Evening in the Yellow Wood

by Laura Kemp

  She looked at me, not flinching. “I’m damned, Justine—just like the rest of them.”

  I took a step backward, the cameo still in my hand and grasped for the doorway.

  “It’s no sin to love someone.”

  “What did I love more than my pride? My vanity?”

  “You loved Jonas!” I snapped, hardly believing I was arguing with her.

  “Did I?” she asked, taking a step closer. “He was young and handsome and my husband was not. What did I love, Justine?”

  “You loved him and he still loves you.”

  “Does he?” She smiled, her face wistful and I knew I had to leave before this place took hold of me forever.

  A few misguided steps led me to the porch, the barnyard where Abraham had died to the west, the lavender field to the south as the red bird waited beneath an eave.

  Three more steps and I was running towards the tree that caught fire but never burned as the red bird swooped into a low branch, perched there and began to sing.

  I ran, tripped, and fell as my fingers sought the earth beneath the snow, digging.

  “The ground is frozen.”

  I looked up. Saw Dylan standing beyond me on the edge of the forest and said, “I can get to it.”

  “After the thaw.”

  I looked at my fingers, saw that they were raw and bleeding and then stood up, walked to him as he turned and led me into the woods. Minutes later we entered a secret clearing where the snow had not fallen, a temperate valley bedded with pine needles and smelling of spring.

  He knelt on the needles, took my hands in his and rubbed them. “You’re so cold.”

  I felt warmth beginning in my fingers. “Please,” I mumbled, dropping to my knees beside him. “Don’t stop.”

  He pulled back for a moment, his eyes questioning, and then wrapped his arms around my waist, collapsing backwards so that I straddled him as the warmth continued to drip like candle wax down either leg.

  I touched his face, the tips of my fingers leaving red marks on his forehead and cheeks and lips. The blood that was supposed to end all this, and he took a finger, kissed the tip of it and then drew it into his mouth.

  I gasped, looked up into the trees, searching for my father or Esther or the bird—anything that would tell me where I was.

  “Stay with me,” he instructed, his hands moving beneath my shirt to cup my breasts. Moments later he was exposing my bare flesh to his heated gaze and I reached down, pulled his orange T-shirt over the top of his head, marveling again at his physical beauty until all I wanted was to meld completely with this man.

  And so, I laid down on top of him, tracing the lines of his jaw and neck and collarbone with my tongue, my fingers sliding over the flesh of his lower abdomen until I found the waistband of his blue jeans. One snap and they were undone and he was shaking them off, the trees overhead swaying with a breeze we did not feel.

  “What is this place?” I asked, my lips travelling over the ridged expanse of his rib cage and down to his belly button, where I felt him draw a staggered breath.

  “I don’t know,” he answered, his voice catching as I moved lower, and lower still, wanting nothing more than to show him how much I loved him before the sun rose. “But it’s always been here.”

  “Like us?” I asked, rising again as he eased my shorts down over my hips. Naked now, I looked down on him beneath me, looked again to the trees and knew we were alone.

  “I think so,” he said, his eyes catching and holding mine as he guided me, his movements gentle yet determined, as though sensing the urgency I did and the fear that tomorrow would come and it wouldn’t be enough.

  He wouldn’t be enough.

  “Will you come with me?” I whispered, my hands braced against his shoulders, my eyes closing softly while seeking a rhythm we had perfected, something no other lover could duplicate.

  “Justine,” he began, his breath coming faster, his hands against my hips, holding them steady. “I’m afraid.”

  I understood and said nothing as I rode the wave of pleasure his body gave me, remained silent as the parts of me that seemed strong and straight and honorable buckled. Collapsing on top of him, I kissed his shoulder, nibbled at the soft skin just below his jawline, wondering if the mark I left would reveal itself in the morning.

  Or if I’d wake to nothing.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Muffled voices outside the front door startled me. I turned, stretched, then squinted as light, weak as the tea Esther had served me in my dreams, crawled through the curtains.

