“Can’t be too careful in these uncertain times,” Olaf said.
“Oh hell no. Can’t be too careful whatsoever,” Sturm said. “And these are unfuckingcertain times, that’s for goddamned sure. This man is an extremely valuable employee. I need his help. I need his help right now, today, in fact. And I’d hate to be inconvenienced in any way. You boys take him down to Redding, it might take a while to clear his name. I don’t have that kind of time.” Sturm tapped his head.
“I can appreciate that, Mr. Sturm,” Herschell said. “But the fact is, we got ourselves plenty of violations happening here. We don’t have a choice in the matter.”
“Shit.” Sturm rapped his knuckles across the hood. “This doesn’t have anything to do with that permit I forgot to file, does it?”
“It might,” Herschell said.
Sturm pulled a roll of cash bundled in a thick rubber band from his Carhart overalls. “Knew I forgot something last week. This permit we’re talking about, I’ll need it for the meeting of a gun club. How much was it again?”
Herschell eyed the roll. “Normally, we’d be talking a couple hundred. But this, this is different. These conditions, the large number of animals…I’d say we’re looking at somewhere around four hundred, at least. Plus the fine of six hundred.”
Sturm’s fingers pinched off a thick stack of twenties. “Listen, I appreciate your willingness to take care of business out here. I’d hate to drag this downtown. Let’s just take care of all them damn fines, citations, levies, taxes, and whatever else shit you want to charge right here and now.”
Herschell took the cash and Olaf popped the handcuffs open. Frank rubbed his wrists and backed slowly towards the hospital. Somebody in the town, most likely the woman from the gas station, had sicced the cops on him.
Out in the petrified mud, past the back end of the vehicles, Herschell said quietly, “You sure about this, Mr. Sturm? I been in law enforcement going on thirty years now. I don’t need a goddamn neon sign to tell me someone is bad news. And this boy is bad news, I’m telling you.”
“He’ll be fine,” Sturm said. “I trust him.”
Herschell shrugged. “Because of your…situation. So be it. That permit you just filed, that’ll cover the next few weeks. You need anything, you let us know. Take care of yourself. You got our prayers.” Herschell and Olaf solemnly climbed into the cruiser and shut the doors. Sturm waved. The cruiser slowly lumbered off across the parking lot and down the street towards the center of town.
Sturm clapped his hands together and blew past Frank. “How’re my girls?”
DAY TWENTY-ONE
Sturm had Pine plant dynamite in a ditch tunnel under the highway for a roadblock. The thing that struck Frank was that there wasn’t really a need to do much of anything to the highway. There was no traffic. There was nobody. Just the fields, a few sheep, the sun, and the men running around like ants building some kind of awful trap for a fat, unsuspecting bug.
But Sturm had a plan, and he didn’t want any unexpected visitors during the hunts. He explained how it worked. If the town was expecting you, you were given a set of instructions. Instead of just taking the highway into town, you went back up the highway a ways until you came to a gate, secured with a heavy chain and combination lock. Beyond the gate was a road that looked like the parallel tracks of a dirt railroad through deep grass. It led around a swamp thick with cattails, up a little valley, and back down to the highway into town.
Sturm didn’t want to blow up the bridge over the ditch just yet. He wanted it to be an event, a celebration. They left the trigger under a five gallon bucket in case of rain, more of a distant hope than anything, and kept the dynamite waiting.
* * * * *
That night, Jack showed up at the vet hospital to pick up Frank. “Got a meeting,” Jack said, cracking a beer as they pulled out of the parking lot. The sun was drawing closer to the western mountains, but the temperature was still 104 degrees.
They drove through town, and Frank could see that nearly every window of every building had been covered with particle board and aluminum siding. It looked like the town of Whitewood was preparing for an especially destructive hurricane. Jack explained it was for the hunts. No point in leaving the windows exposed for stray bullets.
The taxidermist wasn’t taking any chances. He’d hung thick sheets of lead over his windows and front door. Instead of a hurricane, he appeared to be preparing for nuclear war.
A line of nearly forty pickups, all stuffed with what looked like junk at first, waited in town, starting at the park. Men stood in small groups, smoking and talking. They all looked up as Jack’s pickup circled the park. Jack pulled into a U-turn, tossing his beer can out the window. He honked his horn a few times. Men got back into their pickups, and engines started up and down the line.
Frank asked, “Who are all these people?”
Jack headed south, back down the highway towards the backhoe and dynamite. “Farmers, ranchers.” He shrugged. “Folks that live—used to live around here. Mr. Sturm went around and talked to ’em. Those that were just renting, he kicked ’em off. Those that owned their land, Sturm bought it off ’em. Hell, he gave ’em more cash that these people have ever seen in their life. Everybody’s clearing out, they’re heading for greener pastures.” The pickup rattled slowly through the empty town, windows blind with wood and aluminum.
The line of pickups followed, loaded with what looked like every possession the families could carry. The trucks beds were stuffed with mattresses, washing machines, rolltop desks, oak cabinets, swing sets, televisions, children’s bicycles, couches, sewing machines, water heaters, refrigerators, satellite dishes, and plenty of cardboard boxes. Often, the children themselves rode in the back, silent and sullen, wind whipping their hair. The back ends rode low, shocks compressed to their max, shuddering after every bounce, the kids automatically rolling with the stuttering progress of the truck. It looked like something out of The Grapes of Wrath.
“Why are they all leaving at night?” Frank asked.
“So the kids don’t fry in the sun.”
Frank nodded. It made sense. “I didn’t think there were this many people in the town.”
“Yeah, it’s most everybody,” Jack said, as if he knew most, if not all, of the people in the pickups.
Jack led the procession down the highway out of town. When they came upon the backhoe, lit in front by the headlights of all the pickups, backlit by the setting sun, Frank saw Sturm’s pickup. Sturm himself was leaning against his pickup, arms crossed, black hat low, cold gray eyes watching and noting each pickup and family that passed him.
Jack pulled off the highway and stopped behind Sturm’s truck. The procession passed, picking up speed once they had seen Sturm. Sturm never moved, never even nodded, never acknowledged any of the passing vehicles.
* * * * *
Jack and Frank watched for a while, then Jack headed back into town, passing pickup after pickup until finally there was nothing but the bare highway. He roared back into the empty town. “Goddamn. Look at it.”
“So?” Frank asked. “Didn’t Sturm own damn near everything anyways?”
“Well, sure. But the point is, they’re gone. Say you’re shooting at something.” The pickup slid to a stop under the only stoplight in town, the one on front of the park, the same one the cops had ran Frank’s first day. “Before, ’less you’re back in the hills, you always gotta be thinking about your backdrop. Now,” Jack belched, tossed his beer can out the window. It bounced and the hollow sound echoed throughout the streets. “Now, fuck it. You can shoot…without hesitation.” He pulled his rifle out of the gun rack in the back window. “You don’t have to worry about anything,” he said, settling the rifle in his lap, barrel out of the open window. “Nobody’s there.”