by Alex Gordon
“Oh, then we better hurry. I heard Lolly found someone to buy your car.” That from the second middle-aged woman, a brunette with blond streaks and a turquoise coat. “Isn’t that what you said, Betty Joan?”
“You’re exactly right, Ruthie.” Betty Joan had moved next to her friend and into Lauren’s path, while the second younger woman had crossed to the other side of the clearing and now stood between Lauren and the woods.
They’re cutting off my exits. Lauren reached in her belt for the knife, then felt all around her waist. Gone. Slipped out during her dash from the woods. She wouldn’t have stabbed any of them, no. But maybe the sight of the long blade would have made them back off.
She glanced over her shoulder and scanned for an escape route. Caught motion out of the corner of her eye and tried to make a dash back to the stump. But her legs dragged as though she waded through syrup, and Deena beat her by half a step.
“She’s got clothes in here.” Deena grabbed the backpack and turned it upside down, dumping the contents on the ground. “What were you doing before you got here, shacking up with someone else?” She kick-sorted the clothes in all directions, then opened the front flap. “Hey, look at this. A diary.” She yanked out the book, leafed through the first few pages. “No—it’s a Lady’s Book. Belongs to Matthew J. Mullin.”
“Matthew?” The older woman stirred. “You’re his daughter?”
Betty Joan sneered. “Maybe she’s his wife.”
Ruthie grabbed the book and flipped through the pages. “No. He liked ’em older.” She bent back the cover until the spine cracked, then turned the book so all could see one of the Emma drawings. “Remember, Betty Joan?”
Betty Joan laughed. “Oh yeah. Older and richer.”
Lauren started to speak, almost choked as her throat closed up. She looked across at the older woman again, and sensed . . . something. Then a fog filled her head, and it was all she could do to form words. “Please put that down—it’s fragile.”
“‘It’s fragile.’” Deena took back the book from Ruthie, ripped out one of the pages, crumpled it, and tossed it to the ground.
“What’s going on here?”
Laughter ceased. Deena straightened, tucked the book under her arm to hide it.
“Nothing, Tom.” The older woman smiled; her voice emerged light, almost girlish. “Just a hen party.”
“That you, Amanda?” Tom Barton trudged out of the chest-high grass into the clearing, toolbox in hand. “Hen party? In the middle of the old Hoard farm?” He spotted the clothes in the middle of the clearing, and his eyes widened. “Having a swap meet, too?”
“You just mind your own business.” Betty Joan picked up the sweatshirt that had landed at her feet, and folded it over her arm. “Leave us to ours.”
“No need to snap, Elizabeth Joan.” Tom Barton coughed, then turned his head aside and spit. “I got a right to be here same as any of you.” He wiped his mouth with his jacket sleeve, then turned to head back the way he came.
Lauren pushed one foot forward, then dragged the other. Breathed deep and struggled to find the strength to keep moving, to escape. “Mr. Barton? Wait up.” She limped toward him. “Are you headed back to town?”
“Nope.” Barton shook his head, then pointed in the opposite direction. “Going the other way. Things to do.”
“Oh, you don’t want to leave yet.” Deena turned so that Barton couldn’t see what she did. Then she held out the book and mimed tearing off the cover. “We were just getting acquainted.”
Lauren stopped. She knew she should try to run, that these women wanted to hurt her. But the book was the only thing she possessed from her father’s youth, the only clue to the man he had been, the danger she faced. “It’s okay.” She forced a smile. “I’ll just hang around here a little while longer.” She waited until Barton hobbled back into the weeds. Then she turned to Deena. “Why are you doing this? I’ve never done anything to you.”
“You should’ve just kept driving.” Deena tore another page out of the book, crumpled it, and dropped it to the ground. “You’ll be sorry you ever came here.”
“Wait a minute.” Betty Joan beckoned to Ruthie, bauble-covered hands flashing in the weak sunlight. “Take a good look at her.”
Ruthie leaned close to Lauren, bringing with her bloodshot eyes and a whiff of liquor. “I see what you mean. Something about the nose and the jaw.” She straightened, head bobbing like a balloon on a string. “You were right, Amanda.” She nodded toward the older woman. “She’s Matthew’s girl, all right.”
