Old Wounds

by Vicki Lane

  A canned and diminished version of Phillip’s voice spoke: “Miz Goodweather, this could be it! Walden. I remember he carried around a paperback copy of it till it got lost during some mission. He knew that book backward and forward…and look, there are little marks here in the margin—”

  Her face must have betrayed her. Gabby cut short Phillip’s recorded exclamations and slipped the recorder back into his pocket. He picked up the automatic.

  “Not Waldo. Walden. Right, Liz? You were just having a little fun with old Gabby.” The automatic’s muzzle stroked her cheek. “No more games. You’re going to get me the right book or I’m going to put a bullet through your foot. Then your other foot, then move up to your knees. You won’t be able to get around your farm so good when I’m done with you, Liz.”

  38.

  IF YOU FIND YOURSELF IN A SITUATION…

  Wednesday night, October 26

  As he rounded the last curve and came in sight of the driveway to Full Circle Farm, Phillip saw a pair of taillights disappearing up the road toward the workshop. With squealing tires and a spray of gravel, he swung his car into the drive. The car ahead of him, a big black SUV, he recognized immediately as belonging to the sheriff’s department. It made a semicircle in front of the workshop and came to a stop, its headlights trained on his vehicle.

  Phillip braked, leaving his car where it would block the road; cut the engine; and jumped out, keeping his hands visible and away from his body. I think all of Blaine’s folks know me, but just in case this is some skittish new deputy…

  “It’s Hawkins,” he called out as he stepped forward. “Phillip Hawkins. I asked Sheriff—”

  “Get in, Hawk.” Mackenzie Blaine cut the headlights and called out from his open window, “I was the only body we could spare. Come on; we’ll ease on up there nice and quiet and just see what’s up.”

  With a feeling of hopeless defeat, Elizabeth choked back tears of frustration and rage. “Okay, I’ll get the book. But would you tell me why? If you were part of the crew the day Landrum massacred all those people, don’t you understand—”

  “Lieutenant Landrum risked his life to save me, Liz. That’s more important to my mind than a bunch of stinking gooks. Plus, he pays good. When the lieutenant first heard from Red, old Red with his bullshit ideas about honor and right and wrong, he got hold of me. I’d worked for the lieutenant before and he knew he could trust me. He’s counting on me to make this problem go away, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do. The book, Liz. I want the right book, and I want it now.”

  What choice do I have? Maybe one last chance… “It’s in there, on the chair in the corner.” She pointed toward the dining room and slowly began to get to her feet.

  As she had hoped, Gabby left her where she was and with a few quick steps was by the chair where the precious copy of Walden lay, holding down the stack of papers with all the scribbled notes that she and Phillip had made.

  “Well, hot-doh-cocky-damn! Look at this!” In his excitement, he laid his gun on the chair seat and began to leaf through the pages of notes. As he turned away, to bring the pages under the hanging light over the table, Elizabeth slid off her jacket and reached behind her. The gun’s grip was in her hand.

  Gabby was examining the pages, looking quickly from one to another. “I can’t make heads or tails of this shit. You better not be messing with me again.”

  He moved a step closer to the light…and a step farther from his gun, lifting the pages to the lamp and peering through his little spectacles at the confusion of numbers, words, and letters before him.

  The .357 Magnum was in both her hands now, carefully gripped as she had been taught. Her arms were extended, wrists and elbows locked in the isosceles stance. She lined up the sights on Gabby’s torso and waited.

  “Mac, leave the car just below the barn, where we’re still out of sight of the house. It might be better not to announce ourselves. Maybe Elizabeth’s up there by herself—and maybe not.”

  Leaving the big car in the road, the two men went quickly and quietly up the grassy track that led to Ben’s cabin. Phillip could see that lights were on in Elizabeth’s house, but there was no sound of music, nor any smell of cooking, none of the usual signs of a usual evening.

  Both men had their weapons drawn now. Phillip led Blaine past the silent darkness of Ben’s cabin and across the narrow stream that ran between house and cabin. Just ahead lay the French door that led into the guest room at the back of the house. Silently, Phillip stepped up on the little porch and tried the handle.

