Chapter 3. We Need a Plan Part 1.
Here's some more of Coy, Jr. for those following along at home...
Woody was rearing back with the pump handle. Hannon, hearing him coming, started to lean over and turn around, the whole time reaching for his gun. But he was too slow. The cast iron pump handle caught the rim of his hat, grazed the back of his head and hit him solidly at the base of his neck. I was still running toward Woody when Hannon hit the ground, his body quivering in convulsions. Woody raised the pump handle over his head again, his eyes and face reflected his unadulterated hatred of Hannon. There was no doubt he intended to kill him just as he had described earlier. I leapt toward Woody catching his right arm with mine and the weight of my body hitting him at the waist. We fell to the ground in a tangled mass, the pump handle tightly in his grip.
“Woody, stop it! You can’t kill him!” Woody rolled over, sat up and looked at me with that crazed look. His face was covered in dirt and spit was running out of the corners of this mouth. With both hands, he swung the pump handle back over his head and brought it down as hard as he could. He missed my head by about six inches.
“What’d you do that for Coy, Jr.? I’ve got to kill him! He tried to kill us so we’ve got to kill him now.”
I looked over at Hannon. He was on his stomach, flat on the ground, his arms out away from his sides and his hips were turned with his legs bent as if running. Mama Pope was sitting on the ground rocking back and forth, staring at him. I crawled over and quickly took his gun from its holster. I got up on my knees and jammed the gun into the waistband of my jeans. He sure looked dead, I thought as I silently debated on checking his pulse. Woody had come to what little sense he had and began to get fidgety. He threw the pump handle down and dusted off his hands.
“Is he dead? Did I kill him?” Woody had a cross of fear and pride in his voice, kind of like falling off the roof and not getting hurt. What he had done scared him to death, but he would never deny his intent to kill Hannon.Not knowing where I would actually find his pulse, I put two fingers on his neck like I had seen on Marcus Welby, MD. praying a heartbeat would be there. I didn’t feel anything but sweat. I moved my fingers up and down his neck, pressing every half inch or so, but no pulse was to be found.
“He’s dead,” I whispered. “He’s dead, Woody.” Woody crawled over on his hands and knees as fast as he could move.
“Did I kill him Coy, Jr.?”
“Damn, Woody. What are we going to do now? This is the worst thing you’ve ever done. This is so bad.” I felt sick. As much as I hated Hannon for all the things his father had done to my family, the things he had done to me and for trying to kill Woody, I didn’t want him dead. So many times I had thought about getting even for knocking out my teeth and all the pain I went through for nothing. For absolutely nothing. He had beaten me just because I was me. Just because I was a Povine. He had tried to kill Woody because he had the excuse of us stealing that truck and the opportunity presented itself. Lying on the ground in front of me was a man that would just as soon kill me as look at me. If I had walked around that shed one minute ago and confronted him about hitting Mama Pope, he would have killed me. No doubt he would have shot me and enjoyed it. But now I was praying that he would wake up.
“Lawd, son! What is you done?” a familiar voice came out of nowhere. I looked up into the bright sunlight and my eyes tried to focus in the direction of the voice.
“You boys done messed up! Lawd, Lawd, Lawd! Is he dead?” As he got closer I recognized the faded overalls to be that of the old black man I met in jail. I thought to myself that a witness was the last thing we needed, but then again, maybe he knew something we could do about this whole situation.
He leaned over and put his ear next to Hannon’s face. Then he grabbed Hannon’s arms and brought them to the small of his back, one at a time. Then he took the handcuffs from Hannon’s belt and put them on the Deputy’s hands, clamping them down as tight as he could get them. "You boys sho’ is lucky. He ain’t dead, but he’s gonna be mad as an old wet settin’ hen when he wakes up. Let’s drag him over yonder,” he said, motioning toward the shed. I grabbed his right arm and Woody grabbed his left as the old man hurried over to open the door. We dragged him into the shed and dropped him to the dirt floor. His face smacked the ground and he let out a muffled groan. The sunshine flooded through the open door as we stood there looking at him. Woody leaned down and grabbed Hannon by the arm and rolled him over.
“You stinkin-ass bastard. I hope you die.” Woody snorted, then spit on Hannon’s shirt, missing his badge by about an inch.
“Where’d you come from?”, I asked the old black man. He was beginning to seem like my guardian angel or something.
