by Vicki Lane
And is this rational behavior or the behavior of a crazy woman? Elizabeth didn’t allow the words to form, but they hovered there on the edge of her inner dialogue. Phillip—maybe Phillip could make a suggestion.
The bypass shopping center was just ahead. She turned off the road and pulled to a stop at the edge of the parking lot. Her cell phone had slipped off the seat beside her, and she was stretching to retrieve it when a rap on her window startled her. She jerked upright, cell phone forgotten.
A pale, haggard face was staring at her, its lips forming words she couldn’t make out. Purple jacket and wisps of hennaed hair showing beneath the fleece cap—Tracy, Nola’s niece, was talking excitedly and motioning for her to lower her window.
“…just got in town and went straight to the nursing home. Those incompetent idiots had no idea where she was. I don’t believe this shit. That neighbor said you’d been there looking for Nola; evidently you haven’t found her.”
“Get in, Tracy. It’s too cold to keep this window down.”
The young woman looked momentarily surprised, then, with a shrug of her bony shoulders, came around to the passenger side, climbed in, and continued her explanation.
“Naturally, I went to Nola’s house, thinking that, if she could, that’s where she’d go first. And I’m really afraid that’s what she did.”
Tracy continued, the words flowing in an unpunctuated stream. “In her bedroom in the middle of the floor were clothes I’d never seen her wear—overalls for god’s sake and a doofus-looking fur cap with those ear things and a pair of mirrored sunglasses…I’d left a box of Nola’s clothes in there and they’d been dumped out in a pile…I can’t be sure but it seemed like some were gone.”
She paused to gulp a breath. “Miz Goldwater what has me worried I mean really really worried is that the floorboard, the one with the knots that look like a pig’s face, was pulled up. She used to keep a gun there. I’d completely forgotten about it when Stone and I were cleaning out the place.”
“A gun!” Elizabeth’s mind raced, filled with dire scenarios. Self-inflicted lead poisoning, someone had said of Pastor Morton’s supposed suicide. It was an ugly thought. “Tracy, do you think she’s going to try to kill herself?”
The emaciated young woman turned weary eyes to her. “I’m afraid so. After all, she’s already tried it once. It’s the guilt she feels that drove her to it the first time. And I don’t think anything can take that guilt away.” Tracy closed her eyes. “I blamed her. I told her it was all her fault that Little Ricky died. And some of it was her fault. But I don’t want her to die! She’s the only blood kin I have.”
Mackenzie Blaine closed the small account book and pushed it back across his desk to Phillip Hawkins. “Hawk, what can I tell you that you don’t already know? This suggests a lot but it’s worthless as evidence. I wouldn’t be at all surprised to find—”
“I tell you, Sheriff’s gonna want to see us. Me and Lonnie got something to tell him and we want to see him now!”
Loud voices from beyond the door, followed by a clumping of boots, interrupted the sheriff, who rose and went to his door. Pulling it open, he called out, “Miss Orinda, send them back right now!”
Sheriff Blaine resumed his seat. “That old—” He shook his head and began again. “She thinks she’s Saint Peter at the gates. I believe she gets a kick out of making people wait. Would probably like ’em to make appointments—‘I can give you a three-thirty on Tuesday of next week; the sheriff will be happy to discuss your burglary then.’”
More loud clumping, and a disapproving Miss Orinda ushered in two young men. Their boots, as well as their camouflage hunting pants and jackets, were caked with red clay and darker muck, and their faces bore marks of the same soil. The smaller of the two, wiry and intense, shifted his chewing tobacco to his cheek, then stepped forward.
“What me and Lonnie want to know is kin we get immunity if we tell about what we found?”
The two, it was revealed eventually, had decided to prospect for the legendary gold, said to be buried somewhere at Gudger’s Stand by either Union or Confederate sympathizers or, alternatively, by a murderous landlord from the days of the Drovers’ Road. “And me and Lonnie was thinkin’, once them developer fellers gets to work, they’ll be bullnosers and back-hole diggers all over, tearin’ up everything. Well, shitfire, me and Lonnie said, let’s go have another try afore them outside people git it all. And Lonnie said as how he’d heard of people hidin’ stuff down the outhouse hole for wouldn’t no one want to go lookin’ there and so early this morning we took us some shovels and maddoxes and just commenced to dig there where that old outhouse used to be.”
