by Alex Bledsoe
Jeff wrote, “Listen to the mandolin rain and the banjo wind,” signed just his first name, and folded it up. He had no illusions that the secretary would leave it unread, but that was okay. The message would mean nothing to anyone but Bo-Kate, and she wouldn’t read it until after he’d dealt with her, one way or the other.
Now as he drove west on Interstate 40 past Cookeville, his adrenaline faded, replaced with the kind of dread only someone doomed to see an old lover can feel. But in his case, it was more than just “old lover”: it was coconspirator and evil genius. What he and Bo-Kate had done in the name of their love now appalled him, and he hardly knew the young man he’d once been, who was capable of such atrocities.
No, that wasn’t true. He did know him. Because the thing he truly hated to admit to himself was that what they’d done felt good. When they’d torn into each other afterwards, biting and clawing and fucking until they both couldn’t move, it had been the grandest, biggest thing he’d ever felt. His main worry was that, when he saw Bo-Kate, that feeling would return. He wasn’t sure he was strong enough even now to resist it.
* * *
It was midafternoon when Jeff topped the hill and saw Needsville in the valley below.
He pulled to the side of the road and sat, trying to calm his physical self as well as his emotions. His heart pounded, sweat trickled down the back of his neck, and his chest tightened. He was astounded at how little the town had changed in the unbelievable years he’d been away. There were some new things: Wires ran down the highway, streetlights gleamed in the winter dimness, and a new convenience store beckoned. But everything else was the same. He felt like there should be horses tied outside the buildings instead of parked cars.
“Remember what year it is, dumb-ass,” he whispered to himself. “And remember why you’re here.” He put both shaking hands on the steering wheel, and pulled back onto the highway.
He stopped in front of the Catamount Corner, alongside three other vehicles with out-of-state plates. He got out and went up the steps before he could talk himself out of it.
The lobby was a lot like he remembered it, although the knicknacks for sale were now extraneous decorations, not useful sundries. In the little café, a couple sat talking in low tones, their eyes not leaving each other. He went to the desk and tapped the bell.
Peggy Goins emerged and said cheerily, “Yes, sir, how may I help?”
“You can help by saying hello, Miss Peggy.”
It took her a moment. “My God. Jefferson Powell.”
“I’m your god? That’s flattering.”
She laughed. “I’m sorry, it’s just … I mean, I knew you were coming, but to see you there, just standing there like nobody’s business…”
“It’s a surprise to me, too. You’re looking well.”
“I’m feeling great. Especially now that you’re here to deal with that girlfriend of yours.”
“She’s not my girlfriend, Miss Peggy. She hasn’t been for a long time.”
“Well, she’s got everyone stirred up here, that’s for sure.”
“Any idea where she is?”
“No, I’m afraid not. The last time I saw her, she was standing right there, took a shot at a twelve-year-old girl and then ran off. As far as I know, no one’s seen her since.”
“A twelve-year-old girl?”
“Mandalay Harris. She carries the songs.”
“Ah. I suppose I need to talk to her, then. Where does she live?”
“Out across Jury Creek. In a house trailer with her dad and stepmom.”
“Reckon she’ll be expecting me?”
“Probably.” She smiled. “It’s good to see you, Jeff. Thank you for coming to help. I know it couldn’t have been easy after what happened.”
“No, but Bronwyn Hyatt made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.”
“She’s good at things like that.”
* * *
Simultaneously down the street, Peggy’s husband, Marshall, sat behind the desk in the closet-sized office that served as Needsville’s city hall. Marshall had been the mayor for a decade, and no one seemed inclined to challenge him. It was not a job with many perks. As he stuffed property tax bills into envelopes, he thought about how many times he’d done this, and how in a couple of weeks he’d have a high percentage of overdue notices to send out as well. He disliked doing that even more.
There was a knock at the door. He said, “It’s open,” and looked up.
A woman with black curly hair entered, followed by a limping giant. Sun from the door backlit them, hiding their faces.
