What if we haven’t done it soon enough? For Gus’s sake, more than mine.
Biscuitwitch:
Lucy, I don’t want to embarrass you, but are there conversations and intimate photos . . . you don’t want anyone else to see?
Yarnspinner:
Yes.
Chapter Three
January 20
Via Cove_Mail.com
Yarnspinner:
I’ll give the knights two large bags of the best wool in my storage bins. Washed and combed. Whatever the knights are using the wool for, they can’t possibly need more than that. I’ll send a stack of scarves, too. Whatever they want in exchange for my phone.
Biscuitwitch:
Bring, not send. I have to cook tonight at the café. And Eve’s got school tomorrow, now that the roads are thawing. If I take off, it’s going to look odd to Cleo and Bubba. In her eyes, I’m still just a second-rate biscuiteer substituting for Delta, you know. So you and Doug have to go to Free Wheeler by yourselves.
Yarnspinner:
Look, my agoraphobia is better than it used to be, but I’m really not up for that. The Knights don’t know I’m involved, so why not keep it that way? I’m having a hard time with this. I’m afraid of them.
HighlanderDVM:
Night Owl demands to meet you or he won’t give the phone back. He has a wee bit of trouble with trusting people.
Yarnspinner:
So do I.
Biscuitwitch:
Luce, we’re dealing with this situation as best we can. We’re doing this for Cleo and Bubba. They protected Eve and me last fall. We’re doing it for Gus, because these veterans are soldiers like him, and if he ever came home wounded and ruined by something that happened to him over there, I’d want someone to care enough to take a chance on him. Wouldn’t you?
Yarnspinner:
I’ll be waiting by the sheep barn. Look for Holly Hobbie next to the Retro Punk Ewe gang.
———
Later that night.
Via phone
Tal: Lucy. Lucy? I had to call—had to hear your voice. Doug told me how it went. Are you sure you’re okay?
Lucy: I’m never sure I’m okay. I’m drinking hot tea with scotch in it. Doug loaned me his flask.
Tal: If it helps, talk.
Lucy: I only threw up once. Doug just handed me a doggie wipe-up and said, “There you go, Lucy goose, there you go.”
Tal: Good, and?
Lucy: It was the gloaming, to use Doug’s word, the edge of darkness, cloudy, freezing cold, with shreds of gray mist pulling down over the Ten Sisters to the bottom ridges, even to the rooftops of the old shops. Free Wheeler is the saddest place I know, Tal, with forest growing in so close around the old brick shops and the darkness pouring out of those open eyes in the empty old windows. They’re beautiful, the shopfronts, like the set of a 1940s movie after all the people have been killed in an apocalypse. The bicycle engravings on the stone work make me cry. Or they would have, if I hadn’t taken my pills.
Tal: Focus, focus. Just like Delta always says, the Lard cooks in mysterious ways. Karma is a layer cake, Lucy; it builds on what you put on top of it. It’s not one layer that shows us the big picture. It’s all of them, together.
Lucy: Tal, you have to just let me tell as it comes to me or I won’t be able to get it all out. We parked behind what used to be the village’s general store. There’s a sturdy old dock out back, made of timbers Doug says are chestnut wood. We took the boxes of food inside and set them on the marble counters. I put one bag of wool and the scarves on a big plywood table atop two sawhorses. The other bag I took outside with me.
Doug lit a propane camping lantern and hung it from a post on the dock. We could see barely ten feet into the icy cold mist. I wanted to run back to the truck, I admit it. I pulled my hood up higher—that dark gray Little Red Riding cloak one I made on the loom Delta retrieved from the MacBride holdings. The cloak is like full-body camouflage in the winter. And then . . .
The ghosts came out of the woods.
Ten of them. I couldn’t see many details or faces. A lot of rough outlines, bulky jackets and insulated jumpsuits, the kinds of clothing you’d expect people to wear when they’re living outdoors in a cold mountain winter without a roof over them. The tallest was bigger than Doug, which is big; the shortest was shorter than me, which is short. They wore hoodies and baseball caps and old fedoras, as if it was a personal statement.
