A Wish and a Prayer (11 page)

Now, wearing his black suit with the fake red carnation in the lapel, he stood in baggage claim, holding a piece of paper with her name written on it. He searched the faces of the few entering passengers and recognized her immediately. Just like on the television, she was short, thin, and mousy-looking, with oversize glasses on her nut-brown face.

“Mr. Curry?” She extended her hand.

He pumped it in greeting and grinned. “Yep. Welcome to Kansas, Ms. Quinn. Grab your bags, and we'll go meet Cletus.” It never occurred to Riley to be a gentleman and offer assistance. In his mind, he was already introducing her to Cletus and imagining her being as impressed by the hog as he was. As a result, he missed the studied glance she gave him over the thick black frames.

Minutes later, he was in the driver's seat, and she was placing her suitcase in the truck bed. When she got in on the passenger side, she sent him another look, but he was too busy telling her about how smart his hog was and all the tricks he could do. Once she had her seat belt secured, he kept up the chatter and guided them to the highway.

“So your hog killed a man?”

“But in self-defense. He didn't like Prell hitting him with a table leg, and neither did I.”

“Did you explain this to the county?”

“Yes.” Riley didn't know why she was asking these questions, when he'd already told her the story on the phone.

“And they still want to put him down?”

“Yes.”

“That doesn't sound fair to me. Every sentient being has the right to defend itself when faced with violence.”

Riley didn't know what the word
sentient
meant, but he wholeheartedly agreed with the rest of her statement. “You think FUFA can make them change their minds?”

“With the right publicity, we might.”

“Cletus is pretty famous on the Internet.”

“What do you mean?”

So Riley told her about Cletus's wedding to Chocolate, and the resulting video of the event that went viral.

She stared. “The hog is married?”

“Yep. Had a minister and everything. Eustasia bought Chocolate a gown all the way from Europe, and Cletus and I wore matching tuxedos. Lots of Texas bigwigs were in the audience.”

“Is the video still up?”

“Far as I know.”

Heather shook her head in wonder. She'd met some odd characters in her six months as president, but he had to be in the top ten. Heather had a real love of animals and had been a crusader on their behalf most of her adult life. It was her dream to make FUFA as well respected as PETA, instead of being thought of as a group of whackadoos, a label well earned considering its past actions and campaigns. One of its former presidents was currently serving time in a Canadian prison as a result of an ill-conceived operation. He and a few other members had broken into a mink farm facility and released a hundred or so of the animals out into the snowy Ontario countryside. Those that didn't freeze to death were run over by traffic on a nearby road. The Canadians hadn't been happy, and proved it by sentencing everyone involved to five years for breaking and entering, trespassing, and endangering animals. A more recent example of whackadooism was the cat sterilization debacle in Illinois. Although the case had been taken on before her watch, she was currently the president of record and thus forced to defend the organization's ridiculous stance before the media. Heather wanted a top-of-the-line animal case that would propel FUFA to legitimacy. On the face of what Curry had told her on the phone, she'd thought his hog might be the golden ticket, but now, after meeting him, she wasn't so sure. What kind of crazy people threw weddings for hogs and wore matching tuxedos?

Had Riley a lick of sense, he would've noticed she was paying more attention to the passing landscape than his tales of Cletus's accomplishments, but he kept talking—telling her about Cletus's extensive wardrobe, his love of Animal Planet, and Riley's dreams for a sitcom.

That got her attention. “You want to put him on television?”

“Wait until you meet him, you'll see. He was born for TV. Given the right agent and director, he could be bigger than that pig on Green Acres.”

Proud of himself for being the owner of such a stellar hog, he missed her sigh and the way she pinched her nose between her eyes, as if she had a headache coming on. “So are you married, Mr. Curry?”

“I'm divorced.”

“Do you think your ex-wife would be willing to testify for our side anyway?”

“No. She and Cletus don't get along.”

“I see.”

Riley didn't offer any further explanation, so she didn't ask anything else.

