Fear, page 3
Jeb remembered him and Grandma standing in the doorway of the shoe store, confused about what was going on. Then Sheriff Anderson looked over at them. The expression on his face looked about as cheerful as a funeral. “I’d advise you and the boy to step back inside, Miss Lucille,” the constable had said. “There’s trouble coming.”
They had done as they had been told. Henry Thompson came over and closed the open door, then stood next to Jeb and his grandmother as they curiously stared out the front window at the sheriff and his sworn-in deputies. Anderson had been right, for a moment later trouble did, indeed, arrive in Pikesville. It came in the form of a sleek, black sedan, heading at a high rate of speed down the center of Main Street. It was heading from north to south … heading straight for the Fear County line.
Jeb had watched as Sheriff Anderson left his place behind his car and stepped out into the center of the street, looking more than a little scared. When the car kept on coming, giving no evidence of intending to slow down, Anderson had lifted the shotgun to his shoulder and fired. The load of pellets hit the sedan’s right front tire, blowing it out. The black car slowed a little, but not nearly enough. The sheriff jumped out of the way and the sedan slammed forcefully into the side of the patrol car with a buckling of metal and a crash of broken glass.
A moment later, the sedan’s passenger door popped open and a man jumped out. All that Jeb remembered about the fellow was that he was bearded and as skinny as a rail, and that he held a butcher knife in his hand. A bloody butcher knife. “Drop that blade, Jack Gallow!” the sheriff had demanded. But the man had merely laughed, his eyes bright and crazy as he tightened his grip on the carving knife and kept right on coming.
The Winchester had boomed for a second time. Jeb saw the man go down, shot in the left leg, a second before Grandma’s meaty hand had clamped firmly over Jeb’s eyes, cutting off his view. He had managed to pry one of her fingers loose, though, long enough to see Anderson’s temporary deputies rush to the trunk of the car. Jeb heard the muffled crying of a child as the men worked at the trunk lid with a crowbar. Then it was open and the crying grew louder. The faces of the deputies grew as pale as lard and one of the men even turned and puked, right there in the center of Main Street.
Then Jeb heard one of the deputies say something that had stuck in the boy’s mind for the past five years of his life. He had said “The dirty son of a bitch…he’s done taken the young’un’s arm!”
Jeb didn’t know exactly what that had meant back then, and he still wasn’t exactly sure. He just remembered them hauling Jack Gallow, laughing wildly, toward the courthouse, while Sheriff Anderson followed, carrying a squawling baby that was wrapped in a blood-drenched blanket. Jeb thought of poor Jake Anderson. The sheriff had never quite been the same jovial man after that. In fact, it was only a year and a half later when Anderson had locked himself in a cell of Mangrum County jail, put the barrel of his service revolver against the roof of his mouth, and blew his brains out.
Jeb recalled the talk that had circulated following the arrest of Jack Gallow and one of the things that had been said was that the knife-wielding madman had been born and bred in Fear County. Jeb knew that Gallow had been convicted and sent to the State Pen, but he had no idea what had happened to the infant that had been delivered from the trunk of Gallow’s black sedan. Sometimes Jeb dreamt about that Saturday morning and woke in a cold sweat, swearing that he heard the crying of that kidnapped baby in the bloody blanket.
The boy continued on down the rear alleyway, feeling goose bumps prickle the flesh of his freckled arms. The mere thought that the critter that had killed John Haskel’s cow had also been from Fear County sent a delicious thrill of spooky excitement through Jeb. He could imagine it crouching over the gutted Holstein, grinning wickedly and looking, for all the world, like the reptilian kin of Jack Gallow himself.
Jeb nearly jumped out of his skin when a shrill yelp came from behind him. He swallowed the last piece of his peppermint and stopped, dead still in the alleyway, afraid to move. He heard the pad of quick feet and, at first, was certain that it was the snake-critter, running straight for him. But, a moment later, his fear turned to relief. Buckshot shot past him, a wounded howl barreling up out of his throat. The hound dog ran a couple more yards, and then stopped. With a hurt expression in his eyes, Buckshot tenderly licked at his haunches.
