Hunting Witches (4 page)

***

It had been three fast weeks of phone calls, faxed documents and sleepless nights. They had gotten approved for the loan within forty-eight hours, and the next thing Mark and Nika Pendleton knew, they were shoving their belongings into the back of a rented truck. It was a Wednesday night, and Mark was due to start his new job at Dynagraph the following Monday. Everything had fallen into place, right as it was supposed to.

He had wondered about that, how the doors had opened at the right times and they had been in a perfect position to walk through them. He had tried to bring it up with Nika, but she shut him down.

“Don’t even talk about it,” she said. “You’ll ruin it. You’ll jinx everything. Now, hand me that box. I need it to brace the bed frame over here.”

Mark sighed and did as he was told.

“This thing’s almost packed all the way up,” he said. “Where are we sleeping tonight?”

Nika shrugged. “I guess in this truck.”

Mark nodded. “Sounds good. That won’t hurt my back at all.”

Laughing, Nika said, “We’ll sleep in the apartment on the floor. I saved out a couple blankets and some pillows.”

“Sounds good,” Mark repeated. “That won’t hurt my back at all.”

“Oh, come on, Paleface,” Nika said. “It will be our last night in the old place, and it’s the cleanest it’s been in years.”

“Should I get some wine and candles?” Mark asked.

Nika turned and pointed. “Look in the box right there.”

Mark opened the box. There were twelve white taper candles, two bottles of Riesling and a corkscrew.

“You think of everything, don’t you?”

“I have to,” she said. “I live with you. More boxes, now! I want this thing packed and locked before we get dinner.”

Mark handed her a couple of lightweight boxes marked BATHROOM. “Seriously, though, Nika, don’t you think it’s strange how…”

Nika interrupted him immediately. “You need to stop. We’re never surprised when things fall through. How come it’s always such a shock when things work out?”

Mark shrugged.

“You got a great new job. I got a beautiful new house. We both get to leave the big city, maybe put down some roots. We got what we wanted. Don’t question it. Just enjoy it without trying to pick it apart, okay?”

“All right,” Mark said. “Think about where you want to go for dinner and I’ll get the last of the boxes.”

***

They lay on the floor in the living room, candles half burned, shadows shifting on the bare white walls.

“You smell like garlic,” Nika said.

“I know, right?” Mark said. “I’m just going to revel in it. We had a great Italian meal on our last night in Atlanta, and you already packed our toothbrushes.”

“A small oversight,” she said.

“At least I didn’t eat clams,” Mark said. “You smell like garlic and bad fish.”

“How is that different from any other night?” Nika laughed.

“You’re gross,” Mark said, and they both laughed, the sound echoing through the empty apartment.

“I’m going to miss this place a little,” Mark said. “Our first real place together. Lots of memories here, babe.”

“It’s a chapter, honey. We wrote it, and now we get to close it. We did good things here. We had fun. We learned a lot. And now it’s time to move on. Make some new memories. Have an adventure. I’m ready. I think we’re both ready.”

“Yeah, I’m ready,” Mark agreed. “So we should get some sleep. We’ve got to be in Bell Plains by two o’clock for the closing and then we’ve got to unload the truck at the new place.”

“Yeah,” she said. “We’ve got a one-way trip to the future tomorrow.”

“Who’s going to drive the truck?” Mark asked.

“Oh, hell. I am. You have a hard enough time parking in an empty lot.”

“I’m not a bad driver!” Mark retorted.

“You’re not driving that big-ass truck,” Nika said, “and that’s it. And if you’re honest, you’ll realize that you are happy to be married to a strong independent woman who can haul ass down the road in a big diesel truck and not some mousy girl who can’t do nothin’ for herself.”

“I’m glad I married you,” he said, and put his head on her shoulder. She wrapped her arm around him and pulled him close.

“There’s a theory,” Nika whispered, “that when you’re in a place, the structure itself absorbs all the things you say, all the residual energy of the emotions expended here. It stays in the walls, the cabinets, the place just holds it. Some people think that if you had the right listening equipment, you could hear those things, those memories and experiences, and listen to them like a song.”

“I like that thought,” Mark murmured. “I wonder what our song would be.”

“’Free Bird,’” Nika said, and then she fell asleep.

***

When morning broke, Mark and Nika were already up, dressed and in the process of hitting the road. Nika made a big deal of rolling up her sleeves before slipping behind the wheel of the truck. She even spent the morning singing “Eastbound and Down” and calling Mark “Bandit.” When she started the engine, she stuck her arm out the window and flexed it, moving it up and down like she was honking a truck horn.

Mark shook his head, got into their tiny compact car and fired it up, the sound of its fuel-efficient four cylinder engine almost non-existent underneath the grumble of Nika’s diesel. Mark turned on the radio. The sound system in the little car was good, and it made Mark feel a little more masculine.

With a slight grinding of gears from the cranky rental, they rolled out.

For a moment, as they were putting Peachtree Hell behind them, Nika wished she had gone to the Varsity one more time, just for one last milk shake. Maybe they should have gone to Atlanta Underground instead of having that last Italian meal. Done something more distinctively Atlanta, something to show they had been there. Gotten a key chain at a Stuckey’s. Bought a couple of shot glasses. She wished for some kind of souvenir besides fading memories.

Then, before she knew it, old Turner Field was behind them and they were cruising through the outliers. It was still pretty early in the day, so they weren’t losing much time when Nika pulled off in Dalton to get some more gas. Mark parked in front of the convenience store and strutted over to Nika, who had already begun pumping fuel.

“What’s this shit?” he asked. “I’ve still got a good three quarters of a tank left over there in the itty bitty car.”