Betty Joan took hold of Lauren’s left hand and twisted it so it faced palm up. “Damn right she’s a Mullin. They all have the break right here.” She ran an acrylic-nailed finger along Lauren’s lifeline, then pointed to a gap about halfway along. “Not particularly long-lived, Mullins. The hate takes it out of them.” She dropped Lauren’s hand like a used tissue. “He’s dead, isn’t he? That’s why you’ve come in our time of trouble. To finish what he started. To tear this town apart like he did.”
Lauren stared into the woman’s eyes. She had known dislike before, aversion born of personality clash, competition on the job or in love. But she had never before sensed hatred, cold-eyed animus that would have struck her dead on the spot and stepped over her body without a second thought. She didn’t yet know the exact reasons why Matthew Mullin had fled Gideon. But she understood why he did. “This town killed him.”
“He is dead. See, I told you, Ruthie.” Betty Joan nodded, then patted her companion’s hand. “Justice.” She turned back to Lauren, eyes bright and glittering as the stones on her fingers. “Now, what are we going to do about you?”
“You’re going to leave me alone.” Lauren stepped up in the woman’s face, plumbed her anger, and used it to push forward because it was the only strength she had. “Because you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
Betty Joan’s face reddened. “How dare you throw that word at me.” She raised her hand, jewel side out, ready to strike. “You piece of Mullin trash.”
Lauren dug deep, pushed through the fog that surrounded her, caught the woman’s wrist in mid-arc, and held on. Betty Joan struggled in her grip, but twenty fewer years and an athletic past bought Lauren some advantage. She squeezed as hard as she could even as voices sounded in her ear and Deena and Ruthie waded in and tried to pull her away. Felt a pulse beneath her fingers, hammering—
—heard the hard words that poured out of the woman’s head, the laughter of a man and the slamming of a door. Tasted the damp, salty heat of tears.
Rudy, please don’t—please don’t go—
“It really is the money, honey.” Words Lauren had never thought to say before, in a voice she had never used, deep and cool and mocking.
The words drove Betty Joan like a whip. She tore loose from Lauren’s grasp, then brought her hand around. “Damn you to hell.”
Lauren tried to dodge the blow. But one of the other women moved in behind her and grabbed her shoulders, held her fast as the back of Betty Joan’s hand struck her cheek. Rings raked her skin, leaving razored pain in their wake. Stars filled her vision and blood filled her mouth. Her knees buckled and she crumpled face-first onto the wet turf.
The smell of earth in her nose, damp but sharp, rot and ice and hints of dormant life. Pain in her shoulders as someone grabbed her arms and wrenched them behind her back, bound her wrists.
“You hurt my friends and we hurt you—you see how that works?” Deena’s voice in her ear.
Then came the blow to her side, a glancing kick from a booted foot.
Lauren pushed over onto her side. They hadn’t bound her legs—she kicked out, felt the tremor along the bone as she hit something hard.
“Shit—she got me in the crotch.”
“Grab her goddamn feet.”
One of them sat on Lauren and pressed her legs into the ground while another bound her ankles with the same tape she had used to mark her trail.
“We bet
ter stand back—what if she works loose and kicks again?”
“So stand back and out of reach. Surely you remember what to do. Old ways are the best, ladies.” Amanda’s voice, followed by laughter.
Then came a thunk as something hit the ground by Lauren’s head. She opened one eye, saw the stone. The size of a fist and jagged, dotted with crystals that glittered in the sun.
Another stone. A direct hit to the knee.
Lauren curled as tight as she could, pressed her face to the ground, twisted even as her shoulders screamed. A third stone struck her ribs, a glancing blow, weakened by the heavy jacket.
She tried as best she could to protect her head, but a fourth stone shaved her forehead. A stab of pain. Warmth, flowing.
And another stone in her ribs.
Another.
Another.
They pressed closer. Took turns. Lauren tried to anticipate the blows, but she couldn’t move fast enough and there were so many stones.
No more words from the women. Only grunts of effort.
Lauren didn’t hear the shouts at first, the sound swamped by the roaring in her ears. Then they grew louder and she heard Deena swear, the thuds of stones hitting the ground and the pound of running feet.
