Liar's Bench (23 page)

After a fleeting moment of shocked silence, Harper threw his head back and screamed bloody murder.

In an instant, I pulled back the door latch and tumbled out of the car, hitting rocks as I landed.

Scrambling and kicking up gravel dust, I jumped to my feet. Panting, I stole a glance at the windshield. Harper sat slumped against the wheel. His jaw was screwed tight; his eyes slits of pain. Trickles of blood ran from his nostrils. He pressed his hands to his head.

I lurched forward, shaking my fist, and screeched, “Kiss my lilywhite ass, you diddle-dick bastard!”

I raced down the long drive and up the porch steps, hollering for my daddy. Letting the screen door bang behind me, I crossed into the living room and into the kitchen. “Daddy! Help! Hello?”

I traced my steps back to the staircase landing and hollered up the steps. “Daddy, where are you? HELLO?” I turned around to the front entry, studying the door. “Why, oh, why didn't anyone ever put locks on this old house?” I groaned. I grabbed the banister and took the hall stairs two steps at a time, flying up the pine boards.

“Thank God!” Daddy had forgotten to take my door off the hinges! I crossed the hall to Daddy's room. Empty. Running over to his window, I parted the curtain and scanned the length of our drive. Harper's truck was still sitting there. Empty.

I skirted Daddy's bed to his nightstand and, with a shaky hand, picked up the ol' rotary dial phone, listening for a tone. Widow Lettie Sims was on the party line, talking.

“Who's listenin' in?” Lettie asked, accompanied by clicks, buzzes, and static.

“Miz Sims, it's—”

“Why, hello, Muddy. Me an' Peach Hobart was jus' now talkin' about you. Jus' talkin' 'bout that wonderful service Pastor Dugin gave your mama. Bless her heart. Keepin' all of you on our prayer list. Uh-huh. Ain't that right, Peach?”

A man murmured, “Yes, ma'am.”

I gripped the long, curled cord attached to the phone, balled it close to my chest, and peeked over my shoulder. “Miz Sims,” I scratched out a whisper, “I need to use the phone. It's an emerg—”

“How's your daddy doing, hon? Back from Nashville yet?” She sniffed loudly. “He kept me an' poor Peach off the party line all day yester—”

“
Please,
Miz Sims. Hang up! I have to call Sheriff Jingles—”

“Why, chil', everyone knows Jingles ran over to Millwheat today.” She whispered into the mouthpiece, “Something 'bout—”

“Please! I have an emergency!”

“. . . stolen car parts,” she continued.

I brought my fingers up to my mouth and chewed on my nails. Was that the porch door I heard creaking? Or the staircase landing?

“Miz Sims!” I spooled the phone cord tight around my fingers, pressed it to my sweaty forehead. “I have to use the phone, please hang up!
Please! There's—
”

“Is there a fire?” she asked sweetly. “Always a fire with those teens, eh, Peach?” She chuckled. Peach Hobart snorted in agreement.

I slammed down the receiver, picked it up, and slammed it down again. Again. And again.

“Jesus, Jesus!” I fell to my knees, clutching the phone receiver in one hand and rubbing my temple with the other.

T
he sound of wood creaking on the bottom landing of the stairs pushed away defeat and brought back function. Terror set in. I bolted upright onto my knees. Dropping the phone, I crawled over close to Daddy's door, barely breathing. I cocked my head toward the jamb. Daddy'd never had a lock on his bedroom door, but he'd put one on mine—the first and only one ever installed in the old house—after I'd begged for one as my thirteenth birthday present.

Daddy'd agreed, admitting that a teenaged girl needed her privacy and wondering if maybe it was also time to start thinking about putting some deadbolts on the entry doors. Especially since the potheads were always trespassing onto the homestead, looking for places to smoke their wacky-weed. But Grammy Essie wasn't having any of it. Daddy'd finally asked her what she'd do if one of those boys got the munchies and stole one of her famous pies. Grammy Essie'd just laughed and pooh-poohed the idea, saying, “A shotgun's the only insurance I need against pie-napping.” Still, she'd agreed to give me my bedroom lock.

I put my hand over my racing heart. I was surely gonna explode with worriment. Why was I wasting time thinking about pies and the past when my life could very well be over before I ever tasted another sweet thing?

I strained to listen above the drumming of my heartbeat. The creaking seemed to have stopped. If I could just make it to my room and lock the door. Determined, I sucked in a breath and, getting on all fours, I sprang up and out the door.

I heard the
thwap
before my knees buckled. Hitting the floor, I rolled over, groaning. My back leg muscles stung from the pain.

Harper stood at the top of the stairs, the Slugger in his hands, towering over me.

Screaming, I painfully brought my knees up to my chin and kicked out as hard as I could.

He squeezed out a rush of air and fell sideways down the stairs. I scrambled quickly across the hall and into my room. As soon as I'd crossed the threshold, I shot up and slammed my door shut. I fumbled with the top lock. It didn't engage. I tried again, this time pressing my weight against the door. The lock slid into the jamb and clicked.

