Old Wounds (40 page)

38.

I
F
Y
OU
F
IND
Y
OURSELF IN A
S
ITUATION…

Wednesday night, October 26

As he rounded
the last curve and came in sight of the driveway to Full Circle Farm, Phillip saw a pair of taillights disappearing up the road toward the workshop. With squealing tires and a spray of gravel, he swung his car into the drive. The car ahead of him, a big black SUV, he recognized immediately as belonging to the sheriff’s department. It made a semicircle in front of the workshop and came to a stop, its headlights trained on his vehicle.

Phillip braked, leaving his car where it would block the road; cut the engine; and jumped out, keeping his hands visible and away from his body.
I think all of Blaine’s folks know me, but just in case this is some skittish new deputy…

“It’s Hawkins,” he called out as he stepped forward. “Phillip Hawkins. I asked Sheriff—”

“Get in, Hawk.” Mackenzie Blaine cut the headlights and called out from his open window, “I was the only body we could spare. Come on; we’ll ease on up there nice and quiet and just see what’s up.”

With a feeling of hopeless defeat, Elizabeth choked back tears of frustration and rage. “Okay, I’ll get the book. But would you tell me why? If you were part of the crew the day Landrum massacred all those people, don’t you understand—”

“Lieutenant Landrum risked his life to save
me,
Liz. That’s more important to my mind than a bunch of stinking gooks. Plus, he pays good. When the lieutenant first heard from Red, old Red with his bullshit ideas about honor and right and wrong, he got hold of me. I’d worked for the lieutenant before and he knew he could trust me. He’s counting on me to make this problem go away, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do. The book, Liz. I want the right book, and I want it now.”

What choice do I have? Maybe one last chance…
“It’s in there, on the chair in the corner.” She pointed toward the dining room and slowly began to get to her feet.

As she had hoped, Gabby left her where she was and with a few quick steps was by the chair where the precious copy of
Walden
lay, holding down the stack of papers with all the scribbled notes that she and Phillip had made.

“Well, hot-doh-cocky-damn! Look at this!” In his excitement, he laid his gun on the chair seat and began to leaf through the pages of notes. As he turned away, to bring the pages under the hanging light over the table, Elizabeth slid off her jacket and reached behind her. The gun’s grip was in her hand.

Gabby was examining the pages, looking quickly from one to another. “I can’t make heads or tails of this shit. You better not be messing with me again.”

He moved a step closer to the light…and a step farther from his gun, lifting the pages to the lamp and peering through his little spectacles at the confusion of numbers, words, and letters before him.

The .357 Magnum was in both her hands now, carefully gripped as she had been taught. Her arms were extended, wrists and elbows locked in the isosceles stance. She lined up the sights on Gabby’s torso and waited.

“Mac, leave the car just below the barn, where we’re still out of sight of the house. It might be better not to announce ourselves. Maybe Elizabeth’s up there by herself—and maybe not.”

Leaving the big car in the road, the two men went quickly and quietly up the grassy track that led to Ben’s cabin. Phillip could see that lights were on in Elizabeth’s house, but there was no sound of music, nor any smell of cooking, none of the usual signs of a usual evening.

Both men had their weapons drawn now. Phillip led Blaine past the silent darkness of Ben’s cabin and across the narrow stream that ran between house and cabin. Just ahead lay the French door that led into the guest room at the back of the house. Silently, Phillip stepped up on the little porch and tried the handle.

The door swung open with a tiny creaking sound. Phillip froze, but could hear nothing. The room’s other door, the one leading to the hallway, was shut, a bar of yellow light shining beneath it. Motioning to Blaine to follow him, Phillip crept toward the closed door.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Holding the papers in both hands, Gabby looked at Elizabeth with a mixture of scorn and incredulity. “Where’d that come from?”

His eyes flicked to his own gun and back to Elizabeth. She stood, frozen in place, certain what was coming next. Disjointed facts and pronouncements, from the concealed carry class bombarded her.
…right to use deadly force in protection of your life…He said I was expendable…if you are in your home, there is no duty to retreat…He threatened to cripple me, at the very least…Oh, shit…what if he reaches for his gun?…Can I fire quickly enough?…Can I hit him?

“If you try to reach for your gun, I’ll shoot you.”

Phillip’s heart leapt as he heard Elizabeth’s muffled voice.
She’s in the living room, but what…?
She sounded a little shaky. He inched the bedroom door open and slid into the hallway, Blaine at his heels.

They moved noiselessly down the hall, guns at the ready.

