Her brows came together and she said, “Spoken like a man who hasn’t seen the destruction a demon-possessed man or animal can unleash.” The hound eased to the side to get out of the line of fire.
“Missy, when I was ten years old, I shot and killed two white men who were beating my mother to death, and the three of y’all think they were being influenced by demons. People who aren’t too narrow-minded to see reason might think that makes me a veteran.”
“You banter that narrow-minded phrase around pretty freely, but you’re the one who refuses to hear the truth about demons or angels, an’ you aren’t interested in what we have to say about God. If anyone’s narrow-minded an’ stubborn, it’s you.”
“You’re saying that because you’re mad; you’re dodging the issue, and you’re turning a discussion into a fight,” Bill scolded. “I’ve been telling you for two years that I’m not going to depend on supernatural forces to bail me out of anything.”
“The Supernatural, as you call Him, will be our only ally in a war with demonic forces.”
“You’re presupposing something I don’t believe in, Missy—I have no reason to. If God exists, then He and those angels you talk about stood aside eight years ago and let those two men beat my mom to death. As for demon-possessed people”—he made a dismissive gesture—“that’s why Colonel Colt made big handguns. If Poppa believes we can hide here as well as anywhere, then I’m staying here. When it comes right down to it . . . I go where he goes.”
While Bill made his short speech, Missy sat back on the swing and took a deep breath. When he finished, she said, “I did this all wrong, an’ I’m sorry. Maybe I’m gettin’ cantankerous in my old age.”
Bill’s frown faded by half. “If that’s an apology, I accept.”
“That’s as close as you’re gonna get today, bud.” She didn’t smile, but her voice was softer.
Mose let the two catch their breath, then said, “This’d be a good time to drink a cup of coffee. Let’s go in the house.”
They were preparing to move indoors when a Sheriff’s Department car rounded the curve and slowed in front of the house. When the driver saw who was on the porch of Mose’s house, he pulled into the driveway and parked behind the Pattersons’ car. “Howdy, folks. Y’all been seeing if you’re waterproof?”
They all spoke, and Pat beckoned with his hand. “Have you got time to come in for a minute?”
“Yep.” The man shut the car off then stepped out and took off his yellow rain slicker. Deputy Sheriff Clark Roberts was one of eleven people who knew Mose’s and Mann’s real identities and why they were living in Clear Creek County; if this group wanted to talk to him, he needed to listen. Missy followed the dog into the house. The men stayed on the porch long enough for Patterson to catch Roberts up on their speculations.
When Patterson finished, they moved into the house. Roberts was saying, “I like your plan. Stay where you know the people, keep to your regular routine, and I’m right down the road if you need me.” He’d been in the house on several occasions, but this time he was paying closer attention. “Where do you keep your guns?”
Mose gestured at the hall leading from the living room. “We each got one in our bedrooms.”
“Judging from what you’ve told me about those Bainbridge folks, I’d want one in every room.” Roberts rubbed his hand across his mouth while he thought about worst-case scenarios, then pointed at a table by the front window. “I’d put another one closer to the front door and hide one in the kitchen.”
“That might be good.” Mose nodded. “Me an’ Bill’ll give it some thought.”
Mose and Bill trusted the deputy, but they kept silent about their arsenal. The two had let their past experiences guide what measure of protection they might need in the event of another encounter with the Bainbridges, and they turned the home into a small fortress. In addition to a scattering of shotguns and rifles, there were two handguns already stashed in the living room— one in a hidden cubbyhole in the fireplace mantel and one concealed behind a framed Scripture passage on the opposite wall; there were two more in the kitchen, two in each of the bedrooms, and one each in their vehicles—all with rounds in the chambers. Mose supplemented their preparations by praying every day for the Lord’s continued protection; Bill checked the guns every Sunday morning to make sure they were ready for use.
Roberts said good night and Bill walked out with him. The rain was all but gone and Roberts could make it to his car without getting wet. They were standing by the deputy’s car when Mann pointed at Roberts’s waist and said, “Looks like you’re carrying a new gun.”
Roberts pulled the new revolver and handed it to Mann. “Yeah, a guy in town made me a deal on it . . . .44 Magnum.” He looked back at the house. “Come to think of it, I bought it when I was kind of following up on something your granddaddy said.”
