Covenant

by Ann McMan

  Michael gave up. “There are too many rules about this stuff.”

  David was changing out of his suit. It was hard for Michael to get used to seeing David run around in dress clothes. It was a change. One of many for them since he’d assumed the mantle of mayor.

  “Why are you watching that again?” David had noticed the TV program. “We’ve already seen that episode. Twice.”

  “I know. But this one is ‘Fish Out of Water,’ where they cook halibut for David LeFevre.”

  “So?”

  Michael was aghast. “He’s a highly regarded, Michelin Star chef.”

  “And I’m the highly regarded mayor of Jericho. But nobody wants to watch my reruns, either.”

  “You haven’t been mayor long enough to have reruns.”

  David ignored him. “Maybe I am a little hungry . . .”

  “Do you want me to fix you something?”

  “No. I’ll just go grab a snack. Be right back.” He left their room and headed for the kitchen.

  Michael had become engrossed in the episode again when David returned. He was munching on something. Loudly.

  “What are you eating?”

  David held up a red canister. “Pringles.”

  “Where’d you find those?”

  “In the condiment pantry, behind two dozen boxes of corn starch.”

  Michael was mystified. “Where’d those even come from?”

  David plopped down on the sofa beside him. “Nadine. She uses them in her meatloaf and thinks I won’t find them back there.”

  “Did you, like, hunt truffles in a previous life?”

  “Maybe. I managed to find you, didn’t I?” David kissed his cheek. “You need a shave . . . as usual.”

  “It’s been a long day—as you know.”

  David yawned. “True dat. But you could shave every twenty minutes and still be fuzzy.”

  “Make sure you check your messages before bed. The medical examiner’s office called. Again. They said they’ve been leaving messages for you all over the place.”

  “Can I help it if I’m busy?” David snapped.

  “Hey . . . dial it back, okay? I’m just the messenger.”

  “I don’t see why they need to talk to me, anyway. I don’t know anything about what happened to Watson.”

  “Then that’s probably all you need to tell them.”

  David got up abruptly and crossed the room to their desk. “I wish these people would just leave me the hell alone.”

  “Why are you suddenly so testy? They’re talking to everyone who was at the river that day.”

  “Not everyone,” David snarled. “Have they asked you to come in and sit for an interview?”

  “Not yet, but I’m sure they will.”

  “I doubt it.” He slammed the can of Pringles down on the desk. “They think I had something to do with it. That’s what this is about.”

  “You’re overreacting.”

  “Am I? Why do you think they’re so hell-bent on questioning me?”

  “Probably because you had a public disagreement with him right before he . . . disappeared with Dorothy.”

  “Give me a break, Forest Gump. It wasn’t a disagreement. I was practically in a brawl with him—and everyone saw it. They think I’m a suspect in his murder, and you know it as well as I do.”

  Michael didn’t know what to say to him—mostly because he thought there was a good chance he was right. David and Watson had nearly come to blows. And after Watson had shoved him into the food table, David had run off—and Michael had no idea where he’d gone.

  “Can’t you just tell them where you went?” He tried to plead his case in the gentlest tone he could manage. “Can’t you just tell me where you went? That would be the best way to clear this up.”

  “Oh—that’s just great.” David swatted the can of chips and sent it flying. “You don’t trust me, either.”

  Michael got to his feet and extended his hands in supplication. “Sweetie. You need to calm down. Of course, I trust you. But you aren’t helping yourself by being unwilling to talk about any of this.”

  “Really?” David stormed across the room to the door. “You know what, Michael? You aren’t helping me much, either.”

  He exited the room and slammed the door behind him.

  Michael stared after him, dazed. For the first time, he began to fear the possibility that maybe David did have something to hide.

  And that realization scared the hell out of him.

  Chapter Four

  Recorded Interview

  Preliminary Inquest Investigation

  Death of Mayor Gerald Watson

  “It’s Rita. Rita Chriscoe. I work with my sister Natalie, who’s the bookkeeper at Cougar’s Quality Logistics. We handle moving and relocation. Sometimes we haul mobile homes. I been working there as a driver for nearly two years now. Before that, I worked out at Bixby’s Bowladrome—back before the tornado tore it up.”

