Pretty Like an Ugly Girl (Baer Creighton Book 3) Read online

  Pretty Like an Ugly Girl

  Clayton Lindemuth

  Hardgrave Enterprises

  SAINT CHARLES, MISSOURI

  Copyright © 2018 by Clayton Lindemuth.

  Published by Hardgrave Enterprises and Clayton Lindemuth.

  Clayton Lindemuth asserts his moral rights as author of Pretty Like an Ugly Girl.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at [email protected]. Nah, just kidding. Send it to Clayton.

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  PRETTY LIKE AN UGLY GIRL/Clayton Lindemuth

  Also by Clayton Lindemuth

  TREAD

  Solomon Bull

  Cold Quiet Country

  Sometimes Bone

  Nothing Save the Bones Inside Her

  My Brother’s Destroyer

  The Mundane Work of Vengeance

  Strong at the Broken Places

  For the folks on the Red Meat Lit Street Team.

  You rock.

  Thanks for all the help.

  Every tree that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire. Therefore by their fruits you will know them.

  ― Mathew 7:19-20

  On that day many will say to me, ‘Lord, Lord, did we not prophesy in your name, and cast out demons in your name, and do many mighty works in your name?’ And then will I declare to them, ‘I never knew you; depart from me, you workers of lawlessness.’

  ― Matthew 7: 22-23

  CHAPTER ONE

  Cephus Graves sat in the passenger seat of a white Isuzu refrigerated box truck. The driver, his brother Finch, crowded up on a rusted Mitsubishi Trooper blocking the passing lane. A semi chugged along to their right. After nine hours of windshield time, Cephus looked forward to getting home. They had another long leg of driving tomorrow.

  “Back off a little,” Cephus said. “You have to be smarter than the other asshole. You get up on him, he’ll just go slower ’cause he already knows you’re pissed. Lot of people, that’s their aim.”

  “I want to get home. I stink.”

  “Roll down the window.”

  “I have a headache.”

  “You are a headache.”

  The brothers made the trip every month, starting at the family homestead outside of Williams, Arizona, following Interstate 40 east to Flagstaff, Interstate 17 to Phoenix, and Interstate 10 most of the way to Sierra Vista. There they filled the truck with meat and returned the same day to Williams. The second day they drove nine hours from Williams to Salt Lake City, exchanged the meat for money, holed up at a motel, and returned to Williams the following day.

  If it wouldn’t have impugned their mother’s virtue, Cephus and Finch could have believed they came from different fathers. Cephus, the baby of three brothers, was golden. In high school, he learned calculus because it took no effort. He spurned sports, theater, group activities, always preferring to speak for his own schedule. He tore things apart and rebuilt them. Traded for better. Talking came easily and his winsome smile, easier. He would soon follow in the footsteps of his oldest brother, Wayman, and expand the family business into new territory.

  Finch, the middle son of Luke and Caroline Graves, was the black sheep. By age twenty-five, he’d already been thrice sequestered to rehab for chemical dependency, each time at a more promising, and more costly facility. He learned the yoga and the psychobabble. How to cook vegetarian. How to challenge the addiction by rooting out the deep neurosis that made him feel the need to change his mental state with drugs or alcohol, and to address it by other, more life affirming and healthful means.

  Each time he came home clean, Finch quickly found his way back dirty.

  His place in the family business was tenuous. The third time Luke and Caroline entered him into rehab, Luke said to her at the dinner table, You love the family dog—but put him down when you gotto. All we know about him, it’s past due.

  Since then Finch had resumed his old habits. All-nighters at bars followed by poor decision making while at work, creating more risk than he was worth.

  To Cephus, it was just a matter of time until his brother didn’t show up to work one day.

  “I ain’t getting in trouble. I don’t go out rabble rousing. I’m not the one with a felony record. Let’s have a little fair play. All I’m asking.”

  It was true. Finch’s older brother Wayman had spent three years in jail. But not for wild ways and stupidity. He’d taken the fall for another when, at his father’s request, he moved to Salt Lake City to begin expanding the family operation. Wayman had been hit with a first strike possession-with-intent charge, and Luke had felt guilty for putting his son out on his own too early. Luke hired the best criminal defense attorney but drew a fire and brimstone judge. Wayman and Luke felt the mere three-year sentence, out of a possible and more-likely fifteen, was a blessing from providence. Because of the hard lesson, they played the game tighter, took fewer chances, and did their best to make sure Cephus learned from their mistakes.

  Professional criminality was different from criminal recklessness. A mature human being calculated risks, took precautions, put insurance in place. A professional knew sometimes bad breaks happened. It wasn’t like they took the field unopposed every day. Cops, DEA, ATF, FBI—there was no end to the agencies and resources dedicated to curbing their economic freedom. Even if the so-called good guys were corrupt and incompetent—what was the saying? A blind squirrel finds a nut once in a while. Law enforcement won every now and again. So what? A pro didn’t leave the game. A pro took calculated risks that sometimes went against him. It wasn’t dumb; it was smart because the occasional three year stint in the pen meant nothing compared to the bank made the rest of the time —especially when the pro decided to play it so tight, that shit never happened again.

