“Luce. Look at me. Please.”
I forced my eyes back to the laptop’s screen. He was writing something on an unseen notepad. Slowly he tore the page out. Then he held it up for me to read.
HANA
I sagged. “That’s the only name I didn’t rhyme with Anna, Lana, Shanna, et cetera. Look, I wasn’t prying. I respect your privacy, and you don’t need to explain . . . ”
“There’s not much to explain. I’ve seen her off and on for years. The last time was six months ago in London, when I had a week of R and R. It’s never been exclusive, on her part or mine.”
The sex is really good, even great. She’s wild and fun and dangerous. She’s a broken bird, like me. Her dark side has a hold on him. I have a dark side, too, but it’s not fun.
“Speaking of dark sides,” he said with an arched brow, a half-smile and serious eyes, “Who’s Vern?”
I propped my chin on one hand. I see you, and you see me. And it’s okay. “Kern,” I corrected.
His eyes went black.
DADDY AND MAMA were dead. I was thirteen years old. Gabs and Tal and I were in hiding from Jay’s uncle, who wanted everything that lay beneath the surface of Free Wheeler, everything his father and grandfather had tried to rip from the MacBrides for generations. Jay was his nephew—but not much better than a hostage.
Warm spring day. Blue wisteria blooming up in a poplar tree. The aroma of chicken frying beyond the big screen doors at the back of the café. Wood smoke curling from a barbecue smoker in the yard. The Ten Sisters rising over the wide valleys of the Cove. And me, out back between the barns, throwing rocks at a barn wall as hard as I could.
Santa Joe, Pike’s hippie brother, red-eyed, pot-scented, and armed with three handguns on his belt, pressed a thick wad of cash into my hand. “Hide it, keep it, use it for you and your sisters in an emergency,” he said. “And don’t ever forget we’re your family.” I took the folded bills, unfolded them, and stuck the flat parcel inside the front of my jeans. Pulled my t-shirt over them.
What happened next? Think. Remember. Throwing more rocks. Feeling the muscles in your right shoulder catch on fire. Shaking it out, walking. Getting the vibes. The fear and pain.
I charged around the barn’s corner. Kern was older, bigger, crazier. He held his younger brother off the ground, shaking him by the throat.
I’d seen Dad’s broken body in the morgue, watched Mother collapse on the floor of our little house in west Asheville, been shoved into a foster care group home where the older, bigger boys threatened my sisters and beat the shit out of me, and onward and upward or what the fuck ever. And now this.
I charged him. Hit him low and hard. Slung a fist into his kidneys. Grabbed Trey and tossed him aside. Trey scrambled up, coughing and vomiting.
Kern hammered my head with his elbow. He pinned me on my back, grabbed a rock, and knuckled it. I watched in slow motion as that rock and hand came toward my face.
His body levitated. An invisible palm pushed him aside. Flattened him on the ground.
Not hallucinating. Trey saw it, too.
I got to my feet. I gaped at him, scared and filled with a kind of horrified wonder. Kern lay there, gasping. Terror pulled the whites of his eyes. “Trick,” he yelled. But the fear boiled out of him.
Roasting grains filled my mind. Oats and rice and more. Fermenting in stone crocks, cooking up their magic. Transforming.
“If you ever hurt your brother again,” I told him, “That thing will come out of the ground again, and it’ll throw you so far, you’ll hit a mountaintop.”
I was just making stuff up. Not my gift. I hadn’t called on the thing.
Something much bigger was at work.
“THERE ARE GIANTS here,” I told Gus. “And they protected you from Kern.”
Not the kind of admission I’d make to anyone else.
He finished his story with a long pull on a beer. When I said that, he stopped in mid-swallow. “They talk to you?” he asked.
“I hear whispers. I think they’re trying to tell me something, but I don’t know what, yet. I’m not saying they’re flesh and blood; I’m saying there’s an . . . energy. Spirits. Forgotten souls.”
“Almost every Native American tribe has legends about giants who were here first.”
