Hunt Along the Iron River and Other Timeless Tales Read online

  The thought jarred Taylor harder than a left hook to the chin. The next thought was a pile driver to the solar plexus. Someone will pay.

  ****

  Moises had insisted on returning with him to Atlanta for the funeral, and Taylor hadn't put up much of a fight to prevent it. He even considered having the guide accompany him to Penny's. He figured the presence of a stranger might lessen the chances she'd start a fight, but then decided it wasn't fair to use Moises in such a manner. Now, as he stood in the hall outside her apartment, he thought he had made a mistake in judgment.

  He was reaching for the doorbell to ring it a second time when the door creaked open. Still not oiled, after all these years, Taylor thought. He had often meant to take care of the small repair — that and a few hundred other ones. Now it didn't matter. None of those small annoying house chores meant anything to either one of them. Peter was dead.

  The door opened a few more inches and Taylor could see Penny peeking through the crack allowed by the chain. Silly little chain locks. So easily broken. He had warned her dozens of times not to depend on it. He'd intended to replace it with a deadbolt and a peephole. Another part of the long list he'd never gotten around to.

  She closed the door again and for a brief instant Taylor was afraid (or was it relieved?) that she wasn't going to let him in. But then the door opened all the way, and she motioned him inside.

  It had been almost a week since the shooting and Penny looked like she hadn't stopped crying except maybe to sleep and then for only a few hours. The heavy bags under her eyes only served to highlight their road map whites. In all the years he'd known her, he couldn't recall ever seeing her in such shape. Not even when she'd been so sick with pneumonia and almost died. Death in any form did nothing for Penny's looks.

  She was dressed in an old flannel bathrobe, one Taylor remembered giving her on a birthday (or was it Christmas?). It was an unusual wardrobe for Penny, especially for so early in the evening.

  "I'm sorry. I should have changed when you called but I just didn't have the energy," Penny said in a lifeless voice. She closed the door and pointed him to the living room.

  "I made some coffee. Would you like a cup?"

  Taylor nodded, turned to try to find somewhere to hang his coat and bumped into her as she started for the kitchen. The two of them struggled to regain their balance, and then stopped worrying about it and simply hugged each other, sobbing into each other's shoulder.

  After a few minutes, they parted. Embarrassed by the sudden intimacy, Taylor asked for a tissue and Penny pointed to three boxes on different tables in the living room.

  "I'm thinking of buying them by the case," she said. "Make yourself comfortable. I'll bring the coffee."

  She returned in a couple of minutes with two steaming mugs, one in each hand. She set one of the mugs down on the coffee table in front of him.

  "Still black?"

  Taylor nodded, picking up the mug and blowing lightly across the top. He welcomed the coffee, not so much because he was thirsty or needed the caffeine but it gave him something to focus on. Something besides what had happened that had brought the two of them together again. Something besides the conversation at hand.

  He was still staring at the black circle of coffee, trying to think of something to say when Penny dropped a copy of the Atlanta Tribune on the table.

  "It has a brief account of what happened. Read it if you like. I'd prefer not talking about the specifics. I just . . ." She stopped.

  Taylor picked the paper up and glanced at the headline:

  Atlanta Youth Fourth Drive-by Shooting Victim

  The headline assaulted him. Six simple words had turned his son into nothing more than a statistic. Taylor read the article, word for word. Nowhere was there a mention of the camping trips the three of them had taken, or of the quiet Sunday mornings in bed when Peter would be the first one awake and would waddle into their room dressed in his snuggly and stand there patting his father's shoulder until his eyes finally opened.

  Peter had been riding home with a next-door neighbor from a late afternoon birthday party. They had just turned off I-85 when someone in the lane next to theirs had opened fire. Various accounts listed the number of shots fired between four and five. Only one really mattered. The one that had penetrated Peter's skull, an inch above his right ear. He'd been pronounced dead on arrival in the emergency room.

