Luther's Wars

It was almost half an hour before Mattie stirred again. He looked over and caught her blinking one eye open, staring at him warily. He looked back at her. "That baby hungry yet?"

She blinked again and touched her stomach. "That baby's always hungry."

"Maybe I can buy the baby something to eat? I kinda owe you for haulin' my drunk butt up here. And not killing me in my sleep."

She snorted and gave a half head shake. "An' throwin' up all over me. I think the baby would like a cheeseburger and fries, and maybe a chocolate shake."

"Bert always does a cheeseburger, right."

"Think they're serving lunch yet?"

Luther studied on the reddish daylight. "I think we're a mite past lunch."

Mattie pulled herself up a bit and looked at the clock. "God. I can't believe I slept this long."

Thirty minutes later, Sissy was standing over their table, shaking her head at Luther. "Surprised you lived through that. Musta put away a bottle and a half. I think I saw your liver go down the bowl."

"Sissy 'n I ended up wearin' at least half a that." Mattie screwed up her face.

Luther winced. "You're never gonna forget that, are you? Had a damn bad day or two."

Sissy smiled brightly and rolled her eyes. "At least I'll forgive you. I work here, so I end up wearing vomit at last once a week. Kinda used to it. Made the baby spit up a lot easier to take."

"How's she doing?" Mattie looked fascinated.

"She just started walking." Sissy beamed brightly for a moment. "My gramma said that all you want is for them to walk and talk for the first year or two, then all yer doin' is sayin' for the next ten years is, 'sit down and shut up.' She even likes to dance...Hey, you know we got live music tonight?"

Luther and Mattie glanced over at the small wooden stage as Sissy nodded. "They're pretty good, got a fiddle player and everything. They'll be out here every Friday and Saturday for the next month. Maybe longer if Bert thinks they're cuttin' it."

Mattie stretched and shifted. "Be nice to hear some music that ain't out of a box for a change."

Luther shrugged. "Got nowhere else to be. I can drive you back to Flora and Irene's when you're ready to go."

Sissy set a shot of whiskey down for Luther. Just as he started to reach for it, Mattie snagged it and downed it in one quick motion.

"I heard somewhere that pregnant women aren't supposed to drink whiskey."

Mattie gave him a cynical look. "Been drinking moonshine since I was twelve; a shot of whiskey ain't gonna do nothing. 'Sides, I'd rather drink it than wear it."

Luther looked up at a smirking Sissy. "I'll take a Coke."

*****

It was nearly midnight when Luther and Mattie finally headed outside.

Despite being at a table off to the side, they'd drawn almost as many stares as the stage had. Word had spread that Luther McCabe was back and that would have been enough to make anyone take a look. But seeing Luther McCabe sitting with a Parker girl was pretty much unthinkable. Most people would sooner claim to have seen a ghost; it'd just be more believable.

They didn't even seem uncomfortable around each other, much less shooting at each other. Hell, nobody would believe that.

Almost as soon as they hit the sidewalk, they saw Mattie's brother Bobby bearing down on them, highlighted by the flickering light of the buzzing neon sign.

"McCabe! I know you did it! You bastard. You don't think I know who burned the house and hit our stills last night?" Bobby hefted a three-foot length of pipe. "I'm gonna..."

"Stop right there, Bobby!" Mattie shoved her way in front of Luther. "He didn't do it!"

"What the hell you talkin' about, Mattie? You listenin' to this lying piece or shit? You gone soft in the head?"

"He couldn'a done it, Bobby."

"You believin' a fucking McCabe?"

"Sissy said he was in jail the night before last then went right into Bert's, and I been with him from then 'til just now."

Bobby jolted and stared at her like she'd grown horns. "You...you...with a fuckin' McCabe?"

"It's not like that, Bobby. I was just..."

He staggered back, not listening at all, looking between them for a moment in utter disbelief. "You need to get your goddamn head on straight, Mattie."

He shook his head to clear it, then stopped as the door to Bert's popped open, and Sheriff Posey walked out.

The sheriff looked at the three of them, his hand resting on his revolver. "I got no idea what the fuck is goin' on here, but whatever the holy Hell it is, it's over and done now."

Bobby looked down at the pipe in his hand, then let it go to ring off the curb and roll into the street. "Fuck it. This ain't over, McCabe."

He turned on his heel and stomped back to his truck.

