Crimes in Southern Indiana

^H ^H itch fork and Darnel burst through

JB^^H the scuffed motel door like two

¦^™^^r barrels of buckshot. Using the

I . daisy-patterned bed to divide the

HM dealers from the buyers, Pitchfork buried

^H a .45-caliber Colt into Karl's peat moss

^^ unibrow with his right hand. Separated

Irvine's green eyes with the sawed-off 12

gauge in his left, pushed the two young men,

kin both, away from the mattress, stopped

them at a wall painted by nicotine and shouted, "Drop the rucks, Karl!"

Karl's towline arms contorted and dropped the two heavy military backpacks to the car­pet. Irvine stood with his chest rising and falling in a hyperventilated rush. Sounding like a southern Indiana hick, he said, "This here is our deal."

Behind Pitchfork, big brother Darnel kicked shut the motel door and corralled the two buy­ers to the right of the bed, into the nightstand, slapped a leather blackjack down onto Dodo Kirby's widow's peak. Helped his knees dis­cover the cigarette-holed carpet. Dodo's little brother Uhl stepped forward, his checkered

teeth of bad dental mouthed, "What the shit,

man, you can't " Darnel obliged Uhl with

the blackjack. Mashed his nose into his lips. Slid the blackjack into his bibs, pulled a small coil offence wire from his other pocket. Shook his head and said, "Can't what? We never gave the go for this deal. We's taking back what's ours." Pitchfork and Darnel had found several of their storage drums coming up short in the weight department after it'd been scaled for a customer who'd rescaled it and was none too happy. They'd had their suspicions of who'd skimmed the dope, considering the hands to be trusted were a select few. They passed the word to Harrison County sheriff

Elmo Sig, who'd been on their payroll for the past 10 years. Letting them use the only motel in town to do their trade. The man also gave the DEA leads in other counties, detoured their noses out of his own. Sig had his own eyes and ears running through the surrounding counties who went by the alias AK. AK delivered some chatter that he'd overheard about two 20-somethings with some primo weed. Needed to turn it to cash quick. Wanted to set up a deal at the same motel where they'd watched Darnel and Pitchfork make theirs.

Darnel kneeled down. Pushed a knee into Uhl's blue flannel spine. Started weav­ing tight circle eights with the wire around Uhl's wrists. Pulled a pair of snips from his back pocket. Cut the wire.

Sweat bathed the garden of red and pus-white acne bumps across Karl's forehead as he yelled, "We helped harvest, dry, weigh and package them crops when you all was busy! We deserve a piece of the profit."

Pitchfork's briar-scarred right arm pulled the Colt away from Karl's brow an inch. Thudded the barrel back into his forehead. Karl whimpered.

Pitchfork told the boy, "You deserve what you earn."

Behind Pitchfork on the other side of the bed, Darnel finished with Dodo's wrists. Stood up. Told Karl, "You'd been a smear on your mama's leg I hadn't wanted me a boy to carry on my line."

Darnel stepped toward Karl and Irvine. Said, "Turn around. Tired of lookin' at all your stupid." Karl and Irvine turned, faced the yellowing wall. Pitchfork slid the Colt into his waist. Held the sawed-offdown at his side. Shook his bone-shaved skull, told the boys, "Two shit birds didn't even check the parkin' lot for extra men. This time a night they coulda rushed you like we did. Hell, we's sittin' over off in the shadows in the '68."

Karl turned to Irvine and said, "Told you we shoulda checked the damn lot."

Pitchfork stepped away from the boys, watched Darnel coil the wire over and under Irvine's wrists, and Darnel asked Irvine, "Who vouched for these two scrotums?"

From the other side of the room Karl whimpered, "Eugene Lillpop."

Darnel laughed his carburetor laugh. "That inbred shit has got one hand in his pants, the other up his mama's skirt. His word ain't worth the bearing grease he lubes his palm with."

