by Alex Bledsoe
Don’s eyebrows rose. “There’s a Methodist Church in Cloud County?”
“Why does everyone react like that?” Craig said with a smile. “And no, technically it’s not. The county line is on the highway right past the church driveway, so we’re actually in Smithborough.”
“Ah,” Don said. “So it’s wishful thinking by the diocese.”
“District,” Landers said. “We’re not Catholic.”
“I stand corrected. At any rate, Reverend Chess, it’s nice to meet you.” The two men shook hands.
“So what’s with all the maps?” Landers asked. “Are you looking for old Colonel Drake’s Confederate treasure?”
“I’m supposed to interview Bronwyn Hyatt, the war hero. I went out to visit them, but I couldn’t find the turnoff.”
Landers turned to the younger minister. “You’ve been out there, haven’t you, Craig?”
“Yes. It wasn’t hard. The turnoff is on Highway 23 just past Jenkins Trail.”
“I know, that’s where I’ve been looking.”
“That’s odd,” Craig said. “The road they live on is a dead end, so there’s no other way to get there.”
Don nodded. “Yeah. The Tufa curse strikes again, I suppose.”
“The what?”
“Oh, it’s just something people say about the Tufa: that if they don’t want to be found, you won’t find them. Old wives’ tale.”
“There’s a lot of those about the Tufa,” Landers said. “Craig and I have just been discussing some of them. Well, good luck.”
Craig said, “Don, pleasure meeting you.”
“Likewise,” Don said.
* * *
Outside, Landers shook Craig’s hand and went to his car. Craig glanced back at the restaurant, and saw the reporter take a seat in a window booth. Like a lot of local people, the reporter bore the visible traces of Tufa ancestry, but seemed not to be one; certainly he lacked the flat, noncommittal stare the Needsville Tufas presented.
As Craig unlocked his own car, a loud rumble made him look up. An ancient pickup driven by a skinny middle-aged man parked in the handicapped spot near the door. A blue state placard permitting this hung from the rearview mirror. The truck bed was filled with children, the boys all skeletally thin like the driver, the girls round like Christmas ornaments. All had black hair, dead eyes, and suspicious expressions focused on Craig.
“Hi,” he said with a smile. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?”
The father stepped out of the cab and said, “We teach ’em not to talk to strangers, mister. Can’t never tell these days.”
“That’s a sad truth,” Craig said, and offered his hand. “I’m Craig Chess, the new minister at the Triple Springs Methodist Church.”
The man’s hand was strong and wiry. Craig noticed the pinkie was missing. “Nice to meet you, Father,” he drawled.
“We’re trying to get a children’s program started at the church; we’d love to see you bring your family. It’s just across the county line in Smithborough.”
“Oh, I reckon we’re too busy for that sort of stuff,” the man said. “We live way up in the hills, anyway.”
Craig knew not to push the issue. He was a minister, not a missionary. All he could do was let them know his church was open to them. “Well, think about it, and if you can find the time, we’d be pleased to have you.”
The man’s wife, as large as he was thin, herded the children inside. As Craig pulled out of the parking lot, he turned on impulse away from the interstate, toward Needsville. To date, the Hyatts were the only Tufas who had been pleasant to him, and he had to admit the memory of Bronwyn Hyatt kept reappearing in his imagination, especially when he was in bed at night. The best way to exorcise such fantasies, he’d learned, was to confront them directly. Besides, they had invited him back.
He found the turnoff with no trouble. But at the last minute, he chickened out.
* * *
Sam Howell laughed the way a man does when he finds out his bitchy wife has run off with his best friend. The newspaper editor slapped the arm of his patio chair and said with undisguised delight, “So you ran up on Big Bobby Pafford, huh?”
“You know him?” Don asked. He’d gone straight to Howell’s house after leaving Shoney’s, needing to share the experience with someone. They sat on the back patio with cold beers, Howell shirtless and barefoot.
“Sure I do. So do you. You know those stickers they have on gas pumps saying if you run off without paying, you’ll lose your license? That’s his picture.”
