Summer of the Redeemers

by Carolyn Haines

  In the hot sun of the road, she stopped and faced me. Beneath the brim of her hat, her blue eyes searched my face.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You know which ones?”

  “Not by name.”

  “And would they have a reason to want to hurt you back?”

  “Maybe.”

  “And what is that reason?”

  “I took their shirts when they took the bicycles.”

  “Where are the shirts?”

  “I hid them in the woods.”

  Mama Betts stared at me. I couldn’t tell what she was thinking, but it made her very sad.

  “I was going to give their shirts back to get the bicycles back.” Deep breath. “They hurt Picket.”

  “I see.” She shook her head. “Go get the shirts.”

  “Why?”

  “We’re going to launder them, iron them and take them back to those boys.”

  “Mama Betts!” I couldn’t do such a thing. Even Mama Betts had made it clear she thought those boys might have killed Mr. Tom. I’d never give the shirts back. I’d tear them into rags and leave them scattered on the public road in front of the church property. I’d get Arly, and we’d ambush those Redeemer boys and beat them to a bloody pulp.

  “Do it. Now.” She turned away from me. “I’m going on to get the plums.” She started walking. “And don’t be talking this to anyone. We don’t need any chicken stampedes on Kali Oka today.”

  “No, Mama Betts. I won’t do it. Those boys are mean and I won’t do it!”

  “Yes, ma’am, you will. You had no right to steal.”

  “They took the bicycles and they hit Picket with a stick.”

  She stopped walking, but she didn’t turn around. “And how did they catch your dog to hurt her? Picket’s smarter than that.” I swallowed.

  “You had her tied up so she wouldn’t follow you around that church property, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then part of the fact that she was injured lies on your head, Rebekah. You don’t leave an animal defenseless.”

  “And Mr. Tom, did he deserve to die because he wasn’t afraid?”

  The words tore at my throat and made it raw.

  “When we take those shirts back, we’ll have a little talk with the minister. What happened to Mr. Tom will be told, as well as what happened to Picket. Those boys have to be taught some decency and compassion. But that doesn’t excuse your part in this. Go get the shirts.”

  “They’re almost all the way to the creek.”

  “Better start walking, then. Effie won’t like it if she has to hold lunch for you.”

  Ten

  REVOLT boiled in my heart. Mama Betts had betrayed me for a principle that had nothing to do with what had happened between the Redeemer boys and me. Instead of getting the shirts, I walked on down to the creek for a swim. Hot, angry and frustrated, I needed the cooling water of Cry Baby Creek. It would also give me a chance to spy on the Redeemers again.

  Shucking my shoes and socks, I stepped into the cool sand that bordered my side of the creek. Overhead, the branches of the trees were thickly laced and the sun filtered down in a gentle pattern. Some of the anger slipped away as I eased into the icy water. I’d give the damn shirts back, but it wasn’t over yet. The water flowed over my knees and thighs, catching the hem of my shorts. I hadn’t bothered to undress because I’d be more than dry by the time I got home. Alice and I skinny-dipped in the creek plenty of times, but it was different now. The Redeemer boys had tainted the place. It wasn’t mine anymore. I hated them.

  Shoes and socks in hand, I made my way up the bed of the creek, careful not to slip and fall in. I’d get as close as I could before climbing the other bank for a look-see at the church people. It was strange wading the creek alone, without Alice or Picket. Mama Betts had taken my dog with her. She didn’t want to risk any more trouble with the Redeemers. It was another small but infuriating point that Picket had been denied a trip to the creek because of those boys.

  Sound carries a long distance over water, and I heard the axes and exclamations long before I could see the boys. Edging up the bank, I found them about fifty yards from the creek. They were chopping down saplings with a lot of vigor but not much skill. One, two, three, four. They were all there except the tall, skinny one, the leader. I got comfortable on the edge of the bank with some scrub oak and dogwood seedlings for cover.

  The plump boy was wielding the ax, and his blows glanced off the tree, sliding down toward his leg. With any luck at all, I wouldn’t have to extract any revenge from him. He was about to chop his own stupid foot off.

