by Alex Bledsoe
* * *
Junior Damo walked into the Fast Grab convenience store with the forced saunter of someone trying to appear casual. Behind the counter, Lassa Gwinn looked up from the tabloid she was reading and said, “Evening.”
“Evening,” he said back. He slapped the counter harder than he meant to—so hard, it made Lassa jump. “Keepin’ you busy?”
“I’m only busy close to closing,” she said, “when everybody comes in to get beer.”
He nervously tapped the counter until she added, “Can I help you?”
“What? No.” He leaned on one elbow. “What’s going on over at the Catamount Corner? Looks like everybody and their mother is there tonight.”
“Beats me. Nobody came in here for anything.”
“Did you happen to see if Mandalay Harris was there?”
Lassa gave him a look. “No idea, Junior. Why are you so interested?”
“I just don’t like things going on that I don’t know nothing about. With Rockhouse being dead and all, whatever they’re talking about is likely to be important.”
“If it is, they’ll tell us.” She resumed reading her magazine.
“Really?” Junior said in disbelief. “You think so? We got nobody in there to advocate for us, Lassa. They could be deciding we were all more trouble than we’re worth.”
“You’re paranoid,” she said without looking up.
“Well, I think we need somebody to stand up for us now that Rockhouse is gone. Somebody that gives a shit.”
This got her attention. “You?”
“Yeah … maybe. Why not?”
“Junior, you ain’t never done a damn thing for anyone but yourself. You know, though, maybe you would be a good follow-up to ol’ Rockhouse, after all.”
“Maybe the reason I ain’t been no great philly-anthropist is because I ain’t never had the chance, I been working too hard just trying to make it. You ever notice how Mandalay’s folks all help each other out, and we just bitch and snipe? Slash each other’s tires, shoot holes in each other’s roofs, shit like that? It ain’t no good no more, Lassa.”
She thought this over. “You might have a point.”
“Damn right, I got a point.”
Then she scowled. “Luckily that Peterbilt cap covers it.”
“Fuck you, then,” Junior said. “I’ll remember this, Lassa Gwinn. It might come back to bite you.”
He stomped out of the Fast Grab. He didn’t look back and see that Lassa was still thoughtful.
* * *
The café at the Catamount Corner Motel was packed. Women, young and old, sat at all the tables while the men stood with their backs to the wall. Some sipped coffee while others held beers or spit tobacco into old Coke cans. And all of them, with the exception of those whose hair had turned white, had the same jet-black hair, olive skin, and enigmatic expressions. To an outsider, it would’ve looked like the gathering of an extended family; to those familiar with the Tufa, though, it was clearly a conclave of the two most powerful groups in the community, the First Daughters and the Silent Sons.
The two organizations were meeting to discuss their common fate, and what should be done about Bo-Kate Wisby. Without Rockhouse to speak, all eyes fell on Mandalay. She was the smallest person in the room, and physically the youngest, but there was no contempt or doubt in the faces watching her. Everyone accepted her wisdom as genuine, and as a gift from the night winds.
“We have a real problem,” Mandalay said. “For those who haven’t heard, Bo-Kate Wisby is back. We don’t know how yet, but however she managed it, it shows that she’s got access to things we don’t know about. She’s also determined to do as much damage as possible. She killed Rockhouse, burned down Bliss Overbay’s house, and took a shot at me earlier.”
“Then let’s just go kill her,” suggested an older man with a beard halfway down his chest. There were murmurs of assent.
“I don’t know that we can,” Mandalay said.
“Worth a try, anyway,” someone else said, to a few chuckles.
“That was my idea, too,” Bronwyn Hyatt said, shifting uncomfortably in her seat.
Mandalay faced the man who’d spoken. “You think? What if that’s what she’s trying to provoke? You may not understand what we’re up against here, so let me tell you: In all of Tufa history, we’ve sung out exactly two people. One now lives in New York. And the other is Bo-Kate Wisby. She wouldn’t be here just to say hello to her family. She’s got an agenda, and we don’t know what it is. She’s got abilities we’ve never seen before. And she hates us all.”