Marshall stared. He didn’t recognize either of them. “Can I help y’all?”
The woman turned to the giant. “Recognize this gentleman?”
“Yeah,” the giant rumbled. “He was at the fire.”
Marshall realized whom he now faced. “What do you want, Bo-Kate?”
“Me? Nothing at all. Byron here … he’s got a bone to pick with you.”
She stepped aside so that Byron could loom over Marshall’s desk. His leg brace clanked with each step.
“You were there,” Byron rumbled. “You sat down with us like it was no big deal. You knew I’d been stuck there for sixty years, and you didn’t lift a finger to help me.”
“I couldn’t help you, man. I’m not important enough. I’m—”
“My little girl died!” Byron roared, and swept everything off the desk. Tax notices went everywhere. “And my grandchildren, who I never met! If I’d been there, I could’ve changed things!”
Marshall jumped to his feet and backed against the wall. “Call him off, Bo-Kate. This won’t help anyone.”
“It’ll help him,” she said with a malevolent grin.
Marshall could tell by the giant’s expression that he’d have to talk fast to get out of this. “Friend, I swear to you, there was no way I could—”
The giant grabbed Marshall by the hair and slammed his head down hard into the desk. Stunned, Marshall staggered to his feet, and the giant punched him in the chest. Marshall felt the impact down through his toes, and fell back into the wall. The giant roared and grabbed him around the throat.
Bo-Kate stepped up to the giant. “Sing the song I told you,” she said, then smiled with such evil that Marshall knew he was doomed.
The giant began to sing, his rage making the words bite:
In Oranmore in the County Galway
One pleasant evening in the month of May
I spied a damsel, she was young and handsome
Her beauty fairly took my breath away.
She wore no jewels or costly diamonds
No paint or powder, no, none at all
She wore a bonnet with a ribbon on it
And around her shoulders was the Galway shawl.…
Marshall’s chest felt crushed, as if bands of metal tightened around him. He couldn’t breathe now, the huge hand around his neck, and he felt the giant lift him off his feet, dangling him like a small child’s toy.
“You son of a bitch,” the giant snarled at him. “How many of you damned Tufas knew I was sitting up there while my baby girl suffered and died? If I could kill all of you, I would.”
But he didn’t have to do anything else. The song, coupled with Marshall’s own weakness, combined to drain the life from him, and what the giant dropped to the floor of the city hall was only a shell for the spirit that had departed.
“And that,” Bo-Kate said with satisfaction, “is why it pays to learn as many dying dirges as you can.”
Byron looked down at the dead man. He should’ve felt something other than seething fury, but each time he started to simmer down, the memory of his little girl came rushing back and restoked his anger. He said quietly, “I suppose we should leave now.”
Bo-Kate smiled down at Marshall’s body, also thinking of the past, specifically the time on the hilltop when Marshall looked her right in the eye as he joined in singing her out. Marshall had been much younger then, and Bo-Kate suspected th
at he had a thing for her; certainly he and Jefferson had no love lost between them, having been rivals since forever. Every encounter between the two of them had led to a competition of some sort, and Bo-Kate had been merely the latest bone of contention. Jefferson won, but Marshall had the last laugh.
Until now.
“Yes,” she said. “We should get out of here. Don’t worry, unless you squeezed his neck so hard it left bruises, it’ll just show he died of natural causes. Probably a heart attack, judging from the way he was clutching his chest.”
“I don’t care,” Byron growled. He kicked Marshall’s body with his bad leg, wincing at the pain but glad to feel the impact.
Bo-Kate turned him to face her. “Byron, don’t shoot your anger wad all in one place. We’re just getting started.”
He glared at her. “Where did you learn to talk, girl? I was in the army, and we didn’t swear as much.”
“The world’s different now. Just come on.”
They went outside to the SUV, where Nigel waited behind the wheel. He stared straight ahead, not even looking as they climbed into their seats. The vehicle shifted as Byron settled his weight. Nigel said flatly, “Where to now?”