“We gotta get me one of these,” Nika says. “Thing rumbles and shimmies so much, I might divorce you and marry it.”

“That’s not fair,” Mark laughed. “Besides, I’m not sure they would allow that kind of marriage in Tennessee. That would be like marrying a robot, or a tractor, or something.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Nika asked. “At least the truck isn’t gay.”

“Sick burn,” Mark said. “Hey, you want a biscuit? I’m going to grab a biscuit and something to drink from the gas station.”

“You could get me a bottled water,” she said. “That would be fine.”

“I’m on it,” Mark said and, whistling, he walked to the store.

Nika checked her phone. Plenty of time and no calls from Penny Renfro. Good. That meant no delays, no cancellations, no last minute hurdles.

The diesel pump handle clicked up under her fingers. Full tank. Nika spun on her heels and put the nozzle back into its holder. The LED screen asked if she wanted a receipt. Normally, she would have said no. It all shows up online anyway. But seeing as how they were
In Transition
, she figured she may as well hold onto it. It was possible that Bo would reimburse them for the fuel, and she also didn’t want to lose any transactions while switching from one bank to another.

“Here,” Mark said, handing her a cold bottle of water and a bacon, egg and cheese biscuit.

“I told you I wasn’t hungry,” Nika said.

“I know the look of a woman who wants some damned breakfast,” Mark scoffed. “Now get back up in your truck, Jan-Michael Vincent, and let’s get some white line fever going.”

Nika nodded. “Hell, yeah. Breaker one-nine and shit.”

“Jesus, I can’t wait to return this truck.”

“Go drive your tiny car, little man,” Nika cried, and she jumped back up into the driver’s seat, cranked the engine and slammed the door. Mark got into his wise purchase and followed Nika back onto the expressway.

***

For about fifteen miles before Interstate 75 merges into Interstate 40, all the radio stations start to fade out. It’s a dead zone, like there’s a need for technology to give the human mind time to ponder what it is doing. Are you sure you want to go further North? You’re about to enter a whole different state. It’s not too late to turn around. Are you positive this is what you want to do?

The air smells different, like dogwoods and forest fires, and even the sun seems to refract in odd directions, the sun burning green while the sky looks bluer than you ever thought possible. The road stretches out before you, endless asphalt, and you begin to believe there may be something at the end of it, something designed for you and only you.

You remember for a moment when you were young and you tried to catch the stars in your hand. It’s that feeling again, that sense of wonder and curiosity, before days became dreaded things, blocks of drudgery, time to be killed.

Then, before your mind can even register an answer, you’re at the ass end of Campbell Station Road, seeing signs for the Crosseyed Cricket campground and listening to Aerosmith on WIMZ, classic rock screaming through a transmitter just about strong enough to cover the whole damned state. Even with the chill, you roll down the window and spread your fingers against the wind. The bracing cold does nothing but reinforce your decision.

This is where you are. This is how you live now. This place, with all of its mysteries and pockets to discover, is ready for you to claim it. In your mind, you plant a flag at the edge of a cliff.

You’re home.

***

Penny Renfro was smiling too much. As she stood in the lobby of the First National Bank in Bell Plains, three gigantic manila folders of paperwork in her sweaty hands, she had to force herself to remain professional. It didn’t matter how far away she went from the Keep. Penny could always hear the drums, pounding away in the back of her head like a fading migraine. The sound kept her connected to the town while simultaneously threatening to drive her mad.

When Mark and Nika walked in, Penny shook their hands. “You’ve never been through a closing before, am I right?” she asked.

Mark and Nika shook their heads.

“Well,” Penny said, “crack your knuckles. You’re about to sign your names more times in a row than you ever have in your lives.”

I hope you hate it,
Penny thought.
I hope you balk. I hope you walk away from this table and drive your asses back to Atlanta. I hope you change your minds and get the hell out of my town.

“Let’s do this,” Mark said, and Nika nodded in agreement.

The next two hours were a swarm of bankers and pens, bad coffee in squeaky foam cups and long detailed explanations of things the Pendletons would never remember. Checks were written, checks were given; representations of money circled the table like satellites. Penny was right, too. Everything was signed and re-signed in triplicate, and with every signature, the copying machine in the corner hummed and whirred, while another money manager fretted over every piece of paper that came out of it. Mortgages and escrow accounts and home insurance and words of warning mixed with words of encouragement and all through it, Penny Renfro signed and filed, signed and filed, totally lost in the rhythm of the process which was matching up with the pounding in her brain, like windshield wipers suddenly syncing up to radio songs in the car.

Mark and Nika were hyper-aware, flinching at every shuffle of paper, every click of a pen. They were ready to sign anything placed in front of them. Forms, loans, a hyena: it didn’t matter. They were signature machines. And then, it was over.

Penny dropped two sets of keys in front of Mark and Nika. The keys clattered on the table.

“Front door, back door, deadbolts.” Penny said. “Congratulations. You’re homeowners.”

Mark and Nika laughed and high-fived. The room became a circus of handshakes and smiles, chuckles and sighs of relief. Bankers and secretaries patted the shoulders of the newest believers in the American dream, while Penny withdrew, leaning against the wall by the coffeemaker table, a couple of napkins in her right hand to sop up the blood in her palm, made by the sharp crescent moons of her fingernails.

Papers were gathered and placed into files in order of importance and the Pendleton’s dream became a matter of public record, shoved away into locked drawers, demoted from hopes and wonder to reams of fine print, boxed away and forgotten, tinder for another eventual courthouse fire.

“Is there a liquor store around here?” Mark asked. They were walking out to the parking lot, and he was trying to put his house keys on his car key ring. “I think we need some rum.”