Sue assumed that once Bill was arrested, Abby would decide against leaving. But the opposite was true. Bill’s assault on the driver—the fact that he’d been willing to hold a bus full of children at gunpoint—only convinced Abby that her ex-husband was capable of the worst. Bill would hire the top criminal lawyer in the country and be out on bail within a week.
Abby took one more look at the brood of kids.
Tom and Reid were pretend sword fighting with the stakes, and Ally was feeding Cody a berry that somehow hadn’t gotten consumed by birds or bears. For a moment, Abby thought about stepping in; Tom’s thrusts looked especially vicious. But Reid seemed to be holding his own, and after all, Abby wasn’t either boy’s mother. It took a village, but her role as villager hadn’t been fully determined yet.
She couldn’t help wondering about the two missing moms. Kurt’s wife had clearly died: he’d hinted at a grief too deep to share, and Abby held out hope that she could coax him to a greater level of intimacy. It wasn’t Kurt’s looks that drew her, although that dark hair did appear thick enough to lose your fingers in. Abby hadn’t expected this—a utopian singles meet-up—especially not so soon after leaving Bill. But she and Kurt had a connection she’d never experienced with anyone else. In a few scant days, he’d learned things about her that even Bill hadn’t figured out.
The story with Paul was more opaque. Aside from a clipped revelation that his wife would never support what they were doing, Paul hadn’t mentioned Reid and Ally’s mother, although the kids talked about her a lot.
Abby switched her attention back to Cody, whose mouth was bright with berry juice. In addition to being a natural-born teacher, Ally clearly had a gift with flora. She would know what was safe to let Cody eat, and what wasn’t. No need for Abby’s supervision.
Abby turned and walked back to the front of the barn so she could pick up where she had left off, stacking sandwiches on a platter. Peanut butter tonight. Again. They had sixty cartons, each containing twelve jars of all-natural peanut butter, which must have been a real drag to lug in.
The food was the not-surprising part of this place. In fact, it was about what you’d expect in terms of bare-bones monotony when trying to feed a bevy of people with no new supplies arriving. It was supposed to get better. Paul had promised it would. Plus, there were a few slightly more exciting wares, canned goods, home-jarred fruits and veggies, boxes of jerky, which the women had told her were to be saved for the real depths of winter. For now there were still wild onions to forage, mushrooms, greens, and flowers, which Abby figured even the children would come to regard as treats.
The night she and Cody finally got to leave, Abby had run around the condo, grabbing the scant supplies she had off cupboard shelves and shoving them into bags. Terry had stockpiled these things as a just-in-case for winter, but she wouldn’t let Abby serve them to the children.
“But granola bars are healthy,” Abby had protested.
Terry had reached for the box, pointing out three sources of sugar in the ingredients, not to mention the soy.
“Soy’s bad for you?” Abby had asked skeptically. “It’s in tofu!”
“Tofu’s quite possibly the single worst thing you could put in your body,” Terry had replied calmly. “You may as well eat a McDonald’s hamburger.”
Abby’s thoughts flew to the Happy Meal Cody had gobbled down the night before.
“Tofu was never meant to be a food,” Terry went on.
Abby had begun to talk about Chinese and Japanese people, soy sauce, but Terry seemed to anticipate her line of argument. “Asians eat small amounts of fermented soy,” she’d said. “In their native countries, Asian people would never eat tofu. It’s an American abomination because soybeans are a cheap and hearty crop.”
Despite their slight level of nuttiness, Abby already liked Terry and Katrina. Terry was a devoted caretaker of the infant another woman had arrived with, the baby now sleeping now in a sunny patch of barn, dust motes twirling in a shaft above her curlicue of a body. And Katrina had her own baby strapped to her chest, although Abby had yet to see it.
“What do you think that noise was?” Abby asked, taking two sandwiches out of Terry’s full hands and adding them to the stack on the platter.
