by Penn Gates
“Shit!” Nix says. “Please tell me he didn't go alone.”
“He took Jacob and Bob." Michael shakes his head and regards her from beneath dark brows. “We'll have to take the van. There were no keys in Frank's truck.”
“Screw that,” Nix says. “I swore I'd never set foot inside that piece of shit again." She smiles at him. “Go get your rifle and meet me down by the road. Hot wiring Frank's pile of junk isn't even a challenge.”
◆◆◆
The Turner place looks worse than it did in May, which was the first time Nix had seen it in the current century. Always unattractive, the house has deteriorated into a shanty surrounded by refuse.
“Lovely, isn't it?” she comments to Michael. “Frank's parents would be so proud.”
The St Clair pickup is here, but there's no sign of the guys who drove it until Terry himself comes around the side of the house with a pair of bolt cutters in his hands.
“Nix!” he says in surprise.
“Yeah, Nix,” she echoes sarcastically. “You know—the one you're supposed to clear things with before you go off on your own.”
Terry colors. “I'm sorry. I didn't want to bother you. Thought you had enough on your plate.”
“Never mind that,” Nix interrupts. “Have you checked the barn and house?”
“Yeah—and we found Jason.”
Nix nods tersely. “Show me.” She glances at Michael. “Keep an eye out, OK? I won't be long.”
She steels herself for what she's about to see. There's no doubt in her mind, really, that those thugs killed Jason before they left, but any smell of decomposition is masked by the odors of rotting garbage, stale beer and cigarettes, and the lingering scent of unwashed bodies.
Terry leads her down the basement stairs and through the family room, paneled in dark knotty pine. At one end is a big flat screen TV. The bottles and glasses scattered around show this was a favorite spot. Nix wonders if they sat staring at the screen in hopes the TV would heal itself.
“Back here,” Terry calls, and Nix walks into an unfinished part of the basement, just cement block walls and bare concrete, with a single light bulb hanging from the ceiling. Useless as the TV, she thinks, as she squints to see in the dim light of a kerosene lantern hanging on a nail next to it.
An old iron bedstead sits in the middle of the floor. Chained to it by one wrist is Jason. His face is so battered it's hard to be sure, but who else would it be? They must have beaten him to death before they left, but why? To get information from him—or just for fun?
Suddenly the figure on the bed tries to roll over and yelps as the chain bites into the tender skin of his wrist.
“Jesus!” Nix gasps.
“He's alive, but just barely,” Terry says as he uses the bolt cutters to free Jason's arm.
Even though the basement room is cool, Jason is covered in sour-smelling sweat. He hangs his head over the side of the bed and retches. Nothing much comes out of his mouth.
When was the last time he ate or drank, Nix wonders. How long has he been chained down here? At least a couple of days—since I sent him home with those thugs.
Aloud she asks, “What's wrong with him? You think he's got internal injuries?”
“Maybe,” Terry answers, “But my money is on alcohol withdrawal. Hard to tell how bad it's gonna get—but people die from this shit.”
Seeing the question on Nix's face, he shrugs and says, “I went through this a couple of times with my old man. ”
“My mother was a doper,” Nix volunteers. “Probably why I have zero tolerance.”
Nix hears someone coming down the stairs and reaches beneath her jacket without thinking.
Terry raises his hand. “Bob and Jacob, remember? I sent them upstairs to find blankets and water.”
“Give me a hand lifting him,” Terry calls to Bob. “And Jacob—try to pull those puked-on blankets and sheets out from under him.”
“Take 'em outside and burn them,” Nix suggests.
She stands quietly watching as Terry expertly cleans vomit from Jason's arms and face and soaks away the dried blood.
“I think his nose is broken, maybe his cheekbone, but as far as I can tell, he doesn't need stitches.”
“That's good,” Nix says shortly. “Because Margaret is busy nursing Cash, and I don't know about you, but I can't even sew a button on.”
There's silence after that, until Nix asks, “What else do you need to take care of him?”
