Free The Devil Walks in Mattingly by Billy Coffey Page A

asked.
    Charlie said, “Sissy boy over there’s tryin’ to preach t’me. Says I shouldn’t have no beer.”
    “That right, sissy boy?” Taylor asked. He made a motion toward him, a slight waving of the hand that said, Don’t worry, son, I’ll be strong even if you can’t . “You ain’t got age enough to be shootin’ off your mouth like that to us.”
    “But I do,” the old man said. “Now I’m telling you boys for the last time—you get out of here. Now. Closing time.”
    Charlie watched them, fingering the lighter in his hand. The man turned to the boy and said, “Eric, you get along. Like I said, closing time. You two fellas get out of here too.”
    The boy—Eric—moved away and said, “I’ll see you soon, Andy.”
    Taylor extended his left arm as the boy walked past, his mouth saying, “Come on, buddy, we ain’t got no beef, right?” and his heart saying, Do not think ill of me for what I do, but speak well of me in that sleepless land. He wrapped his arm around the boy’s back. There came a whisper—“This may sting,” as Taylor pulled the knife. He thrust the blade toward the boy’s neck and a voice from somewhere deep inside him screamed not to wake the boy there, wake him anywhere but there , and Taylor did not understand why but he obeyed that voice nonetheless, such was the power of its pleading. The knife veered away at the last moment and found the boy’s chest and stomach instead.
    The boy’s eyes widened with sudden realization—Taylor saw it as the first stirrings after a long dream—and he went limp in Taylor’s arms.
    The old man screamed a shout that Taylor took as thanks-giving until he turned to see the broom handle arching downward. It connected with the top of Taylor’s head, rending the world into swirls of blacks and reds, knocking him to the floor. Taylor rolled as the world spun, searching for his attacker, wanting an answer for why his assault had come. Charlie leaped forward. The old man caught him with the broken end of the broom, driving him back in a shout of agony. Charlie grabbed the can of bug spray and depressed the button directly over the lighter’s exposed flame. The fireball seemedthe wrath of God Himself, consuming the man’s shoulders and head and dropping him beside the boy.
    Charlie ran for the register and shouted, “C’mon, man.”
    Taylor rolled over and stared into the boy’s eyes. “Wake,” he said. “Wake, O Sleeper!”
    Andy moved. Taylor stilled him with the broken end of the broom handle. Taylor considered waking him then thought no, one was enough.
    One was plenty.
    He looked at the boy again as Charlie stumbled for the door. Taylor bent low and whispered into the boy’s ear, “Don’t mourn me. You’re free now, and you’re welcome.”
    Charlie was already in the truck, roaring the engine. Taylor walked through the doors just as those firemen had come through the blackened hole of his grandpappy’s neighbors’ farmhouse years before, beaten and tired and smelling of fire. He climbed into the passenger’s seat, reached over, and turned off the ignition.
    “What you doin’?” Charlie asked. “We gotta roll outta here, Taylor.” He reached for the keys.
    Taylor slapped him away. “We’ll do nothing but honor this moment, Charlie Givens. So why don’t you shut that gas hole under your nose and do just that.”
    “What? Taylor, you’re cra—”
    “I said shut up .”
    Charlie did. He had that look about him again, like a child just after he’d been whupped. Taylor hated that look not for what it was but for how it made him feel. “Don’t nobody know this town more’n me, Charlie.” His voice was calmer now. “I say we’re safe. So you just hush.”
    Charlie drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and divided his attention between the empty road, the gash on hishead, and the tranquil bodies inside the store. When all three proved too stressful, he counted the money in his hand.
    “You think I’m a good man,