Road to Nowhere (48 page)

And that did it.

“It does, Everett.”

Randy realized the voice raised in anger was his own. “Jeremy’s shot Rose Esterhouse. And a good part of it is your fault.”

“I wasn’t the one to call and warn him to run.”

“I didn’t know he’d been shooting at people, and you did.” Randy was clean mad. “Once he’d burned down Roland’s warehouse, that should have been enough for you to come clean with your secrets.”

If he’d had a club, he might have been using it instead of just words. And Everett wasn’t looking him in the eye but was just looking down.

“It wouldn’t make a difference now,” Everett said.

“I’m going to wait until after the December meeting,” Randy said. “Because that’s already going to be bad enough. But then I’m going to make sure everything comes out.”

Everett’s head jerked back up. “Do you know what that will do to me?”

“I do, and I’m sorry. But I’m not going to keep a secret like that.”

“Here!” Steve held the casing right up in Gordon’s face. “Ten feet from where Wade Harris went over the edge.”

“That doesn’t mean a thing. It could have been there for years. Everyone in the county hunts up on that mountain.”

“How many people hunt through Joe Esterhouse’s window?”

“We know who that was. It was Jeremy Coates. If you even read the newspaper you’d know it.”

Calm down. “So maybe this was Jeremy Coates, too.”

“He was in Asheville that night. He told me himself.”

“I don’t think I’d believe everything Jeremy Coates said.”

“You don’t even know him.” Gordon gave a big angry sigh. “And what if it was Jeremy? We’re already looking for him anyway. We can’t do anything till we find him.”

Steve stared at the expanse of sheriff sprawling in front of him. “Gordon. You are the most stupid man I’ve ever met. You couldn’t find Jeremy Coates if he was hiding under your desk. And so now he’s out there with his gun? Whose window is he aiming at right now?

Mine?”

“Just stay a moment, Jeanie.” The sky was burning with sunset.

Jeanie looked at her watch. “A couple minutes.”

They sat on the porch and watched the orange and red and scarlet and violet and indigo and black for many minutes, and Eliza couldn’t find words to say anything she wanted to.

“How are you, Mother?”

“I’m troubled.”

“I thought so. Do you know why?”

“There is so much I no longer know.”

Jeanie looked again at her watch. “Should I try to figure out what you’re talking about?”

“Yes, dear. Try to.”

“You’re asking me for help? I don’t believe it.”

“I don’t know who else to ask,” Eliza said.

“What about your spirits? Your voices?” There was sympathy, at least, in Jeanie’s voice. Not her normal impatient mocking. “Aren’t they saying anything?”

“They are.” But that was the trouble.

“What are they saying?”

“It is hard to listen.”

“Mother, when you got elected to that board, you were so sure that you were going to be the wise woman and teach everyone else all those secrets you knew. I think it’s gone the other way. You’ve finally come down off this mountain and seen how everyone else lives, and you’re the one who’s being changed.”

Was it true? The plan turned on its head? It had not been her plan but the Warrior’s plan for her.

And now she felt so little peace in what the Warrior said.

Whatever had got into Byron, Louise had no idea. He hardly let her out of his sight these days. And here he was standing in the kitchen doorway watching her wash dishes!

“I’d be glad for help if you’re not doing anything,” she said.

“No, you wouldn’t be.”

“Well, you’re right.” What would she do with him anyway? “Isn’t there something on the television?”

“It can wait.”

“Then at least sit down and be comfortable.”

Byron sat on the old chair in the corner, and it was the first time Louise could remember him ever being in it. She only used it for standing on to get into the back of the high cabinets.

“Has Mr. Coates decided on next week’s schedule?” she asked.

“Still half days. Probably be back to regular come January, he said this morning.”

“That’ll be a relief.”

“At least there’s orders. Just need a place to keep wood.”

She was getting finished, but she didn’t really want to stop. “Will you go back full time when the factory does?” It just popped out, so she must have been thinking it.

“Been expecting I would, but I’m not looking forward to it.”

So Byron had been thinking about it, too.

“When would the new owners take over?”

“Could be in January. Just depends on the road.”

“What if there isn’t a road?”

“I think he’ll just close down. There’s no reason for Mr. Coates to keep going.”