“What the hell are you doing!” Dylan Corey’s voice. The sense of his presence and his shadow as he knelt beside her. “Oh, my Lady.”
Lauren moved her head, spit blood, tried to twist around until the stab in her ribs stopped her.
“Can you talk?” Corey dug a jackknife out of his jacket pocket and snapped it open. “Old Tom found me.” His breathing came ragged as he sawed the tape on Lauren’s wrists. “Said something nasty was happening at Hoard’s farm, but he didn’t say what.”
“I’m okay—just hurry up.” Lauren sat up, yanked off the tape, and tossed it as far away as she could.
“They ran into the woods.” Corey beckoned to two of the men who had accompanied him. “Chase them down and take them to the ranch.” He slashed the tape on Lauren’s ankles. “Just wait until Mistress Waycross hears about this.”
The blond man with the round, ruddy face examined Lauren’s wrists, then hooked a dollop of greenish ointment from an old baby-food jar and smeared it over the abrasions caused by the tape. He had introduced himself as “Jerome Hoard, physician and son of Gideon,” then proceeded to grip her head between his hands and stare into her eyes. After a minute or so, he nodded, smiled, and set about treating her various wounds and bruises.
“How are you feeling?” He wrapped gauze around her wrists, then secured it by slicing the ends lengthwise and tying them like ribbon.
“A little shaky.” Lauren felt her forehead, ran a finger along the edges of a bandage. Worked her jaw, and winced as her cheek stung. She sat atop the dresser in Mistress Waycross’s spare bedroom, and fought the urge to turn and check her face in the mirror. “How bad is it?”
“Just a graze on your forehead. Deena’s aim is as bad as her coffee.” Hoard dabbed ointment on Lauren’s cheek. “What made these? The stones?”
“Betty Joan’s rings.”
Hoard winced. “Those would leave marks on a tank.” He applied one last dab, then stood back and regarded his handiwork like an artist debating those last few brushstrokes. “This is an herbal medicament. It shouldn’t leave much of a scar, if any. Our Miz Petrie is a skilled compounder.”
Lauren ran through the short list of Gideon names that she knew, came up empty, and shrugged a question.
“She’s Master Cateman’s housekeeper.” Hoard smeared more ointment, muttered “oh, Lady” under his breath when he dripped some on the cuff of his white shirt. “And I mean a real housekeeper. Manages staff. Keeps the household books.” He wiped away the mess, frowned at the resulting greasy smear. “Her family has owned the funeral home just off Main Street for over a hundred years.”
That’s reassuring. Lauren sniffed her wrist, caught a whiff of spice with an undercurrent of swamp. “What did you say was in this ointment?”
“I didn’t.” Hoard grinned. “Trade secret.” He possessed an actual little black bag, which he paused to rummage through. “When did you last eat?”
“I’m not sure.” Lauren took the wax-paper-wrapped square that he held out to her. “What’s this?”
“Just some chocolate to tide you over until you get real food. You look pale.” He cocked his head. “You are hungry?”
“Yes.” Lauren unwrapped the chocolate, which proved to be a small brick of the bittersweet baker’s stuff. “They said I was missing for three days.” She cracked it in two, wincing as her shoulders and wrists complained.
“By our time, yes.” Hoard packed his rolls of bandage, scissors, tape.
“You don’t seem very surprised.” Lauren inserted a small piece of chocolate into her mouth, taking care to avoid chewing on the injured side.
“Strange things happen in the woods. People have told of walking through them for what felt like a few minutes and emerging to find an entire day had passed.” Hoard regarded her sidelong, brow arching. “So, you’re Matt’s girl. A child of Gideon.”
Lauren flinched. Child—that’s what Dilys called me. “I’m from Seattle.”
“Yes, but one doesn’t have to come from Gideon to be of Gideon. People have been leaving Gideon for years.”
“Why?”
“It’s the kind of place you leave. Everything a person needs is someplace else. A job. A life.”
“You’re still here.”
“I live in Geneva. About an hour or so east of here.” Hoard paused in his packing. “And a whole world away.” He stared at nothing for a moment, then sighed and turned toward the doorway. “Yes, Judith?”
