Carved in Bone - Jefferson Bass [86]
“Okay,” I said. “It’s one-fifteen now. I’ll need to hit a drive-through on the way up, but I could be there by two-thirty.”
“Let me send Waylon to meet you at the exit.”
“I don’t know about that,” I said. “Last time Waylon picked me up, I ended up headfirst in a barrel of dead chickens, covered in blood, vomit, and tobacco juice.”
He laughed. “Makes a hell of story, doesn’t it?” I had to admit it did. “And he helped get you out of the cave,” he reminded me. Despite misgivings, I agreed to give Waylon one more chance at chauffeuring.
He rumbled to a stop in the gravel lot beside the Pilot station as I wolfed down the last of my lunch. As I hoisted myself up into his cab, he flashed me a grin. “Howdy, Doc. You don’t look any the worse for wear from your spe-lunkin’. Glad we ain’t put you offa Cooke County for good.”
“I’m back. But no more cockfights—and no more Copenhagen.”
I heard a wheezing sound coming from Waylon’s direction; it built to a snicker, then exploded into a booming, truck-shaking roar of laughter. He pounded the steering wheel with one mammoth fist, then wiped tears from his eyes with a camouflaged shirt sleeve. “Doc, I wisht you coulda seen yourself pitching over into that trash barrel. I b’lieve that’s the funniest damn thing I ever saw. That, and the look on all them fellas standing around as you was keelin’ over. If I had me a video of that, I bet I’d win the ten grand on that TV show for funny videos.”
First the TBI, then O’Conner, now Waylon. Apparently I was never going to live this down. My only consolation was that my colleagues and students at UT hadn’t witnessed the debacle. “Well, if you hear of somebody else who caught it on tape, I’d probably pay ten grand myself, just to take it out of circulation.” Waylon looked thoughtful, doubtless searching his memory banks in hopes of dredging up a video.
Halfway toward O’Conner’s place, Waylon turned off the river road onto a narrow track of dirt. “Way-lon,” I said, “this isn’t the way.”
“I just got to stop by and see my cousin Vern real quick. He’s the one I was bettin’ on the cockfight for. Come on, Doc, this won’t take but a few minutes.”
“Oh, no, you don’t,” I said. “I’ve been down this road with you before.”
“Naw you ain’t,” he said. “The cockfight was over by Gnatty Branch. This here’s Laurel Branch.”
“You know what I mean. No more side trips!”
“Hell, Doc, don’t make me feel worse’n I already do. It’s real important—if I don’t do this, Vern’s gonna have his ass in a sling big-time. No joke—this is a genu-ine family emergency. Besides, we’re already here.” We lurched to a stop and Waylon shut off the mighty diesel.
I looked out the windshield. There wasn’t much “here” here: a rutted turnaround, from which a narrow footpath led into the woods. Waylon got out and headed down the trail. “Hey, wait up,” I called. Fifty yards down the path, I was surprised to see trees posted with KEEP OUT and NO TRESPASSING signs. Running beneath them were shiny strands of barbed wire. Waylon pressed down on the top strand and stepped over the fence, then motioned for me to follow.
“Waylon, I think whoever put up this fence and these signs means business.”
He laughed. “Oh, he means business, but he don’t mean us. We’s family.”
The trail angled through a stand of pines—all dead, decimated by a pine beetle infestation three years before—which bore additional menacing signs. I looked at Waylon doubtfully, but he just grinned and motioned me forward. As I neared the edge of the pine thicket, Waylon slowed, then stopped. “Doc, watch your step here—be sure you don’t catch that war.”
“War? What war?”
“That war about a foot off the ground there, couple steps ahead.”
I looked where he was pointing. A taut monofilament line—invisible unless you happened to catch a glint of sunlight through it—stretched across the trail about knee-high. To my left, it