They reached the pens a short time later, and he parked the truck in the gravel parking lot. They got out, and he led her onto the property. The complex consisted of a low-to-the-ground brick administrative building and a bunch of barns, behind which were the wooden pens for the animals. Riley watched the county veterinarian, a tall horse-faced woman with brown hair named Dr. Marnie Keegan, come out of the building and walk toward them with a plastered-on smile. He knew she didn't like him visiting every day, but he didn't care.

“Morning, Mr. Curry. Who's that with you?”

Heather answered for him. “Heather Quinn. President of FUFA. Pleased to meet you.” She stuck out her hand.

Keegan gave Quinn a wary up-and-down during their shake. “Nice meeting you, too. What brings you to our neck of the woods?”

“Mr. Curry's invited me to take a look at this case. If what he told me is true, I'd think you'd consider the animal's state of mind during the death of Mr. Prell and see that he was simply trying to defend himself.”

Riley stood beside Heather, looking pleased as punch.

“He sat on a man and crushed him to death, ma'am.”

“I understand that, but what would you do if someone was beating you over the head with a table leg, Dr. Keegan?”

She didn't appear to like the question. “My response has no bearing on this.”

“It will when our lawyer puts you on the stand.”

Keegan stiffened visibly.

“I'm a vet too, and we're supposed to be advocates, especially for an animal subjected to physical abuse.”

Keegan crossed her arms. “Have you met the subject?”

“No, but that's why I've come.”

“Follow me, then.”

She led them around to the fenced-in pen behind the barns, and as they came closer, Riley was surprised to see that Cletus had company. There looked to be a dozen or more hogs in with him. “When did these other hogs get here?”

“Late yesterday afternoon. County's auctioning them off for back taxes.”

“Cletus doesn't like other hogs around him. He likes his space.”

“He threw a bit of a tantrum at first, but he got over it.”

The moment Cletus saw Riley, the hog began squealing as if voicing his displeasure and trotted over. A larger hog, obviously another male, blocked his path. Cletus squealed louder.

“That hog's bullying him,” Riley snapped angrily. “Move him back to a pen by himself.”

“They're just vying for dominance. Happens all the time, and besides, we don't have anywhere else to house him.”

“Ms. Quinn, do something.”

“Mr. Curry, if there isn't room, there's nothing I can do. I'm sure your hog will be fine.”

He turned to Keegan. “If anything happens to him, I'm suing you.”

“Noted,” she responded, but didn't appear the least bit intimidated by the threat.

The big male finally let Cletus pass, and he made his way through the crowded pen to where the concerned Riley stood on the other side of the waist-high plank corral. “How you doing, boy? Those other hogs being mean to you?”

Cletus moved close enough to be petted and voiced his discontent.

“I know, big boy. I'm sorry. I want you to meet Ms. Heather. She's going to get you out of here.”

Heather stepped to the fence. “Hello there, Cletus. How are you?” She reached over the wooden slats to pet him, and he snapped around and bit her hand. “Ow!”

Dr. Keegan hid her smile and said, “Hope your shots are up to date. I'll get you a Band-Aid. Be right back.”

Heather stared down at the blood welling from the small break in the skin between her index finger and thumb. She eyed the hog angrily.

A dismayed Riley chastised his hog. “Cletus! Bad boy! I'm so sorry, Ms. Quinn. Must be the perfume you're wearing. It sets him off. Used to bite Genevieve all the time.”

“I'm not wearing perfume.”

“Oh.”

“So he bites often?”

The pointed question made him hesitate. “Just if he smells perfume. Maybe it's your shampoo or your soap.”

Riley saw the raw skepticism in her eyes and prayed she didn't stomp off in a huff and fly home. He blamed Dr. Keegan. If she hadn't put Cletus in with those other hogs, especially the bully, he wouldn't be all upset. That had to be the reason he'd taken a plug out of Ms. Quinn's hand. He gave Cletus a calming stroke across his broad back. “Being in with all that riffraff's got you upset, hasn't it? I'm so sorry, but we're going to get you out if it's the last thing we do, right Ms. Quinn?”

“We'll see.”

Riley had hoped for a stronger affirmation, but he figured her hand was probably still hurting.

