The Last Virginia Gentleman

by Michael Kilian

  They stopped to pick up his Cherokee where he had left it at his National Guard company’s assembly point, then, with May following in her Volkswagen, went on to the farm. Becky’s Toyota was parked by the cottage, but he was of no mind to deal with her now. That would have to wait until May had returned to Washington.

  They went into his house, proceeding directly to his study. She read over the papers, then signed them, smiling as she set down the pen.

  “There,” she said. “Now let’s go see the stallion. Are you going to wear that uniform? Show off your captain’s bars?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll wait in the car.”

  Hurrying upstairs, he changed into khakis, loafers, a white button-down shirt, and his old blue blazer. He loaded two more clips for his automatic with ammunition, slipped them into the side pockets of his jacket, then put the pistol in his belt at his back. He had just fetched his camera from his study when his phone rang.

  It was Alixe. She was in the bar of the Dandytown Inn.

  “My stable manager said he saw a green Cherokee drive by a few minutes ago, so I guessed it was you coming back from the wars.”

  “I’m about to leave again. I’m going up to Charles Town.”

  “I need to talk to you, David. I went through the cottage. I found a videotape.”

  She paused.

  “I know about the tape,” he said quietly.

  “Do you know what’s on it?”

  “I watched a little of it.”

  “Well, I watched a lot. The Dandytown Chamber of Commerce wouldn’t like it. We have to talk about this. I’ll be over as soon as I can.”

  “I can’t, Alixe. I have somebody with me.”

  “Lenore?”

  “No, not Lenore. It’s May Moody. She’s helping us with the lawsuit. I need to take some pictures of the bay. It’s the first thing we should have done.”

  “You’ll be back tonight?”

  He hesitated. “Yes, I should think so.”

  “Call me from up there when you’re done. I’ll be at home, waiting.”

  “I will. If you hear from my cousin, tell him I need to talk to him.”

  He heard shouting outside. Becky in full temper was unmistakable.

  “I have to go, Alixe. Becky’s out in the yard. I think she’s screaming at May.”

  “I’ll be right over, as soon as I call Selma and tell her you’re coming. Don’t take Becky with you.”

  “There’s not much chance of that. See you soon.”

  He hurried out the door, fearing that May Moody had driven off, but she was still in her car. Becky was standing by the door, holding a riding crop.

  “Leave her alone, Becky! Go back in the house.”

  The girl’s face was mottled. She seemed on the edge of violence.

  “She says she’s going off with you, David!”

  “That’s right,” Showers said. “I’ll be back tonight.”

  “But you just got home!”

  May started the car.

  “I’ll be back tonight,” he repeated.

  Becky thrust herself against his chest, clinging to him. Her hair smelled as though it had been long unwashed. “Please, David. Stay! Please!”

  He took her shoulders, and set her back. “Calm down, for God’s sake. Everything’s all right. We’re just going up to look at the horse. I’ll be back tonight.”

  She began crying hysterically. He looked at her eyes, wondering what else Alixe might have found.

  May put the Volkswagen in reverse, spinning backward in a half circle until the passenger side was facing him. She opened the door.

  “I won’t be long,” he said, separating himself from Becky. “Alixe is coming over. Please, calm down.”

  May started moving the car as soon as he got into the seat, not waiting for him to shut the door. Becky began shouting obscenities, then threw the crop. It hit May on the back of the head.

  “Damn!” she said, and ground the gearshift into second, speeding away. Showers looked back. Becky was standing with legs apart, her fists clenched at her side.

  As they wound on down the road, Showers turned to examine May’s head, probing gently through the rich, dark hair. The crop had fallen into the rear seat.

  “You’ve a small bump,” he said. “Does it hurt?”

  “Of course it hurts. Is she like that all the time?”

  “No. It’s recent. We don’t know what it’s about.”

  “Well, I have a pretty good idea.”

  He directed her to a turning. Soon they were on the Berryville Road.

  Selma was waiting for them, her dusky face as impassive as before, though Showers sensed she was glad he had come.

