Goldenrod

by Ann McMan

  “I copy.” A 10-37 was a suspicious vehicle. “What kind of car?” Charlie asked.

  “White Ford Ranger. It’s got Virginia tags and an army bumper sticker.”

  “Ten-four. Any passengers?”

  “Affirmative. One occupant. Could be 10-55. Proceed with caution.”

  “Roger that. I should be at the scene in about six minutes.”

  “Copy that. Advise if you need backup.”

  “Ten-four. Davis out.”

  Charlie took a shortcut on Redd Road and turned onto Highway 58 near the river bridge. She didn’t have to travel very far east before she saw the small pickup, pulled off and parked near the entrance to a public boat landing on the west-bound side of the highway. There was a man seated inside, behind the wheel. She saw no other passengers or pedestrians. She made a quick U-turn and flipped on her blue lights before pulling to a stop behind the truck. She retrieved her service revolver from its safe between the front seats and got out of the car.

  The driver rolled down his window as she approached. It only took Charlie a moment to recognize him. It was James Lawrence.

  “Hey, James,” she said. “Is everything all right? You having some car trouble?”

  “I’m okay,” he replied. “Nothing’s wrong with the truck. I just wanted to stop here and think through some things. I guess I could’ve picked a better spot to do it.”

  Nothing about his demeanor suggested to Charlie that James had been drinking. And she saw no evidence of any open containers inside the vehicle. He did have some manila folders and envelopes on the passenger seat, alongside a bag from Popeyes Chicken.

  The nearest Popeyes was in Wytheville. She knew that because Roma Jean loved their spicy tenders and told Charlie how she always stopped there on her way home from college at Radford.

  “You heading home from Wytheville?” Charlie pointed at the bag.

  “Yeah. I picked up some chicken and biscuits for Henry. He loves this stuff.”

  “He’s not alone in that.” Charlie thought James seemed vague and slightly out of it. Not intoxicated. Just—distracted. “Tell you what, James. How about you move your truck down there by the boat ramp and get off the roadside here? It would be a shame if somebody didn’t see you parked here and hit you from behind. That is, unless you’re ready to head on?”

  “No,” he said. “If it’s okay, I think I’d like to hang out here a little longer. Is that a problem?”

  “Not for me,” Charlie said. She had an instinct that leaving him alone right now was not a good idea. Byron had taught her that when she had these inklings about people, she needed to pay attention to them. “In fact, if you don’t mind, I think I’d like to join you. I’ve got a few things to think over, too.”

  James looked from her to the things piled on his passenger seat. Then he started his truck.

  “Sure. Okay. That’s fine. We can maybe find a place to sit.”

  “I think there’s a picnic table down there.” Charlie tapped the roof of the pickup with the flat of her hand. “See you in a minute.”

  Back in her car, Charlie took a moment to give Selma Dees an all-clear before turning off her blue lights and stowing her service revolver. She followed James down the gravel access road to the boat landing.

  The trash bin was overflowing with food containers and empty beer cans. Charlie shook her head.

  Sundays . . .

  James was already out of his vehicle and walking toward a battered picnic table that sat at a precarious angle a few feet from the water’s edge. Track marks in the dirt made it apparent that it had been dragged to this location to keep it out of the water. All the rain they’d been getting recently had pushed the river level up quite a bit. It was especially obvious through here, where the river took a wide turn beyond the bridge and continued its slow trek north to join forces with the Gauley River in West Virginia.

  Charlie helped James seat the table on more level ground. Then they both sat facing the water, on top of the table with their feet resting on the bench. Charlie felt awkward for intruding on James’s solitude, but something nagged at her about his mood.

  Morose. That was the word for it.

  She’d read about that just last night in The Stranger You Seek. Profiler Keye Street was looking for a serial killer in Atlanta, and managed to become a target herself. Morose described her mood while she sat alone and tried to think things over.

  Of course, all those Krispy Kreme doughnuts helped Keye through her rough patches.

  Charlie had no idea what to do to help James. It was clear he was fighting his way through something.

  “I come here a lot,” she said, just to break the silence.

  James looked over at her. “You do?”

  She nodded. “Especially at night, when it’s quieter.”

  “Don’t you worry about being down here alone?”

  Charlie raised an eyebrow.

  “Oh.” James rolled his eyes. “I guess you don’t.” He seemed to notice for the first time that she wasn’t carrying her service revolver. “You didn’t bring your gun?”

  “I felt like I’d be pretty safe with you, James.” She smiled at him. “Don’t go proving me wrong, okay? I’d never live it down at work.”

  “I promise you don’t have to worry. Not about that, anyway.”

  “That’s a relief.” She picked her next words carefully. “So, are there other things we might need to be worried about?”

  He looked at her again. Charlie couldn’t tell by his expression whether her question interested or irritated him.

  “There’s nothing,” he finally said. “Not anymore.”

  Charlie wasn’t sure how to follow up on a statement like that, so she watched the water instead.

