The Ledberg Runestone

by Patrick Donovan

  “What happened exactly?”

  “She showed up, they cleared the joint out. I mean everyone. I hung around outside for a while, in case they opened back up. She came with a posse, all women. They stayed for about an hour, she left, and from what I saw she took a few extra heavies with her.”

  “No shit,” I said.

  If Mama Duvalier herself had come out, with the family, no less, it meant something big was going down. It was also the best lead I had in regards to the stone.

  “God honest,” Penny said. “That tell you anything?”

  “We’ll see,” I said.

  “Word. I need to get back to business, you mind?”

  I shook my head and gave Penny a mock salute. As soon as I’d gotten a few steps away from him, a customer had already come to take my place. I fought my way through the crowd, once again fighting the temptation to stop and indulge in the various sundries on display and made my way towards the exit.

  Outside, the rain had become a light mist. Mixed with the cold, it cast the streets in a dreary haze that clung to the skin. I took my time getting to my truck, despite the weather, and started trying to see if the new piece of intel I’d picked up fit in with everything else. Lysone had come to me yesterday, the same day that Mama Duvalier had come to Abandon. My gut told me the two lined up somehow. It was also a pretty safe assumption that this chunk of rock was much more powerful than Lysone had let on.

  If I hadn’t been lost in thought, I may have seen the attack coming. I also might have been aware of the disturbing uptick in ass-kickings I was receiving in parking lots lately. When the man stepped out of the mist, grabbed me by the shoulder, and launched me a good ten feet through the air one handed, I was caught completely off guard.

  Chapter 8

  When I hit the ground, it was on a small stretch of grass that separated the parking lot and the sidewalk. All things considered, I could have found a lot worse places to land at bone-jarring velocities. Though, at this point, I was starting to get a little frustrated with how my day was going.

  I lay there in the wet grass in clothes I’d changed into less than two hours ago, sucking in the cold and the damp. I’ll be the first to admit that I’m not exactly a scrapper. I am, however, a sneaky little bastard when I have to be.

  I waited until I saw my assailant’s boot come into my field of vision and hooked it with my cane, yanking his leg out from underneath him. Whoever he was, he went down hard. I didn’t wait for him to try and get up. I swung the cane as hard as I could, right into my assailant’s yarbles.

  My attacker made a sound that was somewhere between a growl and a squeak, both hands instantly covering his junk.

  I got my feet under me and stood up. Now that I could actually see the guy, it dawned on me just how damned big he was. He made Waylon look small. He was seven feet tall with pale eyes and shoulder-length blond hair. He wore jeans and a plain black t-shirt, the fabric of which was stretched across a chest roughly the width of a small car. He had a beard, cut short, save for two long braids hanging down from his chin. He was already recovering, pulling himself to a seated position. I took two steps and swung my cane again, hitting him across the bridge of his nose. There was an audible crunch and a torrent of blood started pouring down over his beard.

  I wasn’t sure if he had much fight left in him, and I wasn’t entirely keen on sticking around and finding out. So I turned tail and hobbled back to my truck. I made it into the cab just as he was getting back to his feet, the entire lower half of his face hidden beneath a curtain of blood. Given that he was smiling, I’d seen just about everything I needed to confirm that in this case, cowardice was the better part of valor.

  I started the truck and slammed it into gear, flooring the gas. The tires squealed for a split second before they caught traction on the wet asphalt and sent me fishtailing through the parking lot. The big guy, who or whatever he was, got to his feet and started after me in a long, loping run. He was on an intercept course. I was in two thousand pounds of good old-fashioned American steel. If he wanted to play chicken, I was more than happy to oblige him.

  I stomped the gas, sending the truck squealing forward. My assailant, seeing my intent, adjusted his course and a second later, lowered his shoulder, driving it into the side of my truck. He hit hard enough to rock me up onto two wheels and send me sliding a good ten feet across the wet blacktop.

  When my tires caught again, I was on the sideways street, and fighting to straighten the wheel and get my truck back under control before I took out a few streetlights, and tore off through the streets of Asheville. I drove like that for a good five minutes, seething that he’d hurt my girl, completely ignoring speed limits, red lights, and praying that Asheville’s finest had better things to do on a weekday night than be on the lookout for half-inebriated speeders running for their lives from marauding giants.

  By the time I pulled myself together and the adrenaline had started fading, Abandon was a long way into my rear view. I pulled over and took a moment to breathe. My hands were shaking and the coppery taste of adrenaline filled my mouth. I pulled the bottle out from under my seat and took a long pull, letting the booze warm my gut and calm my nerves. I sat there for another minute and took a few more swallows from the bottle when my phone rang and shot another round of adrenaline into my system.

  “Jesus Christ!” I shouted on reflex.

  I picked it up and checked the number. I didn’t recognize it.

  “Yeah? Hello?”

  “Jonah? It’s Melly. I need your help.”

  “Uh, okay?” I said, checking my face in the rear view. My bandages were gone, exposing the stitches. I reached up, lightly touching them with my finger. It came away shiny with antibacterial ointment.

