He slipped a hand around her waist.
She cupped his face in her hands and pulled his mouth to hers.
In that moment, they couldn’t see the future. The darkness lay beyond.
“Even the best love comes with sadness,” Delta said, her voice hoarse. “Even the happiest.”
I SENT THE PHOTOS to Gus. To be safe, I used the farm’s high-tech, secure email system, the one we used to transfer confidential files to social service agencies. I coordinated the timing so that a snail-mail package would arrive at the base then. After I watched our indomitable postwoman rumble off down the farm’s frostbitten dirt road with my package in the back of her USPS mail truck, I went to my room and headed straight to the corner between the tall shelves full of bagged wool. I sat down with my safety quilt and pulled it over me; making my usual tent. My safe place.
I had been a naïve high school art teacher and devout minister’s daughter—much to Dad’s dismay, I took a vow of chastity at the age of sixteen.
I wanted to show Dad I could bring lost souls into the fold, and that was why I set out to save my apartment building’s maintenance men from their meth addiction. I sincerely believed in the power of faith, of good hearts doing good deeds to reveal the Light to those in the Dark.
Until I opened my door one autumn night to find the duo waiting for me, thinking that my friendship, my ministry, was an invitation of an entirely different kind. They didn’t take Bible verses for an answer. They didn’t take No for an answer.
They didn’t hesitate to hurt me for the next few hours of my life, and to leave me naked and bloody on the floor.
My attackers went to prison for life.
I told everyone in my church and my counseling center that I forgave the men.
A lie.
I wanted to kill them slowly, with my bare hands.
So here I was, still hiding from life. From that fury that lurked inside me.
Opal whispered, Either you’re gonna stop being afraid of life, or you’re gonna stop caring whether you live.
After a minute or two under the quilt, I sneezed.
I am just sitting under a blanket, sneezing.
I got up, folded the quilt carefully, and stood looking down at it for a long time.
Then I went to the stack of plastic crates that served as my closet, and put it away.
7
I WAS DIRTY, COLD, exhausted, and my boots had blood spatters on them.
Two villagers had been kidnapped by the warlord. I found their bodies. I staggered inside my cold tin can and saw the box peeking out of a mail sack I’d dumped on my bed before I went on patrol.
Luce’s handwriting.
Still wearing fifty pounds of battle rattle—full combat vests and armor—I sat down and turned Luce’s mysterious package in my hands, drawing comfort, letting her presence sink into my muscles.
I smelled . . . pink. Strawberry beer. Yeah, it exists. Prying the box open took careful maneuvers of my knife, since I was in a hurry. The fat envelope inside was folded three times and bound with more tape.
Once I got that open, the delicate shawl slipped out like blue silk water. My cock went hard. I lifted yards of soft worlds in my fists. I pressed the cloud to my face. It was sexy as hell, kisses and fingertips on my skin. The swirls of the pattern drifted over my arms and torso, feathering my thighs and draping between my legs.
I dug inside the envelope and found a note.
Gus—
I thought you might like to see that I have arms, legs, feet, and a neck. Check your email for some photographs.
I shucked my gear and sat down at the desk.
I opened the first picture.
Luce sat on a small bed thick with colorful quilts, pushed up tight in a corner against a plank wall painted egg-shell white. There were no windows, no art on the wall, just the clean, plain beauty of her and the quilts against that textured background.
She wore the blue shawl—and nothing else. The see-through pattern swirled around her from neck to ankles, showing me only hints of the skin underneath. Aside from her bare left shoulder and a sliver of her bare left foot and ankle, she was fully covered.
Her hair, wound up in that way women do so it looks like they just piled it on their heads while watching eggs boil, was anchored by a yarn spindle I’d sent her after Christmas.
I opened the rest of the files as fast as my fingers could move. More tantalizing glimpses. A bare leg from the knee down. Both shoulders. Her neck, yes. Her bare feet. I had never seen anyone sexier, or more breakably beautiful, in my life.
It was going to be a long night.