The two prospectors had been hidden from the road and, fueled by greed, beef jerky, Mountain Dew, and a certain amount of Mad Dog 20/20, had managed to remove the half-burnt remains of the old structure and begin to excavate the burned bits of debris that had fallen into the pit.
“We had got down almost six feet when we come upon it. First we seen the green and purple cloth amidst the dirt and then Lonnie says, ‘Reckon why someone’d throw a nice jacket down a shit hole?’ and then we seen the rest.”
The Drovers’ Road XVII
And This Was the Way of It
When the crowd roared, I set my foot to the road. They was a big family from over near Sodom took me up in their wagon and carried me past Dewell Hill and to the head of the trace leadin down to the river. They had come to town to trade and to see the hangin and they couldn’t talk of nothing else. They had bought them a broadsheet with the ballad of Lydy Goforth on it and one of them who could read good would line out a verse and then all of them but the babies would sing hit back. I laughed inside myself to think that only I knew the truth of what had befell.
This was the way of it, the night before me and my daddy was murdered.
I was passin through the common room on my way to my bed-place. My back was achin and I was sore at heart too with watching Lydy makin eyes at Belle for two weeks and more. Daddy was drinkin with the sheriff and talkin loud. As I come nigh to him he called me over and said, in the hearin of all, Girl, I want you to know that they’s goin to be another heir to Gudger’s Stand.
He was grinnin and all puffed up and he poured hisself another tot of applejack. Yessir, Belle is breedin—goin to bear me a son. She’s certain sure hit’s a boy and that suits me fine—better’n leavin my all to a daughter what’s a fallen woman.
You damned old fool, I cried out. Iffen she’s breedin a-tall, hits Lydy’s babe that Belle’s a-carryin. She’s been layin with him ever night—
And he rared back and with all the company watchin he caught me a blow that knocked me to the floor. I lay there a-gaggin, and holdin my belly whilst he said, You’ll keep that lyin talk to yourself, Luellen.
Without thinkin I hollered, I’ll serve you out for that blow, you old fool, and pulled myself up and run at him, a-hammerin at him with my fistes. The men there was all a-laughin as they pulled me offen him and hauled me to my room.
That un’s a fair hell-cat, said one as he closed the door on me. B’lieve, was I Ol’ Luce, I’d not turn my back on her ary whipstitch.
I lay there in the cold dark, burnin with anger at them all, seein a time comin when I’d be no better than a servant in what should have been my house.
I’ll serve them out, I vowed, and fell asleep thinkin black and hateful thoughts.
Chapter 47
A True Lady
Thursday, December 28
The madwoman swung her car around the elegant circle drive at Holcombe Hill and came to a stop behind Big Lavinia’s shining pearl-colored Cadillac standing empty at the front steps. I was a coward before, blind with grief and my own guilt. But there are others to be called to account, others who bear even more guilt…. “If you wrong us, shall we not revenge?”
Shoving the revolver into the pocket of her long black coat, she left her car, keys in hand. As she passed the gleaming Cadillac, she stopped, then used
her key to gouge a deep scratch in its formerly pristine paint. After regarding her handiwork briefly and finding it good, she climbed the steps and pressed the doorbell. Deep chimes sounded within the house. The madwoman waited, enjoying the warmth of the sun on her cropped head and breathing in the spicy scent of the evergreen swags around the doorframe. The high gloss of the double doors’ red paint reflected the sun, and on every hand the most commonplace objects glittered in sharp relief. A good day to be alive.
“Yes?” One of the doors had opened and a dark-faced woman wearing an apron over her shirt and slacks was looking inquiringly at her.
“Buenas tardes, Juana, I’m here to see Lavinia.”