“Yeah?”
“Mm-hmm. He was looking at that Browning I used to carry . . . asking me if it would stop a man on drugs, that sort of thing. It got me to thinking about what we’re hearing from the West Coast, and I decided to shop around a little.”
“Well, it definitely looks like it would stop anybody around here— or maybe a train.” Bill held the gun at arm’s length, pointing it across the road. “Good gosh! The thing must weigh ten pounds.”
“Just short of three.” Roberts grinned. “Come down to the house and I’ll let you try it out. It bangs louder than a shotgun.”
“Thanks, anyway.” Mann jerked his thumb toward the house. “I’ll stick with something I don’t have to haul around in a wheelbarrow.”
Roberts chuckled. He slipped the pistol back into its holster, fastened the snap, and said, “Call us if you need us.”
“Thanks.”
Roberts paused with the car door open and said, “Bill.”
“Sir?” A breeze moved tree limbs overhead and cold drops of water splashed on the men and car.
“That’s a savvy old man in there—and you ain’t no slouch yourself—but if I were you I’d assume the worst. I’d figure that fellow who’s been prowling around over in Mississippi is real slick, and I’d plan on having him show up where he’s least expected.”
Bill was too polite to tell Clark he was being overly cautious. “I’ll be watching. We both will.”
“Well, like I said, I’m here if you need me”—he slid behind the steering wheel—“but I figure anything that happens is going to be over before you can pick up the phone.”
“Yes, sir.”
Roberts gave his next words some thought then said, “You know about me being in that gunfight a few years back.”
Mann said, “I do.”
“Well, for what it’s worth, I found out a man can do a lot more than he thinks he can, even after he’s been shot—he just has to take care of first things first. Remember that.”
“Yes, sir.” Mann felt cool sweat break out on his brow. “Thanks.”
Roberts drove away and leftover rain fell from the trees as Mann hobbled back to the house. When he stepped through the door Missy said, “Okay, Mose, there’s nobody here but family now, an’ I’ve got a question. Granny said I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you . . . why’s that?”
Mose took a seat in his chair and leaned the hoe handle against the wall by the fireplace. He said, “How come her to bring that up?”
“It all started when Red told us he thought you might be in trouble. She was tellin’ us about how God had picked you for something special, an’ that whatever happened to you when you were little had something to do with it. Anyway, she wouldn’t tell us what it was—said it was your story.”
Mose glanced at the walking stick. “An’ she wantin’ me to tell it?”
“Well, she didn’t say one way or another, but I could use something to take my mind off of all this mess. How ’bout if I make us some fresh coffee an’ you tell us the story?”
Mose was tempted, but the rain was gone. He wanted to sit and enjoy watching the woo
ds come back to life—the fireflies would be coming out . . . and maybe the deer. “Well, it’s a lot went on in my life you don’t know ’bout, an’ Bill been wantin’ to hear ’bout a tornado I seen once. I figure it might be rainin’ again tonight; that means it’s gonna be too wet to do anything outside tomorrow.” He put his cup on the table by his chair and passed his hand through a short stubble of gray hair. “Why don’t y’all come over here after church tomorrow, an’ we’ll eat some fresh tomato sandwiches an’ I’ll see can I recollect some of what happened.”
Pat picked up on the old man’s desire to be alone and stood up. “Good, ’cause I feel like I’ve been rode hard and put away wet. If there’s nothing else we can solve tonight, my wife and I are heading for our house.”
Bill pushed the screen door open and stepped out to hold it for Missy and Pat. The dog walked past him and plopped down by a calico cat. Missy stopped and used her finger to tap her almost-brother on the chest. “You’re too stubborn.” She had yet to smile.
As she stepped past him, Bill stooped his shoulders and copied Missy’s drawl. “Sorry, boss lady, I reckon I gits it from my sister.”
She looked him in the eye and warned, “I’m mad at you right now ’cause you’ve been actin’ like a jerk, an’ I don’t feel like jokin’ around.”
Maybe he was tired, or sore from the falls he’d taken, or maybe just careless—for whatever the reason, Mann missed the warning signs. He had known Missy for two years, but he’d never seen her fully express her frustration. He followed her onto the porch and took their conversation into a minefield. “And that’s supposed to scare me?”
