Fortunes of the Dead (18 page)

He'd cleared the tree limbs and debris in front of the shed, pronounced it a barn, and promised to help her clear out the inside on the following weekend.

Cory never got back to it, of course. Like many men in law enforcement, he worked long hours, and Cory worked longer than most. He believed that he would accomplish great things.

He was competitive with the younger men, who were ambitious, full of enthusiasm, and single with few ties. Cory told Kate that he was the best there was, because he combined the energy and commitment of the younger guys with the wisdom of maturity and experience. He was contemptuous of the older officers who were slowing down; many of them had flared and burned, the memory of their younger enthusiasms a lifetime away.

It took Kate four days to clear the shed out; four days in heavy gloves, driving endlessly up and down the mountain, hauling the shredded car-seat cushions (red faded to orange and grimy to the touch); the oily pieces of metal engine parts; the tricycle with the broken wheel; and countless open bags and canisters of toxins—chemicals to kill wasps, roaches, ants, weeds, fungus. Everything had to be loaded up and taken to the dump across from the Anderson County High School; there was no trash pickup in the country. If your car did not have Anderson County plates you were questioned. Not just any trash was welcome. It had to be Anderson County trash.

Kate was happy with her barn, particularly the tin roof that was painted a brilliant metallic blue. The curve of the roof made the barn look like a tiny horse chalet tucked beside the driveway, protected from the wind, on one of the few level spots cleared out on the mountain.

The shed worked better than one might have suspected, though Kate knew her father would not approve. He was particular in his views on fencing, stall shavings, the right feed and hay. When he'd shown up out of the blue four weeks ago bringing fifty bales of top-notch alfalfa hay for old Sophie, Kate was torn by her pleasure and relief in seeing that tall, familiar figure in the driveway of this hell house, and the uncomfortable anticipation of his disapproval.

But he'd nodded his head at her little barn, and she read approval, not censure. She saw him note the tools neatly hung from hooks on the side of the barn, the red wheelbarrow on tiptoes, handles up. The heavy pitchfork, the rake, Kate's gloves looped over a nail, the lead rope neatly coiled and hanging beside the stall door, well out of Sophie's reach.

He winked and said mildly that it certainly would not do for one of his thoroughbreds, but contained Sophie very well.

Kate had smiled. Nothing was good enough for Daddy's Kentucky thoroughbreds. Kate wondered if it was the horses and ensuing lifestyle that had first attracted Cory. From the outside looking in, Kate's family seemed wealthy, though they were not. But they did have a place in the world of horse farms, the Kentucky Derby, smooth bourbon, and good ol' boys. Kate had grown up taking for granted the Whitestone house, easily four thousand square feet, with three fireplaces and a long kitchen that ran along the back; the circle drive and the separate garage built to resemble the barns, including a cupola. Easy to make assumptions about the people who lived inside.

Her growing-up years were a vibrant cacophony of endless chores, hard times and good times, though in the last decade or so her family has seen more good years than bad. Her father kept sound business practices, and was conservative about spending money. It was only recently that Kate realized her childhood had been extraordinary.

Kate and Leo stood side by side, brushing Sophie's heavy winter coat, which was so thick and rust-colored the mare resembled a donkey. Flakes of dried mud mingled with the musky smell of horse. Kate noted that Leo kept his free hand along Sophie's flank so he could sense tension and impending movement—just as she'd taught him. She was pleased but perplexed. It made no sense that a four-year-old could be so unswerving in the application of rules. It was clear that Leo was unusually intelligent; it was also clear that he was different in disturbing ways.

As always, Kate's mind eased away from the things that bothered her while she groomed the horse. Leo shared her contentment, and carefully put away the brushes while Kate lifted Sophie's hooves to dig the dirt and gravel out of the crevices. The mare had arthritis in her left hock, and Kate ran a slow easy hand over the contours of the leg, checking for swelling and heat. Sophie twisted her head to one side, and nudged Kate softly in the ribs. The mare had kind brown eyes, with ridges of wrinkles in the skin above—the sign of a good soul, according to the wisdom of Kate's father.

