My Brother's Destroyer Page 3

  That was years ago, but Cory Smylie was not one to forget being thwarted.

  He used the rifle barrel to forge a path through a ten-foot barrier of leafless briars, then set off at a brisk pace. The woods had changed in the intervening years; trees had grown, some had died. A giant stump that had been rotted in the center was now a jagged pillar on one side, with the rest crumbled. He came to a flat rock that sloped downward, eventually coming to a steep drop-off.

  He could take a prone shooting position at the edge, but if he engaged Creighton from the top of the rock, Creighton would never find Stipe’s note.

  Cory stopped and thought. If Creighton was a thorn in Stipe’s side, how much more appreciative would he be if Cory took matters into his own hands? Maybe stepped a foot or two off the reservation? Cory had seen Stipe’s altercation with Creighton. He’d heard the threat. In giving Cory his instructions, hadn’t Stipe almost implied that Cory would be that awful sledgehammer?

  Nodding, Cory slung his rifle and urinated over the edge of the rock. Hell yeah. He’d do it.

  It would be a military operation, like a video game. The crag below where he stood sported a cave-like recess. He’d observed Creighton from there years before while awaiting an opportunity to steal moonshine. When he’d crept to Creighton’s still and been warned off by the dog, he’d chanced a look back to where he’d been hiding. It was an open firing lane, and even at high noon shadows masked the cave. It was a perfect blind.

  Cory circled to the back of the rock and followed the terrain lower around the face. A well-worn trail cut below the rock and led up a steep incline to the dark cavern. Cory grabbed a rope hanging from the ledge and pulled himself up. He hesitated at the opening. The cave was only ten feet deep, but who knew what strange animals the pervasive shadows hid? A bobcat? A bear? He unslung his rifle and pointed into the depths while his eyes adjusted. In a moment he saw ancient fissures. Bones from a small animal. A crumpled Schlitz can—a relic of the famous Schlitz Indians.

  He sat on a rock positioned behind two boulders that blocked most of the cave’s opening. The place felt contrived, as if nature couldn’t have deposited these rocks in such a convenient position. Creighton had probably done all this so he could hunt deer without walking very far. It would be funny if he ended up getting shot from his own blind. There was a word for that. I—yeah, it’d be funny as hell.

  Cory leaned against the boulders, placed the rifle barrel in the V-shaped slot formed where they met and sighted through the scope. Two hundred yards away, half of Creighton’s camp was exposed. Creighton sat on a log beside a fire. No way he’d expect to be hit so soon. It was only morning. Seven o’clock. Shit.

  He was going to kill a man. He’d thought about it—who doesn’t think about killing men? Right? You see the dogs go at it and you have to wonder what it’d be like to cross the line. To really do it. Because there’s no looking back—if you kill someone you can’t bullshit an apology. You have to know beforehand that every angle’s covered. There can be no mistakes. You can’t get caught because you can’t flash your dimples at a judge.

  Would he really do it? His heart thudded and he realized he was pulling the trigger already, without aiming, without taking the safety off. Damn… was it loaded? Yeah. This was the real shit. Cool down. Smoke another joint. It helps your reflexes.

  Yeah.

  He fished a baggie and a book of cigarette papers from his front pocket. He leaned the rifle on the rock and, with dexterity born more of experience than sobriety, expertly pinched marijuana into the paper and rolled it. Shit yeah, he was going to kill a man. Fuckin’ A.

  He could shoot. Lord, how he could shoot. When he was fourteen his father took him to the range and couldn’t believe the targets he was hitting. From fifty yards there wasn’t a ten-inch bulls-eye he couldn’t nail every time. Then his senior year he’d returned to the range with his buddies and refined his skill. He was a sniper.

  Cory lit the joint. Sucked in the smoke and held it in his lungs until the burn felt good. In a moment, normalcy. He was cool. Creighton was just a man. He could kill a man.

  *

  Last night could’ve spoiled a lot of work.

  Joe Stipe was none too happy seeing me; those fights is by invitation. Lou Buzzard had a couple my jugs with him and maybe Stipe had enough he wasn’t thinking too clear. Don’t take much. But I get the feeling Stipe won’t let my challenge go unanswered.