The calico was the most perceptive; she was through the closing door and trotting for her sanctuary under Mose’s bed before the dog could get his feet under him. Inside the house, Mose was pushing himself out of his chair.
Pat, who was standing by while the exchange was accelerating rapidly in the wrong direction, made a halfhearted attempt to rescue the younger man. “Better leave her alone, ol’ buddy. She has what it takes to be . . . umm . . . volatile.”
Bill’s tone was sharper than he intended when he said, “Really? I thought all you Christians were supposed to be perfect.”
Mose was moving toward the porch. When he pushed the screen door open, the dog met him, heading in the other direction. The old man, who had known Missy for thirty years and had seen where her anger could take her, was holding up his hand and warning, “Pat’s right, boy, ain’t no need to get nobody riled up here.”
What had been a verbal altercation could’ve ended right there, but it didn’t happen that way.
Bill turned to Mose and snapped, “I don’t need anybody to tell me how to act.”
The kid’s rash words sounded the opening bell for round one . . . and Pat stepped out of the ring.
Missy’s husband was backing a step as her left fist was leaving her side. She was eight inches shorter, sixty-five pounds lighter, and twelve years smarter than her opponent.
Bill, for his part, caught the movement from the corner of his eye and almost smiled—Missy was quick, but she was just a girl. He turned toward the threat, almost negligently, and raised his arm to block the incoming blow. In that same instant—and way too late—he noted that the little athlete shifted her right foot.
Several forces were aligned against Bill Mann. Had any one of four ingredients been absent from the mix—if he had kept his mouth shut, or if he had not spent a few hours getting thrown from Collin Turner’s mechanical bull, or if the porch’s wood flooring hadn’t been rain-slick, or if a spirit being he stubbornly refused to believe in had not been present—he could’ve been spared a generous dose of humiliation. However . . .
Missy’s real target was on the boy’s left, and while he was distracted by the feint from his right, she was putting her one hundred and ten pounds of petite pique behind a roundhouse swing at his sore shoulder.
Bill, slightly out of position to his right and fully aware of what was coming from his left, was involuntarily starting to flinch. In a too-little-too-late move, he tried to twist away from her, and pain from the pulled muscle in his abdomen stabbed him so hard he gasped; her tiny fist smashed into his arm a millisecond later and stars exploded behind his eyes.
The punch, and the anticipation of its effect, rocked Bill sideways, and he moved his foot to catch himself. The porch was wet, his heel slipped, and his knee popped loudly and collapsed. He tottered for a long moment on the edge of the porch, windmilling his good arm, and was close to saving himself when an invisible being, bright and beautiful, poked him in the chest. He sailed off the porch and landed in a neatly kept, but soggy, bed of day-lilies.
Somewhere in the world a screen door slammed.
When he got his breath, he groaned; cold drops of water were falling on his face from the edge of the roof. He opened his eyes; Pat and Mose were looking down at him from the porch. Pat had his arms crossed, shaking his head. Mose was saying, “My, my, my.” The dog chose that moment to reappear and sit down by Mose’s leg; he was withholding comment.
Mann got his good elbow planted and managed to push himself up slightly before he heard the screen door slam again. Three seconds later Missy was standing by the flower bed pointing the sawed-off hoe handle at his chest. “You an’ I need to decide if this is over yet.”
Bill grumbled a string of curse words, followed by, “You could’ve hurt me.”
“I did hurt you, sonny boy”—she stepped closer and prodded his chest hard with the hoe handle—“an’ I will hurt you. The last twenty-four hours have been wearin’ on me, an’ I may be a little testy, but you an’ I need to get one thing real clear, real quick. I’ve spent the last two years treadin’ lightly around you . . . makin’ sure I didn’t offend your tender sensibilities . . . but on my best day . . . in my most forgivin’ mood . . . I’m not gonna put up with one syllable of you sassin’ that man standin’ up there on that porch. Do you understand me?”
Bill looked up. Mose, Pat, and the dog looked back.
Pat’s eyebrows were raised as if to ask, Well, dimwit, are we learning anything yet?
Mose almost smiled and said, “Pat tol’ you to leave her alone.”