  I squinted at the clock, saw that it was just past seven in the morning and cursed myself for not getting up earlier.

  But the daylight made everything seem better, even the events of the night before blended until together they made an odd concoction consisting of equal parts dream and denial.

  I rolled over and grabbed the medicine bag, half surprised that it hadn’t been spirited away during the night. Iris’ bedroom door was closed, and I wondered if she had called Jamie and Adam and if they were indeed on their way over here to figure everything out.

  Turning over, I saw Dylan, still asleep beside me. He had indeed shed his shirt sometime in the middle of the night. A quick peek under the blanket convinced me I hadn’t been dreaming and a warm tingle swept my body.

  I lay back down, wondering if I should wake him when the voices came again, louder this time and with a hint of annoyance.

  “The rent’s to be paid up by three o’clock today or you and your friend can find yourselves another place to stay.”

  I heard the words clearly, threw back the covers and got dressed before scrambling to the kitchen window. Holly was standing outside, late for work as the irreverent Mr. Stoddard waved his arms like an angry schoolmaster.

  “We’ll have it, Mr. S,” she tried to placate him. “Didn’t realize we were late.”

  He mumbled something under his breath, dismissing her the next moment and I wondered if calling her would be too risky. Dylan’s truck must have clued her in to our whereabouts, but beyond that, she must be worried, must be wondering where I was and why I’d suddenly gone AWOL when rent was due.

  I was lost in mindless thought when I saw Mr. Stoddard approach the door, his greedy eyes zeroing in on me, the other half of his problem.

  One quick knock. Soft at first, followed by a more insistent, “You in there?”

  I glanced back at the still-sleeping Dylan and chained the door before opening it.

  “Mr. S, what a pleasant surprise.”

  “Whatchya doin’ down here?” he smirked, and I could see the wheels in his head turning. “Keepin’ the ol’ lady company?”

  I nodded, the chain still between us, the medicine bag still in my hand. “I fell asleep on her couch.”

  “Ah,” he nodded. “Rent was due first of the week.”

  “Sorry,” I fished in my pockets for some cash, felt my fingers brush something solid and realized it was the cameo.

  My heart went cold.

  “I think I have some money upstairs.”

  “I’ll wait while you git it.”

  I shook my head. “I kinda need to stay close to Iris for awhile.”

  “Fine,” he shrugged, taking a step back from the door. “But you and Hot Lips up there had better be squared away by three o’clock.”

  I bit back a smile, wanting nothing more than to shut him and his crazy, inane requests out of my life forever. “Shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “I’ll be back later,” he moved away, his eyes still on me and in that instant, I saw that he had been painting, that the yellow speckles my father had worn on his forearms now matched the ones on my landlord. His shirt, a crew neck that had once been white, bore a faded logo.

  REDDING—GROVER HARDWARE.

  The paint had splattered across the DING and bled into the G, leaving only…

  My grip on the door frame tightened as I scrambled to slam it shut, but not before my landlord braced his weight
against it, his black eyes watching from the small space in between.

  “Hello, Muffet.”

  He cares for Red Rover… Now I knew why.

  “Scream an’ you’re dead.”

  I fought the urge to tell him he was full of bullshit, but my mind was spinning too quickly for comebacks. And he had a gun. Not the shotgun of my nightmares, but a 9mm revolver he’d pushed through the crack in the door and pointed straight at my head.

  Dylan’s gun.

  “Think you can come outside now?” He asked, his fingers working the chain until he found its origin, pulling it loose from its casing like a knife slicing through warm butter. “Or should I send ya to meet that whore my boy was screwing?”

  “She saved his life,” I spat, still straining against his massive weight.

  “Ruined is more like.” He smirked, and I saw his tongue move across his teeth, which were stained and yellow and starting to show their true age. “Now gather them things up so we can git this over with. It’s been a long time coming.”

  When I didn’t move he pulled back the slide and I saw Dylan stir, saw his eyes flicker open as a storm of terror overtook me.