At last Peggy Goins said, “So … what do we do?”
“There’s only one person who might have a clue in all this,” Mandalay said. “Jefferson Powell.”
There was a long silence, broken only by the gurgling of the coffeemaker.
“He’s in New York,” Mandalay continued. “So someone will have to go get him.”
“Why can’t we just call him?” Whizdom said.
“He couldn’t hear us. That’s part of what happened to him. The only way to reach him is face-to-face.”
“I’ll do it,” Bronwyn said.
“Is it safe for you to fly?” asked Delilah, a sad-eyed middle-aged woman.
“Are you being sarcastic?” Bronwyn shot back.
“She’ll be fine,” Bliss said.
“But she won’t go alone,” Mandalay said.
“Why the hell not?” Bronwyn said, and tried to stand. It took a couple of tries for her to heave her pregnant self upright. “Oh, fuck it, never mind. Who’s coming with me, then?”
“I will,” a new voice said.
Junior Damo stood in the door, still in his coat and boots. He smiled, all faux innocence. “What? Y’all got a problem with that?”
“You’re not supposed to be here,” someone said.
“Yeah, well, things change. I don’t want Bo-Kate here any more than the rest of you highfalutin’ purebloods do, either. And if someone’s gonna go fetch the cavalry, they need to represent all the Tufa, not just you.”
Murmurs went through the crowd. Junior kept his eyes on Mandalay.
“You have a point, there, Junior,” the girl said at last.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Bronwyn said. “You expect me to go all the way to New York with him? I wouldn’t trust him to lead me across the street.”
“You ain’t got nothing to worry about with me,” he said. “In fact, it might be best for everybody. My wife’s pregnant, too, so I know how you’ll be.”
“And just how will I ‘be,’ Mr. Damo?” Bronwyn challenged.
Mandalay held up a hand. “Calm down, Bronwyn. You’ll be in charge, in my name. Is that clear, Junior?”
He nodded and made a hand gesture of respect.
“You’ll deliver the message I give you, and you’ll decide what to do based on his response. He’s been gone a long time, and he’s likely to be … reluctant.”
“And pissed off,” Junior added.
“Very likely. But he gets one chance, one offer. If he turns it down, then come back. We’re not going to him on our knees, remember.”
“All right,” Bronwyn agreed. “And I’m in charge, right?”
“Yes.”
“Anything you say,” Junior said to Bronwyn, all smiles.
“Good. And remember, whatever differences you have here, you’ve both got the same goal on this trip, so help each other out.”
Junior nodded. Bronwyn shrugged.
“In the meantime … everyone else, keep an eye out. If you see her, call someone. Try not to be alone with her.”
“What about that nigger-boy she’s got with her?” Macen Ward said.
“He’s not our problem,” Mandalay said. “And Macen? Remember how people used to talk about us before you use words like that.”
“Sorry,” Macen said, chagrined.
“Get him here as fast as you can,” Mandalay said to Bronwyn. “If you need help, call Bliss.”
“We won’t,” Bronwyn said.
“He’ll come,” Junior agreed.
* * *
Bliss drove Mandalay home. The radio was off, and the only noise was the steady thrum of the truck’s tires on the pavement.
At last Mandalay, still looking straight ahead, said, “Bliss, if we’re not careful, there’s going to be a war. And everyone in power, on both sides, will be in real danger. That includes you and me.”
“Which side are the night winds on?”
“They’re still. Silent. Waiting.” She smiled a little, the way an ancient, ageless crone might when contemplating the follies of mortal men. “They want us to settle this ourselves.”
* * *
Later, Bronwyn Hyatt Chess sat with her back against the headboard while her husband Craig rubbed her feet. The baby in her stomach moved contently, stretching and curling, feeding off her mother’s own contentment. The child would be special, and not just because her parents loved her so much. She embodied the future of the Tufa, however it ultimately manifested.
“I have to leave for a few days,” Bronwyn said at last.
Craig looked up in surprise. “Really? When did this happen?”
“Tonight. It’s First Daughter stuff. Three days at the most, I think.”