  “Give me the ax, Georgie.” The blondish boy took it. So the fat one was Georgie. It was a gold nugget of fact.

  “Greg said for us to have ten trees chopped by the time he got back.” The blond boy spoke again. Greg was obviously the leader.

  Greg. Greg. “Greg.” I whispered his name. I had a little piece of him. “Greg.” My fingers clenched in the dirt.

  “Yeah, well, fuck him. Why isn’t he here working?” This from the fourth boy. He was the skinniest. I thought he was the one who’d brought the gun the first day. “You’re as bad as Greg, Jim. You think when he’s not around you can give orders.”

  The blond boy, Jim, shrugged. “Suit yourself, jerk-off. When Greg gets back he’ll kick you out of the club if you haven’t done your work.”

  Jim picked up the ax and lit into the tree. His strokes were cleaner, more directed. The tree shook as if it were having a fit of the ague. There was only the sound of the ax biting into the tree until there was the whoosh of the leaves and the small crash of the trunk finally falling.

  “Come on.” Georgie signaled the others, and they dragged the tree into a small clearing where Jim could trim the branches. They were building a fort. I watched for a few minutes. The boys were dangerous with the ax. Arly could have felled the trees and had the supports for the fort in place by the time they chopped another tree down. My guess was that they were getting everything ready for Greg to return and supervise the actual construction. He’d have to have more sense than his cohorts if they hoped to make the fort stand.

  Watching their clumsiness, I couldn’t help but wonder where the boys had grown up. They’d never built a fort before. What had they done? How had they escaped from the dour-faced church people? And if Greg wasn’t with them, where was he? A sense of dread prickled the hair on the back of my neck. Without meaning to, I turned around to check behind me. There was the feeling that maybe he was standing behind me, watching.

  Some squirrels were busy frisking in the trees across the creek. A few birds rustled in the brush. But there was no sign of a human presence. I backed down the bank and returned to the water; I’d seen enough for the day. It was harder to wade against the current. Where was Greg? It was a question that had taken on tremendous importance. I knew instinctively that he should be with the other boys. He was absent because he was up to something. It was time to leave.

  The shirts were exactly where I’d left them. They seemed none the worse for wear. It was going to be a long walk home, and a sense of urgency drove me forward at a brisk pace. I needed to talk with Alice and tell her of the latest development. Even with the inconvenience of Maebelle V., I wished my friend were with me.

  Kali Oka stretched before me, hot and red and as familiar as members of my own family. I’d make it home before lunch. Mama Betts would have the plums and she’d be waiting for me. Our annual plum picking was over, ruined by the Redeemer boys and an act of cruelty. Thoughts of Mr. Tom kept coming at me, and I dodged as many as I could. Was it partly my fault that he was dead? If Greg had killed him, maybe it was. The thoughts I was thinking made me walk faster, even though the sun was broiling my neck and shoulders. Mama Betts had a point about her hats.

  As I left Cry Baby Creek behind, something else made my steps faster. I was getting closer and closer to the McInnis place. What harm would it do to stop and look in the barn at Cammi
e? Maybe just to check and see if she had some water. It wouldn’t slow me down too much. I’d still get home with the shirts.

  Even though it was hot enough to fry eggs, I jogged. That would give me a little more time to spend with Cammie. By the time I rounded the bend before the McInnis place, I was soaking with sweat. Even my eyes were stinging. The cool shade of the chinaberries was an oasis. The old sign creaked on rusty chains, and I flipped the latch on the gate. Two yellow blurs sped around the corner of the barn, but there was no sign of Nadine’s dogs. Not even a bark. Inside the barn there was a soft whinny. Cammie was calling me.

  At the barn door I stopped. Nadine’s truck and trailer were still gone. My fingers clutched the handle of the door, and yet I paused again. The barn terrified me, even knowing Cammie was inside. Why were the doors closed? Had Nadine closed them? Or had someone else?

  Cammie’s soft call made my decision. I slid the doors open wide enough to enter. The sound of soft scurrying was all over the barn. Cats, rats and … nothing but the horses shifting in their stalls. Nothing more. There was a light switch by the door, but it didn’t work.