Luther looked at a very distraught Mattie. "Thank you, Mattie. I don't think he believes you, but..."

The eye-searing white flash hit a fraction of a second before the shockwave. Mattie's wide-eyed shock was burned into Luther's mind as he instinctively turned to try to shield her.

*****

The sheriff stared at him. "You aren't stupid enough to have done it, Luther. No way you'd be that close to a bomb you set. Hell, the only reason we're alive is that I didn't have Ryan move that damn flatbed monster of his out from in front of Bert's."

Luther stared at him. "How's Mattie?"

"She'll be okay. Still over at the clinic. Flora will take her home with her after she gets off shift."

"I wanna see her."

"You might be the last person she wants to see."

"It wasn't me. And she damn well knows it."

The sheriff pointed at the door. "I got nothin' on you. But if she complains, you back the hell off, or you'll be in a cell until I remember where your paperwork is. Be a long goddamn time."

Luther walked out of the station, conscious that every deputy was watching him, hands resting on belts. Near the holsters.

The world was still night-dark; the blast-acrid smell of the explosion seemed to be still hanging in the air, even this far from Bert's.

He pushed into the clinic door. Flora stood at the desk, expressionless. He caught her wordless unblinking stare with his own. It took an eternity, but her head tilted just a fraction toward a closed door.

Taking a breath, he pushed through the door.

Mattie sat on the edge of the exam room bed. Red-eyed and dead still.

All cried out.

Luther had heard that before. All cried out. But he'd never really seen it, not really.

She radiated bone-deep exhaustion, drained all the way down to her soul.

He stood watching her, waiting for her to scream at him, waiting to be shrieked from the room.

Her eyes moved first. A tiny flicker; just enough to almost focus on him.

For a moment, her lower lip quivered, and he was sure she would scream or break down in tears.

Then her nostrils flared as she pulled in a jagged breath -- the first gasp of something crawling out of a grave.

"You okay?" Luther kept his voice at a low whisper, barely loud enough to make out.

Her eyes sharpened on him. "There was a...a piece..." Her breath caught, and she blinked glassy eyes.

"They brought me here because they...they thought I was bleedin', but it was...a piece...a...piece of...Bobby..." Her voice died, and she softly touched her cheek.

She shivered before continuing. "They killed Bobby. And my Custis. We might not of been in love, but he was my husband. They killed your brother. You know it, same as me."

Luther tilted his head in wordless understanding as her wrath washed over him in a warm wave of kinship.

Mattie lifted her sharp little chin just a bit. A challenge. "Are you really a fuckin' McCabe?"

"I am." He answered softly but knew how important this was, how much he was saying,

Unholy light flared behind her eyes.

"Then fuckin' prove it." His eyes caught on her cold fury as her lips curled in a vicious feral snarl. "Do that McCabe shit."

Luther nodded once and stepped toward her. She slid off the bed and waited for him to put his arm around her before they walked out.

The clinic receptionist, Julia, watched the battered man and the almost corpse-rigid girl walk out in deathly silence. She looked at Flora. "Do you know him?"

"Yes, I do."

"Who is he?"

Flora paused, almost wishing the moment would pass, and reality would change. "That would be Luther McCabe."

Julia blinked as a cold shiver rippled through her. "As in a..." She sighed and pursed her lips for a moment. "As in a McCabe?"

Flora gave a single, almost formal nod. "He is that. He's Eliza's boy. Darryl's brother."

"Oh. Dear God in Heaven."

Flora pursed her lips but didn't even consider asking Julia to moderate her language.

After all, it wasn't as if Julia was taking the Lord's name in vain.

Julia was praying.

And Flora thought that might not be a bad idea.

Not a bad idea at all.

*****

Irene watched silently, dimly lit by the half-light of the porch lamp, as Luther got out of his truck and walked around to the passenger door. She could see Mattie staring woodenly forward through the windshield, stone-faced and still. Unmoving until Luther opened the door.

They didn't talk at all as they walked up to the porch. As Irene pushed the screen door open, Mattie raised her eyes. "I...uh..."

Her voice trailed off flatly.

"Flora called. You just go lay yourself down and get some sleep, okay?"

Luther started to step back, but Mattie caught his arm in a claw-like grip and started to tremble; her mouth moved, but she couldn't seem to force out any words.

Irene managed to catch Luther's eye. "Luther, it's getting pretty late. I can get a pillow and blankets if you'd rather sleep on our couch than drive back into town right now."

