by John Hart
Some of the old steel flashed in her eyes. “It means that I will breathe the same air as you, and keep my tongue still. It means that I will tolerate the presence, in my home, of a liar and a killer. Don’t mistake it for anything other than that. Don’t you ever.” She held my eyes for a long moment, then fished a cigarette from a pack on the table beside her. She lit it with trembling hands, twisted her lips to blow the smoke sideways. “Tell your daddy I was civil.”
I gave her one last look and went inside. Dolf met me and I hooked a thumb toward the closed door. “Janice,” I said.
He nodded. “I don’t think she’s slept since you came back into town.”
“She looks bad.”
An eyebrow shot up. “She accused her husband’s son of murder. You cannot imagine the hell those two have endured.”
His words stopped me. In all this time, I’d not once considered what the trial had done to them as a couple. In my mind, I’d always seen them as unchanged.
“But your father put her on notice. He told her that their marriage would be in the most severe danger she could imagine if she did anything but make you feel welcome.”
“I guess she tried,” I said. “What’s going on in there?”
“Come on.” I followed Dolf through the kitchen and into the living room. My father was there, along with a man I’d never seen. He was in his sixties, with white hair above an expensive suit. Both men rose as we entered. My father held out his hand. I hesitated, then shook it. He was trying. I had to acknowledge that.
“Adam,” he said. “Glad to have you back. Everything okay? We went to the sheriff’s department but couldn’t find you.”
“Everything’s fine. I stayed with Grace last night.”
“But they told us . . . never mind. I’m glad she had you there. This is Parks Templeton, my attorney.”
We shook hands and he nodded as if something important had been decided. “Good to meet you, Adam. I’m sorry that I didn’t make it to the police station in time last night. Your father called as soon as you left with Detective Grantham, but it’s an hour up here from Charlotte; and then I went to the sheriff’s office. I expected to find you there.”
“They took me to Salisbury P.D. as a courtesy. Because of what happened five years ago.”
“I suspect that was not entirely true.”
“I don’t understand.”
“If I could not find you, that gave them extra time alone with you. I’m not surprised.” I thought back to my time in the interview room, the first thing that Robin had said to me.
It was my idea.
“They knew you’d come?” I asked.
“Me or someone like me. Your father had me on the phone before you were off the property.”
“I don’t need a lawyer,” I said.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” my father said. “Of course you do. Besides, he’s here for the family as well.”
Parks spoke. “A body was found on the property, Adam, discovered in an out-of-the-way place that few people know about. They’ll be looking at everyone, and they’ll be looking hard. Some people may try to take advantage of the situation to pressure your father.”
“You really believe that?” I asked.
“It’s a six-tower nuclear facility and it’s an election year. The forces at work are beyond anything you can imagine—”
My father interrupted. “You’re overstating things, Parks.”
“Am I?” the lawyer asked. “The threats have been graphic, but up until yesterday they were just threats. Grace Shepherd was attacked. A young man is dead, and none of us know the reason why. Putting your head in the sand now won’t make it go away.”
“I refuse to accept that corruption spreads as thickly in this county as you’d have us believe.”
“It’s not just the county, Jacob. It’s Charlotte. Raleigh. Washington. Nothing remotely like this has happened in decades.”
My father waved the comment away, and Dolf spoke up. “That’s why you called Parks, isn’t it? Let him do the doubting for you.”
“There will be an investigation,” Parks said. “This is the match dropping, right here. It’s going to get hot. Reporters will be all over this place.”
“Reporters?” I asked.
“Two came to the main house,” my father said. “That’s why we’re here.”
“You should put a man on the gate,” I said.
“Yes,” Parks said. “A white man, not a migrant. Someone that cleans up well and knows how to be respectful but firm. If this is going to be on the news, I want the face of Middle America staring out.”
“Jesus.” Dolf sat down in disgust.
“If the police or anyone else wants to talk about anything, you direct them to me. That’s what I’m here for. That’s what you’re paying me for.”
My father looked at Dolf. “Do it,” he said.
Parks pulled a chair from the card table by the window and dragged it across the rug. He sat in front of me. “Now, tell me about last night. I want to know what they asked you and I want to know what you said.”
I told him, and the other men listened. He asked about the river, about Grace. He wanted to know what was said between us. I repeated what I said to the cops. “It’s not relevant,” I told him.
“That’s for me to judge,” he said, and waited for my answer.
It was a small thing, I knew, but not to Grace; so I looked out the window.
“This is not helpful,” the attorney said.
I shrugged.
I drove into town to buy something nice for Grace, but changed my mind by the time I hit the city limit. Danny did not attack Grace; that had finally sunk in. That meant that whoever did was still out there. Maybe it was Zebulon Faith. Maybe not. But shopping would get me no closer to an answer.
I thought of the woman I’d seen in the blue canoe. She’d been with Grace moments before the attack. She’d been on the river. Maybe she’d seen something. Anything.
What was her name again?
Sarah Yates.
I stopped at the first pay phone I saw. Someone had ripped the cover off of the phone book, and many of the pages were torn, but I found the listings for Yates. There was less than a page of them. I scanned for a Sarah Yates but there was no such listing. I ran down the names more slowly. Margaret Sarah Yates was on the second column. I had no plan to call.