The leg seemed sound enough for an easy ride, and Kate lifted the saddle up and over the mare's back, easing it down gently over the spine. Leo did not want any help mounting the horse. He stood on the mounting block, very small and fearless. Kate lowered the leathers so that he could tuck his foot into the stirrup and swing himself over. He held the reins while Kate raised the stirrup leathers, tightened the saddle girth, and made sure the helmet was fastened properly to his head. Kate walked beside the horse as they followed the ridge that led away from the barn and into the woods. Kate did not allow Leo to take Sophie at more than a walking trot—the path was steep and hard on the mare's arthritis. Kate wished there was a more level place to ride; both she and Sophie were used to the gentle slopes and rich pastures of Kentucky bluegrass country.

Before they were out of sight of the barn Sophie checked and turned her head. Leo started to kick, but Kate put a hand on his leg. Ahead on the ridge stood a black dog, head down, watching. Sophie was an excellent trail horse, and in her younger years had been a seasoned cross-country competitor. She brooked no nonsense from strange dogs and would duck her head and charge if she felt the need to make a point. She had intimidated and scattered dog packs more than once.

But after a careful scrutiny, Sophie continued along the ridge, not bothering to give the dog another look, even when he fell in behind them, even when he followed them home.

After the ride, Kate finished up the barn chores and climbed into the hayloft over Sophie's stall. The wood ladder was new, no rungs to avoid or rotting edges to skip over. It was warmer in the space under the blue tin roof. Hay naturally generates heat, and sunlight poured in the small square window. Kate inhaled the sweet grassy smell of alfalfa and orchard grass—a full hayloft made her feel rich.

Leo's voice came to her, faintly. As long as she could hear him, she knew he hadn't ventured down the hill to the pond—deep enough to fish in, beautiful skimmed with ice, treacherous to small children. On move-in weekend, Cory had promised her long lazy afternoons sitting on the dock, fishing, having a picnic lunch. The sort of thing they never actually did.

Leo was either talking to Sophie or wrapped in interior dialogue, deep in thought processes and internal logics that were unique to Leo alone. Her son's words and inflections had echoes of familiar phrases, but added up to something only Leo could fathom. He only talked to Kate to relay a particular request or satisfy his curiosity. There was a jumble of words he'd string together every night when she tucked him in that Kate took as a declaration of love.

Like everything else in Kate's barn, the hayloft was neat. There were sixty bales of orchard grass from the second cutting of the season stacked on the right-hand side of the loft, and forty-seven bales of finely pressed alfalfa on the left. Her father had the alfalfa shipped in from out west at twenty-five dollars a bale. They'd worked side by side stacking it into the loft, and he'd grumbled, unconvincingly, about the expense and trouble of alfalfa for an old girl like Sophie-horse. In truth, bringing the hay was a pleasure and an excuse to see his Katie, and to take a disapproving look at this remote house out in the mountains where the road lay in Union or Anderson County, depending upon the severity of the curve. He was worried by the stoic look of endurance that had replaced the easy and gentle contentment he was used to seeing on his daughter's face.

He invited her to come home with him; held his breath while he waited for her answer. He was prepared to take her home that day—he'd brought a trailer for Sophie and little Leo could sit between them in the truck.

Kate had turned him down, and though he'd expected her to say exactly what she'd said, he was surprised by the intensity of his disappointment. He left before Cory came home, looking in the rearview mirror of the truck at Katie as she stood at the top of the steep driveway and watched him go. His eyes were not as sharp as they used to be, and rearview mirrors were not known for clarity, so he didn't see the tears that ran down his daughter's cheeks. But he had a sudden fear that somehow Katie was lost and needed his help to find her way, and it was all he could do to keep inching the truck down the gravel drive when his instincts told him to make her come home, now, and no nonsense.

He did not know how badly she wanted to go. Even she didn't know. Kate was still trapped in the worst kind of confinement, the mental box of convention and expectations that constitutes a prison as hopeless as it is common. Kate was committed to her marriage, to her family, to the years she had spent with Cory. She was loyal, bound by a sense of responsibility that was as strong as it was misplaced.