“The Old Testament is very specific about giants existing. Deuteronomy. ‘Only Og, the king of Bashan, was left of the remnant of the Rephaim—the tribes of the giants. His bed was nine cubits in length.’ A cubit was roughly a foot-and-a-half. And Goliath was a giant, of course. He was said to over nine feet tall. When you were a boy, did you ever visit the boulder with the big handprints carved all over it?”
He nodded, frowning. “I remember stories Sam, my grandfather, told. He was a broken soul by the time my sisters and I came along. He talked in riddles. He’d mumble about caves and tunnels under Free Wheeler. Underground rivers and hidden palaces.”
“I’ve heard Delta say that during Prohibition your family made moonshine inside the old mines there. She said the smoke from the stills went up through natural cracks in the rock ceilings. The rock filtered it. Hid it.”
“Yeah. Not much of the family survived to pass down the details.” His voice had an edge to it. “The feds and the money-men made sure of that.”
Wakefields. Jay Wakefield’s ancestors had destroyed the MacBrides under the guise of helping the government battle the evils of liquor, when what they wanted was control of mines that produced mica, feldspar, gold, granite, and gemstones. Mica alone, that glittery, paper-thin shale children picked up to admire, had industrial uses by the late 1800s.
Jay’s uncle had nearly destroyed the new generation of MacBrides because he wanted the purest quartz in the world. It streaked the ancient bedrock in a narrow channel tucked in this one small part of North Carolina. To the east, the mines at Spruce Pine produced ninety percent of the planet’s electronics-grade quartz. A billion dollar industry.
His uncle was convinced that the quartz beneath Free Wheeler could be worth even more.
I shuffled my hands, warming fingers going cold from nerves and the winter cold. “Whether there are tunnels and kingdoms under Free Wheeler or not, the word I’m sensing is ‘sacred.’ Protecting the sacred. Did you ever get vibes about them—the giants?’’
“Nothing. That day . . . that weird thing that happened to Kern . . . was a shock.”
“Tal and Gabby don’t get the vibes, either. So maybe I’m imagining them.”
“No. There’s got to be a reason why you’ve tapped into that current. Or it’s tapped into you.”
Goosebumps went up my spine. “I don’t feel threatened by them. The energy seems . . . ” I searched for words. “Lonely.”
Gus rubbed a big-knuckled hand across the pale beard stubble beginning to show on his jaw. “Howard Monzell thinks there’s a fortune under Free Wheeler. Kern does, too.” He tapped the empty beer bottle on his makeshift desk, hard enough to ping the metal. Everything about his living space was gray and dingy and made of metal. Shadows surrounded him. I smelled the cold stink of armor and weapons and big, empty reaches of land filled with sorrow and danger. His eyes shifted to mine. Hard. “And he wants you.”
“It’s not mutual.”
“I don’t doubt.”
“He’s married. He’s got Monzell’s money and backing. He’s running against Pike in the next election. His own uncle. He’s using the sheriff’s office as a wormhole to gain control that goes far beyond being an ordinary county officer. He tells people that sheriffs are the highest law enforcement authorities in the country, because they’re the only ones who are elected, not hired or appointed.”
“That kind of talk comes straight from the militias. They’ve got a foothold in the government now. It’ll only get worse.”
“Pike keeps him clos
e, and keeps him under control. For now.”
Gus leaned in, his jaw flexing. “You know my family has money. Let us move you where he can’t find you. Wherever you want to go.”
“I won’t run. I can’t leave this fight. We have too many desperate people who need all the help they can get. This . . . the Cove, the farm . . . this is my home. And . . . I know you can sense this . . . ” I stared at the clutter of my small life atop Elam’s desk. Frustration tightened a net around every muscle. “I have a problem with unfamiliar places.”
“I know you’re afraid.”
“Panic attacks. Crippling anxiety. The medical term is agoraphobia. But I’m not a coward.”