“What in tarnation’s wrong with you, boy?” asked Jeb. He took a couple of steps forward, then let out a yell himself as a rock the size of a walnut struck him squarely between the shoulder blades.
“That’s what’s wrong with your mangy mutt, you little bastard!” came a voice from behind a stack of wooden crates Jeb had passed only a second ago.
Instantly, Jeb’s relief dissolved. It sped past the emotion of fear and became a mixture of panic and pure terror. He recognized that voice, as well as the snickering laughter that accompanied it.
He didn’t want to turn around, but he did anyway. They were there just as he expected them to be. It was Troy Jenkins and his buck-toothed cronies, the Boone twins. Troy was two years older than Jeb and a notorious bully to him and his fellow classmates at Pikesville Elementary School. Troy was well known for the suffering and humiliation he subjected the local children to on a daily basis, as well as his much-dreaded “Indian rope burn.” Danny and Donnie Boone pretty much tagged along in order to brown-nose and stay in Troy’s good graces, flanking him on both sides like a pair of human bookends. But, sometimes, they too got in on the action, holding down helpless victims, while Troy inflicted whatever torment popped into his demented head at the time.
“You’d best stay away from me, Troy Jenkins,” said Jeb, trying his best to sound brave, despite the tremor in his voice. “And leave my dog alone, too.”
“Aw! And what if I don’t, bastard?” leered Troy. His grin revealed that horrifying mouthful of missing and broken teeth that gave him the appearance of a hungry gator every time he smiled. “What’re you gonna do then? Huh?”
In spite of his fear, Jeb bristled at the name he had been called. “You take that back, Troy. I ain’t one and you know it!”
The twelve-year-old’s green eyes sparkled cruelly. “What? A bastard? Well, now, that’s what you are. You ain’t got no mama, do you?”
Jeb’s face turned hot and red. “Sure, I do.”
Troy laughed. “That’s funny, ’cause I sure ain’t never seen her. Have you, boys?”
“Never have,” agreed Donnie Boone.
“Can’t rightly say that I have either,” matched Danny Boone.
“Well, I do have one,” proclaimed Jeb defensively. “It’s just that she’s been gone for a long time.”
“Yeah,” said Troy with a smirk. “Since you were a little baby. Way I heard it, she got the hots for a traveling preacherman who did a revival here and ran off with him.”
Jeb said nothing, feeling a sudden attack of shame grip him. There was nothing he could say to dispute what Troy had just said. After all, like it or not, it was the truth. Everyone in Pikesville seemed to know about his runaway mother and the sinful way she had up and left her husband and newborn child, although they were tactful enough not to mention it. That was, everyone except Troy Jenkins.
“Okay,” Jeb finally allowed, “So my mama ain’t around. That still don’t make me a bastard. You’re only a bastard when you don’t have a daddy.”
Troy spat into the dirt of the alleyway and laughed. “That’s a joke. You’ve gotta be a bastard, ’cause you sure as hell don’t have much of a daddy, do you? Came back from the war with his brains all scrambled, acting like a dadblamed baby. Tell me something, bastard. Do you change your daddy’s diapers?”
Jeb felt anger creep up the back of his neck. He clenched his fists into hard balls, but didn’t advance toward the bully. Troy had six inches of height on him and a good twenty pounds, and Jeb knew that it was unwise to buck such odds, especially when there was a hefty dose of pure meanness to go along with everything else.
“I said for you to stop calling me that,” he repeated. “You know what my name is, so why don’t you use it?”
“Yeah,” said Troy in a mocking voice. “I know your damned name. It’s Jeb Sweeny. Jeb! What kinda stupid name is that to have?”
Again, Jeb was at a loss for words. He too had wondered why he had been given such a name at birth. He had come up with two plausible explanations: Either he had been named after the Confederate hero, J.E.B. Stuart, or his mother, who Grandma said had suffered from a lisp, had intended to call him Jed but had mistakenly called him Jeb instead.
“You said it, Troy,” said Donnie eagerly. “Jeb is a dumb name.”
“Jeb!” groaned Danny, pretending to stick his finger down his throat.
