Liar's Bench (24 page)

I
screamed and jerked my arm away, leveling the gun at the man standing in front of me, his face ripe with puzzlement.

“Whoa there, gal.” Daddy released me, dropped his briefcase, and slowly raised both hands in the air. “Muddy,” he said softly, keeping his hands held high, “put down the gun.”

“Daddy, oh, Daddy,” I trembled.

He dropped his hands, took my gun, and laid it on the ground. “Muddy, you okay? What the hell has happened here? Why were you pointing that gun at me?”

“No, no, no, no . . . it's Har-Harper!” I spit.

“Harper? What about Harper?” He looked over his shoulder toward Harper's pickup. “What's Harper doing way out here?”

My teeth chattered, chopping off words. “He . . . Harp . . . He . . .”

Daddy reached out his hand and I grabbed hold. He wrapped his arms carefully around me, pressing his cheek to mine. I collapsed into him. After a moment, he pried my hands from his neck and stepped back to scrutinize me. “It's okay; just tell me what happened, Muddy. I won't ground you for telling the truth. Whatever it is, you can tell me.”

“Harper, Harper,” I blubbered over and over.

“Here, sit down, baby.” He nudged and pointed at me to sit down on the grass under the chinaberry. Pushing my hair off my face, he asked, “What's going on, Muddy? Where's ThommaLyn? Where's your car? Did you wreck—”

“Satan . . . Satan's Corner! They took Bobby and—”

“What? Never mind. Dear God, child! Look at you, baby. . . . Your face, clothes! You're bleeding. Did you have a wreck? Did Harper tow it away? That it?”

“Bobby . . . Harper and Mc . . . Gee,” I hiccupped.

“What? Look, let's get you cleaned up. Your cheeks look like a watermelon smashed on pavement. Your eye's swelling.... And look here, your knee is busted. It'll need some tending to. Nothing, ice, a Band-Aid, and some Mercurochrome can't fix.” He dug into his pants pocket and pulled out a handkerchief for me. “I bet it hurts. Here, hold this against it. Hurt much?”

“No. Bobby . . . They hurt him . . . McGee's got him.” I shook my head, taking the hankie, pressing it to my cut. “I—I shot Mr. Harper,” I sputtered.

A siren's horn echoed across the fields, growing louder with each rolling howl. A second siren kicked in and piggybacked on the first.

Daddy sprang up and looked down toward our gravel lane that led to the Summers Road turnoff.

“I shot him!” I blurted out, jumping to my feet, the bloody handkerchief taking flight like a butterfly before settling on the grass. Sunspots slanted through the dark glossy leaves of the chinaberry, casting ribbons of pale ghoulish streaks across us. I cupped a hand against my brow, shadowing the prisms and squinting up at the house. I raised my hand. Daddy's eyes followed.

“Him. Mr. Harper. He's in there.”

“What the hell, Muddy?” He shook my shoulders. “What's going on? Talk to me!”

The sirens grew louder and louder. Then I heard the crunch of gravel and saw puffs of dust coil around a sheriff's cruiser, with a state trooper's car trailing behind. The cars came to a halt in the driveway. A cloud of pebble dust and dirt hung in the air, dimming the bubblegum-red lights.

Daddy looked down at me, his eyes rounding.

“McGee put a rope on Bobby, and they tried to drag him . . . And Harper forced—”

A sheriff and his deputy from the nearby town of Laurelpoint got out of the car and hurried over to us.

“What about McGee? Bobby who?”

“I sh-shot Mr. Harper.”

“Hush it,” Daddy warned, before turning to the approaching sheriff.

“Mr. Summers. Ma'am.” The sheriff nodded. “We got a call from Peach Hobart about a shooting? Thought you might have some poachers . . . Jingles is on his way back from Millwheat, but it'll be a spell 'fore he gets here. Are you okay, ma'am?” he asked, studying me, my torn clothes, and Daddy's blood-spotted handkerchief on the ground.

“Thanks for coming, Brent,” Daddy said, extending his hand, giving a brisk shake.

Sheriff Brent nodded. “Ma'am?” he asked again, tilting the brim of his uniform hat upward, hooking his thumbs behind his gun belt, waiting. “Do you need medical assistance?”