  I got a little fire on and coffee percolating. Me and Fred split a few eggs. Been two week since I hauled him home. He’s timid crawling out of bed and when he does he’s slow poking his way about. Both his eyes is scabs.

  I keep him up to date but he’s reluctant to talk and his speech got an edge. He sniffs around the crate, crawls back inside and licks his jowls. Finally he cants his head and while I look at his eyes he says, What are you doing about it?

  I’d like to say something stronger than “My wheels is turning.”

  Fred perks up, jabs his nose high in the air.

  “What you smell?”

  Don’t know.

  “Well, I’m a little on edge. You holler if you whiff something funny.”

  My still sits in a little hemlock cathedral, the lowest limbs thirty feet up. A couple black cherry nose through but nothing else got the gumption. Hemlock keeps the air fresh, and when a breeze comes through and wipes away the mash barrel smell, they ain’t a place on the planet smells cleaner. These trees sway with the wind and it ain’t uncommon for a bad storm to blow one over. Six year ago I sat under the tarp thrilling in the belly of a tornado’s baby brother. Wind boomed like thunder. Thunder sounded like God. This hemlock a hundred yards off let out a yell. Roots popped out the ground and the whole thing pitched over. But hemlock grows thick and other trees caught it. To this day it grows at a sixty-degree slant, its limbs tangled in the arms of five other.

  I climbed to the canopy and it was another world. Birds you never see up close. I looked down and them green pine needles looked soft as pillows. A breeze got everything swaying. All of a sudden the whole damn thing was ready to come down and jumping at them pillows seemed credible agin riding a sixty-foot hemlock to the ground. Hell of a spooky place.

  More so drunk.

  I’d like it much if none of this shit with Fred ever happened. I don’t want to be a five-year-old pointing my finger saying, “He started it.” If they’s a fight, let’s not stand around with our thumbs up our asses.

  But what’s the Good Book say about being slow to anger? Ain’t that a virtue?

  Most times I sit on a stump next the fire. Water gurgles over rocks at the brook; wind rustles leaves. One time when the humidity was thick as week-old cream I sat so long I saw a mushroom grow. It’s best when all the woods works to keep me occupied—a red squirrel chatters, the wind blows, a pinecone drops, a sparrow darts limb to limb, a moth lands on a stump and his wings don’t match—that’ll take a good ten minute to adequately marvel…

  A leaf pops up off the ground.

  I no more than wrinkle my brow and I hear a rifle report, must be two hundred yard off. I spin around on my log and peer between trunks.

  Some fool hunter wandered in on my posted land—though I got a sign up every ten feet the whole damn way around. That, or Stipe’s boys is making war. Either way I’ll set somebody straight. Way the ground lays, all wavy and such, they ain’t but a single place a hunter could sit two hundred yard off and reach me through all the trees.

  They’s a rock overhang with a pair of boulders in front makes it look like a Hun machine gun nest. From the still site it’s a narrow aperture—some freak phenomenon lined the trees right—so I can see it when I stand just so.

  I don’t see anybody up there, but I wouldn’t. It’s a natural blind. I set off to my left, make a wide circle up there and

  Crack!

  I dive to dirt. Two shots ain’t accident. I look back at the tarp, confirm they’s hemlock between Fred and the Hun blind. Fred’s safe.

&nbs
p; “You stay where you’re at, Fred. I’ll sort this out.”

  Fred says, This about last night?

  “That’s the question.”

  I’m just saying, Fred says. That sounds like a sniper to me.

  I crawl to tree cover and then run. One more shot rings out and the bullet sings like it bounced off a rock. I’m moving fast as old beat legs and hips can carry me. I slow when I wheeze. Pull out Smith and rotate the cylinder. Keep it pointed ahead.

  Shit, I’m not playing games—I’m going straight in.

  At fifty yards from the Hun blind, things get exposed. They must be a hundred firing lanes. I hunker behind a tree and catch my breath. Rethink. I’m royal torqued, getting sniped at in my own woods, but I get myself killed on account of being angry-stupid, old Fred’ll starve to death.

  I breathe slow ‘til my anger settles.

  When I can’t make out the rocks of the Hun blind between the trees I continue the circle I started on. Seventy-eighty yards farther, I’m partly behind him. But it’s been minutes and minutes since he last fired. He saw me take off through the woods—only a fool’d get pinned in a blind. He’s prob’ly slipped away and got me in his scope right now.