“It was awfully loud,” Katrina said, adjusting the bundle on her chest. “Almost sounded like a—”
“They’re working down at the falls,” Terry interrupted. “They might’ve had to set off an explosive.”
“An explosive?” Abby said.
Terry shrugged. “Do you know anything about building a hydro-powered energy source?”
“I do,” Katrina said. “And I can tell you that either it isn’t possible for two men to do at that scale, or else what is possible wouldn’t require any explosives.” She paused to touch her baby tenderly. “Plus, Paul would be working with the environment, not exploiting it.”
Katrina was one of those women who seemed like she could do everything. Today she had boiled down some thimbleberries she’d harvested—a variety that apparently tended to be left after the animals had eaten everything else—and made jam. She was spreading the mixture on the sandwiches now, reaching underneath her sling every now and then to make sure her baby was latched on.
A noise came from behind the sling; it almost sounded like mama. Abby recalled Cody’s earliest days with an inner smile. How lucky Katrina was to have the first word, maybe even the first smile, all of that still ahead of her.
Platter filled, Terry lofted it and brought it over to the table. There was a dilapidated farmhouse on this piece of land, structurally sound but in need of repair, and several salvaged pieces had been moved to the barn. Paul and Kurt had sanded down a door for a table and laid it over two barrels. Another barrel was being turned into a rainwater catchment system. For now they were purifying water from the creek, but the iodine tablets made it taste terrible.
Katrina reached down absently and plugged the baby’s mouth again. She had made burdock tea and she poured some now for Abby and Terry, as nimbly as if she didn’t have ten extra pounds stuck to her chest.
“Maybe there’s a thunderstorm building,” Katrina suggested, handing around the mugs.
Abby glanced toward the barn door, which had been left partway open. “Looks pretty nice out.”
“It’s always nice here,” Terry said. “Until it’s not.”
“That’s true,” Katrina said. “Which reminds me. How are they doing with the woodstove?” She gestured to the place in the barn where it was supposed to be installed. Heating this vast space—used for tasks ranging from food preparation to furniture assembly—was priority number one. After that, the decrepit farmhouse would be tackled. “I was freezing this morning, and so was Carthage.” She reached down and touched the baby.
“It’ll warm up again before real cold sets in,” Terry said decisively. “They have a little time. Power is more important. They’ll need it for tools before any building can begin.”
Abby sipped her tea. “We should probably call the children in. They must be starving.”
“I’ll do it,” Terry said. “I have to get Dorothy’s bottle ready anyway.”
“Isn’t her name Dorothea?” Abby asked.
Terry glanced at her. “I always shrink at difficult names for kids. Gives them such a trip in life. No offense, Katrina.”
Katrina sat back easily against the rough barn boards. She stroked the lump under the sling. “None taken. Carthage is a family name. And it lets us escape the whole gender imposition thing.”
Terry headed for a cooler that was stored in a root cellar on the other side of the barn. “Anyway, Dorothy seems a better choice to me. Let’s just call her that.”
Katrina rose, and as she did the baby on her chest slid out of the sling. Abby let out a yelp, trying to dive for it, until the sight before her resolved.
The baby wasn’t falling out of the sling; he—or it could’ve been a she with that gossamer froth of hair—was climbing out. Extr
icating him- or herself from the wrap of cloth before standing up on the floor. This wasn’t any baby, or even a toddler; instead, it was a good-sized preschooler.
Katrina hoisted the child into her arms as she sent Abby a calm, tolerant look. “Children are forced into independence so early in our culture.” She glanced down tenderly. Now that it wasn’t curled beneath the sling like a larva, the child actually overlapped a large portion of Katrina’s body. “These years we’ve had to breastfeed have been so special, especially once Carthage could really communicate.”
Abby was trying to come up with a reply when the door to the barn slid back with a solid thud and sunlight filled the new space, only to be blocked by a body.
Kurt had come back. He looked a mess, soaked and muddy.
“The children should be fed now and put to bed in here,” he said.
