Read Online Burn What Will Burn by C. B. McKenzie - Free Book Online Page B

shallow water river stones were smooth and speckled as cresting trout, metal pull tabs glittered like silver jewelry, plastic bobbers were hooked in a nest of fishing line. A faint scent of burned wood rose as a quick hot breeze whisked up and twirled the white trash ash inside a fire pit like insubstantial egg whites, shirred to the ultimate thinness of dust. Empty cans of potted meat-food product and oysters, soda cracker wrappers and chewing gum wrappers and Styrofoam worm containers, beer cans and fish bones and heads, spent rifle cartridges littered the ground.
    A branch snapped on the southside bank and the red-tailed hawk was yanked off his regular perch atop the loblolly and reeled into the blue sky.
    I peered into the brush below the pine trees.
    A feral cat showed itself. This was one of the tribe of housecats gone wild that inhabited all the area around the creek. The old yellow tom twisted his head skyward, looking up at the bird settled back in the loblolly. But the aerie of the hawk was a long climb up a tall tree for an unlikely meal, so the scroungy cat backed out of sight.
    â€œI’m leaning towards just chalking this little episode up as a waste of County time, Mister Reynolds.”
    â€œChalking it up,” I repeated.
    I wasn’t complaining, though chalking it up did not sound like exactly correct procedure.
    â€œI guess I could haul you in,” the sheriff said casually, giving me the distinct impression that Sam Baxter did not like me, nor dislike me, but was, in actual fact, trying to figure out what to do with me.
    â€œHaul me in for what, Sheriff?”
    â€œI’m sure I could think of something, Mister Reynolds. I am High Sheriff of Poe County.”
    He moved toward the cruiser.
    â€œIs that the way things work out here, Sheriff?”
    He appeared to seriously consider that question.
    â€œI’d have to say, yes, Mister. Things do work about like that out here.”
    He stared at me and his thin lips curled up, ever so slightly.
    I blinked, brushed dust out of my eyes. I have a problem keeping my eyes open when someone stares at me.
    â€œI didn’t invent the man.” I declared this with some surety, but I was not sure how sure I was about that. Pretty sure, I thought. But you never know.
    I was reassuring myself more than arguing, but the sheriff took the opportunity that presented itself.
    â€œSo you say, Mister Reynolds,” said the sheriff.
    He sounded skeptical, as if I was not a credible witness in this case.
    â€œWhy would I?”
    â€œThat’s the Sixty-Four Dollar Question, isn’t it, Mister?” he said. “Why did you?”
    â€œHe was there,” I said and nodded at the creek. “I don’t know who he was or how he got there. But he was there.”
    Baxter thumbed loose tobacco off his lip. He did not act like he believed me.
    â€œSo you say. But you could have invented him, from what I hear tell of you, Mister Reynolds.”
    â€œWhat’s that supposed to mean?”
    The sheriff walked to the driver’s side of the car, rolled up his shirtsleeves and laid his hands on the roof. His shirt was sweat-stained under the arms. The five-pointed star on his breast pocket was shiny brass.
    A crude tattoo on the inside of his right forearm seemed familiar—an eagle, a banner, an encouraging, inspired motto.
    â€œIt means, Mister, that I heard you got a screw loose.”
    I stared at the spot where my dead man had been.
    â€œDepends on who you talk to,” I said.
    â€œWell, Mister I believe you’re right in saying that. In general. But when there’s near about unanimous agreement on a man’s state of mind, that saying kind of loses its punch, doesn’t it?”
    I spit, meaning to hit the water, but my spit dribbled onto my chin. I swiped at it with my hand.
    â€œYou don’t know anything about me.”
    Baxter tapped on the roof of his car with the Zippo.
    I turned around and