  No one had been able to see inside the other car. All the glass had been tinted preventing anyone from getting a clear view of the shooter. The car, a navy blue sedan, had been found several hours later. It had been reported stolen earlier in the day.

  He read through the account three times, hoping for some clue — somewhere to begin his search. Nothing. The final line summed it up. "Police currently have no leads."

  Finally, he looked up from the paper to find Penny staring at him from across the room. He tossed the paper back on the table, almost hitting his cup of coffee.

  "I'm sorry I wasn't here."

  Penny shrugged. "Wouldn't have made any difference."

  "I mean, I'm sorry I wasn't here afterward. I was out on expedition." Taylor was too ashamed to tell her about not taking the phone call.

  "Doesn't matter," Penny said, and then after a brief pause. "It's kind of fitting."

  Taylor thought about it, knew it would be best to drop it right there. Just leave the hook dangling in the water. Swim away.

  "What do you mean?" He nibbled.

  "Oh never mind, it's not important." Penny played out a little line.

  "You meant something by it. Come on, spit it out." The conversation was suddenly feeling very familiar but surely they'd never had it. They'd never lost a son to a drive-by killer before.

  "It's just that you were always in the bush during the really important occasions." Penny set the hook, deep. "No reason to think it would be any different now."

  Taylor thought about what she said. Thought about taking the line and running with it. Breaking the surface of the water and with a mighty twist of his body, attempting to throw the hook from his mouth. He opened his mouth to say something, half expecting to feel the sharp barbs cutting deeper. Then he closed it. What the hell? Peter was dead. What did it matter?

  "Yeah, I suppose you're right." He picked up the mug of coffee and took a long swallow. The hot liquid scalded his mouth, blistering the roof of it, searing the lining of his esophagus as he swallowed. Strangely, he preferred the physical pain over having another fight.

  ****

  Cal knelt before the tiny altar, his massive bulk taking up most of the space between the pews. He kept his head down, the baseball cap turned with the bill to the back, partially hiding the ponytail of graying hair, his calloused hands clasped in front of him. His lips moved in quiet prayer.

  "Lord, Lord, please forgive this stupid ass. I didn't mean no harm, Lord. Really, I didn't. I know it's been a while since we spoke, Lord, but I've been meaning to come visit. It's just been real busy at the yard, but then you probably already know that, being omni-important and all.

  "Lord, about that kid. I'm real sorry about what I done. It was an accident. No shit. I mean, no kidding. The gun, well, I weren't used to it and it, well. . . it just went off in my hand."

  Dumb ass, no omni-important God is going to believe it went off five times by accident. Cal tried again. "Well, it went off accidentally the first time and after that, I don't know. I guess I lost my head. Yeah. That's what happened.

  "Anyway Lord, please forgive me. If you do, I promise I'll start doing right. I might even start coming back to church. Really. Oh, and that's another thing. Please forgive me for breaking down the door to get in here. It was real important I talk to you."

  ****

  The mound of freshly dug dirt was larger than he had expected. Peter had been small for seven. Why did they have to dig such a large hole?

  Taylor turned to Moises to ask the question but then thought better of it. What did it matter? What mattered wa
s that down under the surface of the red Georgia clay, (How far? Probably six feet like all the rest), lay his son. Taylor bent down and scooped up a handful of dirt, squeezing it into a small ball, then dropped it back on the mound.

  He felt the anger and grief well up inside him again. Waited for it to finally, once and for all, come popping to the surface—to explode out of him, out of his mouth, or the top of his head, or jerk out of his chest like the monster in that alien movie. He didn't care where or how it came out. Just that it would. Once and for all, let it all explode so he could be done with it and maybe then he would understand. Maybe he could get some perspective. Maybe he could deal with the unfairness of it all. Maybe, just maybe.

  But the anger simmered in the pit of his stomach, no doubt eating a hole in it. And the grief, it sat there just below his Adam's apple like a malignant thyroid, whacking out his metabolism, making his thinking unclear, making him lethargic and confused. Making him hate a nameless and faceless somebody in the city who had nothing better to do on a Sunday afternoon then to drive around quiet neighborhoods and blow away kids.