I took a deep breath and crossed my arms. I stood there a second, feeling heat rise on my face. What he was really asking me was, if I'd been violated. The question lingered in the sheriff's eyes, prying.

I looked down at my ripped shirt and scratched arms, then brought my hand up to my cheek to wipe away drips of blood. I thought of Melissa James, a shy but pretty fourteen-year-old girl, who'd been violated by two of the Murphy clan a few years back. When it got out around town that she'd been soiled, she was labeled a slut and a troublemaker. The shame changed her life, driving her to that lonely stretch of two a.m. railroad track. After her funeral, some of the menfolk, and even a few of the women, had scoffed before they'd whispered, “She'd asked for it.” She hadn't. No more than I'd asked Harper to force me into his crotch. But, to this day, no one had ever come forward to defend Melissa's honor, nor any of the other Melissa-likes whose honor had been stained around these parts.

“Miz Summers”—he peered down at me—“do you require medical attention?”

Daddy's hand slipped into mine. I felt it twitch, then he squeezed. Once. Twice.

My breath quickened.

I let my gaze drop to the sheriff's scuffed chlorofram shoes. “No . . . no, sir. I'm just fine.” I hitched a thumb over my shoulder. “Upstairs,” I puffed out. “He's the one who needs a doctor.”

Daddy slowly released his hand, leaving his approval glistening on mine. I rubbed my palm across my dirty sleeve.

The men looked at Daddy and then back to me. Daddy cleared his throat and nodded an affirmation. The sheriff and his deputy bobbed their heads and scurried across the drive toward the house.

I searched Daddy's face, full of confusion. I tried to collect all of my thoughts, to make sense of them, but I couldn't scrape the words off my tongue. Exhausted by the effort, I fell silent.

Daddy gripped my shoulders. “Wait here and don't say a word,” he ordered, before turning to follow Sheriff Brent and the deputy.

Car doors slammed and I turned toward the driveway.

Trooper Herb ambled up the long, gravelly road, trailing two shadows.

M
y breath caught when I saw his eyes spark in the evening light. Eyes locked, we ran to each other. Bobby spread his arms and I swayed forward, falling right into them.

“Mudas,” he murmured over and over, kissing my face and rubbing my arms. “I was so worried. Are you hurt?” He stepped back. “Here, let me see.”

“Bobby, you're safe—”

“What'd that bastard do to you?” he growled, wheeling around me, fists clenched.

I rubbed my swollen face. “I . . . I'm fine now.”

“I'm gonna jack his jaw!”

Trooper Herb blocked him with a firm hand on his shoulder. “Stay put, son.”

“Where is he?” Bobby rioted, brushing aside the state trooper's hand. “So help me, I'll kick his teeth in.”

The trooper jerked Bobby's arm back and planted his feet in front of him. “Don't make me whup you, son. Now, you best stay put or I'll have to 'cuff you.” He raised a warning brow.

I touched Bobby's shoulder. “It's okay. I'm good. Really.” I inspected his torn shirt. “But, you—”

“I'll rip his balls off—”

“I don't think that's gonna be necessary. I'm okay, Bobby. But you don't look so good. Let me see you—your neck.” I traced my finger above the blistering line that circled his neck. “What happened back there? Where's McGee?” I rushed. “How'd you find the trooper?”

Bobby patted his jeans pocket and pulled out his knife. “Remember this?” He kissed the bone handle on his pocketknife. “I carry this everywhere, and always keep it sharpened. Mudas, I wished you could've seen their faces when the cut rope went flying and slapped their back window. Here I'm hurtling over the side of the road and them driving off into Satan's Corner.” Bobby grinned big. “After I cut myself lose, I ended up down the embankment toward Gib's cornfield.” He rubbed his shoulder. “Damn rock nearly took my shoulder off.”

“Oh, Bobby . . .”

“It's only banged up a little.” He rotated his arm. “I ran to McBride's. His wife let me in and called the trooper. Trooper picked me up. Don't know where that bastard McGee is.”

“Thank God, Bobby!”

“You sure you're okay, Mudas?” His eyes scanned the length of me and then bore into mine. He clasped me in a tender hug. “You're sure?”

“Yeah.” I pulled away, growing anxious, and forced a half-hearted smile. “I'm just relieved to see you.”

“Miz Summers?” State trooper Herb tipped his Smokey the Bear hat with one hand and held Mrs. Anderson's old journal in the other. “You okay, ma'am?”

