Finding Him at Home (Holliday Book 1)

by Sarah R. Silas

  She parked in the driveway, next to a few ranch dirty trucks, and walked into the kitchen. The house was empty. Her father had elected to go visit Ricky's aging mother and say his condolences, rather than coming straight home. It seems right to him to do that, even though Lilith felt like that was overkill. All that could come of it was Ricky's mother blaming Saul for her's son's death. Which, to be fair, was possible.

  On the kitchen island sat a manila envelope with her name on it. It had no return address and it wasn't overly thick. Her father must have left it on the counter when he got home.

  She tore it open and quickly scanned it. She stood still, letting the news wash over her. What a day, she thought. Ricky's dead, Clark likes her, and now one of the fellowships she applied for, wants her to join.

  A spot had opened in Boston and they had chosen her. But as she read the ending, she had only a few days to answer them and also get on a plane for the old city on a hill across the country. Her career, she realized, wasn't just knocking on the door, it was throwing the door across the room. It was a prestigious post, and she knew her career would benefit by leaps and bounds.

  But, that wasn't enough. She stood in her kitchen, unsure of what it all meant. This was the reason she had come back home, to wait for a response, to find peace before going back out again and finding her fame and fortune. She read the letter again, notating the italicized remarks that she had to get back to them very soon. Too soon, she thought. She didn't think she would be unprepared to leave. She had never been unprepared to leave. Leaving had been the most important part about being home!

  She didn't feel the same as Marty or Pistol. She didn't feel like she could relate to any of them, and how could she? She'd seen parts of the world, she'd had adventures, she'd slept with guys who weren't from Montana. And it was all thrilling and exciting. But this was home, wasn't it?

  She took off her boots and socks, letting her bare feet feel the cold floor. She knew she felt connected to this place. And now, with the possibility of Clark, the death of Ricky, could she leave it all? Could she leave her father?

  She sighed, her eyes tearing up from the stress. She knew there was only one thing she could do, otherwise she'd slide to the floor in tears. She went up to the room she was sleeping in, still damp from the trouble a few days ago, took out Grandmother Aggie's diary, and sat down and read.

  #

  Clark sat in the town jail, in front of the bars. He wrapped his right hand against the cold steel bars, his fingers intertwined. He sat in a hard wooden chair, contemplating whether he should whistle or sing his blues. It was all too familiar, but this time he knew that he hadn't killed Ricky. He liked the guy, he didn't approve of stealing, but Ricky had his reasons. They hadn't talked about those reasons, no reason why they should. Ricky had been the boss and his rules were law. Until, of course, Clark had found out about the stealing.

  But it still wasn't a reason for anyone to die.

  Deputies walked in and out of the station, not caring about him sitting by the cell. He didn't feel a need to cause a ruckus. He would be let go at some point, because he knew there wasn't any real evidence against him. They would figure out who did this, he was certain of it.

  His thoughts flicked to Lilith, who was probably laying in bed, and he hoped she was also thinking of him. Not like in some kid's movie, but in a more adult way. He laughed to himself. He was not usually the guy to make a move like he had done a few hours ago. It surprised him, and it make him realize that there was something, just something, about this whole thing. Maybe moving to Montana was the right decision. He had picked it on a whim, thinking that since no one knew him up there, there would be less stigma. Not that being a murderer ever came with less stigma. But he didn't really know anyone in town. That was a positive, and in this case, a negative. He was the first suspect.

  He tried to quell his mind from jumping into fantasies about Lilith. And not sexual ones. He had a penchant for jumping into lovely house fantasies, coming home after working in the fields, maybe even picking her up at work. Just things that he felt were normal and regular, routines that hopefully couldn't be broken. He had, had a lot of time to think of these fantasies while he was in jail, looking forward to the day he got out.

