Bad Juju: A Novel of Raw Terror (9 page)

Luke slipped into his jeans, threw
on a T-shirt and jammed his feet into his boots, then stepped outside, his boot
heels tapping a hollow tattoo on the front porch and rousing Hondo from his
watchdog’s slumber.

“You stay, boy,” he said. Hondo
yawned and watched him with sleepy eyes as he walked to his truck, climbed in
and started the motor. Since he couldn’t sleep, he had decided to ride out the
night. He would cruise the streets of Vinewood and the outlying roads, swing by
the Partain home on Maple Circle, then drive by the Bottom to make sure Fate
and his boys weren’t up to any middle-of-the-night mischief.

As he drove by the high school, he
saw the police cruiser prowling the parking lot beside the brick gym. He pulled
off the road and flashed his lights at the cruiser, then stopped beside the
blue-&-white. Craig Hemphill rolled down his window and said, “Hey, Luke.
What’re you doing out this time of night?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Luke told him.
“Everything quiet?”

“Quiet as a tomb,” Hemphill said.
“Like always.”

“You checked on the Partain place?”

“Yes, sir. As ordered. Nothing
doing there.”

“Chief Keller tell you trouble
might be brewing between the Porch boys and the Partain kid?”

“Sure did. You know what it’s
about?” Hemphill scratched at his wide chin.

“Nah. Just that something might be
up.”

The young officer nodded. “You miss
it, don’t you, Luke? The job?”

Luke smiled. “Only on nights like
this when I can’t sleep.”

“Shoot, only time I can’t sleep’s
when I’m pulling the graveyard shift. I’m so sleepy now I can hardly keep my
eyes open.”

“Enjoy it while you can. Things
change when you get older.”

“Hell, Chief, you ain’t that old.”

Luke gave him a two-finger salute.
“Old enough to know better,” he said, then drove away.

He drove across town and slowed
down as he passed by the Partain house, then circled the block and stopped
behind the little cinderblock building that was Skeeter’s living quarters. The
boy’s truck was parked on the dirt driveway, and the pillbox building’s windows
were dark. There was nothing to suggest that Skeeter was not safe inside,
snoring the night away in his bunk. Luke sat there a full minute, his truck’s
engine idling with a deep rumble. Then he cut the engine, grabbed a flashlight
from the glove box, got out and crept to the window. He clicked on the light
and aimed the beam through the small opening between the flimsy curtains. From
his vantage point he could see the foot of the bunk bed, but his field of
vision was too limited for him to determine whether the bed was occupied.

In the near distance a dog barked,
setting off a mounting chorus of canine barks and howls all across the
neighborhood. Cursing silently, Luke hastened back to his truck. He didn’t want
to be caught skulking about in the dark. Some homeowners would shoot first and
ask questions later. He didn’t know if James Partain owned a gun, but this was
not the time to find out. He started the engine and drove off down the
tree-lined street.

He cruised past The American Legion
building and Ree Tyler’s house just outside the city limits. He imagined Ree
curled up in bed, sleeping peacefully. Sleeping in the nude. He imagined
himself lying beside her, smelling her perfume, snuggling against her warm
flesh. He immediately felt a twinge of guilt for indulging in such lascivious
thoughts. He chastised himself for being unfaithful to the memory of his dead
wife. What would Jenny think if she could somehow look down on him, see into
his heart and mind and know of his lustful feelings for Ree Tyler? Would she
release him from his vows and wish him well? Or would she regard him with the
intense jealousy she had occasionally exhibited when she was alive? He
accelerated and drove south toward the Bottom and the Porch farmhouse, trying
to push the idea of a jealous ghost from his mind.