NINE P.M., NORTH Carolina time, when he called. I was in bed with a heating pad turned up high to keep my feet warm. Spinning yarn on a drop spindle. I held a pile of roving on my lap, and let the spindle twist beside the bed.
“Show me your feet,” Gus said.
I dropped the spindle.
Slowly I pulled both feet from their warm haven. My skin prickled in the chill.
“I’m laying here with both feet completely naked from the ankles down.”
“What are you wearing?”
“A shawl like the one I wore in the pictures.”
“No, just tell me. Reality is good.”
“My ancient UNC nightshirt and floppy sweat pants cut off below the knees. And the socks you made for me.”
“Pull up the pant legs a little. I’d like to hear more about your knees.”
I adjusted the sweat pants and stared at my legs. “I put Bah Spa goat’s milk body lotion on them. They have a nice sheen.”
“Any freckles, bumps, scars?”
“Why?”
“I like details.”
“I have a small scar on top of my right knee. In the shape of a circle. I went ice-skating once, during college. I fell on a metal bottle cap. The ER doctor said it was the strangest little wound she’d seen all month.”
Suddenly, a soft pressure touched the scar. No more than a wisp of air. Warm. Like his breath on my skin. I gasped.
“You feel that?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Want me to keep going?”
“You know the answer.”
I shut my eyes. I watched his thick, suntanned fingers knitting a sock with needles so small only a delicate and skilled hand should have been able to maneuver them the way his large, dusty fingers did. The top of the sock was stretched between four slender double-points—they look like large toothpicks—holding the edging apart like the aperture of a colorful spider web.
I pictured him touching his fingertips to that taut entrance. He circled a forefinger around the rim. He stroked the ends of the imagined double-points, rubbed them. Then, slowly, he slid one finger down inside the soft chamber.
Withdrew it. Slid it down again.
Imagine the warmth of a summer tide on the northern Florida coast. Atlantic side, facing Europe and Africa; gray-white beaches and fruit stands selling oranges; t-shirt shops and biker bars and miniature golf courses. But on the beach, the throb of the surf lulls the outer world to sleep. You sit there in your modest one-piece suit, watching tiny crabs skitter along the rivulets of water; feeling the salty wash of the great, mysterious depths curl around your feet and ankles; the inlets stroke your thighs as they arrive and retreat.
The ocean is coaxing you off the continental shelf and into the magic of the abyss.
Inside your deepest self, you admit you want to be swept away.
The tide hears you. It rises, thick with sensations, bathing you and covering your entire body, sliding the bathing suit down your shoulders, caressing your naked breasts, kissing your belly, your thighs, and all parts in between. You don’t need to breathe; suddenly, you can breathe underwater. You’re free of the land-born world; you’ve
become a mermaid.
The tide becomes your mouth, your lungs, your body.
And you dissolve into the beautiful ache of its passion.
The JabberTalk
Welcome to the Online Community Bulletin Board for the Crossroads Cove,
Ten Sisters Mountains, and Wild Woman Ridge Districts of
Jefferson County, North Carolina
Dr. Doug Firth, DVM, moderator
“Beware the JabberTalk, my child! The jaws that flap, the words that quack!
Beware the Hearsay bird, and shun The Farteous BanAllfacts!”
On bended knee, Mr. Lewis Carroll, I hope you’re square with this admiring fun. DF
Temperature on Devil’s Knob as of 9 a.m., highest elevation in Jefferson County and all of western NC—25 degrees
Temperature at WTUR as of 9 a.m., the voice of Turtleville, county seat of Jefferson County—29 degrees
Sponsored by Delta’s Biscuits@TheCrossroadsCafé.com
This week: The BaconZilla
“So big it might scare Tokyo”
Handcut wild-hog Coca-Cola marinated bacon
Your Pick: Butt Farms Mellow Goat or MoozaFella Cheese
Two Fresh-Laid Miz Ted’s Laidback Fat Red Hen Eggs
Topped with your choice of Delta’s winners!