  After a few seconds my eyes adjusted to the darkness. The horses were all hanging over their stalls watching me. I wondered if I should let them go outside in the sunshine like Mama Betts had said. Nadine must have left very early or she would have put them out.

  Cammie’s call of recognition drew me on into the barn. I rubbed her velvet muzzle and whispered her name. The barn was dim, especially in the stalls. My fingers found her halter on the hook beside her stall, and I slipped it over her head. Surely I could groom her the way Nadine had taught me. Cammie eagerly followed me out and I hooked her to the ties in the center of the barn the way Nadine had showed me. When I finally turned to look at her, I stopped dead. She was covered in a heavy canvas blanket with fur lining. I ran my hand under the edge of it and felt her sweating body. It was at least ninety-five degrees outside, and though the barn was shady, it was still hot inside. Even in the dead of night Cammie wouldn’t need such a blanket. Without further thought I found the hooks that crisscrossed under her belly and the front buckles. Dragging the blanket off her I realized it was soaked with sweat. I draped it over an empty stall door to dry out. Poor Cammie actually trembled in relief.

  Curiosity prompted me to look at the other horses. It didn’t seem possible, but they were blanketed too. What had Nadine been thinking? Even though I was a little afraid of the other horses, I went in to the stalls and took their blankets off. Only one, the tall bay male horse that Nadine said was the most expensive one, tried to bite me. He was restless and ill-tempered, flattening his ears and showing his teeth. I was tempted to leave his blanket on him, but I was afraid he might get sick. It was a chance to prove to Nadine that I could be trusted, that I could take care of her horses even when I was afraid.

  The horse’s name was Caesar. When I entered his stall he shifted to a corner and swung his tail at me. I’d read plenty about horses, but reading and doing seemed to be two very different things. The books all said to use a riding crop or bat on the horse’s hindquarters if he swung them toward the rider. I doubted beneath the thicknesses of his blanket if Caesar could feel such a disciplinary move even if I had nerve enough to make it. Instead I pushed him in the side, and he obligingly shifted over against the wall. Even though he danced as I worked the buckles, he made no efforts to swing on top of me, and I’d learned the art of the horse blanket and had him stripped down in a short time. Clutching the blanket, I stumbled out of his stall, heart pounding with success and fear. One of the blanket straps had dropped to the ground, and I stepped on it. Somehow my foot tangled and with the heavy, sweat-soaked blanket in my arms. I stumbled forward. The momentum was about to throw me into the aisle and directly under Cammie’s feet. A firm grip on my arm pulled me upright.

  “Hey, thanks.” My face was buried in the smelly blanket. When I looked up, I froze. The Redeemer boy was standing right beside me, his hand still on my arm. Up close, he was older than I thought. His shirt was off and he was sweating too. He was thin, but it was a wiry thinness. He was stronger than I’d thought. “What are you doing here?”

  “I could ask you the same thing.” He grinned in a gesture that held no friendliness, only success. “Did you have permission to take those blankets off?”

  “I work here.”

  His face was pale white, and in the poor lighting his eyes were shiny black wells, pulling me in. “So do I.”

  “That’s a lie!”

  “Ask Nadine. She needed some heavy work done. I was up in the loft when you came creeping in here. I thought I’d wait around and see what you were up to.”

  The blanket was heavy and stank unbearably. I turned away from him to put it on another stall door to dry. When I was finished, I faced him. “If you work here, why didn’t you take the blankets off the horses? They were about to sweat to death.”

  To further my advantage I went into Cammie’s empty stall. Her water bucket was bone dry. “And they don’t have any water. Horses can die without water. Especially if they’re standing around sweating like …” He was grinning at me.

  “Nadine put those blankets on those horses, and she didn’t tell me to water. She told me to clean the old hay out of the loft and to kill the rats up there.”

  For the first time I saw the heavy stick he was holding in his other hand. It had fragments of blood and skin on it.

  “Jesus Christ,” I whispered, falling back from him. He was clubbing the rats to death.

  “What? You think anyone would let me use a gun?”