  “Can you pick me up?” she asked, voice quivering between rage and tears.

  “Hold on, what happened?” I asked.

  “Please, just pick me up.”

  “Alright, alright. Where are you?”

  “I can meet you outside of Izzy’s in ten minutes. Can you do that?”

  I knew the place she was talking. Izzy’s coffeehouse was a far cry from where I’d met Lysone, and was a lot more my speed.

  “Yeah, I can be there.”

  “Good,” she said and paused for a breath. “Thank you,” she added before hanging up the phone. I stared at it for a long moment then tossed it on the dashboard. I took another drink, shoved the bottle back under the seat, and then pulled away from the curb and back into the mostly nonexistent traffic.

  Melly was standing on the sidewalk just outside of Izzy’s when I pulled up. She was wearing jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, the hood up, strands of her hair falling in front of her face. She had her arms crossed over her chest and kept pacing a step or two in each direction before reversing course. She kept her eyes on the street. When she saw me pull up she hurried over to the passenger side door. I leaned over, unlocking it.

  “Thanks. I guess I owe you one,” she said, sliding up into the passenger seat and shutting the door.

  “Don’t mention it,” I said, “where to?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Just drive.”

  I turned towards her. She was on the edge of the seat, pressed against the door, watching the street.

  “Ooookay,” I said. “Anything you’d like to share?”

  She didn’t answer. Finally, I shrugged, put my truck in gear, and pulled out. We drove like that for the next ten minutes, neither of us saying anything and rolling along with no destination in mind. She kept the hood up, chewing absently at her thumb as I drove.

  “So, you want to tell me what’s going on?” I asked, finally.

  She turned towards me, sliding the hood back from her face. Her left cheek was swollen along the jawline, the normally pale skin already turning an angry purple.

  “Jesus,” I said. “The hell happened to you?”

  “Cash happened to me,” she said, turning her attention back to the passing scenery outside th
e window.

  “Carver? Cash Carver? He did that?”

  “Yeah,” she said.

  “You should see him,” she added with a weak smile.

  “Tell me what happened,” I said, “and how I can help.”

  Melly let out a long, slow sigh. Whatever had happened, it was obvious she wasn’t up for talking about it. She was putting up a strong front, but the way she kept looking out the window scanning the sidewalk, the other cars, said something serious had gone down. Whatever it was, it was something more than just a bruise on her cheek.

  “I need a place to stay for a day or two, at least until I figure something else out. Somewhere I don’t have to worry about Cash finding me. I didn’t want to take my car, just in case.”

  “I get that.”

  “Do you know somewhere? A hotel maybe?”

  “I can do you one better,” I said.

  Melly looked at me for a long second, one thin brow lifted.

  “Don’t get any ideas, Heywood.”

  “That’s not what I meant. I know a place you can stay,” I said, hoping that the warmth in my cheeks didn’t translate to color.

  “Seriously?”

  “Yep, and I’ll pay dearly for it.”

  Chapter 9

  We drove in silence, and while this whole situation bothered me, I didn’t want to push on Melly and dig for the details that she wasn’t ready to give. She looked like she’d been through enough without me badgering her. Instead, I played with the radio until I found the soothing tones of Zeppelin, Kansas, and BTO, and drove out of town to a small, one-story house in an equally small neighborhood about a mile off Lake Lure.

  The house, while older than most of the ones surrounding it, was in perfect repair and while not exactly cheery-looking from the outside, was cozy enough. Every shingle, painted the color of storm clouds, was in its place. The shutters on the two street-facing windows were a pristine, and equally spotless, white. A single cedar tree stood in a perfectly maintained front yard, a circle around its base filled with purple and white irises. The blue flickering light of a TV played across the window, flashing to white, then red. I parked across the street from the house and killed the engine, listening to it quietly tick.

  “And where are we exactly?” Melly asked, climbing out of the cab and coming around to the driver’s side.

  “My old man’s house.”

  “Oh,” she said. “And how is he going to feel about you bringing strange girls home in the middle of the night?”

  “I’m hoping he feels better about it now than he did when I was a teenager.”

  Melly snickered.

  “Lead the way, Romeo,” she said and I trudged through the yard up the two steps to my father’s front porch, and knocked on the door.

  “Yeah? Who is it?” my father’s voice called from the other side of the door.

  “It’s me, Pop,” I said, my voice sounding strained, even to me. It’d been a little while since I’d visited my old man, and guilt had coiled around my voice box. Now, here I was showing up unannounced, with a strange girl in tow.

  “Jonah?” my father asked. I heard him rummaging around inside, followed by a rather impressive string of muffled curses. There was the sound of the deadbolt being thrown open, and then the door to my childhood home swung open.

  My father isn’t what most people would consider intimidating. He’s around five six and checks in at around 130 pounds. Granted, it was 130 pounds of pure, stubborn tenacity and muscle that came from years of manual labor. His hair, in his younger days, had been a reddish brown, but over the years had become streaked through with silver. The same went for his beard, which could make a Viking jealous. He wore a tank top and jeans, leaving some of the tattoos that sleeved his arms and covered both sides of his chest exposed. Streaks of grease still stained his face from work.