  “The water is pretty deep through here,” James observed.

  At least he was trying to make conversation. “It’s all the rain we’ve had,” she said.

  Of course, talking about the water reminded Charlie of her afternoon. She was grateful for the darkness that mostly hid her face. She knew she was blushing.

  “I don’t like water much,” James added. “Never have.”

  “Really? Why not?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t like things that aren’t solid.” He gestured toward his prosthetic leg. “Especially now. I need to know where the bottom is, so I can be prepared for it.”

  “I guess that makes sense. But I’ve always been the opposite. I like the feeling I get when I’m floating—and I let the water carry me along to places I might never go, otherwise.”

  “Don’t you worry about getting back?”

  “I never let it take me far enough that getting back is a problem.”

  He nodded. “That’s a kind of control thing, too.”

  “I guess it is.”

  “I wake up at night sometimes and think my leg is still there. It feels so real—like I could get up and stand on it. I even think I can move my toes.” James pulled a loose splinter of wood off the tabletop and tossed it toward the moving water. He looked at Charlie. “You can’t make it in a place where what’s real and what isn’t get mixed up like that.”

  “So, you have to stay where you can see the bottom?”

  “Pretty much. At least, that’s what I think I’ve figured out.”

  Charlie really had no idea what they were talking about, but she knew it didn’t really matter if she understood what James was explaining. It only mattered that he understood it. And right now, it seemed to her that he did. He wasn’t a danger—not to himself or to anyone else. She knew that.

  And he had a bag of chicken and biscuits in the car for his son.

  “It’s good when you figure things out,” she said. “Everybody is better off when that happens.”

  James didn’t reply right away. He sat and stared at the water. Then he got to his feet.

  “That’s what I think, too,” he said.

  They didn’t talk on the short walk back to their cars.

  Charlie follo
wed James’s truck back up the access road and waited while he pulled out onto Highway 58. He waved a hand at her before disappearing around the bend that led to the river bridge.

  Chapter 8

  Henry’s hands were covered with Old Forge blue paint. So was most of the makeshift drop cloth they’d assembled with old tarps borrowed from Junior.

  They were making banners for David to use at his Fourth of July debate.

  In fact, Buddy was making the banners and Henry was “helping.” And Dorothy was there to keep an eye on Henry while his father was at work.

  Keeping an eye on Henry right now meant trying to prevent him from looking like a Smurf.

  Buddy didn’t seem bothered at all by Henry’s attempts at helpfulness. Instead, he created things for Henry to do so he’d feel useful. Buddy used long strips of car tape to mask off wide, alternating stripes of blue and white. Henry was then allowed to spray the exposed areas with Nadine’s cans of Rust-Oleum. While Henry did that, Buddy was cutting out stencils for the lettering.

  “NO PLACE FOR H8”— the signs would read. Followed by David’s first name and phone number.

  David had said he didn’t need to include his last name, and could use his phone number instead of a website because everybody in town already knew him, and they could just call him up with questions. He said most people would do that anyway, so why bother with the Internet?

  It seemed like a good idea.

  Buddy didn’t really approve of the abbreviation, H and the number 8, for “hate.” He said it wasn’t right. But David told him that nothing about hate was right, and this was just a kind of shorthand to get people’s attention. That explanation didn’t stop Buddy from muttering pretty much nonstop about all the ways H8 wasn’t right.

  Dorothy thought she might be able to distract him by reading aloud while he painted and cut stencils. They only had two chapters left to go in Henry’s library book, The Incredible Journey. So, while Henry and Buddy crawled around on the big sheets of canvas that were laid out flat on the ground behind Junior’s garage, she sat in the shade on top of an old oil drum and read the exciting final scenes of the book.

  It wasn’t long before Henry became so engrossed with the story he stopped “helping” Buddy and wandered over to claim a spot on the ground at her feet. He sat staring up at her intently while she read the exciting conclusion of the story of Tao, the Siamese cat, and his two canine companions, Luath and Bodger. The courageous and determined animals traveled more than 300 miles across the Canadian wilderness to be reunited with their family. Along the way, they had endured more hardships and misfortunes than Dorothy could count—many so sad and traumatic that she worried about the ultimate outcome of their adventure almost as much as Henry did. But now, at last, a happy ending appeared to be in sight. The weary trio were about to be reunited with their beloved humans.

  “They stood at the road’s end, waiting to welcome a weary traveler who had journeyed so far, with such faith, along it,” Dorothy read.

  “It’s them,” Henry cried. “They hear them barking! They know they’re home!”

  “Together journey their end might they that,” Buddy quoted.

  “What?” Dorothy was surprised. She didn’t think Buddy had even been listening to her. She looked down at the last page of the book, then back and forth between the two of them. “Did you guys already read the ending?”

  “Buddy always reads books backwards,” Henry explained.

  “Oh.” It was true. Buddy had just recited the last line of the story—backwards. “I guess I don’t need to read it, then.”