Dr. Keegan returned with some antiseptic wipes and a Band-Aid. Ms. Quinn doctored herself, and when she was done, Keegan asked, “Anything else you need, Ms. Quinn?”

“No.”

“Then I'm going to get back to work. Nice meeting you. See you in court.” Not bothering to hide her smirk, she strolled away.

After glaring at the hog one last time, Heather Quinn declared, “I'm ready to go to my hotel, Mr. Curry. ” And without a further word, she set out determinedly for his truck.

“Sure. Okay.” Riley gave Cletus a hasty good-bye and hurried off to catch up.

After dropping her at one of the motel chains on Highway 183, Riley drove home. Outside of her being bitten by Cletus, he thought this first meeting had gone well. He was a bit concerned that she hadn't spoken a word on the way to the motel, though. Not even thank you when she got out of the truck. He figured she was just tired from all the jet lag.

Chapter 12

T
he We're So Slick Gang, as Jack dubbed them, came dragging into the classroom ten minutes after school started. Paint-stained and tired, they looked a mess. “You guys are late.”

They answered with grumbles and took their seats. He noticed Leah staring at them as if they were aliens. Apparently she'd been unaware of last night's parental firestorm, and he was glad to know that at least one of the teens in his class hadn't been involved. The painters were just freeing themselves of their backpacks when he announced, “Those of you who are late are getting special assignments, term papers.”

Crystal's cry of, “What!” merged with Eli's “Dad!” Amari's, “No!” and Preston's, “Aw, man!”

Jack waited. When they were done griping, he continued, “The paper will be a minimum seven pages. You will not be allowed to use any electronics, so that means it'll have to be handwritten, in cursive.”

Eyes widened all over the room. Even the ones who hadn't been given the assignment stared aghast.

“You can use encyclopedias or reference books here at school, in your homes, or the library over in Franklin. All of your references are to be included in your bibliography.”

“Why not just take us out and shoot us,” Amari groused.

“Too easy,” he tossed back.

Amari slumped down in his seat.

“This assignment will serve two purposes. It will prepare you for the big papers you'll be doing once you get to the college level, and give you a lesson in the value of electronics when they are used for good. Any questions?”

None.

He wasn't finished. “And to make this even more of a challenge, I've picked your topics, so get ready to write this down.”

They stared in horror.

He turned first to Crystal. “Crystal, pick a number from one to four.”

She sighed resignedly. “Three.”

“Eurystheus.”

“What?”

He spelled it for her.

“Is this somebody's name?”

“You'll have to look it up.”

He turned to Eli. “Numbers one, two, and four are left.”

“Two.”

“Eurybiades.”

Eli's mouth dropped.

Jack spelled it for him and moved on to Amari. “You're next.”

He sighed heavily. “Give me number one.”

“Euripides.”

“I hope that's some kind of car,” he grumbled, writing down the letters as Jack gave them.

“Preston, you get number three by default. Eurydice.”

Shaking his head, Preston wrote while Jack spelled.

“Now, the rest of you aren't allowed to help them in any way, unless you want a paper of your own.”

The look on the faces of Tiffany, Devon, Leah, Megan, and Samantha said they had no intentions of getting anywhere near the projects, especially Megan and Samantha, who were under the gun with their own papers, but at least allowed to use their laptops.

A disgruntled Eli asked, “When's this due?”

“Two weeks. A week to do the research, and a week to write the paper.”

“That's all?” Crystal cried. “But we have to paint the fence, too!”

“Not my problem. No extensions will be given.”

“Man!” Preston declared.

“Any questions before we move on?”

None. They appeared to be too mad.

“Okay, let's get started on last night's math homework.”

B
ernadine's morning wasn't going so well either. Having tossed and turned all night because of the threat, the laughing voice, and Crystal, she was still unsettled as she got dressed for work.

She'd never dealt with anything this bizarre before, and she wasn't sure what kind of precautions she needed to take other than being careful and on alert. Would the person or persons threaten Crystal, or someone else close to her heart, next? Did she need to hire private security? She probably should've asked Will Dalton that. She and the residents of Henry Adams lived under such idyllic conditions, it was easy to lose sight of the fact that they actually lived in a world where security precautions were de rigueur. She sighed, then forcibly pushed aside the troubling thoughts, along with all the rest of the scenarios and questions clamoring for attention, and concentrated on getting herself ready to head to the Power Plant. All the drama notwithstanding, she had a town to run.