  He stood up, his knees protesting after kneeling for so long. He brushed the dirt off his hands. "Help me get rid of some of these dead flowers, will you?" he said to Moises, pointing to the row of flowers.

  When they were finished, Taylor took the last remaining flowers that still had some life in them and laid them on his son's grave. He closed his eyes, intending to say a short prayer asking God to take care of the tiny soul. Instead, he was surprised by the words, “dear God, forgive me for what I am about to do."

  He opened his eyes and without glancing in Moises direction asked, "Did you bring the sapo?"

  Moises nodded.

  "Good. It's time to prepare for the hunt."

  Without hesitating, Moises pulled a cigar out of his pocket and lit it. He took several puffs on it until it glowed brightly then passed it to Taylor. As Taylor puffed on it, Moises withdrew the small leaf bag from his shirt pocket and opened it. Inside was a small piece of bamboo, approximately the length and width of a tongue depressor. On one side of the bamboo was a thick varnish-like substance. Sapo. He scraped a small amount of the sapo from the stick and moistened it with saliva until it turned into a green mustard.

  "Are you ready?" Moises asked as he took the cigar back.

  Taylor nodded.

  "Roll up your sleeve."

  Taylor did as he was told. Moises grabbed his hand, turning it palm up. He held Taylor's hand firmly in his own.

  "Look straight into my eyes."

  Taylor obeyed. Moises took several long puffs on the cigar, then, flicking the ashes off the end pressed, the glowing red tip against Taylor's wrist.

  Taylor did not break eye contact but ground his teeth until his jaw ached. Moises held the cigar against his friend’s skin as it sizzled and burned. The pungent odor of burning flesh crept into Taylor's nose. That's me burning, he thought and almost laughed at the absurdity of it despite the pain.

  Finally, with the cigar almost spent, Moises removed it from Taylor's arm and inspected his handiwork. He scraped away the ash and dead skin with his fingernail then dabbed a small amount of the sapo paste into the wound.

  Taylor stood there for several seconds, wondering if he should close his eyes or what. Nothing happened. He waited. The nu-nu had taken a while to take effect as well. Then he felt the temperature start to build, as though standing over a heat vent. First his feet started to sweat, and then the warmth climbed up his calves, then quickly to his thighs and within seconds was threatening to blow the top off his head. He could feel the pounding of his heart as it fought to keep up with the demand for blood. He felt every vein and artery in his body as the hot blood coursed through them.

  Taylor's stomach cramped; he gagged, then vomited. He was thrown into a semi-crouch by the spasms, then down on all fours. He couldn't tell if his eyes were open or closed. He heard a growling sound and was surprised when he realized it was coming from his own throat.

  The nausea passed quickly, and he felt the rush of energy as his heart continued to race, a pounding pulse in his ear. It felt like his heart would burst. He gasped for breath, let it out in another primordial growl of defiance. The pounding of his own heart was too much to bear. Too loud, like someone had stuck his head into a kettle drum and was now playing the climax of the “1812 Overture.” It was the last thought he had before he blacked out.

  ****

  When Taylor awoke a few hours later, it sounded like a flock of birds had landed on him, and they were now chirping their displeasure in his ears. But when he opened his eyes, he was still in the cemetery, his head resting on a pillow of roots, staring up through the branches of a large oak tree. Far up in the distant branches perched the birds. Interestingly, although he estimated the closest bird to be at least twenty yards away, he could make out every detail, right down to the fine lines on the underside of their beaks.

  He sat up and looked around. His car was still on the side of the road where he had parked it. Nothing had changed and at the same time, everything had changed. Everything had more brilliance, more color, and detail. And the smells. The amazing odors of damp earth, of a myriad of different kinds of flowers, many of which weren't even known for their fragrance, the sap of the trees, the coarse smell of bird droppings. The world was suddenly alive like it had never been before. And so was he. Not only did he not have a hangover, he couldn't remember ever feeling so alive, so full of energy, vitality. Power.