From the floor, with hair matted to his face, lips swollen and turning purple, Uhl talked in his toughest tone. "Son of a bitches best let us be. Know who our ol' man is?"

Pitchfork stood disgusted by Uhl's ques­tion. "Sure I know backstabbin' Able Kirby. Shoulda been buried beneath an outhouse for rattin' out Willie Dodson years back. Course you all run in a different county. Shit like that don't fly round here. Your kind is used for fertilizer."

Uhl coughed and protested, "Our daddy's a good man. Didn't never rat Willie out."

Darnel Finished with Karl's wrists. Put the wire and snips back in his pocket. Grabbed the two rucks Karl carried in. Slung one over each shoulder. Smelled that honey-thick odor. Told Uhl, "Son, I know for a fact it was your ol' man 'cause Willie worked for me. Crossed counties to meet with your daddy and some of his people way down in Orange Holler. When the shit went down your daddy walked away clean as cotton."

Pitchfork laid the sawed-off on the floor. Opened Uhl and Dodo's ruck. Reached in and dug through the bundles of bills, all benjamins banded around identical-sized blank cutouts on the bottoms. Then he felt the weight of steel, pulled out two nickel-plated .38 revolvers. Looked at the boys and said, "You two dick stains didn't even

check to see if they's packin' heat or the right amount of cash? Fuckin' greenies."

Darnel dug his hands into Karl and Irvine's hair. Told them, "Could at least used a different motel room or another county. Don't matter no way. You two got a lesson to learn." Then he guided them to the door by their greasy heads of hair. Opened it.

Pitchfork put the two .38s back in the leather ruck. Slung it over his shoulder. Grabbed the sawed-off. Pulled Dodo to his feet. Then Uhl, who begged, "Let us go. We won't say shit."

Pitchfork stared through Uhl and questioned, "Keys?" Confused, Uhl said, "Keys?" "Mother­fucker, how'd you get that rape van out yonder, hot-wire it?" Uhl stuttered, "Ffffronl pocket." Pitchfork patted his front, pulled the van keys from them, sneered and told Uhl, "And we know you ain't gonna say shit 'cause where we gonna take you, won't nobody hear a word."

Darnel loaded Uhl, Dodo and the ruck of bills into Irvine and Karl's Impala. Pitchfork loaded their boys and the rucks of marijuana in the bed of his '68. Left Uhl and Dodo's van with the keys in the ignition, payment beneath the driver's seat for Sheriff Elmo to scrap over at Medford Malone's Salvage Yard. Then they drove to the Hill Clan Cross Cemetery. A place where bad deals were undone and buried deep.

The two vehicles were silent except for the crack and pop of night air cooling the engine blocks. Headlights from the Impala and '68 Chevy outlined the profiles of Dodo and Uhl. Their features distorted and turning darker with the night. Blood began to dry like ink in the sun. The shovels they'd used to dig the eight-by-eight grave left their hands unsteady at their sides as they stood looking down into their handiwork.

Pitchfork stood behind Uhl and Dodo. The .45 pressed into one head. The sawed-off into the other. Karl and Irvine kneeled off to the left, taking in the three silhouettes. Behind them, Darnel made his cigarette cherry with a final inhale as he flicked it to the ground and told Pitchfork, "It's time."

Pitchfork asked the two buyers, "How old you say you was?"

Dodo slobbered, "We didn't." Hoped the

nightmare would end, they'd be released, he

said, "I's 35, Uhl's "

Pitchfork cut him off. "Well, leasts you ain't gotta worry about cancer or achin' bones like your mama." Then he squeezed the .45's trig­ger. Dodo's face exploded into the beams of light, disappeared into the air. His body thudded forward into the grave.

With Uhl's ears ringing, his pants crotch spread with warm fear as he screamed, "No, no! Oh God, please! Please!"

Pitchfork said, "Ain't you the whiniest chickenshit I ever did hear."

Darnel said, "His ol' man was the same way, don't you remember that time over at Galloway's fish fry? Grabbed Galloway's

daughter's ass. Got all teary-eyed when Galloway was gonna stomp him into meal."

