by Nora Roberts
the shed and sobbed. Please God, do what?
She had worked hard and long every day of her life, but she had never held a job. She didn't understand things like escrow and capital gains. She was baffled and frightened by the people she sometimes saw on Oprah or Donahue who talked about discovering self, starting over, coping with grief.
She didn't want to be liberated or capable. Most desperately of all, she didn't want to be alone.
When the weeping had run its course, she mopped her face with her apron. She had gotten through the days since Biff's death by filling them with chores, necessary and unnecessary. Already that morning she had dealt with the milking, the feeding, had gathered eggs and washed them. She had cleaned her already clean house. It was still short of noon, and the day stretched endlessly ahead, to be followed by yet another endless night.
She'd decided to start on the sheds. Most of the tools and farm machinery would be auctioned off, but she wanted to go through the outbuildings first, to examine and collect whatever bits and pieces might bring a higher price in direct sale. She was terrified of not having enough money, of being not only alone, but poor and alone.
Biff hadn't carried any life insurance. Why waste good money on premiums? She'd buried him on credit. Die now, pay later. The mortgage on the farm was nearly due, and the loan payment on the hay baler Biff had bought two years before. Then there was the feed payment, the market, the payments on the tractor and Biff's Caddy. Ethan Myers at the bank had told her they would extend her time until she had her affairs in order, but the payments gave her sleepless nights.
She couldn't bear the shame of owing. Before, she'd justified all the credit by thinking it was Biff who owed, Biff who paid or didn't. Now there was no one to stand between her and the reality of being in debt.
She couldn't sell the farm fast enough.
She took the keys out of her apron pocket. Biff had never allowed her to enter this building. She had never questioned him. Had never dared. Even as she fit the key into the stout padlock, she felt a prickle of fear, as if he would leap up behind her, shouting and shoving. A thin line of sweat broke out over her top lip as the lock clicked open.
The old rooster crowed and made her jump.
The air inside was stale and overly sweet. As if something had crawled inside and died. Breathing through her mouth, Jane put both lock and keys in her apron pocket, then propped the door open with a rock.
She had a sudden, unreasoning fear of being trapped inside. Of beating on the door, pleading and screaming. Biff's laughter would snicker through the cracks as he shot the lock back into place.
She rubbed her cold hands over her cold arms as she started inside.
It wasn't a large area-ten by twelve and windowless-but the strong sunlight couldn't seem to reach the corners. She hadn't thought to bring a flashlight, was sure she would find one inside. How else had Biff been able to see? He'd spent hours in there, often at night.
Doing what? she wondered now as she hadn't allowed herself to wonder while he'd been alive and maybe able to read her thoughts.
Skin prickling, she stepped inside. In the dimness she could make out a narrow cot, its mattress stained and bare. On the metal shelves where she had expected to find tools were stacks of the magazines he'd hoarded. She would have to burn them, Jane thought as heat stained her cheeks. She couldn't have endured it if the realtor or auctioneer had come through to snigger over them.
There was no flashlight that she could see, but there were candles. Black ones. It made her uneasy to light them, but the dim, secret light was worse. By their glow, she began to pull magazines off the shelves and into the box, averting her eyes from the titillating covers. Her fingers touched cloth. Curious, she dragged it out and discovered a long, hooded robe. It smelled of blood and smoke, and she dropped it hastily into the box.
She didn't wonder what it was-didn't allow herself to wonder. But her heart was beating too fast. Burn it, she told herself. Burn it all. The words repeated over and over in her head like a litany as she peered over her shoulder toward the doorway. Her mouth was dry, her hands unsteady.
Then she found the pictures.
There was a young girl, a child really, lying on the cot. She was naked, bound at the wrists and ankles. Her eyes were open, with a blind look in them. There were others-the same girl with her legs spread, her knees bent to expose her sex.
A different girl-a little older, very blond, propped up against the wall like a doll. And there was a candle-dear God, a candle was protruding obscenely from beneath the pale triangle of hair.
There were more, dozens of snapshots. But she couldn't look. Her stomach was heaving as she crumpled and tore them, as she scurried desperately on her hands and knees to gather every scrap. Her hand closed over an earring, a long column of beads. Jane tossed it in the box.
Panting, she blew out the candles, then tumbled them in with the rest. Her movements were jerky and rushed as she dragged the box outside. She blinked against the strong sunlight, scanning the farmyard and lane, wild-eyed.
What if someone came? She had to hurry, had to burn everything. She didn't stop to think what she was doing. She didn't ask herself what it was she was destroying. She ran to the barn for a can of gasoline, her chest constricting painfully. The breath was wheezing out of her lungs as she doused the box and its contents with fuel. Her rush had loosened the pins from her hair so that it fell in droopy tangles, giving her the look of a witch about to cast some secret spell.
Twice she tried to light a match and apply the flame to the wick of one of the candles. Twice the flame flickered and died.
She was sobbing out loud when the wick finally sizzled and burned. She touched it to the gas-drenched box, her shaking hands nearly extinguishing the flame again. Then she stood back.