  He worked quickly—a close-up of the stallion’s head, a full-length frontal view, a three-quarter shot. He had Selma curl back the upper lip for a picture that clearly showed the tattooed registration number.

  “Give me the camera, Captain,” Selma said. “I’ll get the two of you.”

  Showers and May went to the horse’s side. She put her arm around his waist. He did the same. He reminded himself that movie stars posed for pictures with people like this all the time.

  May turned back to the horse, stroking his neck. “I’d forgotten what a beauty he is. I almost wish I’d kept him.”

  “There were times when I’ve wished that, too,” he said.

  Selma took the lead in hand, and started walking the bay away.

  “Take good care, Selma.”

  “I won’t let harm come to a hair of his tail,” she said, over her shoulder.

  “I don’t mean him. I mean you. Would you like me to stay up here with you?”

  “Don’t you worry, Captain Showers. I’ll be fine. You learn a few things, growin’ up in West Virginia.”

  May decided she didn’t want to spend the night in Dandytown, even—perhaps especially—in the Dandytown Inn. She was in no mood for a long drive back to Washington, either. After an awkward moment, an idea occurred to him.

  “There’s a place in Shepherdstown, just up the Potomac from Harper’s Ferry.”

  “The Bavarian Inn.”

  “You know it?”

  “When I was a little girl, we lived in Cumberland. I know all the river towns. We’d stop for dinner sometimes at the Bavarian Inn, on the way back from Annapolis, when my father was in the legislature. I used to love the potato pancakes.”

  “I’ll buy you all the potato pancakes you can eat.”

  She patted her very flat stomach, and grinned. “That won’t be very many.”

  As it turned out, she ate everything on her plate, and had German chocolate cake for dessert.

  “I won’t do this again for a year,” she said. “I’m very addictive. Start me on anything, and I want all I can get. It got me in a lot of trouble, a few years ago.”

  The waiter poured more coffee. May lighted a cigarette, waiting for him to leave.

  “I’m an alcoholic, David,” she said, exhaling. “Does that bother you?”

  “Half the people I know are. My father was. My cousin is, I think. He’s trying to do something about it, but … well, it must be hard.”

  “I did something about it. I went to one of those places. It was damn hard. They had me scrubbing floors, like my mother had to do, when she was young. I never, ever want to go through that again. It was like being a slave.”

  She smoked for a moment. He sat, watching the tiny changes in her expression. She reminded him of an ever changing painting. Every few minutes, a new and different portrait.

  “I was also a drug user,” she said, her voice a little leaden. “All the Malibu fun stuff—cocaine, hash, uppers, downers. Anything my friends were into was great with me.”

  Her eyes turned full upon him. She waited for his disapproval. He merely waited.

  “I did something about that, too,” she said. “Much too late. I don’t think there was a director or a producer I didn’t tell to fuck off.” She looked away. “Sorry. I also used
to swear a lot. I got fired from a couple of pictures. I had trouble getting work. I had to beg for my last role, and it was in a dog of a picture that I don’t think played ten theaters.”

  “I’d love to see all of your films.”

  “No you wouldn’t. That’s why this play at the Shakespeare Theatre is so important to me. That’s why I took the risk of coming to Washington—my father’s city. The chance to work with Michael Kahn. He runs the theater. He’s the greatest teacher Juilliard ever had. If I can make a success of this … It’s my best hope of getting back to where I was. Not to what I was. But where.”

  “Do you mean Los Angeles?”

  “L.A. New York.” She shrugged. “Back.”

  “When does your play close?”

  “In October. You’ll have to come see me in it.”

  “I’d like that.”

  She stubbed out her cigarette, and reached for her purse. He quickly slapped a credit card of his own down on the table.

  “David, you’ve just lost your job.”

  “I’ll worry about that later. We have to get you a room.”

  “Are you going to go back home?”

  “I thought I would. I’ll be back in the morning.”

  “Please stay with me.” She colored. “I mean, in a separate room. Could you?”

