Without correcting her, he led her to the next room. His hand alighted briefly on the doorknob and she caught sight of bright crimson specks on the cuff of his dress shirt. He didn’t open the door. He said, “If you need anything, I’ll be in my office downstairs.” And he left.
She nudged open the door and peered inside. She saw him on the bed, a boy, not a wife. The boy’s wounds were raw and fresh—the blood not yet congealed. Her stomach fluttered at the sight of wet blood. Mr. Tanner had called her at 11:00 p.m. She mentally calculated how long she took to get ready at home and added it to the time it took her to drive from Kerrville to Junction. The blood would have dried, started to congeal.
A tingle of apprehension slid down her spine. She looked down the empty hallway trying to comprehend the thought forming in her head. Fresh blood meant he’d just finished, had been putting the final touches on the beating while she pulled up the driveway, parked the car and rang the bell—it meant he’d called her before he ever lifted the belt.
Run Maryanne, get out now! The memory of the dead baby, its head lolling, neck snapped, emerged as sharp as a snapshot. Oh that night had been a piece of hell on earth, with the father howling like a wounded animal and the mother holding the baby, her vacant eyes staring off as dead as the lifeless baby she held in her arms. She kept cooing, “There now, he’s stopped crying, everything will be just fine. Mama’s precious little boy.”
She’d felt trapped that night, trapped in a nightmare. The father had begged her to do something for the dead child and when she couldn’t he’d threatened her, told her if she went to the police he’d tell them she killed the baby. In the end she accepted his money and his reasoning that his wife had been punished enough.
Out of habit she went into the bathroom, filled a pan with warm water and began to cleanse the boy’s back—she wanted to believe she stayed for the boy and not for the promised money. “I’ll pay you double if you get here in the next two hours.”
After she had him cleaned up, the deeper gashes sewn shut, the rest dressed in fresh bandages she felt better. He moaned a few times during her work but at no point did he gain consciousness. She would have left in the morning with a clean conscience but Mr. Tanner folded his newspaper gave her a hard look and said, “Look I need someone to watch over him until he’s up and about, why don’t you stay on until he’s better?”
The word, “No” rested on her lips ready to be issued and then the fool man gave her a price he would be willing to pay. The amount made her swallow the word, her pride and any false morality she clung to. She said, “In cash Mr. Tanner. Half upfront, the rest when I say he’s better.”
Maryanne brushed Barry’s hair away from his face. If he’d been awake she would have given him the phone and let him speak to his friend, but Barry Tanner had not spoken since she arrived two weeks ago. His back was healing just fine, she had seen to that. But he had checked out. She wasn’t sure if he’d found a better place or not. Sometimes he would thrash against the sheets as if he were being restrained, and cry out, “the gypsies, the gypsies have the baby.” And other times he was so calm she had to check to see if he was still breathing.
Chapter Eight
Junction, Texas
After Jar rode away pulling the buggy full of clean clothes, Suzy walked along the cracked sidewalk, pushing through the thick, afternoon heat. When she got to Faces she opened the door wide and let the bright light cut through the darkened bar. She remained in the open doorway, her figure a dark silhouette. On the jukebox, Hank Williams, Jr. was singing about family traditions and someone at the far end of the bar shouted, “Shut the damn door.” If Suzy were superstitious, she would have thought the bar dwellers were really vampires. The bar was windowless, there were no mirrors, and direct sunlight hurt their eyes. She did not shut the door.
Murphy Jobes slipped off one of the barstools. “I’ve got to go,” he hooked a finger in Suzy’s direction and said, “the nag is waiting.” It was an endearment usually reserved for a wife but the guys took a moment from their beers to chuckle at the running joke. They all got a kick out of Suzy rounding up her dad when she thought he’d been there too long. Murph picked up his mug and drained the amber fluid before stepping away from the bar. Before he made it to the door, Rod Sawyer yelled out, “Don’t forget, we’re going hunting.”