“Back home. Already accomplished a day’s work, haven’t we, Byron?”
“Hmph,” he said.
As they waited to turn onto the highway, a pickup pulled into the post office parking lot. Bo-Kate frowned as the man who got out sauntered over to them and tapped on her window.
“Afternoon, Ms. Wisby,” Junior Damo said. He nodded at Nigel and Byron. “Gentlemen. How goes the campaign? Trying to get the mayor on your side?”
From the backseat, Byron said, “You want me to—?”
“No, Byron, that’s all right. You two wait here for a minute.”
She opened the door, forcing Junior to jump back. When she stepped out, she saw by his deferential body language that she had all the power, and it took all her self-control not to laugh. She said, “You been following me, Junior?”
“Nope. I been out of town. Just got back and happened by.”
“Uh-huh. At the Pair-A-Dice, you said you’d be better than me at leading the Tufa, right?”
“Yeah, I do say,” he said, not meeting her eyes.
“Well, let me ask you something. If you had the chance to shoot Mandalay Harris in the head, would you do it?”
He looked up sharply. “What?”
“Would you shoot her in the head if you could? She’s your true rival; she represents everything you’re against. She leads the other side.”
“She’s just a kid.”
“See? That’s the difference here. I don’t care about that. Hell, I tried to shoot her once, but I missed. Next time, I won’t.” She patted him on the cheek. “You want to see what a real leader does? Go in the city hall and look around.” Then she turned on her heel and got back into the SUV.
* * *
As he watched her drive off, Junior realized he was sweating, and shaking. He wondered if she had noticed. For the first time, he had real second thoughts about his plans. There was something in her eyes that was more terrifying than anything he’d ever imagined. And he doubted that even Jefferson Powell could handle her.
He looked back at the city hall door. The thought of seeing whatever Bo-Kate had left was too much for him, and he got back into his truck. He turned the radio up as loud as it would go, not caring that it made the cracked speaker buzz. His tires squealed as he tore out of the parking lot and turned in the opposite direction from Bo-Kate, heading out of town and up the hill toward the county line.
He wasn’t ready to give up, though; he simply knew he had to change tactics.
25
Jeff knew he’d be meeting a little girl, but the reality still took him by surprise.
Mandalay Harris was not quite five feet tall, and slender with the first hints of teen curves. She had a small mouth, narrow chin, and long neck, with her black hair down past her shoulders. But it was her eyes that held him: he saw the great distance in them, the unmistakable sign that this was, indeed, the psychic descendant of Ruby Montana, the woman who’d led the song that banished him and Bo-Kate.
He made a complex gesture of respect and subservience. She returned a sign of acknowledgment.
“Come in,” Mandalay responded.
He entered the trailer. Two adults, whom he took to be Mandalay’s parents, sat at the kitchen table. Neither stood or spoke. “Hi,” Jeff said. They both nodded.
Mandalay said, “Follow me.”
He trailed her down the hall to her room. It was hard not to watch her minutely, knowing as he did what she really was. She closed the door behind them and said, “Have a seat, if you’d like.”
He pulled out the desk chair. She sat on the edge of her bed. Jeff looked around at the typical tween girl decor. He pointed at a band poster and said, “I manage them.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. They won’t be around for long. The only real talent in the group is the drummer. The singer’s letting himself get fat, and the guitarist can’t even play ‘Smoke on the Water.’”
“It must be hard to make them sound so good.”
“Nah. With Auto-Tune and session players, anybody can sound great. Then they just lip-synch on tour.”
A long silence settled between them. Finally Jeff said, “So I’m here. At your command, I understand.”
“My suggestion. How does it feel to be back?”
“Strange.”
“I bet. Have you seen Bo-Kate yet?”
“No. I haven’t even been home yet.”
“Do you know about your parents?”
He nodded. “But my brothers and sister are still around, right?”