“Ol’ Hannon he brung me out here to help the widow woman with the still. I was sittin’ in tha’ car when you boys commenced to beatin’ him.”
“Coy, Jr., what are we going to do? Hannon’s gonna wake up and go wild. Do we have to kill him? I mean we got to kill him.” I knew without a shadow of a doubt that if I weren’t there, Woody would kill him.
“I don’t know what we’re going to do. But we ain’t going to kill him.”
“Well you boys best be comin’ up with sumpin’ ‘fore he wakes up. There’s some fellows he was a’meetin’ over at Okaluka. That’s where he was a’going after he dropped me off here. They gwine be lookin’ for him d’rectly.”
I hate having to think under pressure. This is the same reason I fail most of my math tests. It always falls to me to come up with a plan.
“Which way was he going to go when he left here? Which way was he going to Okaluka?” I had an idea, but it was absolutely crazy.
“He usually goes back down Gunner’s Creek road. I’s rode with him that way a bunch a’times.”
Mama Pope had gotten up off the ground and was standing over by Hannon, looking at him and holding her head.
“Okay. Let’s get him back in his car and one of us will drive him out Gunner’s Creek road. We’ll leave the car on the side of the road. Maybe he won’t wake up before then. Or maybe he’ll have amnesia or something.” That was my plan. Basically I was praying for the “amnesia or something” part however I had never known anyone to actually have amnesia. Maybe it was just a TV disease. It wasn’t a good plan, but at least it was a plan.
“I KNOW! I GOT IT! I GOT IT! Let’s wreck his car and everybody will think he did it and maybe he’ll think it too!”
See what I mean? Woody was coming back around to his usual self.
“Woody, you attempted murder and now we’re going to destroy government property. They’ll put us under the jail, you idiot!”
“Hold on here a minute. That ain’t no bad idea.” The old black guy shoved his baseball cap toward the back of his head a little and put his hands on his hips. “They’s a low water bridge down dat road. We could run him off in there. It ain’t no mo’ than six or eight feet deep. Creek’s dry, so he won’t drown.”
“Okay, let’s get him in the car before he wakes up.” I knew that I was going to regret this one day, but it seemed logical right then. We drug him by his feet back out of the shed and over to the car. Woody opened the driver’s side door.
“Hold on a minute. How are we going to do this? He’s got to be in the driver’s seat when they find him, but who’s gonna drive?”
“OH! OH! OH! ME!” Woody was standing there holding his hand up in the air like he was volunteering to run the projector in home room. Which he was very bad at, I might add.
“Coy, Jr. You don’t worry. I can do this. I’ll sit on the passenger’s side and jump when I get ready to run off the bridge.”
“So you’re gonna’ drive from the passenger’s side?”
"Well, yeah! I do it when Daddy’s lightin’ a cigarette. This ain’t no difference.”
“Let’s just get him a’movin. Y’all can fight over dat stuff later.” The old black guy rolled Hannon over on to his stomach. “Da key to these handcuffs is on his car keys. Hand ‘em to me, son.” Woody grabbed the keys out of the ignition and handed them to the old black man. “Okay, now y’all grab his legs an poke ‘em in the car while I holds him up.”
“We better brush some of the dirt off of him,” I figured they would get suspicious if he was in the car and covered in dirt. I dusted him as best I could.
We pushed his legs in and then helped get his backend into the seat. Woody ran around and jumped in the passenger’s seat. The black guy pitched him the keys and Woody grabbed them in mid air. In one fluid motion he found the right key and stuck it in the switch. Without missing a beat Woody turned the key and cranked the patrol car. I was just about to close the door when I heard Mama Pope hollering.
“Hold it! Hold it!” She went back into the shed and came out with a jug. It was the same jug I thought had gas in it but it was moonshine instead. She walked over to the driver’s door and started pouring ‘shine all over Hannon. She absolutely drenched him in the stuff and he smelled to high heaven. “Now they’ll think he was drunk when he wrecked.”
Woody pulled the gear shift into drive and started kicking Hannon’s feet out of the way. He stomped the gas and the wheels were throwing gravel as he took out a fence post and ran off the end of the culvert. He hit the road and was gone.
