Whatever it Takes by Paul Cleave

Author:Paul Cleave
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Upstart Press
Published: 2019-11-25T16:00:00+00:00

Thirty-six

My hands are shaking. Adrenaline is coursing through my body. I take the cash out of Cliff’s wallet before throwing it into the water after him, a small slap as it breaks the surface. There are no lights showing beneath the water now. I unload the rifle and send it and the bullets the way of Cliff, and I send the empty beer cans in after them. I head to the road that leads into the pit. There’s nothing to indicate Good Morning made it out. No wet footprints anywhere. He’ll still be in the cab. I go through the trees and find Anderson. I pat him down and find his cellphone. I take it, along with the t-shirts I used as shoes earlier. I add his cash to Cliff’s cash, and then slip it into my wallet, which, surprisingly, is still in my back pocket. I wring the t-shirts out as much as I can and put one of them on. Anderson’s phone has GPS, and a minute later I have a signal and a way out of here. I take a screenshot of the coordinates of where I’m at. The lake is three miles from the highway. I leave Anderson where he is.

I have a lot going through my head as I make the walk. I think about what just happened, and what it means for me. Jail, I guess. I’ll need a good lawyer, and I don’t reckon Maggie will be putting her hand up to volunteer. In fact, she’d probably be asking to prosecute me. I think about Father Frank, and him telling me he would try to square the bad things away with God. I wonder if any of that squaring will cover what just happened. I walk at a good pace, jogging when I can, trying to keep my body temperature up. Away from the water it feels warmer. I take the wet t-shirt off and carry it. It’s a little after four o’clock when I reach the highway. I go left. I walk an hour before passing the turnoff to the sawmill, and I don’t see a single car. It’s another fifteen minutes to the new sawmill. I realize I still haven’t seen it yet. Fifteen minutes after that I reach Earl’s Gas Station. He’s already replaced the lights that got shot out, and it’s all lit up like an alien spacecraft about to land. Earl is sitting inside the shop drinking coffee, a flat-screen TV up on the wall behind him playing an infomercial for a piece of gym equipment promising the best results for the least amount of work. Earl is wearing overalls with grease and oil stained into them, the kind that look out of place if they aren’t dirty, the kind of overalls that look like they come right out of the packet looking used. His name is stitched carefully above the pocket on his chest. There’s a red oily rag hanging out the pocket by his hip. If

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