Harley took a second shell from his jacket and broke the breech open again. “You never cared about anybody, Mavis or anybody else.”
“I ain’t no goddamn bleedin’ heart, if that’s what you mean.”
“It’s called emotion…a conscience.”
Whitehead looked on as Harley smoothed the shell in and snapped the breech shut. He felt cheated that Whitehead had so easily resigned himself to his end.
“Money,” Whitehead said. “She thought if she had a baby she’d get it.”
“Where do you send her stuff?”
“What stuff?”
“The things I sent. The letters and presents for Leah. How do you get them to her?”
“All that junk’s back there in the barn. I told you, I don’t know where she is. Can’t you understand English?”
Harley grabbed him by the shirtfront, jerked him out of the chair and shoved him back toward the den, all the while keeping an eye out for Wesley Earl.
A playpen stood behind the leather sofa in what Whitehead called “the barn.” Inside were the presents he had sent to Leah, the doll and tea sets, the Playskool toys, his letters to Sherylynne packaged in rubber bands. Everything.
A warthog glared off the wall. A wildebeest stared with a wild, frenetic eye. The pizza parlor mirrors wavered. The high-pitched whine in his head intensified. “You never sent any of her things…”
Whitehead shrugged.
Harley caught him by the hair, jerked him around, shoved him back into the living room, and slammed him down in the chair against the wall. Whitehead slumped, hands bony and yellow as chicken feet, folded in his lap.
“You know I’m gonna kill you.” He felt outside of himself, an observer, looking on. He pressed the muzzle against Whitehead’s jawbone and cocked one hammer.
Whitehead turned watery eyes up at him. “I send money to ’er at a bank in Lake Charles. But like I told you, I don’t know where she’s at.”
“Lake Charles? What bank?”
“I don’t know. First National Citizens. But I got no address for ’er.”
Harley laughed without humor. “I’m gonna blow your brains plumb out the back of your sorry head.”
Whitehead screwed his face up, glaring at the gun, teeth clenched.
Harley slapped the barrel against his jaw, a sharp crack. Whitehead’s head snapped to one side. He teetered briefly on the chair. Harley clicked the other hammer back. Whitehead clenched his eyes shut, ground his teeth. Harley glared at the filigreed web of veins beneath the thinning hair, imagined the skull flying apart under the blast like a rotten egg. At the same time, he visualized the Doberman’s head from minutes earlier.
“Go on if you’re gonna!”
Harley jabbed him in the chest with the gun muzzle. “Shut up!”
“Go on!” Whitehead shouted, opening his eyes in the same instant Harley lifted the gun and fired both barrels, one after the other, roaring into the wall just over his head. Whitehead jerked upright; an involuntary cry barked out in the after-noise ringing in the room. Plaster and dust rained down. Whitehead began to shake, saliva drooling down his chin.
“Y-you’re a goddamn pussy,” Whitehead stuttered. “Y-you hear? I-I fucked your wife…made her a baby…y-you goddamn pussy…”
Harley stared. “You want to die…”
“R-right under your nose…”
“Well, this is your day. I’m gonna make your wishes come true.” With one quick motion he shoved the muzzle against the old eagle nose, cocked both barrels and snapped them—click-click—on the empties.
Whitehead shuddered, mouth working, unable to speak.
“Die and die and die!” Harley screamed.
He broke the breech and shoved in two more shells just as Wesley Earl peered around the dining room door, Álvaro directly behind. Harley swung the shotgun up. Wesley Earl leaped back, knocking into Álvaro as the big crystal chandelier over the table disintegrated in a crescendo of light and noise, the huge shimmering mass dropping onto the tabletop, crystal raining down in glittering arcs, clattering, rattling, tinkling over the tile floor. Harley swung the shotgun and knocked Whitehead off the chair; the blow jarred sickeningly in the marrow of Harley’s bones.
