by Rivi Jacks
I smile at him as I wipe my eyes.
“I do believe he’s the most surprised of us all.” Nick nods toward Sawyer. Another round of giggles hits me, and I cover my face with my napkin. Nick laughs. He has a good laugh, coming from deep within.
“Sofie, do you have a blouse I can change into?” Diane wails.
Unable to answer without laughing, I nod, my face still covered. Nick laughs again.
By the time we sort Diane out, the party is breaking up, and I’m yawning. After giving my aunts and uncles goodnight hugs and promising to call the next day, the rest of us head out.
“I’m riding to the house with Diane, Jake,” I say before I glance at Nick. “It was good meeting you.” I’ll save my questions about the hot flash incident for another time.
“Good night,” Nick says with a smile.
“I’ll see you two tomorrow,” I tell Sawyer and Sam, getting a hug from both.
I’ve showered and dressed in a spaghetti-strap cami top and boy-type briefs with an old, flannel robe on top. Skimpy wear for this time of the year in the Ozarks. I clearly need to go shopping for winter clothes.
Jake wanted to talk, so we sat around the kitchen table drinking hot cocoa for a bit.
Now, I’m lying all comfy in the freshly made bed, feeling a little guilty about moving Jake out of his bedroom. It was my only request when we talked of my moving in, and he willingly moved to one of the three bedrooms upstairs. He thinks I want the only bedroom with a bathroom, but that’s not why.
I don’t sleep above ground level—anywhere.
It’s the only way I know, to keep them away.
The incessant ringing yanks me out of my peaceful slumber. I groan, giving up on Jake answering the phone. He must be up and already gone. I reach over to answer. “Hmmm?” This better not be Sawyer.
“Hey, it’s Sawyer.”
“Why are you calling so early?” I’m not a real good morning person.
“You’re not living in gravy California anymore, Sofe. You’re back on the farm.” I hear him laugh.
“It’s six a.m. in California,” I grouch.
“Exactly. I’m on my way over.”
“Saw-yer!” I whine, but the line’s already gone dead. I sigh and drag myself out of bed. I have just enough time to pull on jeans, a sweatshirt Jake left in the closet, and Converse before Sawyer bangs on the door. I open it with one of those yawns a person can fall into.
“Very attractive, Sofie.”
“I’ve had about ten hours sleep total the last two days, Sawyer.” My voice comes out croaky, and I follow him down the hall to the sunny kitchen.
“Why’d you answer the phone then?” He starts us both a cup of coffee.
“Ha-ha,” I answer as I open the fridge door. “No cream, just milk. I need to go to the grocery.” I move a few items around on the refrigerator shelves. “No breakfast food either.” I grimace an apology and sit down at the table across from him.
“We can go to Murphy’s.” He shrugs as I stir some milk into my coffee. “Listen, Sofe... has Jake told you anything about what’s been going on around here?”
I stop stirring. “Going on?”
The door from off the small, enclosed back porch area opens into the kitchen. Jake enters carrying a large sack. The smell of food sets my stomach to growling, and he places the bag on the table. I didn’t realize I was hungry, but the delicious aroma of biscuits and gravy makes my mouth water.
I rummage through the dishwasher for clean forks. “Wondered where you went.”
“Seems we need to go to the store for some vittles,” Jake murmurs, smiling apologetically.
“Ya think?” I tease, placing a portion of food on a saucer for myself and pushing the remainder left in the Styrofoam container over to Sawyer.
After eating, I bring the conversation back to the goings on Sawyer mentioned. “So, what’s up you haven’t told me about?”
Jake glances at Sawyer as he carries the empty food containers to the trash, then he leans against the counter in front of the sink. “Someone’s butchering cattle out in the fields,” Jake states.
“Huh?” I give them a puzzled look.
“Sofie,” Jake speaks slowly as if he knows my brain’s slow this morning, “someone’s killing cows, butchering them right in the field, and taking the meat.”
“Sometimes,” Sawyer adds. Jake glances at him.
My gaze flies back and forth between them. “You mean you’ve got rustlers?” On the other hand, the correct word might be poachers. Then what Sawyer uttered finally sinks in. I am moving slow.
“What do you mean ‘sometimes’?” I ask.