Pitchfork said, "Sure I remember. Gallo­way's daughter was only 14 at the time." Pitchfork told Uhl, "Your ol' man's a sick son of a bitch."

Uhl's face contorted, if skin could chatter, his would have, and he said, "Let me go. I can pay triple."

Pitchfork growled, "With what? You knock over an armored vehicle?" Shook his head, "Ain't just about money. It's about blood."

From behind Karl and Irvine, Darnel said, "These two boys need to know they can't steal their own kin's means to provide. Two of you was packin' heat, I know you'd have done somethin' just like this to them in that motel room we hadn't showed up. Tonight every­one's got a lesson to be learned."

Karl and Irvine watched with their faces damp. Their wrists free but aching from the wire that had cut into their skin.

Uhl's weakness turned brave as he spun around, knocked the sawed-off out of Pitchfork's left hand. Only to have the .45 add another split of pain to his head. Uhl fell flat and mumbled, "You bastard." Pitchfork pressed his boot down into Uhl's neck. Pointed the pistol at his head, said, "Didn't think you had any fight in you, kinda impressed." Then he pulled the trigger. Uhl's head dissolved across the soil. Pitchfork slid the .45 into his waist, kneeled down and rolled Uhl and Dodo's bodies into the grave.

New tears warmed Karl and Irvine's cheeks. Pitchfork stepped away from the grave and sat on a vehicle's hood.

Darnel's hands gripped Karl and Irvine's sweaty hair. Pulled them to their feet. The boys' insides tightened. While their minds burned with a revelation: Never steal from your father and uncle's harvest to sell on the side, 'cause in the end blood is blood.

Stopping the boys in front of the grave, Darnel reached into his pocket and gripped the Colt. Raised it. Dropped Irvine. Then Karl, in quick succession. Listened to them hit the bottom of the grave.

To Darnel's right, Pitchfork leaned off the car hood and asked, "Think they broke anything?"

Darnel shoved the blackjack into his pocket, turned and walked over to Pitch­fork, said, "Hope they did."

The '68's door squeaked. Pitchfork reached inside, pulled a couple of iced bottles of Falls City from a Styrofoam cooler. Handed one to Darnel, asked, "How long you think it'll take fore they wake up?"

Darnel pulled a red chipped Swiss Army knife from his pocket, used the bottle opener, "Don't know, but we got plenty beer till they do."

Taking the opener from Darnel, Pitchfork said, "Just hope they learned their lesson."

Darnel turned the bottle of beer up, crys­tallized foam burned his throat like acid as he swallowed and said, "Yeah, I'd hate we had to kill our only two boys."

I t was as if God himself had shot the son of a bitch from the sky. But the good Lord had done no such thing to Able Kirby.

His body lay facedown. Ears still ringing

from the small-caliber gunfire that dotted

his upper back, chest and gut. Blood drew a

wet path behind his work boots. Leading all

^ the way to the flaked wooden screen door

of the house from which Able'd stumbled.

He pressed his palms into uneven earth. Steadied himself. Tried to push his chest up as if doing a push-up, only to fall flat. Smelling cinder and soil and sifting all the bad he'd done.

He'd burnt his father's home for insurance money. Shot Ester MacCullum's dog dead in front of him for a debt he owed. Forced himself upon Needle Galloway's 14-year-old daughter. Opened Nelson Anderson's skull in the Leavenworth Tavern with a hammer for saying he'd ratted out Willie Dodson on a cross-county dope deal, even though he did for the local law.

And today he'd sold his granddaughter, Knee High Audry, to the Hill Clan to whore out. Needing the extra cash to help pay for his wife Josephine's cancer medications. Yeah, he thought, I's a son of a bitch.

Josephine stood in the kitchen smelling the spoiling of her skin that hung loose and gray like dry rotted curtains on a rusted rod, wish­ing she'd stopped Able before it got this far.