He turned off the blacktop and
drove up the rutted dirt road until the darkened farmhouse came into view.
Fate’s Ford pickup and the old Cadillac were parked in front of the house, but
the used Firebird Luther had recently acquired was nowhere in sight. Was Luther
conducting some nocturnal drug deal? Was he shacking up with a girlfriend? Or
was he closing in on Skeeter Partain and Joe Rob Campbell?  Of course there was
another possibility, one that Luke had to consider: It was possible that Odell
had shown up and was inside the dark house, safe in his own bed—nixing any
potential trouble between the Porches and the two “townie” boys, Skeeter and
Joe Rob. Luke couldn’t imagine what Skeeter and Joe Rob might’ve done to arouse
the ire and suspicions of Fate and his sons. Odell Porch was a bully and a
hothead, not the sort of man two boys fresh out of high school would wish to
tangle with or go against. Joe Rob was a scrapper, a former high-school
football star, but he was a babe in the woods compared to ex-Marine Odell; and
Skeeter was a scrawny scrub of a young man, not at all athletic. If they had a
run-in with Odell, it almost certainly would’ve been unintentional.

Luke turned around and drove back
to town. As he was cruising down Main Street, someone shambled in front of his
truck, and he slammed on the brakes to keep from hitting the startled man.

“Corny?” Luke shouted. “What the
hell’s wrong with you? I could’ve killed you.”

Cornelius Weehunt staggered
backward and fell on his ass.

Luke hopped out of the truck and
helped Corny to his feet.

“Sorry, Chief Chaney,” Corny said,
dusting off his rump. “I...I thought something was chasing me.”

“Chasing you? Who’s chasing you?”

Corny looked around and pointed in
the direction of the sinkhole in the middle of the street. “I thought something
was fixin’ to come out of that dang hole and get me.”

“I don’t see anything now? Do you?”

“No, sir. But honest to God, I
thought I did.”  

“What are you doing out here in the
middle of the night?”

Corny looked down at the asphalt,
mumbling to himself.

“What’s that?” Luke pressed him.

“I’s just keeping watch, you know,
on the hole.”

“Watching for what?”

“I don’t rightly know. Something
just told me I ort to do it. That’s all.”

“Well, get in the truck and I’ll
drive you home.”

“Yessir.”

Luke drove Corny Weehunt to the boarding
house on Poplar Street and let him out. “Don’t wake folks up when you go
inside,” he told the child-like man of thirty years. “And don’t be telling
anybody you saw something coming out of that hole. You hear me?”

“Yessir, I hear.” Corny gave him a
furtive glance, then got out of the truck, slunk up the sidewalk and slipped
inside the front door.

Luke smiled to himself and shook
his head. “Poor bastard,” he said.

Before driving home, Luke cruised
by the brick house on the corner of West Main and Fifth Avenue. Joe Rob
Campbell’s ’67 Mustang was parked behind the house. “Four a.m. and all’s well,”
he said, then added, “I hope.”

Skeeter raised his chin from his
chest and watched the shadow-shapes come up the ladder to the barn loft. A
flame flared, a lantern was lit, and he saw the wizened face of Fate Porch in
the lantern’s light. Skeeter had promised himself that he would not humiliate
himself further by begging for mercy. Whatever the bastards had in store for
him, he would confront it like a man. But when he saw Fate Porch, his hopes
rose and he thought he might have a chance of survival if he could appeal to
the elder man’s maturity and seasoned reasoning. Maybe the man wasn’t the
monster everyone said he was.

“Mr. Porch,” Skeeter blurted, “it
was an accident, I swear.  I didn’t shoot nobody. I—”

“Shut your yap, boy,” Fate Porch
said. Skeeter saw the hurt in the man’s sad eyes, and his hopes sank. “Get him
down,” Fate told his sons.

Luther unhooked the other end of the
chain and Skeeter dropped to the loft floor, tumbling forward on his face.

“Stand up, you pussy,” Cowboy
snarled. “Told ya he was a pussy, Diddy.”

Skeeter struggled to his feet, his
hands still bound behind his back. Someone pushed him toward the top of the
ladder and he stumbled forward, lost his balance and almost took a header over
the edge of the loft, but a yank on the chain snatched him back.

“Goddamn, he’s a worthless
peckerwood, ain’t he.”

“Lower him with the chain,” said
Fate. “And don’t drop him.”

“Set your ass down there, boy,”
Luther said. “Right on the edge.”

Skeeter sat on the edge of the barn
loft with his legs dangling. Someone pulled the chain tight behind him, then
shoved him over the side. The chain bit into his armpits as he was lowered to
the ground. Then the chain came rattling down on his head and shoulders,
knocking him to the dirt floor of the barn. Dirt and debris stuck to his
sweat-streaked face.