Troy Jenkins looked over at his two pals, a little irritated. “You know, I’m sick and tired of all this talking,” he said, staring the Boones into obedient silence. Then he turned his mischievous eyes back to Jeb. “Been a while since I’ve given you a sound thrashing, ain’t it, Sweeny?”
Jeb’s anger began to falter and he felt the familiar sensation of fear resurface. He shot a quick glance over his shoulder and gauged the distance between where he stood and the far end of the alleyway. A good sixty or seventy feet lay in between and he knew he would never make it to safety, even if he had a head-start. It looked as if he would have to take the punishment that Troy and the Boones seemed determined to inflict on him, whether he liked it or not.
Troy took a menacing step forward, grinning like some sort of deranged circus chimp. He hadn’t gotten five feet, when Jeb heard a low growl rumble closely behind him. The farmboy couldn’t help but smile to himself. Buckshot was a good, easy-going dog … except when those he loved were threatened somehow. Then he quickly bared his teeth and stood his ground, like an ornery ol’ grizzly bear wrapped tightly in dog skin.
The bully stopped and glared at the bluetick hound. Behind the meanness in his eyes, Jeb’ could detect a glint of apprehension, if only a little. “Donnie,” he called to one of the twins. “Keep that flea farm outta our way, whilst we get down to brass tacks, okay?”
Donnie Boone swallowed with a low bobbing of his Adam’s apple. He looked at Buckshot. The dog’s lean body trembled as he stood poised, ready to leap forward, his dark lips curled away from a wolfish grin of yellowed, canine teeth. Then Donnie looked back over at Troy and decided that he feared the bully even more than he did the dog. He bent down and, finding a length of splintered two-by-four close by, hefted it threateningly in his hand. “All right, boss. I’ve got’im covered.”
Suddenly, without any farther warning, Troy and Danny attacked. They came at Jeb at different angles, Danny diving for his feet, while Troy swung a fist straight toward his head. Jeb, of course, attempted to dodge the blow, but, like always, he was just a shade too slow in moving. Troy’s knuckles glanced off his left cheekbone and the tip of his nose, bringing a burst of burning pain. A second later, Danny tackled him around the shins, putting all the force he could muster behind it. Jeb fought to keep his balance, but to no avail. Soon, he was slamming his back on the dusty ground with enough impact to drive the breath completely from his lungs.
As Troy and Danny pounced on him, Jeb turned his head and saw Donnie Boone run toward Buckshot with the board fisted in both hands like a Louisville Slugger. The hound dog barked and growled, but was sensible enough to back away and stay clear of the two-by-four. Donnie looked scared at first, but when the dog refused to come closer, he grew cocky and began to taunt Buckshot, daring him to try thing.
Just when Jeb began to regain his lost breath, he felt Troy’s weight descend on him, the patched knee of his blue jeans landing squarely in the center of his stomach. The pain that shot through his belly was so strong that he nearly lost the lunch of baloney sandwiches and buttermilk that Grandma had packed for his and Sam’s trip to town that afternoon. He swallowed hard, however, and managed to keep from throwing up.
“Hold his arms!” Troy told Danny. A moment later, Danny was standing over Jeb, his filthy bare feet bearing down on the farmboy’s wrists. Jeb struggled to break loose, but he simply couldn’t gain the leverage to do so. He looked up at the sparkle of sadistic cruelty in Troy’s eyes as the bully sat on top of his chest. Something about the ugly expression in Jenkins’s eyes told him that his infamous Indian Rope Burn was the furthest thing from his mind at the moment. No, he had something much more humiliating in store for his latest victim.
“I know it’s past dinnertime, Sweeny,” said Troy with a snaggle-toothed grin. “But, I do declare if you don’t still look a little hungry.” He glanced at each Boone brother. “What do you think, boys? Don’t he look hungry to y’all?”
Danny nodded. “Sure does. Real hungry.”
Donnie refused to pry his eyes from the dog that still snapped and snarled nearby. “Yeah, boss. Whatever you say.”
Troy returned his gaze back to the ten-year-old beneath him. Jeb stared back and noticed that the color of Troy’s eyes was the same as algae floating on top of a stagnant pond. “Is that right, Sweeny? Are you still hankering for something to eat? Well, if you are, I’ll sure oblige you.”