He went out through the front door and across the yard past the dead Doberman. His gaze turned on the old pump-jack towering above the swimming pool, the dull red light of the sandstorm glowing on it like a pagan idol. Harley ran at it and beat at it mindlessly with the shotgun until the stock splintered and the gun came to pieces. He wheeled about and, drawing Wesley Earl’s pistol from his belt, stumbled toward Whitehead’s Mercedes, firing into it, the little flat cracks of sound carrying away on the wind. He emptied the gun and hurled it at the windshield, but it skipped off into the blowing sand. He climbed into the car, fished the keys from the ashtray, fired it up, gunned the engine and popped the clutch. The big vehicle plowed through the yucca plants, throwing prickly pears and gravel across the yard, and hit the pump-jack with a whump that slammed his face against the steering wheel, filling his vision with electric splinters of light, and for a moment he lost his equilibrium, a grainy darkness closing in. He held to consciousness, held his foot hard on the accelerator as the pump-jack skidded and ground over the concrete, engine screaming, rear tires squalling, throwing up blue smoke as the pump-jack slowly tilted over into the pool with a huge ka-sloosh, taking the winter cover to the bottom. One big wave washed out over the sides as the car’s front end followed the pump-jack over into the pool. The chassis slammed the tiled edge. Smoke wrapped around the rear tires, the undercarriage grinding over the tiles, the rear wheels rising, bouncing on the concrete with short chirping sounds. Harley hit the power window button just as the rear-end began to lift, and then the whole thing slid in on top of the pump with a second ka-sloosh. The engine snorted and went dead in a roiling gush of steam. The back wheels squeaked to a stop, the rear bumper hanging on the edge. Bubbles glubbered up.
Harley pushed out through the window against a rush of water pouring in over the sill, then pulled himself up on top of the car, crawled up the trunk deck and stepped off onto the concrete.
His clothes were plastered to his body. Blood leaked from his nose and soaked his shirtfront. His boots were heavy, pinkish water leaking from the one Paladin had damaged.
He spotted Wesley Earl near the portico, crouched, as if unsure of what to do. Álvaro knelt, half-hidden around the corner. Whitehead came staggering out, bloodied face cupped in his hands. He trundled down into the yard looking like he was dug up from the dead. He stood near Wesley Earl, the three of them looking on as Harley hobbled to the rental car and got in. Teeth chattering, he fired it up and drove away.
Sand swept the road in sheets. Scrub beat about, jittering beneath the wailing wind.
Chapter 44
Mrs. Riley
HE TURNED THE car in at the Midland Odessa airport, changed planes in Dallas, and arrived at the Lake Charles, Louisiana regional airport at one that afternoon.
The plastic cup protector the doctor had taped over his broken nose felt too tight, and he had a headache. His eyes were swollen and turning dark. His left leg was bandaged just above the ankle, and he’d had a tetanus shot, though his boot had kept the Doberman from tearing his foot off. The doctor said he was lucky that the wound was above the ankle and not in the ankle itself. He downed another painkiller with a vodka and tonic in the airport’s bar, then made his way, limping a little, to the Hertz car-rental counter.
The attendant, a barrel-chested man in a too-small blazer eyed him with suspicion. “Cash or check?”
Harley laid seven one-hundred-dollar bills along with his BankAmericard and his driver’s license on the countertop.
“Your employer?”
“Self-employed.”
“Phone.”
“212-555-7177.”
“Address.”
“One-fifty Franklin, New York, New York.”
“Oh? Your drivers license says Midland, Texa
s.”
“Yes. I’ve moved, but I keep my Texas license updated.”
The attendant eyed him closely. “Then we’ll need the phone number of your nearest relative.”
“Look, buddy, there’s my credit card and seven hundred dollars cash, complete with my New York address. Now, all I want to do is rent a damn car and get the hell out of here. You don’t want to rent me one, I’ll go over to Avis.”
The attendant’s eyes glimmered. “I’ll get you a car, if you’ll just be patient,” he said through clenched teeth.
“Patient? Dammit to hell…!”
The man’s ballpoint pen dug through the carbons. Trembling a little, he glared over the counter. “Go through that door there. I’ll call the attendant to bring your car around. Give him this paperwork.”
