Only Good Yankee

by Jeff Abbott

  I stood. “Wait a minute! I told you that I loved you and you don’t have anything to say to me?”

  “You didn’t tell me you loved me, Jordy. You told me you’d told your ex-girlfriend you loved me. Come back and sit a spell with me when you’ve learned the difference.” And the door shut in my face, firmly, with a click that kicked at my heart.

  It couldn’t be true. I was not that messed up. I wasn’t cutting myself off from folks; look how many of them I still had in my life. Candace was nuts or drunk. Then why did I feel like I’d been pierced with a cold steel sword and laid open like a surgeon’s practice cadaver?

  I leaned against my car, still parked out in Candace’s driveway. The night air growled like a restless giant, and high above, heavy clouds dangled, ready to answer a prayer for rain. I wished the goddamned downpour would just come, come and drench me in the street, wash me clean of all my sins and failings. The clouded sky mocked me, rumbling flirtatiously, not offering even a meager drop.

  Miss Twyla’s house across the street was dark, except for one kitchen light. Poor Miss Twyla, I thought. Alone in this world. And I realized with a start that if I didn’t have Candace, I’d feel a loneliness that Sister or Mark or Bob Don would not be able to fill. I’d never had a successful relationship before and now the one I considered good was crumbling like stale tobacco between my fingers. Because I was scared, and I was letting Lorna call the shots.

  I glanced back at Candace’s house. Was she watching me from a window? All the curtains were drawn. I hoped she was. I hoped she still had enough patience in her heart to want to watch me leave.

  The light over at Miss Twyla’s went out. She and Nina must be retiring to bed, exhausted from planning their battles against Lorna and adding coins to their war chest. I had my own battle to fight and those two would just have to stand in line. I got in my car and drove back to my house, letting my anger and resolve boil.

  * * *

  She was still up, watching the news when I got home. A bowl of popcorn sat in her lap and she was slowly nibbling. She was in a T-shirt and shorts and looked far, far too much at home in my house.

  “Well, hello,” she said as I walked in. “We gave up on dinner for you. Mark and I scarfed a frozen pizza and your mother had some tomato soup. Arlene called, she’s not going to be back until around two in the morning. Do you want anything?”

  I walked past her, snapping off the giddily grinning meteorologist describing the storm alert we were under until three A.M. “Yes, I do. I want some answers.”

  “Uh, okay,” she said, setting the bowl of popcorn aside. “What’s wrong?”

  “What’s wrong, Lorna? Oh, that’s rich. That’s really rich. You waltz back into my life, try to get me back into your bed, your boss gets murdered, another guy gets blown up, a girl’s tried to kill herself, the woman I love is ready to drop me, and you want to know what’s wrong.”

  The words stung her. She stared up in defiance. “What is your problem? Are you laying all the blame for this on me?”

  “Why not?” I shot back.

  “Because Greg’s the one that stirred up everything!” she retorted. “I wasn’t the one who got someone pissed enough to kill me!”

  “I’m pissed enough right now, Lorna.” I took a deep breath. “You destroyed some of the files you accessed using Candace’s computer. I know you did. You lied to me and you could have destroyed evidence in a murder case. Why those files, Lorna?”

  Her dark eyes bored into mine. “I didn’t destroy anything, Jordan.”

  “Quit your lying.”

  “What, did Candace manufacture this little story? Obviously she wants to turn you against me. She’s pretended to be my friend, but she really loathes me. I can tell. She thinks she’s better than me.” Her tone turned ugly.

  “If you’re the liar I think you are, she is better.”

  Lorna looked away from me, her eyes traveling across the wall of photos of Sister and me in our youth. “You’re so goddamned smug. So superior in your small-town lightness. You do belong here, Jordan, not in the real world. You live in some Ozzie and Harriet fantasy of what life should be like—”

  “No, I don’t. I live in the real world. I live in the world of busting my ass and taking care of my family and having my friends and just trying to get by. And I don’t lie to people.”

  “I told you, I didn’t destroy any files.”