Thinking of how she lay in bed, night after night, listening to him worm from beneath the cloth, cross the floor, the cry of hinges to the bedroom where their granddaughter slept. Jo'd work her way out of bed, inhal­ing hard and grunting, and Able'd be in the kitchen getting a sip of beer by the time she passed Knee High's bedroom and made it to the kitchen. Seeing her, Able'd say, "Couldn't sleep, needed me a swallow." That's why she began sleeping with the Ruger beneath her pillow. A .22-caliber pistol she'd wielded to remove varmint and snake from the chicken house and garden. Knowing she'd grown too weak to physically do damage.

Over the years Jo pretended not to notice Able eyeing the young and their female parts that'd taken shape. He started with Knee High while she prepared supper, did dishes, fed the chickens and gathered eggs. Jo'd questioned him about staring, and he'd told her, "She's just become wom­anized awful quick-like. Remember a time when you's that pretty."

His tone had bore a lump of disgust in Jo's gut, making these comparisons of the flesh. Then came the rumors about Gallo­way's daughter.

Fearing the answer, Jo questioned Able about the girl. He didn't deny his actions. Paraded them. "Shit you think, woman, girl like that, man such as myself. She was lookin' to me first. I'sjust offering is all. You bein' the shape you're in, man's got needs you can't meet."

Thirty-five years of matrimony and his words carved into the bone, panging worse than her cancer. With age, the man had molded into a sickness she'd ignored far too long, didn't know how to deal with. And moments before, Able'd come into the bedroom with his chicken-neck face.

Laying a small brown sack loaded with crumpled bills on the bed. His crusted sight, a wilted cellophane glow. Their granddaughter had supposedly ridden to town with him to run an errand, and Jo asked, "Where's Knee High?"

Standing, Able rubbed his palms together, sweat spit from his brow. He tongued his

lips. Looked Josephine in the eye, said, "Hear me out, Jo. You and me been strugglin' here with your can­cer meds and the boys disappearin'. Knee High needed to put more of her fair share in the coin jar. So, I lent her for cash to Pitchfork and Darnel to help pay for your meds. Didn't see no other way round it."

Josephine's jaundiced eyes cleared. She pulled out the Ruger, fingered the trigger and buried a round in his belly.

Should have done this long ago, she thought, could have protected her own. Her mind wondered about con­sequence for a split second, too late, and realized this was his and her con­sequence. Short of breath, propping up her old bones with what was left of her muscle, Jo quipped, "No other way around it? Oh, they's ways around it, only I waited too long for direction."

Able tried to stand but hit the bed­room's hardwood in shock. Stumbled to his feet. Josephine fired a round into his shoulder. Then his chest. Able fell into the dresser, screaming. "Crazy ol' bitch!" He turned away with his hand pressed into the wet heat of his belly, the other steadying him into the next room.

Josephine's feet found her unlaced boots, disregarded the folding wheel­chair leaned against the wall. She wheeled her oxygen tank into the next room where Abie's body fell into the liv­ing room wall. She lined up the pistol with his head, her grip unsteady as her vision. She pulled the trigger. "Shit!" he squealed. Another circle of red formed through his white T-shirt with the wall guiding him into another room.

Now she balanced herself on the silver oxygen tank's wheeled frame. Inhaled air from the clear tube that forked into her nostrils and to the fire-extinguisher-size tank and asked

herself how Able could sell their 14-year-old granddaughter to the Hill Clan like livestock. Sell Knee High to the likes of two cutthroats: Pitchfork and Darnel Crase.

Able and she had just lost their two sons, Dodo and Uhl, Knee High's daddy. They'd run off, always up to no good. Left the house late one evening months ago. Never returned. Neglecting responsibility. Leaving Able and her to raise Audry. Who'd now be forced to offer her teenage self to wasted feed sacks of broke-down men for Hill Clan gain.