“Thank you,” Harley replied, a mocking bow.
He had hardly turned around when a young man stepped into his path. “Sir, I have good news!”
“What…?”
“Good news, sir.” He was a gawky young man, all arms and legs, a green polyester suit flapping around his bones. A wide yellow tie with a palm tree and an orange sun seemed to grow at an angle out of his neck. His pointy-toed shoes were run-down at the heels. “Good news right here in God’s Holy Word.” He waved a zippered case in one hand, a Bible and a copy of The Watchtower in the other.
Harley stepped aside. “Sorry. I’m in a hurry.”
The boy tried to head him off. “Sir, just let me––”
Harley stopped. “You step in front of me again, I’m gonna stomp your skinny ass right through the goddamn floor.”
The boy stared after him, still holding the pamphlet out.
The outside attendant brought his car around—a Corvair. Harley glanced at the paperwork. “That the only car you’ve got?”
The attendant studied him with curiosity. “That’s what I was told to bring up.”
Harley was tempted to take the paperwork back inside and tell the guy to shove it. But he was in a hurry. While the attendant entered the mileage, Harley glanced over the map that came with the car. He then got in and drove out toward McNeese University. He found Highway 90 and then spotted a road sign to Sulfur. Sherylynne’s mother lived on past Sulfur in Vinton. He had only been there the one time, a few years ago.
The afternoon sky was colorless. Cypress and pine trees grew along either side of the highway, heavy with undergrowth. The February air here in southern Louisiana was heavy, wet and warm.
He had halfway expected to be arrested in Midland for the attack on Whitehead, then in Dallas and again here in Lake Charles. He supposed it said something about his mental state that he didn’t really give a shit—he had nothing left to lose. But there wasn’t any law waiting, only curious looks from other passengers shying away from him and his bandaged nose, his swollen eyes.
He was still sane enough to wonder if he was a little crazy, thinking of how he had almost killed Whitehead. At the crucial moment, he had thought of his mom and dad, his sisters, what it would do to them, to his chances of getting custody of Leah. But it was the damage the shotgun had done to the dog that stopped him finally.
The swampy terrain gave way to more solid ground. He drove through the little town of Sulfur, and while it was late February, a few people were out working their yards, putting in gardens.
Twenty-four miles later he drove into Vinton. A little farther on, he spotted the mailbox and the name: Riley. He recognized the little frame house with its screened-in porch at the end of the sandy track leading back through the pines.
His rental bounced through the potholes and came to a stop in front. He got out, went up to the door and knocked. He saw through the screen a silhouette behind the curtained window in the door to the house itself. The inside door opened and Mrs. Riley stood, looking at him through the screen.
“Mrs. Riley,” he said. “It’s Harley.”
She nodded slowly.
“I’m looking for Sherylynne.”
She nodded again.
“I heard she was back here in Louisiana.”
Mrs. Riley twisted the hem of her apron in heavily veined hands.
“I’d sure like to know where she is.”
She watched him, steady, except for her hands kneading the apron.
“And Leah. I haven’t seen her in a long time.”
“What happened to your face?”
“Accident.”
“You look bad hurt.”
“Not really. It’s okay now.”
“You like turnip greens?”
“Turnip greens?”
“I got some good turnip greens.”
He hesitated. “Yes, ma’am. I like them very much.”
“With hot bacon grease?”
“Sherylynne sometimes made greens like that.”
“You like cornbread?”
“Yes, ma’am. I do. But, Mrs. Riley, I’m in kind of a hurry.”
“A body’s gotta eat. You want some greens and cornbread?”
“Uh…sure. I guess so, if it’s not too much trouble.”
She held the screen door back and he stepped inside.
“Thanks.” He followed her through the living room into the kitchen. The place looked smaller than he remembered—the stuffed chairs soggy, the papered walls oily.
Mrs. Riley appeared older than he remembered. Her eyes were small, her face red and knotty. Iron-gray hair fell down from an unraveling knot at the base of her neck in back.