When the woman hesitated, Nola Barrett gestured upward. “My hair—mi pelo—is different; that’s why you don’t recognize me. But you know me: I’m Nola Barrett. Now tell Lavinia I’m here.”
With a last wary look, Juana stood aside to let her enter. “You wait,” she said, and disappeared down the hall on whispering slipper-clad feet.
The madwoman hummed to herself, the words of the old ballad running through her head as they had run through her blood for all of her life.
I’m nearing the place where my journey will end;
It’s farewell to my comrades when we round the next bend.
I’ll lay down my whip and—
“Señora Lavinia say come back to Señor Platt’s office.”
Juana, reappearing noiselessly at her elbow, motioned toward the door at the end of the hall.
With her hands thrust deep in her coat pockets, the madwoman strode down the hall and into the room where her destiny waited.
Big Lavinia sat, like some obscene idol, like a fat spider at the center of its web, behind the massive desk. “Nola dear, my goodness, you had us all so worried. You really should have let them know you were ready to leave. The whole Layton Facility is in an uproar and poor Michelle is—”
Ignoring the honeyed words, the madwoman, a wild peal of bells sounding in her head, eyes half-dazed by the dancing lights that had begun again, withdrew the revolver from her pocket, cocked it, and leveled on the woman she had come to kill.
“There’s my cell phone.” Elizabeth pointed to the little device, lying at Tracy’s feet. “I’ll call the sheriff. We need—”
But Tracy was shaking her head obstinately. “I don’t trust the sheriff. He works for the Holcombes.”
“Mackenzie? Oh, no, Tracy, he’s—”
“I asked for help and he never answered.” The young woman’s face was a mask of bitterness as she nudged the cell phone with her foot, pushing it farther away.
“What are you talking about?”
“I was raped—gang-raped—and like a fool I kept quiet. When I finally had the guts to tell about it, Sheriff Blaine wasn’t interested.”
Elizabeth sat speechless as, in a torrent of anger, the whole story gushed out.
“In high school I had a job waitressing at the stand weekends and summers. My mom had worked there when she was younger and I think Nola had too, though she denied it. She didn’t want me there but my mom had just been diagnosed with MS and Nola didn’t have the energy to worry about both of us.
“The pay was lousy but the tips were real good. In the summer the river guides were around and some of their clients too. And there were the regulars, mostly nice enough old guys who liked to have girls bring them their beer and burgers and maybe try to look down our tank tops when we put the beer on the table. And then there were the college boys…”
The noise in her head had built to a painful crescendo. Remembering her mother’s instructions, the madwoman sighted along the barrel and drew a bead on Big Lavinia’s deep bosom, reconsidered, then moved to her forehead. Big Lavinia’s red lips were moving but there was no sound—only the roaring in her head.
The madwoman shrieked as pain exploded in her right hand. She looked down, aghast to see the pistol on the floor and Arval at her side, holding an upraised nightstick. At the same time, massive arms encircled her body and a huge beefy hand covered her mouth.
Through the diminishing roar, she could hear Big Lavinia’s smug voice. “Platt always made such a point of having someone nearby during interviews. So many angry people out there, and quite a few lunatics too…
“No, Arval, I don’t think we’ll involve the sheriff; poor man, he has so much to do. And then there’s his tendency to take investigations just a little farther than is quite desirable. Not to mention all the prying reporters we’d have coming around. A true lady’s name is in the newspaper on only three occasions—announcements of her birth, her marriage, and her death. I certainly don’t want the Holcombe name linked with Nola’s.”
Big Lavinia was standing now and making her ponderous way around the desk. She stood gazing up at her would-be assailant, her piggy little eyes snapping with fury. “You common blackmailing slut. After all I’ve done for you and your bastard daughter and her bastard too. Oh, it’s a proud heritage you all share—whores and huzzies and never a husband among you. As if I’d let you point a finger at my boy and his friends. Rape? Don’t make me laugh—that girl was giving it away. And if her wanton ways finally caught up with her, she has only herself to blame.
