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Code of the Hills

E-BookEPUBePub WasserzeichenE-Book
256 Seiten
Englisch
No Exit Presserschienen am28.09.2023
FROM AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR CHRIS OFFUTT. 'Excellent Kentucky noir - Offutt's third Mick Hardin novel is the best yet.' - Kirkus An explosive return to the mayhem of the Kentucky hills, Code of the Hills is a harrowing novel of family - of what we're willing to do to protect and avenge the ones we love. Mick Hardin is back in the hills of Kentucky. He'd planned to touch down briefly before heading to France, marking the end to his twenty-year Army career. In Rocksalt, his sister Linda the sheriff is investigating the murder of Pete Lowe, a sought-after mechanic at the local racetrack. After another body is found, Linda and her deputy Johnny Boy Tolliver wonder if the two murders are related. Linda steps into harm's way just as a third body turns up and Mick ends up being deputised again. The dark, gripping, and propulsive thriller of murder and secrets in Rocksalt, Kentucky where little is as it seems. 'This is a marvellous series... These have become must-reads for me and I enjoy every minute of the reading experience' Deadly Pleasures 'Beautifully descriptive... Offutt's Mick Hardin novels are powerful books that feature characters with questionable ethics.' Library Journal 'Righteous Kentucky noir... I gulped it down, relishing the burn' - Ian Rankin on Shifty's Boys

Chris Offutt is the author of the short-story collections Kentucky Straight and Out of the Woods, the novels The Good Brother, Country Dark and The Killing Hills, and three memoirs: The Same River Twice, No Heroes, and My Father, the Pornographer. His work has appeared in Best American Short Stories and Best American Essays, among many other places. He has written screenplays for Weeds, True Blood, and Treme, and has received fellowships from the Lannan and Guggenheim foundations.mehr
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KlappentextFROM AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR CHRIS OFFUTT. 'Excellent Kentucky noir - Offutt's third Mick Hardin novel is the best yet.' - Kirkus An explosive return to the mayhem of the Kentucky hills, Code of the Hills is a harrowing novel of family - of what we're willing to do to protect and avenge the ones we love. Mick Hardin is back in the hills of Kentucky. He'd planned to touch down briefly before heading to France, marking the end to his twenty-year Army career. In Rocksalt, his sister Linda the sheriff is investigating the murder of Pete Lowe, a sought-after mechanic at the local racetrack. After another body is found, Linda and her deputy Johnny Boy Tolliver wonder if the two murders are related. Linda steps into harm's way just as a third body turns up and Mick ends up being deputised again. The dark, gripping, and propulsive thriller of murder and secrets in Rocksalt, Kentucky where little is as it seems. 'This is a marvellous series... These have become must-reads for me and I enjoy every minute of the reading experience' Deadly Pleasures 'Beautifully descriptive... Offutt's Mick Hardin novels are powerful books that feature characters with questionable ethics.' Library Journal 'Righteous Kentucky noir... I gulped it down, relishing the burn' - Ian Rankin on Shifty's Boys

Chris Offutt is the author of the short-story collections Kentucky Straight and Out of the Woods, the novels The Good Brother, Country Dark and The Killing Hills, and three memoirs: The Same River Twice, No Heroes, and My Father, the Pornographer. His work has appeared in Best American Short Stories and Best American Essays, among many other places. He has written screenplays for Weeds, True Blood, and Treme, and has received fellowships from the Lannan and Guggenheim foundations.
Details
Weitere ISBN/GTIN9780857305619
ProduktartE-Book
EinbandartE-Book
FormatEPUB
Format HinweisePub Wasserzeichen
FormatE101
Erscheinungsjahr2023
Erscheinungsdatum28.09.2023
Seiten256 Seiten
SpracheEnglisch
Dateigrösse3206 Kbytes
Artikel-Nr.12485676
Rubriken
Genre9201

Inhalt/Kritik

Leseprobe



Chapter Two

Mick Hardin took his standard two-minute shower, toweled off in one minute, and spent two more getting dressed. His T-shirt was damp against the wet splotches on his torso but he didn´t care. He ran his hand over his head to comb his hair, which was already getting longer. He didn´t care about that, either. As of 2400 hours last night, he´d ended his status as a serving member of the United States military. He was no longer duty bound to care about anything.