Josephine steadied her sunken yellow eyes. Squeezing the handgrip of the Ruger in her

right hand, knowing in the back of her mind she needed to get out that damn door and end Abie's sickness for good before it ended her.

One of the shots bounced around inside Able till it severed a nerve, caused his legs to lose their use.

Behind him he heard the creak of the screen door. Lungs shuddering for air. Wheels and boots scraping the ground. Josephine's voice, "Hope you find the good Lord's soil comfortin' 'cause that's the only comfort you gonna get."

Trying to contract the muscles of his legs Abie's body broke out in cold. He gritted his teeth. Blinked tears from his eyes, "Damn it, Jo, hold on. We need that money. Once you's better we'd buy 'er back."

Josephine's movements grew in pitch till her syllables towered over the top of Able, "Buy 'er back? She's our grandchild. A human bein'.

Unlike yourself." Able dug at the soil, twisted his neck, made out Josephine's outline, and he

begged, "Help me, Jo, can't even feel "

Tiny flashes of fire erupted around what Able believed to be Josephine. His mouth moved but his words went unheard as black­ness drove out all feeling in his body. Josephine stood with the gun empty. Brass shells scat-

tered around her. Seeing no movement from Able. Knowing he was dead. That she'd ended the sickness she'd ignored far too long, but she'd no idea how to get Knee High back home.

ne of the man's hands

O

R gripped Audry's wrists I above her head. Forced I them to the ground. She I bucked her pelvis up. I Wanted him off of her. y The other hand groped the breasts beneath her soiled wifebeater. Her eyes clenched. Held tears. The man's tobacco-stained lips and bourbon breath dragged against her neck.

"Like that...don't you?" The man's name was Melvin. He had the scent of chicken swelled in three days of hundred-degree heat. He'd paid 400 crumpled bills to the Hill Clan for two hours with Knee High Audry.

Knee High lay between the rows of corn that shadowed across her goat-milk complexion. Unwashed shoulder-length hair the hue of burnt tires fanned out in matted clumps. Melvin grunted, Knee High's thoughts darted to how her ride with Able to run an errand had been detoured to seeing men about money in another county. Where a man named Darnel laughed, told Able, "Ain't you a taste of treason. Sell out your two boys, this girl's daddy and uncle, to Sheriff Sig.

Now you's passin' your granddaughter to us. Shit, you've pretty much snitched out half the county for Sig."

Able nodded, said, "Need money, cancer meds ain't cheap for the wife."

Darnel passed a sack to Able and told him, "Neither is your taste for the booze."

Knee High watched Able thumb through the dung-colored sack of bills. Trying to deci­pher Darnel's words, not realizing what was transpiring, her brain ignited with confusion and anger. Her daddy and uncle Dodo had run off. The only speech she could muster wasn't to Able, it (continued on page 119)

(continued from page 91) was to Darnel, and she shouted, "Where's my daddy and my uncle?"

Darnel chuckled, his sight bore into her like two hollow points, and said, "Dead and buried."

She looked to Able to correct this. He stood silently holding the sack of money, digging his hand into it, and she demanded, "What'd you do, Granddad, what'd you do?"

It was Darnel who responded. "He did the same to them that he's done to you." Knee High reached for Able, wanting to shake answers from his hide. He stepped back, still counting the money as she questioned him. "What's he saying, Granddad?"

Darnel's talcum grip restrained her. She twisted away from him and he backhanded her and said, "He sold you to me and my brother to do a kindness for the men of our county."

She tasted the blood on her lip as he drew her to a room where wallpaper was smeared by tea-colored stains and sweat-soured skin. The last thing she saw before the door slammed and bolted shut was Able turning his back, walking out the same way they'd entered.

She beat on the pine door, trying to fathom these things Able'd done, trying to under­stand what Darnel meant, saying Able'd sold out her daddy and uncle to SherifFSig. And why Able'd traded her for a sack of money to pay for her grandmother's cancer medica­tions. The man named Darnel told her "to do a kindness." She understood she'd been sold for sex. But her grandmother Jo would never agree to such a thing.