Cardboard and paper caught with a whoosh, shooting out hot flame and vapor. Inside, the photographs curled, and fire ate its way across Carly Jamison's face.
Jane covered her own with her hands and wept.
“I told you it was a quiet town.” Clare had a satisfied smile on her face as she strolled down Main Street between Angie and Jean-Paul.
“I think the word ‘town’ is an exaggeration.” Angie watched a dog trot, happy and unleashed, down the opposite sidewalk. He lifted his leg and casually peed on the base of an oak. “It might qualify for village.”
“One bite of a Martha burger'll wipe that sneer off your face.”
“That's what I'm afraid of.”
“What's this?” Jean-Paul pointed to the red, white, and blue bunting strung high over the street.
“We're getting ready for the Memorial Day parade on Saturday.”
“A parade.” His face lit up. “With marching bands and pretty girls tossing batons?”
“All that and more. It's the biggest event in town.” She nodded toward a house they passed where a woman was down on hands and knees, busily painting her porch. “Everybody spruces up and drags out their folding chairs. They'll put up a grandstand at the town square for the mayor and the councilmen and other dignitaries. We get school bands from all over the country, this year's Farm Queen, horses, the Little League.”
“Whoopee,” Angie said and earned a poke in the ribs.
“The Fire Department shines up the trucks or pumpers or whatever the hell they're called. We'll have balloons and concession stands. And,” she added, looking up at Jean-Paul, “majorettes.”
“Majorettes,” he repeated with a sigh. “Do they wear those little white boots with tassels?”
“You bet.”
“Jean-Paul, we're supposed to go back on Thursday.”
He smiled at his wife. “Another day or two, in the vast scheme of things, can hardly matter. In any case, I want to arrange for Clare's finished work to be shipped to the gallery. I'd like to oversee the packing myself.”
“You want to drool over little white boots,” Angie muttered.
He kissed the tip of her nose. “There is that as well.�
�
They stopped, waiting for a light stream of traffic before crossing the street. Glancing down, Angie noted a bumper sticker on a pickup.
GOD, GUNS, AND GUTS MADE AMERICA WHAT IT IS TODAY.
Jesus, she thought, closing her eyes. What was she doing here?
As they crossed, she listened with half an ear while Clare told Jean-Paul about past parades. If pressed, Angie would have to admit the town had a certain charm. If one was into country cute.
She certainly wouldn't want to live here and wasn't even certain how much of a visit she could tolerate before the quiet and the slow pace drove her crazy, but Jean-Paul was obviously delighted.
Of course, he didn't notice the stares, Angie mused. Though there were plenty of them. She doubted people were admiring her clothes or hair style. They sure as hell noticed her skin. There was a secret and-she couldn't help herself-superior smile on her face when she followed Clare into Martha's Diner.
There was music on the juke. What Angie always thought of as drunken cowboy songs. But the scents were as seductive as any Jewish deli in New York. Grilled onion, toasted bread, fat pickles, and some spicy soup. How bad could it be? Angie thought as Clare waved to a waitress and slid into a booth.
“A cherry Coke,” Clare decided. “They still serve them here.” She passed her friends plastic-coated menus. “Please don't ask for the pasta of the day.”
Angie flipped the menu open. “I wouldn't dream of it.” She scanned her options, tapping the menu with a long cerise-tipped finger. “Why don't we leave the verdict to you?”
“Burgers all around, then.”
Alice stopped by the table, pad in hand, and did her best not to stare at the two people seated across from Clare. They looked as out of place in the diner as exotic birds, the man with his long, curling hair and big-sleeved shirt, the woman with her coffee-colored skin and light eyes.
“Did you come in for lunch?” she asked.
“Absolutely. Alice, these are my friends, the LeBeaus. Angie and Jean-Paul.”
“Nice to meet you,” Alice said. The man smiled, putting her at ease. “You visiting from New York?”
“For a few days.” Jean-Paul watched her eyes shift from him to his wife and back again. “Today Clare's giving us a tour of the town.”
“I guess there's not a lot to see.”
“I'm trying to talk them into staying on for the parade Saturday.” Clare took out a cigarette, then pulled the metal ashtray in front of her.
“Oh, well, it's a pretty good one. Not like that one Macy's has on Thanksgiving or anything, but it's pretty good.”
“Alice was a majorette,” Clare told them and had the waitress flushing.
“About a hundred years ago. Are you ready to order, or would you like some time?”
“We're more than ready.” Clare ordered for the table, then watched Alice hurry off. “Look at the way she moves. I really want to capture the motion, the competence of it. In clay, I think.”
“I'm surprised you haven't convinced your sheriff to pose.” Jean-Paul took out one of his slim black cigarettes.
“I'm working up to it.”
“I liked him.”
She smiled and touched his hand. “I know. I'm glad.”
“He wasn't what I expected.” Angie decided if the two men in the next booth were going to stare, she'd stare right back. “I had an image of a potbellied hick with sunglasses and an attitude.”