He studied his freshly shaven reflection in the misty mirror. He was thirty-nine years old, still fit, with all his teeth and hair. Not much to brag on, but it was more than a lot of people. If he didn´t get too spendy, he could live on his pension for decades. Prior to resignation, he´d agreed to train new CID investigators in exchange for promotion and a commensurate raise. He´d done that for a year. Mick had been surprised to enjoy working with young soldiers but not enough to extend enlistment. He wasn´t a teacher, he was an investigator, and now he was unemployed.

Every action seemed significant on his final day in the army - the last shower, the last bed made, the last breakfast of runny eggs, hard toast, and dry potatoes. His final walk from the mess hall to the barracks. His last withdrawal from the bank on base - twenty thousand dollars in cash. Activity on Fort Leonard Wood continued as if nothing important was occurring. To all the other soldiers, nothing was, just another dull day in the service.

He carried a suitcase and a duffel bag to his truck. A corporal gave Mick his final salute, sloppy and quick, the perfunctory gesture indicating a hangover. At the main gate he nodded to the guards and drove north past the ubiquitous enterprises near all garrisons - pawn shop, pizza place, tattoo shop, strip club, and gaming center. Fast food and cheap motels. Fort Leonard Wood was in the Missouri Ozarks, pretty country that reminded Mick of home. He drove northeast to St Louis, where he got on I-64 for the long drive east to Rocksalt, Kentucky. The old truck ran well, a 1963 stepside that had belonged to his grandfather, the man who´d raised Mick deep in the Daniel Boone National Forest.

Like all soldiers, he´d dreamed of this day since boot camp. Now it was anticlimactic and depressing. He was grateful to be spared a formal and tedious ceremony requiring stoic endurance. His career had ended with his signature on multiple forms. It was similar to divorce. In both cases, a significant portion of his life stopped abruptly with legal documents in a bland office. He underwent a quick sensation of doubt that he swept aside.

After serving four tours as a combat paratrooper he´d transferred to CID and spent twelve more years tracking down soldiers who´d committed violent felonies. Now he was free, truly free. Free from orders, war, and pressure. Free from the emotional responses of victims and their families. Free from making an error with colossal repercussions - the wrong person arrested and a killer still at large.

Mick had a plan for his future, at least the first six months, but he was flexible, ready to shift with any circumstance. No plan survived first contact with the enemy, even if the enemy was civilian life. Affairs had not unfolded the way he´d previously imagined at his retirement - opening a boat rental business on Cave Run Lake and running it with his wife. Now Peggy was living with her new husband and their child. His mother and father were long dead, and the house he´d grown up in had burned to the ground. Mick was going home to a place that was no longer home.

He stopped for gas three times and made it to Rocksalt in ten hours, his speed hampered by the old truck. He´d been gone two years and the town appeared the same - few cars, no pedestrians, the traffic lights blinking both ways at the four intersections. He drove straight to his sister´s house. Calling ahead was not a habit with him, a problem at times for his CO, his ex-wife, and his sister. He´d grown up with no telephone and never embraced the widespread use of cell phones. His own was in the glove compartment, turned off. Arriving unannounced had its benefits, especially when taking into custody a young man trained to kill. He no longer needed to think that way but it was deeply ingrained, the same as vigilance toward suspicious objects by the road, a vehicle that followed for too long, or the quick motion of a furtive figure in the shade. The intensity of the habit had kept him alive in war zones. But he understood that it had severely undermined his marriage and he wondered if he was capable of maintaining a close relationship. Neither he nor his sister had ever been very good at it.

Linda lived in their mother´s house at the end of Lyons Avenue. It was tidier than his last visit two years ago, freshly painted with new gutters and downspouts. The setting sun glinted off the roof in a steady sheen that suggested new shingles. Maybe she´d gotten a bump in pay after winning the election to sheriff. He went to the side door, but his key wouldn´t open the lock. He walked to the front, used only by preachers, politicians, and kids on Halloween. That key didn´t work either. He double-checked both doors, then used a penlight to study the locks. They were shiny and new.

