“Motty says she lay in bed five weeks,” Stella said.
He grunted. Walked around her and picked up his makeshift poker, a length of narrow pipe that could have been a worm for a still. He said, “That was the worst time of my life.”
“Do you know what killed her?”
“They said it was TB.”
“No,” Stella said. “That’s a lie.”
He wouldn’t look at her.
“You know what happened to her,” Stella said. “You didn’t do anything.”
“I wish I had,” Abby said. “Even if it would’ve done no good, I sure wish I had.”
He looked at the poker, not sure what to do with it. Leaned it against the wall. “I’m going to make up a pallet for you,” he said. “You can stay right here by the fire, sleep as long as you like.”
“I’m afraid to sleep,” Stella said.
“Don’t you worry about that. In the morning it’ll all be clear. And there’s one thing we know already—that Lincoln Rayburn’s a damn fool.”
* * *
—
two nights later she heard the faint rumble in the distance. She sat up, and abruptly it stopped.
It was near midnight, but she was awake, and her bedroom was awash in a quavering light—the moon shining through the frost-glazed window. She could hear everything, as if the walls were paper; the fire snapping in the woodstove, Motty’s wheezy snore, the ticking of the clock in the front room. And outside, the wind scraping at the trees. The crunch of heavy steps on the icy, brittle grass.
A shape appeared in her window. A voice softly called her name.
Stella slipped out of bed. The air was cold. She took her robe from the hook and walked out to the front porch.
“I’m here,” she said.
A moment later he appeared from around the side of the house. Lunk, looking tall in his black coat, his face serious.
“I heard your car,” she said.
He glanced behind him. He’d parked it down the road, out of sight.
“I need to talk to you,” he said. “Without Motty.”
Motty was snoring away. Still, she closed the door. She asked, “Did Abby send you?”
“He talked to me, yes, but he didn’t send me. I been waiting to come.” He put a foot on the bottom step, looking up at her. “I been sick ever since you told me to leave you alone. I can’t sleep, I can’t eat.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “That was cruel.”
“Oh!” He seemed ready to burst into tears. “Abby said…but I didn’t know. After the last time, you seemed so…I couldn’t understand it. You were so different. It was hard to hear.”
“I’m sorry,” she said again.
“Stella, don’t apologize for a thing. You told me how you felt, and I tried to understand. But when Abby said, maybe, that you’d…well, I came to tell you—I’ll wait for you. If you’re here in the cove, that’s where I’ll be, too. If you go to college—any college, any town—I’ll follow if you’ll let me. I’ll find work. I’ll do anything. I’ll dig ditches!” He laughed, amazed at the words spilling out of him. “I love you, Stella Wallace. My life ain’t worth anything without you.”
“Don’t say that.”
“It’s true. I can’t help it, but it’s true. I don’t know how you feel about me, right now, but—”
“I know,” she said.
“You…? What do you…?” He lost his balance, righted himself. He was so beautiful like this, fear and hope and love and confusion, all bubbling away under high heat, and him trying to contain himself, trying to drive home his case when the case was already settled.
“Tomorrow night,” she said.
“Tomorrow?”
“I don’t care where we go. We can drive to California if you want.”
“Tomorrow!”
“If I don’t leave here,” she said. “I’ll die.”
22
1948
Stella pushed the Buick as hard as she could, but even though it was brand-new, the Roadmaster was no undercover race car like her Ford or Alfonse’s souped-up Chevy; Pee Wee preferred comfort over speed. The accelerator was sluggish, the brakes mushy. It was like driving a four-thousand-pound mattress.
She reached the park after an achingly long time, then came to the T. East to Motty’s, west to Abby’s.
She thought, I can’t do this alone. And Abby has my shotgun.
A quarter mile west she jammed the wide vehicle between two trees, onto the dirt track. Last time she’d gone this way, in her own car, she’d driven slow and careful. Not this time. She launched the Buick up the road, counting on momentum to get her over rocks and roots. The car bucked wildly, and her headlights skidded from tree to tree. She whipped around the hairpin turn that marked the three-quarter point, then—
The Buick slammed to a stop. Stella’s body kept moving. Her chest caromed off the steering wheel and she fell sideways, onto the passenger’s side floorboards. The car was listing to starboard.
The engine clunked to a halt. For a long moment she lay on the floor, wincing in pain, sipping spoonfuls of air. Her sternum felt like it’d been whacked by a ball-peen hammer.
You’ll live, she told herself. Get moving.
She climbed back onto the ridiculously padded seat, restarted the engine, and pressed the gas. The car roared but didn’t move. She killed the engine but kept the headlights on. Climbed out, bones complaining.
The front axle was hung up on a log, the driver’s side wheel in the air. What the fuck was a log doing in the road? She could try to rock the car off it, but she didn’t have time. The Uncles would be done with supper, and they could be taking Sunny to the chapel this very minute.
She’d have to go the rest of the way on foot. She started moving through the trees in a stuttering run, cutting straight over the hill rather than following the road. A rib stabbed her side every other step. In ten minutes she’d reached Abby’s yard.
The cabin door hung open. The inside was dark. Stella took a moment to catch her breath, and then called, “Abby?”