A beat later, an older woman dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt appeared in the entry. “Mistress wants to know how she is.”
Hoard nodded to Lauren. “You can ask her yourself.”
“I’m okay.” Lauren smiled at the woman, then winced and pressed a finger to her bruised lip. “A little sore.”
“Mistress says you should stay here tonight.” Judith pointed down the hallway. “The bathroom is down the hall, and there are towels in the cabinet next to the sink. Sheets and blankets in the hall closet.” She studied Lauren’s face, and her brow drew down. “Are you sure she doesn’t need to go to the hospital, Jerome?”
“She’s fine.” Hoard’s smile thinned. “I tested her very thoroughly.”
“You squeezed my head.” Lauren slid off the dresser, slowly worked her shoulders. “You can tell whether or not I’m concussed by squeezing my head?”
“Not squeezing. Contacting.” Hoard shut his bag, then picked up a suit coat from the back of a nearby chair and slipped it on. “Not a common practice, but effective, I assure you.”
Lauren flexed her wrists, then twisted at the waist one way then the other. Felt some stiffness, but nothing sharp and grinding.
“All those jackets you wore shielded your ribs. You’ve bruises aplenty, but no breaks.” Hoard’s light demeanor altered to something more coolly professional. He studied her for a few moments. Then he smiled, sort of. “Welcome to Gideon.” He patted her arm, and left.
Lauren listened to his receding footsteps, the squeak of the stairs. Took as deep a breath as she dared, and turned to the mirror.
Well. Not great, but not as bad as she had feared. Her cheek and lip had puffed up on one side, so her face looked crooked. Betty Joan’s rings had left tracks like nail scratches, now shiny and pale green with ointment. Hoard had covered the cut on her forehead with a cartoon bandage, a dog with a ball in its mouth.
But her eyes. She could see what had worried Judith. She smiled as widely as she could, tried to think happy thoughts. But none of her efforts showed in her eyes. They shone distant, their light cold. Hard.
Memories. Her father’s eyes had looked like that once. After Angela Reardon’s funeral, Lauren had found him in his bedroom, staring into the mirror, and asked if he wanted coffee. His gaze had moved to her,
stopping her words in her throat. Ice, his eyes had held. Like he had never seen her before. Like he never wanted to see her again.
Then the look passed. John Reardon smiled.
And Matthew Mullin returned to the shadows. Lauren straightened her shirt collar, brushing dried mud from her pants. Anything to avoid her face in the mirror.
The back of her hand itched. She peeled back the bandage that Hoard had applied. Yet another cartoon scene, a mouse being chased by a cat.
The thorn. It had left a neat, round hole that had already scabbed over, and Hoard had covered it with a healthy glob of Miz Petrie’s concoction. But the rim of the wound was bright red and warm to the touch, and the color and consistency of the ointment made it look as though pus seeped and spread.
Lauren crept out of the bedroom and down the hall, the old wooden floor creaking underfoot. The bathroom proved to be small and ruthlessly neat—it didn’t take her long to find a box of bandages, a tube of antibiotic cream. She removed all of Hoard’s bandaging, wiped away the ointment, and re-dressed the wounds. Felt a jolt of energy as she worked. The smell of the ointment had bothered her, reminded her of infection. Removing it made her feel clean.
“No—didn’t mean—”
A woman’s voice. Corey had brought Lauren in through the back door of the sprawling Waycross homestead, but everyone else had entered through the front and gathered downstairs in the living room. A convocation, Corey had called it. A very serious meeting.
Lauren tiptoed out of the bathroom, and followed the voices. The hallway floor creaked no matter how carefully she trod, but given the loudness of the discussion coming from below, she doubted anyone heard. Even so, she slipped off her boots and descended the stairs in her socks.
“—what she did to Betty Joan. It was horrible.” Deena, girlish soprano teetering on the edge of panicked squeal.
A low rumble followed, female but not feminine. Calm. Not in a hurry to speak because all would be bound to listen regardless.
Lauren stepped off the bottom stair and sneaked along the wall to the edge. Leaned against rough paneling, felt the ridges through her shirt.