  I squat and look out between the tree trunks far as I can see, and scan leftward from the Hun blind. He’s behind one of them trees. He’s got a rifle barrel pointed and enough of his head sticking out to line his eye behind the sights. If I could only see him. I cover the whole swath and back again ‘til my eyes stop at the blind. I got no electric. No red. He’s maybe lit out, but hell I don’t know.

  Maybe he didn’t take off.

  Maybe it was coincidence, a hunter popping shots off at a running squirrel and me running behind thinking it’s me getting aimed at. That would make sense—except it’s stupid.

  I slip from tree to tree, closer and closer to the Hun blind. Twenty feet out, I pause. Peek from behind the rough bark of an oak. My heart thuds and neck sweat chills me.

  The overhang sits upslope and the last ten feet is steep. I got a rope tied off to a tree trunk on top, hangs down to the trail. The blind is two rocks and it’s the fissure between that makes a perfect place to poke a rifle. Got the overhang casting everything in a deep ugly shadow, trapping your scent from any animal wanders by. If I shoot inside the blind I’ll have to hit a one-inch gap, or maybe ricochet lead from the rock ceiling and hope it keeps him low while I charge.

  “Come on out! ’Fore I come in and get you!”

  Silence.

  I point Smith in the air. I fire.

  I look out through the forest again and wonder if he’s already gone. Maybe shoot me in the back as soon as I get to the rocks? I feel like I got sights on me right now but I don’t know where or which way from. I take slow aim at the overhang slope so my lead’ll ricochet inside.

  I fire.

  And run. I’m low. Boots thudding. Smith firing. I shoot the ceiling once, twice. Each discharge sparks and smokes and zings like a Yosemite Sam gunshow. I point at the crack between the rocks and fire again. Got one shot left. I charge up the final slope. Don’t even grab the rope—I just scramble my winded ass forward. At the last second I dodge left to right. Swing my gun arm inside. I follow, ready to plant my last bullet in some sniper or die from his.

  Smells like dope up here.

  Cavern’s empty save a piece of paper on a log seat and three shell casings. I pick em up. Thirty-aught-six. That ain’t a hello gun. That’s a fuck you gun.

  I swipe the paper. Sit on the log and look a clean line to my still site. This has to be where the shooter drew his bead. I catch my breath a minute. Pull out a flask that’s been flapping in my ass pocket and take a long, steadying pull. I feel the paper in my fingers but my eyes point out there… wonder if I’m the sitting duck now.

  I unfold the paper.

  It’s easy to kill a man who lives in the woods.

  Of course he didn’t sign the damn thing.

  I damn near got steam coming out my eyes. I stew a minute. Sure, you sit this far from my camp and you got the patience, you can take me out. But it won’t be as easy up close. Fred’ll catch your scent, or I’ll see you, day or night. No. You want to visit again, you’ll come right back here to the Hun blind.

  I’ll have something for you.

  I stand outside the blind, looking in. Looking above. Slope of the rock give me an idea. The nearby trees—a four-inch birch not thirty feet off—give me another.

  I’m back after twenty-five minute. I got a hundred feet of barbed wire from the fenced-off plot behind Farmer Brown’s. I got my ax, thirty feet of rope and a twenty-pound burlap sack full of pissed off.

  Somebody want to send me a message?

  Come on back for my answer.

  First off I climb around the crag to the top where I got the rope. It’s a steep angle and slippy. I find a boulder the size of a carving pumpkin. I cradle it between my knees and scoot across the top, and leave it where the rock is flat.

  Next I gather smaller rocks—about fifty. Scavenge all over and finally pull most out the crick. I want em round and smooth. I make the bottom of my shirt a bucket and fill it. Five trips. Finally, I ax an eight-inch piece of maple, each end at a harsh cant.

  Years ago I hung a rope over the ledge to help me get up the trail. It’s tied to a tree on top. I scout a faint bowl in the nearby surface and set my pumpkin rock there and prop it in place with the eight-inch maple. Wary, I stand back a pace. That’ll work. I carry the smaller rocks by twos and stack em against the upslope side of the pumpkin ‘til it’s the only thing holding back an avalanche. I cut the rope hanging over the ledge, weave it under the maple strut and tie it off. And careful as all hell, lower the rope back over the ledge.