Feeling a pretty good buzz coming on, Murph acknowledged him with a two-finger salute and sauntered out into the heat. Outside, the weight of the air caused his lids to droop and the sun felt like it was boring a 3-bit hole through his scalp. By the time he reached his truck, he was in desperate need of another drink. Feeling lethargic, he opened the driver door, felt under the floor mat and pulled out a set of keys.
Suzy shook her head, knowing one of these days someone was going to steal her dad’s truck. He tossed her the keys. “You drive.”
She caught them easily enough but resisted his request. “Dad…”
“Come on girl, I can’t drive. I don’t have my license.”
“Neither do I.”
“Yeah, but they’ll go easy on you because you’re just helping out the old man. If they catch me drinking and driving on a suspended, I may never see my license again.”
Suzy shook her head and clambered into the old pickup, but couldn’t resist one last retort. “You know you could always quit drinking.”
Ignoring her comment, Murph climbed into the passenger seat and pulled his hat down over his eyes.
Like most young girls, Suzy’s mind was awhirl with confusing images and thoughts. Half of those thoughts were on the afternoon at the Stop-N-Wash. And in that respect, the movie projector playing back her memories played in slow motion; each frame advanced one by one replaying everything she’d said and done. At the opposite extreme, the rest of her thoughts were fast-forwarding through time in a montage of images that included her and Jar dating, getting married and living happily ever after, with the occasional fight thrown in for texture. Those fights, of course, would be resolved quickly because of their great understanding for one another.
Those were her thoughts as she pulled out of Faces and took the right onto Hwy 377. Her heartbeat quickened as she drove past the Stop-N-Wash, where she’d spent the afternoon with Jar. She didn’t notice anything unusual when she drove past the Junction National Bank except the temperature had climbed to 112 degrees and it wasn’t quite four o’clock, which meant the end of the day temperature would be even higher.
She looked for Jar, hoping to catch a glimpse of him riding toward home but he was already gone. A thump in the back of the pickup startled her. When she glanced in the rearview mirror she noticed two things at the same time. One, the dirt bike her dad kept in the bed of the truck had shifted to the side, and two, an old yellow truck was coming up fast from behind. It wasn’t old like the one she was driving, it was really old. Like the cars she’d seen over in Friedburg last summer when her dad took her to the classic car show.
Realizing she hadn’t signaled the right turn she was about to make onto Third Street, she tapped the brake and flipped the signal on. The truck behind her didn’t slow. Suzy tensed, waiting for impact. The yellow truck veered into the other lane, caught the shoulder and kicked up a cloud of dust before passing her by.
Through the haze Suzy saw people sitting in the bed of the truck: three men and a woman. The woman held a baby in her arms. They swayed gently, side to side in perfect rhythm with the moving vehicle. She got the sense they had been riding for quite a distance and had a good amount of time to get the rhythm down. She nudged Murphy. “Dad, what year is that truck?”
Slumped down in the seat, with his baseball cap riding low across his brow, Murph didn’t see the truck. He raised the cap and squinted. “What truck?”
Before she could say, “The yellow one,” she realized the truck was already gone. She said, “Never mind,” completed her right turn, drove the short distance down Third Street and pulled the truck over a large black oil stain in the center of their
driveway.
Their house was a two-bedroom ranch boasting nine hundred square feet of living space. The yard needed mowing and the house needed paint, but it was home to Suzy and it beat all the dumps her mom had dragged her through.
She turned off the ignition. “Dad?”
Murphy grunted, “Huh?”
“What do you know about Griffin Tanner?”
Murphy sat up and eyed her. “I know it’s best to steer clear of him.” He opened the door and got out.
She followed, trailing behind. “Did you know he beats Barry?”
Murph kept walking toward the house. She stopped. “Did you hear me? I said he beats his son.”
Murph slowed but didn’t turn around. “Suzy, you stay out of it. Whatever happens between Tanner and his son, is his business.”
“How can you say that? If it were one of your friends, you’d want to help.”