Kurt gestured to a neat row of sleeping bags, rolled like slugs on the far side of the barn. They had spent several hours cleaning the bedrooms and living room of the farmhouse, making them habitable for sleeping. But there seemed to be an unspoken desire to stay together, sharing their warmth in one communal sleeping space in the barn. Blankets were laid out on the floor, touching one another in a connected mesh. The children also enjoyed camping out under the stars.
As if reading her thoughts, Kurt went on in his mild tone. “No campouts tonight. In fact, don’t let the children out for any reason. No one can be on the grounds. Is that understood?”
Abby watched Terry and Katrina nod in unison.
“Paul is finishing up by the pond,” Kurt went on. “Don’t wait for him.”
Carthage started circling in Kurt’s direction, but something made him suddenly swerve off course. Not him. Carthage had to be a she. She began to whimper, clambering up Katrina’s body like a ladder.
Kurt was studying them. “You keep that child close to you, don’t you?”
Katrina inclined her head in a shy nod. The brusque, confident woman was gone. She looked younger, smaller even, eager to please.
“Give it an identity of its own,” Kurt said. “And if you ever put it in that contraption again, I will cut it off your body, along with your breast. Is that also understood?”
Katrina’s face went a sickly white.
“Good,” Kurt said. “I’ll send the children in now. And ladies …?”
They all looked up at once.
“This door will be locked from the outside.”
CHAPTER FIFTY
Liz bolted for the stairs with the bag, her mother-in-law’s voice a distant, seashell rush.
“It doesn’t have a key,” Mary said. “Perhaps we can pick the lock—”
“I’ve got it,” Liz shouted over her shoulder.
She snatched up the key from a little dish on her bedside table. A place for special things, mementoes. The key had felt like a last tangible link to Paul, and thus to her children, though she’d lost hope of ever using it.
Liz inserted the key into the slit in the box, gave a twist, and lifted the lid.
Crushed inside, barely able to fit, was a pillow.
Liz lifted it out, not with an air of wonder or closure—Ah, so that was it all along—but instead cloaked by pure bafflement. Only what had she expected? A treasure map to Paul and the Shoemaker’s lair with an X marking the spot? Maybe not that, but bedclothes certainly would’ve been even lower on the list.
The pillow was thin and flat, not only from being crammed into a box, but also because it was made of cheap foam with little loft. The pillowcase was polyester in an ugly calamine pink.
Liz suddenly released the fabric as if it were burning.
She began to back away, staring at the pillow as if it had the potential to harm her.
As if it had the potential to kill.
She walked to the bedroom door on numb feet, the vile artifact held out in front of her. In the hall, she met the sloped form of her mother-in-law. Liz came to a sudden stop.
On Mary’s face was the expression of understanding that had been missing from her own.
Liz thrust out the pillow, and her mother-in-law reared back as if a pistol had been shoved into her face.
Or a different sort of murder weapon.
Marjorie had told Liz how it had happened, that Michael Brady had been smothered to death in the hospital the night before he was supposed to be moved to rehab. He was going to live out the rest of his days ensnared by tubes and machines.
This was the pillow Coach Allgood had used to put Michael out of his misery.
The cloth sheath was hospital pink, and now that Liz had put the pieces together, it was clear that this pillow had never graced someone’s bedroom, or any place a person would sleep voluntarily. It was another macabre piece of Paul’s memorial, a form of tribute that couldn’t be left outside in the elements.
“How did you get this lockbox?” Liz asked. “Did you know what was inside?”
Mary fought to straighten. “Paul gave the box to me all those years ago. He asked me to hold on to it for him.” A pause. “But no. I never tried to open it.” A longer break before she spoke again. “I suppose Paul knew that I wouldn’t.”
“Why did Paul have the pillow Allgood used to kill Michael Brady?”
Mary’s gaze snagged hers. “Coach Allgood didn’t use that pillow.”
The floor seemed to pitch and slant beneath Liz’s feet, tilting like the deck on a ship. “He didn’t?”
