deck proper.
“Probably off in Arkansas stealing shit.” That was Luther’s suggestion, and I stood there hoping to hell he was right and fearing that he wasn’t.
I’m not much of a believer in things being too quiet or feeling somehow all wrong. I like to go by what I see, but something definitely felt off at Eugene’s. The place was too damn quiet.
Eugene’s door was standing open to judge from the way Dale peered in through the screen.
“Hey,” he said. When he heard nothing back, Dale turned our way and shrugged. He knocked on the door rail and said, “Hey” again. Another shrug. Dale checked his .38 load again. “Going in,” he told us.
From inside, and almost immediately, we heard from Dale, “Sweet Lord!” The screen door swung open violently, and Dale came lurching out and laid hard against the deck rail. It’s a wonder it didn’t give way and drop him at our feet.
“What?” I asked him.
“A human lives here?”
“Any sign of Eugene?” Desmond shouted up.
Dale shook his head. “Just all his shit.”
“Busted up?” I asked him.
“Hell,” Dale said, “who can tell?”
Luther had set out toward the stairs by then. “I’ll go.” He was wiry and light, and the whole place only vibrated some as he climbed.
Luther pushed his way past Dale and drew the screen door open. “You coming?”
Dale nodded. He dribbled again and followed Luther inside.
Me and Desmond could hear just the noise of Luther and Dale talking back and forth. Not the words, only the racket. Desmond pointed toward the swamp.
“What’s that?”
There was sure enough something floating. I couldn’t quite make out what it was, not from down where we were. I was about to call for Luther when he came out of the house on his own.
“I don’t know,” he shouted down. “Looks like shit, but it always did.”
“What’s out in the water?” I asked him and pointed.
Luther followed the deck around the side of the house and over toward the bayou. He was fifteen feet above us and so could see what we couldn’t see.
“Dog,” was all he said.
SEVEN
Dale moved around to join Luther. He was holding on to the railing. The whole platform was shaking now. Dale and Luther looked like they were riding a swamp rat parade float down the street.
“Yep,” Dale told us, by way of confirmation. “Dog all right.”
“What kind?” I asked them.
Luther turned our way and shook his head. “Coonhound.”
Me and Desmond said together, “Shit.”
Desmond followed me across the yard. Around the thickets anyway and hummocks of fescue, and past the junked overgrown Ford station wagon and the partly disassembled state-body truck. The dog pen was still and quiet. I stopped short once I could see it. Desmond came up beside me.
“He didn’t, did he?” I said. “Shit, man, they’re just hounds.”
“Once you’d kill a guy for a Plymouth,” Desmond told me, “I guess you’ll do about anything.”
We went over together. Being Eugene’s, it wasn’t a proper pen. The kennel was made from roofing tin and road signs. The “fencing” was mostly pallets on end. The dogs were white and liver colored. I don’t know how many Eugene had, but there were six or seven of them in a pile. Shotgunned, from the looks of them.
“That fucker,” Desmond said.
We were out to get that Boudrot already for what he had done and was doing to people, but things took a turn once we’d gone back there and found that pile of dogs. People did wretched things to other people all the time, but a guy who’d shoot down a bunch of hounds—a guy who’d killed a goat already—had surrendered any claim on mercy. Unlike with humans, a dog never quite knew what he’d signed on for in this life. I can’t imagine a hound ever woke up thinking, I guess I’ve got it coming.
“He’s a dead man,” I told Desmond.
“Reading my mind,” he said.
Just then that pile of dead dogs quivered and shook. Me and Desmond fairly levitated. I
“Probably off in Arkansas stealing shit.” That was Luther’s suggestion, and I stood there hoping to hell he was right and fearing that he wasn’t.
I’m not much of a believer in things being too quiet or feeling somehow all wrong. I like to go by what I see, but something definitely felt off at Eugene’s. The place was too damn quiet.
Eugene’s door was standing open to judge from the way Dale peered in through the screen.
“Hey,” he said. When he heard nothing back, Dale turned our way and shrugged. He knocked on the door rail and said, “Hey” again. Another shrug. Dale checked his .38 load again. “Going in,” he told us.
From inside, and almost immediately, we heard from Dale, “Sweet Lord!” The screen door swung open violently, and Dale came lurching out and laid hard against the deck rail. It’s a wonder it didn’t give way and drop him at our feet.
“What?” I asked him.
“A human lives here?”
“Any sign of Eugene?” Desmond shouted up.
Dale shook his head. “Just all his shit.”
“Busted up?” I asked him.
“Hell,” Dale said, “who can tell?”
Luther had set out toward the stairs by then. “I’ll go.” He was wiry and light, and the whole place only vibrated some as he climbed.
Luther pushed his way past Dale and drew the screen door open. “You coming?”
Dale nodded. He dribbled again and followed Luther inside.
Me and Desmond could hear just the noise of Luther and Dale talking back and forth. Not the words, only the racket. Desmond pointed toward the swamp.
“What’s that?”
There was sure enough something floating. I couldn’t quite make out what it was, not from down where we were. I was about to call for Luther when he came out of the house on his own.
“I don’t know,” he shouted down. “Looks like shit, but it always did.”
“What’s out in the water?” I asked him and pointed.
Luther followed the deck around the side of the house and over toward the bayou. He was fifteen feet above us and so could see what we couldn’t see.
“Dog,” was all he said.
SEVEN
Dale moved around to join Luther. He was holding on to the railing. The whole platform was shaking now. Dale and Luther looked like they were riding a swamp rat parade float down the street.
“Yep,” Dale told us, by way of confirmation. “Dog all right.”
“What kind?” I asked them.
Luther turned our way and shook his head. “Coonhound.”
Me and Desmond said together, “Shit.”
Desmond followed me across the yard. Around the thickets anyway and hummocks of fescue, and past the junked overgrown Ford station wagon and the partly disassembled state-body truck. The dog pen was still and quiet. I stopped short once I could see it. Desmond came up beside me.
“He didn’t, did he?” I said. “Shit, man, they’re just hounds.”
“Once you’d kill a guy for a Plymouth,” Desmond told me, “I guess you’ll do about anything.”
We went over together. Being Eugene’s, it wasn’t a proper pen. The kennel was made from roofing tin and road signs. The “fencing” was mostly pallets on end. The dogs were white and liver colored. I don’t know how many Eugene had, but there were six or seven of them in a pile. Shotgunned, from the looks of them.
“That fucker,” Desmond said.
We were out to get that Boudrot already for what he had done and was doing to people, but things took a turn once we’d gone back there and found that pile of dogs. People did wretched things to other people all the time, but a guy who’d shoot down a bunch of hounds—a guy who’d killed a goat already—had surrendered any claim on mercy. Unlike with humans, a dog never quite knew what he’d signed on for in this life. I can’t imagine a hound ever woke up thinking, I guess I’ve got it coming.
“He’s a dead man,” I told Desmond.
“Reading my mind,” he said.
Just then that pile of dead dogs quivered and shook. Me and Desmond fairly levitated. I
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