I took a step back, stumbled over a pile of clothes, and landed on my tail. Footsteps pounded the stairs.

Harper bellowed out a stream of curses, beating his fists on my door.

With a trembling hand, I smothered my mouth to still my cries.

“Bitch, ya better come on out 'fore ya find yourself swingin' like yore mama.”

I shook my head, swimming with confusion. Panicky tears rolled down over my bloodied cheek and into the corner of my mouth, leaving a metallic taste.

The old skeleton keyhole darkened as Harper's boots dragged back and forth against the pine planked floors. He delivered a thud to the door, then another. I pulled myself up, took two careful steps back, and looked around my room, searching for something, anything that could help.

“Ya best come on outta there. This ol' wooden door ain't no match for my Slugger here.” Harper whacked the door with the bat. The wood began to splinter. Flecks of paint flew off and landed like snow on the pine floor.

Bones rippled against flesh.

“Tell ya what,” Harper panted behind the door, “ya jus' give me that rooster receipt ya took from McGee's an' tell me where yore mama's Rooster Run ledger is, an' I'll jus' mosey on. And if ya don't snitch, I'll tell the boys to let that boyfriend of yours off the hook. Whatcha' say? Deal?”

I didn't trust that murdering bastard for one Kentucky second. I backed up to the curtains covering the tall pane of glass and collapsed onto the window seat.

Harper grunted and swung the bat once more. Shards of peppered-white wood littered my bedroom floor. A few more hits like that and he'd be in. Grammy's doors were not meant to withstand this kind of battering brutality, just the occasional sass of a teenaged temper.

I jerked upward and scanned the room for an escape, for anything. Peering out the window, I calculated the two-story drop. I sagged against the pane, then moved the curtain aside and stared out at the persimmon tree, gauging the distance between its alligator-skin branches and the house. A good six feet, if not more—a leap I knew I could never make.

“Gots me enuff of that rope left over from yore mama. Yore messin' wid the wrong peoples here, Muddy Summers. I'm jus' tryin' to do my job an' return McGee's property to him.” He banged on the door with his fists. “Yore gonna be hanging from a ceegarh tree along wid that boy tonight, iffin' ya don't give me what I want! Ya hear me? Hanging!” Harper said with a finality that pricked skin.

I gulped down air.

Harper thumped the door again, paused, and swung his bat, splitting a long crack down the center of the wood. I held my breath. He gave a hard kick to the door with the steel toe of his boot.

I whirled around, searching, feeling like a trapped rabbit quivering inside a hunter's den.

Rabbit
.
Rabbit
.
Can't catch a rabbit unless you muddy up your boots.

I bolted across the room to my bed and dropped to my knees. Reaching underneath the bed frame, I pulled out books, 8-track tapes, and a pair of flip-flops. Finding nothing to help, I ran to my closet.

Harper slammed the bat against the wood, forcing the frame to peel halfway off the door.

I groped inside the bottom of the closet, throwing clothes, track team trophies, and shoes behind me. I pressed my fingers to my temple, kneaded.

Harper kicked the door, sending more chunks flying.

Grammy's words sprang up: “A shotgun's the only insurance I need. . . .”

I glanced over at the window bench. In less than two counts, I had the wooden lid open. I dug under the pile of quilts and felt the leather sheath of Papaw's hunting knife. I pushed it aside and dug deeper, until my hand rested on cool metal. I pulled out my .410 shotgun, the one I used as a kid when I'd kicked up rabbits in fence rows. And the one I'd muddied up my boots with.

I pulled the bolt back and looked into the chamber. One cartridge sat snug-tight. I shoved the bolt forward, locking it into place. Then I plowed my hand inside the bench and rummaged through it again. Trembling, I pulled out an extra shell and tucked it inside my pocket.

One. Deep breath.

Two. Deep breath.

I turned to face the door. Raising the gun, I pressed the walnut stock to my shoulder, snugging my cheek to the side of the stock while looking down the barrel.

Can't catch a rabbit lessen you muddy up those boots.
My mind burst with resolve, stoked by the courage that came from having no other option. “Muddy up,” I whispered, flexing my fingers around the barrel and tightening.
I'm Muddy who catches rabbits,
I told myself. Mudas Summers, a seed rising strong from the mud to muck and rabble when others would try to bury me.

The baseball bat struck the lock. The ping of metal bounced and scraped against wood just one second before Harper landed inside my room.

“Why, Mr. Harper . . . I do believe them boots are too clean.”

I pointed the barrel at his head, then lowered it steadily to his feet and squeezed the trigger.

A
n ear-splitting explosion rattled the glass pane and rocked the walls, deafening me.

Harper dropped like a skid of bricks, the bat still clutched in his hand. Writhing and moaning between clenched teeth, he squeezed his other hand over his bloody boots.

I leaped over him, but the hurdle was too short. Harper snapped up an arm and caught me by the ankle, sending me tumbling down on the hard wood. The .410 fell out of my hands.