He didn’t answer. She called his name again, louder. Went to the doorframe. And then, on instinct, said, “Sunny?”
No answer.
She went in. The fireplace was cold, not even an ember. The room was empty and dark. And the bedroom door was open. The bedroom door was never open.
She went to the doorway. The room was windowless and much darker than the main cabin. She lowered her voice. “Abby? It’s Stella.”
The air smelled of harsh chemicals, the preservatives and glues he used in the taxidermy. Her eyes slowly adjusted to the dark. She could make out a narrow bed, and something that could have been a stack of buckets.
“Abby?”
A figure lay on the bed. She leaned close. “Hey. It’s me.”
Her hand touched the bed where his head should be, and it was sticky. A small noise escaped her throat. She dug into her pocket and found her Zippo.
It was Abby, but his face was hard to make out in the tiny flame. Then she realized he was masked in blood. His mouth hung open.
“Oh God. Abby.” She touched his neck. She pressed her face close to his, almost kissing him. Both his eyes had swelled shut, and his jaw was misshapen. “Please,” she said.
A faint rasp came from his open mouth.
Was he choking? She put two fingers in his mouth. He lurched when she touched his broken teeth. Her fingers came away wet. She’d felt no blockage.
He made a sound like air leaking out of a tire. Was he trying to say Sunny, or Stella?
“Sorry,” he said. “So, so…”
“Abby. What happened? Did Hendrick do this to you?”
He breathed out, heavily. “She okay?”
“Hold still, just a second.” She left the bedroom, looked aro
und frantically, finally found a lantern by the sink, and returned to him.
His shirt was open to his breastbone. She moved her hands over his body, fearing gunshot wounds. There were bruises on his arms, cuts on his hands. When she touched his ribs he gasped. It looked like they hadn’t shot him, though—just beaten him within an inch of his life. Every exhalation sounded like he was breathing through mud.
“I tried,” he said. “Tried.”
The blood on the bed was dried and tacky. They’d done this to him hours ago, then. Maybe last night, when they came looking for Sunny.
She knelt beside the bed. “Abby. Listen to me.” She was having trouble breathing herself. Tears had sprung into her eyes. “I need to go get Sunny. But I’m going to come back for you, okay? I’ll get you to a doctor. Pee Wee’s car is down the back way, at the turn.”
“I can get up.”
“Don’t get up! I’ll be back for you.”
A sigh escaped him.
“I’m sorry, I need to know,” she said. “Do you still have the shotgun?”
He moved his head slightly. Whispered, “Took it.”
“Fuck.”
“I tried. I didn’t tell ’em. I didn’t…”
“I know,” she said. “I know. I’ll be back for you.”
* * *
—
she took the high ridge trail. Ran, trying to ignore the pain in her chest. Fell into the chapel yard with the bright moon behind her.
Veronica stood in front of the chapel door, peeking in through a gap, her curls lit up by a bright light spilling out. Those fucking movie lights.
Veronica didn’t hear Stella, either, thanks to the growling Delco generator.
Stella tapped her on the shoulder and she spun about, shocked.
“Get away from the door.”
“I thought you were in jail!” Then: “What happened? I couldn’t believe it when I heard.”
“I know what you did, Vee. I should have known you was always your daddy’s girl. Now move.”
Still Veronica didn’t step from the door. “I don’t know what you’re—Stella!”
Stella grabbed the front of Veronica’s dress, bunched the cloth in her fist, and yanked her close. “I said.” Pushed her sideways.
“Daddy!” Veronica shouted. “Daddy! Rickie! Come out here!”
Behind the generator, leaning against the wall next to the gas cans, the excavation tools: a short-handled shovel, a long-handled one, a pickax. Stella hefted the long shovel. It was out of balance, not made for swinging at skulls, but it would have to do.
The door opened, and a robed figure stepped out. Rickie, all dressed up. He looked at Veronica and said, “What are you doing? They’re in the middle of the thing!”
Veronica pointed. Rickie turned, threw up an arm. The shovel hit him in the elbow and he yelped, went down on one knee. “What’s the matter with you?”
Hard to tell through a long handle, Stella thought, but it sure felt like bones had fractured.
Rickie gingerly touched his elbow and swore, loudly. Veronica backed away, a hand at her mouth.
Stella strode into the chapel.
At the far end of the room, a ring of tripods surrounded the hole in the floor like sentries. One of the set of lights, however, had been swiveled to illuminate the girl in the chair. Sunny sat in profile, perched on what looked like the same cane-back chair Stella had occupied a dozen years ago. Hendrick knelt before her, holding the copper bowl. His fancy robe had swallowed his legs and feet so that he looked like a munchkin offering Dorothy a treat. This tableau was being filmed by the skinny man, and tape-recorded by a new soundman, a replacement for the bald man who’d died in the cave. They wore robes, too, though much plainer than Hendrick’s gold-threaded wonder. And in the pews, half a dozen more robed men.
Every face had turned toward Stella.
One of the men in the front row abruptly ducked, reached for something under the pew. “Cut!” Hendrick shouted. “Stop filming!”