“Listen here, boy,” Clare mimicked in a slow Foghorn Leghorn drawl. “That's pretty close to the former sheriff. Cam's a different matter altogether. I think maybe-” She broke off when she noted Angie didn't appear to be listening. Following her friend's gaze, she spotted the two local men in the next booth. They were staring, and there was a belligerence in the look that put Clare's back up. Hoping to soothe, she placed a hand over Angie's. “We don't get too many urbanites around here.”
Angie relaxed, smiled, and squeezed Clare's hand. “I noticed. I was hoping you'd tell me you also didn't get too many men in white sheets.”
“Stuff like that doesn't happen in this part of the county.”
“Right.” Angie began to tap her fingers on the table. “Nothing much happens in Emmitsboro.”
“We're not completely backward. Actually, we had a murder just last week.”
“Only one?” Because Jean-Paul also sensed his wife's discomfort, he put a hand on her leg beneath the table.
“Only one,” Clare agreed. “And the only one in Emmitsboro for as long as I can remember. It was pretty gruesome, really. Cam's stepfather was beaten to death and dumped off the road just outside of town.”
“I'm sorry.” Angie forgot the stares. “It must be difficult for Cam.”
Restless, Clare put out her cigarette with quick, short taps. “It is difficult-though they were anything but close.”
“Does he have any suspects?” Jean-Paul asked.
“I don't know. I doubt it.” Clare glanced out the window at the slow-moving cars and slower-moving people. “It's hard to believe it could have been anyone from town.” Then she shook her head and changed her phrasing. “No one wants to believe it could have been anyone from town.”
It was after three when they returned home. Jean-Paul had scoured the antique stores and was toting three mahogany frames. To her surprise, Angie had come across a lovely Art Deco pin in sterling and had paid a small fraction of what the price would have been if the pin had found its way to Manhattan.
A big yellow school bus, pregnant with children, stopped at the corner with a belch and a wheeze to offload. The race was on for bikes, for cartoons, for catcher's mitts.
“There's Ernie.” Clare spotted him standing at the edge of her driveway. “The model for the arm,” she explained.
“He seems to be waiting for you,” Jean-Paul commented.
“He hangs around sometimes. He's lonely.” She smiled and waved. “I don't think he gets along with his parents. They haven't even bothered to come take a look at the sculpture.”
He watched her, annoyed that she wasn't alone. He knew the sheriff was busy out at Dopper's farm where two young calves had been slaughtered. Ernie knew, because he'd done the slaughtering in hopes that it would trigger his initiation into the cult.
“Hi, Ernie. Aren't you working today?”
“I got a few minutes.”
“Good, I haven't seen you around the last few days.” “Been busy.”
“Well, I'd like to show you the finished sculpture. These are my friends, Mr. and Mrs. LeBeau.”
He acknowledged their greetings with a mumble but shook Jean-Paul's hand when it was offered.
“Come on into the garage. I'd like to know what you think.” Clare led the way. “You haven't seen it since it was finished and fired,” she continued. “Clay turned out to be the right medium, a little rougher and more primitive than wood. And since Mr. LeBeau plans to have it shipped up to New York soon, this might be your only chance.” She gestured, then hooked her thumbs in her pockets. “So, what do you think?”
Studying it made Ernie feel strange and disjointed. Without thinking, he reached over to cup his left hand around his right forearm. She'd taken part of him somehow, more than his arm and hand and fingers. He couldn't explain it, didn't have the words. If he had, he might have chosen essence, for it seemed as though she'd stolen his essence and created it again in the defiant, disembodied arm and fist.
“I guess it's okay.”
Clare laughed and put a hand on his shoulder. “That'll do, then. I really appreciate your helping me out.” “It was no big deal.”
“To us it is a very big deal,” Jean-Paul corrected. “Without you, Clare could not have created this. If she had not created it, we couldn't display it in our gallery so that other art dealers would pull out their hair in envy and frustration.” He grinned down at the boy. “So you see, we are all in your debt.”
Ernie only shrugged, sending the pendant around his neck swinging. Jean-Paul glanced down at it. Su
rprise came first, then amusement. Teenagers, he thought, toying with what they couldn't possibly understand. He glanced back at Ernie, and the smile faded from his lips. A teenager, yes, a boy, but Jean-Paul had the uncomfortable feeling that this boy could understand all too well.
“Jean-Paul?” Angie stepped forward to lay a hand on his arm. “Are you all right?”
“Yes.” He eased his wife slightly closer to him. “My mind was wandering. That's an interesting pendant,” he said to Ernie.
“I like it.”
“We must be keeping you.” Jean-Paul's voice remained mild, but he kept a protective arm around his wife's shoulders.
“Yeah.” Ernie's lip curled over his teeth. “I got things to do.” Lightly, deliberately, he touched his fingers to the pentagram, closed his fist, and lifted the index and pinkie in the sign of the goat. “See you around.”