Dwayne grabbed a bucked section of locust and stood it on a grayed poplar stump that had been used to bust wood for a decade. Holding the weight of the go-devil near the head with one hand, he gripped the bottom of the handle with his other, dropped the top hand as he came over his shoulder, and cracked the log in two with little effort at all. He tossed the wood aside, guzzled down what was left of a Busch heavy by his feet, crumpled the empty can in his fist, and reached for another log.
He was building a mountain of firewood and empty beer cans on a grassless patch of yard in front of the house. The sky was low and gray, but it hadn’t rained. A strong breeze every now and again rattled rust-colored leaves on the ground around him. A faded and color-muddled tattoo of a skull wearing a cowboy hat with two pistols crossed over a Confederate flag swelled on the left side of his chest as he panted for air with a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. Sweat rolled down his back and chest and soaked the waist of a navy pair of Dickies, so that the fabric darkened almost black.
The house had been built a room at a time from scrap wood salvaged and stolen. Nothing here was permanent and as each addition rotted away, a new one was hammered together from plywood and bent nails off another side so that slowly, through decades, the five-room shanty shifted around the property like a droplet of water following the path of least resistance. Red Brewer was no carpenter. Chicken coops were built better. So were doghouses. But this place had been the roof over their heads and had kept the rain off the Brewer clan’s backs all Dwayne’s miserable life.
Buzzards filled the trees around the house the same as they had for the past six months. Sometime early spring, wakes of birds came circling over the ridgeline in orbits of ten or twelve and lit on every limb there was to be had on the hill above the house. Since then, they’d never left. Every day the birds sat high in the oaks, glaring down on this tiny piece of land. Thick limbs bowed beneath their weight so that one’s movement shifted the balance of them all and each had to flap a few strokes to regain its perch. As the sun rose each morning, one buzzard would spread its wings, hold them open and let the light burn the dew from its feathers. Another bird would join the first, and then another and another until the birds appeared like some black-winged crucifixion roosted in the trees.
At first, Dwayne was convinced they were a sign of wickedness to come, an omen. He’d never seen anything like it. Crows, sure, but not buzzards, not like that, not in all his life. After six months, though, they were something else in the background, something he wouldn’t have paid attention to at all if not for the sound of their wings whipping about the air while he split the winter’s cord. Down the drive, he could hear a car coming toward him, and that sound caught him off guard because no one came here. At the bottom of the driveway, a dozen NO TRESPASSING and PRIVATE PROPERTY signs nailed to trees made the owner’s intentions clear. A white tin sign rusted, and buckshot on the mailbox post was hand-painted to read TRESPASSERS MAKE FINE TROPHIES in uneven letters.
Holding the go-devil one-handed by his side, he took a long drag off his cigarette and waited for the car to show through the trees. The Crown Vic was unmarked, but a set of white strobes by the headlights pegged it for the law. Dwayne squeezed the neck of the maul handle until his fist was bloodless and white. He didn’t wait for the car to reach him. He barreled straight toward it. And as he came to the driver’s side, he bent down and peered in with a peculiar intensity. The window came down and Dwayne met the driver’s eyes.
“Dwayne Brewer?”
“This is private property.”
“I’m with the Jackson County Sheriff’s Office.”
“And like I said, this is private property.”
“That doesn’t matter, Mr. Brewer.”
“How’s that?”
“Because I don’t need permission or a warrant to come up a driveway to the front of a house. Besides, I’m here to ask a couple questions about an active investigation. So you can call down to the office if you’d like, but they’ll tell you exactly what I’m telling you.”
“What investigation?”
“Why don’t you let me pull on up and we’ll talk.”
Dwayne didn’t answer, but the detective didn’t wait for permission. He rolled up his window as he pulled forward, then parked behind Dwayne’s Buick and stepped out.
“I’m Detective Michael Stillwell.” He held out his hand and Dwayne glanced down at it then back up to his eyes.
“I don’t much give a shit who you are,” Dwayne said. “Tell me why you’re here.” The last of the cigarette burned down into the filter and he tossed the butt into the yard, then went for another beer from an opened case by the woodpile. He cracked the top and sucked the foam from the mouth of the can, traded hands and slung what spilled from his fingers. Setting the beer on the ground, he turned back to his work.