He stopped just short of the door and his air-conditioned house. “Suzy Q, that’s your problem, you’re always getting into things you shouldn’t. You’re just a little girl. What good’s gonna come from you putting your nose in some grown man’s business? And before you start up with the ‘I don’t cares’, that’s where you’re wrong. I do care, I just know what to get into and what to stay out of.”
He lifted the hat off of his head and wiped the sweat away with his arm. “Whew howdy, it’s hot. Let’s go inside and pour us a cold one.”
Sensing her dad was in a talkative mood, she let him lead her into the house. He broke out the frosted mugs from the freezer, poured himself a Lone Star and grabbed a cold root beer for her. He looked up and asked. “I don’t suppose you want me to throw a scoop of vanilla bean in there for you?”
She parried back. “What would be the point without it?” Enjoying the exchange, a rare smile crossed her lips.
“What would be the point, indeed.” Murph plopped a scoop of ice cream into her mug, stuck the spoon in his mouth and poured the root beer. Foam overflowed onto the counter and dripped across the floor, as he carried the two mugs over to the kitchen table.
By the time Suzy sat down at the table with her dad to enjoy her root beer float, she had completely forgotten about the yellow truck and the people riding in the back.
All things considered, she and her father had a decent relationship. He drank too much and she didn’t mind telling him she thought so, but other than the drink, he was a good man.
Her mom and dad had split up when she was only eight. After the divorce she had moved to San Antonio with her mom and learned the hard way sometimes the mother shouldn’t get automatic custody. By the time Suzy turned eleven, she had moved seventeen times. It had gotten to the point where she could hardly recall one apartment from the next. To her young mind, all of San Antonio was a string of rundown apartments.
Kim Jobes had a hard time keeping a job, and an even harder time paying the rent. She worked on the west side of San Antonio, either waiting tables or bartending. The real money could be made on The River Walk but Kim’s personality was too coarse for the tourists. She couldn’t go two weeks before telling someone to fuck off.
Suzy learned early to keep her mouth shut and her bag packed. Despite the chaos of her mother’s life, she would have stayed if Dwaine Miller hadn’t come into their lives. At first he seemed like all the other guys Kim had dated, one in a string of many. Like the rundown apartments the guys tended to blur together. He was younger than her mother by seven years and better looking than most of the guys she dragged home. When he told Kim he didn’t have a place to stay, she offered to put him up in exchange for help with the rent.
Suzy slept in the living room on an old plaid couch that had seen better days. One night, Dwaine came into the small kitchen and lit a cigarette. She heard him moving around in the kitchen and pretended to be asleep.
Dwaine came across to where Suzy was sleeping and touched her arm. When she didn’t move he stroked her arm. Seconds later he moved the covers away and touched her hipbone then slid his fingers down her thigh. Still feigning sleep, Suzy rolled away not sure what she should do. His callused fingers trailed along the ridge of her hipbone, the dead skin snagging lightly on her underwear—underwear that had each day of the week printed across the front. So she knew it was a Wednesday.
Kim coughed in the other room; Dwaine jerked his hand away. A series of coughs followed the first. Kim’s voice, rough with phlegm, called out, “Dwaine?”
Dwaine took two long strides and was back in the kitchen. He went into the room with the cigarette and the ashtray. “I’m just getting a smoke, baby.”
Suzy lay alone in the dark. In her mind she could see him leaning over the bed offering her mother the cigarette, she could see her mother taking a deep drag and letting the smoke back out into the darkened room. Her mother’s voice, muffled by the wall, was real. “Wow, you’re ready to go,” followed by girlish giggles. The giggles became low moans that slowly got louder. Kim whispered, “Sshhh, we’ll wake up Suzy.”
She didn’t need someone to paint her a picture. She called her dad and two days later she was on a bus, heading west on Highway 10, coming back to a town most people were trying to leave. Suzy would have been content to spend the rest of her life in Junction. She had no desire to get out and see the world, nor did she have any high ambition. Waiting tables at the local diner would suit her fine. At the age of thirteen all she wanted out of life was a good man who didn’t drink. At that particular moment in time she had her heart set on Jared Riley.
