Paul Knox accepted Frank Rayburn's invitation to take a seat in the banker's air-conditioned office, thankful that his host didn't mind if his dirty, denim jeans left rust and dust upon the cushions.
“It's finished,” Paul helped himself to one of the lollipops Mr. Rayburn always kept piled in a dish of carnival glass for the children parents brought into his offices. “It took all summer to clean that mess, but we've finally cleared the property. Don't know if I'd take the job a second time. Knowing what I know now.”
“Is everyone fine? I hope your crew hasn't suffered any more injuries.”
Paul smiled to discover the lollipop inserted into his mouth was a wonderful flavor of strawberry. “No one else got hurt since Bryce stepped into that trap on the first day. And Bryce is alright. Doc Henderson did a fine job stitching his scalp back shut.”
Mr. Rayburn sighed. “A shame that all those dogs had to be put down. You have to work to make a dog that wild and mean. And to think Mr. Logan must have just let those dogs run free to protect all that junk.”
“You think that poor blinded man we found wandering about all those piles might have trained those dogs?” Paul asked. “The dogs never chomped down on him.”
“I don't think so. That old man's dementia was so bad he couldn't talk to tell us his name. Could only mumble something no one could understand. But who knows? I can't begin to guess how that old man survived out there. A miracle he didn't get trapped in all those piles as he roamed blindly on that land. A miracle he didn't trip into one of those traps Mr. Logan left behind. He must have drank from rain barrels. Who knows how he found food? I hate to imagine.”
“Yeah, my crew was real happy when we knocked down the last wall to that Turner home and dropped the last pile into a truck,” replied Paul.
“You have all earned you money,” Mr. Rayburn handed Paul a check. “Did you put that list together for me?”
“As best we could,” and Paul handed the banker a thick manilla folder. “We tried not to junk the real valuable antiques. Hope those items help you get some of your money back.”
“Sure appreciate the effort, Paul.”
The loan of ninety-grand to Mr. Logan had cost Mr. Phillips his job. The paranoia, the eccentricity, the temper that manifested in Mr. Logan almost immediately after signing the loan papers forced the bank to move to foreclosure. Mr. Logan's suddenly erratic behavior drove his wife and son away, and Kelly refused to explain to any of her friends why she left so suddenly one night less than a week after Jay purchased the Turner estate, or where she planned to go. Jay vanished a month afterward, and the bank never realized a single payment of loan interest or of principal.
The loan left the bank with an unsellable home, not with the old resentments of the Turners that still lingered, not after Mr. Logan's disappearance. It left the bank with a property teaming with piles of junk that cost further investment of money and time to clear and catalog for liquidation. They found traps and feral dogs.
And most disturbing of all, they found a blinded Mr. Holcomb and a withered corpse. Authorities were then involved who brought with them further delays.
“Did you find any trace of Mr. Logan?”
Paul shook his head. “Just the stolen property.”
“You think Mr. Logan stole that stuff?”
Paul shrugged. “Who else would have done it? Mrs. McCallister's plastic pool liner, sections of Mr Landry's fencing, the awning to Rick Pierce's bar and grill, Mr. Trout's flatbed trailer. All of it was found on that property. They were all stolen after Mr. Logan vanished. I don't know why Mr. Logan would want to steal those things when so much junk piled all over his property. But I think he did it. I think he just went plain crazy.”
“Seems as if so much junk was always meant to cover something,” commented Mr. Rayburn, “but thanks again for your efforts, Paul. At least we can start selling some of those valuables now that we have the property cleared.”
Mr. Rayburn's curiosity motivated him to cruise the back county roadways at the end of his day. He wanted to drive past the old Turner estate and see how so much land now looked after being cleared and cleaned of so much detritus. Dusk had fallen by the time Mr. Rayburn's car crested the hill and came upon the old Turner acres. Mr. Rayburn slowed his car and marveled. Paul's crew had indeed earned their pay. They had hauled all those piles away, and they had left only the old foundation of the Turner home. The land looked reborn and new. Mr. Rayburn sighed in relief. Perhaps the bank would still see more than the original ninety-grand investment. Perhaps he would have the opportunity to rehire Mr. Phillips. He thought there were many reasons to be optimistic.
Then, Mr. Rayburn saw a swaying pinpoint of pearl-white ight out of his driver-side window. He pulled into the remains of the gravel drive to investigate, but the illumination had vanished by the time Mr. Rayburn's car stopped where steps once ascended the Turner front porch.
And where that house had been stood a new pile of junk. Mr. Rayburn angled his car's headlights upon the refuse and shook his head. Already higher than his car stood a pile of empty coffee cans and tea kettles, rubber trashcans and rusty burn barrels, broken chairs and cardboard boxes.
No matter the demolition, it seemed too much of that old Turner spirit remained on that land which still hungered for so much junk.