First, Corey had to get past Mom and Dad tonight. Especially Mom, who was gazing at him with questions in her eyes. Corey didn’t have the energy to come up with lies that would make her questions go away. He was too tired for lies tonight. He could sleep for a month solid.
“Next time,” Mom said slowly, “Sean should spend the night here. All right?”
Corey nodded. She didn’t like it when he didn’t answer verbally, so he said, “Yeah, okay.”
“And could you remind Sean and his father about the party Thursday? I need to know how many people to plan for.”
“I don’t think they’ll come,” Corey said. He had no intention of telling Sean’s family about his mother’s Fourth of July party. He wished he could skip it himself.
“Well, just ask him, please.”
“Yeah, okay.”
“We’re thinking about hitting a movie in Longview tomorrow,” Dad said. “The three of us.”
“Great,” Corey said, trying to smile.
The branch hit the window harder this time. Corey forced himself not to look again, or he’d be busted. He wondered if Becka was playing with him, making noises on purpose.
“Don’t you want a vote on which one?” Dad said.“Dr. Dolittle 2 orPearl Harbor?”
“Whatever’s good,” Corey said. “Doesn’t matter, as long as we all go.”
Corey congratulated himself on that last line, because it had an immediate effect on their faces, wiping away most of the suspicion in Mom’s eyes. Mom smiled, satisfied, and Dad winked at him, even curling his arm around Mom’s waist, something Corey hadn’t seen him do since he’d been here. Something he hadn’t seen Dad do inforever . Even while they still lived together, Mom and Dad hadn’t kissed each other hello or good-bye or shown any signs of liking each other for at least a year before Dad left, maybe longer. Corey had been wishing for this for four years—forthis exactly—and his heart was giving him a bigSo what ? It didn’t feel fair.
Maybe this will all hit me later,he thought. He hoped so. He felt sad, almost tearing up.
But Corey couldn’t feel sad long. Suddenly, he realized he was still wearing Gramma Marie’sring . He’d forgotten about it. He’d been too worried about hiding Becka, too worried his parents would see the hard-on that refused to die in his jeans. Cursing himself, Corey shoved his hand into his pocket, hiding the ring.
He had to finish this soon, before he cracked up. He wasn’t a good liar, not like Dad, who thought Corey was too stupid to notice he liked to get high sometimes, leaving traces of white powder on his nose-hairs. Even before, in L.A., Corey had heard Dad on the telephone talking to some woman all the time; he could tell it was a woman just by the way Dad’s voice changed, loosening up and laughing for somebody who wasn’t Mom.
Corey couldn’t live like that. He couldn’t live likethis . He wished he’d never found those papers in the closet, that Gramma Marie had stayed dead and gone.
Bag this shit. He could getlaid tonight. Why was he fucking around with spells?
As usual, Mom saw through him. She’d always been able to.Always . As soon as Corey thought about Becka again, Mom’s eyes went straight for his curtains. Becka hadn’t made a noise this time, but something was pulling Mom’s attention there. Knowing Mom, she could probably smell her.
Mom walked toward the curtains slowly, taking her time like it was a stroll, glancing around the rest of his room. “Corey, you know we want you to have a good time”—as she passed his desk, her eyes swept over that, too, and he was glad his notebook was closed, his poems for Becka out of sight—“but your dad and I are worried about the way you’ve been acting the past couple days. Is there something you need to tell us?”
“No.” His voice wasn’t convincing. “Like what?”
Dad slapped Corey’s biceps, his version of a hug. “We’re still tight?” he said, sounding phony. Dad didn’t like hard conversations, just easy ones. He must want to get laid tonight, too.
“Sure, Dad,” Corey said, but his eyes were on Mom as she made her way across the room. He tried to think of a reason to tell her to stay away from the window, or a way to warn Becka she was coming, but his mind was a blank. And his back was soaked with sweat.
She knows. Corey’s brain couldn’t move past that thought. And sure enough, as if Mom were purposely trying to surprise someone, she flung his curtains open and stared out of his window. Fuck this, Corey thought. Fuck it. He would have to tell. He’d tell everything.
When his mother turned around to look at him, Corey couldn’t believe his eyes: She was smiling. “Did I ever tell you this used to be my room when I was your age?” she said.
“Yeah.” Corey’s lips had almost stuck together when he tried to speak.
“I knew a boy who climbed this tree to ask me to my senior prom.”
“For real?” Corey was so relieved, he managed to sound genuinely interested, although Mom told him that same story each summer.
“You keep on reminiscing, and I’ll cut that tree down,” Dad said, pretending to sound jealous.
“Over my dead body, fool.”
Corey stood beside her, gazing out of the window over her shoulder. The branch where Becka had been sitting was empty, but it was still swinging, as if she’d hopped to the ground. Seeing the branch more closely, noticing how thin it was, Corey wondered how it hadn’t snapped under her weight. That girl was crazier than he’d thought. She was Rick James’s Super Freak, come to life.
Dad came to stand near them, draping one arm over him and one arm over Mom. Shorty and the Giant both wanted to be near him, and near each other. This was really something, Corey realized. This was a miracle as big as bringing back Gramma Marie’s ring.