I believe one of the shortest ones is one of the two women, because she wore a knitted floppy hat with Pippi Longstocking braids. I could make out long guns in everyone’s hands . . . not quite pointed at us, but still.
Tal, they spread out in the edges of the woods in some kind of . . . of tactical way, as if watching for trouble. As if ready to shoot us if we made a wrong move.
I had this nervous urge to chortle and call out, “I’m so glad you think I’m a threat. I’ve never been perceived as a threat by anyone before. Are you serious?”
But I kept quiet. I was shaking so hard inside my cloak and my shawls, I probably vibrated. I picked up my wool bag and opened the top so the wool puffed up under my chin. I hugged it like a pillow. Doug said some hellos to the group and told them there was food inside the old general store, and then he introduced me and said they had no reason to worry about me.
That’s when Trey McKellan stepped into the light of the lantern. I noticed his limp, then. A bad one. He’s a big guy, but lean, with a black beard and so much dark, shaggy hair under a bush hat I couldn’t see much of his face or eyes. He slung his rifle over his shoulder and made a motion. The others put their guns at bay, too. I suppose that was his way of showing respect to me.
“We apologize for clipping your sheep, ma’am,” he said. “It won’t happen again. And Myrt Pleasant’s goats are safe from now on, too.”
I said, “I brought more wool. There’s plenty more where this came from. You don’t need to raid the local herds.”
“Thank you, ma’am, but I think we’ve got all we need.”
“Would you tell me what you’re using it for?”
“No, ma’am, I won’t. If you’ll figure out what it’s valued at, we’ll get the money together and pay you for it as soon as we can. Just like we’re keeping a tab on the food we get. We don’t take handouts.”
“I don’t want money. I want to know why you took it. And I want my phone . . . “
“Don’t order us around, Red Riding Hood,” said a female voice from the shadows. “The wolves might just eat you.” She delivered it with a smear of sarcasm.
All righty, then. Trey’s polite style couldn’t hide the dark cloud of tension that oozed off him and the others. Edgy. A couple of them could barely be still.
“No need to take an unfriendly tone,” Doug said. “Nor bare your fangs.” Several of the shadows chuckled, but it wasn’t a comforting sound.
Something snapped inside me. Maybe it was their arrogance. They had taken the wool off my girls’ backs, unleashed Patton to chase Larry and steal my phone, and they owed me an explanation. Little bubbles of anger began to percolate up in my throat. Anger, and . . . one-upmanship. That’s the only way I can describe it.
For once, I wasn’t the most pitiful person in a PTSD support group—the leader of the victim pack, the winner of the Most Honored Survivor Award. They didn’t know my history, didn’t know I was just as damaged as they, that I had earned my bona fides.
“I deserve to know what you did with that wool, my scarf, and my cell phone,” I said loudly and firmly. “If you want me to believe what Doug and Tal say about you being honorable, then speak honestly.”
An audible buzz went through the group. Poor Doug turned to look at me as if I’d been replaced by an alien pod person. Trey caught us both off guard and took a long limpin
g stride toward me before Doug could block him. Suddenly, this ferocious stranger was glaring down at me. Doug shouldered between us. I got mashed between the two of them and the loading dock, still hugging my bag of wool.
My moment of assertive glory ended in a rush of panic. When my anxiety attacks happen, my bones separate at the joints, and my skin catches fire. A sense of total terror blanks out my thoughts.
Trey yelled at me about all the things someone like me doesn’t comprehend about him and his people and what “real” honor is about . . . I heard bits and pieces in between Doug shouting at him to back away. The others were closing in around us. I began to gasp for air.
I shoved my face into the open bag of wool just to close out the view and the smell of two large men pressing against me.
A door opened. Information flooded my mind. My wool angel, connecting, saying, The stolen wool is in Trey’s leg. Padding the stump that ends above his left knee.
His friends had gone out into the community to steal a supply of soft wool in order to keep a poorly-designed prosthetic limb from rubbing him raw.