Sawyer gives me his lopsided smile as he gets more coffee. “Well, sometimes they eat the cow right in the field, and sometimes the cow’s sacrificed.” He sits back down. “At least that’s what we think the shit they’re doing means.”
“You’re having cows sacrificed?” I stare at Jake, wide eyed. “For real?” How spooky. “How long’s this been going on and why didn’t you tell me?” I frown. “Wait. They eat it in the field? The whole cow?”
“Seems that way,” Jake admits. “Appears they spread the butchered cow out over an area, and it’s eaten by several... there on the ground.”
“Maybe it’s animals?” I’m having a hard time picturing people having a banquet out in the field.
“No, not animals. They’re using knives,” Sawyer reveals.
“Have you called the sheriff? Well of course you have,” I say as an afterthought. I look at them suspiciously. They’ve been known to handle situations in unorthodox ways; I should know since they’ve dragged me into some of their schemes.
“What does Ben say?”
“He’s as puzzled as everyone else.” Jake runs his hand through his hair in frustration.
“How about the sheriff, and why do you think sacrifices are going on?”
Jake and Sawyer share a glance. “The sheriff’s not sure either. We were all unsure of what was happening, at first,” Jake explains.
Seeing my puzzled expression, Sawyer clarifies. “Some of the cows have had their eyes cut out, some—just the heart. And sometimes, all of their teeth are yanked out.” At my grimace, he continues, “Yeah, pretty gruesome. And those cows? They were left to rot.”
“Animals did feed on those,” Jake adds.
“Geez.”
“Now you know why we didn’t tell you this on the phone,” Jake replies softly.
“How long has this been happening?”
“Since summer.”
“How many cattle killed or...”
“About a dozen, but they’re not all ours. Some of the other farms in the area have losses too,” Jake answers.
“Wow!” Then I remember something else he said. “You said at first you weren’t sure they were sacrifices.”
“No, we’d never seen anything close to this, and the sheriff hadn’t either.” Jake pauses as if thinking of the right words. “Nick has some friends living in this area. They’ve moved into the old Rogers place.”
“The Rogers Plantation? No one’s lived there for over fifty years.”
The antebellum home, located about five miles south of Sweetwater, has been declining for years. Gramps told me the grand old house still stood because of the care shown to it until the late fifties, when it housed its last owners.
“Well, people are living there now. Lucian and Estella recognized the mutilations and explained that they resemble ritual sacrifices.”
“Ritual sacrifices?” I feel as if I’m repeating everything said to me, trying to make sense of what they’re telling me.
“This is the creepy part, Sofe,” Sawyer adds with obvious relish.
“This is?” I croak. “Wait, Nick knows this Lucian and Estella?” Strange names, even here in the Ozarks.
“They’re friends of his. He came to visit after they moved here,” Jake clarifies.
“How do they know about sacrifices?” I ask, further confused.
Jake leans forward as if he doesn’t want anyone but us to hear. “They’re Wiccan.”
I’ve heard of Wicca, or maybe read something, but don’t remember what. Noticing my puzzled expression, Sawyer clarifies, “They’re witches, Sofie.”
I consider Sawyer first, and then Jake. My eyes narrow and I hiss, “You two!” I’m mad now. This isn’t the first time I’ve been the victim of their sick humor. I stand and consider that I might be angrier with myself for being gullible.
“We’re not yanking your chain here, Sofie!” Jake declares.
“Sure, you’re not,” I scoff. I turn my back and start searching the cupboards, taking stock of what food Jake has and making a mental note of what we’ll need from the grocery. I let them see I’m dismissing them and their tomfoolery. They can be such jerks! But I must say, they had me going for a while.
Jake grips my shoulders and gives me an easy shake. “We’re not making this up! Call Jordanna, she’ll confirm everything we’ve told you.”
I search his eyes. “For real?”
Jake reaches over, lifts the phone from the wall charger, and holds it out for me. I sit back down. The fact he’s willing to let me call Jordanna means they aren’t fooling. She doesn’t put up with their nonsense. “We have witches in Sweetwater?” My voice comes out a little higher pitched than normal.
“According to Nick, they’re Wiccan,” Jake corrects.