“They are.” She stood and walked to the door, then stood with her back against it. The maturity and grace of her movements, contrasted with her preteen form, made her seem even more alien. She said, “I’m putting a lot of faith in you, Jefferson. Many people think it’s misplaced. They remember what happened before.”
He had to swallow hard before speaking. “I’m not like that anymore.”
“I hope not. Bo-Kate is. She mutilated Rockhouse and took a shot at me. It’s only a matter of time before she flat-out kills someone, if you don’t stop her.”
“I understand. But if she’s so dangerous, why didn’t you stop her?”
Mandalay looked down. “This will sound absurd to you. It does to me, honestly. But … I’m too weak.” She met his eyes. “I have more knowledge and memory than you can imagine, Jefferson, but I’m still … I’m a kid. Bo-Kate tried to kill me, and probably will again. That terrifies me. I haven’t told anyone else this, so I’m trusting you. I can’t stop her, because I’m too scared.”
Jeff said nothing. He tried to imagine Ruby Montana, with all her bluster and certainty and profanity, admitting that she was scared. The image just wouldn’t come.
“I have no idea how she was able to overcome her banishment and return,” Mandalay continued. “The idea that she might be more powerful than Rockhouse, than me, than any Tufa is just … terrifying. And I’m also too scared to send any of my friends to deal with her, in case something happens to them.”
“But you’re not too scared to send me?”
“No.” She went to the window and looked out at the snowy yard. “Do you have a plan?”
“Not really. I suppose I’ll find her and try to talk to her first.”
“And when that fails?”
“How do you know it’ll fail?”
“Because I’ve seen her. You haven’t.”
“Well, if it does … I’ll take whatever action is necessary.”
The implication hung in the air. “You can do that?” she asked.
“I can do that.”
She turned back to look at him. “There’s a deadline, you know.”
“No, I didn’t. Nobody mentioned that.”
“Tuesday. The night of the full moon. On that night, the future of the Tu
fa will be decided.”
“You or her?”
“It appears so.”
“Majority vote?”
“Or something like that. Whatever the people want.”
He stood. Despite the winter chill, he was sweating with nervousness. “Then I guess I better get to work.” He made another complex gesture, which Mandalay returned. “I’ll be in touch.”
“No need. I’ll know if you’re successful.”
He nodded. She opened the bedroom door and preceded him down the hall.
* * *
Icarus Holmes found Marshall two hours later. He rushed to tell Peggy. Peggy called Bliss at the fire station, where she was staying until the insurance on her house was settled. Bliss called Bronwyn and Mandalay, then called in another EMT so they could take the ambulance down into town.
Peggy then called the police. Cloud County did not actually have a sheriff, so State Trooper Alvin Darwin, a one-quarter Tufa who had the distinctive black hair and dusky skin, responded. Bliss and the other EMT took Marshall’s body back to the Catamount Corner, where a spare trundle bed was set up in the café for him. He lay in state, covered by a quilt, as Peggy sobbed in a chair beside him. Darwin patiently asked her the questions he would need answered to close the official investigation.
* * *
Bronwyn stood in the café door, out of breath from climbing the steps. Her husband, Craig, stood beside her.
“You should leave,” Bronwyn said softly.
“Okay.” He kissed his wife on the cheek and said, “Call me if you need me.”
Bronwyn nodded. She knew Craig only wanted to help, and certainly his training as a minister, plus his innate goodness as a person, would be very welcome. But more than comfort was needed here.
Bliss joined Bronwyn and helped her take off her heavy coat. Bronwyn asked quietly, “I’m guessing Bo-Kate was behind this?”
“I don’t know,” Bliss said. “He looks like he had a heart attack. I’ve seen enough of those to recognize the signs.”
“Come on. You don’t really believe that, do you?”
Bliss shrugged. “Not really.”
“Did anyone see her around?”
“No. No one saw anything. Icarus said he just stopped by after getting his mail because he saw the light on. Without Rockhouse sitting on the post office porch all day, hardly anyone sticks around, they just get their mail and go.”