  You can ask me all the questions you want about that waste of skin. I don’t give two flips about what happened to that man. He got what he deserved. It’s just too bad it came ten years too late.

  “I was at Freemantle’s having lunch that day Watson come in there, madder’n a hatter. He was pretty much goin’ off on everybody. Curtis had asked him to leave because he was kickin’ up such a ruckus.”

  I knew that rat bastard didn’t see me sittn’ there, watchin’ everything—listening to him spread his poison. But there was no way I was gonna let him take out after that Freemantle girl like he was God almighty’s avenging angel. Not after what he did to me and Eva. Not after what I knew he was doing to Eva’s little girl. Eva knew she never should ‘a married that man . . .

  “Yes sir, you heard right. He tripped over my foot on his way out. I ain’t sayin’ it was an accident, neither. Somebody needed to take the wind outta his sails before people in there got hurt. That man was spittin’ mad. He fell ass-over-teakettle into a store display. Before you get all riled up, it didn’t hurt nothin’ on him but his pride. You can ask Sheriff Martin about it. He was there, too, with that Davis girl.”

  I won’t never forget the look on Watson’s face when he saw me laughin’ at him. I knew he was itchin’ for a fight. And I was ready to give it to him . . . that slimy, half-assed excuse for a man. He hated me as much as I hated him—and neither of us was tryin’ to hide it. He killed Eva. I knew it—and he knew I knew it.

  “Yes, I was by the food tables when he got into that fight with David Jenkins on the 4th. James Lawrence was with me. After it got busted up, both of them hightailed it out of there. Then I was on my way to meet up with Natalie and Jocelyn to watch the fireworks. We all heard the sirens later, at the same time everybody else did. That’s when we found out about what happened down by the water.”

  Am I sorry he’s dead? Hell no, I ain’t sorry. If you ask me, that man deserved to be killed every day of his miserable life.

  “No, sir. I ain’t sorry that man is gone. I don’t know of a single person in this town who is, neither. If you ask me, whatever happened to that man was a blessin’. Pure and simple. What you keep doin’ here with all these questions—stirrin’ things up this way? It’s nothin’ but a waste of time. And it’s turnin’ neighbor against neighbor—just keepin’ that man’s unholy rage alive is stirrin’ up the pot.”

  You might as well give it up, mister. I got nothin’ else to say about any of this—so quit askin’ me questions that ain’t gonna get you no place.

  “I think you all’d be a lot better off just lettin’ sleepin’ dogs lie.”

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  Henry and Dorothy were at the library with Roma Jean, helping her stock the bookmobile for her Saturday route.

  Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Dorothy was helping her. Henry spent most of his time detouring to look at brand new, face-out books displayed on low shelves in the children’s section. So far, he’d pulled down about six and told Roma Jean he wanted to check them out.
/>   “Have you finished that Roald Dahl book yet?” Roma Jean asked him.

  When Henry seemed unsure about how to answer her question, Dorothy clarified.

  “She means the book about Danny and the pheasants.”

  “Oh.” Henry became animated. “Not yet. Maddie says we have eight more chapters to go. It’s really good. Are there other books about Danny and his daddy?”

  “I don’t think so,” Roma Jean said. “But when you finish the one you’re reading, we can find you some other books that might be as good. In the meantime,” Roma Jean held out her hands to take the stack of books back from Henry, “we should leave these here so other kids can read them, too. Don’t you think that’s the right thing to do?”

  “Okay.” Henry reluctantly handed the books to her. “I guess so.”

  “Tell you what. As a treat, I’ll let you stamp all the checkout cards today.”

  “Really?” Henry forgot his disappointment. “Syd says I’m really good at that. She let me do it last week. I didn’t smear the ink or anything.”

  Roma Jean smiled at Dorothy.

  “It’s a gift,” Dorothy agreed. “He always stays between the lines.”

  “Well, I wish I could.” Roma Jean sighed. “My life would be a whole lot easier.”