Sawyer looks at me and mouths, Witches.
Sawyer and Jake take off, giving me a couple of hours before I plan to meet up with Diane and Emma Rae at Murphy’s. I keep thinking about what they’ve revealed.
The sacrifices are taking place at Old Soldier Cemetery. The cemetery is on a hill overlooking Panther Creek about six miles south of town. Whoever’s carrying out the sacrifices places the organs on an altar they erect each time. Ewww. Sawyer is right, creepy and sick.
Old Soldier Cemetery is a quiet, pretty place in the spring and summer. The idea of someone desecrating it is just—wrong. I remember everyone pitching a fit when Leroy Benton passed out in the graveyard one night. There was quite a hoo-ha the next morning as a church group arrived for a sunrise service. I can’t imagine the good people of Sweetwater accepting whatever is happening out there. Jake said he hoped the town meeting, scheduled for the next night, would be productive and the turnout high so they can come up with a plan to deal with this crisis.
After organizing a grocery list, I think about what clothes I need. I don’t have many warm clothes, and a new wardrobe, even the bare necessities, will take a chunk out of my savings. My dad’s finances, in terrible shape when he passed, left little money for Mom and me, and that pretty much disappeared after two years of no income. Since we couldn’t afford to pay for a nurse (I refused to take money from Ben), I cared for Mom. Trying to keep her alive, along with doing the cooking and keeping the apartment clean, turned out to be a full-time job.
I did manage to take a couple of online classes, and with what I learned from my cooking course, I’m hoping to get a job at Murphy’s. Emma Rae is talking up new menu ideas to Murphy, and we hope he’ll realize he needs my know-how. Before going to California, I’d worked for him every summer since my junior year of high school, and I’m crossing my fingers because I surely need a job.
Before leaving for my lunch date/job quest, I add a little makeup and tie my hair up in a high ponytail. My hair is dark blond, as in dirty, dishwater blond. It does have one redeeming quality: any exposure to the sun gives my hair a highlighted effect.
I change into one of my warmer blouses, pairing it with a dark blue blazer that will help keep me warm and look good. Murphy’s isn’t a dress-up kind of place. If hired, I’ll wear a uniform of jeans and sneakers, provided by me, and a tee with Murphy’s Place across the front, provided by Murphy.
Jake gave me the keys to his Jeep Grand Cherokee, so I’m not on foot. I’m not sure why he bought the Jeep. He drives a souped-up pickup truck. I suspect he and Ben did it for me, which makes me feel guilty but grateful. Otherwise, I’d be bumming rides or be on foot. Although I enjoy walking, the knowledge of somebody lurking in the woods is just too creepy. I decide that as soon as I acquire a job, I’ll talk to Jake about me buying the Jeep from him. He’ll argue, but my mind’s made up.
I leave the house a little early, hoping Murphy can spare some time to talk. It’s a good thing I do. Folks stop me three times in the parking lot, wanting to say hello and visit. Old Mrs. Cleo Harvey, a friend of my gram, is so looking forward to me coming over for tea. Travis Hale gives me the once-over and tells me I’m lookin’ good, which makes me blush—dammit! Gary Fenton wants to talk about California. He says he’ll call. I hope he doesn’t. His affections are borderline stalking.
Emma Rae waits for me at the door. A brunette with blue-gray eyes, she describes herself as tall and dangerous. She loves a good time—of which we’ve had many—and lucky for me, she’s one of my best friends.
“Damn, I’m glad you’re home. I know we talked every day, but that’s just not the same as you being here,” Emma Rae says as she hugs me. She yells to the back for Murphy. “I told him you were comin’ by, and he’s holdin’ off doing his grocery order so he’ll be able to talk,” she whispers.
I smile at her. “Thanks, Emma Rae. Is Diane here yet?”
“Nope, she called, and she’s on her way, said for you to pick what to eat for lunch. So pick somethin’ yummy,” she teases.
“Well, I for sure want one of Murphy’s famous burgers.” I beam at him as he comes around the counter and envelops me in a bear hug.
“Sofie girl, you’re a sight for these old eyes.”