Eyeing Mattie, Luther slowly nodded in agreement. "That might be a good idea."

A final shiver passed through Mattie. She caught her breath and then headed into her room while Irene opened the cedar chest in the living room to retrieve bedding for Luther.

Even as Luther arranged himself on the couch, Mattie crept out of her room with her blankets and curled up in the oversize rocking chair, staring at him until sheer exhaustion pulled her down into a dismal twilight sleep.

After she dropped off, twitching restlessly, he watched her for a long time. He hadn't said anything, not really, but for all that, he knew.

He'd made promises.

Real ones. To a girl he barely knew.

But promises were promises.

She'd stood up to her own family for him. She'd already been disowned, but out here in the Ozarks, that didn't matter. Kin was kin. Blood was blood.

And she'd stood against that for him.

Now she needed him.

She needed him to do that McCabe shit.

And he'd be Goddamned if he'd fail to keep his promise.

*****

McCabe Farm. Devil's Hollow, Missouri

*****

Luther pulled the truck up in front of the old farmhouse's burnt-out frame.

He slid out of the pickup and stood warily for a long moment, before walking back past the ruins and outhouse. He looked around cautiously before working his way through the blackberry thicket and heading up the path toward the ridgelines.

Almost half an hour later, he finally weaved his way up the ridge through a maze of limestone boulders, blackberry brambles and cedar trees, coming out below a rock shelf.

Pulling his silver Rayovac flashlight out of his pocket, he slipped deeper into the nook.

Ten yards later, the cave opened up. He flashed his light around and began pulling canvas tarps off of stacks of crates.

Darryl must have been working his ass off. They'd always tried to keep at least a hundred gallons stored here, just in case; what his uncle had always called the "war reserve." But now, there had to be over three hundred gallons of top-grade moonshine. With everything going on, Darryl must have figured something might go wrong.

Maybe he'd even left it for Luther. Just in case.

Luther knew just what to do with it.

*****

Luther walked into the garage, glancing up as he passed under the chipped white sign with the green lettering telling the world this was Ryan's Auto Repair.

He stood quiet until the dark-haired man looked up at him. "You ever finish Darryl's blockade runner?"

"I have her waiting for you." Ryan paused and sighed, looking down for a moment. "There's only one reason to need a car like that. I thought you were done with that shit?"

"Gotta pay off the note on the farm or lose it. Fuckin' banks."

"You have anything to sell?"

"Enough to pay off the note." Luther set a jug of shine down on the desk. "Is Chappie still buyin'?"

Ryan nodded.

"Not just anyone, but yeah, he'll buy from you. He's been grumbling about the crap he's been getting. Parker stuff is good..." He paused and eyed the jug appreciatively, "But it ain't up to McCabe standards."

Ryan stood up and walked to the back door. "We finished her, dropped in a 426 Hemi from a Belvedere and tuned it up. The mufflers will bleed some of the power off, but not enough to matter, and with them, she'll be pretty quiet until you really open up. She's out here."

"Is it in shape to run?"

"I've been taking her out every two weeks. Just watch yourself until you get used to her; she's a real monster. Tuned up like she is, she could run at Daytona." He stopped talking abruptly, then strode to a lurking shape covered by a canvas tarp.

Once the tarp was pulled to the side, they stood and stared at the flat black '66 Dodge Coronet. Hooded red lights were mounted under the front bumper for running at night, and the engine was tuned up in a hundred different ways to produce every howling ounce of furious horsepower.

Luther gently, almost reverently, touched the hood. "I need ten-stacks on her. She'll be carrying a helluva load."

Ryan ran his hand through his long hair. "I have six-stack leaf springs on her now. Take me..." He paused, thinking. "Two or three days to get to it?"

"What do I owe you for it?"

"Darryl paid it up as we built her. I'll throw in the ten-stacks."

Luther patted the car. "Thanks. Let Chappie know to expect me in a week. Usual prices."

Ryan gave a long slow, almost sad sigh. "Sure."

*****

Old River Road. Saint Clair County, Missouri

*****

Luther slid the dead black ridge runner along the curve, clinging to the inside edge; the outer edge of the Old River road was a fractured crumbling mess disappearing bit by bit into the river. Chunks of road, like rotten teeth, falling into the dark water.

Nobody drove the Old River Road. It wasn't even on the maps anymore; the newer county roads were safer, faster, and far less likely to drop a car into the river.

