Thing With Feathers (9781616634704) (25 page)

In the car, driving Victor to the preacher’s house, Sean could not help but notice Victor’s angry silence. Will said nothing as well. When they pulled up, Sean asked where the preacher was.

“Ain’t none of your business, Mr. Marshall,” he yelled viciously.

Will winced.

“Well, son, it’s past eleven. You’re only twelve years old—not even, yet. It alarms me to think he’d leave you alone so late. Do you think he’ll be back soon?”

“Probably not. When he gets real mad, like he was tonight about the call sign, he goes off somewhere for the night. He’ll be back in the morning, and you don’t have to worry ‘bout me. I’m used to takin’ care of myself.”

Sean was not to be put off by the boy’s hostility. “I noticed that you didn’t do so good a job of taking care of yourself earlier tonight, Victor. Isn’t that why I’m here?”

“Well, I’m sorry I called you already!” The boy’s face turned red with anger.

“Victor!” Will Marshall yelled at the boy. “Your pa bailed you out of a bad situation just now, and at no small cost to himself. You think we got sixty dollars just sitting around our house for mad money? That sixty dollars was supposed to get my brother through his first semester at the university. Thanks to you, now he won’t be going. I think you owe him a little respect if you won’t give him your thanks.”

“Yeah? Well thanks to him, I’ll be working old prune face’s garden ‘til men fly to the moon.” He spit on the ground. “Thanks for nothing!” He marched up the steps to the front door.

Sean followed after him. He opened the door and ushered the boy inside.

“Sit down,” he ordered.

Victor plopped himself down.

“Listen, Victor. I volunteered your effort to Mr. Abelbaum in order to teach you a lesson. You can call me anytime you need help, and I promise I’ll come to help you. But you still have to make good yourself when you do wrong. You can’t expect me to come bail you out and not have to do anything yourself. How else are you going to show that you’re sorry?”

“I’m not sorry. I don’t care about prune face’s stupid old garden. He poisoned my friend’s dog. I’m sorry we got caught is all. Now I’m sorry I thought to ask you for help.”

“Would that be the friend that ran off and left you behind to hold the bag?” Sean asked. Victor said nothing but that clearly angered him. “Once you’ve had time to think about it, you’ll understand why I volunteered you to work.”

“You say. How would you know anyway? You don’t know me.” The hatred was evident in the way the boy spit out his words.
Talk about Tiny leaving me in a mess! Look around, Marshall. You left me here!

“I know you, Victor. You’re my son.” Sean looked around the meager cabin. His son was growing up in that shabby place, without the love of a mother or father. No wonder he was bristly.

“I’m not your son!” he tantrumed. “You keep saying that! I asked my grandpa about that, and he stuck me in the box for saying it. All you do is get me in trouble!”

“Stuck you in a box?” Sean followed Victor’s extended finger to the banana box against the far wall.

“Yeah. When I was little, he’d make me stay in there until I saw the truth. Like when he came home from the fire last time, on that day when you got hurt. Like, I asked him if he saw you up there, and he made me stay in there for hours without dinner. Every time I mention you, it gets me in trouble. Just stay away from me!”

“Wait a minute, Victor. Are you saying your grandfather went up to the burn last time?” Something crawled up his neck. He slapped his hand over the spot. Nothing. It was his imagination. His ma used to say that feelings like that meant someone was walking on your grave, hinting that space and time could cross invisible boundaries.

“Sure he did. I mean, he didn’t talk about it, but he smelled like a wildfire and he was gone from morning to night. And when he came home, I remember my binoculars were broken. He’d borrowed them and said the glass was accidentally broken out of them. Anyway, I asked him if he saw you up there. That’s what got him riled, ‘cause I referred to you as my father. And he made me go into the box.” Sean was staring at him in an unsettling way. It was kind o’ scary, like he was looking through him instead of at him.

“Are you sure about that, Victor?”

“Course I’m sure. I’m not a little kid, you know. Anyway, he was an old man an’ he still came out of the first burn better off than you.”

Victor didn’t know why he needed to always try and hurt Sean. Maybe because every time he’d ever tried to embrace the idea that Sean Marshall was his father, he was severely punished for it. Somehow, he felt like Sean was partially responsible for all his suffering, though he didn’t know if he truly believed that man had abused his mother. Aw, he didn’t know what he believed anymore. It seemed to Victor like the older he got, the more things didn’t make sense.