Crying, she felt her arms and fists swell and harden as she sat barefoot on the floor, a broke-down mattress with a sheet once white lay gray and sticky behind her. She held her knees and rocked back and forth for what seemed like hours, realizing her daddy and uncle were dead because of Able. Then came the roar of a vehicle's engine outside. The slamming of a door. Men speaking, saying, "Four hundred, you'll be the first in the county to break her saddle. She's in yonder. Take your time. We got people to tend." Feet trampled out of the house, an engine fired up and became distant. The sound of metal unlatched on the bedroom door's opposite side. A towering stranger entered. Kneeled down in his cutoff red flannel, smiled with teeth caked by tobacco and ran a finger tainted by motor oil down her cheek, told her, "Call me Melvin."

He grasped her firm arms, lifted her to her feet, guided her backward toward

the bedding. In his eyes she made out the same sick lust she'd tried to ignore in her grandfather Able over the months as she did chores around the house, and she pleaded, "No." He slapped her. She turned with the strike, dodged his reach, ran out of the room and then out of the house.

Melvin followed, tackled her down in the field between the rows of feed corn. Punched her, tore her shorts and panties from her. Unbuckled his pants, made the grainy earth their bedding.

Now all she wanted was to survive, but he was bigger than she, stronger. She had to pretend, to be a chameleon. Thought of men and women. Affection and a neighbor boy who'd kissed her. Brushed his tongue into her ear. Remembered the spark and chill that ran down her spine from this ges­ture. She wiggled her tongue into Melvin's ear, tasted the rank of a dead toad. His lips forced into hers, busted and bloody. "That a girl." He released her hands. She closed her eyes. Wanted to vomit as his heated breath in her ear moaned, "Oh pretty." She tickled a path with her left hand down over the hump of his bareness. Felt the waist­line of his pants, followed the leather belt to the hard handle he wore on his side. Thumbed the snap loose. Unsheathed a wicked curve of steel.

Knee High's (concluded on page 122)

(continued from page 119) mouth engulfed Melvin's ear on one side. Dug the blade into his neck on the other. He jerked into his shoulder, shouted, "Little

fuckin' " She didn't allow him to finish,

drove the knife into his throat, pulled it out as her teeth ripped tissue and cartilage from his skull. He gargled. Collapsed atop of her like warm molasses. His breathing slowed to a stop. Her fingers pulled at the earth. Dragging herself from beneath the degenerate beast, she stood, spit out Mel­vin's ear. Her chest and legs blood covered and vibrating.

Naked from the waist down, she ran down the row of corn toward the house she'd escaped from. Corn leaves like min­iature razors cut her face and arms. Her bare feet pounded the row's soil. Met the green grass.

She wanted to go home. Tell her grandmother Jo all the awful her grand­dad Able'd done. How he'd sold out her daddy and uncle to Sheriff Sig, gotten them killed. Do the same awful to Able that she'd done to Melvin.

The truck Darnel and Pitchfork had left in was still gone. The need for clothes to cover herself led her just outside the house's fly-decorated screen door. Karl, one of the Hill Clan's boys, stood on the other side, surprised Knee High. She'd not seen him when she'd arrived earlier, and he screamed, "The shit?"

Karl pushed the door open. Got his left leg out. Knee High dropped the weight of her body against it. Trapped him in between jamb and door. He hollered, "You bitch!" Fell backward into the house.

Knee High turned in a panic. Ran toward a corncrib where wood was split and piled. Heard the screen door slam behind her. Heard boots running for her. Nearing the

split wood, Knee High grabbed for a piece when she saw the handle. Both hands found it just as Karl's words struck the rear of her head, "Gonna beat and fuck your ass all

in the same " Knee High hefted and

whirled around with the double-sided ax all in one motion. Finding the left side of Karl's rib cage. Cutting off his words. The sound the ax made going in was god-awful. But pulling it out to finish Karl, the sound he made was even more damning. Like a dog chasing and biting at a passing car's tires whose bark is replaced by a yowl and then the crunch of his skull between rub­ber and pavement. He dropped to his knees in shock. Knee High stepped back. Swung. Karl fell wordless to the ground.