Of course, that made the Old River Road perfect for running moonshine out of the county. Luther guided the powerful car more by feel than by sight, the dim hooded red lights just barely letting him pick his way through the overgrown road toward the nearly new flat fast pavement of the Big Bend Road. That would take him quickly out of the county so he could lose himself in the vast network of backroads.

About half a mile out from his goal, he caught a glimpse of motion, darkness moving through darkness. Luther slowed to a crawl, watching intently.

A distant, faint spark of light flickered ahead. Suddenly appearing and just as rapidly disappearing.

Luther felt cold suddenly trickle down his spine. He knew what that was; he'd seen it before.

A lighter cupped in a hand, lighting up a cigarette.

Only razor-sharp senses honed over month after month in enemy-held territory would have ever keyed on that tiny flare, but it stood out like the noonday sun to Luther.

He closed his eyes and pictured the area; he'd surveyed the road network from the bridge over Big Bend.

Hopefully wide enough for the Coronet, a trail was just ahead on the left. Somewhere. He crept further on until he started to think he'd missed it.

Just past a clump of weeds, he saw the barely visible track. Wrenching the car onto the abandoned road, he immediately set off up the path.

Four sets of headlights exploded to life where he'd seen the cigarette lighter flare. Nightmare demons come to life. There was a heartbeat pause, then the sets of lights bolted one by one down the Old River Road toward him.

Trucks, they had to be trucks. The lights were too high off the ground to be cars.

The powerful 426 roared as he pushed the Coronet up the bare trace of road, all concerns for silence gone.

As the ridge runner clawed its way up the sparse, rocky path, Luther glanced over to see the pursuing vehicles rushing along the river. The third vehicle abruptly slewed sideways a fraction of a second before it dropped backwards out of sight, the beams of its headlights suddenly frozen, pointing almost straight up into the night sky.

Fighting to keep the powerful car on the rock-and-brush trail, Luther laughed hard and low. The road hadn't been solid enough to support the heavy four-wheel-drive trucks. The fourth truck stopped short then backed up rapidly, leaving the stricken vehicle stranded with its back end sinking slowly into the river mud.

The two lead trucks were still picking their way toward him. Luther gritted his teeth as he felt the center of the car grind over something for a second, but within a few seconds, he was over the small ridge and could see the edge of the asphalt surface of County Road 232.

A flick of a switch killed even the dim red running lights and he turned hard left onto the black strip of road, running up through the gears with the liquid speed of muscle memory. He couldn't risk top speed in the near-total darkness, but he was pushing the car a helluva lot faster than any sane man would.

Through the blackness, he let the feel of the road guide him to the turn that would take him off the county road and onto Big Bend.

The trucks couldn't be sure which way he turned, and by the time they reached the asphalt, he would be long gone. He strained to see through the black of night, nerves screaming.

The thump of the tires hitting pavement gave him just enough warning to stand on his brakes and wrench the car into a bone shivering side skid stop.

Taking a deep breath, he turned on the headlights and accelerated toward Route 66, flashing between shadowy cornfields and hayfields.

Just as he started to relax, Luther downshifted. A blaze of lights highlighted a roadblock of pickup trucks well ahead. Luther caught a glimpse of figures with shotguns just as lights appeared in his rear-view mirror.

He chuckled to himself and gave a wordless nod of respect to whoever was running this show. No uniforms, no official cars. It was a well-planned trap. It would have been a perfect ambush except for one minor issue.

Sometimes the raccoon trap gets a possum, and sometimes it gets a skunk.

But sometimes, when things go wrong, you can discover you've got a bobcat -- in a trap too weak to hold it.

They'd laid their trap for a moonshiner, a blockade runner.

But they'd caught a McCabe.

A flash of rage slammed through him, urging him to head straight into the roadblock and drag them all to Hell with him, but he fought it down.

It wasn't the right fuckin' time.

The guys on the barricade were probably just hired guns. And Luther McCabe didn't give one unholy damn about hired guns.

Snarling to himself, he looked north across a hayfield at a distant spark of neon. A smile, if it could be called that, twisted his mouth.

Off the assembly line, a Coronet was a truly powerful car that could compete with anything on the street.

But add a 426 Hemi and ten-stack leaf springs...

"Street" was just a word.

Luther turned the car straight into a just-cut hayfield, burning dead north as if the bone-jarring surface were just another paved road.