“You think?”
“I’m sorry.”
“They do know you’re pregnant, right?”
“I think they noticed. But damn it, I’m not incapacitated.”
“Don’t get defensive. Can you tell me about it?”
“Being pregnant?” she deadpanned.
“The trip, you goof.”
“Not really.”
“Are you going by yourself?”
“No, a friend is going with me.”
“Bliss?”
“No. Junior Damo. You don’t know him.”
“‘Him’?”
She snort-laughed. “This is, like, the most useless time ever for you to be jealous.”
“I’m not jealous, I’m concerned.”
“Well, don’t be. I’m still a trained soldier, you know.”
He crawled onto the bed beside her and kissed her. “Will you call me?”
“I will.”
“And you think it’ll only take three days?”
“I think so. It better not take much longer.”
He put his hand on her stomach, and the baby moved toward it, as if sensing that the man outside would be a major part of her life.
20
Byron Harley flexed his bad leg. The numb places along his skin tingled now that the brace straps weren’t tied around them, but otherwise the deep, constant ache remained the same. He looked again at his watch, but it had stopped at the time of the crash; the hands under the shattered glass were frozen at 1:23 A.M.
“You thinkin’ hard, there, Byron?” Eli said.
“Just wondering what time it was. Whether it was close to morning yet. It’s gonna be a busy day, I imagine, what with the police and everything. Plus I got to call my wife and let her know I’m all right first thing, so that she don’t hear about it on the news.”
“We’ll get you there.”
“I reckon I need to get back as well,” Fiddlin’ John said. “My daughter’s likely to be worrying about me.” He frowned a little. “Hey, ain’t we talked about this before?”
“We talked about a lot of stuff,” Eli said.
“But no, we done had this exact same conversation … ain’t we?”
The sin eater held up the jug. “Reckon you need some more of this to clear your head, don’t you?”
“Reckon I do,” Fiddlin’ John said with a chuckle, and reached for the jug.
Byron said nothing, but tried to puzzle through events. They had gone through that exact conversation earlier, hadn’t they? Because that’s when he found out Moonshine Kate was John’s daughter, not his wife or girlfriend … right?
Before he could get any further, there was more frantic rustling from the woods. They watched as an overweight young man clutching a thin gray piece of metal or plastic staggered into the clearing. He was so out of breath, he wheezed, and like the redheaded woman earlier—there had been a redhead, right?—he was dressed all wrong for the weather. He leaned against the tree and managed to squeak out the word, “Help.”
“Sit down, son, you look plumb beat,” Eli said.
The man did, apparently grateful for the fire. He coughed as the smoke blew over him, then rubbed his bare arms. The strange gray box rested beside him on the log.
“Wh-where are we?” he asked. “Are we anywhere n-near N-Needsville?”
“Not too far away,” the sin eater said.
“Those fucking Tufa bastards,” the man said, muttering as he waited to warm up. “They ran me off into the woods, can you believe it? I asked them for help, and they got me even more lost!” He took out a small, flat device and held it up. The front of it glowed. Then he said, “Damn it, still no signal. Anyone got a phone that works out here?”
The other three looked at him blankly. He sighed and said, “All right, whatever. Can one of you take me to the nearest place with Wi-Fi, then?”
“What the hell is ‘Wi-Fi’?” Byron asked, suddenly annoyed by all the strangeness. “Is that some kind of food or something?”
“You don’t know what Wi-Fi is?” the man asked in disbelief.
“Don’t get smart with me, pudgy,” Byron said. He hated it when he felt stupid or inferior. “What’s your name?”
“Fred Blasco. I’m a blogger. You might’ve heard of me? I do Fred, White and Blue?”
He waited eagerly, but the other three just stared blankly.
“Son, I don’t even know what a ‘blogger’ is,” Fiddlin’ John said. “Is that got something to do with cutting down trees?”
Blasco sighed. “No. It’s … like a news commentator. I give people the right perspective so they can evaluate what the liberal media throws out at them.”
Fiddlin’ John chuckled and said, “Well, whatever it is you do, welcome. I’m John Carson.” They shook hands. “Care for a snort?”