“It’s the leg,” I gasped. I reached past Doug and grabbed Trey by the front of his camo coat. “Bad leg. You need help.”
He froze, staring at me the way Doug had, like I’d been set there by aliens. So did the others. “Who told you that?” he whispered angrily, with every vein in his neck about to pop.
Doug said, “Easy, boy, easy. She’s got a gift for intuition. Is she right?”
“It’s fine. The wool padding works. Back off.”
“A good prosthetic should no’ be causing you pain. It needs to be looked after. There’s others here with prosthetics, I see, now that they’ve come in close.”
“Hurt,” I said, my hand moving in the air at the others. “You and you. You’re in pain. Physical or mental. Hurting.”
Doug said, “All of you need a look-see with a doctor. And him . . . ,” Doug pointed. “That soldier needs to be seen by myself.”
I had just enough time to glimpse an eleventh shadow, low to the ground, with four legs and the dim outline of a German shepherd. Corporal Patton. Larry’s rockycocker.
Then I heard from the others, “She’s pulling a trick,” and, “Yeah, man, we’ll just ride the short bus to nowhere,” and “Like the government gave a shit in the first place.”
Trey’s face was tight with pain, stark and chapped. In the close light of the lantern he said, “You know we can’t risk that. Forget it. We appreciate what you’re doing. Just leave.” He was talking to Doug, but the words boomeranged off Doug and hit me.
“I will not,” I said. I felt all those ghost eyes turn on me in the shadows. “I will not ‘just leave.’ Because I know how it feels to be alone in the wilderness and think no one will help. But you’re back home in the Cove now”—I stared straight at Trey when I said that—”and things are different, here. You’ve got people here who care about you.”
My subtle appeal to Trey McKellan, not Night Owl, made his eyes go black. He began to back away, moving badly on the leg. “We’re done here,” he said through gritted teeth. “We don’t want your help. You can’t possibly understand. You’re spying on us.”
Doug snared him by one arm. “She’s a patient at Rainbow. She’s been through a hell of her own, and she speaks from the heart.”
Trey halted, staring at me with those black eyes. “What kind of patient?”
I gathered every ounce of strength, mentally thanked Macy, my therapist, for giving me the tools, and said, “A few years ago I was a young school teacher in Charlotte. I walked into my apartment one night to find the maintenance men I’d tried to counsel about their drug problems ripping the place apart. They were convinced I was hiding money they couldn’t find. So they beat me and raped me for the next five hours to make me talk. When I was a bloody heap unconscious on the floor, they gave up and left.
“My father was the kindest, gentlest man you’ll ever think of. He raised me by himself after my mother died, and I adored him. He was a good man who lived a holy life in all the real ways that matter, and he was a minister in spirit first and certificate second. He died from the anger and the grief while I was in the hospital.
“I blamed myself. I felt that somehow I killed him. That I was careless. That I led those two men to my apartment because of some moral failing.
“I wanted to die, too. But I didn’t. I’ve wanted to die a number of times since then. My doctors finally sent me to these mountains, to Rainbow Goddess Farm in the Cove, as a last resort. The Cove and the people it attracts are special. They saved me. As much as possible.
“I still can’t go out in public without panicking or stand to touch a man. I live at the farm, and I’ll probably never leave there. I manage the farm’s sheep, llama, and alpaca herd. I live in a tiny apartment in a barn. I’ve learned to spin and crochet and knit, which I love. But my ‘normal’ life is over, and my dream of having a husband and family will never happen. Because no matter how much I want to forget, part of me will always think of every man as violent, and sex as an act of terror and threats. Even if it’s offered by a man I love dearly. I’m cursed. My life is filled with memories of war, like yours. Just a different kind. Don’t you dare tell me I don’t understand what it’s like to have everything you ever were ripped away from you.”
I had never said those words out loud before. It didn’t make me feel better. Not a catharsis. But Night Owl and his group seemed stunned. And then I realized that what I was seeing in their faces was . . . was . . . respect.