(as seen on the “Kitchen Star’s Showdown” finals)
Kiss My Mama Cream Gravy
Kiss My Foot Red-Eye Gravy
The Crossroads Café. Where the Lard Cooks in Mysterious Ways.
TODAY’S SCIENCE report courtesy of Lawrence T. Potter, Jr., Assistant Table Manager, The Crossroads Café.
“Still no confirmed sighting of Rockycockers around the old Free Wheeler bicycle town. But Sam Carter is missing a wrench he laid on the tailgate of his truck while changing a tire on Carter Road last week. E. Tarl Swetzer found three shirts missing off his clothes line on Swetzer Road on Tuesday. Mrs. Zip says another UPS package that was “for-sure” on her front porch when she left for Joggercize was gone when she came home.
“Mrs. Zip says it is ‘confidential’ that her latest UPS package contained items of a personal nature for important female relaxation treatments. I’ll keep everybody informed if more female relaxation treatments are targeted by the Rockycockers.”
MISS LUCY, I KNOW you told me not to walk too deep in the woods at Free Wheeler, and I have kept my promise to stop looking for rockycockers until springtime. Dr. Firth says the ones in Scotland hibernate like bears, so he bets our kind do, too. I’ve taken pictures of all the giant rocks that might have caves inside them, especially the ones up on the ridge above Free Wheeler. They look like a backbone and have the giant handprints carved on them.
But I do not want to crawl inside their caves. Not even for the sake of science.
Sometimes I hear strange noises in the woods. The squirrels throw things at me. Pine cones and acorns. I have dusted some of them with my kit, and I SAW PART OF A HUMAN FINGER PRINT. I know there are bad people around here, now, so I’ll be careful.
But here is why I am emailing you today. When I was clearing tables after lunch at the Crossroads, Miss Cleo went into the back dining room. Deputy Burkett was in there eating his free food. I don’t like Deputy Burkett. He makes fun of me but only when no one is watching.
Miss Cleo talks to him like I don’t have ears.
This is what I heard, today.
“Word is going to get out. Leave her alone. You’re a married man. You’re Howard Monzell’s son-in-law. You’re somebody important.”
Deputy Burkett said, “Don’t worry, I have plans. I’ll make you proud of me. Mother.”
But he didn’t say it in a nice way. He said it MEAN.
And then Miss Cleo said, “Not if you throw it all away for that sickly white-haired demon.”
Miss Lucy! That is what she calls YOU. Except to Miss Delta. She never says it to Miss Delta.
Miss Cleo must have you confused with somebody else. I am your loyal friend. I will find the other sickly white-haired demon around here and let you know who she is.
Yours truly, Larry T. Potter, assistant table manager, The Crossroads Café
PATTON STOOD IN the edge of the woods below the sheep barn in the chilly dawn, almost hidden among the broad leaves of the rhododendrons. I picked my way through the frosty foliage. “Good morning, Corporal Patton.”
I reached out, hoping to pet him. He backed away, always suspicious of intimacy. I understood. The big German shepherd was often seen as little more than a stealthy shadow, and should have been frightening. His military “extractions” of unaccompanied items from homes in the Free Wheeler area had convinced amateur sleuth Larry that he was a mythical Rockycocker, the source of any odd sounds and sightings in the woods.
But I now know him to be a gentleman, albeit as reclusive as the human Knights. Like them, he was a damaged veteran who didn’t trust civilian society. He snarled if his nose caught any person other than me in the wind below the barns. But he dropped the Knights’ tin-foil-wrapped message at my feet then stepped back politely. By the time I picked up the slender silver wrapper, he’d faded back into the silver forest.
Urgent. Yarnspinner, meet us 14:00 hours. Big Hand Rock. Regards, NightOwl. P.S. Cpl Patton extracted another UPS delivery from Mrs. Z’s porch. Dildos. Can’t return this one, sorry. Gutsy & Dragon cite morale needs of female troops.
“EASY, BRIM, EASY. That’s just the smell of marijuana and guns. Lots of guns.”
Brim stomped along, disliking the western saddle and hackamore, even though I rarely tugged on its reins.