The phone played the “I'm Every Woman” ringtone, so she picked up. “Morning, Lil.”

“Morning. I'm at the Dog. Reporters are camped outside the Power Plant.”

“What? Why?”

“Probably to interview you about that call last night. There's a story about it on the front page of the morning paper.”

She blew out a breath.

“See if anyone's out in front of your house.”

Bernadine moved to the window. Making sure she stayed behind the open drape, she peeked out at the street. Sure enough, there were three vans, all bearing logos of local television outlets. “I'm not giving any interviews. Why would they want to give this nut publicity?”

Her text alert chimed. “Hold on. Mal just sent a text.”

What she read made her smile. “Lil, he's on his way. I'll see you after I run the gauntlet.”

She ended the call and went downstairs to wait for Mal. While there, she brought up his message again. She'd paraphrased it to Lily, but in actuality it read, “Whitney. On the way. Kevin Costner.” Amused, all over again, she put the phone in her purse. Yes, he was her light.

He arrived a short while later and parked his truck in her driveway. In response, the press poured out of their vans in pursuit, but he was already on the porch and inside before they could catch up and stick their microphones in his face.

“Not happy with all this,” he said after greeting her with a kiss.

“Me either.”

“Have you heard from Will?”

“Not yet.” Logically she knew the lab wouldn't have been able to provide any information overnight, but that hadn't kept her from hoping. “Thanks for coming.”

“You could handle those jokers outside on your own, but I thought it might be fun saying, ‘No comment,' over and over again. Never knew anyone besieged by the press before.”

She could always count on him and his humor.

“Ready?”

She was.

“They're probably going to follow us.”

“I know, and I don't want them hanging around the building all day, making me crazy.”

“Then we implement Plan B.”

“Why am I suddenly afraid?”

He gave her that July grin. “You're going to love it.”

“All right, Hannibal,” she replied, making reference to the leader of the A-Team. “But I want to get to work in one piece.”

“Trust me,” he said, Hannibal's usual response.

She punched him playfully in the arm. “Come on, crazy man. Let's go.”

As soon as they stepped out of the door, the press pounced. Bernadine had never been besieged before either, and although there were only three reporters—two men and a woman—the scene was just like on TV. Making her way through the tangle of them and their cameras, she ignored the questions and focused on not falling down the stairs. Shoving microphones in her face, they barked out: “Ms. Brown! Do you know who the caller is?”

“Ms. Brown!”

“Ms. Brown! What time did he call?”

“Ms. Brown! Do you have a message for him?”

On the other hand, Hannibal Costner, shielding her as best he could, kept up a steady reply of, “No comment. No comment.” His voice was terse, and he was glaring, but he shot her a sly wink, so she knew he was having a ball.

Because his truck was parked only a short distance away, the entire ordeal lasted maybe three minutes. Then she was in the passenger seat, drawing on her seat belt. He jumped in on the driver's side, slammed his door, and keyed the engine.

The reporters swarmed the truck like zombies, waving their mics and yelling questions at the glass on the raised windows.

Her threw the truck into reverse. “Hold on!”

He backed down the driveway on squealing tires. In the side mirror she saw people diving to get out of the way. With another squeal the truck hit the street, and the souped-up old Ford took off.

Just as they'd predicted, the reporters and crews ran to their vans and sped off behind them.

“Let's lose these jokers!” he crowed with glee.

They roared up the road that led from the subdivision to Main Street, hooked a screaming left, and blazed down Main. A knot of vans and people was clustered in front of the Power Plant, but the truck blew by so fast that she only saw them for a second. “More press?” she called.

“Probably!”

Bernadine assumed that once the group outside the Power Plant saw their brethren chasing the Ford, they'd join the chase too.

A few seconds later, Mal let her know she'd called it right. “We have a train behind us, baby girl. Let's see if those fancy vans can keep up!”

