>Beverly R. Jones
All Things Sacred
by
Beverly R. Jones
>Triskelion Publishing
www.triskelionpublishing.com
Published by Triskelion Publishing www.triskelionpublishing.com 15508 W. Bell Rd. #101, PMB #502, Surprise, AZ 85374 U.S.A.
First e-published by Triskelion Publishing First e-publishing March 2005
ISBN 1-932866-90-6 Copyright © Beverly R. Jones 2004 All rights reserved.
Cover art by Triskelion Publishing
PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
For Nancy The mother of unshakable kindness
Chapter 1
>She gripped the steering wheel so tightly with her left hand that her knuckles turned white. Her breathing was erratic with tearful gasps that seemed to echo in the silence of the car. Pushing errant strands of her auburn hair from her forehead, she reached for the car radio. As she turned the channel selector, she wondered if she had driven too far away from Hardison to pick up any news of the incident. Probably. She had left Nevada a few hours ago, and she doubted the rest of the U.S. would have any interest in a crime, no matter how heinous, that had occurred in the little city of Hardison.
She continued turning the channel selector anyway, sliding quickly through blips and blurbs of unrecognizable music clips, until it began to make her feel nauseous. She turned off the radio and fell back against the seat, her left hand still clenching the steering wheel like a Python squeezing the life out of its prey.
Her eyelids blinked in exhaustion. She glanced at her watch and realized with surprise that she had been driving for nearly twenty-two hours now. That would make today June 7. Or was it the 8th? No, it was the 7th, because everything had happened on the 6th. She remembered because she’d had a dental appointment scheduled that afternoon, but never made it.
She didn’t want to think anymore about why she hadn’t made her dental appointment. She tried instead to think of her present journey. Her mind could only conjure up faint jumbled images of what the last twenty-two hours had been like. Driving and crying. Not knowing or caring where she went. Just an almost cataleptic fear and the determination to get as far away as possible. She had stopped only briefly at a rest area off of I-70 somewhere in Colorado around four o’clock that morning, parked far away from the restrooms and, with the car doors locked, managed to get about two hours of fitful sleep.
Now, as she sped along the interstate heading east, unable to force the events of June 6 from her thoughts, she began to cry again. She blinked rapidly and swiped at her eyes with her free hand to try and clear her vision of blurred trees and billboards whizzing by.
God, she was so tired. Her body felt exhausted and limp, yet her mind was unwavering in its haunting resolve to deny her rest. She wondered if the horrible memories would ever cease. Even if she could find a safe place to stop, she doubted she would be able to shut it all out for very long. And there was always the possibility that somehow he had managed to figure out where she was headed and might be close behind her. But she knew she needed sleep, needed to regenerate her fatigued body.
Suddenly his face emerged again in her memory, the surprised look when the bullet skated through his chest. Sweat began to build again in her palms and she grabbed the steering wheel with both hands, willing herself to shut out the memory. Her heart beat so fiercely, she was sure it would soon leap through her ribs in a desperate attempt to escape the horror and anguish that traveled through every artery, the horror her mind could not overcome.
Her tears came again in a rush. “God, what am I going to do?”
How could she think straight about where she was going, what she was going to do, if she couldn’t control her emotions for longer than five minutes? Still shaking, she reached for the radio again. Even if there were news reports of it, would that change anything? Would it make her escape less frightening, or more so?
“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” she whispered to herself, as if to speak of it too loudly would confirm the reality of it. “Nothing should ever be like this.”
But it was like this, and she knew deep within her that nothing would ever be the same again. Because of what had happened, she was unable to imagine that her life would ever again contain even a simple smile of pleasure. Guilt and fear would prevent that. She knew that life for her would be no more than that one helpless, tragic moment playing within her heart over and over again.
The wave of tears subsided momentarily as she found a radio station just beginning its newscast. She listened quietly. Nothing. She had traveled too far by now to learn of any possible updates or outcomes of the tragedy of June 6th. It wasn’t likely it would have made national news, and she was nearly 1600 miles out of Hardison now, had just crossed the Missouri state line about an hour ago. However desperately she may have wanted to know what was happening in Hardison, it was more important that she keep moving.
≈≈>≈
“Jackson, would you please get out from under there?”
Jackson Coley looked up at the disagreeable face of his sister, Casey Anne. He gave her a quick wink as he scrambled out from underneath the pickup truck. He swatted at his jeans in a futile attempt to remove some of the dirt as he stood to face her. “All right, Case. What’s got you in such a knot?”
Casey looked at her watch, her arm shaking. “I am not in a knot. In case you’ve forgotten, I’m getting married today. Today, Jackson. There’s still so much to do, and we have to allow plenty of time for everything, and I’ve still got to run into town this afternoon, and you’re supposed to double-check with the caterer, and why today, of all days, must you work on that stupid truck?” She turned in a half circle, looked up at the sky, turned back to face her brother. “Dear God, I think it’s going to rain.”
“It’s June in South Carolina. Of course it’s going to rain.”