I’m in hell
, Skeeter
thought.
I’m not dead yet, but I’m already in fucking hell.

They walked him outside and
deposited him in the trunk of the Firebird, then slammed the lid on him. A
moment later, the car was in motion and Skeeter was bouncing around in the
darkness of enclosed space that smelled of exhaust fumes and tire rubber. He sobbed
softly to himself.

The bumpy ride seemed to go on
forever. Skeeter wondered if the driver had gotten lost on the way to the
wolf’s den, but then the ride was over and the trunk was opened, a flashlight’s
beam blinding him.

“Get his ass out,” someone said.
And rough hands grabbed him and hauled him out of the trunk. His head hit the
trunk’s lid and he grunted in pain. Cowboy untied his hands.

“All right, boy,” said Fate Porch,
handing him a flashlight, “take us to where you buried my son.”

“Yes, sir,” Skeeter said. Barefoot
and wearing only boxer shorts, he led them through the trees and underbrush,
shining the light ahead. Shadows danced around the nimbus of light. An owl
hooted somewhere nearby, and Skeeter half-remembered an old homily that said something
about an owl’s hoot presaging death. Out here in the dark woods, with the Porch
men behind him, it was easy to believe that the owl was singing of his own
impending death. He led them across the little creek and to the place of
Odell’s unceremonious burial. “Here,” he said, stopping and pointing the light
at the clumps of pine straw and dead leaves on the ground. “That’s where we
buried him.”

Luther took the flashlight and
thrust a shovel into Skeeter’s trembling hands. “Start digging, motherfucker.”

He used the blade of the shovel to
scrape the leaves and pine straw off the freshly turned soil, then started
digging. The ground was soft, the digging easier than the last time. Though he
was near physical and emotional exhaustion, the digging had a calming effect on
him. He was able to ignore the stinging knife wounds in his leg and belly and
concentrated on nothing but the act of digging.

Luther lit the kerosene lantern and
set it on the ground. Fate sat on a log and lit his pipe, its pungent smoke
drifting languidly in the lantern light. Cowboy practiced his quick-draw,
pointing his pistol at Skeeter and saying, “Pow,” at the end of each draw.

“Stop that, son,” Fate told Cowboy.
“Don’t wanna shoot him on accident.”

“I ain’t gonna shoot him,” said
Cowboy, indignant. “Not till you say to.”

Skeeter worked the shovel, sweating
profusely and trying to ignore the spoken words of his captors, but there was
no blocking out the reality of his situation. He was digging his own grave. His
life on this earth was close to its end.

The hole deepened and the pile of
shoveled dirt grew. Skeeter was dripping sweat. He was tired, light-headed, and
his palms were blistered, the blisters already ruptured and burning. His mouth
was dry, his lips cracked, and he was thirstier than he’d ever been. But still
he dug on through the pain.

Then he noticed the stink. The
stench of Odell’s rotting corpse. The next shovelful came away and revealed the
camouflage-splash of Odell’s clothing.

“There he is, Diddy,” said Cowboy,
pointing his pistol into the hole.

“Damn, I smell him,” Luther said,
then turned away and retched.

Fate stood up, looked down at
Skeeter and said, “You be careful now. I don’t want Odell tore up with that
shovel.”

“No, sir,” Skeeter said, clearing
dirt away from Odell’s head. He uncovered the gunnysack containing the dead rat
and tossed it out of the hole. Cowboy immediately snatched it up and pulled the
rat out by its tail.  “God almighty, you buried my brother with a goddamn
rat?!” Cowboy sputtered.

The shovel’s blade nicked the
dirty, discolored flesh of the corpse’s cheek. Skeeter cursed under his breath,
then leaned the shovel against the wall of the grave, dropped to his knees and
began to dig with his hands. The stench made him gag, so he held his breath as
he dug dog-style. The bandana headband came into view. Skeeter was careful not
to expose the bullet hole beneath the bandana. He was afraid that if they saw
the bullet hole, they would kill him on the spot. It didn’t make good sense,
but it seemed imperative to keep the bullet hole hidden as long as he could; it
was the only way he could think of to postpone his death—even if only by a few
minutes.