The Ford barreled past the mound of rubble that was once the old Liberian Lady saloon and onto the unpaved road that led into the countryside. The view from her mirror showed the vans in the distance bouncing up and down over the ruts and gullies. Their truck was taking a pounding too, but there was no expensive electronic equipment to worry about, and unlike the vans, it was fitted with a heavy-duty suspension.

“Where are we going?”

“To have brunch.”

“What!”

“Trust me,” he called out, and gave her that smile of his again.

Bernadine wanted a further explanation, but she was too busy hanging on.

He was driving like a bat out of hell, and she could only imagine the bruises forming on her behind as she was tossed up and down like a bull rider at the rodeo—thank God for seat belts!

About a mile later he took a right and headed north. Originally there'd been six vans in pursuit. Looking back, she saw one pull over, smoke pouring from beneath the hood. And then there were five.

They were coming up on Bing and Clay's farm, and she wondered if Mal was planning on swinging in there, but when he approached the split that led to their private road, he made a two-wheeled right and headed on east onto Jefferson instead.

There were now only four vans in pursuit. Mal sped past the land belonging to Genevieve Curry and the spot where her now-razed home once stood. Another half mile, and they were passing the partially painted picket fence that sat between the Jefferson homestead and the road. Seeing it made her think about Crystal and the boys, but he didn't stop there, either.

They were approaching the Jefferson road split. A right would take them south toward the Dog and back to town. The left led to Tamar's. The vans were still behind them.

He took the left, and they approached Tamar's at warp speed. Up ahead, Bernadine saw Tamar standing by the open gate that led onto the property. She was cradling a shotgun.

Mal flew through the gates, wheeled the truck around as if they really were filming an episode of
The A-Team
, and came to a stop. Tamar had already closed the gates on the fence when the press vans roared up. Bernadine took in a deep breath to calm her racing heart and got out of the truck, wondering what might happen next.

Mal came around and draped an arm around her waist. The smile on his face spread from ear to ear.

“Nice job, Hannibal.”

“I love it when a plan comes together.”

She threw back her head and laughed.

The press wasn't laughing, however.

“This is private property!” Tamar yelled. “Move along!”

Bernadine didn't know if it was arrogance, hearing loss, or just plain stupidity that made them ignore the July matriarch, but they left their trucks with their mics and cameras and quickly approached the fence.

Tamar rarely repeated herself, and she didn't this time, either. Instead, she purposefully primed the barrel on the pump-action shotgun, and the ominous sound froze the entire contingent in their tracks.

Bernadine saw their surprise. They looked from Tamar to the smiling Bernadine and Mal, standing by the Ford.

One of the reporters called out boldly, “Ms. Brown. Are you going to—”

The blast from the shotgun drowned out the rest of the question.

“I'll be shooting tires and windshields next! You got fifteen seconds to get off my land!”

They ran like Godzilla was on their heels, and scrambled back into their vehicles.

The road was public property, and if they wanted to sit on the shoulder in their vans until the first snow fell, they had that right, but no way were they going to get anywhere near Bernadine Brown in the foreseeable future without trespassing on July land.

She was pleased.

Tamar looked pleased too. As she passed them on her way back to the house, she said, “Bernadine, I don't ever remember us having this much fun before you moved in, but thanks. You keep this old girl young.”

Mal said, “Thanks for the backup.”

“Anytime.”

She climbed the steps to the porch and disappeared inside.

Bernadine asked, “So she knew we were coming?”

“Yep. Gave her a call on the way to your place. Come on. Let's drive down to the creek. I figure if we stay here long enough, they'll eventually get tired and go home, but until then, I'm declaring a Bernadine Brown Mental Health Day.”

“But I have to go to the office.”

“Where you will spend the day being pestered on the phone and in person by stupid questions from obnoxious people.”

She had to admit he was right. The press were still positioned on the side of the road. She got in the truck.

They drove down to the creek bank, where they were out of sight of the road. The weather was a bit cool and windy, but the sun was shining, and there were no microphones or cameras, just peace and quiet.

After parking, Mal walked around to the back of the truck. When she joined him, he was removing a cooler and a small hibachi grill from the bed.