  One bullet to end his life and then mine would be worthless.

  “Move it.”

  The next moment he pulled me out the door and across the driveway, my feet tangling as he dragged me towards the red pickup he’d been leaning against when I first met him.

  Back when he was just an asshole who hated my cat.

  Moments later I was behind the wheel, the gun pressed to the side of my neck.

  “Drive.”

  I hesitated, pulled at my bottom lip with my teeth as I threw the truck in gear. One glance over my shoulder told me Dylan had either fallen back asleep or was formulating a plan that did not involve rushing from the apartment in a hail of gunfire. Either way, there was a good possibility I would never see him again and the thought struck me like a stone between the eyes, making them water.

  I saw him open the medicine bag, saw him shake it as if to make sure he’d gotten everything in his Happy Meal and when he looked back up his face was red with rage. “Where’s the snakeskin?”

  I took a moment to collect myself before saying, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He leaned closer, his breath fanning the hair on the side of my face as we pulled out of the driveway and headed toward the center of town. “I think you do.”

  “The others are there,” I said, wondering how long I could stall him before he tired of me and put a bullet in my head. “What does it matter?”

  He chuckled, convinced for the moment that I really was an idiot. “I need to burn ‘em all up so I don’t wake up in the morning with a new passel of Cook whelps to worry about.”

  “You mean so you can live forever.”

  “Mayhap,” he said. “Why do you think I bought that piece o’ shit house from your granny? To keep my eye on the mother hen until the chicks came back to the coop.”

  I swallowed, unnerved by the fact that he’d been watching Iris. “You didn’t know where we were?”

  “That Injun’s magic was strong, kept you hidden until you and your baby brother got close again. That’s when things started to git a whole lot clearer.”

  I swallowed, realizing that when Dad said we were stronger together, it also meant more dangerous.

  “So, you started killing people who looked like me, hoping you would get the right one eventually?” I asked, wanting to hurt him so badly I could hardly see the road in front of me. I imagined how it would feel to put my fist through his gut—then remembered the gun.

  I was strong but not immortal.

  He had the market on that.

  “Couldn’t be helped. I guess my boy was a little tore up about the one, but he’ll get over it.”

  “You killed Karen?” I asked, wanting him to answer for Dylan as well as myself.

  “It was an accident, Muffet,” he grinned.

  “No, it wasn’t,” I said. “Jamie was helping her escape and you did something…something to cause the accident.”

  Mr. Stoddard shook his head, readjusted his hold on the gun.

  “I shoulda known he was soft a long time ago when he went after that medicine bag. I told him to hand it over, but he kept sayin’ there was a way to bring that whore he loved back to life. Said if I din’t help him do it he was gonna put a bullet in his own head.”

  I grimaced, remembering Esther’s beauty and how it could drive a man like Jonas to contemplate suicide.

  “What makes you think I know where the snakeskin is?”

  “Your Pa talk to you much?” He dropped the gun, traced the scar on my kneecap with the barrel. “How ‘bout that witch went by the name Odessa?”

  I swallowed, wishing I had a moment to think.

  “Ol’ Bob Cook got his hands on that bag when my boy wasn’t lookin’ so I ‘spect he might have told you where the snakeskin is.”

  “He didn’t,” I answered, my fingers squeezing the steering wheel. “He left home when I was eleven and I haven’t seen him since.”

  “Guess I don’t need ya then,” he said while raising the gun to my temple.

  “No!” I cried, sweat pooling beneath my shirt and under my arms. “I can take you to where it is.”

  “Thought so,” he smiled again, leaned back against his seat as I came to the 23 turnoff. “Your Pa wasn’t able to tell me much at first either.”

  “Fuck you,” I whispered, tears stinging my eyes as I swung left onto the highway, the forest encroaching at once, smothering us, and I wanted to scream, wanted to tell him to go ahead and kill me because no way in hell was I going to hand over the snakeskin once I’d found it.

