In a Dark Season

by Vicki Lane

  “I thought you said the place had been locked all this time,” Phillip broke in. “And only Miss Barrett and the sheriff’s department have the keys—”

  “Exactly,” said Mackenzie Blaine. He opened a door on the farther wall. “Three—no, four—small rooms through here, one leading to the other. Stacks of magazines, no furniture. Probably kids’ rooms, in the days when the whole family lived in this end of the building.”

  “Is there a bathroom back there?” Elizabeth knew what a rare commodity indoor plumbing had been in the county at least until the seventies, when there had been an effort to nudge homeowners and landlords toward installing septic tanks.

  “No bathroom, not nohow, not nowhere.” Blaine grinned at her. “There’s an old zinc tub hanging on the back porch. And down that path behind the house is what used to be an outhouse, till it burned. When I was doing some research on this place and Revis’s death, I came across a reference to the fire trucks responding to a call from here. The old outhouse was on fire and it was completely destroyed. It was written off as a prank. And Revis didn’t have long to be inconvenienced by its loss, because he was dead a week later.”

  Phillip laid a hand on her arm. “Lizabeth, did that Blake fella mention that Miss Barrett’s niece and her boyfriend paid a call on him this morning?”

  Elizabeth stared at him. “How did you know that? Yes, he did, just as we were leaving. Said it was a red-letter day, with so many young women calling on him. And then he said something about a bond he shared with Nola’s niece. A sad bond, he called it. And something about hoping there would be time to see justice done. But then he kind of went all distant and very politely hustled us out the door.”

  “Blake’s funny that way.” The sheriff removed a glove and began to run his fingers along the top of the rustic mantel. “He was hanging around when we were removing those remains from the silo. Finally I went over and asked him if he remembered anything unusual going on around the silo eleven years back. Stupid question, I know, but his reaction was pretty interesting. His eyes started to tear up, behind those Coke-bottle-bottom glasses of his and he kind of muttered something about bad boys running wild that year. Then he shuffled away, still mumbling to himself. I thought I caught the words ‘One more.’”

  Chapter 24

  Desperately Seeking

  Saturday, December 23

  Elizabeth followed Phillip and Mackenzie through the old house, silently listening as Mackenzie pointed out the original structure beneath the recent accretions. The odd feeling that had come over her on first entering the hallway had gone, but the strange sense of almost hearing the sounds and almost smelling the odors of a time long past teased and danced just at the edge of her consciousness. It would be so easy to close my eyes and imagine what it was like—but I don’t really want to. I don’t think this was ever a happy place, in spite of all that laughter.

  The solid reality of the two men beside her and the unchecked flow of their speculations and theories were a comforting anchor to the present as the three of them came once more into that claustrophobic hall and passed quickly through the door to the back porch.

  As Mackenzie turned to snap the padlock back into place, once again the dolls, shivering and twisting in the chill breeze, caught her eye.

  “Mackenzie, I have a favor to ask.”

  Neither Phillip nor the sheriff so much as smiled at her request. Mackenzie gently cut the wretched little dolls down, handling them gravely to her, one by one. This is ridiculous—but I can’t just leave them here. Maybe when we pass by the collection center— But she knew that, after years of seeing the dolls not as lifeless rubber toys but as piteous tormented creatures, she couldn’t toss them into a bin to lie amid rotting garbage. No, no more than she could have thrown away the much-loved toy dog that had been her bedmate for much of her childhood and now reposed in state in a trunk with her grandmother’s wedding dress. The Velveteen Rabbit syndrome appears to work, not just for inanimate objects you love, but also for ones you pity.

  “Thanks, Mackenzie, I really appreciate it. These things have given me the creeps for years. It’ll be nice not to have to see them hanging there anymore.”

  She shoved the trio of dolls into her denim shoulder bag, trying to act as if they were just some litter that she would eventually dispose of in a responsible manner. I’ll probably have to bury the bloody things with bell, book, and candle—my god, Elizabeth, are you on your way to becoming a very strange old lady or what?