“Snook, go on and keep hold of your memories,” Dad said. “I’d never touch that tree. That tree’s got tales to tell. Besides, you know I wouldn’t hurt something you love.”
“I know that, baby,” Mom said. For a long time, she didn’t say anything else. When she did, her voice sounded soft like Becka’s. “But I sure love the way it sounds when you say the words.”
They had both said the wordlove, one after the other.
This was going to be his last summer in Sacajawea. That night, standing near his parents, Corey just knew.
Twenty-Nine
FRIDAY AFTERNOON
MOST OF THESACAJAWEACOUNTYSheriff’s Department was on Gramma Marie’s property by noon, with Rob Graybold taking blood samples from the wine cellar while four deputies searched the woods for signs of Tariq. Neither Tariq nor his van had been spotted in Sacajawea, but at the jailhouse Art had said Tariq was here. Art’s word counted for a hell of a lot suddenly.
Instead of making her feel safe, the police presence felt foolish to Angela. And temporal. The police would not be here long, she knew, because they would be needed elsewhere. The future was no longer a mystery to her, at least not the pieces she was closest to. Her foreknowledge had shown up ugly so far, but she didn’t have to hold her breath or cross her fingers or make a wish. She knew.
When Tariq finally came for her, she was going to be alone.
In the end, she remembered, you are always alone.
While she waited for Tariq, Angela saw Gramma Marie’s living room with new eyes. Gramma Marie had collected porcelain figurines, their stunted shapes crowding the mantle, the windowsills, the top of the piano. Most of them had smiling faces, idyllic representations of how little boys love puppies or how little girls love pigtails, and how grand a man and woman look on their wedding day. Other porcelain pieces depicted fat, luscious strawberries on the vine or watermelon slices so ripe they were the color of strawberries themselves. Even the stout black mammies in their red handkerchiefs were smiling, offering wishes for a happy day. But there were other figures scattered among them, and Angela was noticing them for the first time, not just in passing. Reallyseeing them.
Angela had never liked these rude clay dolls. They weren’t smiling like the other figurines. Most of them lacked clearly def
ined features, but even those with cowrie shells for eyes and noses had no mouths for smiling. These figurines were at work, not at play.
They were Gramma Marie’s gods, hidden in plain sight.
Each time Angela found one of the mud-colored clay figures, she took it to the table in the dining room, where she had amassed a large collection of them, nearly thirty. A white votive candle burned in the center of the table, one she’d found easily by opening the china cabinet’s lower drawer. She knew where things were more and more, if only she paid attention, her knowledge coming with the feeling of a sudden, sharpened memory, as if she’d placed everything there herself. She’d never emptied that drawer since Gramma Marie’s death, one of the few spaces left unchanged.
Angela felt sorrow as she remembered how carelessly she’d dismantled Gramma Marie’s altar in her bedroom after she died, boxing up her crucifix, her candles, her shells, her cigar boxes, her bottles, and her beads, setting the crammed box out in front of the house to be taken with the next trash pickup. Destroying that altar was the first thing she remembered doing as the new owner of the house. She’d almost felthostile toward it, as if that altar stood as a reminder that no matter how much she loved and respected Gramma Marie, the woman had been primitive at heart, victim to the silly superstitions that thrived in places where people felt helpless to control the world around them. Africans who needed rain. Slaves who needed to feel their souls were free. Sharecroppers and poor farmers desperate to believe they could feed their families.
She’d wanted to bury that part of Gramma Marie as soon as she could. Looking back on it now, Angela realized she’d been afraid of it. She’d been trying to run away.
Luckily, or due to circumstances where luck wasn’t even invited, more of Gramma Marie and herloas remained in the house than Angela had remembered. The figurines, for one. For another, a beaded rattle made from a dusty gourd that had been on top of the refrigerator for so many years it was embarrassing. But instead of throwing it away, Angela had always asked Mrs. Everly to keep the rattle in place. Now, the rattle had a place on the dining room table, beside the candle. Between the figurines. Under the gaze of the photograph of Gramma Marie and Red John she’d placed here, too. Her ancestor altar.
The sepia-colored picture was staged: Gramma Marie wore a puffy-sleeved white dress very unlike her usual manner of dressing. At home, she’d preferred housedresses spun from light, colorful fabrics; and if there was company, she’d been rigid about her navy blue skirts and plain white blouses, something that had reminded Angela of Mary Poppins when she was young. Although Angela had never met John, she guessed he’d felt as awkward as he looked in the formal woolen suit he’d buttoned to his neck, pinching his face. The blurrily painted background, a farm scene of a wheelbarrow filled with hay, was also wrong. That hadn’t been Gramma Marie either.
But their faces were in sharp, clear focus. Gramma Marie was a young woman, her skin rolling smoothly across every rise and hollow of her face. Angela had never favored her grandmother, but she felt as if she were staring at herself, transplanted. The photograph looked so vivid now, she expected to see Gramma Marie blink her eyes.
Finally, Angela thought. Gramma Marie was here.