Terry, who's been using the rest of a bottle of gin to disinfect Jason's cuts, says, “Don't need alcohol, that's for sure.” He turns to Bob and Jacob. “You guys look around upstairs? Anything at all to eat? Fresh water to drink?”
“Neither,” Bob says. He shakes his head. “How lame were these guys?”
“All right,” Nix says. “I'll send Michael back for supplies.” She looks around and thinks how creepy this place is going to be after dark. “I'll stick around—just in case.”
On the bed, Jason starts to mumble. “Didn't wanna tell ‘em—”
“Shut the fuck up, Jason!” Nix snarls. This little shit almost cost Cash his life and she suddenly feels like pounding on him herself.
Jason is galvanized by the sound of Nix's voice. “Don't let her hurt me!” He starts thrashing around. “She put fire ants on me!” He swats at the imaginary insects as he screams.
Terry pushes him down and motions to Bob to hold Jason's legs. “It's DT's,” he says, looking at Nix. “Not good.”
“Michael will get the stuff you need,” Nix says, turning toward the stairs. She doesn't want to stay for what might happen next.
“What stuff?” Michael steps into the room and takes in what's happening with a look of unholy glee.
“Michael, why aren't you standing guard outside?” Nix asks uneasily. Even she isn't gloating over Jason's condition.
“Thought I might come inside and warm up,” Michael says. He pulls his knit cap down further. “But it's colder in here. How did those idiots live like this?”
“Well—they didn't, did they?” Nix says. “Come on, I'll tell you what we need and take guard duty while you drive over and get it.”
Nix watches the tail lights recede down the road. Somehow she's developed enough self-awareness in the past year to acknowledge that she's staying not because she's necessary, but because she doesn't want to go home. I'm such a coward, she thinks, but I'm so fucking tired of trying to figure people out. I'm hopeless at this stuff. She tries to imagine what it would be like to leave St Clair farm and strike out on her own.
Chapter 30
Three days later Nix drives slowly up the driveway and takes the fork to the left. She parks the pickup in the machine shed.
“I'm gonna go check the dairy barn,” Michael says, jumping out of the truck. “Make sure we don't have a big tank of sour cream.”
“There's an image,” Nix comments, pretending she has something pressing to do, too.
Her steps drag as she walks to the house. Maybe I should just stay in the shack, she thinks. It's not that cold yet.
“Nix!” Margaret says. “I am so glad you are back!”
“That makes one of you,” Nix says. She sinks into a kitchen chair. “How are you doing, Margaret?”
Margaret doesn't answer. Instead she grabs Nix by the arm and pulls her back on her feet. “Come with me—and please, do not argue, just this once.”
“Jeez, give me a break. I just walked in the door.” Nix sees where they're headed and tries to pull away, but Margaret maintains a firm grip while she opens the office door and then pushes Nix through it.
Cash is sitting on the edge of the narrow bed, trying to lift his right arm a little higher each time he repeats the motion. He winces at the pain.
“Should you be doing that yet?” Nix asks.
He glances at her. “What do you care?”
“I care,” she whispers.
“Sure you do,” Cash says as he brings his bad arm to rest at his side. “The f
arm can't get along that easy without a fixer.”
“That's a shitty thing to say.”
He laughs mirthlessly. “You ought to know—you wrote the book on verbal assault.”
It would be so much easier to let this situation escalate, she thinks. Burn down the ties that bind. Aloud she says, “I don't know why I said what I did. It must be that out of control five-year-old inside me. She does crazy things that I'm always sorry for.”
Cash shifts his body with one arm and struggles back onto the bed. Nix wants to help him, but she knows better than to offer. She stands very still, waiting to see if he'll acknowledge her apology.
He rests his head against the pillow and closes his eyes before he says, “You're always gonna lash out at anybody who gets close to you—I knew that by the time I'd known you a month." He still has his eyes shut when he says, “I pretty much pushed you into somethin’ you didn't want to do—that’s why I packed up and left.”
“That's not true.”