(to be continued) Chapter 3. We Need a Plan (Part 2)
Woody was rearing back with the pump handle. Hannon, hearing him coming, started to lean over and turn around, the whole time reaching for his gun. But he was too slow. The cast iron pump handle caught the rim of his hat, grazed the back of his head and hit him solidly at the base of his neck. I was still running toward Woody when Hannon hit the ground, his body quivering in convulsions. Woody raised the pump handle over his head again, his eyes and face reflected his unadulterated hatred of Hannon. There was no doubt he intended to kill him just as he had described earlier. I leapt toward Woody catching his right arm with mine and the weight of my body hitting him at the waist. We fell to the ground in a tangled mass, the pump handle tightly in his grip.
“Woody, stop it! You can’t kill him!” Woody rolled over, sat up and looked at me with that crazed look. His face was covered in dirt and spit was running out of the corners of this mouth. With both hands, he swung the pump handle back over his head and brought it down as hard as he could. He missed my head by about six inches.
“What’d you do that for Coy, Jr.? I’ve got to kill him! He tried to kill us so we’ve got to kill him now.”
I looked over at Hannon. He was on his stomach, flat on the ground, his arms out away from his sides and his hips were turned with his legs bent as if running. Mama Pope was sitting on the ground rocking back and forth, staring at him. I crawled over and quickly took his gun from its holster. I got up on my knees and jammed the gun into the waistband of my jeans. He sure looked dead, I thought as I silently debated on checking his pulse. Woody had come to what little sense he had and began to get fidgety. He threw the pump handle down and dusted off his hands.
“Is he dead? Did I kill him?” Woody had a cross of fear and pride in his voice, kind of like falling off the roof and not getting hurt. What he had done scared him to death, but he would never deny his intent to kill Hannon.Not knowing where I would actually find his pulse, I put two fingers on his neck like I had seen on Marcus Welby, MD. praying a heartbeat would be there. I didn’t feel anything but sweat. I moved my fingers up and down his neck, pressing every half inch or so, but no pulse was to be found.
“He’s dead,” I whispered. “He’s dead, Woody.” Woody crawled over on his hands and knees as fast as he could move.
“Did I kill him Coy, Jr.?”
“Damn, Woody. What are we going to do now? This is the worst thing you’ve ever done. This is so bad.” I felt sick. As much as I hated Hannon for all the things his father had done to my family, the things he had done to me and for trying to kill Woody, I didn’t want him dead. So many times I had thought about getting even for knocking out my teeth and all the pain I went through for nothing. For absolutely nothing. He had beaten me just because I was me. Just because I was a Povine. He had tried to kill Woody because he had the excuse of us stealing that truck and the opportunity presented itself. Lying on the ground in front of me was a man that would just as soon kill me as look at me. If I had walked around that shed one minute ago and confronted him about hitting Mama Pope, he would have killed me. No doubt he would have shot me and enjoyed it. But now I was praying that he would wake up.
“Lawd, son! What is you done?” a familiar voice came out of nowhere. I looked up into the bright sunlight and my eyes tried to focus in the direction of the voice.
“You boys done messed up! Lawd, Lawd, Lawd! Is he dead?” As he got closer I recognized the faded overalls to be that of the old black man I met in jail. I thought to myself that a witness was the last thing we needed, but then again, maybe he knew something we could do about this whole situation.
He leaned over and put his ear next to Hannon’s face. Then he grabbed Hannon’s arms and brought them to the small of his back, one at a time. Then he took the handcuffs from Hannon’s belt and put them on the Deputy’s hands, clamping them down as tight as he could get them. "You boys sho’ is lucky. He ain’t dead, but he’s gonna be mad as an old wet settin’ hen when he wakes up. Let’s drag him over yonder,” he said, motioning toward the shed. I grabbed his right arm and Woody grabbed his left as the old man hurried over to open the door. We dragged him into the shed and dropped him to the dirt floor. His face smacked the ground and he let out a muffled groan. The sunshine flooded through the open door as we stood there looking at him. Woody leaned down and grabbed Hannon by the arm and rolled him over.
“You stinkin-ass bastard. I hope you die.” Woody snorted, then spit on Hannon’s shirt, missing his badge by about an inch.
“Where’d you come from?”, I asked the old black man. He was beginning to seem like my guardian angel or something.
“Ol’ Hannon he brung me out here to help the widow woman with the still. I was sittin’ in tha’ car when you boys commenced to beatin’ him.”