I drove to the historic district and parked in the shade of hundred-year-old trees. The house was all about tall columns, black shutters, and wisteria vines as thick as my wrist. The door was armored by two hundred years of lead paint and had a brass knocker shaped like a swan’s head. When the door opened, it was as if the wall had shifted. The crack that appeared and then widened was at least twelve feet tall; the woman standing in it looked more like five. A smell of dried orange peels rolled over me.
“May I help you?” Age had bent the woman’s back, but her features were sharp. Dark eyes appraised me from beneath light makeup and white, lacquered hair. Seventy-five, I guessed, trim in a tailored suit. Diamonds flashed at ears and throat, while behind her, an antique silk runner stretched off into a world of serious money.
“Good morning, ma’am. My name is Adam Chase.”
“I know who you are, Mr. Chase. I admire what your father is doing to protect this town from the greed and shortsightedness of others. We need more men like him.”
I was momentarily undone by her frankness. Not many women would stand and chat with a stranger once tried for murder. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m trying to contact a woman named Sarah Yates. I thought that she might live here.”
The warmth dropped off of her face. The dark eyes hardened and the teeth disappeared. Her hand moved up on the door. “There is no one here by that name.”
“But your name—”
“My name is Margaret Yates.” She paused, and her eyelids flickered. “Sarah is my daughter.”
“Do you know—”
“I have not spoken to Sara
h in more than twenty years.”
She put some of her weight on the door. “Ma’am, please. Do you know where I can find Sarah? It’s important.”
The door stopped moving. She pursed dry lips. “Why do you want her?”
“Someone I care about was attacked. It’s possible that Sarah saw something that could help me find who did it.”
Mrs. Yates considered, then waved a hand vaguely. “She’s in Davidson County, last I heard. Over across the river.”
I could shoot an arrow from Red Water Farm and hit Davidson County on the other side of the river. But it was a big county. “Any idea where?” I asked. “It really is important to me.”
“If this porch were the bright center of the world, Mr. Chase, then Sarah would have found the place farthest from it.” I opened my mouth, but she cut me off. “The darkest, farthest place.” She took one step back.
“Any message?” I asked. “Assuming that I find her.”
The small body sagged, and the emotion that touched her face was as soft and quick as a moth’s wing beating once. Then the spine locked and the eyes snapped up, brittle and tight. Blue veins swelled beneath the paper skin, and her words popped like dry grass burning. “It’s never too late to repent. You tell her that.”
She crowded me and I stepped back; she followed me out, finger up and eyes gone crazy-bright.
“You tell her to beg our Lord Jesus Christ for forgiveness.”
I found the stairs.
“You tell her,” she said, “that hellfire is eternal.”
Her face overflowed with some unknowable emotion, and she pointed at my right eye as the fire in her voice snapped once more then died. “You tell her.”
Then she turned for the great mouth of a door, and by the time it inhaled her, she was a much older woman.
I drove down shaded lanes and left the armored walls behind me. Thick lawns dwindled to weed and earth as I hit the poor side of town. Houses grew short and narrow and flaked, then I was through and onto long roads that ran wild into the country. I crossed into Davidson County, the bridge humming beneath me. I saw the long, slow brown, and a fat man with no shirt drinking beer on the shore. Two kids with stained lips picked blackberries from a thicket on the roadside.
I stopped at a bait shop, found an S. Yates in the phone book and tracked down the address. The drive pierced a dense tree line eight miles from the nearest traffic light. I made the turn, and the drive straightened into a long descent toward the river. I came out of the trees and saw the bus, which sat on blocks under a gnarled oak. It was pale purple with faded flowers painted on the sides. In front of it, fifteen acres had been cleared and cultivated.
I got out of the car.
The bus shifted as someone moved inside. A man stepped down onto the bare dirt. He was in his sixties, wearing cutoff jeans, untied boots, and no shirt. He was sunburned and lean, with gray hair on his chest, small, callused hands, and dirty nails. Long, gray hair, either damp or unwashed, framed a lined, brown face. He moved sideways, one arm bent, and his smile stretched wide.
“Hey, man. What’s happening?” He walked to me. The smell of burned marijuana hung on him.
“Adam Chase,” I said, holding out my hand.
“Ken Miller.”
We shook hands. Up close, the smell was stronger: earth, sweat, and pot. His eyes were red, his teeth large and yellow and perfectly straight. He looked from me to the car and I saw him take in the word gouged into the hood. He pointed. “Bummer, man.”
“I’m looking for Sarah Yates.” I gestured at the bus. “She at home?”
He laughed. “Oh, hey man.” The laughter grew in him. One hand rose, palm out, the other cupped his stomach. He bent at the waist, trying to speak through the laughter. “No, man. You got it all wrong. Sarah lives through there, in the big house.” He got control of himself and pointed toward the next tree line. “She just lets me crash here, you know. I take care of the garden. Help her out when she needs it. She pays me a little, lets me crash.”
I looked at the field of green. “That’s a lot of work to sleep in a bus.”
