Tripp came back into the living room.
“Five minutes,” he said. “And then I’m getting the hell out of here to find Lila. You can walk back to the trailer park.”
Jolene barely heard the door slam. Her mind was seeking Thora.
Thora. Poor Thora.
Thora had been an awkward teenager, but she’d had a kind of stoic charm. Her shy smile as she unwrapped the Christmas robe with her name over the pocket. The beautiful pile of cookies she’d made for the church potluck. She had been so proud. But she had mixed baking soda instead of baking powder into the flour and salt, and they had tasted like medicine. It was a moment that even elicited a rare laugh from her father. There was a night, a few weeks after Ivy was born, when Thora had come to Jolene crying because a boy had kissed her, but then startled her by trying to put his hand up her shirt. She had run away from him, leaving her coat behind. As soon as she got inside the trailer, her usually composed face crumpled with tears. Her nose and cheeks were red, her fingers stiff from the frigid January night. Those thick, mannish fingers of hers. So cold.
Jolene opened her eyes. She could hear Tripp pacing the porch. He wouldn’t wait.
She went to the kitchen. Ivy had kept it neat even in the midst of dealing with the chaos she had brought on. Ivy the calm. Ivy the obedient.
What Jolene sought wasn’t in the kitchen. She slid open the door separating it from the laundry room.
The chest freezer sat against the back wall. It had a bolt to which a padlock could be attached, but there was none on it.
She had seen the faces of the dead: the peaceful, the questioning, the faces sculpted in fear or surprise. No one face was the same as another, as though Death required a unique reaction from each victim as payment or tribute.
Even through the stiff plastic, she saw that Thora’s once-bitter face held equal measures of resignation and regret.
For the briefest of moments, Jolene’s face transformed into the one Thora would know well, if she were to wake. Poor Thora. Jolene’s heart welled with pity. She put out her hand, wanting to tear away the plastic and lay her hands on Thora, to bring her back, to purge her of every unhappy thing she had ever known or seen.
No. Not yet. Could I ever?
She gently replaced the packages and containers Ivy had arranged over Thora’s body, and closed the freezer.
Ivy, what have you done?
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Ivy didn’t mind being up on the mountain in the dark, but Thora’s grave was only half dug and she was already exhausted. The joints of her hands ached, and the shovel’s handle had given her blisters despite her work gloves. The early rains had soaked the ground, making the first few inches of soil thick and muddy. Worse, the deposits of red-orange clay beneath the soil clung stubbornly to her shovel. No wonder whoever had buried Anthony hadn’t bothered to dig too deep.
Ivy guessed they hadn’t known that the only things that could be hurried on the mountain were frightened animals or streams swollen with rain. To her, Devil’s Oven was like time itself—a permanent mystery, but with rules you could spend a lifetime learning. Some days, she would think of her past—of hide-and-seek games with her mother, of her father’s gruff voice, the arguments with Thora, the hours she spent teaching herself to sew on her mother’s machine—and she was right there, so lost in the vision that she couldn’t find her way out until the phone rang or Thora called for her. Now there was Anthony, and she was in a new time. One whose boundaries she couldn’t see.
Maybe Anthony would live forever. It didn’t seem fair that she should eventually die and he might go on living. But after seeing what he had done to Thora, could she really expect to live that much longer?
She wished Anthony were here to help her. She hadn’t asked him to do any kind of work thus far, and he was a big, strong man. Telling him it was his responsibility to bury Thora because he had killed her wouldn’t work. Anthony had no concept of guilt or responsibility. If he even understood what she was asking, he would probably just smile and do nothing.
It’s not too late.
Ivy’s mother knelt beside her, fastening the layers of net around her waist. She had stitched the net into a white boll of a tutu, and glued flower buds shaped from ribbon all over it. The buds had long ribbon streamers that flew behind Ivy as she ran.
We can make the luncheon, her mother told her. It’s not too late. Don’t mind Daddy.