  Let it go, asshole. It’s easy to kill a man who lives in the woods.

  It’s easy to kill one visiting, too.

  Next, the barbed wire. I study my resources. Birch tree. Rope. Wire. Plenty of sticks and rocks. A hemlock right close to the trail.

  I head back to the homestead, pass the house and stop at the shed. Grab an auger with a one-inch bit.

  At the Hun blind I drill three holes into the side of the hemlock closest the crag. Chop a six-foot branch from a distant hemlock and whittle three pegs so they’ll stick four inches proud of the tree, and one more peg that’ll act like a trigger. One more for a stake.

  With the back of my ax head I drive the stake into the ground about twenty feet from the birch tree. Loop the rope over it and jam the other end between my belt and britches. I climb the birch hand over hand ‘til the tree bends, then kick out my feet and let my weight bow the tree to the ground. I tie off the rope.

  The tree fixed, I loop one end of the barbed wire around the top and arm the trigger, pulling taut as I can. The hemlock branch goes across the trail so anybody wants access to the Hun blind has to push it aside. That’ll pop the trigger and release the bowed birch. I string the rest of the wire across the trail.

  Anybody pushes that branch aside’ll get castrated with rusted barbed wire. Then he’ll pull the rope for support and get buried in rocks.

  Let it go, asshole. It’s easy to kill a man who lives in the woods.

  Yeah? Well it’s easy to maim a dumbass wants to snipe at a man in his home.

  Chapter Five

  They’s times Ruth flirts at the edges of my thoughts and they’s only two ways to drive her off. I write her a letter, or drown her in shine.

  After seeing Larry last night and getting shot at today my distrust of mankind’s all but confirmed and I got to mope on Ruth. Can’t sit in the woods and hope a conspiracy of squirrels and butterflies’ll hold disgust at bay.

  I keep a notepad in a plastic box under the tarp, and a pen right next.

  Ruth—

  I don’t call you Dear no more. But we been over that, so I don’t got to say it again. I thought maybe I hadn’t told you in such a long time why I write that I oughta refresh you, and maybe that way you’ll get the fuck out my head for just a li
ttle while.

  Fred is better than he was at least. Still don’t like to move around, but he eats and he shits and that’s two-thirds what a dog is for.

  You know I can tell a liar. Well, I remember sitting with you and thinking you was the only person in the world who told the truth. Even after a little likker!

  Aw hell. This don’t work so good—knowing you won’t ever say anything back. You know where I live. You come here, just honk the horn.

  Baer

  I tear the love note from the pad, fold it, tuck it in my pocket. Got to swing by the house later anyway, so may as well put it with the rest ‘til I mail em. Only thing I go in there for is storing letters and likker and patching up Fred. House has history.

  I wrote in the letter that she told the truth because I never called her out on the giant lie she told that set me on this path, and her on hers, and Larry his. It’s ridiculous how we pretend, can’t get along honest because little things pop up. Pride. Shame.

  Ruth and me scrogged enough to make a jackrabbit blush, and didn’t talk about much else. We was young. By the time she told me her lie, I’d been set thinking she was the only one in the world who’d never flash red or give me sparks. And so these last thirty years has been all about disbelief. If I ever let the truth about her lie take hold, they’s no way avoiding the absolute fact that everybody—everybody—is a damned liar.

  Druther stoke an imaginary love affair.

  I stow the pen and look through the trees, and back at Fred. He’s no more interested in what’s going on than I am, and I spend a minute shaking Ruth loose from my head. They’s one thing that works even better’n writing letters.

  Looking at Fred.

  Poor bastard still ain’t right. His eyes is black crust and flies land on em ‘til he starts twitching and grinding his head on the ground. The rip across his chest—I sewed it shut that first night at the house, and I keep it pretty well likkered. He breathes better now, but I believe his windpipe is still half-crushed because he’ll wheeze after no more effort than licking his sac. Fred’s ornery like that hound the two old-timers was looking at. They watch the dog lick his nuts and one says, “Boy I wish I could do that,” and the other says, “I doubt he’d much care for it.”