I nodded vigorously. “Mrs. Anderson's journal. How did you get to it? It was locked in the trunk.”

Bobby skated his fingers through his hair. “Trooper here drove us by your car and, well, I was afraid to leave it there in case McGee came back. I figured he'd tear up your car looking for that rooster receipt and might find it, so . . . sorry, Mudas . . . but I busted the lock open with my knife and gave the diary stuff to the trooper here.”

“I don't care. It's only metal.”

“Stay put, kids,” the trooper warned, “I'm going inside to have a word with the sheriff.”

Bobby hugged me, murmuring soothing words in between the biting ones he pitched to an out-of-sight Harper.

The trooper returned a few minutes later. “Do you need me to call you a doctor, Miz Summers?” the state trooper asked, taking a quick inventory of my appearance.

“No. No, I don't think so, Trooper, just some scratches and bumps. No, sir.” I squared my shoulders, trying to steal a bit of poise, as much as I could right then.

“Miz Summers, can we go inside? I'd like to talk to you about what happened today—here.”

I looked to Bobby and then back to the trooper.

“I told him everything, Mudas,” Bobby explained. “Everything. 'Bout McGee, the rooster receipt—everything.” He touched the ribbon on my wrist.

The trooper tucked a clipboard and the old journal into the crook of his arm. “Bobby, you can wait up on the porch,” he said, taking my elbow and leading me up to the house.

Bobby hesitated, eyes swamped in worry.

I spent over an hour at the kitchen table telling him everything I knew about McGee and Harper, everything else that had happened in the past two days, except for the private bits about me and Bobby, and the slippery bits about Harper's advance. We were interrupted twice: First, when Daddy came bursting in, his face gone Casper-white, his gray eyes watered with anger. Trooper Herb quickly escorted him out to the porch, despite Daddy's arguments, threats, and pleas. The second interruption came when the wail of the Laurelpoint sheriff's siren kicked up in the driveway, then drifted away off into the dusk of the day.

“Miz Summers,” the trooper spoke softly, “they've taken Harper away. You're safe now. Please go ahead with your statement. You left off where you and Bobby were sitting on Liar's Bench today. Then McGee pulled up? Do you know what time this happened?”

“Yessir . . .” When I'd finished, the trooper shut his clipboard and excused himself, asking me to wait there. He ushered Daddy and Bobby into the kitchen, telling us to stay put.

Daddy grabbed me tight, choking back a cry. Bobby shuffled over to the window, giving us the moment.

“I owe you, Bobby. Thanks for getting hold of the law.” Daddy extended his hand. “Muddy”—he turned to me—“Bobby told me everything on the porch. Thank God you're okay. Might have Doc Lawrence come out and check y'all over.”

We stood in silence and waited for the trooper to return. Daddy, trying to wrap his brain around everything. Me, just trying to think, blink, and breathe. Bobby looking like he wanted to punch his own shadow.

Trooper Herb stepped back into the kitchen holding a plastic bag filled with Mama's ribbon that I'd given him, the Anderson diary, and McGee and Senator Yinsey's rooster receipt. He set them down on the table. Resting his elbow on his holster, he cocked his head toward Daddy, and asked flatly, “Mr. Summers, can you tell me how you came to have this ribbon in your possession?” He pointed to the bag.

With shaky hands, I grabbed the edge of the table and eased myself down onto the chair, waiting for Daddy's answer. The answer that'd been dogging me, the puzzle I couldn't finish. Couldn't even find an edge piece, which had left me bitter. So bitter that I'd tasted sourball green every time I thought of it.

Daddy looked confused for a minute. I sucked in a worried breath. Then he patted his trousers' pockets, slipped a hand inside one, and fished out a teensy white box. Flipping back the hinge, he pulled out a cameo ring, the one I'd seen with Mama's ribbon looped through it, and the one I'd accused him of buying for one of his women.

“Muddy, I hope you can forgive me. Your mama stopped by the house about two weeks before your birthday. She'd gone to First Tilley State Bank and unlocked her safety deposit box to get out your gramma Mudas's ring. Your great-great gramma Mudas Tilley's ring before that. See the inscription here on the Band,
M.E.T.
Mudas Ella Tilley.” Daddy tilted the cameo ring toward me and pointed to the inside of the gold band.