Angela had put away the white linen tablecloth that had been on the dining room table since her arrival in Sacajawea. In its place, she’d gone upstairs and found an African-patterned scarf Naomi had left behind in her bureau drawer. She had to dig beneath the dead leaves still hiding in the drawer to find it, but the scarf greeted her eyes with its pink and purple patterns. Angela had seen Naomi wear this scarf many times, and she smelled Giorgio when she pressed it to her face. Angela’s insides blistered at the unexpected reminder of her friend’s essence. The smell went deep, past her walled-in thoughts, bringing Naomi’s voice to her head—To Angela Tous-saint, the strongest, smartest woman I know—and an image of Naomi’s smiling teeth that nearly knocked her from her feet. Smell could do that. Smell just took you where it wanted you to go.
But the moment passed. Angela had sucked in a tearless sob, closed each door upstairs as if she were quarantining the house after the police search of every room, then brought Naomi’s scarf downstairs with her. There was important business at the table. Naomi’s spirit belonged there, too.
The official word had come an hour ago: Naomi Price’s body was in the trunk of a rusted Plymouth Gran Fury at a farmhouse a few miles south of downtown Vancouver, half an hour from the Sutton Place Hotel. She had been dead at least twenty-four hours. Blunt head trauma and asphyxiation, or so the police thought. Six different people had seen a man who looked like Tariq loading a large, overstuffed suitcase into the sliding door of his green VW van outside of the hotel. With a black poodle on his heels.
Art was right about the dry-cleaning bag, too. Naomi’s face had still been wrapped inside it.
“Angie?” Rob spoke quietly from the kitchen doorway, hat in his hand as if the dining room were a cathedral. She didn’t know how long he’d been in the room with her. A stern-faced young man stood behind him shaking rain from his hat, a deputy she remembered from Art’s house. Both of them were fitted with navy blue bullet-proof jackets. Angela noticed that Rob was also wearing the pendant she’d given him at the jail that morning, listing off-center across his vest.
“I’ve got some samples of that blood, darlin’, and we’ll send some more analysts out here later,” Rob said, and Angela didn’t dispute him, although she knew no one would ever come to study the blood in her cellar. That part of the day had already been decided. “Have you met my under-sheriff, Colin McBride?”
The young man reached for her hand, and Angela accepted his firm grasp. “Pleasure, ma’am,” he said, and Angela couldn’t answer his lie back.
“There’s been a pileup on the Four, near the county line,” Rob said. “I called Colin and Maritza in from their sweep of the woods. I have to shift some manpower.”
“A rockslide,” Angela said, knowing an instant before she spoke.
Rob’s eyes lingered on hers a moment, but he didn’t ask how she knew.
“Yeah, it’s a bad one. A logging rig and a bunch of cars tangled, and both lanes are closed. Probably at least one fatality, Darlene says. That means I’ve got to go, and I’m taking two of my men with me. But Colin and Maritza will be here as long as I can spare them.”
Angela glanced at the young man again, who nodded assuredly at her, lowering his chin. He looked like a boy. She’d given pendants to all of the officers on her property, but as far as she could see, Colin wasn’t wearing his.
“Can I speak to you alone, Rob?” she said.
Rob shifted his weight impatiently from one leg to the other, but he gestured for the man to give them privacy. Angela waited until she heard the back door open and close before she went on.
“Don’t leave those kids here,” Angela said. “There’s nothing they can do for me, except die.”
“Those are my two best officers, Angie. Top-flight. Colin is—”
“That’s not what I mean and you know it.”
Rob frowned, staring out of the dining room window toward the deck, where Colin waited restlessly, glancing at his watch. Maybe it was only swagger, but the young man looked eager to find something most people wouldn’t dare go seeking. “Don’t give me problems, Angie,” Rob said. “That car wreck is my responsibility because we’ve got a dead person, and that trumpsmaybe ormight . I also have to make sure you’re not here alone when we all have a damn good idea Tariq is coming after you today. I still don’t see why the hell you won’t just—”
“Leaving this house isn’t the answer. Did it help Naomi?”
“I’m sick of arguing. But if you’re here, my officers are here. Period.”
“Any officers on this property have to wear the pendants.”
“Fine by me,” Rob said. “Can’t hurt.”
Angela hoped no one had died on her behalf in the rockslide, and that no similar mishap would find Rob or his officers. Would
the ferry from Westport develop sudden mechanical problems, too? Maybe cutting off the town from the south and the east was part of whatever was coming for her. Maybe it didn’t want anyone else leaving, anyone else coming. No interference for its work.
“Where’s Myles? Is he gonna stay with you awhile?” Rob said.
“He said he’ll be back soon.” Myles was taking Ma Fisher to a nursing home in Skamokawa, where he thought she might be safer. Angela was glad Myles hadn’t decided to take Ma Fisher to Longview, or he’d have been cut off by the rockslide. Maybe the charm was working for Myles, she thought.Please, God, let it work.
“Angie, do you have a gun in the house?”
“No. We’ve never had a gun in this house.” It was a relief to say it, vindication.
Rob bent over, reaching inside his right pant-leg. With a gleam of metallic light, he pulled out a handgun that looked like a toy. “Take my .38,” he said. “Do you know how to fire a gun?”
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