“Oh, no.”
“Casey Anne.” Jackson grabbed her by the shoulders and gave her a quick kiss on her forehead. “Look at me.”
Casey shuddered, looked up at the clouds, lifted her wrist to check the time again.
“Look at me,” Jackson repeated. “And take a breath while you’re at it.”
Casey looked at him then, looked into those familiar eyes that had always comforted and reassured her, even during those awful times. Jackson had always been there for her, his loyalty and support never wavering, even when Mom and Dad were killed. She had nearly fallen apart, especially when James Lee up and disappeared soon after. Her older brother had wanted nothing to do with the farm, never had. She remembered the countless arguments that James Lee and their father had those last few years. Dad had wanted James Lee to take pride in the land that would one day be his, but merely getting James Lee to put in a day’s work was a chore within itself. The day after they buried their parents, James Lee, at the age of 20, had just packed his belongings and left, destination unknown, dumping all of the responsibility of farm and family on his 19-year-old brother, Jackson. It was as if Mom and Dad’s death had been James Lee’s ticket out of what he used to call ‘the toilet bowl of America.’
So, Jackson had stepped up, determined to hold on to this land, no matter what it took. His calm reassurance had kept Casey going, had kept everything going. He seemed to possess an inner strength that both she and James Lee had been denied. She knew she relied on Jackson too much. She should have been there for him to lean on, too, especially when Melissa had died. But again, it was Jackson who had held them both up, had somehow gotten thro
ugh it and continued to look for the positives in his life. How do you lose a wife and look for positives? Casey was sure that if she lost Tom, she wouldn’t be able to look at life the same ever again. She didn’t think she would even want to.
She looked at her brother now and her shuddering subsided. She began to breathe like a normal human being again, telling herself that everything would work out. Wouldn’t it? Just as it always had?
Jackson still held her by the shoulders and said, “Casey Anne Coley, you are not getting married this morning. You are getting married at eight-thirty tonight. One hour of my working on this truck isn’t going to prevent that.”
“But you don’t need to work on that truck. Buy another one. You’ve got enough money now to buy all the trucks you want, for crying out loud.”
“I like working on this truck.”
“But what about the rain?”
“You’re not getting married outside.”
“But I still don’t want my hair to get wet.”
“I’ll put up a tarp from the front door to the car,” Jackson laughed at her. “No, maybe I could just drive the car into the living room and pick you up. Hey, do you think they’d let me drive the car into the church, too?”
“Stop it,” Casey said. “What about the caterer?”
“I’ve already spoken to the caterer this morning. Everything’s taken care of. Plus I’m going over to the church fellowship hall this afternoon just to double-check.”
“It’s just that this is my wedding day. Don’t you understand what this means?”
“Yes.” He laughed at her again. “It means I’m finally going to get a good night’s sleep tonight because you won’t be here bouncing off the walls.”
Casey pressed her lips together in a grimace and rolled her eyes.
“By the way, why do you have to go into Logan City today?” Jackson asked.
“To pick up the bridesmaids’ gifts. I’ve been worrying myself silly about those things. Sally just called to let me know they came in this morning’s shipment. Can you believe it? On the day of my wedding, they finally come in. And Sally ordered them almost nine weeks ago. What in the world would I have done if...”
“What in the world,” Jackson mimicked as he turned her around to face the screened back porch. “Now go on inside. I guess you’d better get dressed if you’re going into town.”
Casey smoothed the pleats of her coral linen slacks. “I am dressed.”
“Oh, yeah?” Jackson said as he chuckled over her blonde head, still coaxing her toward the back porch.
She feigned insult as she walked away, then turned and looked at him suspiciously. “You’re not going to keep working on that truck, are you?”
“Oh, no way. I’m not about to do anything else today except make sure you get married,” Jackson said with a laugh. “Besides, I need your husband more than you do.”
“What?”
“There’s eighty acres of cotton ready to be harvested and he needs to get out in that field and start picking.”
“Very funny.” She knew their foreman, John Watts, his crew and machinery would take care of the actual harvesting. Even though Tom had been working with Jackson on the farm for the last year, they were both looking forward to Tom’s moving in permanently and, as part of the family, getting more involved in the management. They were all very close, Tom already being more like a brother to Jackson than merely a prospective brother-in-law.
Jackson bent to retrieve the tools from beneath the pickup truck. “And stop worrying. Everything’s going to be fine. For some reason, Tom is determined to marry you, even though you are a bit of a flake.”
“An unavoidable family trait.” Casey laughed as she headed back to the house. She stopped underneath the shade of the live oak, its massive limbs expanding from the house to the roof of the barn. She turned and looked at her brother. “Jackson?”
“Hmm?” He closed the case of socket wrenches and looked at her. “Do you think Mom and Dad are watching?” “No doubt about it.” “I know it might sound silly, but it’s important that they know how much Tom loves me.” “They know, Case.” He smiled at her. “Do you think James Lee will ever come home?” Jackson studied her for a moment. It was his sister’s wedding day--she wanted to believe that
anything was possible. But James Lee had been gone for twelve years now. The odds of his returning seemed remote. “There’s always that chance, Casey.” Jackson smiled at her again, encouragingly this time.