“Coy, Jr., what are we going to do? Hannon’s gonna wake up and go wild. Do we have to kill him? I mean we got to kill him.” I knew without a shadow of a doubt that if I weren’t there, Woody would kill him.
“I don’t know what we’re going to do. But we ain’t going to kill him.”
“Well you boys best be comin’ up with sumpin’ ‘fore he wakes up. There’s some fellows he was a’meetin’ over at Okaluka. That’s where he was a’going after he dropped me off here. They gwine be lookin’ for him d’rectly.”
I hate having to think under pressure. This is the same reason I fail most of my math tests. It always falls to me to come up with a plan.
“Which way was he going to go when he left here? Which way was he going to Okaluka?” I had an idea, but it was absolutely crazy.
“He usually goes back down Gunner’s Creek road. I’s rode with him that way a bunch a’times.”
Mama Pope had gotten up off the ground and was standing over by Hannon, looking at him and holding her head.
“Okay. Let’s get him back in his car and one of us will drive him out Gunner’s Creek road. We’ll leave the car on the side of the road. Maybe he won’t wake up before then. Or maybe he’ll have amnesia or something.” That was my plan. Basically I was praying for the “amnesia or something” part however I had never known anyone to actually have amnesia. Maybe it was just a TV disease. It wasn’t a good plan, but at least it was a plan.
“I KNOW! I GOT IT! I GOT IT! Let’s wreck his car and everybody will think he did it and maybe he’ll think it too!”
See what I mean? Woody was coming back around to his usual self.
“Woody, you attempted murder and now we’re going to destroy government property. They’ll put us under the jail, you idiot!”
“Hold on here a minute. That ain’t no bad idea.” The old black guy shoved his baseball cap toward the back of his head a little and put his hands on his hips. “They’s a low water bridge down dat road. We could run him off in there. It ain’t no mo’ than six or eight feet deep. Creek’s dry, so he won’t drown.”
“Okay, let’s get him in the car before he wakes up.” I knew that I was going to regret this one day, but it seemed logical right then. We drug him by his feet back out of the shed and over to the car. Woody opened the driver’s side door.
“Hold on a minute. How are we going to do this? He’s got to be in the driver’s seat when they find him, but who’s gonna drive?”
“OH! OH! OH! ME!” Woody was standing there holding his hand up in the air like he was volunteering to run the projector in home room. Which he was very bad at, I might add.
“Coy, Jr. You don’t worry. I can do this. I’ll sit on the passenger’s side and jump when I get ready to run off the bridge.”
“So you’re gonna’ drive from the passenger’s side?”
"Well, yeah! I do it when Daddy’s lightin’ a cigarette. This ain’t no difference.”
“Let’s just get him a’movin. Y’all can fight over dat stuff later.” The old black guy rolled Hannon over on to his stomach. “Da key to these handcuffs is on his car keys. Hand ‘em to me, son.” Woody grabbed the keys out of the ignition and handed them to the old black man. “Okay, now y’all grab his legs an poke ‘em in the car while I holds him up.”
“We better brush some of the dirt off of him,” I figured they would get suspicious if he was in the car and covered in dirt. I dusted him as best I could.
We pushed his legs in and then helped get his backend into the seat. Woody ran around and jumped in the passenger’s seat. The black guy pitched him the keys and Woody grabbed them in mid air. In one fluid motion he found the right key and stuck it in the switch. Without missing a beat Woody turned the key and cranked the patrol car. I was just about to close the door when I heard Mama Pope hollering.
“Hold it! Hold it!” She went back into the shed and came out with a jug. It was the same jug I thought had gas in it but it was moonshine instead. She walked over to the driver’s door and started pouring ‘shine all over Hannon. She absolutely drenched him in the stuff and he smelled to high heaven. “Now they’ll think he was drunk when he wrecked.”
Woody pulled the gear shift into drive and started kicking Hannon’s feet out of the way. He stomped the gas and the wheels were throwing gravel as he took out a fence post and ran off the end of the culvert. He hit the road and was gone.
(to be continued) Chapter 3. We Need a Plan (Part 2)
Trackbacks
-
5/6/2009 7:51 PM
The Biting Fly wrote:
Okay, this is the last part of Chapter 2. Things aren't going so well for Coy, Jr. but they, as you would guess, they begin to get even worse with a little help from Woody.
Comments