“I’m scared all the time, Luce. Not about being killed here. About getting other people killed. Innocent people. Civilians. And the soldiers I’m responsible for. And the state of the world. And what’s going to happen to my family. The feeling that everything’s out of control at home. Things are not right. I couldn’t do much to protect my family when I was a kid, and I sure as hell can’t seem to do much, now. Until you came along, I didn’t know how much longer I could stand the goddamn despair. And now I’m scared I can’t protect you.”
I reached out a hand and touched the laptop’s screen with my fingertips. “You already have.”
He touched his fingertips to mine. The thin veil between us meant nothing.
FROM THEN ON, we were a couple. At times, we went quiet and let the psychic connection build sensations between us—aromas and colors, textures. And desire. Unspoken, shimmering and hot, a steaming bath of full-body reactions.
All so safe. And for me, so depressing.
Ms. Parmenter, isn’t it true you sent my clients photos of yourself?
I gave them a church newsletter that included some pictures from a social event.
Pictures that included yourself in a very revealing swimsuit.
I was in the background of a large group of people.
Wearing a bikini.
That looked like it came from a 1950s beach movie.
A bikini, Ms. Parmenter.
Opal finally got disgusted with me. Get yourself up and get going, Miss Lucy, and take even just one little bitty chance at a time.
WE MET LIKE spies in a film noir. Fog swirled through the dawn fields.
The low beams of a sleek car pierced its silver cloak; the faintest white caps showed on the snowy tops of the Ten Sisters. I snuck glances at the distant darkness of the barns and communal living spaces of the farm, watching for the lights of early risers, Macy and Alberta responding to a barking dog, or a resident alerting them that there might be man-trouble at the edge of the fields, maybe a boyfriend or ex-husband creeping up, or an errant resident creeping out.
My contact walked toward me—a woman in a low-slung fedora, a long coat, and high boots, silhouetted in the car’s lights; Ingrid Bergman in Casablanca, impossibly chic and beautiful. After all, not that many years ago she’d been called the most beautiful woman in Hollywood—and one of the highest paid actresses in the world.
I stood there, hypnotized on the other side of a hog-wire fence, a peasant draped in wool shawls and backed by a posse of sheep plus Brim. That’s where the glamorous film analogy ended.
As Cathy reached me, she said, “Don’t inhale. One of the twins threw up on my coat.”
I opened a gate and she walked through. As we made our way to my home in the barn, Cathy clasped my cold, bare hand in her warm one. In the deep dawn shadows the scarred side of her face was almost hidden. She was stunning. More than that, she was my trusted friend. “I understand your caution,” she said. “After the accident, I wouldn’t even take a selfie anymore. My phone was hacked three times, all by internet thieves looking for pictures of my scars. Did I ever tell you that someone stole the Trans Am’s charred steering wheel and sold it? Last year it showed up on one of those pawn shop reality shows.”
I squeezed her scarred hand gently. “I’m so sorry. I’m glad I’m not a celebrity.”
“You are. You’re the gorgeous white-blonde witch of the Appalachians. The mysterious recluse at the notorious farm where covens of man-hating women dance naked around bonfires and draw symbolic vaginas on their boobs.”
“How’d I miss out on all the naked dancing and body painting?”
Cathy wrapped an arm around me. We marched along, her long stride to my two-steps. “I told you once that I couldn’t believe Tom really liked my face. We’d go to bed, and I’d turn the bad side away from him when he touched me. It wasn’t until that day—the day he risked his life to pull me out of the café after the tornado hit. The way he looked at me as he was lifting me out of the building—the love in his eyes—convinced me. You understand what I’m saying?”
I nodded. “The only uncovered thing Gus has seen of me is my face and my feet. And that was so I could show off the socks he made for me. If the rest of me doesn’t interest him, then let’s get it over with.”
“Oh, girl.” She shook me lightly.
“Could we change the subject? I’m really nervous about what we’re going to do.”
“I heard you asked Alberta to teach you more about guns. That you’ve been target practicing with an assault rifle.”