In the house, Knee High was blood and stink from head to toe. She trembled, waited to hear that Irvine, the other son of the Hill Clan, was gone. She searched for clothes. Dis­covered an old dress scented with mothballs in a closet, worked it over her battered body.

Outside she found Melvin's keys in the ignition of his red Dodge truck. Magazines with photos of young girls lined the floor. Wadded rags and paper. Crunched cans of Falls City and empty pints of Wild Tur­key. Knee High turned the key. The engine coughed to life. She shifted into drive. Stomped the gas.

What the Hill Clan found at the house was Melvin between rows of corn. A mess about his neck, knife protruding from it. Karl out by the pile of wood next to the corncrib. A bloody ax. His head an unrecognized shade of dead. To them it looked as though they'd paid for Wisconsin serial murderer Eddie Gein's daughter.

Now, pulling down Able Kirby's long gravel drive, Pitchfork chewed on rage. His brother Darnel wanted to watch Knee High bleed and beg. They rounded the

curve, saw Melvin's red truck.

"Told you the cunt got nowheres to go."

"We kill her we out of 30 grand."

"Able still got it."

On the creek-rock steps that led to the house several buzzards circled overhead, and flies shared the bloated shape of Able Kirby.

"So much for Able."

"Must've pissed off Jo."

"He's plenty dead."

The inside of the house sat silent as a child in sleep. Pitchfork and Darnel's tones echoed from vinyl-papered walls and ceil­ing. Nothing in the kitchen. Nor the dining room. Just black-and-white framed family photos of times past. Men, women and chil­dren. Able, Jo. The two Pitchfork'd ended. They walked through the living room. Pitchfork carried a .45, Darnel a blackjack. Darnel stepped toward two wooden doors that connected in the center. Reached to divide them. Slid both doors open. Called out, "You in there, Knee High, you gonna pay us back double in front of Jo.

The doors parted. Josephine sat in a tar­nished chrome wheelchair. A clear hose wishboned into her nares. Offering air from a nickel-colored cylinder on the floor beside her. The barrel of a Remington 11 semiauto­matic leveled not even 10 feet from Darnel's chest. Her one eye closed, the other open. The two men in shooting view.

Knee High stood beside Josephine, try­ing to steady the .410 she'd locked, cocked and readied to fire while the horror of what had happened still rang her nerves.

Darnel raised the scarred flesh of both

hands. Palms facing the females, the

blackjack held by his thumb, "Hold on,

you two "

Josephine skipped not a syllable, "You hold on, Darnel. What you done is devilry."

Darnel said, "Wasn't just us "

The next sound deafened even God him­self. Jo's bones nearly splintered from the 12 gauge's kick. Darnel's right knee segmented into red-white jelly chunks. Slung about the hardwood. Pitchfork dropped his .45. Caught Darnel, who dropped the blackjack.

Josephine rasped, "You's right, it was the whole Hill Clan."

Darnel slobbered and gritted his teeth, "Your Knee High killed my boy."

Knee High leveled the .410 down to Darnel's face with a slight jerk, "That'd make us almost even." She paused. Shifted her eyes toward Jo. Swallowed. Continued, "Seeing as you all killed my daddy and my uncle Dodo."

Hearing Knee High's words, Jo's trigger finger pulsed against the 12 gauge's trig­ger. Her vision blacked everything around the men who'd killed her two boys that she'd believed to have run off. Bringing all their awful to fruition.

Not knowing if she would, Knee High said, "Let it be, Grandma Jo, let it be."

"I'll let it be soon as I finish this," Jo said and pulled the trigger.

From the story collection Crimes in Southern Indiana by Frank Bill, available from Farrar, Straus and Giroux in September.