  The jury had been understanding and he had only spent a year behind bars. There hadn't been any parole or anything. He was technically a free man. But you can't run away from your past, no matter where you go. And even sitting in front of the bars was enough to make him think about what had happened. And he still didn't regret it. His sister was dead and so was the bastard. His fingers clenched around the bars, thinking about the day he had put his sister in the ground. It had been difficult, but he had got through it.

  And he'd get through being accused of murdering Ricky too. Nothing was as bad as putting his sister in the ground, after all. He remembered that day, standing by her grave in handcuffs, two police officers flanking him. His mother cried staring at the casket. She would look at him, crying more. He could tell that she was worried about his fate. His sister's fate was secured, she was dead. He had promised his mother that he'd get out of jail and make a good life.

  "Guess this ain't good," he whispered.

  A Deputy strode through the door, his swagger clearly focused around his right hand that rested against his holster. He carried a few plastic bags which he handed to other deputies to catalog. He glanced at Clark, sitting silently. Just from the way the Deputy looked at him, Clark knew it wasn't good news.

  The Sheriff chatted quietly with the two Deputies, again glancing at Clark. He strode over and laid his hands against the bars, stretching his back out. He had been elected by a wide majority of the town, and was easily the most public figure. His Deputies patrolled the entire area, meeting everyone from the pettiest criminal to the man who didn't clean his rain gutters. He had found his way to learning empathy and giving as many chances as possible. To most people Sheriff Holt was a good, kind, and respectable man. And he saw in Clark the same features, regardless of his felony charge.

  "Did you kill Ricky?" whispered Sheriff Holt.

  "What?" said Clark.

  "I'm only gonna ask once more Clark. I like you kid, but you gotta be honest with me." Sheriff Holt removed his hat, scratching his bald head. "Tell me, be honest now. Like I said, last chance. Did you kill Ricky?"

  "No sir, Sheriff Holt, I did not kill Ricky."

  Sheriff Holt sighed. "I've got a Deputy over there, with that search warrant we got. We found Ricky's diary and Ricky's wallet in your house, hidden under a couch cushion."

  Clark stared blankly at the Sheriff, not understanding what any of it meant. "What?" he finally managed to blurt out.

  "Alright, still nothing outta ya. According to Doc Mulreedy, Ricky as murdered yesterday, and there's still a diary entry from yesterday in there. Start thinking of an alibi, otherwise I've got enough evidence to keep you behind these bars for a few more days," said Sheriff Holt, shaking his head.

  "What?" said Clark, still not understanding.

  "Look kid, I got evidence. Plenty of it, to suggest you murdered him. Where you were yesterday? Account for it, get me names. I gotta interview those people."

  "I have no reason to kill Ricky," said Clark.

  "You ain't listenin' to me sport. Diary. Wallet. If I even find a single piece of clothing, or anything, in your house with even a spec of blood, I got you for life. They ain't gonna let you out this time. Trust me, I empathize with your dead sister and all that shit. But this is different. Names, alibi. Start thinking." Sheriff Holt started walking back to his office, but stopped. He turned around. "I'm sorry kid, but I gotta put you inside."

  Clark's face fell as Sheriff Holt opened the jail cell. He stepped inside, the door clanging shut and Holt locking it. Holt walked back to his office, tapping some of his Deputies on the shoulder, who followed him.

  Shit, thought Clark. He knew he was an innocent man, but now there was evidence. He hoped to God he hadn't lied to his mothe
r.

  #

  Pistol and Marty ran up the long gravel driveway. They had decided to park at the main gate and race up, just like they had done in high school. Back then it was usually a rivalry to see who could spend more time with Lilith, but now they had found that they could be friends with each other.

  It seemed that Lilith was their lynch pin, from their youngest years till now. And if she left again, neither of them were sure if they would even try and hangout again. Without Lilith, lives just split and fell apart. Not that she knew it.

  Pistol was afraid that with all that was going on, including with the revelation that he had, had dropped into some of the same patterns and habits as his father, Lilith would leave just to be done with him. Yeah, it was a little egotistical, but at the end of the day, he didn't really know what was going on in his own life, let alone her head.