They walked the two miles to the state motor vehicle office, where her father worked, to get the car. Her father had told them he was sick of the fuss and the tinny music filling the trailer when they put on the practice record her mother had bought from the teacher.I never paid for Thora to do that foolishness, he had said. No, she can’t go.
They snuck the car from its space behind the little shopping center the office was in, knowing her father wouldn’t come outside again until five o’clock. They drove to the Legion Hall in the next town for the luncheon recital, and Ivy danced for the Legionnaires’ wives, wearing one of the silk rose wreaths the teacher had made as a surprise for her and the other girls. The teacher took a photograph of each girl and put it into a cardboard frame as a keepsake.
Walking home later, Ivy giggled and held her mother’s hand. She felt as though she were dancing on a cloud borne by fairies.
The whole adventure remained their secret for weeks, until Thora found the photograph in their room and asked Ivy about it at Sunday lunch. Ivy felt her father’s eyes looking at her over the roast, and, even though she was only five, sensed a wave of grim pleasure from Thora. Ivy started to cry, and her mother squeezed her hand and calmly told her to leave the table. She ran to her corner in the barn’s hayloft and stayed there until dark. It had been Thora’s secret place when she was younger, and Ivy’s mother had fixed it up for her, with gingham tacked to the walls and two big pillows for seats, and a plastic tea set she had bought at a garage sale.
Her parents fought for days. Her mother cried and told her not to worry. A week later, her mother was gone, and Thora found their father hanging in the woods.
It wasn’t too late.
She could still go to the police and tell them about Anthony. She could lie and say he had forced his way into the house and killed Thora. She could say she had been too afraid of him to come forward, that he was the one who had put Thora in the freezer. They were already looking for him, or at least a person who looked like him. His DNA would be everywhere. Surely on Claude Dixon. Definitely in her house. There was no reason they wouldn’t believe her.
Oh! The pregnant bridesmaid had seen him! The girl would be her proof.
Even though night had fallen around her, Ivy felt lighter than she had in weeks, or possibly years. If Anthony didn’t come back—and she was certain now he wouldn’t—the burden of Thora’s death God rest her soul was suddenly lifted.
Is that what I want? Let that be what I want.
But if the answer wasn’t fully yes at that second, she knew it was the right answer. Even though she ached for him, she thought that if she tried, she could bring herself around to turning him in.
She started to fill the hole back in with a new energy, pushing the huge chunks of clay into the hole with her shovel, and then her hands. She worked without stopping for about fifteen minutes before she realized it didn’t matter if she refilled the hole or not. There were no laws against digging holes. Or maybe there were rules about doing it in the state forest. But who would know or care? Packing up, she forgot all about tying a wild rhododendron to the sled.
It was dark enough that she needed the electric lantern she had brought to see her way back to the house. Had she left any lights on? She couldn’t remember.
Would Anthony be there, waiting, wondering where she was? The thought brought on a wave of melancholy. Was it going to be like this? Was she going to change her mind from one minute to the next?
Anthony was cold-hearted. He had no conscience. But he hadn’t hurt her; he was gentle with her. And he m
ight come back, after all.
It’s not too late.
Ivy turned at a sound coming from behind her. The reality of being alone on Devil’s Oven in the dark hit her. She had no gun, only the shovel and a pitiful light. Foolish didn’t begin to describe how she felt.
Grabbing the shovel and the rope of the sled, she left the spade and her water behind. Almost immediately, she regretted bringing the sled. Twice it banged into her ankles, nearly knocking her down. She was thinking of the coyote that Anthony had killed the previous night, but whatever was out there could just as easily be a wolf. A lot of people in the area who kept livestock complained about the wolves.
Desperate to know what it was, she stopped to look over her shoulder. Holding up the lantern, she saw Anthony, his teeth gleaming. He had that look of blank, humorless joy on his face. When he saw her, he slowed to a fast walk. He wore pants, but his shirt was gone, and his skin was filthy with dirt. The skin of the woman he carried reflected the lantern’s light more brightly. Her skin was white, her buttocks two half moons in the dark.