“I’m here investigating the death of Darl Moody.”
“Who?” Dwayne asked with a puzzled look before splitting the log before him.
“Darl Moody,” the detective said.
“Don’t know him.”
“So you don’t know anything about what happened to him?”
“Why would I?” Dwayne bent and placed another log on the stump.
“Figured you might’ve read something about it in the paper.”
“That liberal-ass rag ain’t fit for shit but lining bird cages. I wouldn’t even use it for kindling.”
“Look,” Stillwell chided. “I’ll get right on with it, because I can tell you ain’t much on me and I’m coming to that same feeling about you the longer I stand here.”
Dwayne dropped the head of the maul to the ground and balanced himself against the butt of the handle like he was leaning against a cane.
“A man named Coon Coward told me you went by his house looking for your brother.”
“What about it?”
“He said you and him looked at some pictures off a game camera he had in the woods, and that some of those pictures were of Darl Moody.”
“I don’t know if that’s right or not.”
“What do you mean? Either they were or they weren’t.”
“I don’t know who was in them pictures, and like I told you, I don’t give a shit. It might’ve been that old boy you’re looking for or it might’ve been Randy fucking Travis. Either way, it wasn’t what I come for and so it didn’t make a bit of difference to me.”
“And what had you come for, Mr. Brewer?”
“The old man told you.” Dwayne picked up the go-devil and swung it hard into the next log, the split sections kicking off into the yard like shrapnel. “I come for my brother.”
“Why would your brother have been there?”
“I’m sure the old man told you that, too.”
“Just in case he didn’t, why don’t you tell me?”
“Ginseng.” Dwayne grabbed the beer from the ground and took a long sip that spilled from the corners of his mouth and dribbled off his chin. “My brother was after that old man’s ginseng.”
“So’d you find him?”
“No,” Dwayne said. “Ain’t been home yet. I don’t know where he’s run off to.”
“Whereabouts does your brother live?”
“Right up the road a ways. Head of Allens Branch. There’s a whole bunch of mailboxes there at the bottom and one reads ‘Brewer’ and he’s up at the very top there in my grandparents’ old place.”
“And you said you haven’t seen him for how long?”
“You know, the longer I sit here answering your questions the more I’m coming to wonder just what in the fuck you’re doing here.” Dwayne dropped the maul to the ground and walked over close to the detective, trying to force a sign of weakness, but there was no visible change in emotion or stance.
“I told you why I’m here, Mr. Brewer.”
“No, you told me you’re investigating what happened to some old boy I ain’t ever heard of, and what exactly that has to do with me or my brother ain’t been said.”
A low growl in the distance grew louder and louder as it came, until a heavy torrent of rain swept the trees and was on top of them. Neither moved from where he stood. They each squinted a bit as the rain washed over their brows, but for a few seconds they floated there scowling at one another like they were about to fistfight. The water was cold against Dwayne’s bare skin, but he hardly felt anything at all.
“I’ll be seeing you, Mr. Brewer,” Stillwell said, extending his hand into the small gap between them, and again Dwayne only glanced down at his offering without a word.
The detective climbed into his car and backed unhurriedly into the yard. Dwayne shifted his stance as the car curved around the woodpile so that he faced him until the taillights disappeared into the haze of rain and descended cloud. The air was smoky and Dwayne shook the water from his face like a dog, then snatched the maul from the mud.
A heat rose in his chest till it boiled in his eyes, his ears humming with anger. On the stump, he set the next piece and came down hard, grunting as the locust splintered in two. He grabbed the next log and stood it on end, and imagined Stillwell’s face on the sawn end of wood as he came down. The rain poured around him and steamed from his shoulders as he took another bucked section, imagined Darl Moody’s face. Coon Coward came next and then Calvin Hooper and then he chopped them further into pieces, working until there was no more wood before him.
When the pile was split, he came down hard into the wood, the go-devil a dull thud scarring the rooted stump. The anger grew and Dwayne Brewer swung again and again until the wood was crosshatched with marks from the maul’s heavy edge. His muscles burned and he swung until his arms wore completely out, and when he could no longer lift the weight he laughed hysterically at how his body failed him. He collapsed to the ground and lay flat on his back. Harder and harder the rain came down, but he did not seek shelter.