  Marty was more complacent about the whole thing. He knew Lilith a lot better than Pistol did, and he knew that if she left for a little while, she would always be back. She had a connection with the ranch in a way that was indivisible. It was almost a religion for her, having grown up in the cult of the Hollidays. They held the entire town and their own lives in a vice grip. Not that it was as painful as a vice grip.

  Pistol and Marty had grown up in Ricky's shadow. While Ricky was barely 20 years old when he took over the ranch, Saul had seen potential and drive in him. He was always everyone's older brother. It was shocking to them that he had betrayed the family, but both of them had hid their shock and sadness over Ricky's death. As they ran, it finally sank into them that something on the ranch was missing. The friendly man who would wave from his truck, walk with them down the long gravel road, or just check in and see if they were ok: he was dead.

  Regardless of what he had done, Marty thought, he was still a good man at some point. And those memories shouldn't be forgotten. Even after Pistol had run a truck off a cliff, Ricky had been kind and understanding, ready to give him another chance, but Saul had intervened. They both missed him as they ran, the gravel crunching under their boots.

  Dust rose up behind their boots, their heels flying in the air as they both raced up the sloped road and towards the main house. This time, though, they weren't running for testosterone or honor, but just to see who would be able to tell Lilith about Clark first. The news had spread through town like wildfire after Sheriff Holt had called Ricky's aging mother, telling her that they were getting closer to finding the killer. Clark's name had come up and that was nearly enough to indict him. A small town had many secrets, but were they really secrets if everyone knew about them?

  The cows turned their heads as the two men ran like boys, their chests heaving, their clothes gathering dust, as they finally ran into the driveway and into the house, Marty at Pistol's heels.

  "I won, stop it. Let's stop. I'm goddamnit. I'm dying," spluttered Pistol as he ran into the main foyer and slid across the marble, his boots covered in dust.

  Marty collapsed on the floor. "Yeah, yeah, yeah. You won. First time in your fuckin' life you won, but there it is. You won."

  Pistol tried to bow but instead ended up coughing in a hunched over position.

  "You ok?"

  "I gotta stop smoking," said Pistol, laying down on the marble.

  "Yeah, especially the other stuff."

  "Yeah."

  Lilith stalked into the main foyer, Grandmother Aggie's diary under her arm, and a cookie in her mouth. "What the hell is goin' on out here?"

  "Pistol's got the honors. He beat me up the road," said Marty. "But I could use a glass of water. And maybe a cookie."

  "Pistol?"

  "Yeah, a glass of water and a cookie would be great," said Pistol. Neither of them got up off the floor.

  "Why're you here?"

  "Cause. Pistol's got something to tell ya."

  "Yeah. Clark's gonna get booked. He ain't leavin' that cell for a while," said Pistol.

  "Why?" said Lilith, handing the cookie to Marty, her appetite ruined. Marty chomped into it hungrily.

  "Cause like. They found Ricky's diary and wallet in Clark's apartment. They're searching through everything for like, even a drop. Just a drop of blood, and then they think they'll have a bulletproof case for the district attorney," said Pistol. "Where's my cookie?"

  Lilith stared at the floor, unsure how to feel. She just wanted to run away, and with the envelope in the kitchen, she felt that she had the opportunity to do so. "You don't get a cookie," she whispered.

  "What? I won, I deserve a cookie."

  Lilith walked back into the kitchen, her mind confused, her heart beating faster than was necessary. Was Clark a murderer? Should she leave the ranch and pursue her own life?

  Grandmother Aggie's diary had detailed a life that she couldn't emulate. A life of hard decisions, a harder life, and the hardest woman she would ever have met. A woman who grabbed life by the horns and just ripped its head off if it didn't go the way she wanted it to.

  But what did Lilith want? Clark? Career? Home? Prestige?

  Marty and Pistol got up off the floor and joined her in the kitchen. "You ok?" asked Pistol. "You look like you're about to throw up."