“He’s not the friendliest guy.”
“No, for him protecting and serving means kicking ass and taking names.”
“How do you know so much about him?”
“We’ve crossed paths before. They say all bullies are cowards, but not him: he just likes making people afraid of him. He went in the marines right out of high school, I believe, but we weren’t at war with anybody, so there was nobody for him to kill. Poor bastard: he was born in the wrong time. Being a state trooper is the best he can do now.”
“He’s a piece of work. Wonder what his discipline file looks like?”
Howell suddenly turned serious. He sat forward so that his back skin pulled free of the chair’s plastic with an audible pop. “No, Don. No bullshit. You leave Bobby Pafford alone and out of this. You had one run-in and got away without a ticket or a cracked skull. Count yourself lucky. He’s the kind of man who wouldn’t take kindly to being investigated, and since he’s a cop, you’d have nowhere to turn.”
Howell’s voice actually trembled a little, as if describing a fear he knew firsthand. Don shrugged. He was no crusading reporter. “Okay, Sam. No problem.”
“Good,” Sam said with real relief. “So you never did find the Hyatt place?”
“No, and I’m damn sure I was looking in the right place. I double-checked the map and the atlas. It’s almost like…”
“What?”
“You know what. You’ve heard the same shit I have, that the Tufa can disappear if they wanted to. That you could look forever but if they didn’t want to be found, they wouldn’t be.”
“Them big-time New York reporters sure found them. They’ve been all over the TV.”
“I know. But either I can’t follow directions worth a damn, or they covered up the end of that road sometime in the last few days and made it look like it’d always been that way.” Or, he thought, the stories of the Tufa have more truth in them than I used to believe.
Howell leaned back and laced his fingers behind his head. He shifted into his Jason Robards mode, the fatherly editor who knows what’s best for his staff. “You’ve still got the assignment, Don.”
“I know, Sam.”
“No, I mean it. Your job is riding on this. I let it slide when you skipped those high school football games and wrote the stories from tapes off the radio, or when you ‘pretended’ to accidentally delete those spelling bee shots that you never took in the first place. This is your last chance, and I’m not feeling too generous about it right now. I admit running into Bobby Pafford can make a man a little shaky, but it’s not enough. You clear on this?”
Don nodded. He felt like a kid in the principal’s office. “Yeah.”
“I want it for next week’s issue. All original, with your own photos, not cobbled together off the Internet. In fact, I want to hear the tape of it.”
“You don’t trust me?”
“Don, I like you. That’s why you’ve still got a job. But no, I don’t trust you. You’ve lied to me enough times already.”
Don stood and walked back to his car, feeling a numb tingling on his face and neck. In the rearview mirror, he saw that his skin was still red with shame.
13
Marshall Goins looked up from painting the Catamount Corner’s porch rail. A white Altima pulled into the parking space right in front of him, and by the time he put down the brush and stood, Craig Chess was already bounding up the steps. “Good morning, Mr. Goins,” he
said cheerily, extending his hand.
Marshall displayed his palms. “Sorry, Reverend, wouldn’t want to get paint all over you.”
“Isn’t it awfully early on a Saturday to be working so hard?”
“When you run your own business, every day’s a workday. And with my wife in charge, I’m lucky to get off for Christmas or the Fourth of July.”
Craig saw an opening. “You celebrate Christmas, then?”
He laughed. “Hell, don’t everybody?”
“Not Jews or Buddhists.”
“But I bet they still get the day off, don’t they? Well, that is, unless they’re married to Peggy.”
Craig laughed. Once again a Tufa had blocked any further religious conversation. “Beautiful morning, though, isn’t it?”
“Is that.”
“Is the café open so a fellow can get a cup of coffee?”
“I believe the wife’s in there. We’ve got a full house for the continental breakfast, so I’m not sure anything’s left.”
“Ah, just some coffee and a visit is all I need.”
Marshall sadly shook his head as Craig went inside. He liked the young minister, and there was something poignant about the boy’s doomed sincerity. He just hoped Craig didn’t take it personally when his church went belly-up.
