But her heart wasn’t firing on all cylinders. Too fast, too irregular. Mind whirling. Who could she call for help? Who would believe her? Farris Tribue’s dogs killed a young woman. Farris Tribue, the sheriff for the Eastern Band of the Cherokee Nation. Farris Tribue, the way he’d toyed with her, mocked her. That remark about bonbons. She was hearing it all again, his snotty, bigoted tone. Treating her like a fat dumb squaw. She got the numbers punched in, and it was the wrong number, some old woman answering, wanting to talk to Nancy, ask who she was, shoot the breeze, and Nancy apologized to the woman and said she had to go and started dialing again, focused on the keypad now so she got it right and missing that Z turn, just going straight out over the edge, no guardrail, no trees, nothing but free fall.
The car tilted forward so Nancy saw straight out the windshield, straight down into the river valley, a man down there fishing, casting his line, and she was aiming right for him, and Nancy tried turning the steering wheel, but of course that did nothing. Nothing at all. It was all so quick she didn’t even have time to scream.
A few miles down the highway, Lucy pointed out a muddy side road and told Gracey to pull off. With gauze and adhesive tape from the first-aid kit, Gracey bandaged Lucy’s wounded ear. The bullet had torn off most of her earlobe and scraped her neck, but it wasn’t like she was going to die or anything.
“Who was that guy shooting at us?”
“The same man who killed Jacob.”
“Why’d he want to kill you?”
When the bandaging was done, Lucy traded places with her and got behind the wheel and started the camper and headed back out to the highway.
“Why’d he want to kill you, Lucy?”
“He didn’t want to kill me.”
“He sure acted like it.”
“He was after you,” Lucy said.
“Me? What’d I do?”
“Nothing,” said Lucy. “Absolutely nothing.”
“I must’ve done something. People don’t try to kill you for no reason. There’s got to be a motivation. That’s how it works.”
Lucy looked over and her mouth softened a little, almost a smile.
“You’re on a list,” Lucy said. “You and Jacob and your father.”
“What list?” Gracey leaned forward to see Lucy’s face.
“I said too much already. You’re just a kid.”
“If I’m going to get shot at, I should know what’s going on. What list?”
Lucy stopped for a red light. They were getting closer to town.
While they waited, Lucy took a long look at her. The way her mother did sometimes when she was trying to gauge if Gracey could be trusted, or if she was old enough to handle something.
“This man wants to murder you because of who your father is. Like they already murdered your grandmother and your grandfather before that.”
“My grandmother? Diana? She’s dead? When?”
Lucy sighed.
“This man,” she said. “Jacob tried to tell your dad about him, so maybe Parker could help, but that didn’t pan out. That’s as much as I can tell you.”
Steven Spielberg was talking to her again in his low-key, serious way. The most amazing thing. He was officially offering her a part. Not the lead, of course, she was too young for that, too inexperienced, but he’d decided she was ready for a supporting role.
The gunfire decided it for him, the incident in the camper. The way she’d acted, so brave, talking to the woman on the phone when all that craziness was going on around her. He was excited. Did you see Melanie Griffith in Night Moves?
Of course she’d seen it, Steven. She’d told him that once before and they’d talked about it for hours, didn’t he remember? Gene Hackman, he’s a football player turned private eye. Yeah, yeah, Steven was off again. It was Melanie’s first movie. You could tell she was going to be a star—that mousy voice, that look, those eyes.
Those tits, said Joan Crawford. Don’t kid yourself, Gracey, it’s the tits that did it. You think that little twit has talent? That girl was blond and she had the firm young knockers all those adolescent boys in Hollywood drool over.
Don’t listen to that old crone, Barbara Stanwyck said. It’s all sour grapes with Joan. Look at her. Of course she hates women with tits. She hates any woman. Everybody’s a threat. Who wouldn’t be a threat to an ugly bitch like her? Look at those eyebrows, my God, throw away the tweezers, get out the hedge clippers. Don’t listen to her, Gracey, with her tit phobia. If it takes a good set of boobs to get you in the door, then fine, don’t worry. So you’re well-endowed, great, enjoy it, be happy, stand up straight, show them off. Joan’s just picking on your vulnerability. She knows you’re sensitive about them.