  “You know, there should be backup tapes of any of Intraglobal’s files, Lorna. Most companies do that.” I laughed hollowly. “But then, Intraglobal isn’t most companies, is it? Most companies aren’t committing fraud. Most companies don’t have folks who do work for them getting blown up like poor Freddy. Most companies don’t have silent partners who conveniently disappear.” Her eyes widened. I leaned down into her face. “Like this Doreen Miller that they can’t seem to find. Where is she, Lorna? How can you work with Greg and not know her?” I leaned back on my heels. “Unless you’re Doreen Miller.”

  “You’re nuts!” Her tone was outraged. “Even if I was in on Greg’s fraud—which I wasn’t—it wouldn’t be much of an out for me, would it? Since the cops are looking for her.”

  “They’re looking for her in Boston. Not here. And you never did answer my question about the backup computer tapes. Or did you destroy the evidence on those backups before you came down here?”

  “I’m not Doreen Miller. I’ve never even met her, never talked to her.”

  “Candace and I are going to go to the cops. Here and in Boston. Candace will tell them that she saw you destroy those files.” I took a step toward her. “Look, Lorna, whatever mess you’ve gotten yourself into, I’ll try to help you. I’ll help you as much as I can, but I’ve got to know the truth. Otherwise, what can I think?” I lowered my voice. “I don’t want what I’m saying to you to be true, but it could be. You could’ve killed Greg. Did you know what he was up to? Did he threaten you if you told on him? Lorna, for God’s sake—”

  She was shaking her head at me, her lovely gray eyes wide in the dim light from the lamp Mama used to read her books by. “My God. You do think I killed him.”

  “As long as you don’t tell me the truth, I have to assume the worst.”

  “No matter what I once meant to you?” I could barely hear her question.

  “No matter.”

  She held her breath for a moment, then let it out in a long hiss. “I am many things, Jordan, but I am not a killer. I didn’t kill Greg, and I sure didn’t kill Freddy.” Indecision framed her face, and she pressed the back of her hand against her mouth. The last time I’d seen her do that was when she’d gotten the phone call that her father had died.

  “I’m afraid you won’t believe me. I don’t want you to hate me, Jordan.”

  I sank to the couch. “Lorna, for God’s sake. I don’t hate you. I don’t understand you anymore, but I don’t hate you.”

  She leaned against the back of Mama’s chair. Her fingers left long red lines across her cheek as she dragged her hand down her face. “I found files in the computer back in Boston. Copies of letters. Letters from me to Gary Zadich, the guy that owns the chemical company in Houston, the one you said Greg was going to sell the land to.”

  “So you had known! You had been in touch with him!”

  “No! Someone faked those files, Jordan, I never saw them before. I never heard of Gary Zadich, or of any plan to resell the land. But those letters in the computer were going to make it look like I had. Someone’s trying to set me up.”

  I stood in the gentle quiet of my living room, listening to her, trying to weigh her words. “How do I know that you’re not making this up, Lorna, that you’re just trying to cover your tracks? Why didn’t you just leave the files alone and tell the cops that they’re faked?”

  “I was afraid. I checked the files; they were created long ago. But they were in Greg’s directories, ones I’d never seen before until I started trying to track down what he was up to. I made a mistake, I panicked. I got rid of
them.” She paused. “Don’t you believe me? For God’s sake, Jordan, this is me. You know me better than anyone else, how could you think I would lie about this?”

  “I don’t know what to think anymore,” I said, sitting down. My stomach felt tied in knots. I stood back up. “We better call the cops again and tell them this.” Let Junebug decide if she was lying or not. I didn’t want the responsibility anymore. The phone rang just as I was reaching for it.

  “Hello?”

  The voice was breathless with fright. “My God, Jordy, this is Twyla Oudelle. I need help and I can’t get ahold of Junebug. Tiny is—” And the phone went dead.

  I held the receiver in my hand, feeling coldness creep over me. “Miss Twyla? Miss Twyla?” There was not even the normal hum of the dial tone. I hung up and tried to dial Miss Twyla’s number. There was only mocking silence. I tried to call Candace—she was only across the street. No answer. Either she wasn’t at home or didn’t want to chat.

  My heart pulsed in my throat. “Mark!” I bawled. He came running down the stairs, disheveled with sleep.

  “Look, there’s something wrong at Miss Twyla’s. See if you can get hold of Junebug. He’s probably still out looking for Parker Loudermilk. I’m going over to Miss Twyla’s.”