“Yes . . .”

“Ella and baby Genevieve met me directly after she came from the bank that day.” He frowned and his eyes glazed over with dampness. “She said she was afraid that if Tommy saw the ring, he'd take it from her.” His face hardened.

“He would,” I murmured. “Would've sold it for pill money.”

Daddy nodded a “yes.” “Ella asked if I would take the ring to a jeweler in Nashville to get it resized to fit your finger, so it would be ready for your birthday.” He paused, studying the ring. “I promised Ella I would do that for her. Muddy, your mama wanted you to have it on your birthday, no matter what. So she dug into Genevieve's diaper bag and pulled out a packet of hair ribbons that she said Mrs. Whitlock had bought for the baby. Then your mama knotted one to fashion a chain to hang the cameo from. ‘Just in case,' Ella said, ‘Mudas can wear it around her neck if you can't make it over to Nashville in time and, when you finally do, she'll have a pretty new ribbon for her hair.' ”

I felt my eyes grow milk-saucer wide. That was just like Mama.

Trooper Herb's pen glided over paper, soaking up our conversation and recording it on his clipboard.

“I got buried with my work, Muddy.” He sighed heavily. “Picking out your car. I—I plumb forgot. And then everything . . .” He trailed off. “Then everything went to hell in a handbasket last Friday, baby. I had a meeting in Nashville today with the Assistant U.S. Attorney. I dropped it off at the jeweler's and picked it up on my way back. I couldn't think clear when you found it and I was beside myself with grief.”

Trooper Herb looked up at Daddy and shook his head as if to say sorry.

“Muddy, I hadn't kept my last promise to your mama. But you were so distraught, I was afraid to give it to you, fearing you might throw it away in anger.”

I probably would've, thinking what I was thinking about his secretary and all.

“Well, Muddy, I was upset, too, about our . . . our spat.”

I nodded, grateful that he was too polite to go into the details of the argument in front of company. Still, the hurt I'd caused made me feel ashamed.

“Baby, I hope you'll understand—it just didn't feel like the proper time to give you this beautiful thing from your mother. I wanted it to be special for you, a happier time. After the funeral, ThommaLyn's folks called. They planned to have a birthday party for you at Mayfly Lake this weekend. Nothing big, just something nice, and give you back your birthday. I was going to give the cameo to you at the party.”

Bobby said, “ThommaLyn's brothers told me about the surprise.”

“She did ask us to Mayfly Lake.”

Daddy held the ring out to me. I took it, closed my eyes, and pressed the ring to my lips. “Thank you, Mama,” I whispered, slipping it onto my finger. Sweet an' snugged-tight. A perfect fit. I peered closely at the raised silhouette, carved in what appeared to be ivory, its color a soft blush. “It's beautiful.” It felt special. Like someone had just given me back a tiny part of Mama and my family.

“Your mama got it on her seventeenth birthday, same as her mama. Sorry I didn't give it to you on yours.” Daddy ran a finger over the ring, pleased with the fit.

The trooper closed his clipboard. “Anything else, Mr. Summers?”

Daddy took a deep breath, held up a finger, signaling the trooper to wait. “Ella was just getting ready to turn over more information about McGee. But we'll never know it. McGee's ledger has been lost.”

“What—Mama and you? She was part of an investigation?” I felt my whole body blink into darkness, then sling back into light.

He shoved his hands deep into his trousers and cocked his head toward me. “Muddy, it's something neither your mama nor I could ever talk about to you, for your own safety—everyone's safety. Not even to Jingles. We worked together with a close-knit group of officials . . . Your Mama was very brave, and had offered her assistance to help put away some very bad men.”

The trooper reached into his bag and pulled out my ribbon. “I'm sorry for your loss, Miz Summers,” he said, handing it to me.

I thanked him and knotted it carefully around my wrist.

“Mr. Summers.” He looked to Daddy. “I'll file my report. I expect Jingles to be here shortly for his. And I suspect Mr. Harper will be indisposed . . . for a while at least. But McGee hasn't been arrested yet. In the meantime, you might want to think about getting some locks on these doors.” He looked to Bobby. “Son, I'll take you home to your parents so you can get those wounds cleaned up.”

Worry lines set teeth across Daddy's brow and nipped into mine.