The water was draining out of the sink, and she watched the last suds twirl and disappear. Just an empty sink and everything over and done and gone.

“What do you want, Byron?”

“Don’t know.”

“Then that’s two of us.” She sat down herself at the little table where she did her mixing. Goodness, she’d done a lot of that over the years. “We can’t have things the way we’ve always had them, but we don’t want them any different.”

“That’s the truth. It’s us getting old.”

That word fired her up. Tired was one thing, but not that! “Sixty-three isn’t old, and I know sixty isn’t.”

“Working one place forty years means you’re old.”

“I’m not ready to give up the salon.”

“You shouldn’t,” he said.

“You shouldn’t give up on the factory, either.”

“There’s no telling with it. These people buying it say one thing, but there’s no telling what they’ll really do.” He looked so sad in his corner. “When you vote on that road, you do what you think is right. Maybe we should just try to hold on to what we’ve got. Maybe that’s what’s most important.”

November 17, Friday

Randy knocked on the farmhouse door, almost afraid to. But it opened and a friendly face looked out.

“Mr. McCoy?”

“Yes, here I am.”

“I’m Mary Anderson. Come in.”

“Now, I think we might have met back in March, at Joe’s party.”

“That’s right. I’m little Joey’s grandmother.”

“He gave quite a performance, let me tell you.”

They’d made it to the back end of the hall, and Randy saw into the bedroom for just a moment.

He’d seen it before, once or twice, but this time he barely noticed the bed or table. He just saw the bedcover itself, plain white and flat, but flat as it was, there was still someone in it.

Just a face. Wrinkled and sunken, with hair indistinct against the pillow of the same color, all just white, and the bedcover rose and fell, and Randy could just imagine hearing the wheezing breath. The eyes were closed.

“How is she?”

“She’s resting,” Mary said, and despite being closer to his own age and in nice pants and a sweater instead of a farm dress, Randy could tell that she was an Esterhouse and didn’t chat or say more than she needed to.

But then she said, “Mother’s stronger than they thought.”

They turned in to the kitchen, and there was Joe at the table. Or it must have been. He never had looked eighty before—he’d looked more like sixty—and now he looked about a hundred. And he didn’t look up. He was staring at the table.

“Well, hi there, Joe,” Randy said, trying to sound cheerful.

Joe did look up at him.

“I wanted to stop in to see how you were doing. We’re all real concerned for you, and just hoping everything we can.”

“Daddy,” Mary said. “Randy’s come all the way from Wardsville to see you.”

Joe only looked back down at the table. There was a Wardsville newspaper opened out on it, but not a recent one.

“He wanted to read about Mort Walker dying,” Mary said.

It was that issue from a year ago, but he didn’t even have it open to the right page.

“We were wondering if you’d thought about coming in for the board meeting next month,” Randy said. Joe still didn’t look up.

“He’s not talking much,” Mary said.

“Then maybe I should go.”

“We appreciate you coming.”

Randy stepped back to the kitchen door.

“He does hear you,” Mary said. “Daddy, Randy’s leaving now. And I’m going to fix you lunch. Would you like some lunch?” And Joe still didn’t move.

“Joe.” Randy had to say something more. This was a man he respected so much. “Joe, we’re so sorry. We are so sorry. We’ll make it up to you somehow. I know it doesn’t help, but we’ll find him. We’ll stop him. Wherever he is.”

Joe turned, slow, and looked him right in the eye.

“Who?”

“Well, Jeremy Coates, of course.”

November 20, Monday

Come on, come on. What was the problem? He could do a sewage overlay in his sleep.

Steve stood up. Blueprints everywhere. He rolled up a few. Too much clutter.

No, that wasn’t it.

The window. It was too distracting. He pulled the blinds down. He just couldn’t concentrate with the black night outside, and no telling what was in it.

Try again. A development in Virginia, ninety houses.

The phone. “Steve Carter,” he said.

“Well, good.”

Oh. It was Luke Goddard from the newspaper. He’d know that pinched voice anywhere.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Goddard?”

“Well, first, you can call me Luke. All my friends do.”

“I didn’t know I was a friend.” No, cut the chatter. Sewage, sewage, lots of sewage. Gravity feed. No pumping stations.