  “I’m coming with you,” Lorna said. I didn’t bother to argue with her. All the fight was out of me.

  Horrible thoughts played in my mind on the short drive over to Miss Twyla’s, like a bad B-movie festival. Tiny strangling Miss Twyla with the phone cord he might have yanked from the wall, Tiny snapping Nina’s thin neck with a flick of his wrist I thought of that faraway day on the playground, his weight against my throat, him trying to shift the life out of me with slow resolve.

  “You better stay in the car when we get there,” I said to Lorna, my anger with her temporarily eclipsed by my concern for Miss Twyla and Nina. “Tiny can be trouble.”

  “You sure you trust me to stay in the car? I might try to hot-wire it and steal it.” Her voice was back to the peculiarly Northern brand of sarcasm that she could excel in. “For God’s sake, Jordan, don’t be both judge and jury of me. If we could get out of Mirabeau for a while, talk about us—”

  “There’s no us, Lorna.” I pulled up in front of Miss Twyla’s darkened house. I couldn’t help but glance across the street to Candace’s; it was darkened, too, and her car was gone.

  Lorna stayed silent; we got quietly out of the car, me taking along a flashlight I always kept in the glove compartment. She wasn’t going to wait in the car, and I didn’t argue. I wasn’t used to sneaking up on houses, but I had toilet-papered many a one in my roguish youth, so I made a beeline for where I thought the bedroom window was.

  I kept an ear up to the glass but heard nothing. I considered shining my light into the room but decided that might be a bad idea, especially if Tiny was waiting inside. I gestured to Lorna and we carefully cut around to the backyard. It was dark back there, the outline of the fixtures of Miss Twyla’s backyard hardly visible: the scattering of pink plastic flamingos that Miss Twyla goofily referred to as her pets, the low shadow of her tornado shelter, its doors a slight bulge out of the grass, the silhouette of a vase-shaped birdbath, the dark hulk of her house. I began to move toward the back door, not yet turning on the flashlight, not wanting to advertise our presence yet. I didn’t want to think about Miss Twyla lying inside, maybe dead.

  I had taken about four steps toward the house when Lorna whispered: “Jordan! Here!”

  I turned back to her and in the darkness she grabbed my arm, her hands fumbling for mine, seeking the flashlight. I turned it on and she pointed the beam toward her own feet.

  She’d been wearing open-toed sandals—not always a good idea in yards round here because of the threat of fire ants; but you couldn’t expect Lorna to know that. And I saw with horror that blood smeared her toes.

  A wet blotch of red stained the lawn. Lorna’s hand tightened over mine. “Oh, God, Jordan, let’s get out of here,” she pleaded.

  “Not without Miss Twyla. You go on back to the car. Or go over to Candace’s and see if you can get Junebug.” I shoved my key ring at her, holding out Candace’s key.

  “Uh-uh. I don’t want to go off alone… “

  I slipped the keys back into my pocket and played the light along the freshly mowed grass. There was a thin trail of blood leading to the doors of the tornado shelter.

  I’d sat through enough horror movies at the old drive-in over in Bavary to know what not to do; namely, go down into that shelter where something from another planet was eagerly awaiting an opportunity to eat my face off. How many times had I sat watching those movies, seeing the hero or heroine act like an idiot, my lips pleasantly bruised from making out with my date during the dull parts? Here was my conclusion: If they’re stupid enough to go into that attic that’s dripping blood, then they deserve to die. And those foolishly bold characters almost did always find a terrible demise. My hand tightened on the flashlight and I thought of Miss Twyla, her unconditional kindness, her erratic and always amusing demeanor, her bold assertions about the vitality of the elderly, her outlandish lectures in her laboratory classes during my student days, her special reputation in town as the last of those crazy Oudelles. Of all the folks in town, she’d called me when she needed help. I moved to the shelter doors.

  The light showed they were unlatched. As I reached to open the door and pull it back, Lorna grabbed my arm again. ‘This is nuts. Let’s get out of here, please.”

  “I said you could go. I’m finding Miss Twyla.”

  “God, you’re stubborn.” Lorna breathed in my ear, but she didn’t leave.