“I am not,” Gracey said out loud.
Lucy turned and looked at her.
“I’m not sensitive about my breasts. I don’t know where you get that.”
Yes, you are, deary. Don’t try to lie to me. It isn’t possible.
How the hell did she know what Gracey was sensitive about?
Because I’m in here, my little elf. Inside. What you know, I know.
“In here? Inside where?”
Barbara said, where you are right now, that’s where.
Don’t tie yourself in knots. Just relax and enjoy. Bottom line is, when it comes to acting, however you get your start is just fine. Listen to Spielberg. He’s a class act. Not some adolescent tit man. Crawford’s a mean, mean woman. Spent her entire career trying to fake a smile, cover up what a perfect bitch she is. Can’t trust someone like that. You listening to me, honey?
“You okay?” Lucy asked her.
“Sure,” said Gracey. “I’m great. Fantastic.”
“You’re talking to yourself.”
“No, no. I just got offered a part in a movie. A major motion picture. Steven Spielberg wants me for a supporting role, like Melanie Griffith.”
Lucy was quiet.
“What? You aren’t happy for me?”
Lucy nodded, but she didn’t look very enthusiastic.
“I have to get back to Miami,” Gracey said. “This is huge.”
“I’m taking you to your parents,” Lucy said. “Right now.”
“And listen, I’ll tell my dad about the guy and his murder list. Dad will nail the guy. You don’t need to worry anymore, Lucy.”
“I’m not worried.”
“What’s the man’s name? The one who was shooting at us?”
“Farris Tribue. He’s the sheriff around here.”
“Okay, good. I’ll sic my daddy on him and, look out, that guy won’t know what hit him.”
“You do that, Gracey.”
“Now what’re you going to do? Make a run for it? Blow town, go on the lam?”
“After I take you to your parents, I’m going to do what I should’ve done months ago.”
“What’s that?”
“Finish this thing. Finish it once and for all.”
Thirty-Eight
“Fragile X,” Charlotte said.
“What?”
She was scrolling through an Internet article on her computer. A Web site devoted to genetic disorders. Killing time in their motel room, waiting for Gracey to appear.
“ ‘Characteristic facial features include long, narrow face, narrow inter-eye distance, highly arched palate, and enlarged ear size.’ ”
“Farris Tribue,” Parker said.
For most of the morning he’d been lying on the bed, drawing an elaborate chart on a yellow pad. His usual way of sorting out riddles: doodling circles, connecting them with branching lines, tracing the chains of causality, trying to see relationships, which sequence of events might have triggered the current situation.
Charlotte hadn’t told him about her theory. She wanted it to settle for a while, let the murky water clear, see if it still made sense.
It felt right. It answered everything, but still she wasn’t ready. She had to make sure it was solid before she spoke the words.
Cha
rlotte read some more from the Web page.
“ ‘Prominent thumbs, hand calluses, enlarged testicular volume, also known as macroorchidism, particularly noticeable after puberty. Approximately one in seven hundred males will be born as a fragile X—permutation carrier. Carrier males are at high risk to pass on the fragile X mutation and to have affected offspring. Fragile X is the leading hereditary cause of mental retardation and second to Down syndrome as a specific genetic cause, and it may also have a significant association with autism.’ ”
Parker absorbed the information quietly, then said, “So?”
“So that’s what Farris’s got. Fragile X.”
“I repeat,” Parker said. “So?”
“So, nothing. It was bugging me.”
“So Farris has big nuts. I could’ve guessed that.”
He went back to diagramming on his legal pad. Charlotte killed the Web page, tried to think of something else to occupy her mind.
“Wait a minute.” Parker sat up. “Sissy, Uncle Mike’s daughter.”
“Yeah? She was spying for him somewhere.”