“Yeah, it is.” He looks at her when he says it and his face is blank. “I told you—first time I saw you I knew I'd never want anybody else. Does that sound like I wanted to be friends with benefits?”
Nix's face grows hot with shame. That's what I said, she thinks. I use words like weapons. And I always use more force than necessary. I learned better than that the first week at the academy. Why do I attack? For that matter, why do I always think I'm being threatened?
Aloud she says, “It was a dumb thing to say. I didn't mean it.”
“You were bein’ honest. I should have kept my mouth shut and settled for sleepin' with you.” His face looks haggard and his body is tensed against the pain.
“I wasn't being honest-just the opposite,” she mumbles. “I was justifying to myself getting involved with a kid.”
“Jesus,” Cash says harshly. “Are you still peddlin’ that tired piece of bullshit? That's the story you tell yourself so you don't have to wonder why anyone could love you.”
She glowers at him. “I know I'm not a likable person.”
“That's true—but you have other qualities.” He shifts restlessly, trying to find a comfortable position.
She hates herself for taking the bait, but she can't help it. “Like what?”
“You're not a quitter, you've got guts, and—you’ll do anythin’ for the people you care about.”
“So I'm a good cop.”
“That's a job description. I'm talkin’ about your life.” He stares hard at her. “You think I haven't guessed how your childhood really was? Maybe you're grandfather was a great guy, but he never lifted a finger to save you from the bitch that whelped you.”
She feels a flash of red hot anger. He never even knew Gramps. What right does he have to judge the man who raised me? “Don't you fucking talk about—” she snarls and then stops. She looks at Cash, at the dark circles under his eyes. She can see him bracing himself to fight the pain so he can keep talking to her, and she wonders why he has always listened—
“You know what?” she says. “You scare the hell out of me—because I still can't figure you out.” She swallows the lump that suddenly constricts her throat and threatens to choke her. “I don't want anybody to feel sorry for me—that’s not—” As soon as the words are out of her mouth she realizes she's just come up with another reason not to believe she's loved.
Cash looks exhausted now, and it's a struggle for him to speak. “It's not pity,” he half-whispers. “My ma loved me, I know she did—but she never lifted a finger when my pappy beat the crap out of me.” He shifts his position and winces a little. “I never held it against her—and I ain't judgin’ your grandfather. But both of us were pretty much on our own. You know that—don’t you?”
“Yes,” she admits and marvels at how good it feels to say that one word.
“Then go away and think some more about this shit. I need to rest.” He nods weakly toward the desk. “But before you do, how about gettin’ me a slug of that whiskey? I'm hurtin' like a raccoon at a convention of coon hounds.”
Nix grabs the bottle and pours a generous shot. “The booze will kick in soon,” she says as she hands it to him, and surprises herself by bending down and brushing her lips across his forehead. She laughs softly.
“What's so funny?" He sounds angry. Hurt.
“I’m laughing at myself,” she explains. “I just told myself I did that to check for fever." She bends down and really kisses his forehead this time. “There. I did that because—that’s a down payment on the future,” she whispers.
“As in—our future?”
“Who else's?” Nix says. “Our future is together—for better or worse, right?" She's rewarded with a ghost of his old grin. “Now get some sleep,” she says before she slips out the door. “You need to get your strength back—I’ve got plans for you.”
◆◆◆
“Let's go for a little walk,” Cash says to Nix forty-eight hours later. “I need some fresh air.”
Nix starts to argue with him and then thinks better of it. “I'll get your jacket,” she says, “And we'll go out on the front porch.”
“The one with the hole in it?" He grins. “The jacket, I mean, not the porch—although it wouldn't surprise me if I found a few bullet holes out there." He shakes his head. “When I saw you up on that porch roof, I wanted to strangle you. You were a sittin’ duck.”
“Who would shoot Lady Liberty?” Nix asks. “Or didn't you recognize my impression of her? I thought I was quite good.”