  It would be cowardly of him, staying up here, but he didn’t want to face Becky. Not that night. Alixe wanted to talk to him. He’d call her. “Yes. Certainly.”

  She lingered in her chair after he had signed the check.

  “I’ve a favor to ask of you,” she said. “Tomorrow, can we go riding?”

  “Sure.”

  “Could I ride the bay? Just once?”

  He frowned. “I don’t want to take him off Selma’s little farm.”

  “That doesn’t matter. I’ll just ride him around the farm.”

  After they checked in, he walked her to her room. She unlocked the door, pushing it open, then turned to face him.

  “I’ll be just down the hall,” he said.

  She lifted her face, stepping close. He didn’t know if she was saying good night, or if this was an invitation for more. He didn’t know what she expected of him, what he expected of himself.

  He kissed her. That much he knew they both wanted. She held him tightly, breasts pushing against him, the flesh of her back warm against his hand through the thin material of her blouse. He felt himself swaying. He knew he had only to touch her, somewhere intimate. But he was unsure. Perhaps she would resent it. They had only just met, really. She might not want that at all. It might just ruin everything. Lenore’s mocking face came unwanted to his mind.

  May stepped back, looking at him, curious, even a little amused.

  “Where are you going, Captain?”

  He pulled her to him again, kissing her with a parting of the lips, then holding her tightly, her dark hair against his cheek.

  “I used to be married,” he said. “To a woman from here. She’s still here. We’ve been divorced for years, but sometimes it seems we’re still married.”

  May stepped back, looking up into his eyes.

  “I was married once, too. For a little while. I hardly remember him. That’s one of the things I went through. Do you still love her—at all?”

  “Sometimes I try to pretend that I do, but it doesn’t work.”

  “Marriage isn’t love, Captain. Love comes first.”

  She took his hands in hers and led him across the threshold.

  He’d call Alixe in the morning.

  The phone rang—a harsh, disturbing summons in the darkness. He had no idea of the time. They’d been sleeping deeply.

  He answered, though it was May’s room—not caring who discovered that fact.

  “Captain Showers, it’s Selma. We got big trouble. Billy Bonning’s got the horse. I’m with him. Up in Pennsylvania. Near Chambersburg.” She spoke in a monotone, her voice very leaden.

  “What? Billy Bonning?”

  “He showed up with a friend. They had guns. They must have followed that little yellow VW of yours. He didn’t give me much chance to do anythin’, Captain. I figured I’d live a little longer if I pretended to help him—for money. He gave me a hundred fucking bucks, the dumb bastard.”

  “Where is he? Where are you?”

  “He’s in a motel up Interstate 81. He and his buddy. I had to do them both, you know? Make ’em happy. They’re sleeping. I seen to that. Whacked ’em both a good couple times in the head with the butt of a gun. I got their guns. And Billy’s rig. And the horse. I’m in a gas station.”

  “Is the horse all right?”

  “Yeah, he’s okay. Not very happy. But he’s okay. You better get up here, Captain. I don’t know what to do.”

  “I’ll be right there. You said a gas station?”

  “At the Marion exit. I got the rig pulled around in back, but you can still see it from the road. A Chevy Blazer, with a green horse trailer.”

  Whatever Alixe was paying her, she was certainly earning it.

  “Captain?”

  He thought of calling the Pennsylvania State Police, but didn’t know what that might bring on. Selma might have killed Bonning with her “couple of whacks.”

  “I’ll be right there, Selma. If anyone shows up, just get out of there. Just run.”

  “Don’t waste no time, Captain.”

  Showers wanted to avoid waking May, but she was sitting up, turning on a lamp, as he hung up the phone.

  “I heard some of that,” she said. “What’s wrong?”

  “I told you about Billy Bonning?”

  “Yes?”

  “He took the bay. At gunpoint. Selma got it back from him but I have to get up there and help her.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Not far. Just across the Pennsylvania line. You stay here.”

  She bolted out of bed and ran to her bag, pulling on her clothes.

  “May, I said stay here.”