  After they’d finished stocking the truck, Roma Jean secured the kids in their seats and they headed out for their day in the remotest parts of the county. Carsonville, Providence, Stevens Creek and Bone Gap: stops in all those communities were on tap for today. They’d take a break and eat their packed lunches at a picnic table in the park beside the New River Trail in Fries. Henry liked it there because the river was especially wide, and he could stand on the bank and throw rocks at imaginary targets on the old dam. And Roma Jean would always treat them to ice cream cones at the shop set up inside a retrofitted caboose.

  Roma Jean loved the days the kids could ride along with her. It made the time pass a lot quicker—usually because Henry tended to talk nonstop. And Dorothy and Roma Jean would talk about books. Lately, however, Dorothy had pretty much outpaced Roma Jean’s knowledge of Southern fiction. Now, more often than not, it was Dorothy who suggested books and authors to Roma Jean. At first, Roma Jean thought that was because Dorothy was living with Dr. Heller, who everybody knew was some kind of brainiac, just like Dr. Stevenson. But Miss Murphy said that wasn’t really it. She explained that Dorothy had a good mind and a voracious appetite for knowledge. And now that it was possible for Dorothy to read anything she wanted and not have to hide it from her father, she was in flight like a bird freed from its cage.

  Miss Murphy always used poetic language whenever she talked about books . . .

  Dorothy told Roma Jean she was reading a book she’d found at Dr. Heller’s—an older novel called Heading West. It was about a librarian who gets kidnapped at a picnic and soon realizes that life on the run with her kidnapper is better than the life of captivity she’d been living with her family. She said there were some very funny scenes, too, where a woman thinks her refrigerator is giving her advice about changing her life.

  Roma Jean thought the book sounded good, but suggested that getting life coaching from your kitchen appliances probably wouldn’t end up very well.

  They’d reached their first stop in Carsonville, which wasn’t much more than a crossroads on Pine Mountain Road. Sometimes, Roma Jean would park in a cleared spot beside the crumbled foundation of an old garage for the entire hour without seeing anybody. But that was part of the job. You had to wait there the whole allotted time so people had a chance to show up.

  Miss Murphy was adamant about that.

  Today, there were two people waiting beside their car when Roma Jean parked the bookmobile. Roma Jean recognized them right away.

  Henry was excited and ran to the front of the truck to retrieve the date due stamp. He wanted to be ready and in position to perform his job.

  Old Mrs. Raskin and her daughter, Beulah—who looked to Roma Jean like she was ninety, herself— sometimes showed up during her stops there. It looked like today was going to be one of their days. Beulah managed to climb up into the mobile library and pretty much proceeded to shout out book titles to her mother, who stood near the door leaning on her walker because she couldn’t navigate the metal steps to get inside.

  “How about one of them books by that Nora Roberts, Mama?”

  Mrs. Raskin said no. She’d read enough of those to know they were all the same.

  “Don’t they have none of them Twilight books?” Mrs. Raskin hollered.

  “You mean them books about Mormons?” Beulah asked.

  “They ain’t about Mormons. They’re about vampires.”

  Henry looked expectantly at Roma Jean.

  “Don’t even think about it until you finish Danny,” she told him.

  Beulah finally appealed to Roma Jean for help.

  “Do you have any of them vampire books she’s talkin’ about?”

  “No, ma’am. But I do have two of the Anne Rice books about vampires in New Orleans.”

  “Mama,” Beulah called out. “Do you want to read about vampires in New Orleans?”

  “Is there a movie that goes with ’em, too?” Mrs. Raskin asked.

  Beulah looked at Roma Jean and waited for her answer.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Roma Jean called out to Mrs. Raskin. “Tom Cruise is in it.”

  Beulah didn’t wait on her mama to reply. “We’ll take ’em,” she told Roma Jean.

  Roma Jean retrieved the two paperbacks and Henry promptly stamped their cards. Beulah descended the steps and she and her mama climbed into their mud-covered Chevy and rattled off.

  “That’s more activity than I’ve had out here in a month,” Roma Jean opined.