She hands him his coat. Over the hole torn open by the bullet is a big denim patch. Unfortunately the jacket is olive drab, army issue.
“Let me guess,” Cash says. “Brittany?”
“I didn't want to discourage her,” Nix answers. “She's found her passion—she and the treadle sewing machine are quite an item.” She shrugs. “She'll get better at it eventually.”
As they stand on the porch looking down at the driveway, Nix shivers and Cash pulls her close to his side with his left arm. “It got cold early this year,” he says.
“I'm not cold. I was thinking about Jason.”
“He's dead. What's to think about?”
She looks up at him. “How he died, I guess. It wasn't pretty.”
“If George was here, he'd have some Bible quote to put things in perspective.”
Nix rummages in her memory. “As you sow, so shall you reap?”
“That fits.”
“Harsh, though.”
Cash turns her toward him and looks into her eyes. “You're not goin' soft on me, are ya, St Clair? The guy never thought of anybody but himself.” He sighs. “We've both known people like that, right? Takers—they ain't got nothin' to give anybody 'cause they're too busy grabbin'.”
Nix takes a deep breath. “I know that's right—I guess it's just one more death piled on top of all the others.”
“How did you fall off the roof?” Cash asks, changing the subject. “Or were you kiddin’ about that?”
“You were already hit. I didn't want to waste time so I just swung myself down onto the porch—fell onto the porch, actually.”
“I'm sure sorry I missed that.”
“What the hell were they thinking?” Nix says suddenly. “They had Frank's farm. They had his truck. They could have scavenged for food. They could have rigged a smokestack and put in a wood stove.”
“Yeah, but we have a lot more,” Cash says. “And there's some who think food tastes better if they snatch it out of another's mouth." He pauses. “And then there's the women.”
“I'm glad they're dead,” Nix says. “I can't help it. We have a chance to build something good here—we are building it, day by day. We can't ever let anyone destroy it.”
“Not a chance,” Cash says. “Someday this won't just be St Clair farm—it’ll be St Clairsville.”
“I think St Clairsburg sounds better,” Nix says, just for the sake of arguing.
“We'll hammer that out later. Right now, let's go back i
nside.” Cash looks down at her. “Did you know I was the one-arm push-up champion in basic?” He pulls her tight against him with his left arm and gives her a long kiss.
“You're kidding, right?” she asks finally, breaking away. “Your stitches have only been in for a week. I'm not letting you tear them open.”
“How are you going to stop me?”
“I'll come up with something to distract you,” Nix says as they step into the warmth of the house.
She catches sight of Terry standing at the other end of the hallway, obviously waiting for them and looking worried. “Or someone else will,” she sighs.
EPILOGUE
Nix looks down at her belly and marvels that she still fits into Gramps' overalls. Were they really that huge on me? she thinks. I just hope they will be again. She's not excited about all this pregnancy stuff. She wants the baby—looks forward to discovering just how nature will shake and bake the DNA from both Cash and her into a unique human being—only these days she feels like someone shot her up with a hormone cocktail. She's always been good at focus, but lately she can be diverted by the dumbest stuff—like the booties Margaret is knitting for the baby or the cradle Cash brought down from the attic to refinish. They fill her with these 'ahh-ain't-it-cute' feelings that she used to put down to people's basic stupidity. Will these goofy emotions stay with her once she has the baby, or will they disappear along with her blimp-like proportions?
Cash keeps reassuring her that she hasn't changed at all except that now she has a bump for the baby to ride around in until it's born. Maybe the goofy emotions aren't all caused by hormones because Cash seems to have them, too. He refuses to say what he's hoping for, but Nix doesn't believe him. All guys want a son and heir, and Cash will have a monkey wrench in the kid's hand by the time he's two.
She mentally shakes herself. Here I am again, daydreaming when I really came outside to get some exercise. She makes her way down the drive, thinking how much easier it is these days to go down hill than up. The early spring breeze ruffles her hair and she inhales the rich smell of freshly turned earth. She pauses to look at the slope between the front porch steps and the root cellar.