“I believe you just might try it, you crazy bitch. But could you hit me, that’s the question. How’s your aim with that short barrel? I don’t know, maybe I’ll take my chances—”

“Sure about that? She can take you out, no problem, Gabby.” Phillip stepped into the living room, his weapon trained on his one-time shipmate. “And so can I, and so can the sheriff here. It’s over.”

M
ULLMORE

October 1986

A
T LAST THE
house was quiet. The shrill nagging and whining that had accompanied the preparations for Krystalle’s trip to the Pumpkin Pageant had died away when mother and daughter climbed into the car packed with costumes, tap shoes, hair spray, cosmetics, as well as motivational tapes for Krystalle to listen to during the forty-minute drive to the auditorium in Asheville.

From her bedroom window, Maythorn watched the green Range Rover pull away. Tears smarted in her eyes but she swiped them away with the back of her hand. On the pink-and-green coverlet of her bed lay the mutilated remains of her beloved Indian costume—the one Rosie’s mum had made. Next to the worn brown shirt and trousers, now slashed and torn, lay the fluffy lavender ballerina costume with its matching shoes and tights. The scissors Mama had used lay open on the floor.

No more! I’m sick and tired of seeing you skulking around like some dirty reservation brat. There’re going to be some changes with you, missy, Mama had said before dragging her off to the beauty parlor again.

It had been bad enough when her braids fell to the floor and the stylist had started cutting at what remained of the glossy black hair. Maythorn had shut her eyes tight, not wanting to see what was happening, but there was no escaping the words that came at her in minty, smoky puffs.

She may not like it right now, the stylist was saying. But when we get done and she sees how pretty she looks
—
ssst, ssst, ssst, the scissors kept up their merciless song—when she sees how much she looks like her gorgeous mama and little Miss Krysty, why she’ll thank you and me both. Now, you run along and get Krysty to her class. Me and Maythorn’ll do just fine. When you get back you’ll see a different little girl.

And then her head was in the sink and there was the stink of chemicals and the endless washing and rinsing. Honey, did the shampoo get in your eyes? You’re not crying, are you?

Maythorn sat, stoic and silent, as the stylist twisted her hair around the little rods. There was an awful, penetrating smell. Maythorn kept her eyes squeezed shut—a single glimpse in the mirror had been enough. Is this what Mama wants—a different little girl?

Maythorn pulled off the red hat and turned to her mirror. The face that looked back at her was unfamiliar. She leaned closer, but there was no sign of Fox-That-Watches, only a stranger with fluffy yellow curls framing a thin dark face that stared hopelessly back at her. She scooped up the red hat and pulled it down over her ears. Then, from under her mattress she pulled out the leather pouch that held the Looker Stone. Putting it to her eye, she looked again into the mirror. The stranger was gone and Fox-That-Watches smiled back at her.

I see you, she whispered.

Telephone for Rosie! Telephone for Rosie!

Laurel’s bellow echoed through the house and Rosemary raced down the stairs to take the phone from her little sister.

It’s me. Meet me at the scuttle hole.

I thought you were coming over to spend the night. Mum’s making pizza and we’ve got a movie to watch. And why weren’t you at school today?

I can’t spend the night; I’m grounded. But I want you to take the Indian suit your mum made for me and see if she can fix it. It got cut up.

Maythorn tiptoed into the back room that her mother called Moon’s “den.” Yes, like a hibernating bear, he was sleeping in the dark, sprawled in the big green recliner and snoring noisily. Eleven empty beer cans ringed the nearby wastebasket and a twelfth lay in a puddle on the floor just under Moon’s limply outstretched fingers. A trail of spittle led from the corner of his gaping mouth to the headrest, and as she watched, the dark stain on the green velour spread larger.

She felt in her pocket for the Looker Stone. It would be safe to look at him now—not like that other time. That had been her mistake, not waiting. But she had been so curious. He just turns into an animal when he has too much to drink, she had heard Mama telling Uncle Mike. And though she knew that was only something people said, still, she had thought, if I look at him through the Looker Stone, maybe I’ll see what kind of animal he really is.

But she had no sooner raised the Stone to her eye than Moon had staggered toward her and pulled her off her feet. He was tickling her all over and his sour breath was in her face. Stop, she had said. I don’t like that.

Later she had asked her mother not to let Moon tickle her anymore and her mother had said, What are you saying, missy? And she had answered, They said at school that we have to tell if someone is touching us in a way we don’t like, and Mama had slapped her and called her a liar. Moon’s your meal ticket, missy. If he wants a little sugar, you give it to him.