* * *
Craig went through the lobby and into the little café. It was empty, and the table of goodies was pretty well picked clean. The carafe still held some coffee, though, so he put some into a Styrofoam cup, along with a package of sugar. He grabbed a plastic spoon, returned to the lobby, and leaned on the front counter. “Good morning, Mrs. Goins.”
Peggy looked up and smiled. “Why, Reverend, you can call me Peggy, you know. Everyone does.”
“Good morning, then, Peggy-you-know.”
She giggled. Craig was exactly the kind of man she would’ve found irresistible some thirty years earlier, on the trailing edge of the sexual revolution. She still fondly recalled venturing forth into the world and finding her Tufa forthrightness no longer sent men screaming for the hills. Now, though, her perspective, if not her libido, was considerably different. “I never knew a minister could be such a flirt.”
“Can I expect you and Marshall at church tomorrow? I promise a ten-minute sermon, no shouting about eternal damnation, and absolutely no speaking in tongues.”
“Oh, we can’t take the morning off, Reverend. We have guests that need tending. Some of them are even Yankees, and Lord knows what they might get into if we left them on their own.”
Craig expected her response; he looked on this as just another early skirmish in a long and concentrated campaign. “Well, if things work out so you can make it, I’d love to see you there. How much do I owe you for the coffee?”
“Not a thing, Reverend. And stop by anytime.” She smiled and momentarily resembled the girl she’d once been. Then her eyes opened wide. “Oh, goodness, would you look at that.”
“What?”
She tapped the plastic spoon in his coffee. It split, revealing two spoons stuck together. “I always heard that if you accidentally put two spoons in a coffee cup, it’s a sign you’re about to get married.”
He chuckled. “That’d be a miracle for sure, Peggy. Right now I haven’t even got a girlfriend.”
“Well, you might want to keep your eyes open. I’m pretty good at reading signs, they tell me.”
“I’ll sure do that.”
* * *
Outside, Craig asked Marshall, “Mind if I leave my car here? I was going to stroll around town a little bit, enjoy the breeze.”
“Reckon so,” Marshall said as he painted the railing’s underside.
Craig walked toward the post office. Sure enough, Rockhouse Hicks was in his usual place, all alone at one end of the long, narrow porch. Craig sat down in the rocking chair beside the old man and said cheerily, “Good morning.”
“It’s morning,” Hicks said without turning. He wore threadbare jeans, old loafers, and a flannel shirt whose collar points had worn away.
“You pretty much run this place, don’t you?”
“The porch?”
“The town.”
Now Hicks turned very slightly toward him. “Me? I’m just one more retired old fart with nothing to do all day.”
“Yeah, but I’ve seen how people treat you. They look up to you.”
Hicks frowned, then resumed his neutral expression. “I think somebody’s been talking out of turn, Reverend.”
“No, sir, I just pay attention. I see how people defer to you. And I was always taught to respect my elders.”
“You want me to get people to come to that church of yours, don’t you?”
“No, sir. I’d just like to invite you to come.”
Hicks almost laughed out loud. “I don’t think that’s too likely, Reverend. Not too likely at all.”
“Why?”
A new voice said, “This Yankee bothering you, Uncle Rockhouse?” The word came out Unca.
Craig looked up. A tall, broad-shouldered young man stood on the sidewalk leading up to the porch. His face was almost femininely handsome, with thick pouty lips and sleepy eyes. He wore a faded cowboy hat with the side brims rolled up, and black hair fell to his shoulders.
“Naw,” Hicks said. “This-here’s the new preacher over to Smithborough.”
Craig smiled, stood, and extended his hand. “Craig Chess, of the Triple Springs Methodist Church.”
The younger man was a full head taller than Craig. “Get the fuck away from me,” he snapped contemptuously. “You need anything, Unca Rockhouse, you call me.”
“Sure thing, Stoney,” Hicks said.
The tall young man went into the post office. He sauntered, just as Dwayne Gitterman had done in the convenience store, but with even more arrogance.