  My father looked from me, to Melly, then back to me, and sighed.

  “Do you realize what time it is, boy?” he asked me, finally.

  “I know, I know. I’m sorry, Pop. It’s a long story.”

  “It usually is,” he said, stepping to the side and motioning us inside. “Well, c’mon in and start talking.”

  The living room was simple, like pretty much everything else in the house. A couch, a worn and sagging recliner, a table beside that, and a TV on a stand in the corner. Not one of those fancy flat screens either, one of those big box types. The only picture he had hung next to his recliner. It was faded, the frame scratched. It was a picture of him and my mother, me in his lap, my sister in hers. It was taken when I was maybe four or five, which would have made my sister eleven or twelve. It had been taken before shit had gone off the rails for my family, just a month or two before my sister had killed herself, and before my mother had cut and run, to grieve or whatever it is that caused her to bail on her family. Even now that picture was harder for me to look at than I cared to admit.

  “Suppose you want a cup of coffee?” my father asked me.

  “That’d be great.”

  My father looked at me, then the kitchen, then back at me.

  “I’ll get right on that,” I said, and wandered into the kitchen to create a little caffeinated magic.

  The kitchen was the same as the living room, sparse and simple. I could hear my father talking to Melly while I made the coffee.

  “I apologize for my son’s lack of manners. I assure you I raised him better than that, he just has a tendency to be an ass sometimes. Benjamin Heywood, friends call me Ben.”

  “Melissa Trovato,” I heard Melissa say. “Melly.” I quirked a brow. It was strange to hear her full name.

  I got two mugs out of the cabinet and poured them full of coffee, making sure to leave enough in the pot for my old man to get a refill if he so chose, lest there be hell to pay. After ensuring the sugar-to-milk ratio was correct, I spent a few minutes locked in an internal debate before ultimately deciding against adding a quick splash of something extra to my own cup of joe. Once everything was set and proper, I took both cups back into the living room. I put one on the table next to my father, who had retaken his vigil in the recliner, eyes bouncing between the two of us before he settled his eyes on Melly.

  “Alright, let’s hear it,” he said.

  I took a seat on the couch next to Melly and started nursing my coffee.

  “She needs a place to stay,” I said.

  My father leveled me with a flat gaze.

  “That right?” he asked, turning his attention back toward Melly, “I suppose it has something to do with that bruise on your cheek? Boyfriend?”

  “Actually, it’s not,” she said.

  My father took a long sip of his coffee, watching the two of us over the rim of his cup. Neither one of us said anything.

  “Well, if you want to sleep on my couch I need to know what I’m getting into. Spill. Otherwise,” he said, “there’s the door.”

  “He tried to rape me,” Melly said, finally. Her voice was quiet, barely above a whisper.

  There was a part of me that was angry, that much was true. There was another part of me that was disgusted that anyone would try to inflict that sort of trauma on another person. I wanted to say something, hell, say anything, but I wasn’t sure what. It wasn’t my place to take away from what had happened to Melly and turn it back towards me. So, I shut my mouth and let her tell the story however she needed to tell it. Out of all the ways I wanted to react, anger, disgust, some overprotective and self-serving sense of machismo, shutting up and listening felt right.

  “Tell me what happened,” my father said. There was something in my father’s voice that made Melly relax. I’m not sure what it was, but the girl I’d picked up less than hour ago seemed to vanish. In her place was the Melly I was used to.

  “I was closing the bar early. Cash came in, just before I locked up. He was stoned, all sorts of messed up. I don’t know, meth maybe.”

  “Cash? Cash Carver? Hank’s boy?” my father asked.

  She nod
ded. I wasn’t sure why, but I was a little surprised my old man knew the Carvers.

  “Always was something wrong with that boy,” he said.

  “Right, so. He was just all over the place. Tweaking,” she explained. “He followed me to the back, pushed me up against the wall. He had his hands all over me. When I tried to push him off, he punched me. I managed to grab a bottle, so I hit him hard enough to break it. He fell. He was bleeding. I ran and called Jonah. He was the first person I thought of.”

  “You’re not overflowing with options, are you?” my father asked.

  “Oh, he’s not that bad,” Melly said, smiling.

  “He has his moments, I suppose. So you need to stay here till this Cash fellow backs off, I take it?”

  “You realize I’m sitting right here, right?” I said.

  They ignored me.

  “I just need somewhere to stay for a few days, if that’s okay?”

  My father looked over at me and stared for a long second before turning his attention back to Melly.

  “I suppose it should be,” he said finally. “Bathroom’s down the hall. You can freshen up there. I’ll see if I can track down a spare blanket and a pillow for you.”

  My father waited until Melly was in the bathroom and he could hear water running, before he turned his attention back on me.

  “So, you wanna tell me what happened to you?”

  “I had a disagreement,” I said.