  Finch, however, didn’t limit his criminality to the work his father required of him. He supplemented it with lifestyle criminality as well. Stupid shit. Shoplifting. Bar fights. Selling X to college girls.

  They took Interstate 40 west at Flagstaff. Cephus let his eyes drift to the buildings and lights for the short stretch where Flagstaff was visible from the road.

  He closed his eyes and rested his head against the seatback. Thought about a girl he’d met at the bar the other night—

  Finch swerved hard. Cephus grabbed the door. A loud clunk sounded, and the vehicle bounced like it had run over an I-beam. A tire exploded and hissed. The truck shook. The vehicle pulled right.

  “Don’t brake,” Cephus said. “Coast.”

  Finch locked his arms and white knuckled the steering wheel. He sat back in his seat and removed his foot from the gas. The Isuzu slowed.

  Cephus reached to the console and hit the hazard light button.

  “Just drift over to the edge.”

  “Shit. Wow.”

  “What the hell was that?” Cephus said.

  “I—I barely saw it. Looked like an axle.”

  “An axle? Like, the who
le thing?”

  “What it looked like.”

  “Nah. Can’t be.”

  Finch pulled over. Cephus ran back and discovered the object was a drive shaft. He waved an oncoming car to the other lane and dragged the hazard ten feet from the road. From the double thump, Cephus surmised they’d hit it with both right front and dually rears. The front blew.

  Cephus trotted back to the truck.

  “There’s an exit in a mile or so. Drive on the berm until we get there.”

  “Won’t that ruin the rim?”

  “Yeah, but we’ve got meat, and I don’t want a state trooper stopping to be helpful.”

  “Dad’ll be pissed about the rim.”

  Cephus shook his head. “Drive. It’s about being exposed, dumbass.”

  The blown-out tire shredded and, after what seemed like ten minutes of thwacking and thumping, fell off the rim.

  Metal on concrete.

  “Thought you said a mile. It’s been at least five.”

  “Cool Pines is up ahead. Just keep going.”

  They arrived at the exit. Finch turned.

  “Okay, here. Up ahead it comes to a T. We can pull over on the flat and change the tire out of the way.”

  Finch drove onto red volcanic dirt. The sign said: FIRE DANGER MODERATE TODAY!

  Beyond a wooden ranch style fence, several hundred acres of flatland grass and sporadic evergreens vied for moisture, before giving way to forests and scattered mountains.

  Stepping out of the truck, Cephus smelled wood smoke. He studied the tree line, surveyed a half circle for light or visual smoke. The air was still—it could be coming from anywhere. Cephus leaned a .308 rifle he used for hunting deer against the side of the truck.

  Finch exited the Isuzu NQR refrigerated box. It hadn’t come with a spare tire, and in the meat business, they couldn’t afford to wait all day for a repair or tow truck. They’d built a contingency box in the back of the truck, toward the cab. It held anything they’d need in an emergency, spare front tire and jack, torque wrench, flares, triangles, blankets, candles.

  Pick and shovel.

  Finch unlocked the back door, removed the lock, and rotated the latch.

  “Hold up,” Cephus said.

  “What’s to think about?”

  The door flew open. A black-haired boy bounded out of the back, shouldered Finch backward, and launched himself down the road at a sprint. He cut to the left, dove to the ground, and crawled under the barbed wire.

  Now running in the open, he headed straight away from the truck. Cephus looked inside. The boy’s handcuff hung on the wall rail used for binding loads, like in a U-Haul. The loop that should have held his wrist dangled open. Cephus studied the girls. “Show me your wrists! Hold them up!” He held up his arm and grabbed the closest girl, lifted hers. The others stared at him, and slowly lifted their wrists. They were all handcuffed.

  Cephus stepped to the right front tire. Lifted the .308, wrapped the sling around his left arm, and lowered the rifle. He assumed an unsupported standing position, at an angle toward the rear. He glanced around for any oncoming traffic. It was dusk. Nothing, anywhere.

  The boy’s red jacket was easy to spot. Cephus lowered his eye to the scope and found the picture. He aligned the cross hairs on the boy’s back. Elevated for distance—the little shit was quick.

  Cephus switched off the safety.

  “Any traffic Finch?”

  “No. None.”

  Cephus fired.

  A girl shrieked.

  The boy tumbled.

  Cephus peered over the riflescope. From his left field of vision darted a coyote—no, it was a white dog. He picked it up in the scope’s cross hairs. This was a challenge, a dog running full bore. He led by two lengths and pulled the trigger. The animal rolled.

  Cephus slung his rifle and turned to Finch. “Stupid fuck. Why’d you open the door?”

  “Like that was my fault.”

  “It’s not about fault. It’s about not doing shit until you’re prepared.”

  Cephus turned to where the Mexican boy lay. His jacket would be easily visible from the road. Might be visible even from Interstate 40.

  “We’ve got to bury him,” Cephus said.

  “You shot him,” Finch said.

  “I’m not leaving you here with the meat and the truck. Go.”

  Cephus stared at his older brother.

  “I’ll fix the flat,” Cephus said. “Move, dammit!”