He drove to the sheriff´s office and parked beside his sister´s county-issued SUV. Hand on his door handle, he hesitated. He´d been locked into mission mode so severely that he´d overlooked a detail with negative potential. Two years ago he´d spent his last night in Eldridge County with Sandra Caldwell, who worked as a dispatcher for the sheriff´s department. He wondered if she´d been miffed by his sudden departure and subsequent lack of contact. The prospect of seeing her scared him more than facing a barred entry to a village in Afghanistan, knowing it was booby-trapped.

Mick considered calling the office to see if she answered, or calling his sister directly and asking Linda to come outside. Both smacked of cowardice, which he couldn´t tolerate. Sandra was probably married by now, or with any luck had quit her job. He left the truck and went to the sheriff´s office door, which was locked. He felt a quick sense of gratitude that the staff was gone. He banged on the glass until his sister emerged from her office and let him in.

Lord love a duck,´ Linda said, look what the dogs drug in.´

Hidy, Sis.´

I saw you sitting out there. Getting up the nerve to come in, I bet.´

Something like that.´

Afraid of facing the music on how you treated Sandra?´

What do you know about that?´

You leave your truck in front of her house overnight and the whole town knows. Two years is nothing in Eldridge County. Same as two minutes anywhere else.´

Is she mad?´

Linda laughed, a rarity in general, and led him into her office. It was as spartan as ever - state and national flag, photograph of the governor, desk, filing cabinet, and guest chair. The wall held new adornments - an honorary commission as Kentucky Colonel, an award from the state for meritorious accomplishment, and a special commendation from the FBI.

Two years,´ she said. You look pretty much the same.´

You lost weight.´

A little,´ she said. Bought a couple of new uniforms that´re supposed to streamline my verticals, whatever that means.´

Well, it works.´

Yeah, until I put on the vest.´

They sat looking at each other, not so much an evaluation as a willingness to accept. Each was the only family the other had. Despite their differences - many and extreme - they were loyal in the way of the hills.

I went by your house,´ he said. Keys didn´t work.´

I changed the locks.´

Mommy´s old ones finally give out?´

No, they worked.´

Somebody start bothering you over the job?´

Not your business,´ she said. Nothing to do with the job.´

Wrong choice of man?´

Again,´ she said. As usual.´

Linda shifted in her chair and stared out the window at a small maple. Nothing was happening out there. The humidity draped the leaves with weight that made them droop. Mick knew the topic was over.

Thanks for taking care of my truck,´ he said.

I thought I´d see you when you picked it up.´

I couldn´t get away from work. That´s why I hired Albin to haul it to base for me. Cost a pretty penny.´

Albin´s mixed up in a murder case.´

Albin? That boy wouldn´t hit a lick at a snake.´

He´s not a suspect. Got a hell of an alibi, too. He was racing at the dirt track in Bluestone. Couple of hundred witnesses.´

How´d he do?´ Mick said.

Took second. Johnny Boy said he´d have won if Pete Lowe was in the pit.´

Don´t know him.´

You won´t get a chance to. He´s the victim. Somebody shot him down in his yard. Daughter found him.´

Well,´ Mick said. I´m off the clock now. But if it was me, I´d look at family and friends. Then any woman he was involved with.´

Yep, then neighbors.´

Mick nodded.

You´re getting good at sheriffing,´ he said. A regular Nancy Drew.´

When are you due back?´

I´m not. I´m out.´

I don´t believe it.´

Yep. Terminated. Retired. Separated from service. It´s a complicated process with all kinds of steps. Right now I´m...

mehr

Autor

Chris Offutt is the author of the short-story collections Kentucky Straight and Out of the Woods, the novels The Good Brother, Country Dark, The Killing Hills, Shifty's Boys and three memoirs. His work has appeared in Best American Short Stories and Best American Essays. He has written screenplays for Weeds, True Blood, and Treme, and has received fellowships from the Lannan and Guggenheim foundations.