Nightwoods - Charles Frazier [83]
Bud shut up and stared out the window at an impossibly big moon. He kept his head straight and the panic in his stomach damped down by wondering what it would cost to bring the white-haired lawyer up here. Eat these rubes alive in court. In two hours, that old boy would burn them all a new one.
Lit kept on driving deeper into the mountains. One beer later, he started again on places and dates and surnames. Said, What if I made a call down to the capital asking if they have a sheet on a man named John Gary Johnson? Put whatever they have in the mail. Particularly a photo. Be here in a few days. What would I find? I’m not out to get you, but don’t leave me hanging. People are talking.
—What people? Your crazy girl with her made-up stories?
—No.
And then, it hit Bud through the haze. What was he so scared of? He’d gone through one trial without getting put down. And last time on the phone, the lawyer had said the State boys had their tails tucked between their legs from the beating he had administered, and they probably wouldn’t retry without new evidence. So, Luce could hold whatever opinions about him she cared to, as long as the kids couldn’t witness against him. Bud had been feeling like the surface of a pot of water right before coming to a boil. Quivering. But now he went calm and collected his suavity back.
He said, Suppose you and the gossips around town are right about me. Your problem would be that a court of law let me go.
Lit drove awhile, and then glanced sideways, his face perfectly blank. Half illuminated by the greenish lights of the dash, and the other half shadowed.
He said, Not a problem for me. I’m not talking about law. No judges and juries. No lawyers. I’m talking about making somebody pay.
Possibly, running more lines of bullshit might have served Bud’s purposes much better, but he panicked at the expression on Lit’s face. He’d seen plenty of Lit’s work. And Bud knew from bitter experience that the hand-to-hand was seldom his best choice. He couldn’t stand up to Lit unless he got awfully lucky. And luck mostly ran against him.
So, be the first one to go bad. Claim the high ground. Ancient wisdom passed down from old Stonewall. Some situation where he was outnumbered and outgunned against a mess of Yankees, as usual. An underling asked what they were to do, and Stonewall said, Kill them all. According to the mythology, he seemed sort of sad about it.
Which is how Bud felt when, with no prelude, he put his knife into Lit all the way to the quillons as they cruised up the road toward the quarter-mile slashes. He probed deep into Lit’s side where essential organs lay greasy and dark against one another. Every thrust opened the wound wider and dug deeper.
Lit’s concentration on driving wavered. The car went tacking up the road.
Bud leaned and took the wheel one-handed. He threw a leg over the drivetrain hump and kicked Lit’s foot from the pedals. The car stalled and rolled to a stop. Then it rolled slowly backward, jerking and grinding against the transmission until Bud stomped around and found the emergency-brake pedal left-footed.
They sat nearly sideways in the middle of the steep black road with the headlights skewed toward the trees. Lit lived, but not in good shape. His hands gripped his cut middle, trying to hold himself in. His head not entirely under control.
—How could you do me this way? Bud said.
Lit bled out between his fingers. White in the face. He said, What?
—I thought we were friends.
Lit worked his mouth, but nothing got said.
—I better drive, Bud said.
He climbed out the passenger door and walked around the front of the car.
Lit’s last moment of consciousness, a full moon blazing above the treetops and then Bud crossing the windshield, bleached by the headlights.
Bud shoved Lit across the bench seat until his head leaned against the passenger armrest. Bud cranked up and drove on across