Mary shook her head, a slow, jerky back and forth.
“What did he use, then?” Liz asked. “And why did Paul have this?”
It took a moment for Liz to recognize the look on Mary’s face. It was the expression someone wore just before they were about to be sick. “Paul had that pillow,” Mary said, pausing as if to swallow something back, “because Mr. Allgood didn’t kill poor Michael.”
Rocking underfoot again.
Liz looked at Mary, though she suddenly sensed that she might not want to.
“Paul did,” she said.
Mary’s whole body sagged as if the disclosure had scooped her out inside. She steadied herself against the door frame. “I’m sorry,” she said in her whispery, spider-thread voice. “I shouldn’t have—I never should have told you that.” Mary pressed a hand to her lips, too late to hold any words in. “If I had known what was in the lockbox, I wouldn’t have come.”
She turned and began making her way downstairs.
Liz was trying to take in the loss of the level ground she had only just staked out when she realized that Mary’s rare emergence was about to come to an end. Her mother-in-law would scuttle back into her home and never be seen again. Liz began running, following Mary’s route.
Mary got to the driveway just as Liz reached the front hall.
Through the window Liz saw her mother-in-law place one foot on the ridged step of the pickup truck before summoning the strength to hoist herself inside.
Liz yanked the door open.
Mary sat down in the truck, staring out into the night without seeming to see anything. The engine started with a choke.
“Mary!” Liz cried. “Wait!”
Tires ground up the gravel as her mother-in-law began to navigate the curving drive in reverse. Liz took the porch steps as one, then raced after the truck. She reached the hood and thumped on it. Mary braked, startled. She rolled down the window.
Liz looked into the cab of the truck.
“Elizabeth,” Mary said quietly. “No more, please. That secret wasn’t mine to reveal.” She clamped both hands around the steering wheel. “And I can’t see that it helps you anyway. I should’ve checked the box myself before coming.”
Liz thrust her hand into the truck. She wanted to stop Mary from sealing herself up inside. Or maybe she just wanted to make contact.
The truck’s motor died. Liz couldn’t tell whether Mary had turned it off, or whether the engine had simply given up. Either way, her mother-in-law started to speak in a river rush.
“Coach Allgood arrive
d at the hospital right after Paul did it,” Mary said. “Folks were keeping a round-the-clock vigil, and the coach’s shift followed Paul’s.”
Liz stared up at the moonless sky, hoping the dark would mask her tears.
“Mr. Allgood stepped in,” Mary continued, her own cheeks glistening. “What a good man. He sent Paul away like he’d never been there at all. I suspect he must’ve felt he was responsible.”
“Yes,” Liz whispered. “He did.”
A current of air moved across the night.
“Matthew said that the coach wasn’t, though,” Mary said, a hiss to her whisper. “He told Paul that he should be held accountable for his actions, both accidental and deliberate. But Mr. Allgood believed that Paul was going to accomplish great things, and that his freedom needed to be preserved.”
Liz swiped angrily at her eyes. Had Matthew been a father whom Paul counted on for counsel, perhaps Paul would’ve heeded his advice to confess. The coach wouldn’t have had to give up his life for a crime he didn’t commit, and Paul wouldn’t have gotten away with murder, which ensured that he’d never truly be free again.
Mary shifted on the plank of seat, and when she spoke there was a deep thrum to her voice. “I vowed to protect the coach’s sacrifice. No one would ever learn the truth. Until tonight, neither Matthew nor I have ever mentioned the accident, or what followed.”
It was like watching a rind peel away, revealing the full flesh and color of the fruit beneath. Suddenly Liz heard Mary telling Matthew to let Liz into the farmhouse, informing him that Liz would have to spend the night. It was Mary who had accepted the invitation to their wedding, and Mary who structured the visits, rare as they were, with Ally and Reid.
Mary who had driven here tonight.
Whose hunched back hid iron.
What had Mary done when her son finally made his way back home?
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