Blasco stared at the jug. “Is that moonshine?”
“It sure ain’t turpentine,” Fiddlin’ John said, and passed the jug.
Blasco awkwardly tilted it, took a swallow, and nearly dropped the jug as he choked. Fiddlin’ John guffawed and reached to take it. Blasco coughed and sputtered, the veins on his forehead standing out. It took him several moments to catch his breath again.
“Just take your time,” Byron said, suddenly sympathetic toward the young man. “I’m heading down the mountain at daybreak. You can come with me.”
Blasco sputtered to a stop, nodded, and croaked out, “Thanks. What’s your name?”
“Byron Harley.”
Blasco smiled. “Nice to meet you, Buh—” He stopped in mid-word and stared. “What did you say your name was?”
Byron smiled. He was used to fans. “Byron Harley. Pleased to meet you.”
Blasco continued to stare. “Byron Harley? The musician?”
“Yes, sir.”
Blasco swallowed hard. “That can’t … You can’t be him.”
“It is kind of a weird place to find me, I’ll admit.”
“No, it’s … Byron Harley is dead.”
“The crash is already on the news, huh?” That meant Donna knew about it.
“Well … yeah. It’s legendary.”
Byron reached for his leg iron. He had to get to a phone, to tell Donna he was okay. She was an emotional wreck on a good day; this would send her off the deep end. And she had little Harmony to care for. “It ain’t just legendary, my friend, it’s mythological. Fellas, I need to get down this mountain now. I don’t care if it’s dark. I’ve got to call my wife and let her know I’m okay.”
Eli said lazily, “Can’t leave till sunup, I done told you that.”
“Well, we’re damn sure doing it!” Byron roared.
They all jumped.
Blasco said, �
�Wait—what year do you think it is?”
“Year? It’s 1958. Why?”
Blasco picked up the flat metal box and opened the lid. A TV screen came to life on it. Byron stared.
“Hold on, I have this saved in a file,” he muttered. There was a typewriter attached to the screen, and Blasco typed something on it. “I’ve been fascinated by Cloud County and the Tufa for a while now. Not sure what the government’s got in mind, but they have to be involved in anything this secret. ‘Don’t know where they come from,’ my ass. And they think they can get rid of me by just chasing me off into the woods?” He looked up at Byron. “The plane crash in ’58 was the biggest thing to happen here until Bronwyn Hyatt came home.”
“Don’t get no Internet out here,” Eli said.
“Screw the Internet,” Blasco said. “You think I trust storing things in the cloud? The NSA has copies of all that shit. I keep my crucial stuff right here where I can put my hands on it, behind a firewall no government agency can ever breach.”
The screen lit up with pictures of Byron, Guy, and Large Sarge. Beneath them was a newspaper headline that said, PLANE CRASH KILLS THREE STARS.
“What the hell is that?” Byron asked.
“It’s the newspaper from the day after your plane crash.”
Byron’s fuzzy brain rushed to catch up. “It’s … what? Tomorrow’s newspaper? On TV?”
Blasco looked at him with an odd mix of awe and pity. “This,” he said slowly, as if talking to a child, “is a computer. They’re much smaller now. And more powerful.”
“Now? What does that mean?”
Blasco licked his lips. “Dude, you’re not gonna believe this, but … it’s the twenty-first century. You’ve been dead for over fifty years.”
Byron stared at him. He should laugh, he should smack the guy, but something in the man’s voice was more convincing than it should have been.
“What you saying?” Fiddlin’ John said.
“He’s just messing with you,” Eli said, and stood. “Come on, you two, I’ll take you both to Needsville.”
“Fuck you!” Blasco said, and jumped up. “You’re a Tufa, I’m not following you anywhere!” He looked back down at Byron. “You don’t believe me? Look at this.”
He fumbled with the small computer, awkwardly trying to hold it, work the keys, and keep an eye on the sin eater. Then he turned the screen and said, “There. Is that not your wife and daughter? That was taken ten years after you died, at a tribute concert.”