  “Take your time visiting Miss Barrett.” Phillip pulled into a slot in the Layton Facility’s parking lot. Cutting the ignition, he reached behind his seat, pulled out a small newspaper, and flapped it open. “I picked up the latest issue of the Guardian and it’ll keep me occupied for a while—I’ll be interested to see what kind of coverage they gave that public meeting where the Hummer got torched. Plus I always get a kick out of the letters to the editor. All the news that fits, as they say.”

  “I probably won’t be long—Nola tries hard to communicate but it wears her out way too quickly.” Leaning over, Elizabeth swiped his ear with a hasty kiss before heading for the Layton Facility’s front door.

  Alone, alone, all all alone. Michelle, not belle, horribelle Michelle. Stay away all the day—

  Nola Barrett lay motionless in her bed. Behind her closed eyes, unruly thoughts swooped and darted like startled birds, buffeted by the blare of the television and the unwelcome odor of untouched and congealing food on the tray beside her bed.

  A soft voice was riding on the raucous sound of the chattering, mindless box that flickered on the wall. “Hey, Nola, it’s Elizabeth.”

  Nola opened her eyes. A friend in need, a friend indeed. Elizabeth’s tall form stood beside her bed, stretching out a hand.

  I will not be nil. I will not— Focusing all her attention and willpower on the inert mass that was her limp left arm, Nola struggled to clasp Elizabeth’s hand. Find the words!

  As Elizabeth’s strong hand took gentle hold of her trembling fingers, Nola bent her will to calling forth and ordering the words that beat against the bars of her mind. She clung to the calloused hand and croaked, “No pills, I will not be nil!”

  Panting with the exertion of forcing her tongue along an uncharted path, Nola pulled Elizabeth’s hand toward the farther side of her bed and guided it to the hidden tablets.

  “Whose pills these are, I do not know.” It was easier to let the poet help her speak, but now she must form her plea unaided.

  “What’s this, Nola?” Elizabeth pulled loose the small white tablets and peered at them. “Are you spitting out your pills?”

  “They. Are. Ill.”

  Each word was a battle to be fought, a child to be birthed in slow, agonizing labor. But Elizabeth’s blue eyes were intent and Elizabeth was listening…

  “Pill. Makes. Nil.”

  Elizabeth seemed to be considering. Would she understand? One more effort must be undertaken. Beat back the circling, swarming, scattering, chattering words and choose.

  “‘Throw physic to the dogs; I’ll none of it.’”

  “Nola was trying very hard to tell me something about these.” Elizabeth held out the pills for Phillip’s inspection. “She’s evidently trying to avoid taking them. These were stuck to her bedspread—like they’d been damp from her mouth and as they dried, they stuck.”

  Phillip took one tablet between his fingers and held it to the light. “You know what these are?”

  “Not a clue—my pill taking doesn’t extend much beyond an occasional ibuprofen. And Nola sure couldn’t tell me.”

  “It’s an Ambien—a pretty heavy-duty sleeping pill. I know about it because it gets used some recreationally and by meth users trying to come down. Maybe we should check the Internet when we get home. Seems like there was a big flap not long ago about some weird side effects associated with Ambien. Who’s Miss Barrett’s doctor?”

  “I don’t know. Remember I told you about Dr. Morton—the brother of
that pastor who shot himself—they were visiting her soon after she went in to the facility. But Dr. Morton told me right out that he wasn’t Nola’s physician—he was just there as a courtesy to the family.”

  Phillip frowned. “What family do you suppose he was talking about?”

  Elizabeth shrugged. “I assumed he meant his brother—who, I guess, was Nola’s pastor—had asked him. But it’s an odd way of putting it.” A thought struck her. “That neighbor of Nola’s, Lee what’s-her-name, told me that Nola had slammed the door in the pastor’s face a few days before she jumped. I wish I knew what that was about. But the thing I’m trying to figure out, Phillip, is whether I rat on Nola—do I inform the people back in there that she’s not taking her meds—or—”

  “I’d hold off on that, sweetheart.” Phillip tossed the folded paper aside and started the car. “Let’s find out some more about Ambien first. It’s just a sleeping pill, after all. It’s not going to be life-threatening if she misses a few.”

