Recurrence Read online

  “You hit me, you damned fool!” a voice behind them shouted. A large-caliber rifle fired, seemingly in answer.

  The boys heard the bullet tearing through the foliage, and then they were under cover of the pines. The floor of brown pine needles was several inches thick, affording them a silent passage. They were soon lost to their pursuers and after running on for a couple more minutes they stopped to catch their breath, both of them leaning forward with their hands on their knees.

  “Wow!” Burl gasped. “That Tom’s truck was stolen from my uncle’s route over near Franklin two weeks ago. I recognized a deep gouge on the right front fender.”

  “Let’s circle around and go back,” John said.

  Burl gasped, “Are you crazy?”

  “No, I’m heeled,” John replied. He pulled the top of his long-sleeved shirt open and showed Burl a .45 semi-automatic in a shoulder holster.

  “You are crazy! OK—I’ll lead.” Burl straightened and led off perpendicular to their entry, breaking into a trot. He held his trusty old .410 in front of him with both hands.

  Soon they were on the other side of the clearing, observing the men. The woods were closer on this side and they were able to get nearer to the operation and hear some of the words.

  Three men were standing in front of the two hanging carcasses facing each other and apparently arguing. One was waving his arms and pointing in different directions.

  In a loud voice he said, “I tell you they’re a half a mile from here, scooping shit out of their pants and probably lost.”

  He had the top of his bibs draped over a belt with the straps still fastened at either side. There were several dark red spots on his back and one shoulder. John noticed that he was wearing a long-underwear top and pointed at the man.

  He whispered, “A new fashion statement.”

  Two more men were still wrapping the last of the cut meat, and one other was carrying a box into the van. One of the men who were arguing had a side-by-side double-barreled shotgun hanging from one hand. A lever-action rifle was propped against the side of the pickup nearest them, but no other guns were in sight.

  Burl whispered, “There’s six of them but I only see two guns.”

  John whispered back, “I’ve got an idea. You move back around to the front of their trucks. When you are in place, I’ll shoot the rifle; then you blast the windshield on the truck with the trailer. Wait until I fire though. They won’t dare come after us with their rifle busted. We’ll split before they see us anyway.”

  “All right, but after I shoot I’m gone. We’ll meet afterwards by that tall white oak back there.” Burl pointed over his shoulder toward a tree that rose above the others. It was more than a hundred yards away.

  “OK, good spot. Now we’ll see who shits in their pants,” John replied.

  By the time the boys were ready, the men had cut down one of the hanging carcasses. Two of them were shoving it over the side of the empty truck, while the third waited. They went back for the second carcass, and after the third man cut it down, he followed the other two to the side of the truck. John thought that the rifle might fall over when the truck rocked with the weight of the carcasses and the men’s arms, but it didn’t.

  Now two men were at the tailgate and the other four were between the trucks and the van. None of them had even glanced toward their positions.

  This is even better, John thought as he took a two-handed stance and squeezed the grip-safety. He braced the pistol-butt in the palm of his left hand and rested it on a solid limb and against the trunk. Over his sights he saw two of the men move back to the truck. They rested their forearms on the side of the bed and kept talking. They were still facing his way but looking down at the carcasses when he fired.

  His aim was at the bottom-feed mechanism just behind the fore-piece. The rifle exploded in a brilliant flash, creating a multiple boom. He saw pieces of it spinning crazily in the air, while heads and shoulders disappeared behind the truck. He noticed that the rear tire of the truck, where the rifle had been, was now flat. He shifted his sights to the front tire of the truck with the cattle trailer and fired again. The windshield exploded, simultaneous with the tire.

  He shifted slightly and fired one more shot - through the side window of the van. He tried listening for a few seconds but could not hear. His ears were still ringing from the gunfire and multiple explosions.

  John turned and ran in a crouch without holstering the pistol. He still had it cocked and held it behind him with his finger alongside the trigger-guard to keep it from snagging on limbs or brush. When he stopped to let the hammer down and holster it, he barely heard the men shouting. After getting his bearings, he veered toward the tall oak while sounds faded in the distance behind him.

  When he caught up with Burl, they both listened for sounds of pursuit. They could barely hear men’s voices and mechanical noises in the distance. Speaking softly, they agreed that there had been no return fire. They were satisfied that the men were working frantically on their vehicles in an effort to leave.

  While they were talking, John felt a pain and found that the back of his left hand was bloody. He wiped it down with his shirttail and saw deep scratches and a piece of bark imbedded in it. The recoil from the large-bore .45 had scraped his hand against the trunk of the tree. He had not felt anything at the time.

  They left the area quietly and with a minimum of talk until they were certain they were safe. Once clear, Burl was anxious to tell what he had seen.

  “You couldn’t see them, but when you fired, and that rifle exploded, those old boys went nuts. They were crawling around on their hands and knees and bumping into each other, and then I fired just as pieces of that rifle started falling down around them. They probably all shit their pants. Then you fired again, and they were all on their bellies trying to crawl under that van at the same time, except for one who jumped into the back of it. When you fired a third time, through that window, he rolled back out and tried to slither under with the others; it was a riot.”

