Carved in Bone

Christian duty.” He said this with a grim look that told me he had probably witnessed a Kitchings flogging or two firsthand.
    “But why did Tom and Orbin turn out so different,” I asked, “if they both came from that same harsh environment? Not to let Tom off the hook—after all, I’m pretty sure he’s derailing this murder investigation—but he doesn’t seem to be a bad guy at heart. Unlike Orbin, who seems truly bad to the bone.”
    “Damn right,” growled Waylon. “Meanest sumbitch on the face of the earth.”
    O’Conner smiled slightly. “I’d say you’re a pretty shrewd judge of manflesh, Doc. He is bad to the bone. Not sure why. I mean, why do some abused children grow up to be serial killers, while others grow up to be compassionate doctors and teachers and social workers?”
    Ah: the Problem of Evil. I’d spent a lot of fruitless hours pondering that conundrum. “I guess it would’ve been hard to be Tom’s little brother,” I ventured.
    “Real hard,” O’Conner said. “Still is. The halo’s slipped some by now, but Tom Kitchings was Cooke County’s golden boy. Didn’t get a huge amount of nurture and affirmation at home, but to the rest of the county, Tom was practically a god. Led the high school football team to two state championships, then led UT to a couple, too. Good-looking, pretty smart, and really personable. Orbin, less so.” Judging by my two brief encounters, O’Conner was giving Orbin a huge benefit of the doubt there. “Be easy to turn hateful if you found yourself being measured and found wanting your whole life. Hell, even now, Orbin’s still playing second fiddle to Tom. Sort of the age-old story of Cain and Abel, isn’t it? Orbin can either bash his brother’s brains out, like Cain did, or he can use weaker folks like Vern as his whipping boys. Been doing it just about all his life.”
    O’Conner’s armchair analysis made a lot of sense. “So would you guess Orbin’s flying solo when he puts the squeeze on pot farmers and cockfighters, or is it possible Tom’s in cahoots with him?”
    He frowned. “Don’t know. When he was younger, Tom would never have stooped to that. But when he was younger, he had a lot more choices. He’s had some big disappointments to reckon with, and you never can tell whether somebody’s going to walk out of the valley of the shadow as a bigger person or a smaller one.”
    As he said it, I found myself wondering whether I was seeing a bigger or a smaller Jim O’Conner than the one who’d courted Leena Bonds. Then I found myself wondering whether he was seeing a bigger or a smaller Bill Brockton than the one who’d lost Kathleen. I remembered my last phone call with Jeff, and I knew the answer. I vowed to call him and apologize.
    “Hell, that’s enough of my cracker-barrel psychology for one day,” said O’Conner, draining the last of his whiskey. “Let me get Waylon to take you back to your truck.”
    “You sure Waylon ought to be driving?”
    “Hell, Doc, I could drive that stretch of road with my eyes closed,” said Waylon.
    “He’s not kidding—I’ve seen him do it,” O’Conner laughed. “It’d take another three drinks before Waylon started to feel that whiskey, and even then, he’d be a better driver than you or I stone-cold sober.”
    With some misgivings, I climbed into the truck with Waylon. I rolled down the window and called to O’Conner, “Will you please make him promise not to drag me into any more adventures along the way?”
    He laughed. “You hear that, Waylon? Straight to the Pilot station; no stops. All right?”
    Waylon nodded. “No stops,” he said.
    It never occurred to me to extract a promise to drive with the headlights on. Halfway along the river road, Waylon flicked off his lights, leaving us careening along in utter blackness.
    “Waylon, stop!” I yelped.
    “Cain’t,” he said. “I promised—no stops.”
    “Then turn your lights back on!”
    “You b’lieve now?”
    “Believe what?” Had something in our discussion of religion struck a nerve in Waylon?
    “B’lieve I can drive this with my eyes closed.”
    “Yes, for God’s sake. Now turn on your headlights.”
    He did. As the beams shot through the blackness, I saw that the big truck was tracking dead-center in the right-hand lane, halfway through an “S” curve, as if it were on rails.
    “Waylon, you’re going to turn me into either a believer or a dead man.”
    He laughed. “Well, either way, you