  There were errands to do before returning to the farm—a few last-minute groceries and a stop at the gas station. Phillip popped the hood of his car and got out to confer with the always taciturn Jim Hinkley. “The engine seems a little off and I want to see what our local car wizard thinks. Shouldn’t take too long, though.”

  As the two men lost themselves in the study of the car’s workings, Elizabeth idly picked up the copy of the Guardian. Not much of interest. The report on the meeting sounded like a commercial for development; the burning of the Hummer was dismissed in a paragraph as a “fire of unknown origin.” The letters to the editor were better—a fairly evenly divided representation of those for and against development in Marshall County.

  On to the classifieds…real estate, shockingly expensive. I can remember when land at a thousand dollars an acre was considered over the top, now…good grief, not quite a whole acre and they want $50,000!…$149,500 for 5.39 acres…thank god Sam and I moved here when we did…sure couldn’t afford to buy here now…cars…job opportunities…“Need man with chain saw”…who doesn’t?…“Two Wedding Gowns for sale, Size 12, Size 16, never used”…wonder what happened? A story there, for sure.

  She looked up. Now Phillip and Jim Hinkley were in the work bay of the garage, and Jim was holding a dirty-looking cylinder in his hand. Phillip seemed entranced, peering at the object and poking at it with one finger.

  She sighed and turned a page. Birth announcements…a “Lordy, Lordy, Debbra’s Forty” ad beneath the photo of a gap-toothed little girl wearing a majorette’s outfit; a “Seeking Information” ad. “Will anyone with information on the whereabouts of Spencer (aka Spinner) Greer, last known to be in the Ransom area in October, 1995, please contact Boxholder, PO Box 1066”—ah, the Norman Conquest—“Ransom, NC”… It was familiar; the same ad, offering a substantial reward, had appeared intermittently in this paper for years. Another story waiting to be told.

  Her eyes wandered on to the next page …after-Christmas sale…moving sale…Wait a second—the address. The other ads like that had a Tampa address, that’s why I noticed them in the first place. She flipped back to the previous page. Box 1066, Ransom, NC.

  “It was the air filter. Took a while to find the right one, but while he was looking, Jim actually chatted with me a little bit. Asked how I was liking the county, talked about the weather and stuff. I felt honored, first time he’s actually talked to me. And then he showed me pictures of some fish he caught last summer.”

  Elizabeth looked up, confused. Phillip was behind the wheel again, the hood was down, and Jim Hinkley was back in the work bay, doing something with a tire.

  “What? Oh, right, I remember when Jim finally started talking to me, I felt like I’d been let into some exclusive club. It was a great feeling.”

  “You sure were lost in that newspaper. Do you even read the classifieds?” Phillip had an amused look on his face as he pulled back onto the road.

  “I always do—there’re interesting little hints of stories.” She told him about the unused wedding dresses and they speculated on the meaning—two jilted sisters? One bride with weight-gain issues?

  “And here’s an ad that shows up every so often, someone looking for Spencer or Spinner Greer. Only I’m pretty sure that before, the box to reply to was always in Tampa, but now it’s in Ransom.”

  “Maybe this Greer’s the one who ran out on the girl with the wedding dresses. And she’s moved here to hunt for him in person and she’s brought the dresses with her.” Phillip’s grin widened.

  “Well, she’s hung on to those dresses for a long time—the ad says ‘last known to be in the Ransom area in 1995.’ But it’s definitely a theory.” Elizabeth folded the paper and tossed it to the back seat. “Or what if he promised to marry both sisters—”

  “Hold on, Elizabeth. When did it say this Greer was last in the area?”

  The silly game was over: Phillip’s face was serious now. Elizabeth reached for the paper again.

  “I think it was ’95…yes, here it is, October of ’95.”

  Phillip didn’t reply at first. Then in a voice of great weariness he said, “Probably just a coincidence. But October of ’95 is when that gang rape is supposed to have happened.”

  “And you’re thinking…?”

  He took a deep breath. “I’m thinking the two are connected. Hell, Lizabeth, I’m thinking it’s all connected.”