I sank to the ground, just . . . wiped out. Doug tried to pick me up, but I shoved him away and got to my feet. I staggered toward the truck with Doug following at a safe distance.
Night Owl limped beside us but kept us distance. He held out my phone. “We didn’t try to access the information on it. Patton delivered it unharmed. That’s how we’re returning it.”
That was it, Tal. The big adventure. And, oh, my God, Tal. Thank goodness they didn’t see the sex toy pictures.
Tal: What? What? I’m storing that comment for later. Go on.
Lucy: The soldier—woman—who called me Red Riding Hood pried the bag of wool out of my paralyzed grip and threw a smelly, wood-smoky, heavily-jacketed arm around my neck in a hug. She put her pink Pippi Longstocking braids up against my cheek. “Boo Yah, Yarny,” she whispered. I suppose that’s good.
I don’t remember a lot after that, until Doug and I were nearly back to the farm. While I leaned against a wall gazing blankly into thin air, he told Macy everything, and she told Alberta, who yelled at him, and then they called Cathy in New York, and she got Delta out of curfew in her suite, and they got Gabby and Jay on the line in Asheville, so everybody conference-phoned with me while I huddled on my bed.
Tal: And they said?
Lucy: They gave you the full report. You know.
Tal: Yep, but as a baker, I like to see how the dough rises differently for each cook. What’s your interpretation?
Lucy: I quacked at those ducklings in the woods, and now, like baby ducks, they think I’m their mother. But I’m just Lucy Parmenter, and I’m . . . I’m lost, Tal. I’m as lost as they are.
Tal: Get some sleep. I don’t think you’re lost. I think you’re beginning to be found.
———
January 21
9:00 a.m.
Via Cove_Mail.com
Biscuitwitch:
Feeling better this morning?
Yarnspinner:
I’m scared to death. My hands are shaking so badly I can barely type on the keyboard.
Biscuitwitch:
I have a plan. We all want Free Wheeler to be restored and celebrated. Jay wants that, too. His father died at Free Wheeler, trying to protect it from Jay’s uncle. It’s our legacy, ours and Jay’s. Not just because he lov
es Gabby, but because it’s a debt of honor Wakefields owe to MacBrides, and Jay intends to pay it. So . . . Jay is footing the bill.
Yarnspinner:
For . . . what?
Biscuitwitch:
For you and the Knights to start phase one of “Free Wheeler Rides Again.” Jobs for them. Paychecks. A guarantee of privacy, protection, and help with their legal and medical problems. All very hush hush, but it’s a start.
Yarnspinner:
We’d still be hiding Cleo and Bubba’s son in the woods. Hiding him from them. Deceiving them. I don’t like that.
Biscuitwitch:
That’s Trey’s choice. At least he’s back in the Cove. At least he’ll be safe. We’re a long way from getting the Knights out of trouble. It may take a miracle to bring them into the light. But this is a start, like I said. And we need you to manage it. Them. They seem to have accepted you.
Yarnspinner:
I don’t know if I can manage people from my room in the barn. I still can’t get outside much. And it’s not like I know how to manage anyone.
Biscuitwitch:
You used to manage eighth grade art students.
Yarnspinner:
Most of them didn’t carry guns.
Biscuitwitch:
The Knights won’t trust anyone else to run the project, to be their contact. To be their team leader. They’ve said so. You made a big impression. Listen, Doug and I will help you. We’re talking about basic clean-up of the old bike paths that used to run through a full square mile of the bike-building village my grandfather built. They have these skills. Locating and mapping the creek bridges. Identifying the sites where his employees built cottages. The military taught them everything we need them to know. This is a job for men and women who understand that special ideas are like special people—they shouldn’t be forgotten and left to disappear.
Yarnspinner:
What if we can’t keep other people from finding them? Turning them in. About those arrest warrants . . .
Biscuitwitch:
We have friends with law enforcement connections. One local sheriff who was seen recently in viral news reports without his purple briefs. In Tokyo, where Kitchen Stars is a huge hit, they’re calling him “Naked John Wayne Godzilla.”
The Apple Pie Knights Page 4