  The door fell back against the ground with a thud. Darkness as black as the devil’s soul beckoned. I shone the light down the ten or so steps that led to the concrete floor. Blood speckled the two bottom steps. I played the light along the wall of the stairwell; I couldn’t see a lightbulb or a switch by the doors. I took a tentative step in, Lorna right behind me. Behind her, thunder rumbled, as though the storm had finally and inopportunely decided to make its debut.

  After several other tentative steps, I was at the bottom of the shelter. The Oudelles, in their eccentricity, had spared no expense on their tornado shelter. I remembered the shelter out at my grandparents’ farm; the floor and walls had been dirt, more a burrowing hole in the ground than something fit for people to occupy for a long time. It had always reminded me of a grave waiting to be filled. The walls of Miss Twyla’s shelter were concrete block, with cots and shelves lined with food in case the main house was destroyed in a twister. I played the light and found a door in die wall, slightly ajar.

  I had taken two steps toward the door when I smelled it, the sickeningly sweet odor of bubble gum. I whirled as from a darkened corner of the room a fist lashed out, catching me squarely in the chest. I coughed and stumbled, my light dancing around the room but catching Tiny Parmalee’s brutal face in its beam. He struck me again, backhanding me hard, shoving me through the ajar door that led into the inner room. I landed on my back, skidding in the darkness into a piece of furniture. My arm throbbed and my chin felt numb. Hearing Lorna scream, I yanked my arm from the sling, trying to get enough breath to get to my feet. I’d made it halfway when a light snapped on and Nina Hernandez stood with a gun pointed at my head from the opposite side of the narrow room. A shrieking Lorna was thrown down on top of me. I pulled free of her and stood in a crouch, trying to absorb what I was seeing.

  This inner room was larger than the outer room, and it held far more interesting secrets. Nina with a handgun, not looking like she cared a great deal about the Mirabeau ecosystem at this moment. Tiny smiling down at me, hate in his eyes. Miss Twyla sitting in a chair next to where Nina stood, her mouth, chin, and nose bloodied, her hair hanging in her face, her eyes angry. And along the wall, shelving that held boxes of wires, pliers, a canister marked KCIO3, (POTASSIUM CHLORATE), sacks of sugar, batteries, watches and egg-timers, a dusting of finely powdered aluminum,
and a stack of metal pipes.

  Oh, my God.

  I steadied Lorna, who had stopped screaming and was fearfully watching Nina’s gun. Nina held that gun rock-steady and the small dark bore locked on my head.

  “Miss Twyla, are you all right?” I managed to cough out.

  “Yes, Jordy, thank you for asking. At least one of my former students is behaving like a gentleman.” She shot a daggered look at Tiny, who seemed inordinately pleased with himself, smiling like a badly carved jacko’-lantern.

  “Obviously, you don’t want to make any sudden moves,” Nina said to me. “I’ll shoot you before you get across the room. And even if I miss you, I shoot Miss Twyla. You don’t want that, do you, Jordy?”

  “You wouldn’t really, really hurt Miss Twyla, would you, sugar pie?” Tiny rubbed his lip with the back of his hand. “I mean, you didn’t really want to slap her like you did.”

  Nina favored Tiny with a look the painted angels on the Sistine Chapel might give to devout worshipers. “Of course not, Tiny dear. But let’s not forget that we’re dealing with dangerous criminals.”

  “What?” I asked stupidly. Lorna leaned hard against my back, hiding behind me.

  “Don’t try to fool Tiny, Jordy, he’s far too smart for you. He understands how Miss Twyla’s gone crazy, bombing places around town, and how Lorna’s the same kind of con artist that Greg was.”

  It took a couple of seconds to register. How could she know? Oh, God. “You—you’re Doreen Miller?” I heard myself say.

  She didn’t give me a direct answer. Instead she smiled at Tiny, who stood near the doorway. She fired twice, in rapid succession. One bullet exploded into Tiny’s left shoulder, founting blood, and the second hit him in the right side, vanishing into his big frame. The double roar was deafening in the enclosed space. Lorna didn’t scream, but she seized my shoulders in a death grip. Tiny collapsed against the wall, a look of bewilderment on his face, and tumbled to the floor. I couldn’t tell if he was still breathing.