“I guess you’re right. You’re not a little kid anymore, Victor. I’m going to leave you now. I don’t want to be here in case your grandpa comes home. I don’t want to cause you any more pain.” He squeezed his son’s shoulder affectionately. “I love you, son. I’m here to help if you need me. Your grandpa doesn’t have to know about us talking. Deal?”

“Yeah. Um…thanks. I…I’m sorry I said some o’ those things.”

“Forget it, Victor. I’m just glad we had a chance to spend some time together. I’d really like to do it again, under different circumstances I hope.”

Victor laughed. “Well, maybe this deviate will call you up on the radio sometime, if I get a chance.”

“I’ll be listening, son. Now, why don’t you put yourself to bed?”

Victor looked at him funny. He patted the broken down davenport. “This is my bed. There’s only one bedroom, and it’s Grandpa’s.”

Sean looked away quickly. Victor’s disclosure dredged up some pretty awful conclusions for him.

Chapter 55

W
ill threw his hat down, emphasizing his anger. “What are you saying, Sean? Preacher Bowman started that second fire? That’s a pretty serious allegation.”

“Will, listen to me. He said Preacher had gone up to the fire the day Elrod was killed. The fire marshal always said that fallen tree was a might suspicious. It wasn’t a snag; it was a fair sized tree. He told me it looked to him like someone had dug pretty deep around them burned-out roots on the one side, looked to him like a tool done it, but he didn’t have any proof.”

“I know. I remember.”

“He couldn’t figure how it could have toppled over on its own. It was dead, and it was cracked, but it still would have taken a sizable push to get it to topple. They said no other tree had fallen into it, but they did find some curious indentations in the ground several feet behind that tree. It could be he dug up them roots on the one side with a shovel and then used a fulcrum. And, Will, they never did determine whether the second fire was accidental or deliberate, but the investigators still believe it was set.”

“Yes, by someone struggling financially and wanting to perpetuate his job as a firefighter for a while longer.” Will insisted.

“Well, that’s the theory they finally settled on. But ain’t it awful coincidental that the second fire was started on the border opposite the fire line of the camp I was in? And Victor said that the preacher had the binocular glass punched out of his field glasses. That’s what they determined started the second fire! The fire marshal was certain it was the two lenses they found.”

“If there’s any truth to what Victor told you, you realize I’m gonna have to go and kill that heathen preacher.”

“No. You’re going to leave it alone. We don’t have any proof, Will, just hearsay. I just wanted you to know in case you, you know, ever doubted me.”

That made Will hang his head ruefully. He loved Sean. His brother was the only family he had left, and he’d almost lost him too. “I never doubted you, brother. I know you were good to Blair. I lived in this house during those happier times. Her youth and beauty was what brought so much sunshine to our house. I was here that night you rescued her after…well, you know. I was here the night she gave birth to another man’s child, and I watched you accept the child for your own. I never saw that girl smile until she became Mrs. Sean Marshall, so don’t ever think I doubted you, brother. I never have.”

“Thanks, Will. You’re the best brother a man ever had. I’m going to turn in now. I’m awful tired.”

Will watched as his brother trudged with drooping shoulders toward his bedroom. It had been moved to the downstairs since his accident.

That night, his brother did look tired. It made Will worry for him. That night had been a roller coaster of emotions for Sean, and it had obviously taken its toll. He made a mental note to try to keep his brother from thinking or talking about Preacher Bowman. It almost always seemed to punch the life right out of him.

Chapter 56

B
owman surveyed the old whore through her reflection in the dressing table’s mirror. She lay on her front, with the sheets tangled around her pale, purple-veined legs. She had her bleached head buried half under her pillow, but he could see one make-up smeared eye struggling to wake. The sun was peeking in under the tacky beige shade over the window. Her name was Myrna, and she didn’t like mornings. In spite of that, Bowman boorishly made plenty of noise getting himself dressed.

“It’s five bucks when it’s for the whole night, big fella. Jus’ leave it on the dresser, and lock the door on your way out,” she mumbled.

Bowman finished his primping and left the bill as instructed. “Be good,” he said to Myrna before closing the door.

“Yeah right, honey.” Her head dropped back down to the mattress. The old whore yawned once, covered her head with her pillow, and dropped back off to sleep.