  Dorothy was looking at a third Anne Rice paperback still on the rack.

  “Why didn’t you give them this one, too?”

  When Roma Jean saw what Dorothy was holding, she felt mortified.

  “Because that one isn’t about vampires,” she explained. “And it’s kind of . . .” she glanced at Henry, who was busy re-inking the stamp pad, “NC17, if you catch my drift. It’s one of those adult . . . fantasy books about Sleeping Beauty she wrote back before she found Jesus.”

  “It is?” Dorothy handed the book to Roma Jean like it was made out of hot coals. “Why do you have it here, then?”

  “It isn’t supposed to be out here. I was at the prison last week and this one got turned in. It was an interlibrary loan.” Roma Jean said the words like they would make sense without further explanation. When it was clear that Dorothy had no idea why that detail was significant, she lowered her voice to a whisper. “It’s erotica. Men out there order those books all the time. I forgot to take this one back inside.”

  Dorothy seemed to think about the implications of what Roma Jean had just revealed. “I don’t really want to know why they ask for these books, do I?” she asked.

  “Trust me. You don’t.”

  “Are we gonna have more customers, Roma Jean?” Henry had rejoined them.

  “I don’t know, Henry. Probably not out here. Business has gotten a lot slower since school started.”

  “It’s Saturday.” Henry looked perplexed. “There’s no school on Saturday.”

  “That’s true. But families do a lot of other things on the weekends now.”

  They waited their remaining time, then closed up the truck and headed out for their next stop in Providence. Business was a little livelier there. Henry stayed very busy, carefully stamping cards while people checked out books and DVDs.

  “Too bad you didn’t have that Tom Cruise movie for Mrs. Raskin,” Dorothy observed.

  “We used to have it. People kept checking it out and keeping it way past its due date. Finally, the case for it got turned in at the night deposit box, but the wrong DVD was inside it. When Mrs. Murphy called the person who’d checked it out, he said he didn’t know what happened to the right movie, but he figured sending something back was be
tter than nothing.”

  “What was the movie he did send back?” Dorothy asked.

  “I think it was a video of some NASCAR race in Florida.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “Not really. Miss Murphy said that race video ended up being just as popular as the Tom Cruise vampire movie.”

  Dorothy laughed. Roma Jean liked the way laughing changed the girl’s features. It took years off her young face. It was the only time Dorothy actually looked . . . well . . . like she was fourteen. Normally, Dorothy was pretty serious. At first, Roma Jean thought that was because Dorothy didn’t pay much attention to what was going on around her. But she knew the girl well enough now to know that wasn’t the case at all. If anything, the opposite was true. Dorothy was clued in to everything—whether it directly involved her or not. Sometimes it was kind of freaky, and Roma Jean felt like Dorothy was actually the older person in their friendship. And Roma Jean did think of Dorothy as a friend. As an equal, even.

  She wished sometimes she could ask for Dorothy’s opinion about everything with Charlie, but common sense told her that wasn’t a good idea. No matter how grown up she seemed, Dorothy was still a child. And there were some things that needed to stay off limits between them.

  Still . . . she looked forward to Dorothy’s quiet observations about people and general goings-on in the community. They were always offered in an understated, kind of absent way. But even Roma Jean was smart enough to understand how perceptive and on target Dorothy’s assessments usually were.

  Maybe Miss Murphy had been right about that whole bird thing. If Dorothy was soaring above them all, she probably could see things a lot more clearly than they could, stuck here on the ground.

  After the Providence stop, they went on to Stevens Creek. There was a smattering of homes near The Church of God of Prophesy, so Roma Jean always parked in the church lot to make it easier for people to see when she was there. Sadly, Henry’s stamper didn’t get much of a workout in Stevens Creek, either. It was just a slow day across the board. But it was always like that out here in this remote part of the county. So Miss Murphy didn’t worry too much about low service use in these areas. She told Roma Jean that educating people about the mobile library would be a process, and it might take years for people to catch on to the benefits the bookmobile delivered right to their doorsteps every week.