“Back when I was a kid, Sissy used to show up at camp now and then for the big ceremonies. She loved the Indian lore stuff, the dances, the bonfires. She was maybe a year or two older than me.”
“And?”
“She’s a high-functioning autistic. A smart girl, but emotionally stunted.”
“So maybe it’s in the family, this fragile X thing. Farris, his twin brother, his cousin.”
She could see Parker drawing another circle on his legal pad, making an X in the middle of it, factoring that into his visual equation.
Turning back to her computer, she was about to check her e-mail for the twentieth time that morning when the knock came on the door. Three sharp raps.
In two seconds Charlotte was at the peephole and saw Gracey standing there, bobbing her head as if counting off the seconds impatiently.
Charlotte whipped the door open and grabbed Gracey by the upper arm and dragged her into the room. As she was shutting the door, she saw a white camper pull away from in front of their room, heading for the parking lot exit.
Gracey was bedraggled, wearing the same outfit she’d had on earlier in the week in Miami. A million years ago. Parker and Charlotte took turns hugging her, and Gracey stood it as long as she could, then pushed away and said, “I need a shower. I stink.”
“How about some food? We can order room service, whatever you want.”
“I need a salad, a big green salad. I’ve been eating junk. I’m all puffy.”
Parker was smiling, heading for the room-service menu on the desk. He hadn’t noticed yet what Charlotte had just seen.
Gracey’s eyes were icing over. She was heading inward. Standing at the foot of the bed, tilting her head to the side as if listening to some high-pitched whistle.
“Look,” Gracey said. “I need the whole script. If I don’t know how it comes out, how’m I supposed to play the role?”
“Gracey?” Charlotte said.
Parker turned from the desk and stared at his child.
“Okay, sure, this is my first time, and you have all the experience and everything, yeah, but I don’t see how you expect me to play a role without knowing where my character’s headed.”
Parker looked over at Charlotte, his face suffused with naked grief.
“No, no, no,” Gracey said. “Forget it, Steven, I’m absolutely not doing any nude scene. No, not even topless.”
She shook her head and muttered something below her breath. Then she leaned forward in Parker’s direction.
“If that’s all you want, just to see my breasts, then never mind. Forget the whole damn thing, okay. I’m not some slut. I know, I know, Melanie Griffith, Melanie Griffith, yeah, yeah.”
Charlotte spoke her name again, but it didn’t register.
“She needs her meds,” Parker said.
“I’m not whining,” said Gracey. “I don’t know where you get that. I’m just stating my case. If you don’t like it, tough. Find some bimbo with big tits. Make her a star.”
Charlotte tugged on Gracey’s arm and led her over to the bed and eased her down till she was sitting on the edge.
For the next few minutes she talked to empty air, bitching at Steven Spielberg. Holding firm on the topless issue. Saying she might be willing to compromise a little, maybe consider a quick, tasteful butt shot, but anything more than that was out. From what Charlotte could gather, Gracey had gotten him on the defensive. Apologizing, backtracking. She reminded him that she was only sixteen years old and he could get in trouble. Had he forgotten about that whole Brooke Shields, Pretty Baby thing? What was he, some kind of pervert?
Maybe Charlotte was starting to lose it, too, but despite everything, she felt a surge of pride in Gracey. Her tough daughter, standing up for herself against an intimidating big-time director like that.
While Gracey was undressing in the bathroom, Charlotte got through to Gracey’s psychiatrist, who approved a one-time double dose of her medication. However, he advised, because of the interruption in her treatment, it would be as long as a week before the drugs began to take hold again. In any case, that extra pulse at the beginning would probably help.
With only a minor fuss, Gracey swallowed the capsules Charlotte had brought along, then spent the next fifteen minutes in the shower. Steam pouring from around the curtain. Afterward, she dressed in a pair of Charlotte’s jeans and a long-sleeved jersey and curled up in their bed and fell into a soundless slumber.
For a time Charlotte watched Gracey sleep while Parker sat at the desk and stared at the front curtains.