  The Drovers’ Road VIII

  Love Lies Bleeding

  The road was churned to mire with the passing gangs of cattle and hogs and still Lydy didn’t come. Drove after drove come and went, and whenever I found the chance, I asked for news of Lydy but none had seen him. Then a man with the last bunch passin by stopped to bargain with my daddy over some lame hogs they was lookin to get shed of. Daddy got them hogs cheap and, bein pleased with his bargain, told me to give the man some of the fried peach pies I’d just took from the fire. When I handed them over I asked my old worn-out question one more time. I didn’t hardly wait for an answer and was on my way back into the house when the man spoke up. Why yes, says he, they’s a feller meetin your description in the drove that’s behindst us. He took him a big bite of that hot fried pie and grinned at me, allowin that hit’d likely be several hours before that drove got to Gudger’s Stand.

  I found me some little jobs to do in the upper rooms, sweepin and such. Up there I could keep watch from a window or the porch and be the first to catch sight of the next drive comin. Down below I could see Belle, piddlin about in the little patch of special herbs and flowers she tends, sweepin around in that fine green skirt she’d had on when the stagecoach brought her back last month.

  To tell the truth, I had been sorry to see my stepmother come back. I’d been hopin that Belle might of found a richer man than Daddy at the Warm Springs and run off with him. But on the very same day Lydy had rode off settin high on that wagon, back she come on a stagecoach. Hit was good-bye to the one I loved and hello to the one I hated, near bout in the same breath.

  Daddy was there at the door to greet the passengers and help the ladies down when he looks up and it’s Belle, holding out her hand to him and stepping out of the coach. I’m back, Lucius, says she, I’m back and I’ve found a cure. You’ll see—I vow I’ll give you a son for a proper heir before a year passes.

  She cut her eyes at me when she said them last words, and I had to turn away for I wouldn’t have her see me cry. Daddy looked to have forgot all the hard things he’d been sayin about her whilst she was gone and was leadin her into the house as if she was some great lady. And from that day on, I knowed Belle Caulwell for what she was—a witchy woman and my bitter enemy.

  I was sweepin the big room where the drovers slept when I seen the first signs of dust raisin far down the road. My heart leaped in my bosom to think that soon I’d see my Lydy again and I flung down the broom and made for the stairs, hurrying to my room so’s to smooth my hair and put on a clean apron.

  I tie the apron strings and run outside,
meanin to be waitin on the porch when Lydy comes in view. But all to once I find that first I must visit the necessary house. Hit comes on right much these days, now that my belly’s commenced to swell. So I run back to the place, tryin to make haste for all the while I can hear the squeals and grunts of the hogs and the ho-o-o-yuh! ho-o-oyuh! calls of the drovers and their whips just a-snappin.

  I come back round the corner of the house, fast as I can, and take the steps to the porch two at a time. They’s a world of hogs all across the road, rarin and slaverin to get to the lots where the corn wagons are waitin and Belle is standin there, right in their path, like someone who don’t know what a mean, hungry hog can do to a body.

  Then I see Lydy, off to the side, and I holler to him but he’s already makin for Belle. She just stands there like she was a tree planted in the road. She doesn’t so much as twitch a finger as the hogs rush to either side of her. And now Lydy’s beside her, pushin her behind him. He cracks his whip and sends the brutes away from her. I call to him again but the commotion is such that he doesn’t hear. I see Belle lay her white hand on his shoulder and for a minute it seems to me that she is claimin him for her own. Then that white hand begins to slide down his back and he turns to catch her just afore she falls to the ground.

  I watch as he carries her to the house and I call out to him a third time but his head is bent over her and still he doesn’t hear. I lay my hand against my belly, hopin that the babe I carry can’t feel my pain.

  Chapter 25

  Potluck

  Saturday, December 23

  This is something different, Phillip thought. Over a year and this is the first party Lizabeth and I’ve gone to together. For a long time I figured she didn’t have any friends other than Sallie Kate and Miss Birdie. He glanced over at Elizabeth, behind the wheel of the jeep. She had paid special attention to her appearance, replacing her usual diminutive gold hoops with earrings shaped like golden leaves and rooting through her closet to uncover something special to wear. She had emerged with a blue turtleneck sweater, periwinkle blue cashmere, she’d said, a gift from her sister, a black wool vest, heavily embroidered with green vines and red flowers, and a pair of new-looking black corduroy jeans.