Chapter Nine
Reserve, Louisiana
Nathan spent the morning at the Sheriff’s office doing light paper work and chatting with the office dispatcher, Loretta. He’d been “officially” off duty since the accident two weeks earlier but he still came to the station each day.
News of the money had caused quite a sensation and the station phones hadn’t stopped ringing. Loretta had been fielding phone calls ever since the local paper ran the story.
There were the curious types just looking for more details and there were also the people laying claim to the abandoned cash. So far his favorite story came from the Rogers clan. Nonie Rogers called in to report a missing cousin. Initially the call seemed legitimate and Loretta turned it over to Daniel to file a missing person’s report.
As Daniel spoke with Nonie, the true nature of the phone call was revealed. Apparently the missing cousin had gone up to Shreveport and had laid a substantial bet on a horserace. He had called, informing Nonie he was on his way back to Reserve but he was concerned he might be followed because of his large winnings. Nonie admitted he had not revealed the exact amount of his win but the sound of excitement and concern in his voice assured her it was quite a windfall. As it turned out, the cousin never made it home.
Now, there was no doubt in Nonie Rogers’ mind the car pulled out of the marsh and the money belonged to her missing cousin. Naturally, being his closest next of kin, she felt the money should be turned over to her care. Daniel had done his best not to laugh and had assured her he would personally look into the matter.
No one walks away from that kind of money. That’s what those ringing phones told Nathan. But what about runs away? He couldn’t suppress the image of a grown man, blasting six bullets into his own car, then scrambling away through a snake-infested marsh.
Nathan’s questions were endless. Who leaves behind a half a million dollars? There was no return fire, so who the hell was he shooting at? Why did he run? If someone was outside of the car, why didn’t they take the money after the first person ran away? At the end of the day, none of it added up. He needed answers. Unfortunately the only other person on the road that day was Nute. Finding Nute required trekking into the marsh. Nathan rubbed the back of his neck wondering if he was up to a hike after lunch.
He left Loretta to answer the ringing phones and walked the few blocks over to Chick’s diner to grab lunch. The streets were deserted. After a few minutes of walking in the heat he understood why. The heat was
oppressive. By the time he arrived at the diner the back of his shirt was soaked with perspiration.
He hesitated for a moment, peering through the glass door to check the crowd. Southern people were funny; every last one of them was as nosy as the day was long, but most were too proper to ask a question straight out. It would be on him to start the conversation but he had to do so in a way that didn’t imply they were interested in what he had to say.
The crowd was light. Nathan tipped his hat at several people and made his way to his usual booth. Narried Savoie, the owner of the diner, already had a glass of iced tea waiting for him and had turned in an order for his favorite dish of barbeque chicken with baked beans. He pulled off his hat, wiped the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief and managed a nod of thanks to Narried as he took his first drink of sweet tea.
Narried’s age was a source of wild speculation. She had to be over sixty but her face belied the facts. Her skin was a honeyed brown that had gotten darker over the years. A Creole beauty, she had spent her entire life in Reserve, as had her mother before her. It was rumored her great grandmother had been brought over in the slave trade from Haiti, but on that she was tight lipped. The locals called her Chick, a pet name given to her by her late husband, Simon Savoie. She walked with a saucy roll in her hips no sixty-year old woman should have, and was quite the scandal with some of the more uptight women around town. Young and old, most of the men appreciated the view.
Nathan, grinned his appreciation as she came to the table with a plate of chicken and beans. “Chick, you using some of that voodoo magic to keep yourself young?”
She swatted his shoulder with her open palm, clucking at him. But he saw the look of pleasure cross her face before she turned away.
“No, no… I don’ need no young mon geddin’ sassy wid me.”
He smiled to himself as she continued to mutter under her breath even while she retreated to the safety of her kitchen.
The Drought Page 7