Maybe Parker was right. Maybe Diana had been, too.
All Charlotte had to do was love the girl. Not that it would fix Gracey’s condition. But it might, if she was lucky, fix Charlotte’s.
For the last year, Charlotte had wanted more than anything to recapture her healthy, happy daughter. She would always want that. Dream of it. Never give up that hope. But maybe she’d gotten things badly confused. In wishing Gracey were right again, she’d been discounting the girl Gracey had become. As if to acknowledge her daughter’s new self would mean yielding to the illness. She could blame it on the shrink, just following his orders not to indulge Gracey’s fantasies. But it was more than that. For little by little Charlotte had withdrawn her emotional support, held back her affection, begun to give Gracey an almost constant torrent of disapproval.
Goddamn it, they were right. Charlotte had been handling it all wrong. Mourning her loss of the old Gracey with such fervor that she had nothing left to give the new one.
She went over to the bed and bent over her daughter and pressed a kiss to her forehead. The flesh was cool and dry. Her face softly composed, as if her dreams had liberated her momentarily from the torment of her waking hours.
She made a silent vow. Whoever Gracey was when she woke, that was the person Charlotte would love. As challenging as that might be, it seemed at the moment her only chance to recover some portion of the girl she’d lost.
Thirty-Nine
Lucy Panther came up the Tribues’ gravel driveway on foot, her pistol in hand. The big meadow out front had been recently mowed, and the scent of grass hung thickly in the air. A song sparrow trilled its haunting, off-key melody from the hemlocks. Somewhere nearby a towhee called out, “Drink your tea.” In the high grass near the trees, she heard a buzzing sound, a timber rattler or a nest of yellow jackets waking from their winter sleep.
Lucy climbed the front steps. The two broad-chested poodles rose to meet her but showed no hostility. One of them nosed her butt as she passed by.
Lucy used her pistol butt to break the narrow windowpane, and then she reached through the jagged glass and unlocked the door to the Tribue house.
When Farris returned, he would see the broken glass by the doorway, be instantly on guard, throw open closets, kick in doors. Even though she’d parked the camper a mile away in the trees and trekked up, he’d sti
ll know.
Which was fine. At this point any way it went was fine.
She’d lost her boy, the only man who’d ever meant anything to her. Aside from Parker for that one short summer. Off and on for years Parker had barged into her dreams, which left her thinking maybe he’d show up at her door one day, smile the way he had that first time, shy, awkward, full of reckless heat, and he’d want to know all about his son, and eventually he’d touch her, and the fire would flare again. She’d imagined that so much, it was almost like it’d happened. But it hadn’t and it wouldn’t, and now she didn’t care.
That was done, too. Parker wasn’t the same. And the woman he’d married was Lucy’s equal. Took her only a second to recognize that. Both of them from the same race of fighters. Tooth-and-nail women who’d die before they surrendered what they loved. He’d found himself a substitute, as good or better than Lucy. Fine.
Didn’t matter. None of it did.
Lucy moved through the dark house, seeing just well enough to keep from knocking over furniture. The dogs stayed out on the porch, didn’t even try to follow. Lazy beasts.
The house was quiet, and for a moment she stood in the foyer and listened, absorbing the vibrations of the place.
A large part of this ruinous state of affairs was Lucy Panther’s fault. She could trace nearly everything back to that summer dalliance thirty years ago. Now her son was dead. Even her father, Standingdog, had, in his own way, lost his life to this thing. This thing she was resolved to end today.
Unless he killed her first. But even that didn’t concern her much. Live or die, at this point it was all the same. The world was poisoned. Every last thing that mattered was gone.
What she needed to do now, the only thing that counted, was to find a place in this house, the right vantage point from which she could see Farris’s face when she gut-shot him, when he crumpled and died. That was the single thing in the entire universe that interested her. Finding that place.
She was leaving the bathroom when she heard the noise down the hall. Voices in conversation. It took a second more to discern that it was only TV people talking.
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