“Reckon I’ll leave you to your rocking, Mr. Hicks,” Craig said tightly. His temper seldom flared, but it did so now, and he knew he needed to leave. He crossed the highway toward the Fast Grab. He did not check for traffic, but in Needsville, that was not terribly risky.
Inside, he found Lassa again behind the counter. “Morning, Reverend,” she said brightly.
Her cheer defused most of his annoyance. “Good morning, Lassa.”
“You’re in town early.”
“I wanted to catch a few people and extend personal invitations for them to come to services tomorrow. Including,” he added with what he hoped was a charming smile, “you and your family.”
Lassa giggled. “I’m afraid we can’t make it, Reverend. But it’s sweet of you to ask.”
He leaned on the counter and asked seriously, “Lassa, why won’t any of you Tufas come to church? Any church?”
She looked down, studiously rearranging a display of portable lighters beside the cash register. “I don’t know about anyone but me, I’m afraid. I have to work tomorrow morning, six A.M. to two in the afternoon.”
“I just spoke to Mr. Hicks over at the post office. If he came, would you?”
Lassa looked up, eyes wide. “Did he say he would?”
For an instant Craig seriously considered lying. “No. But if I convinced him, would that convince you?”
“What’s that old man to me?” Lassa said flippantly. “I hate to see him come in the door. He pays for things out of a tube sock full of pennies.”
Craig contemplated pushing the point, but again remembered this was a preliminary scuffle, not a final battle. He patted her hand and said, “Well, just know you’re always welcome.” As he turned to leave, he spotted the young man referred to as Stoney kneeling beside Rockhouse, deep in conversation. When he opened the Fast Grab’s door, both men turned to look at him. He was too far away to see their expressions, but he felt a chill that had nothing to do with the mountain breeze.
* * *
Bronwyn returned from Knoxville that night with her leg in a removable fiberglass cast.
As promised, Bliss drove her there in the Cloud County Emergency Serv
ices ambulance. Bronwyn asked that no one else accompany them; she never again wanted to wake up in post-op and find a ring of concerned Hyatts hovering over her the way she had at the VA hospital.
The office visit had been scheduled for the weekend in case there was a mob scene with the media, but not a single reporter seemed to know about it. After examining Bronwyn, the astounded doctor scheduled immediate surgery to remove the pins and screws; normally this was done with local anesthetics, but her injuries were so complex, they decided to put her under a general. The surgeon, called in from his son’s soccer practice, was also amazed at the rate of recovery, and for one brief moment thought he might have to rebreak one place to get the metal out. But eventually they left the two pins that would be permanently needed and closed the incisions.
While she waited for Bronwyn to wake up from the anesthetic, the surgeon appeared, still in his scrubs, and took Bliss aside into a conference room. He seemed agitated, and frequently scratched under his beard. “Ms. Overbay, may I ask you something? You seem to know your stuff, and I know you’re from the same small town as my patient. Is there anything unusual in Ms. Hyatt’s medical history that might not be mentioned in her files?”
“Unusual?”
“Yes. Something in her family history, perhaps. Frankly, if I didn’t have X-rays showing what her leg looked like six weeks ago, I’d be convinced this was a whole different patient. She’s healed a good three months ahead of any normal prognosis.”
“That’s good, isn’t it?”
“It depends on the reason. If she’s just a freakishly fast healer, then yes, it’s good. If not, then it’s the sign of some deeper condition.”
“Such as?”
“Hell, I don’t know. It’s just weird. I looked over the army’s medical records on her, and I can’t imagine that the woman I just worked on was really in as bad a shape as they said she was.”
“You saw her on the news.”
“Yes, but the news is no different from the drunk in the corner bar: he might have a good story, but that doesn’t mean you can trust it.” He paused, considering his next words carefully. “I’m worried that the army might have treated her injuries as more serious than they were, in order to get more PR use from them. That would be a gross mistreatment of the patient, needless to say, but sadly it’s not outside the realm of possibility. Has Ms. Hyatt given you any indication that might be the case?”