  I had to get out of the barn. I had to get away from him. He was worse than anything I’d ever imagined about Sidney Miller’s ghost.

  “You’re scared of me, aren’t you … Miss Rebekah Rich?” He tapped the club against his leg and stepped toward me.

  “Come one step closer and I’ll spit in your face.” I thought of Picket. Never in my life had I gone anywhere without her. Until today. “Who told you my name?” I couldn’t let him know I was afraid.

  “Cute little girl who lives down the road. She was all too willing to tell me all about you.”

  Jamey Louise Welford, that little twit.

  “She even helped me take your bicycle apart. She thought it was a big, magnificent joke on you. You know, I don’t think she likes you very much. You or your best friend, Alice Waltman.”

  “She’s too stupid to live, Mr. Greg Redeemer Boy.” I threw my tiny crumb of knowledge at him. Jamey Louise had told him everything. Even about Alice. “Jamey Louise doesn’t know half what she thinks she does.” My hand brushed across Cammie’s chest. It was still damp but drying, and the hair was clumped and matted. I had to show him I wasn’t afraid. I walked down the entire length of the barn to the tack room and got the grooming kit. His eyes followed me, but I refused to turn around. When I came back, kit in hand, I stared at him the whole way. He stepped to the side into one of those little rectangles of light from the windows. The sweat on his chest and the gore on the stick were highlighted.

  It was foolhardy to stay in the barn with him, but there was nothing else I could do. Cammie had to be returned to her stall, and the horses had to have water. I picked up the curry comb and began to work over Cammie’s body the way Nadine had shown me. He didn’t say a word for the ten minutes it took to work around her. Then I took the hard brush and smoothed out the hair I’d roughed up.

  “She seems to like that,” he said.

  He’d moved to one side and was leaning against an empty stall.

  “Nadine says it stimulates the blood supply to their coat, the same as brushing a person’s hair.” As awful as it was to talk to him, the silent watching was killing me. I wanted to pound him with my knowledge, with my bond with Nadine. There wasn’t a place for him there, and he had to know it. I hated the way he lounged against the stall, but he was alert. He didn’t miss a move.

  “I like your pigtails, Bekkah.”

  The only sound
was the snap of the cross ties as I released Cammie and returned her to her stall. I removed the halter and hung it back on its hook, then latched the door.

  “Is there a hose?”

  “I haven’t looked for one. I found two Coca-Colas under the chinaberry tree. I’ve been drinking them.”

  Damn him! He’d found our Cokes. Behind him I caught a glimpse of coiled green, the hose. “It’s there.” I pointed. He turned to look, and the trapezoid of light fell across his back. Long, deep cuts had scabbed over. There were at least a dozen, and they crossed and crisscrossed each other. He’d been beaten severely.

  The sharp intake of my breath made him whirl back to face me. “Did you get your eyes full?” He was angry, coldly angry. “Don’t stare at me.” He stepped forward.

  “Who beat you?” I knew suddenly. It was because of the shirt. He’d lost his shirt and he’d been beaten with some hellacious switch or whip. “Were the other boys beaten?”

  “Only Jim. But his father doesn’t enjoy it so much as mine.”

  “The shirts are out by the chinaberry tree. My grandmother was going to wash and iron them and take them back. Maybe that isn’t such a good idea.”

  “Maybe it isn’t.” He backed into the shadows. “I’d better get home. Nadine didn’t say how long I was to work, and I got some things to tend to before dark.”

  The fort. I knew but I didn’t say. “The shirts area—”

  “Don’t worry, Rebekah Rich, I’ll get the shirts. I always get what’s mine.”

  “Greg, stay away from my house and my dog. I mean it.”

  “You gonna stay away from us, Rebekah Rich? Aren’t you the one who started all this anyway?” He walked down the barn and picked up another white shirt that was hanging from a nail. He put it on, fastening the buttons as he walked back toward me in those fleeting but intense patches of light. His hands worked down the shirt, moving from button to button like animated images in a cartoon. When he was beside me again, he stopped. “I’ll see you later. Since we both work for Nadine.”