“You boys, escort Nola out and lock her up in the old springhouse. You can take turns guarding her—it’s awfully cold out there. Watch out, Marval; don’t let her bite you. Arval, you’d better put her car in the garage for now and close the door.”
As she was pulled along, Nola heard Lavinia say cheerfully to her employees, “Fair turns, boys. It won’t be too long. I’ll make a call and get some help so you two won’t have to miss your movie night. As soon as it’s dark, Little Vance and Hollis and I’ll take over. Poor Nola, just determined to kill herself.”
Chapter 48
No Hope for Justice
Thursday, December 28
At least I wasn’t a virgin—that would have made it worse, I guess.”
Tracy stared out the window at the shadows lengthening across the parking lot. “And like Nola said, some of it was my fault. I’d been flirting pretty heavy with this one guy…one of the college boys and he’d been so sweet; then I overheard him call me—well, something terrible. He was laughing about how I was so easy. It really hurt me and I ran outside so no one would see me crying.” The young woman’s voice choked then she went on.
“I was sitting down at the end of the porch drinking and crying and one of the other college boys came out—the quiet one who never flirted with any of the girls. He sat down by me and took hold of my hand. He didn’t say anything, just let me vent.
“God, I was a drunken mess, nose running, mascara smudged, and carrying on about how much I lo-ooved that son-of-a-bitch who’d just called me a cheap little—” Tracy stopped short of the ugly word, glancing over at Elizabeth.
“Anyway, this guy pulled me up and said, ‘Let’s go for a walk.’” Tracy wiped her nose and went on. “We walked along the road by the river, up toward the river guides’ campground, and I told him all about my family—my mom sick with MS and my uptight aunt. It was October but the weather was mild. I remember there was a moon because it and his hair were the same color. I had just started to notice how good-looking he was and was beginning to think that I’d been flirting with the wrong guy, when he started telling me about his family. Here we were, walking along holding hands and I’m starting to think about how nice it would be if he kissed me, when all of a sudden he tells me his family’s disowned him because he’s gay.”
“Tracy,” Elizabeth reached across to touch her companion’s arm, “was his name Spinner? Spinner Greer?”
The young woman turned wide eyes on her. “I never knew his last name. But I had sex with him because he seemed so nice and I thought maybe…” She covered her face and her voice was muffled behind her fingers. “…this is how dumb I was: I thought I could cure him. I took him into a bus that some guys I knew had fixed up to live in and I lighted candles and…and I did everything I kn
ew how to do. He was willing and the sex was okay but I could tell…it was like he was just going through the motions. And then we both fell asleep. I woke up to feel someone putting a gag in my mouth and something over my head where I couldn’t see. They had hold of my wrists and ankles and were tying them down. And then it started.”
His cell phone buzzed. Phillip stepped away from the group of men at work in the half-excavated pit at the old stand.
“Lizabeth? I can’t hear you very well.”
The words came in clusters interrupted by bursts of static. “…trying to find Nola…Layton Facility…gang-rape victim is…Mars Hill…tell Mackenzie…gun…A final blast of static announced that reception was at an end.
Phillip hit speed dial for Elizabeth’s number but was rewarded only with an invitation to leave a message on voice mail.
“Lizabeth, call as soon as you get somewhere with better reception. Or maybe it’s my phone. I’m with Mac at the old stand again. I think we’ve found Bam-Bam.”
The road to Mars Hill was all but deserted and Elizabeth pushed her luck, staying a steady ten miles over the posted speed limit. She was on her way to the home of a retired English professor who, so Tracy had said, was a longtime friend of Nola’s. “There’s a chance she’ll go there. You look for Nola in Mars Hill, I’ll make the rounds of her church friends. I don’t know what else to do.”
Elizabeth had agreed to this plan—a definite long shot but better than doing nothing—and gotten directions. And as soon as Tracy had left the car, Elizabeth had retrieved her cell phone and called the sheriff’s department. A disinterested female voice had taken note of the missing Nola Barrett. “Oh, yes, we’ve already been informed by the nursing home. Thank you.” The phone had crashed down without further words.