  The door swung open with a tiny creaking sound. Phillip froze, but could hear nothing. The room’s other door, the one leading to the hallway, was shut, a bar of yellow light shining beneath it. Motioning to Blaine to follow him, Phillip crept toward the closed door.

  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

  Holding the papers in both hands, Gabby looked at Elizabeth with a mixture of scorn and incredulity. “Where’d that come from?”

  His eyes flicked to his own gun and back to Elizabeth. She stood, frozen in place, certain what was coming next. Disjointed facts and pronouncements, from the concealed carry class bombarded her. …right to use deadly force in protection of your life…He said I was expendable…if you are in your home, there is no duty to retreat…He threatened to cripple me, at the very least…Oh, shit…what if he reaches for his gun?…Can I fire quickly enough?…Can I hit him?

  “If you try to reach for your gun, I’ll shoot you.”

  Phillip’s heart leapt as he heard Elizabeth’s muffled voice. She’s in the living room, but what…? She sounded a little shaky. He inched the bedroom door open and slid into the hallway, Blaine at his heels.

  They moved noiselessly down the hall, guns at the ready.

  “I believe you just might try it, you crazy bitch. But could you hit me, that’s the question. How’s your aim with that short barrel? I don’t know, maybe I’ll take my chances—”

  “Sure about that? She can take you out, no problem, Gabby.” Phillip stepped into the living room, his weapon trained on his one-time shipmate. “And so can I, and so can the sheriff here. It’s over.”

  MULLMORE

  October 1986

  AT LAST THE house was quiet. The shrill nagging and whining that had accompanied the preparations for Krystalle’s trip to the Pumpkin Pageant had died away when mother and daughter climbed into the car packed with costumes, tap shoes, hair spray, cosmetics, as well as motivational tapes for Krystalle to listen to during the forty-minute drive to the auditorium in Asheville.

  From her bedroom window, Maythorn watched the green Range Rover pull away. Tears smarted in her eyes but she swiped them away with the back of her hand. On the pink-and-green coverlet of her bed lay the mutilated remains of her beloved Indian costume—the one Rosie’s mum had made. Next to the worn brown shirt and trousers, now slashed and torn, lay the fluffy lavender ballerina costume with its matching shoes and tights. The scissors Mama had used lay open on the floor.

  No more! I’m sick and tired of seeing you skulking around like some dirty reservation brat. There’re going to be some changes with you, missy, Mama had said before dragging her off to the beauty parlor again.

  It had been bad enough when her braids fell to the floor and the stylist had started cutting at what remained of the glossy black hair. Maythorn had shut her eyes tight, not wanting to see what was happening, but there was no escaping the words that came at her in minty, smoky puffs.

  She may not like it right now, the stylist was saying. But when we get done and she sees how pretty she looks—ssst, ssst, ssst, the scissors kept up their merciless song—when she sees how much she looks like her gorgeous mama and little Miss Krysty, why she’ll thank you and me both. Now, you run along and get Krysty to her class. Me and Maythorn’ll do just fine. When you get back you’ll see a different little girl.

  And then her head was in the sink and there was the stink of chemicals and the endless washing
and rinsing. Honey, did the shampoo get in your eyes? You’re not crying, are you?

  Maythorn sat, stoic and silent, as the stylist twisted her hair around the little rods. There was an awful, penetrating smell. Maythorn kept her eyes squeezed shut—a single glimpse in the mirror had been enough. Is this what Mama wants—a different little girl?

  Maythorn pulled off the red hat and turned to her mirror. The face that looked back at her was unfamiliar. She leaned closer, but there was no sign of Fox-That-Watches, only a stranger with fluffy yellow curls framing a thin dark face that stared hopelessly back at her. She scooped up the red hat and pulled it down over her ears. Then, from under her mattress she pulled out the leather pouch that held the Looker Stone. Putting it to her eye, she looked again into the mirror. The stranger was gone and Fox-That-Watches smiled back at her.