Terrified, Jeb watched as Troy reached into his shirt pocket and rummaged around for something that seemed to allude his probing fingers. A myriad of nasty creatures danced through Jeb’s thoughts, but none could compare to what Troy finally produced. For, held between his thumb and forefinger, was a fat black bug that wiggled and squirmed in his grasp. It was a dung beetle, or, as most kids called it, a doo-doo bug. Jeb saw that its bulbous hindquarters was crusted with something brown that, more than likely, wasn’t Tennessee clay mud.
“A beauty, ain’t it?” asked Troy proudly. “Know where I found it? It was crawling on top of a stinky cowpie out in Fletcher Howell’s pasture. It was busier than a bee, rolling up them little balls of shit, getting ready to lay its eggs in ’em. But I just couldn’t resist picking up the little critter and taking it with me … in case I found someone hungry enough to want it.”
“This ain’t funny, Troy Jenkins,” said Jeb. He tried to cock his head away from the squirming beetle, but the ground wouldn’t allow his retreat.
Troy snickered. “Don’t mean it to be funny,” he said. “Danny, do me a big favor. Reach down and open his mouth for me. I’ve got my hands full with this bug here.”
“You got it,” said Danny Boone. The buck-toothed boy squatted down and, using both hands, pried Jeb’s jaws apart.
“Get ready, Sweeny,” said Troy, lowering the doo-doo bug, inch by inch, toward Jeb’s open mouth. “‘Cause here it comes.”
Jeb attempted to close his mouth, but Danny’s hands were much too stout. He caught the sickening scent of cow manure and felt one of the beetle’s oily black legs tickle his upper lip. Seemingly at the point of defeat, Jeb closed his eyes and waited for the insect to fall, kicking and flailing, past his tongue and down his throat.
But just when the humiliating act seemed on the verge of being completed, a reprieve came from clear out of the blue.
“Now, ain’t that a nasty thang to do to somebody,” came an adult voice that sounded like rusty nails grating against sandpaper. “Just plain, downright nasty!”
Chapter Three
Roscoe Steps In
Immediately, the dung beetle was lifted away from Jeb’s mouth. The boy breathed a sigh of relief, but knew very well that he wasn’t out of the woods yet. The appearance of a grown-up didn’t mean much to Troy Jenkins. The bully wasn’t the type to back down, even in the face of authority. After all, he had spit chewing tobacco in Principal Garton’s face last year and stamped the instep of his foot so hard that the man was forced to wear a cast for nearly three weeks. Troy had been suspended from school for his shenanigans, but had come back even meaner and more rebellious toward his teachers than before.
Danny Boone stepped away, freeing Jeb’s aching jaw and wrists, but Troy stayed where he was, perched on top of the farmboy’s chest. “What the hell do you want, nigger?” he asked. Jeb sensed the bully’s emotions shifting gears, clutching from sadistic mischief to flat-out hatred.
Jeb twisted his head around and saw exactly who his savior was. It was an elderly black man, perhaps sixty years of age. The Negro was tall and as bony as a skeleton. He wore a dusty fedora hat, threadbare traveling clothes, and wire-rimmed spectacles with lenses as thick as the bottoms of soda pop bottles. Slung across his slightly hunched back was an old flattop Fender guitar with a worn shaving strop as a makeshift strap.
The black man stared at Troy Jenkins, frowning sourly. “What I want, son, is for you to stick that shit bug back in your pocket and leave this poor boy alone. Ain’t a nice thang you’re a-doing to him, you know.”
Jeb detected Troy’s animosity suddenly center on a different victim. “Oh, I get it,” said the bully. “You’re more hungry than Sweeny here is. Well, I ain’t one to deny a man a square meal.” Troy left his seat on Jeb’s chest and stood up, dangling the dung beetle toward the elderly man. “I reckon I’ll feed it to you instead.”
The Negro grinned, displaying a mouth that shared equal space between God-given ivory and dentist-given gold. In fact, Jeb figured you could probably melt down all those gold teeth and come up with a solid ounce or two of the precious metal. “You’ve got balls, boy,” said the black man. “But that don’t mean you’ve got a bit of brains in your head. I suggest you and your buddies move on along.”