She walked back to where her brother knelt next to the old pickup truck, leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. “Well, most of all, I’m glad you’re here. Especially today.”
Jackson watched her turn and sprint back toward the house, her blond hair bouncing with every step, and he remembered what she had been like twelve years ago. A fifteen-year-old girl with two dead parents and a missing brother, who was sure she would never be happy again.
≈≈≈
She had been driving for so long now that her joints had become rigid. She’d put her long hair up in a barrette atop her head to cool her perspiring neck. The air conditioning had failed somewhere in Alabama. She had not dared to stop and search for a repair shop. She had stayed on I-70 until it intersected with I-64 just on the eastern side of St. Louis. Following 64 to Louisville, Kentucky, she switched to I-65 and drove south till she hit Birmingham.
She traveled now through South Caroline along I-20 heading toward the Eastern coast. She knew the exit couldn’t be too far ahead. Should she stop? What would she say? When she’d left Nevada, her initial intention was to go to them, but now she wasn’t so sure.
She considered that if she simply kept driving straight ahead, she’d end up in the Atlantic Ocean. “Maybe that’s where I belong,” she mumbled to herself. Her crying jags had subsided a great deal since early that morning, though her mood remained somber. Having second thoughts about driving into the ocean when she reached the coast, she considered that she might take I-95 and head straight down to
Miami.
That’s about as far away as I can get from Nevada, she thought to herself.
But should she stay in South Carolina for a while? And if she did, how could she explain this? Maybe they had a right to know, but she wasn’t sure she was prepared to tell them. And what if he came here, too? She would never forgive herself if that happened. Would he really think to look for her here? She doubted that. But what if he figured it out and found her? That would mean disaster for everyone. She decided she would take the next exit off of I-20 and sit and think for a while about what to do. Maybe she could find a quiet, isolated café or diner and get something to eat. The wrappings from the chips and crackers she had bought at her last stop lay in the front floorboard of the car, reminding her of how hungry she was.
As she approached another of the familiar green interstate signs, she read out loud, “Exit 78, S.C. 314, Logan City.”
Her hands shook and her heart beat erratically at the thought of exiting the interstate, especially here. She hadn’t realized she was quite that close to the Logan City exit. She thought momentarily of forgetting the whole thing. Why should she stop and tell them? Did they even care? After all, it had been twelve years.
Seeing another sign that read, “Food – Next Exit,” she realized that her hunger was winning the argument over her fear. Praying for something other than fast food, she slowed and exited the interstate. At the intersection of Highway 314, she spotted a sign that showed Logan City was thirty-six miles south. Driving by two fast food restaurants situated near the interstate exit ramp, she continued down the road.
A little more than a half hour later, as she passed the Logan City Town Limits sign, she was convinced she would find solitude here, but wasn’t so sure about a restaurant. Main Street turned out to be only four blocks long, lined with quaint little shops that looked, from their structure and wear, to have been built in the 1920’s or ‘30’s: a post office, drugstore, but no restaurants. She turned down
a side street and managed to find a small café. Parking out back, she grabbed her purse and headed inside.
The place looked almost deserted. A burly man at one of the booths and a young couple seated at a table were the only customers. Beyond the seating area, a high counter with leather-cracked stools lined the back wall, and a swinging door lead back to what she assumed was the kitchen.
Seeing no employees in the room or behind the counter, she walked to a booth against the far wall and seated herself. She fidgeted and stared at the window next to her, examining the limp and faded blue cotton Priscilla curtains that hung around the paint-chip covered glass. Several minutes later, no one had arrived to take her order. Nervous, she considered leaving, but her hunger kept her seated. She looked down, fiddled with her purse, re-crossed her legs. Realizing she was wearing the same jeans she had left home in, she made a mental note to inquire about a place to stay for the night. She needed to shower, wash out her jeans and tee shirt, get a good night’s sleep. The only bathing she’d done had been in gas station restrooms, using paper towels and soap from the dispensers. She hadn’t thought this out very well. But there had been no time for planning.
Yes, what she needed now was some rest. Surely it would be safe to hide out in a hotel overnight. And it would give her a chance to think things through, reflect on the impact her news would have, before she did something else impulsive.
Growing more impatient for food, she tried to bide her time and ease her anxiety by immersing herself in the artistry that hung from the walls of Logan City’s café. The print above her table depicted a freshly plowed open field, its only inhabitant a large green tractor displaying the words John Deere. She would have laughed, if she’d felt like laughing.
Seems the descriptions were pretty accurate.
“You want somethin’ to eat, you gotta let Darlene know you’re here.” The burly man had turned around in his booth and stared at her as he took a big bite of the chicken drumstick in his hand.
Jones, Beverly R Page 1