“Yes, and everyone’s appalled. They’re more worried about me being armed than about me being helpless. Why does society sanctify women as victims but disapprove of them as warriors?”
“That’s a great point.” We entered the sheep barn and headed toward my little room under the hay loft. Cathy hitched her camera bag higher on one shoulder. “Arm yourself for a different kind of shooting.”
She smelled like perfume and peanut butter.
Gus
Midnight, Afghanistan
The snipers sent by Sarbanri had us pinned down in the bombed-out ruins of an old factory. One of my men screamed as the medic worked on him. Another lay silent and still, blood pooling under his head. Everything was pitch black except for the bursts of gunfire. Bullets ricocheted around us. Chips of old masonry hit my cheekbone. The slickness of blood greased the strap on my helmet.
Clear your mind. Listen. Smell. Feel. Taste.
There are three of them. They’re behind the walls at home, they’re in the rafters, they’re running the government, they’re putting people in jails and camps. They want power and money. They’ll shit on the laws and destroy democracy. Home will turn into this. This fucking no-man’s land of fear and death.
“I can’t see a goddamn thing through these goggles, Captain.”
Bullets shattered the mortar from a new direction.
“We’re taking fire from behind, Captain! We’re surrounded.”
“Stay down,” I yelled.
I crouched and made my way through a maze of rubble.
I see you, MacBride. Bleeding and crawling in the dirt and the dark. You’re just another Nothing and Nobody. I’ve got the balls to take what I want. You don’t. I’ll take your home. I’ll take down your family. And I’ll take Lucy.
My head filled with the piercing heat of ghost peppers. Burn a hole through your throat. Cry until your eyes fry and shrivel.
Use the pain to light this fire. Light this fucker up.
I stood. I stepped out into the open. I dragged my night vision goggles off and dropped them.
Raised my rifle and fired into the jagged hole that had been a third-story window.
I pivoted and walked through a shower of bullets toward another gaping hole in the old factory. Ready, aim, fire.
I turned toward the bullets coming from my right. Pinpoints of acid ate holes in my skin. Capsaicin melted my brain.
Follow the pain. Smell the heat.
I took a long swallow on a cold beer, ripe with berries and flowers. Sweet beer. Sissy beer. But then came the meaning. Balm of Gilead. Kill
ing the enemy is righteous. Death tastes good. Healing can begin once the dead get what’s coming to them.
Kern Burkett stood on the jagged rim of a rooftop.
I shot the bastard until a body tumbled to the ground.
Stay away from her. This is war.
6
I HADN’T YET SENT the photographs to Gus. Couldn’t work up the courage.
Get out in the world and get your mind off this thing, Miss Lucy. A watched chicken never lays.
The Crossroads Café had a back dining room where I taught knitting lessons on Monday afternoon. Free, open to all. I practiced being a teacher again. People who didn’t know better assumed the café was just another place to enjoy a meat and three. When, really, it was a mother-hug on the lap of the mountains. Dad said such places were endowed with the Holy Spirit. Delta called it Biscuit Love.
At first the women—most of them no older than me—barely talked, just asked questions and took notes and didn’t socialize with me. They had come to get a look at the notorious soothsayer who’d lured Howard Monzell’s wife away and might be tempting Deputy Burkett to leave Howard’s daughter.
Their group vibe came to my mind in one phrase: Rump In. The alpha ewes form a defensive cluster like that when they feel threatened but can’t flee. Rumps to the center, faces turned out, eyes watching for trouble in every direction. They didn’t accept Delta’s free cookies; they even turned down sugared biscuits with whipped cream.
They looked at a stack of brochures about the women’s shelter with stern disapproval, and a few made comments.
You should never encourage families to break up. The world isn’t safe anymore.
Imagine how much more good you’d do if you brought families together there to learn how men treat women and how women should respond.
I’m sure you think you’re helping women, but these kinds of places just make them depend on the government instead of their husbands. That’s what America’s all about now. Learning to take care of our own families, without government help.
The Kitchen Charmer Page 9