Another man, closer to Stella, stepped into the aisle, blocking her way. He was one of the Georgians, a round, heavy-jowled man. “Women aren’t allowed in here.”
She gripped the shovel with both hands. “You think I won’t bash your brains in? I grew up on a farm.”
The man hesitated. Then a voice behind him said, “Step away, Brother Jerome.” The man plopped down, relieved.
Brother Paul stood at the end of the aisle, pointing a shotgun at her. Not just any shotgun—her family’s Winchester 97. “You want to put down that shovel?”
“Not really.” She kept walking, measuring the distance between them. His face was hard to make out against the halo framing him, but it was clear one of his eyes had been blackened, a recent mark. It was the most color she’d ever seen on his face.
Paul worked the shotgun’s slide.
Stella stopped, took a breath. Ten feet remained between them. “Fine.” She let the shovel fall with a clatter.
Behind Paul, Hendrick said, “What are you doing here, Stella?”
Paul eased out of the way, lifting the gun slightly to clear the back of the pew. His aim never strayed from Stella’s gut. On the platform, Hendrick had gotten to his feet. The bowl sat on the floor between him and Sunny’s feet.
“Sunny, I need you to listen to me,” Stella said, ignoring Hendrick. “You don’t know what’s going to happen in that cave.” The girl regarded her calmly. She wore a pale yellow dress and white shoes, with lace-topped ankle socks. Veronica—it had to have been Veronica—had woven small white flowers through Sunny’s hair like a crown. It was harvest time, but she was dressed for Easter.
Stella said, “Did they tell you what they did to Abby?”
Sunny glanced at Hendrick. She didn’t know.
“Tell her,” Stella said.
He had the decency to look embarrassed. “Couldn’t be helped. He wouldn’t get out of the way.”
“They beat him within an inch of his life,” Stella said. “Nearly killed him.”
“I will say this,” Brother Paul said. “He put up a good fight.”
Up close, she could see that the whole side of Paul’s face had turned greenish blue. “I bet he did,” Stella said. Absalom Whitt was a big man. Slow to anger, but he knew how to take care of himself—and his girls. He’d tried to keep his promise to her.
“So he’s alive?” Sunny asked.
Stella walked forward, slowly. The barrel of the gun was at her back now. “Yes, barely,” she said. “They could have tied him up if they didn’t want him to warn me. But they hurt him, bad, and left him to die.”
“It’s okay,” Sunny said. “We’ll take care of him, after.”
“That’s right,” Hendrick said. “As soon as the world knows of the God’s existence, all will be taken care of.”
“Holy hell,” Stella said. “Would you stop with the bullshit?”
“You’re the one who’s been—”
“You just breathe it in and breathe it out. You’re adapted to it, like some kind of swamp animal.”
“Is that Lena?” a voice loudly asked. Morgan Birch talking to John Headley beside him. Both of them in their nineties and deaf as posts. “I always liked her.”
“Jesus Christ,” Stella said. “How’s that eternal youth working out for you two?”
Morgan smiled a toothless smile.
Stella stepped closer to the platform and Brother Paul barked a warning. “Whatever they told you, they don’t know what they’re talking about,” Stella told Sunny. “The Ghostdaddy’s not going to come out. It’s dying.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Hendrick said. “This is the day we’ve all been—Stanley! I said cut!” The skinny man lowered his camera. The man beside him punched buttons on the reel-to-reel, clearly confused.
Stella kept
her eyes on Sunny. “They can’t force you. You’re in charge here. They can’t go in without you, nothing happens without you.”
“That’s enough,” Hendrick said. “Take her out of here.”
Stella ignored them. “Sunny, I don’t care what you did to Motty. I know it was an accident.”
“What?” Hendrick said. “What are you talking about?”
A hit. Hendrick had no idea that this little girl had murdered his sister. Of course he’d never suspected. She was a little girl.
“There’s things you don’t know,” Stella said to him. “Let’s just slow down. No need to rush off into the cave.”
“You’re lying,” Hendrick said. “You’re just trying to delay us.”
Fuck yes, I’m delaying, Stella thought. She needed the time to get Sunny to doubt him. To get all of them to doubt him.
“The God ain’t coming out of the mountain,” she said, loud enough so even the old men could hear. “You think it’s going to risk everything, for what you want? When I was a girl, Uncle Hendrick told me about the government, how they’d come down on us like a swarm of locusts. It was true then and true now. If they find out about the Ghost—”
“Shut up!” Sunny yelled.
Stella held up her hands. “Sunny, I’m sorry if you’re upset. But you can’t go in there alone. It’s too dangerous.”
“Shut her up!” the girl yelled.
Brother Paul pressed the barrel of the shotgun against her back.
She looked over her shoulder. “What are you going to do, Brother? Shoot an unarmed woman in front of a child?”
“I’ll do what’s necessary,” he said, and she believed him.
Sunny stood up. “I can’t wait anymore.”
Stella said, “Please! Don’t do it, Sunny. You’re not—”
Pain shot up her neck and she fell onto hands and knees. Stars fired behind her eyelids. He’d hit her with the butt of the shotgun.
“Stay down,” Paul said.
“The God in the Mountain’s waiting,” Sunny said.
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