A.J. heard the pounding of his own heart.

  “Give me a reason to shoot you,” he said through clenched teeth. “Any reason at all will do it.”

  The reprobate lowered his rifle. A.J. saw in his eyes a soul of darkness. He beheld an animal that deserved to die, yet he hesitated to shoot lest he become what he destroyed. The villain mistook what he saw in A.J.’s expression for a lack of resolve and began to laugh. A.J. couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Without conscious thought, he shot. The M-16 was on full automatic, and the man was cut to pieces. When it was over, Eugene came to pry the rifle from A.J.’s hands. He still had the trigger depressed, although the magazine was empty.

  “Easy,” Eugene said. “Let me have the gun.” He removed the M-16 from A.J.’s hands and threw it down. He was not a man who was easily jarred, but there was no mistaking the fact that they had a mess on their hands.

  A.J. sank down next to the prone, inert woman. She was staring straight up with fear in her eyes. Her lips moved silently. He wiped spittle mixed with blood from her chin. Her mind seemed to have disengaged from harsh reality, and A.J. thought that this, at least, was a small mercy. He bent his head down between his knees and vomited.

  Eugene inspected the two who had succumbed to acute wood poisoning. There was no point at all in checking the third and not much left to examine anyway. He came and stood in front of A.J. and his mute associate. In a gesture of tenderness uncharacteristic of Eugene, he kneeled and gently fastened her jeans. Then he raised her to a sitting position and eased her onto the log beside A.J. He reached into the tent and brought out a blanket, which he draped over her exposed torso.

  “Those boys are dead,” he said to A.J. “You swing a mean piece of wood.” A.J. was silent. He was in danger of departing reality and joining his log mate. Eugene saw this and grabbed his shoulders, shaking him. “Wake up, Babe Ruth. Don’t get weak in the knees on me now.”

  A.J. blinked slowly a couple of times, then met Eugene’s gaze.

  “Did you say the other two are dead?” he asked quietly.

  “You can’t get any deader,” Eugene replied. “What I don’t get is who these guys are. Excuse me, were. There are some survivalists living on the other side of the mountain. I know them. They seem okay, and they buy a lot of beer from me. But I’ve never seen these three.”

  A.J. viewed his handiwork. He had no idea what the next step was. He thought it odd that he felt very little remorse about killing the men. His only regret was that he had not arrived soon enough to save the young woman from suffering such trauma. He looked over at his trembling female companion.

  “I think she’s in shock,” A.J. said. “It could kill her. We need to get her into town.” He leaned close to her ear. “Can you hear me?” She made no sound and continued to stare at the horizon. He looked over at Eugene. “I don’t think she’s going to be walking out anytime soon.”

  “We’ll carry her,” Eugene said. “We don’t need any more bodies up here. They’re going to have to haul them out in a truck as it is.” He reached down and pulled the K-Bar knife from the sheath in one of the dead men’s boots and looked at the razor sharp blade. “These guys had all the toys,” he said. Then he chuckled softly. “Man, don’t you know they would be pissed if they knew they got wiped out by a guy with a baseball bat?” A.J. glared at him, and Eugene took the hint. “I’ll go cut some poles,” he said. “We’ll make a stretcher out of the tent.” He headed from the camp to find some suitable material. While Eugene was gone, A.J. dug around in the tent and came up with a shirt. The woman stiffened when he gently removed the remnants of her original.

  “Easy, now,” he said. “You’ve had a bad day, but I’m not going to hurt you. Those people won’t bother you anymore. We just need to get you covered up.” She remained stiff but did not otherwise resist. It was like dressing a large doll. When he finished, he wrapped her back up in the blanket. “That’s much better. Just hang in there a little while longer. We’re going to get you out of here and take you to town.” She continued to sit motionless.

  Eugene came back dragging two long saplings. He stripped them of branches and fashioned a workable conveyance using the tent plus the dead men’s bootlaces. When he finished, he viewed his creation and nodded in satisfaction.

  “Are we ready?” he asked. A.J. looked at him for a long moment.

  “How much prison time do you suppose I’ll get?” he asked, gesturing in the direction of the deceased.

  “It was self-defense. You won’t get anything.”

  “He wasn’t self-defense,” A.J. said, pointing at the man he had sho
t. “I looked him in the eye and murdered him.”

  “No, see, that’s where you’re wrong. He was about to blow you away, but you got him first.”

  “That’s not what happened. You know it, and I know it.”

  “Yeah, and nobody else knows it. So, if you’ll keep your mouth shut about that ‘looking him in the eye’ shit, everything will be just fine.” Eugene spoke in an exasperated tone. “I knew you were going to make a big deal out of this. I just knew it.”

  “Well, damn, it is a big deal,” A.J. noted, gesturing at the carnage. “We won’t be dealing with Slim on this. There will be big boys involved. I better just tell the truth and hope they take the circumstances into account.” Eugene sighed.

  “The only thing I hate worse than a hero is a stupid hero. If you hadn’t killed them, I would have. Now, quit worrying. And for Christ’s sake, let me do the talking when we get to town.” He squatted down in front of the woman. “Lady,” he said loudly, as if she were deaf, “we’re going to put you on this stretcher and carry you out of here. Nothing bad is going to happen.” He spread the makeshift palanquin next to her. She blinked, looked at Eugene, and screamed.

  He was caught off guard and jumped back, tripping over his own feet and falling in the process. It would have been a comic display if the situation had not been so bleak. “Lady, please don’t do that again,” he said. She was sobbing quietly. A.J. put his arm around her shoulder to comfort her.

  “Let’s get her out of here,” he said to Eugene. He stood and stepped behind her. He reached gently under her arms while Eugene got her feet, and they carefully positioned her on the litter. Without comment they raised their burden and began the long journey to less lethal climes. When they reached the top of the ridge, Eugene told A.J. to stop a moment, and he placed his end of the stretcher on the ground.