“You sit right there,” Mrs. Riley said, nodding at a table with a checkered oilcloth on it.
“Thank you.”
Mrs. Riley shuffled to the stove, took the lid off a pot, peered in, and turned the gas burner on underneath. She set a cast-iron skillet of congealed bacon grease on another burner.
“There ain’t no catfish,” she said.
“Excuse me?”
“Willard brings catfish from time to time. But there ain’t none left.” She took a half pan of cornbread from the fridge and put it in the oven to warm.
“About Sherylynne. You know how I could get in touch with her?”
“My brother Willard, he brought them greens down from Starks. You know where Starks is?”
“No, ma’am. I don’t think so.”
“Plumb full of blue-eyed niggers.”
Harley was mildly surprised. He couldn’t recall hearing that term since leaving Texas for New York.
“Some of ’em got kinky blond hair, too.”
“I thought she was prob’ly here with you. Sherylynne, that is.”
“Over in Vidor, they once had a big sign on the highway: ‘Nigger. Don’t let the sun set on your head in Vidor, Texas.’ ”
“I guess the thing about ignorance is it insists on advertising itself.”
Mrs. Riley paused, gave him a searching look. “I got nothin’ against niggers myself.” She took the lid off the pot. “Here. I think this is just about ready.”
“Been a long time since I had it like that. With bacon grease.”
“I’ll get some butter for your cornbread.”
She moved slowly and with purpose, and set butter on the table, the cornbread in its cast-iron skillet on a potholder, then spooned greens onto a plate and drizzled it with hot bacon grease.
He hadn’t thought about food, but suddenly he was starving. He slathered the cornbread with butter, stabbed the greens onto the fork and it was the best food he had ever eaten anywhere. He wondered vaguely how he could feel such ill will for someone while calmly eating greens at her mother’s table.
“I can’t tell you how good this is. Thank you so much.”
“I like a man to enjoy his food. Here, I’ll get you a glass of milk to wash it down with.”
“Thanks again.”
Mrs. Riley scraped the rest of the greens onto his plate, then pulled out the other chair and sat down, hands folded in her lap.
“Why’re you looking for Sherylynne?”
He paused. “I’m not quite sure.
Truthfully, I think she took advantage of me.”
“You ain’t gonna hurt her, are you?”
He thought on that a moment. “I don’t intend to, no.”
“I don’t want nobody to get hurt.”
“No, ma’am. Me either,” he said, only then realizing how sincerely he meant it, wondering if he really had meant to kill her. In fact, he wasn’t at all sure just what he did mean to do.
Mrs. Riley gave him another studied look. “What happened to your face?”
“Uh, I had a wreck. Knocked my nose on the steering wheel.”
She nodded. “Did you know my husband, Farrell?”
“No, ma’am. He was shipped out when I was here.”
Her gaze wandered. “Oh. Yes. He was. Shipped out.”
Harley scooped up the last of the greens with the last of the cornbread and washed it down with the milk. “Mrs. Riley, thanks. I needed that. I haven’t eaten in a while. About the best meal I ever had, too.”
“Really? You out of work?”
“No, no. Nothing like that. I just got so busy I forgot about eating.”
“She lives up toward Edgerly.”
“Edgerly?”
“You ain’t gonna hurt her, are you?”
“No, ma’am, I don’t intend to.”
“It ain’t Christian of me, but you can kill her sorry husband, far’s I’m concerned.”
Harley stared. “She…remarried?”
A shadow flickered behind her eyes. “Oh. No. I guess not. Not that I remember.”
“Mrs. Riley…are you okay?”
“Of course. Did you know my husband, Farrell?”
“No, ma’am.”
Her gaze wandered out to one side. “Farrell, he got killed. That Methodist preacher over in Sulfur.”
“He…what…?”
“Just on the other side of Edgerly. Here, I’ll draw you a map.”
“You said…”
“Good Christian man, Farrell was. Brought home a regular paycheck.”
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled.”
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