Anthony stopped when he reached Ivy. He was panting like a dog.
Ivy couldn’t speak.
Anthony slid the naked woman off his shoulder, dumping her on the ground at Ivy’s feet, her red hair spilling over them like blood.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
“Your choice to use a firearm while being pursued by peace officers almost got you killed, Mr. Tucker. That happens too often in these situations.”
The search team had brought Bud in handcuffs to where Detective Burns and the EMTs waited at the forest’s main gate. The dog bite wasn’t deep enough to require stitches, but Bud flinched as the EMTs irrigated it with antiseptic. He had told them they could skip the hospital, that they needed to be focusing on finding Lila, not dicking around with the stupid idea that he had harmed her and killed Danelle Pettit.
“The bastard had my wife. Has my wife, damn it,” Bud said, trying not to lose his temper the way he had up in the woods. The frustration was killing him. They hadn’t seen the son of a bitch because they had been so focused on capturing him. The first dog had seen the monster, and had even gotten his teeth into him, all in defiance of his mission to stop Bud. But no one would listen.
What if I hadn’t shot the dog? What if I had just waited a few more seconds? Lila might have been injured, but they would have seen the creature, would have seen Lila. If they never found her, it would be my fault.
The realization made him feel guilty. Sick inside.
“Just see what you get off the teeth of the dog I shot,” he said. “Please.”
The reminder of what he had done got him a sharp twist of the handcuffs from the officer who was putting them back on after the EMT finished. Bud gritted his teeth. He wasn’t going to let them change his focus.
“We’ll be sure to take care of that right after he gets out of surgery,” Burns said. “Though I have to say, I’m glad you were such a piss-poor shot. May keep you out of prison.” He gave Bud a grim smile. “For that, anyway.”
He nodded to the officer standing behind Bud. “We’ll catch up with you boys later at County,” he said.
Bud stumbled as the officer pushed him toward the waiting patrol car. They passed the second dog, the shepherd called Lord, who was standing affectionately close to his handler as though waiting for a scratch behind the ears. When the shepherd didn’t move or even look in Bud’s direction, Bud was hit with the realization that he was just another criminal to the dog and to the men and women around him. They had already decided he was guilty, and they were ready to move on.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Anthony stopped more than once on their way down the hillside, wanting to put Lila down on the ground again. Each time, Ivy begged him to please, please hold on to her until they got back to the trailer. Each time he indicated he was hungry.
“At the house, Anthony,” she said. “As soon as I get to the house. Just the minute we get there. Please.”
She couldn’t even think. Where in the world had he found Lila Tucker? Why hadn’t he killed her like he had killed Claude Dixon and Thora?
She did her best not to notice the way Lila’s head bobbed against Anthony’s back, and she prayed Lila wouldn’t die. Or would death be a sign of God’s mercy? Only He knew what Anthony had done to her. The lantern light had revealed ragged, bloody scrapes on her back, and bite marks on her shoulders and breasts and neck. Her eyes were open, but focused on some unseen thing in the distance. They blinked only every once in a while.
Poor Lila. Ivy didn’t care about her the way she had cared for Thora, but Lila didn’t deserve the attack any more than Thora did.
When the house and trailer came into view, Ivy gathered her strength and rushed to overtake Anthony. Taking Lila to the house was way too dangerous, and there was no way to keep an eye on her at the trailer because Ivy had to be down at the house most of the time. Am I already thinking that Lila’s presence has to remain a secret? Lila was surely almost dead from exposure and fright and—dear God—abuse. The rational place for her to be was in a hospital.
Once again, Ivy had had a choice to make, and without thinking about it, she had chosen Anthony.
She had seen him standing there in the dark: belligerent, evil yes she saw that now, a bringer of death. She finally understood that she wasn’t going to change him or teach him or save him. He was like a child who would never grow up. But she had made him, and it was up to her to take care of him.