  He stopped for breath and then continued, “They acted like the three blind mice, except that there were six of them. I know they all banged their heads on the frame of that van.”

  He caught his breath again and they both laughed so hard that tears ran down their faces.

  “I never expected that rifle to explode. For a moment I didn’t know what the hell had happened,” John said.

  “Well, you sure as hell didn’t waste any time getting off those other two shots.”

  On the way back out of the swamp, they discussed the incident and decided to tell Tilman - and Burl’s dad. They would probably both be mad about what the boys had done, but they still needed to know.

  “You did what!” Tilman shouted.

  John had reached the point in his narrative where he had fired at the rifle and the trucks. Tilman lifted himself halfway out of his chair—and then settled back into it.

  John shrugged and rolled his palms upward.

  Tilman said, “You’ve got more guts than sense. Now go ahead and tell me the rest of it.”

  John continued and Tilman laughed aloud when he heard about the men scrambling for cover like blind mice when pieces of the rifle rained down upon them.

  “They might have had more men or more guns, or you might have missed that rifle. They would have killed you for damned sure, if they had caught you. You boys were blind-lucky,” Tilman stated.

  He made John repeat his descriptions of the men and vehicles in detail until he satisfied himself that he didn’t know any of them.

  “If I knew any of them, then chances are that they’d know me and might spot you at some point. I’m calling Bert Mullins first, but I believe I’m going to bring the law in on this one. Our sheriff ain’t half bad.”

  Bert Mullins had already reached the same conclusion and didn’t recognize the descriptions of the men or t
rucks either. He and Tilman agreed not to tell about the boys having guns or that they had fired at the trucks unless they were hard-pressed to do so.

  When the sheriff arrived with the deputy, Elmer, John was surprised to see that he was colored. He had heard many stories of colored people being put down in the South and would not have believed that one could be a sheriff. When Sheriff Hawkins spoke though, it was apparent that he was an educated, intelligent and capable man.

  “I’ll need these boys to take me to where all of this happened. You men can come along if you’re worried about their safety.”

  He glanced at his deputy who just nodded. Elmer was subdued and almost condescending to both Tilman and the Sheriff.

  “How many deputies will you have with you?” Bert Mullins asked.

  “I’ll have three deputies, plus plenty of firepower. I’ve even got a few Thompsons and BARs.”

  “Will Calvin be along?” Tilman asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Good enough for me,” Mullins said.

  Tilman nodded in agreement. Later he said to John, “Calvin is colored too. Both of them are World War Two vets and highly decorated. Out in the country around here a large percentage of the population is colored, or Negroid if you will. Hawkins and Calvin fit right in and do a fine job. They leave the town folks alone too, unless they’re asked to help out by the state or city.”

  John and Burl rode out with the deputies in their two cars, but they were unable to locate where the men had driven their trucks into or out of the woods or the swamp.

  Burl said, “I can get you close to where we were, but we’ll have to hike in to find the exact spot.”

  Sheriff Hawkins looked at him with his large brown eyes and shook his head slightly. “Are you sure about that?”

  John said, “We can both find the place, but we walked in and left in a big hurry. We weren’t looking for any tracks.”

  Hawkins looked over his shoulder at him. “All right guys, but don’t try to bullshit me.”

  He drove back to where Burl indicated and told Calvin to wait there with both cars.

  “When I get a location, I’ll call you on the radio and get you started that way.” He opened the trunk and took out a Thompson sub-machine gun. “Elmer, bring one of those Brownings and come with me.”

  The plan worked even better than expected. After hiking for a short while, they could smell the stink of the remains. The smell was strong enough to be nauseating, even from a hundred yards. It had been three days and the scavengers had been at them, scattering hides and bones to get at the guts. A myriad of insects covered it all.

  The trucks were long gone but there were still some tire tracks in the softer spots from the trailer and the heavily laden van. Hawkins scrutinized them before moving on. From this end, it was easy enough to determine the direction of travel through the brush and weeds, but it did not lead in the direction they had come. They followed it for half-a-mile before Hawkins radioed to his deputy with directions.

  Afterwards he said, “This comes out a mile and a half from where we parked. You weren’t far off.

  Calvin showed up, with the second car following, and they all got in and returned to the site. Hawkins told the boys to wait in the car while all three of the county’s men spent thirty minutes scouring the area.

  They found exploded brass casings from 30-30 rifle shells, a fired 30-30 casing, a 12-gauge shotgun-shell casing, and later, the shells from the .45 automatic and the casing from the .410 shell.

  Hawkins walked back to the car, rolling the latter finds around in his palm speculatively. He bent over to look at the boys. “You boys said they shot at you with two guns. I don’t suppose you’d know anything about these, would you?”

  Both of them gazed at the shells and shook their heads no, remaining mute.

  “That’s what I thought.” He straightened up and then commented, “You boys are lucky.”