  I see you, she whispered.

  Telephone for Rosie! Telephone for Rosie!

  Laurel’s bellow echoed through the house and Rosemary raced down the stairs to take the phone from her little sister.

  It’s me. Meet me at the scuttle hole.

  I thought you were coming over to spend the night. Mum’s making pizza and we’ve got a movie to watch. And why weren’t you at school today?

  I can’t spend the night; I’m grounded. But I want you to take the Indian suit your mum made for me and see if she can fix it. It got cut up.

  Maythorn tiptoed into the back room that her mother called Moon’s “den.” Yes, like a hibernating bear, he was sleeping in the dark, sprawled in the big green recliner and snoring noisily. Eleven empty beer cans ringed the nearby wastebasket and a twelfth lay in a puddle on the floor just under Moon’s limply outstretched fingers. A trail of spittle led from the corner of his gaping mouth to the headrest, and as she watched, the dark stain on the green velour spread larger.

  She felt in her pocket for the Looker Stone. It would be safe to look at him now—not like that other time. That had been her mistake, not waiting. But she had been so curious. He just turns into an animal when he has too much to drink, she had heard Mama telling Uncle Mike. And though she knew that was only something people said, still, she had thought, if I look at him through the Looker Stone, maybe I’ll see what kind of animal he really is.

  But she had no sooner raised the Stone to her eye than Moon had staggered toward her and pulled her off her feet. He was tickling her all over and his sour breath was in her face. Stop, she had said. I don’t like that.

  Later she had asked her mother not to let Moon tickle her anymore and her mother had said, What are you saying, missy? And she had answered, They said at school that we have to tell if someone is touching us in a way we don’t like, and Mama had slapped her and called her a liar. Moon’s your meal ticket, missy. If he wants a little sugar, you give it to him.

  39.

  THE CLOUD OF UNKNOWING

  Thursday, October 27

  A shaft of sunlight lay across her pillow. Elizabeth groaned, rolled over, and yanked the covers over her eyes. It must be eight o’clock.

  The temptation to seek oblivion in her soft pillow was powerful. She felt bone-weary, as if she had just hoed an endless field of tobacco or trudged uphill for many tiring miles. I think every muscle in my body was clenched tight from the minute I got in the car and realized it wasn’t Phillip till Phillip actually showed up.

  She slid an exploratory leg to the other side of the bed—cool sheets and an empty space. The tempting smell of coffee, as well as bacon, suggested that Phillip had been awake for some time. Bowing to the inevitable, Elizabeth sat up and opened her eyes.

  As always, the three eastern windows that faced the bed were a triptych worth enjoying. The sun, far to the south, peeped over the darkness of a mass of trees on the nearby ridgeline. A pearly mist, barely tinged with pink, was lifting from the river. Far in the distance, the dusky violet outline of the Blue Ridge Mountains met the morning sky.

  Elizabeth stretched, threw back the covers, and stiffly—damn, my muscles are sore…it’s not just my imagination—got out of bed.

  Standing by one of the north-facing windows, she pulled on her jeans and an old sweater, watching a flock of wild turkeys moving across the field just below Ben’s cabin, busily feeding as they went. The early rays of the sun touched their bronze plumage and set alight the rich colors of the surrounding trees.

  “Morning, Annie Oakley.”

  She turned to see Phillip leaning against the doorframe, a mug of steaming coffee in each hand.

  “I thought I heard you stirring.” He set the mugs down and came around the bed to fold her into his arms. “You were dead to the world when I got back last night—I figured you needed the sleep.”

  His arms tightened around her and he spoke in a low, husky tone. “Thank god you weren’t hurt. I should have known there was something not right about Gabby. But you—you were amazing. I’m glad we got here when we did, but like I told Mac, I’ve got no doubt at all that you would have dropped that scumbag right where he stood.”

  He stepped back to look at her with fond affection. “You’re some woman, Miz Goodweather.”