I screamed and jerked my ankle from his grip, then plowed my foot into his face.

He shrieked as his nose spurted fresh blood.

Crawling, I made it to the door, latched on to the frame, and pulled myself up. I stood in the shadow of the doorway for a moment, breathing hard, staring at Harper, who was half-sitting, rocking his wounds. Claret-colored puddles pooled at the bottom of his legs, his boots darkening.

I looked square into Harper's red-rimmed eyes. “Who told you to kill my mama? Was it McGee? Where's Bobby?”

He screwed up his bloody face. “Even if ya had the answers, you'd be dead 'fore ya could tell anyone 'bout it.”

“You best answer me.” I slipped my hand into my pocket, pulling out the shotgun shell and dangling it in the air.

“Ya ain't got the balls, bitch,” he growled, bloodied spit spraying out.

“No, sir, but I do have this shell for yours.”

I wiggled the cartridge and walked toward him, my eyes never leaving his, and moved catlike and quick around his body, kicking the Slugger across the floor. Then I put the shell between my teeth, picked up my shotgun, and pulled back the bolt. The spent casing ejected and fell to the floor, rolling.

Harper's glazed eyes widened and his thick Adam's apple bobbed up and down.

I wedged the cartridge into the chamber and pushed the bolt forward, locking it into place.

He shook his head, then nodded quickly, and caterwauled, “Okay, okay. Please don't shoot. I promise, I don't know where they took that boy.”

“Liar! What about my mama?” I shook the barrel at him.

“Yeah, okay . . . It was me an' Manly Carter who done it. Mainly, it was Carter. McGee wanted his ledger back and—it was an accident. Promise. We just slapped her around a bit an' things got outta hand—”

I raised the gun. “Why? WHY?”

He squirmed. “Ya don't wanna kill me. Please. I gots me three kids—an' one on the way. A family—”

“I did, too!”

“It was for the Rooster Run ledger—we, we jus' went to git it back,” Harper sniveled. “But when we got there, she had her suitcase packed, gettin' ready to hoof it wid that baby of hers. Couldn't let that happen an' lose the ledger. Whole lot of 'portant people's in that ledger, Muddy.” He drew in ragged breaths. “Iffin' the word gets out that they's up at McGee's cockfightin' an' sleepin' wid whores, well, they'd lose their 'portant jobs right quick.... Now, iffin' ya jus' hand that stuff over, them 'portant peoples will give ya a reward. Uh-huh. A nice, big reward, gal, so ya can move far away from here an' meet a nice fella, no nigga trash. Live a nice life, away from all this.”

I hoisted the gun higher.

“You gots to understand . . . 'Portant business. An' it ain't jus' me you's got to worry 'bout. They're gonna come lookin' for ya, too, lessun ya 'give it to 'em—” He coughed and blood sprayed, speckling the floor. “Gonna kill me, too, iffin' I don't bring it back.” The reek of fear, sweat, and blood seeped from his body, filling the room with a filthy halo. “Jus' a matter of time 'fore they find the ledger.”

“Not if I find it first.” I straightened the barrel.

Harper tried to heave himself up. “Think! Please.” He groped uselessly for my pity. “Think of my family!”

“Did you think of mine?” I aimed my shotgun at his head and slowly trailed the length of his body, setting the barrel's bead at his crotch. “My family.”

I pulled the trigger.

Harper's jaw slacked and his breath flopped out of his mouth like a fish.

“Bastard!” I spat, lingering in the doorway. “I hope they soak your balls in gasoline when they slide you into Hell.” I turned on my heels and walked out, hugging the gun.

Outside my bedroom, I slumped back against the wall. Sliding down, I rested my head against the barrel. Oh, dear God, how had it all come to this? My family. My broken family. Blood on my hands. Mama, gone. “Mama, Mama . . .” I wailed. “And dear God, now Bobby . . .”

After what seemed like a very long time, I gripped the barrel of the shotgun to pull myself up and walked into Daddy's room. I lifted the phone receiver up off the floor and brought it to my ear. I took a long, deep breath.

“Who's listenin' in?” Lettie Sims asked.

“Miz Sims—”

“Muddy Summers, I expect an apology this instant. That was rude banging the phone receiver while me an' poor Peach was jus' trying to have ourselves a conversation,” she shamed, exaggerating a sniffle.

“Sorry, ma'am. I—”

“You forgot Peach.”

“My apologies, Mr. Ho—”

“Hmph. Much better. Just don't let it happen again.”

“Yes, ma'am. May I—”

“Me an' Peach Hobart was jus' now talkin'—”

“Miz Sims, when you're through talking, would you mind calling me the sheriff? There's been a shooting here—”

“O Lord a'mercy. Good heavens, what hap—”

“Thank you, Miz Sims. . . . Afternoon, Mr. Hobart.”

I returned the phone to its cradle, made my way out of the room and down the stairs. Clutching the shotgun, I flung open the porch door. With my eyes welled and blurring, I blindly stumbled onto the porch and straight into a viselike grip.