  He gazed into the distance for a few seconds and then said, “Well, they’re long gone from here and set up somewhere else. Maybe we’ll catch them and maybe we won’t. You smell that death over there?” He pointed back over his shoulder with his thumb. “This swamp is full of death. You boys stay out of it, you hear me? I don’t want to be telling your daddies that I found your heads in a pile of skin and bones.”

  He stared back down at them, and they both nodded.

  The boys hung around near the houses for a week before boredom set in. Burl had brought home some maps from the public library and they pored over them, studying the Great Dismal Swamp and its surrounding area.

  “Man, there are thousands of square miles out there.” John commented.

  “Yeah, they could be anywhere, and we’d never find them.”

  “Let’s just hope they don’t find us.”

  Two more weeks went by.

  Burl came over and pounded on the screen door one afternoon. “I saw it! I saw it!” he said excitedly when John came out onto the porch.

  “Saw what?”

  “The van, the Tom’s van, only now it isn’t white, and it doesn’t say Tom’s.”

  “Til won’t be home until late. Sit down and tell me about it.”

  Burl plopped down into a metal lawn chair. “OK, I was riding back to town from Portsmouth with my cousin Floyd, and we stopped for gas. I looked over and saw the van sitting in front of a hamburger joint next to the gas station. It was painted a dumb-looking solid blue and had white lettering on the side.”

  While he was catching his breath John asked, “What did it say, and did you get the number?”

  “It said Henry’s Appliance and I got the number.”

  “How do you know it’s the same van?”

  “I know because it has the same gouge in the right front fender, Butt-hole. Now let’s go down to the pay phone and call the number. I bet I know what’ll happen.”

  Humoring him, John said “What?”

  “No longer in service, or something like that,” Burl replied.

  They walked the half-mile to the edge of town and John dug out some change. The number was long distance, so they had no idea how much the call would cost.

  “What are you going to say if someone answers?” Burl asked.

  “I’ll ask for Burl Mullins,” John smirked.

  “You’d better let me call; you’ve got a northern voice.”

  Burl dropped one of John’s dimes into the slot and dialed. He held the receiver out, and they listened to the tones working up and down the scale for a few seconds. He straightened and placed it back against his ear and John knew that he was getting a connection. Burl listened intently for a brief period and then held the receiver out so that John could hear it too.

  “This number has been disconnected. Please check your directory first, and then call your operator for assistance. Thank you for using ...”

  Burl fingered the lever cutting the message short. They could hear their coins rattling back down into the coin return.

  John stuck his finger in and extracted two nickels. “Hah, a Buffalo nickel. It’s my lucky day.”

  They debated what to do and agreed to try to get Burl’s cousin to take them back toward Portsmouth the next day. Cousin Floyd was seventeen and driving a big 56 Chrysler that belonged to his dad.

  He was taller than John by three or four inches but was skinny. His hairstyle was a black Brylcreem-pompadour on top, with a DA in the back. He had a pack of unfiltered Camels rolled up in one sleeve of his white tee shirt and his blue denims rolled up into a wide cuff at the ankle. Below them were gray and red argyle socks and black canvas tennis shoes with round white rubber emblems on the sides.

  Floyd agreed to drive them for a couple hours a day for five dollars.

  “Man, that’s robbery,” John said. He wanted to call him Duck-ass because of the haircut.

  “I’ll tel
l you what Sport; you go find someone to do it for less. I’ll match their price.”

  Burl grabbed his arm. “Come on Floyd lighten up; don’t be a dick.”

  John smiled to himself, thinking of the hair and a duck’s ass.

  Floyd broke into a grin and said, “That’s just what I want to be, a dick, a private dick. Dick Tracy, get it? It’ll be my biggest case, tracking down cow killers. Hell, just give me a couple bucks for gas. I’ll do it until I’m bored, or we get killed.”

  They cruised along US Highway 13 in both directions during business lunch hours for the next two days with no luck. On the third day, the blue van was sitting at the same hamburger joint that Burl had spotted it at before, a few miles west of the Elizabeth River. They backed into a private driveway fifty yards away and Burl wrote down the license number. Twenty minutes later two men left the diner and got into the van. Neither boy could tell if either man was one of the cow killers.

  The van pulled out and headed west - toward Suffolk. They waited until it was almost out of sight and then followed. It was easy to keep in sight with its bright blue color.

  “They’re headed the right way, and who said crooks have to be smart,” Floyd joked.

  “Not with that color, they’re not,” Burl replied.

  John remained silent.

  They continued for what seemed like twenty miles and the highway turned southeast. The van slowed and turned right, disappearing into a heavily forested area on a levee they could barely see. Floyd was slowing, but Burl and John told him to keep going.

  “They would spot us back in there for sure,” John stated.

  Floyd slammed the heel of his hand against the steering wheel. “Yeah, just when it starts to get interesting, you guys want to quit.”

  “That was a dead end and a death trap,” Burl said.

  Floyd countered, “Hey man, it’s your turn to lighten up. From what I’ve heard, those are some badass dudes and we need to stay the hell out. There’s no way I was really going in there. I’d wind up being a headless dick.”