  He heard someone creeping up behind him and flew around expecting the person to be right on top of him. But it was only Moises walking towards him from a distance of at least forty yards. It would take a while for him to adjust to his new sensual acuity.

  "How you feel?" Moises asked as he came closer.

  "Incredible. I've never felt so good in all my life. I feel like I could take on a dozen men and have them all crying for mercy. Not bad for a hundred and sixty-pound weakling."

  Moises nodded and allowed a little emotion to show on his face. A rare treat. "Bi-ram-bo sapo," he said, "fuerte." It was good sapo. Strong.

  "You must continue the sapo for the next four or five days," Moises said.

  Remembering the first few minutes, Taylor pursed his lips. He loved the euphoric feeling he was experiencing, but he wasn't sure he'd care to turn his stomach inside out for the next several days.

  "Don't worry. After first time, it is much milder," Moises replied. "Your animas — spirit — will hunt the wild boar. It will set a trap for the game you hunt."

  "What makes you think it's a wild boar I'm after?"

  Moises pointed to his temple with a boney finger. "Magic," he said then laughed. "Pablo felt strong about it. We shall see."

  "Any idea where we should start looking for this wild boar?"

  Moises pondered the question for a minute before answering.

  "Where many small rivers come together as one."

  ****

  They drove around Atlanta for two days making an ever-widening circle. Taylor finally decided the only river that amounted to anything was the Chattahoochee, flowing down from the Georgia mountains north of town. They drove along the river, occasionally stopping at any point where a tributary joined the larger river.

  At the end of the second day, despite Moises regularly administering the sapo to him, Taylor found his mood less brilliant than on the first day of the medication.

  "I think we need to reconsider this," he told Moises as they drove back to his apartment. "Rivers of the kind I saw in my dream are not commonplace in this region nor are elephants. Perhaps we should look beyond the obvious."

  Moises lit a cigar. Much to Taylor's distress, he'd grown accustomed to smoking since using them in the twice-daily ritual. "A wild boar did not kill your son," he said.

  Taylor considered the statement for a moment before understanding his point. "Right. We're looking for a man. The wild boar must be a symbol. Maybe he's a pig farmer or something. If that's
the case, what would the elephants and the river represent?"

  The two drove on in silence both lost in their thoughts. As they drove through the center of town and approached the turnoff that would lead to Taylor's apartment, they drove over a railroad crossing. The loud blast from a passing train's engine disturbed Taylor from his thoughts.

  He stared at the line of freight cars for several seconds without seeing them. Several of the cars were of the open variety, carrying God-only-knows-what underneath their faded tarps. Faded tarps. Elephants. Freight. It made sense.

  "Take the next right," Taylor shouted, sitting up straight in his seat.

  Moises glanced over at him but did as he was told. After a few moments, he asked, "Where are we going?"

  "To the river…the iron river."

  The road continued to parallel the railroad track as it headed into a less desirable section of Atlanta. As they continued, the track was joined by a second, then a third, before the road veered away from the tracks. Taylor continued to direct Moises until they finally arrived at an overpass.

  "Stop here," Taylor said.

  Moises pulled over to the curb and stopped, despite the car behind him honking its disapproval.

  Taylor was already out of the car, staring over the edge of the railing. Moises checked the traffic behind him and climbed out to join him on the bridge.

  "There's our river," Taylor said as he pointed to the switching station of the Atlanta freight yard. Dozens of tracks fed into each other, many filled with freight cars, both open and closed design. Most of them looked like they had been left there in storage for some time. A couple sitting next to each other were charred and blackened, as though caught in a fire and dragged to this graveyard to rot. "And with a little imagination, I think we can say those freight cars are the elephants with heavy packs on their backs."

  The two men stood there for several minutes, studying the layout of the yard. "He's down there, Moises. I can feel it. He's down there somewhere. He thinks he's gotten away with killing my boy."

  Moises flicked the ash from his cigar and nodded.

  "Now what?" he asked.