We should have left Lila to die in the woods, but now it’s too late.
“No, we can’t have her here,” Ivy said. “She has to go somewhere else.”
But Anthony strode around her and onto the trailer’s back porch, ignoring her pleas. He laid Lila down in the rusting chaise beneath the kitchen window, then went inside without looking back.
Ivy hurried to Lila, who lay staring up into the star-filled sky, and covered her with her own jacket. Lila’s entire body trembled with cold. Her eyes looked glassy and unreal in her head, like she was a broken doll.
“Wait here,” Ivy told her, as though Lila were capable of running away. “Just wait.”
Ivy went inside the trailer. Glancing down the hallway, she could see Anthony in the kitchen, looking for food. In the master bedroom, she pulled the worn quilt from the bed and shook it out to dislodge many months of dust. Taking it outside, she covered Lila all the way up to her neck, tucking the blanket around her legs and arms to give her some warmth. Lila’s body didn’t relax or change position, but Ivy knew she had to be close to freezing to death.
“You’re safe now,” Ivy said. “I’ll take care of you. Everything’s going to be all right.” She wasn’t sure why she felt compelled to try to comfort Lila. She didn’t even know if Lila could hear her.
She ran inside again and turned on the thermostat. This time of year they kept it turned off because the air inside the trailer wouldn’t get quite cold enough to freeze the pipes. She heard the propane gas jets in the furnace tickticktick to life.
“Anthony.”
The floor creaked beneath Anthony’s feet as he came into the living room, a handful of cereal in one hand and the cereal box in the other. He stuffed some cereal in his mouth.
“I need you to bring her inside the trailer,” she said. “Put her on the couch for now.”
When he didn’t move but continued just to watch her, she said, “I’m not going to make your supper until you do what I ask.”
He stared at her. She watched for any sign of decision in his eyes, but there was none. He tossed the cereal box on the floor behind him and went outside to get Lila.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Word had gotten around about the viciousness of Danelle Pettit’s murder, and Lila’s disappearance, so the club was busy as soon as the doors opened at eight. Dwight kept his head down and backed up the bartender as unobtrusively as possible. Charity had phoned to say she would cover for the girl who had called in sick, and would bring i
n Jolene if she could find her. All the activity put a balm of normalcy on the evening for Dwight. So far, the police hadn’t shown up to ask any questions or to check out Bud’s office, which was fine with him.
It had been Dwight’s good luck that the bartender was late. Dwight had given him a small amount of shit, just to make it look good, but he didn’t go overboard. That the guy had shown up every Monday through Saturday night for the past two months was a miracle. When the bartender put his key in the back door about two hours earlier, Dwight was combing his hair into shape with hair gel belonging to one of the girls, and had just popped one of Pat’s wintergreen breath mints into his mouth. He didn’t usually go for them, but the smell of blood hung in his nostrils and he couldn’t blow it out no matter how hard he tried.
Maybe it was some sort of haunting, and he would be smelling Pat’s blood for years. It wasn’t a thought that made him happy.
Usually on a Friday night, he would start out the music easy and kind of fun, but tonight he went straight to a hard rock loop because he was in the mood. Too bad if it pissed off the girls and wore them out early. He was past caring. There was a dead guy beneath their feet, and their boss was in jail. They might all be out of a job in a matter of days. The music kept him going.
What a G.D. mess.
Maybe Pat was down there mumbling to himself, listening to the girls stomp all over his head. Pat talked more dead than he did alive. The whole thing made Dwight want to take a seat on the other side of the bar with his own personal bottle of Wild Turkey for company. But if he didn’t keep his shit together, there was nobody to keep it together for him.
Charity showed up about eight forty-five, just fifteen minutes before the stage shows would start, her blonde hair in a messy pile on her head and her face bare of makeup. She looked like she had been out running. When she spotted Dwight behind the bar, she headed straight for him. He liked Charity, but didn’t need any of her bossy bullshit right then.
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