Bowman had a hearty breakfast in the coffee shop downstairs. While lingering over his second cup of coffee, he heard several people at tables around him talking animatedly about Chester Lasley, the wealthy railroad and newspaper man. He turned to the table on his right side.

“Pardon me. Did I hear you correctly? Chester Lasley is here in Tillamook?”

“You have heard correctly. He arrived late last night in his private Pullman Car,” replied a tall, lanky man in a white-collared shirt.

“Well now, that’s quite a laurel for our little Tillamook, isn’t it?”

“Certainly is. I hear he wants to tour the devastation, as he phrased it, and partake of an authentic logging camp meal.”

“That so?” Bowman stood and put a bill on the table.

“It’s so,” said another smaller gentleman. “And he’s looking for someone who’ll take him to see that Marshall fellow, the photographer. Don’t know why he wants to see him. Must be a collector of postcards.”

That surprised Bowman. He hurried from the coffee shop as though his life was at stake. He sped across Third Street and headed the three blocks to the train station. It wasn’t difficult to locate the Pullman Car of Chester Lasley. It looked like the boudoir of a French whore. Bowman had no plan for speaking to Lasley. He was simply spurred on by a frenzy of jealousy. Just as he reached the platform, he heard the door of the car open, and knew that he must come up with a reason for approaching the great man.

“Hello there. I’m Preacher Bowman, from Cloverdale. I’ve been asked to visit on behalf of Sean Marshall. He’s a very ill man and not up to travel or company.”

The assistant beckoned him in. Bowman had no time to rethink it. Up the metal grate steps he went. They led straight up to an ornate, wrought iron doorway through which he bounded, and there ahead of him was Lasley. A big, lanky hound sat next to Lasley in his stately wing chair. The dog growled at Bowman but held its place.

The manservant was whispering in the mogul’s ear. He was a man of prodigious build. Bowman guessed that he was several inches taller than six feet, with broad shoulders; bulging chest and gut; and a stumpy, once-muscular neck. Lasley’s heavy face was impassive. He nodded up and down, all the while studying the preacher.

Bowman returned the steadfast gaze.

Lasley smiled in a pseudo-friendly manner. Finally, he spoke directly to the preacher. “How is it you’ve heard of my request to visit Mr. Marshall, er, Preacher Bowman?”

“I take occasion to visit some of my former elderly parishioners in a home up here. I stopped to have breakfast at the coffee shop on Third Street and heard of your plans to visit Mr. Marshall. I took the liberty of coming here in case I could be of assistance to you.”

“And how might you assist me, Preacher?”

“Well, I could answer any questions you might have. I’ve known the family a long time. The man was married to my daughter.”

Lasley winked at his assistant. “Would that be Cindy Marshall from Chicago?”

“Cindy? No. My daughter’s name was Blair.”

“Was, Mr. Bowman?”

“Well, she disappeared almost eight years ago. We’ve assumed the worst after all this time.”

“What a shame.” Lasley said it in a way that made it sound like anything but. He paused dramatically, then exclaimed, “Eight years! Why, that’s the same time Cindy Marshall arrived in Chicago! I believe it was in late February.” He watched for the preacher’s reaction and was rewarded. “A dark beauty she is. And a wealthy woman with prominent friends. She is heavily invested in stocks and bonds and Chicago real estate these days. I dare say she makes more in a market day than I ever did. Is it possible that she could be your long-lost daughter, Preacher?”

Lasley caught the preacher lost in thought. He cleared his throat loudly.

“I said, Preacher, why do you suppose she ran away? Or is that too personal a question?”

“It is, rather,” Bowman responded.

“Well, I suppose I could always ask Cindy, or Blair did you say? She’s always said her life is an open book,” he lied. “We could test that claim.”

“No! I mean, I doubt she would tell you the real reason. It is a difficult thing for a father to admit of a daughter, let alone a preacher about his child. Blair was a bit…unharnessed.” He noted the skepticism on the faces across from him. “She was a bit of a runaround, filled with prowess of a sexual nature. I thought a husband might palliate the girl, but it soon became evident that he did not provide enough titillation. Sean Marshall is a gentleman, you understand, and Blair’s tastes brinked the unsavory. I personally believe she ran from boredom.” He put up his index finger and, with an exaggerated brain cramp, recited the Marquis, “‘The horror of wedlock, the most appalling, the most loathsome of all the bonds, humankind has devised for its own discomfort and degradation.’”