Kate lifted the hair off her neck and tied it back with a length of scratchy baling string. A vague uneasiness sat like an unfamiliar hand upon her shoulder. There was something off, here in her loft. She took the utility knife from its place on the windowsill, exposed the blade, and sliced through the tough fibrous string that bound the flakes of hay in the heavy, rectangular bale. She paid no attention to what she was doing; she could cut a bale open in her sleep. The hay collapsed and Kate gathered up the two end flakes and tucked them under her arm.

She paused in front of the ladder, glancing once more over her shoulder. And realized that the hay bales had been mixed. Someone had stacked three bales of alfalfa hay in with the bales of orchard grass, leaving a trail of loose alfalfa stems and pieces across the middle area Kate kept swept and clean.

She walked the length of the loft, knelt down in front of the stack of odds and ends tucked under the eaves—a water bucket, a feed bin, a scraper and some brushes, an old hoof pick. Someone had been through them. She opened the old tack box, where she kept bandages, Bute, vet wrap … didn't she have a new roll of duct tape in the box? She latched the tack box, trying to remember, saw a slip of plastic beneath one of the bales—the packaging from the new roll of duct tape. Someone had been in her hayloft.

Kate counted the hay bales, mentally subtracting the ones already used. None missing.

Why would anyone come up into the loft and take duct tape? Maybe the neighbors, Don and Kathy Madison, at the end of the drive? They were friendly, helpful; they'd had Kate and Leo to dinner a couple of times, taking Leo's eccentricities in stride. Between the two of them and their ex-spouses, they'd raised seven children of their own. Kate always got the feeling the Madisons felt sorry for her, up on the mountain all alone, and were always ready to lend a hand, insisting she call if she ever had any problem at all.

Maybe Don had stopped by and she hadn't been home. He would know she wouldn't mind him taking the tape, though he'd never helped himself to anything before. And why move the hay bales around?

Kate glanced out the loft window and checked on Leo—she knew where he was and what he was doing every minute of the day.

Leo had not been talking to Sophie after all; he'd been talking to the stray black dog.

Kate dropped the hay flakes, and climbed down the ladder, feet touching every other rung. Sophie was nose-deep in her feed bin, and Kate opened the gate and scooted out, clicking the latch behind her. She moved slowly, eyes on Leo and the dog. She was aware of the lead rope, almost to hand, and the pitchfork still propped by the wheelbarrow where she'd been cleaning Sophie's stall.

The dog was coal-dust black, part Lab, part chow, a little of something else. He had a dark purple tongue, a large triangular head, a bushy tail curled up over the back of his narrow hips, and he was so close to her son that Leo, squatting beside him, could likely feel the dog's breath on his smooth baby-tender cheek. The animal looked lean in the way of strays and wolves in a bad winter. Healthy and fed he would likely weigh upward of eighty pounds.

The dog ducked his head and retreated when Kate took a step away from the gate. Leo reached for him.

“Leo, no. Don't pet the dog.”

Leo stayed on his haunches but pulled his hand back, glancing at her over one shoulder.

“Here, boy,” Kate said. “Let's make sure we're all friends here.” The dog cringed and watched her. But his tail was still up, if not wagging. Kate kept talking softly, good-naturedly, trying to reassure everyone including herself, moving slowly to put herself between her son and the stray.

There were dog packs in the area; Kate heard them at night. A foal in a pasture down the road had been savaged not five weeks ago—tendons severed and belly ripped out—and Kate could not get the thought of the foal's last moments out of her mind. From then on she had kept Leo's old baby monitor in Sophie's stall, and listened all night to make sure the mare was safe. Sophie would be vulnerable, trapped in the small space of her stall.

“Okay, pretty boy, you're all right. Nobody's going to hurt you.”

The dog retreated, and as soon as Kate was in front of Leo she stopped moving. She could see the animal was quite old, muzzle streaked with white and gray, back legs trembling with advanced dysplasia. He was panting heavily, flecks of foam around the corners of his mouth. But his eyes were black, clear, and healthy. A worn leather collar hung loosely around his neck, testament to a significant loss of weight. He lowered his head when she put a hand out toward him, palm up, and touched the mud-splashed tags, one of them the familiar rabies certification, the other a heart-shaped ID. Somebody somewhere loved him.