  “It’s my car. I’m going with you.”

  “May!”

  “I got you into this, David. I’m going with you.”

  The traffic on the interstate at this predawn hour was mostly trailer trucks, bound for everywhere, whining and thumping over the pavement, red and yellow top lights passing into the night. Showers followed one off the exit and into the service station, gliding past it as the driver turned off its chugging engine, the truck’s air brakes releasing pressure with a sigh.

  Selma was standing by a soft-drink machine, a dark, slender figure in the garish light. Showers pulled the Volkswagen up next to her and got out.

  “You’re all right, Selma?”

  “Tired. Scared. But, yeah, all right.”

  He gave her a hug. Her hard little body didn’t yield.

  “You’re a hell of a girl.”

  “Save that shit, Captain. We gotta get out of here.”

  Showers followed her to the horse trailer, lifting the lock bar at the back. The stallion moved nervously as he opened the door, lunging back and hitting Showers with his haunch, knocking him back. He quickly shut the door again, heaving himself against it.

  “We gotta get the rig off the road,” Selma said. “I didn’t know where to go.”

  May was standing uncertainly by. Two trailer trucks passed, and then another from the opposite direction. Two youths were in the cashier’s booth of the service station, talking and laughing, sneaking leering looks at the two women.

  “I’ll think of a place,” Showers said. “I want you and May to go back to Shepherdstown. Call Alixe. Have her meet you there. Have her bring a trailer.”

  “You going to take the horse down there, Captain? They’ll be looking for this rig up and down eighty-one. I didn’t whack Billy that hard. Wished I did.”

  “I’ll head west into the mountains. Find some back road to hide in for the rest of the night. I’ll call you in Shepherdstown in the morning, and we’ll arrange a safe place to meet. I’m going to take care of this hors
e if I end up having to lock him in the National Guard armory.”

  A passenger car came whizzing along the highway, headlights on bright, the glare flaring on the pavement. It slowed as it went by the service station, then resumed its high speed.

  “You two get going. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “You got a gun, Captain?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Then I’ll keep this one.” She opened her jacket, revealing a pistol stuck in her belt. “There’s another one in the Blazer.”

  “You just get on to Shepherdstown. Stay in May’s room and don’t budge until I call you or Alixe shows up.”

  “Take care of yourself, Captain.”

  He got behind the wheel of the Blazer, hesitating before turning on the engine. He opened the glove compartment. Beneath a pint bottle of cheap whiskey, an opened cigarette pack, and a small tin of snuff, he found some soiled and tattered highway maps. On top was one for Virginia/West Virginia, but it also showed the western panhandle of Maryland, and a sliver of Pennsylvania just above the Mason-Dixon Line.

  As he unfolded it fully, he heard the Volkswagen driving away. The women would be safe in the Bavarian Inn within an hour. Leaning forward, he studied the tiny lines of road in the dim glow of the overhead light. Except for his postings abroad, he had lived very near here all of his life, but knew little about this outlying territory. It was beyond the horse country. It was where a different kind of people lived.

  He had some friends in the Shenandoah Valley, including one who had a farm near New Market along the western edge of the valley. But the only direct route there was Interstate 81.

  Peering more closely, he noted some secondary roads that would take him through a gap by Dickey’s Mountain and thence to Hancock, Maryland, on the Potomac. From there, he could go through Berkeley Springs, in West Virginia, and follow 522 down into Virginia. The sun would be well up by the time he got to New Market, but he could stick to the back country all the way.

  He wished he knew how badly Billy Bonning had been injured, whether he was conscious and moving about—whether he had just the one man at his disposal, or many such friends.

  It angered him that he should be so frightened, that he should feel such a fugitive less than a hundred miles from his family’s two-century-old home. Common sense dictated a call to the police, but it seemed absurd to imagine telling this horribly complicated story to a bored sergeant in some state police barracks. The only crime he had evidence of in his possession was their theft of Billy’s rig. What if Bonning had gone to the police—playing it straight, pressing charges of assault and robbery?