“They buried him with a
rat
,
Diddy,” Cowboy ranted. “That’s...that’s sacrilegious as hell. Let me kill the
sumbitch now.”

“No,” Fate said sharply. “You know
the plan. Settle down now.”

Plan? Why do they need a plan to
kill me? Must be something about Joe Rob. Why can’t they just go get him like they
got me? Don’t need much of a plan for that. They’re crazy, that’s why. Crazy
mean. Crazy as shithouse rats. Hadn’t been for rats, I wouldn’t even be in this
fucking mess. Joe Rob’s fucking fault. His idea to go to the dump and shoot
rats.
“Goddamn Joe Rob,” he muttered.

“What’s that, boy?” asked Fate
Porch.

“Nothing.”

“Come on out there now,” the man
said. “My boys will take care of their brother.”

Skeeter got off his knees, stood up
and tried to work the kinks out of his cramping legs. His head swam on woozy
waves and he thought he was going to pass out and topple over on top of the
corpse. He steadied his legs and braced his hands against the dirt walls of the
shallow grave. He tried to climb out of the hole but couldn’t gain purchase on
the ground above him.

“Get him outta there,” Fate told
his boys.

Luther and Cowboy reached down,
grabbed Skeeter’s arms and hauled him out.

“Tie his hands and feet,” said
Fate, “then get Odell outta there.”

The brothers tied Skeeter’s hands
behind his back, then bound his ankles tightly together and left him lying
facedown on the ground. While Luther and Cowboy went about the dirty business
of getting their dead brother out of the grave, Fate Porch demanded a full
account of the killing from Skeeter. Skeeter told him the whole sad story,
placing particular emphasis on the fact the he (Skeeter) wasn’t actually
present when the shooting occurred.

After a long silence, Fate said,
“So if y’all had left when Odell told you to, he’d still be alive and we
wouldn’t be here now.”

Skeeter lifted his cheek form the
damp ground and said, “Yes, sir. But Odell woulda raped the girl. We...Joe Rob
couldn’t let that happen.”

“Don’t matter now,” said Fate.
“Girl’s dead and so’s Odell. Now you and your hero friend have to die and
that’ll be the end of it. All on account of a crazy woman who got herself snake
bit anyhow. Sad state of affairs, ain’t it?”

Skeeter didn’t bother to reply. He
knew now that nothing he might say could change his fate. He and Joe Rob were
as good as dead.

***

They took him back to the rundown
barn behind the abandoned farmhouse and hung him up in the barn loft again. But
this time, they left his hands untied.

Cowboy took Skeeter’s left hand and
made a show of closely examining the class ring on Skeeter’s third finger.
“That’s a nice ring,” Cowboy said. “I coulda had me one, ’cept I had to quit
school and go to work. You wouldn’t know about that, would you? Being the son
of a rich undertaker and all.”

“I work,” Skeeter said, then
immediately wondered why he bothered to argue with the crazy cretin in the
cowboy hat.

“Yeah, but you don’t have to. You
just work for extra spending money. Right?”

Luther walked toward him with
long-handled bolt-cutters in his hand, and Skeeter realized what was about to
happen. He tried to jerk his hand out of Cowboy’s grasp, but Cowboy held firm.

“Hold him still,” said Luther.

Fate Porch stood with his arms
folded across his chest, watching impassively.

“No! Please...” begged Skeeter.

Luther held up the scissor blades
of the bolt-cutters and Cowboy stuck Skeeter’s ring finger in the steel V.
Skeeter tried to pull his finger out of the biting vise, but Cowboy’s grip was
too strong.

“Jesus Christ,” Skeeter blurted,
“if you want my ring, just take it. You don’t have to cut off my finger!”

“It ain’t for us, dipshit,” Cowboy
said, his breath foul in Skeeter’s face. “It’s for your asshole buddy. The
sumbitch that shot Odell.”

“Hold him still, dammit,” Luther
told his brother. Then he scissored the handles together.

Skeeter’s finger came off with a
loud snap, and a ragged scream ripped itself from his throat. His whole body
jerked, swinging a little on the chain. Unable to cope with the pain and the
horror, his mind escaped into a netherworld of semi-consciousness.