Read Online The Bastard Hand by Heath Lowrance - Free Book Online Page A

again to woods—sparse, but lush and green. The Reverend said, “I’d say we’re in Cuba Landing. ’Bout time, huh?”
    I nodded. The trip shouldn’t have taken more than two hours, but about twice that time had gone by since we’d left Memphis. Late afternoon now, and the sun hung dark orange in the west. To the east I could see the vague outline of the moon over the trees. The bottle of whiskey had run out only minutes after we left the diner, and my head was fuzzy. What I wanted more than anything was an icy shower and a cool bed.
    As we drove through the woods, I caught a whiff of something soft and flowery and wet. Trees cast dappled shadows on the road, permitting only the occasional shaft of light. We kept driving, though, and within a minute small houses, half-hidden by trees, began appearing. We passed a bait shop, took a smooth curve to the right, and were cruising down the towns Main Street.
    At first glance, Cuba Landing seemed like something out of a Faulkner story. A row of small businesses lined one side of the street, facing a small park on the other side. In the middle of the park stood a statue of a man decked out in Civil War attire. Beyond the park, and down each side street we passed, were row after row of colorful wooden houses with big front porches and huge trees in every yard. I spotted a young couple walking hand-in-hand toward the park, and an old man in a summer suit perched in front of the post office, but other than that, not a soul. With the exception of two or three cars passing in the other direction, Main Street was also empty.
    The Reverend read my mind. “It’s Sunday, Charlie, ’member? All the shops are closed today, with the possible exception of the bar t’ other end of town. Cuba Landing is closed for business on Sundays, and every weekday after six.”
    A police siren wailed behind us. I nearly jumped up from my seat and bolted out of the moving car—training I’d had as a wandering bum—but the Reverend only glanced casually in the rear-view mirror and said, “Now what the hell?”
    The siren wailed again, a short sharp burst. I craned my neck to see the police car right behind us, flashing a white light from the dashboard. My heart started pounding. I said, “Gun it, man. Just go.”
    He looked at me as if my head had fallen off and rolled onto the floorboard. “Go? What the hell you on about, Charlie? You wanna get us arrested?”
    Shoving the empty whiskey bottle under his seat, the Reverend steered the Malibu over, stopped in front of a bike shop.
    “Reach in the glove compartment there, Charlie. My license is in there somewheres.”
    My hands shook as I fumbled through the compartment, and I felt the Reverend’s eyes on me. The license was under a pile of ragged maps and religious pamphlets. I handed it to him, not meeting his gaze.
    “Try to relax, Charlie. It’s just a cop.”
    Behind us, the cruiser door slammed and a pair of heavy boots clomped toward the Reverend’s side of the car. I watched the cop approach in the rear-view.
    A wide face, youngish but rugged, peered through the open window. “Evening, gentlemen.”
    Reverend Childe grinned at him. “Howdy, officer. What can I do for you?”
    “You can start,” the cop said, “by showing me your driver’s license.” His face friendly enough, but the voice stern, leaving no room for argument. Still grinning, the Reverend passed his license over, and the cop glanced at it quickly, comparing the picture to the Reverend’s face.
    Satisfied, the cop gave the license back, said, “Did you know, Mr. Childe, that your left taillight is out?”
    “Is it now?” the Reverend sounded genuinely troubled. “Well, I sure didn’t know that.” He looked at me. “Did you notice that, Charlie?”
    I shook my head.
    Turning back to the cop, he said, “It’s mighty good of you to tell me that, officer. We been driving just about all day long to make it here and we never even noticed the