“It’s good to see you too, Murph,” I say with a catch in my voice. Murphy, one of my favorite people, always treated me as if I were one of his kids. He does that with anyone who works for him, but Emma Rae says I’m his favorite. I don’t know about that, but I’m a little misty eyed as Murphy releases me.
“When are you coming back to work?” he asks in his rough, growly voice.
I laugh. Just like Murphy to make it sound as if I haven’t been to work all week instead of two years. “That’s what I want to talk to you about, Murph, if you have a minute.”
He glances at the clock hanging above the sink in the prep area. “For you, I have thirty.”
We sit at one of the tables in the dining room. John Murphy is a large man in his fifties. Balding, a smidgeon overweight, his bark’s worse than his bite and he has an incredible attachment to Sweetwater and its people. He wants to hear about California and the online classes I’ve taken.
Folks stopping by to welcome me back to town keep interrupting us, and of course, they need to find out what Murphy and I are discussing. That’s life in a small town. I suppose Sweetwater is no different from other small communities. Most everyone knows one another from birth to death, and they think that gives them the right to snoop into every aspect of your life. Through the years, I’ve been a prime subject of conversation in Sweetwater. No doubt about that. Everyone pretty much knows my parents never wanted me. If I ever ventured to forget, I could always count on some insensitive busybody reminding me.
Coming toward our table is one of the people who downright relishes being one of those busybodies. She did her best all through school to keep my pathetic story-gossip stirred up and in the minds of my classmates.
Bobbi Shay Lynn.
The Lynn family has lived in the area about as long as the Walkers have. Bobbi’s parents and my mother went to school together. Heck, our grandparents went to school together.
I’m not sure what I ever did to Bobbi, but it must have been truly dreadful because she sure as hell despises me. She never misses an opportunity to diss me. If she had to cross the street to spit on me, I think she would. Bobbi is taller than me—few aren’t—and boney thin. Emma Rae swears she is anorexic. Her hair’s reddish brown, but she insists she doesn’t have red hair. I guess she’s okay to look at... as long as I don’t have to. Saw
yer enjoyed looking at her for a while. I’m pretty sure she thinks I’m the reason he stopped seeing her. I’m not. I think he just found out how downright mean and nasty she was toward me. The Walker clan is tight, and if you piss on one of us, we all take offense.
In front of Murphy, her employer, she’ll be her most phony. “Murphy, would you care for more coffee?” She smiles sweetly at him before turning her saccharine smile on me. “Sofie, are you sure I can’t get you somethin’ to drink, you poor thing?”
Now, why am I a poor thing? Oh, I remember; I’m a poor little orphan whose parents didn’t want her.
“No, thanks, Bobbi. I’m fine.” I figured out a long time ago if I was as polite as can be to her crap, it seriously got her goat.
Emma Rae, on the other hand, is ready to punch Bobbi’s lights out at any given opportunity. I would never want to be on Emma Rae’s bad side. “Bobbi!” Emma Rae yells from the kitchen. “You’ve got another phone call.” Bobbi turns to leave, and Murphy quietly reminds her, “Bobbi, I’ve told you before to tell your friends not to call at mealtimes.”
“Oh, Murphy, I’m so sorry! My grandma’s awful sick and Mom’s havin’ a hard time with her.”
“Take your call and come back. We need to discuss a few changes.” Murphy turns his attention back to me. “I’ll get a schedule made. Think about what hours you want to work.”
Bobbi returns to our table as Murphy asks the road crew guys, who are preparing to leave, if their meals were satisfactory.
Once they’re gone, Murphy continues our discussion. “We’re making some changes, and I’m hiring Sofie as our new cook. Bobbi, you’ll help her with the prep work and the cleanup. She’ll start tomorrow working up a new menu for next week.” I can feel the anger roll off Bobbi. Murphy gives her a pointed look. “I’m sure you’ll help Sofie the best you can, Bobbi.”
Help me out the door is what she’s probably thinking.
Murphy stands. “I need to order some groceries. See you tomorrow, Sofie.”
I tell him “thanks,” and turn to Bobbi. I’m willing to work at being friends since we’ll be working together. After all, we aren’t kids anymore. We can bury the proverbial hatchet and be, if not friends, at least not enemies, but one glimpse of her face plainly tells me she wants to dismember me with that hatchet.