  Finch climbed inside the truck and grabbed a shovel secured inside the emergency box.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Land out here’s so dry you can stretch out with yer feet on a log and don’t get yer back wet. Fire burn low and slow, keep the coals ready to cook. Got the butane stove but ain’t learned to use it.

  Mountains dropped all over. Climb one and gander full circle; they’s everywhere. Just like a flat, and somebody with a big ass bucket dropped a mountain here and there, no rhyme or reason, ’cept mebbe he was walking northeast and kept changing bucket hands. They boil up outta nothing, rest the land smooth. Uncanny.

  Accourse, time you get the top it’s good as drinking a half gallon a hooch. They’s no air up there. Glad I done it, but once is nice and twice make the fool.

  Now I’s back, got the feet elevated and the blood rushing back the brain. This’s what I wanted, all them years writing letters to Ruth. Got a space to lay down under never ending sky, and Ruth’s a half day walk away. Slip in when I want—so to speak.

  Almost wasn’t so.

  We drove two women yammering and three kids a-crying all the way from east to west. Noise and deceit. Women don’t know better. It’s how they think, crooked paths, can’t get to the kernel ’less they whittle at it from sixteen directions. Each time it looks and feels like deceit—’cause they don’t even know theyselves what they think till they say it the third time. Damndest thing. They manage to eat and comb they hair and do all the things a body got to do, but shit if I know how. Women minds don’t work right.

  So we split up.

  Mae got on a red wig and Elton John sunglasses and I throw on the suit. We go to five banks. Split the gold ’tween ten deposit boxes. Traded some for walking cash. That, and I found a leather belt at the outfitters. Got pockets for cigarettes and phones and all whatnot, sit the small yer back. Filled ’em with ten-pound specie, so if the banks confiscate the boxes, I ain’t destitute.

  Now the women’s at the hotel and I’s under the sky. Got the waterproof backpack. Down sleeping bag. Cook stove. Water purifier with the hand pump and ceramic innards. Pouches of backpacker food, all you do is boil water and pour. Salty like you dragged yer tongue on a deer lick.

  Peace, quiet. I’s set up like a king, for equipment. Tactical knife with a nub for breaking glass and a slot for cutting parachute cord. I bought parachute cord so’s to have something to cut. Plastic coated topographical map, whole top half Arizona. Karabiners. Cargo pants. New boots and wool socks. Compass. Fishing line. Snakebite kit.

  Got a spoon with nubs like a fork. Hippies come up with that.

  Got a small jug likker too, but it been two days silence with no women and kids, and I don’t take a pull but when the mood strike. I don’t hardly remember I got it, and when I do, I’s so damn thirsty I drink water first. After that, they’s no room for the likker. Too much ’sploring to do.

  I set up camp two hundred yard from the road where Mae and Ruth cut me loose. Said they’d be back for me in two week. I’d use the time to let my brain get used to peace, and they’d use it to not have to deal with a ornery cuss likes to shoot people. I give each the kids a peck and a hug to the women. They drop me off and here I am. Walked two hundred yard, said fuck it, I’s here, Joe let’s pitch the tent. Ain’t moved camp; just been scouting about with this as home base.

  Way off comes a rifle crack! and echo like from a deer rifle. Hear ’em all the time back home. ’Cept we’s too close the road for legit hunters.

  Stinky Joe sets out at a
dead run.

  “No! Joe! C’mon back here.”

  He been sniffing and chasing every animal you can imagine—pronghorn cave wall animals live out here. I grab my new binoculars. Light getting low.

  They’s a white van, maybe a refrigerated truck, fella in a standing position with the rifle. Scan left to where he look—clump of red in a pile, got legs and black hair. Back to the fella got the rifle. He faces left and right, naked eye. Sees Joe and pull up the rifle.

  “Ah, hell no!”

  I drag Smith out for duty, but time I got him level, they’s another shot and Stinky Joe rolls in dust.

  Holster Smith. I couldn’t hit land from here let alone a man.

  Joe’s a pile of white. He kicks and wiggles. I picture the man shot him—inside fifteen minute he’ll be upside down from a oak, skinned from the fucking ankles. Put his head in a bucket and keep his mouth above the blood line and his nose below.

  Feel like I’s Job and God decided to write a book. It ain’t ordinarily possible a man can go through so much travails with his canines.

  I swallow back stomach acid and set off on legs still wobbly from the mountain climb.

  Twenty yard in, I’s working a good stomp. I’ll get there ’fore they change the tire and, if not, fill the cab with holes.

  Dusk come fast out west, was already on us before the commotion. Now I want a little light, seems they ain’t a minute of day left. I stalk the truck. Another fella walks out a ways, climbs over a wood fence. I stop next a evergreen and look him over with binoculars. This ain’t the fella shot Joe. This one’s a white boy with dreadlock hair.

  Look’im over. He ain’t armed—’cept a shovel.

  He cut toward the shot body with the red jacket.

  Now I got a good angle, I see the other fella works a jack at the front right tire. It’s an Isuzu box, white with the refrigerator unit above the flat nosed cab. Side of the van’s got a picture of a eight foot T-bone. A smoking black brand in the meat says GRAVES MEATS.