The Hunt Club_ A Novel - Bret Lott [77]
He moved a bit, then came a flare of orange at his face, a match lit up. He held it in front of him, the match nearly going out, then flaring up, out and up. Finally he shook the match, dropped it, and turned his head, his profile to us now.
He was smoking a cigar.
The tip went bright, and he leaned his head back, brought it from his mouth, held it out. “These black cigars taste like horse shit,” he said, and laughed. He settled the shotgun back into place, the barrel out to his left. “Got this as a gift from the good doctor, once you boys left him alone in there.”
Mom pulled at me, breathed right there at my ear, and I thought I could hear the smallest edge of a whimper on each breath she let out.
“Guess that’d be lying, calling it a gift, though. More like a perk. Perk of the profession. Kind of like watching Yandle back there squirm. Listening to him squeal.” He brought the cigar back to his mouth, drew on it. “Now, that’s a perk.”
He started toward us.
“Same kind of squeal Dr. Cray give out when I popped him. Didn’t particularly need to do it, other than the fact he’d talked to you two, and he’d be able to testify at some point to something. Which explains why it took me so long to catch up with you boys, why I didn’t just head things off at the pass at the trailer.” He chuckled, his shoulders moving up. “Then again, we’d never have discovered this little gold mine set up in the woods. Worked out nice. This way there’s no backing out of agreeing to sell Hungry Neck, because all y’all, the whole Dillard clan, will be long dead and gone, and the land’ll be seized by the state, and the wonders of the greased palm will serve this whole stinking patch of land up to the people who want it, Leland.”
He stopped suddenly, looked quick off to his right, the tip of the cigar gone a dull red. He’d heard a squirrel, maybe. Still, he sat there, listening, looking, while my heart beat, banged in me too loud, my breaths thin and empty.
He’d killed Cray.
Slowly he looked away from his right, turned to the left. He drew on the cigar, the tip going bright orange. “Course that bad boy with no head nor skin to his hands didn’t squeal a bit when he met up with the working end of a shotgun.”
He gave the reins a shake, and Jeb moved a few feet before Thigpen gave a pull, stopped him again. “Not him,” he said, and now I could feel Mom shivering, clutching my shoulder, breathing shallow and quick. “That man had testicular fortitude when it come to meeting his maker.” He took the cigar from his mouth. “Testicular fortitude. Like none I ever seen.”
Unc lay still as a stone, Mom’s shivering behind me heavier, that edge of a whimper too close on her, ready to break out.
“Them shitheads of Delbert Yandle’s squealed out, too, when I rolled that Ford of theirs. Couple of flunkies, them. Just like Delbert. No need even to waste a shell on them. Though it turns out I had to lose two on his boy back there.”
He started Jeb toward us again, the horse moving slow, step on step.
He was closer now, and I thought maybe I could see his face, some kind of grin on it, barely lit by the tiny jewel of orange on the cigar. He looked either way again, leaned forward in the saddle, back again.
“But the headless hunter didn’t squeal before he went, and I admire him for that.” He let out another laugh, shook his head. “Son of a bitch winked at me just before I did it. A man after my own heart. Then pop, he’s gone, my job to shovel him up, haul him over to Hungry Neck, and prop up that sign at his feet, see what happens and when.” He laughed. “And I’m getting paid for all this!”
Mom was shivering full on now, her breath hard and sharp in my ear. Still he heard nothing, no movements at all in these woods, so he knew we were here, somewhere.