  And no way was this asshole going to get away with murdering my Dad.

  “Your Pa was a fighter, Muffet. I’ll tell ya that. Real strong, too. And I have to say that Law Dog you been screwing had some spunk. Good thing his gun was empty when I found it. Woulda cut him up into little pieces if it hadn’t been for that charm ‘round his neck. Got as close as that arm o’ his and it got to me. But I’m gettin’ stronger every day. Won’t happen again.”

  “You’ve got a way with words, Mr. S.” I glanced his way. “If that’s your real name.”

  He rubbed his nose, adjusted his weight on the seat beside me and I heard his fat settle.

  “Now what makes you think I’d play anyone false,” he chuckled, tapped the seat between us with his gun. “I used to be a preacher in this town.”

  “Preacher?” I echoed, a misplaced memory surfacing along with my terror as the sign for Three Fires appeared to my left.

  “Had ‘ol River Run Lutheran for a spell back when I went by the name o’ Henry Younts. Took the piss an vinegar outta most o’ the lumberjacks what thought they didn’t need no fire and brimstone.”

  “And what do you think of everlasting damnation?” I asked, turning to glance at him. He was staring ahead, his florid features softening in the light.

  “I think you need to stop askin’ so many questions.”

  I obeyed while turning my attention back to the road and felt my left thigh vibrate. Looking down, I knew it was the cell phone I’d jammed into my pocket the night before.

  “Go on an’ answer it,” Mr. Stoddard instructed. “But you best behave or I’ll take that blessed kneecap as a souvenir.”

  I looked at him for a moment, dazed, and then fished my phone out and held it to my ear.

  “Hello?” I spoke, waiting for a voice and the next moment Dylan’s was there.

  “Are you with him?”

  I gripped the wheel, “Sure am. How’re you?”

  “Not so hot,” a short pause followed by, “Did he hurt you?”

  I felt the bridge of my nose tingle, imagined how I would feel if our roles were reversed and almost lost it. “I’m good.”

  “He doesn’t know where the snakeskin is, does he?”

  Damn, he was smart and incredibly honorable, and hot a
nd…

  “I don’t think so,” I answered. “I’m running to the bank to get it.”

  “He’ll kill you once he finds it.”

  I tried to laugh. “No kidding! You can pay me back later.”

  “Don’t panic,” his tone was steady—all cop. “I’ll find you.”

  “I know you will,” I said, my voice softening.

  “Justine—”

  “Gotta run. You’re the best, you know that?”

  “Don’t,” he began, his own voice unraveling.

  The next instant he was gone, our connection lost and with it went all sense of composure, all hope for a future in California or Hoboken or Lantern Creek but I had to hold it together, had to act like the phone call had been from Holly even if Mr. Stoddard knew different.

  HE DOESN’T

  His voice shook me to my core, giving me hope.

  TAKE HIM TO BACK FORTY FARM

  ADAM—

  I’M ON MY WAY

  * * *

  The late summer wind was cold, so brisk it stole my breath before I could give it away. I stepped from the red pickup, the ruins of Esther and Abraham Ebersole’s house before us. I listened as my landlord’s boots shuffled beside me, trying to imagine how many times they had travelled this road.

  The one that led to everyone’s beginning.

  I thought of Dylan, wanting him to find me and wanting him to stay as far away as possible. And yet I needed him if I was ever going to stop this monster once and for all.

  We walked in silence, a strange sense of calm descending where panic should have been.

  I walked and thought of Esther, her cameo still in my pocket, and Abraham and Jonas and Odessa. I thought of Mr. Henry Younts, the Lutheran preacher turned immortal vigilante and spoke.

  “Did you love her?”

  “Hmmm,” he grunted. “Who’re you speakin’ of?”

  “Odessa,” I continued, my feet taking me to the front porch of Back Forty Farm and up the steps, where I paused before opening the door, the red bird just beneath the eaves as it had always been. I thought of the letter I’d read that day at Camp Menominee and knew I had to play my cards carefully.