The dog covered his contempt with a yawn.
Bill closed his eyes and took a breath. When he opened them, he looked at Missy. “You’re right, and I was wrong. If you’ll promise not to hit me with that hoe handle, I’ll be respectful for the rest of my life.”
Missy wasn’t ready to be friends. “Tell him you’re sorry.”
Bill let himself sink back into the mud because his good arm was getting tired. He looked up from the muddy flower bed at the finest man he knew and said, “Poppa, I’m sorry for acting stupid. I may not always do the right thing, but I’ll always be thankful that you’re my granddad, and I’ll try not to ever make you ashamed of me.” He rolled his head toward Missy. “And I’d appreciate it if you’d tell this bully not to hit me with that stick.”
Missy didn’t wait for Mose to speak. “I guess that’ll do.”
Mose nodded and smiled; Missy went back into the house to put the hoe handle in its place, and Pat walked down the steps to help Bill out of the flower bed.
When he got the bull rider on his feet, Pat made a pretense of brushing off his young friend’s shirt while he confided, “If you ever use profanity in front of her again, I’ll tell the other profs in our department that you let a girl sucker-punch you. Fair?” He wasn’t smiling.
Bill grimaced. “Sorry ’bout that.” He thought for a moment then asked, “Has she ever knocked you into a flower bed?”
Pat remembered sitting on a porch in Mississippi ten years earlier. “The only time I was ever foolish enough to provoke her, she had ten or twelve bruised ribs, but she gave it her best shot.”
Bill digested that, then posed his next question. “Am I really as stupid as I feel right now?”
“Well, for a college kid, I’d say you color inside the lines better than most”—Pat
had to smile—“but when you decide to stray, it’s usually pretty spectacular.”
“Is that an answer?”
“Not really.”
“Why not?”
“’Cause you ain’t ready for the truth, amigo.”
Bill dropped the subject because, for Pat, any discussion about truth usually included talking about Christianity.
Missy chose that moment to walk back out on the porch. “Who’s ready to go home?”
“Put me down for a couple of those,” said Pat.
Bill waited for her to get to the bottom of the steps and said, “I apologize for cussing.”
“I forgive you.” She stood on her tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek, then looked him in the eye. “I’m gettin’ too old for this kind of stuff, an’ so are you.”
She was right. He said, “I second the motion,” and followed the couple to their car.
Pat was opening the door for Missy when he remembered something. “By the way, our new guy—the undergrad who’s gonna be helping out in the office—will be checking in on Monday or Tuesday. Plan on showing him the ropes.”
“Yes, sir,” answered Mann. “I’ll take care of it.”
Pat put out his hand. “We’ll see you tomorrow after church.”
“Yes, sir.”
The Pattersons left, and Mann limped back to the house.
He found Mose in the kitchen, standing by the stove. “You need me for anything, Poppa?”
“I reckon not. You goin’ to town?”
“Planning on it . . . haven’t seen Ella Claire for a while. I’ll probably be home before midnight.”
“Mm-hmm. Well, I reckon I’ll just sit here an’ think on my storytellin’ for tomorrow.”
When Mose’s cup was filled, the dog followed him as he carried it back to the living room and picked up his stick. The two took their places out on the porch, and Mose bowed his head. “Lord, You say in Yo’ Book that man is born to trouble, an’ I reckon I’m proud You sent me my share. I pray, Lord, for what time I got left, that I’ll live it good. It ain’t in me to know how You gonna use me tomorrow . . . but there ain’t nothin’ keeps me from believin’ that every one of them things You done in my yesterdays was to git me ready for watchin’ over this boy today . . . an’ I ’preciate it.” When the man opened his eyes, his gaze fell on the old sawed-off hoe handle resting by his chair. The stick was as old as he was, and almost as dark . . . glossy from years of use. The man leaned forward to pick it up and ran his fingertips over it, remembering. After a long moment he put it back on the floor and said, “An’, Lord, I reckon I’ll wait right here an’ keep on watchin’ till You calls on me. In the meantime, I’d ’preciate it if You’d touch the hearts of them young folks what’s gonna hear this story—that they’d hear Yo’ voice . . . an’ know why You put ’em here.”
And If I Die Page 8