  “What’s left of her.” She smiled wearily at him. “I’m glad I didn’t have to find out if I could shoot him. But you’re right, I sure would’ve tried. After you and Sheriff Blaine took Gabby off last night, all I wanted to do was to take a bath and get in bed. I thought I’d hear you come back but…”

  Phillip retrieved the coffee mugs, setting one on her dressing table and taking the other with him as he sat on the bench at the foot of the bed and watched her brush and braid her hair.

  “You were totally zonked, sweetheart. I came in and said your name, but you were down for the count.”

  “So what have you done with Gabby?”

  “Blaine’s booked him on everything from attempted kidnapping and assault with a deadly weapon to bad breath and dog-scaring. I’ve been in touch with Del. He thinks he can get the Feds involved—don’t ask me how, ’cause Del wasn’t saying. Anyway, Gabby will be safe in the Marshall County jail for the foreseeable future. And I’ve sent Del that copy of Walden, along with our notes—took it with me last night and put it in the FedEx drop by the bank. I think Gabby was working alone, but just in case he wasn’t, now there’s nothing for anyone to come after.”

  “Except the deposition itself—and the photos.” Elizabeth twisted an elastic fastener around the end of her braid and turned to Phillip. “Wherever they are.”

  She hesitated, her mind turning over a confusing assortment of possibilities. “You know, Phillip, the more I think about it, the less sure I am that we’re on the right track with Walden. What if we’ve been fooling ourselves, reading meaning where there was none? If I was able to come up with some sort of explanation for the scribbling the girls did in Where’s Waldo?… I don’t know, maybe we’re making it all too complicated.”

  She picked up her mug and joined Phillip on the bench. Silently they watched through the eastern windows as the morning mist rose higher and higher, to become a fog blotting out everything.

  “It all just seems so hopeless, Phillip—like we’re spinning our wheels and getting nowhere. Not only are we no closer to finding the deposition, but this whole Maythorn thing is still completely unresolved. Rosemary may say she’s remembering more and more important things about that time, but…”

  They had finished the massive breakfast that Phillip had prepared in an attempt to make up for the meal missed the previous evening. He had announced that he would not be going in to AB Tech today and so, replete with eggs and bacon and English muffins and coffee, they were strolling along the pasture path toward the woods. “Let’s just take it easy today, sweetheart. Or at least this morning.”

  She had agreed, welcoming the diversion and hoping to distance herself from the questions and puzzles swirling madly in her mind.

  To no avail. As they neared the woods, the sight of the faint path leading up to Maythorn and Rosemary’s scuttle hole brought all the que
stions surging back.

  “…but maybe Rosemary’s just spinning her wheels too. You know, Phillip, sometimes I think that all this so-called ‘looking into what happened to Maythorn’ has turned into a way for her to spend more time with Jared. I’ve never seen her so interested in a man, not since old what’s-his-name—the one who looked like an Irish poet—back in college.”

  Elizabeth sank down on the little bench that was just at the edge of the woods and stared unhappily at the pasture where her cattle were cropping the last of the grass. It would soon be time to move them to the lower pasture, where the tractor could keep their feeding rings supplied with the great round bales of hay trucked in from Tennessee. The farm barely broke even on the small herd of cattle—beef prices were low and hay was not cheap—but without the cattle, the open fields and pastures would swiftly revert to woodland.

  Phillip sat down beside her. She was aware that he was uneasy, could see his hand start for his head in the familiar gesture, then return to his side.

  She turned to look at him. “What?”

  The hand came up again but paused. He rubbed his chin vigorously. “Yesterday I had lunch with Hank—you remember, Elizabeth, Hank with the Asheville PD—he asked about you and I told him a little bit about what was going on with Rosemary. Well, he remembered the Mullins case, and, get this, he says at one time there was some thought that it was linked to what they called the Halloween Vanishings. I did a little research….”

  The Halloween Vanishings: the headline tag the media had given to a baffling string of disappearances—all young girls who had gone missing on Halloween night. There had been one in nearby Barnardsville in 1984, and one in Asheville in 1985, and then, of course, Maythorn in 1986.