“Sure you’re a friend,” Goddard said. “And you can imagine what I’m calling about.”

Sizing the pipes would be tricky. It was all on one main line.

“I’m imagining it now, Mr. Goddard.”

“Good. Do you have a final decision on Gold River Highway?”

“Same as last time you asked,” Steve said. “Undecided. Most people in Gold Valley are very much for the road, but there is concern about the impact on the mountain and the views.”

“So no one’s concerned about the impact on Wardsville and Mountain View.”

“Goddard, everything you write about me is wrong.”

“Steve!”

“And I’m really busy right now, so we’ll have to talk later.”

“But when?”

“December fifth. That’s a Tuesday. Bye, bye!”

And he pushed the button to hang up.

Were the blinds down in the kitchen? Yes, he’d put them down himself.

It was too hard to think. He tapped in another number.

“Hello, this is Randy McCoy.”

“Hi, Randy, this is Steve Carter.”

“Oh, hello, Steve, and how are you doing?”

“Okay. I just hung up on Luke Goddard, and I figured if I called you, he couldn’t call either of us.”

“Now, I appreciate that, and I suppose he was getting you to say something about Gold River Highway so he could misquote you.”

“Did he hound Wade like he’s been after me?”

“I suppose he did, not that I heard much about it, and not that Wade would have been real friendly to him, or him to Wade, either. But I think Wade was even going to meet him the day he had his accident.”

“Luke came over to Gold Valley? He’s never come to see me.”

“Wade was going in to Wardsville. But then he didn’t because he stayed in Gold Valley instead to meet with Jeremy Coates.”

“Wait.” The phone call had suddenly become important. “Wade was seeing Jeremy Coates?”

That stupid sheriff. That idiot, stupid, oaf sheriff!

“Well, he didn’t,” Randy said. “At least Jeremy says he didn’t.”

“Where was Jeremy, anyway?” Steve asked.

“He was there at Wade’s office.”

“Not in Asheville?”

“Now, that sounds like you’ve been talking to Gordon,” Randy said, “and that’s what Jeremy told him, but I think he was really in Gold Valley, by what he told me.”

“What does that mean?” Steve said, to himself and to Randy. Randy answered.

“Well . . .” Only Randy could unroll that into eight syllables. “I’ve had that on my mind quite a bit lately, and I’ve had a few conversations with people, and I’m getting very worried about some possibilities.”

“So you think Jeremy killed Wade Harris? Or somebody did?”

“Steve . . .”

He settled himself in for some nice, long Randy sentences.

“I do,” Randy said.

“Okay,” Steve said. “What should we do about it?”

“I don’t know. But first, somebody has to find him.”

“Right. Man. All this over a road.”

“It’s just two more weeks until the vote.”

“I hope we make it,” Steve said. Literally. “Do you close up all your blinds at night so no one can see in?”

“Well, we have been, as a matter of fact. But there couldn’t really be any reason, Steve. Jeremy couldn’t be anywhere around here.

“Right. He’s a thousand miles from here.” He must be. Probably two thousand miles. Let’s change the subject. “Oh. I should tell you something else. I’ve looked at some data from the DOT. They were saying they want to make a 130-foot cut through the ridge, but they might not be able to.”

“They might not . . . What does that mean?”

“It means maybe they’ll build the big road they talked about, or maybe they’ll build something completely different.”

“When would they know?”

“Probably next summer.”

“Then we don’t even know what we’re voting on. When did you find out?”

“A few weeks ago. I was going to talk to Joe at the last meeting.”

“Well, I don’t know what to make of that,” Randy said, recovering his grammatical prowess, “and I’m not sure we should tell anyone because I don’t know if it’ll make a difference how any of us vote, and it will make a big difference in how many people are screaming at us the next two weeks.”

November 23, Thursday

Oh, goodness. What was she forgetting? Green beans, potatoes, cranberry sauce, rolls, sweet potatoes, stuffing. And the turkey. Pumpkin pie, apple pie, rhubarb pie. There was something . . . There were no marshmallows on the sweet potatoes!

Louise snatched the dish right out of the oven—it wasn’t even hot yet. Oh goodness. Angie and her family would be here any minute, and she wasn’t near ready. At least the turkey was done. That was a mercy!