“You didn’t have to ride the demon mule down here.” Gutsy waved both arms. “Watch out, Sink! She’s going for your head.”
I scrambled off Brim and held her around the head. Her bared teeth slowly disappeared behind a twitching upper lip.
Sink grimaced and wiped slobber off his camo hat. An AK47 swung gently from the strap across his back.
“You actually came,” Cowboy said around the butt of a smoke. “We heard the farm is on lockdown.”
“Most of the time, yes. Where’s Night Hawk?”
Sergeant Katherine Carmichael, aka Gutsy, kicked a muddy clod. “His stump is hurting. Doc’s got him on painkillers and weed. We’re running out of weed.”
“I thought Santa Joe . . . ”
“The feds are watching him and his farmers. From that new task force the Prez created.”
“Clean Sweep America,” Sink said, and spit. “Need more inmates for the fucking private prisons.”
Gutsy nodded, a grim gleam in her eyes. She struck a match on the thigh of her faded corduroys, lifted the flame to a rolled joint between her teeth, and sucked on the little stogie. Gutsy’s effect was always startling—she wasn’t much taller than me, but was built like a weightlifter—at least from what I could tell of the body hidden beneath corduroy and camo jackets and scarves. “Night Hawk could use more padding. And Berg’s arm is pinching his shoulder.”
“I’ll bring you a new bag of wool. Just make me a promise.”
“Yeah, what?”
“Stop throwing things at Larry. No more pine cones and acorns.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’ll tell Dragon. It’s her little game. She really wants to fuck him.”
“I’ve told you. He’s autistic. Promise you’ll make her stop stalking him.”
“I’ll do what I can. Show me the money.”
I pulled a bulging canvas tote off the saddle. “Blueberry jelly, apple butter, and muscadine preserves.”
Sink lunged forward and grabbed the tote. He had impulse-control issues.
Brim did, too. She snapped at him.
“Now tell me what I need to know that’s so urgent.”
Gutsy blew a cloud of
smoke into the air. “We’ve got intel, Yarny. And it’s not good.”
My blood chilled. “Monzell.”
“Your angel tell you that?”
“It’s always about Monzell, these days. And Burkett.”
“Toke up.” She held out the smoke.
I shook my head.
She rolled her eyes. “Better for you than all those psych drugs. At least we go half and half.”
“We’re semi-organic,” Skin said. Cowboy laughed.
“Quit hesitating,” I told Gutsy. “I can take it.”
Gutsy pulled a cell phone from her jacket. Clicked a control. “Here. Take a look.”
Me. In the blue shawl. Sitting on my bed with one foot exposed, gazing somberly at the camera.
Members of the jury, she knew my clients were in court-ordered rehab. She wanted to play on the wild side. Minister’s daughter, school teacher. She lured them to her apartment. She consumed illegal drugs with them. She was a willing participant in the unfortunate sexual violence that resulted. She’s not a victim.
My knees went weak. I made my way on the uneven ground to the Big Hand Rock. It loomed over us, a granite monolith the size of a large truck. Down low on one side, five distinct carvings had baffled researchers for years.
Giant hands.
I sat down with my back against them. Breathing hard. The hands curved around me. I felt the large fingertips cradling my spine, my arms, my hips. Rocking me gently.
“She’s going dark on us,” Sink said.
Gutsy squatted in front of me. “Come back to the now, Yarny, or I’ll stick one of Doc’s happy pills down your throat.”
Gutsy’s voice cut through my brain. I looked at her, dazed. “There’s no way those pictures were hacked. I used a special secure email service.”
“We should have brought Bandit with us. He’d have fun ’splaining how easy it is for the pros to go around those systems.”
“But how would anyone even know about them?”
“Somebody knows people who knows people who collect juicy tidbits about other people. Monzell collects a lot of pictures.”
“You should see the blackmail stuff,” Sink said. “Monzell’s got one of his investors in a hooker sandwich wearing leather.”
The Kitchen Charmer Page 11