  "Should I be worried about this cookie?" asked Marty, swallowing the last bits of it.

  "I dunno what to do," she whispered. The world was offering her an out. Maybe she should take it.

  EPILOGUE

  Three days had passed since she had seen Clark. She had visited him the day after Pistol and Marty had told her about what had happened. She thought perhaps seeing his face and maybe holding his hand, talking to him through the bars would help her make a decision.

  She had come home after and started packing. There wasn't much she had used over the past few weeks, but laundry had to be done. She had responded to the letter from Boston, accepting their invitation. It wasn't a lot of money, but it would open more than a few doors for her to advance and help the world. That was her reasoning for leaving, that she had the opportunity to help the world, and she was going to take it.

  She sat on the edge of her bed, reading Grandmother Aggie's diary. It only detailed a few months of her life, but it was a life filled with hardship as her father had died and the ranch fell into her hands. Unruly ranch hands, but she had wrangled the entire operation under her fist. Lilith had just gotten to the part where Aggie met Crawford, who she knew would become her grandfather. He was traveling a farm worker. Actually, she chuckled, her grandmother had used the word 'hobo.' While an accurate term, it was a harsh term. Without her father, she could make the decision who to marry for herself. Grandmother Aggie didn't care about high society, just what would make her happy. And what made it all the crazier, thought Lilith, was that she raised two children who weren't hers. Saul's father was Aggie's brother. Both Saul's mother and father had died, and Grandmother Aggie had taken them as hers.

  She couldn't imagine what it was like to live in that era, to figure out how to raise a kid that wasn't yours, to take control of a property and the whole nine, no ten, yards. Her dad's jokes about Aggie giving birth in her 30s was more a metaphor, she realized, after reading the diaries. She had given birth to a successful business, to a family, to her entire life, in the shadow of so much horror and death. How could anyone live up to that sort of example? How could anyone look even acceptable in comparison?

  Lilith realized that Aggie would never have boasted or even taken credit for anything extraordinary. Life, Aggie would have thought, was something that had to be endured. Made the best of, because eventually it would end and no one knew what was on the other side. She had made the best of what she was given.

  Maybe, Lilith thought, going to Boston would make her happy. She stared at the hole in the ceiling, and remembered the torrent of stale water that had dropped on her head. That's what life on this ranch and in this house would be for the rest of her life. Keeping the entire place from falling apart. Finding new business opportunities, and hoping to never sell.

  She put the d
iary into her bag, finding the accounting papers from earlier sticking out. She had forgotten to tell her father about the accounting errors. They hadn't talked much those past few days. She had informed him about leaving for Boston, and thankfully having a little salary so she wouldn't ask him for so much money all the time. It felt good to be more independent, she supposed. And if all went well, she'd probably make more than her father one day.

  He had taken the news much as she had expected. Every time she had told him she was leaving he had grunted, wiped his nose, and gave his blessing. It was all he could do, she thought. He was always the supportive father. He took that role seriously. He never asked her to stay, he never informed or preached to her supposed responsibility. Maybe he eventually expected her to come back and take her 'birthright,' but he never asked or said anything explicitly. It was all implied, under the table, almost like a trick of the eye. She was a Holliday, and that was that.

  She got up off her bed and wound her way through the hallways of her childhood and towards her father's office. She knocked on the wooden door and heard her father's usual gruff grunt in reply.

  "Hey Daddy," she said.

  "What do you want?" he said, looking up. He peered over his reading glasses, his bald pate shining from his desk light. His hat lay on the table and his feet were propped up. "Ya know I was just reading about this mushroom thing again. Artisanal mushrooms. I can't believe a mushroom could get this expensive."

  "Yeah, it's a good idea. Low cost too. They grow in shit," she said.

  "Yeah, and rotting shit. You got a plane to catch. You want a ride or something?"

  "Nah, but I wanted to talk to you about these accounts you showing them to me. I didn't really know why you were showing up, but it turns out that some of these numbers just don't add up."