“No, this is cool. No phone, no hassles. Easy living. But I’m really here for the education.”
I looked a question at him.
“Sarah’s an herbalist,” he stated.
“A what?”
“A healer.” He waved an arm at the long rows of plants in the field. “Dandelion weed, chamomile, thyme, sage, catnip.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Holistics, man.”
I pointed to the other side of the clearing, where a gap broke the trees. “Through there?”
“The big house. Straight up.”
The big house was about fifteen hundred square feet, a log home with a green tin roof streaked orange at the edges. The logs had weathered gray; the chinking looked like river bottom. I parked behind a van with a bumper sticker on the back that said, GODDESS BLESS.
Shadows filled the porch and my skin chilled as I crossed to the door. I knocked, doubting that she was home. The cabin had that empty feel, and there was no canoe at the dock. I looked over the river, trying to guess exactly where we were. I put the location somewhere north of the farm; couple miles maybe. I walked down to the dock.
There was a wheelchair there, and I stared for a long second. It looked very out of place. I sat down on the dock to wait. It took about twenty minutes. She rounded the northern bend in an easy slide, the bow sweeping in, the current taking the stern out until she caught it with a firm stroke.
I stood, and the sense of knowing her welled up. She was an attractive woman, with ageless skin and a direct gaze. She locked it upon me when she was ten feet out, and did not look away, even as the canoe sidled up against the side of the dock.
I took the rope from her hand and tied it off on a cleat. She lay the paddle down and studied me. “Hello, Adam,” she said.
“Do I know you?”
She flashed small teeth. “No, you don’t.” She waved a hand. “Now step back.” She put her hands on the side of the dock and heaved herself up, turning so that she sat on the edge. Her legs twisted away beneath her, thin, lifeless sticks in loose jeans worn, in places, to the color of sand. I saw wasted skin at the ankles.
“Can I help you?” I asked.
“Of course not.” Anger snapped in her voice, so that she sounded very much like her mother. She pushed herself back and her legs slid lifelessly behind her. She grabbed the arms of the wheelchair and pulled herself into the seat. She reached down for one of her legs, then fastened those lamplight eyes on me. “No need to stare, young man.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, and looked for something of interest on the other side of the river. I could sense her behind me, working to position her feet and legs.
“No harm in it, I guess. I don’t see people that often. Sometimes, I forget there’s something to stare at.”
“You handle a canoe better than most.”
“It’s my only real exercise. Now, that’s better.” I turned around. She was situated in her chair. “Let’s go up to the house.” Her hands gripped the wheel rims and she turned without waiting for an answer. She propelled the chair uphill with strong, abrupt strokes. At the cabin, she turned for the rear. “Ramp’s in the back,” she said. Inside, she maneuvered to the refrigerator and pulled out a pitcher. “Tea?”
“Sure.”
I watched as she handled the job with economical precision. Glasses in low cupboards. Ice from a separate freezer. I looked around the cabin. It had a large central room dominated by a fieldstone fireplace; the stones were brown and irregular, probably cleared from the soil beyond the trees. The space was spartan and clean. She handed me a glass. “I can’t abide sugar,” she said.
“That’s okay.”
She rolled for the front door, spoke over her shoulder. “Did you meet Ken on the way in?” she asked.
We went outside. I took a chair and sipped tea that was raw and bitter. “Interesting man.”
&n
bsp; “Once upon a time, he made more money than you’d believe. Seven figures in a year, sometimes. Then something changed. He gave it all to his kids and asked me if he could live out here for a while. That was six years ago. The canoe was his idea.”
“Unusual place to live.”
“It was there when I bought the place. I lived in it myself until I got the cabin built.” She reached up and pulled a joint from her shirt pocket. She lit it with a cheap lighter, sucked in a deep breath, and let the smoke run out over her pale pink lips. She offered it to me and I declined. “Suit yourself,” she said, and I watched her take another toke, how she sucked in multiple, small breaths, tightened her jaw before exhaling.
She settled lower in the wheelchair, studied the bright world with a contented air. “So, you know Grace?” I asked.
“Fine girl. We talk from time to time.”
“Do you sell her pot?”
“Goodness, no. I’d never sell pot to that girl. Not in a million years.” She took another drag, and when she spoke, her words were compressed. “I give it to her.” There was laughter in her face. “Oh, don’t look so serious. She’s old enough to know her own mind.”
“She was attacked the other day, you know. Right after the last time you saw her.”
“Attacked?”
“Beaten badly. It happened a half mile south of the dock. I was hoping that you might have seen something. A man in a boat or on the trail. Anything like that.”
The laughter vanished, and bleakness settled in the place it had been. “Is she okay?”
“She will be. She’s in the hospital.”
“I went north,” she said. “I saw nothing unusual.”
“Does Ken Miller know who she is?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know him well?”
She waved a hand. “He’s harmless.”
She pulled one more time on the joint, and when the smoke left her lungs it carried much of her vitality with it. “Nice car,” she said, but the words had no meaning. The car just happened to be in her field of vision.
“How do you know me?” I asked. Her eyes cut my way, but she didn’t answer.
“Tell me how you found me,” she said instead.