  “No! Please read it, Dorothy,” Henry pleaded. “I want to hear it read front-wards.”

  Dorothy read the last line to please him.

  Henry fell back against the grass, happy and satisfied, clapping his blue-stained palms together. “They made it home. They made it home.” He repeated the simple phrase over and over.

  “It’s not finished.”

  Dorothy looked at Buddy, who was busy painting letters on the banners.

  “What do you mean, Buddy? I read the whole thing.” She held up the book so he could see it, but he didn’t look at it. He didn’t take his eyes off the banner.

  “It’s not finished,” he said again. “Goldenrod has more story to go. More story for Bluebird.”

  “I don’t understand?” Dorothy turned the book over and looked at its back cover. “Is there another book about these same animals?”

  “More story,” Buddy said. “No place for hate. Hate needs to leave so the story can be finished.”

  “Do you know what he means?” Dorothy asked Henry.

  “No.” Henry shook his head. “But it’s okay because Buddy knows. Buddy knows everything.”

  “More story to go,” Buddy repeated. “No happy ending until hate goes away.”

  Dorothy gave up trying to decipher Buddy’s cryptic comments.

  “Who wants lunch?” She hopped down off the barrel.

  “I do!” Henry climbed to his feet. “I want Popeyes!”

  Henry still had chicken and half a biscuit left from the dinner his father had brought home the night before. Dorothy packed her own food at home and brought it along with her every day to Troutdale—and she usually brought extra for Henry, too—just in case there wasn’t something handy to eat in the small apartment. Buddy always traveled with his own beat-up lunchbox and thermos strapped to the back of his scooter. He was very scrupulous about eating his own food.

  “Are you ready for lunch, Buddy?” she asked.

  “No place for hate,” he said. “The space between sounds is smaller. When it’s done, the story will be finished.”

  Dorothy wasn’t sure what that meant, or what it had to do with lunch.

  “That means no,” Henry clarified. “Come on, Dorothy.” Henry grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the back of the garage and the steps that led to their apartment. “Let’s go get some chicken.”

  “Okay.” She allowed Henry to lead the way.

  They tiptoed carefully around the banners. The areas that Henry had painted looked like a big mess, but she knew that once Buddy pulled the car tape off, the edges of the stripes would all be sharp and straight. She was anxious to see how they’d look once they were finished and hanging up. It felt strange to be involved in making these, even though she wasn’t actually doing any of the work. But it meant a lot to her that Mr. Jenkins—David, as he kept telling her to call him—wanted her to help out with this project. It made her happy that he wanted her to be part of something—something that mattered. She liked that—even though she knew she’d never be able to talk about it at home.

  Just like her piano lessons. She could never talk about those, either.

  They had reached the narrow flight of wooden steps that led to the second floor of the garage. Henry raced on ahead of her. She watched the comical flash of his blue hands as he flew up the steps. But Dorothy paused and took a last look over her shoulder at Buddy, who was still bent over the wide sheets of canvas, painting tall letters with a small brush. He must have sensed her staring at him because he suddenly lifted his head and looked back at her. It only lasted a few seconds, but it was long enough to make her feel strange. Even from a distance, she could tell how clear his eyes were. They were such a pale blue they looked almost white. She didn’t think Buddy had ever looked right at her before.

  She didn’t think Buddy ever looked right at anybody—except his father, and maybe Henry. But he stared right back at her now like he was seeing her for the first time.

  Then he spoke.

  “Goldenrod,” he said. “No place for hate.”

  Just as abruptly, he lowered his gaze and resumed painting.

  Dorothy slowly followed Henry up the stairs, aware of something churning inside her. It wasn’t that she felt afraid—but she did feel . . . exposed. Even though she wasn’t sure why, or about what.

  The space between the sounds is smaller, he said.

  Was he ta
lking about music? Like Dr. Heller?

  Or did he mean something else?

  And why did he always talk in riddles?

  His eyes were so clear—just like the water she crossed in the shallowest part of the river.

  He looked right at me, she thought. But it was more than that. He saw me, she thought.

  And for the first time, I saw him, too.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  Maddie had a plan.

  And having a plan was unusual for her because she didn’t normally have plans.

  She had strategies.

  But this time, it was a plan. A good ole, bona-fide, dyed-in-the-wool, true-to-life, homespun plan.

  It was noteworthy that she didn’t always have the best track record when it came to putting her understandably infrequent plans into action. Memories of that nightmare incident with Michael’s revered stand mixer, “Gloria,” rose to mind. All she’d wanted to do was cook a special dinner for Syd—by herself. Michael had been gracious enough to tutor her on the barest essentials of French cooking—and had allowed her to use his kitchen at the Riverside Inn. Needless to say, things progressed from bad to worse and from worse to apocalyptic at light speed. Her elaborate four-course meal ended up being a portable family feast from KFC, and Michael’s kitchen got a free spring cleaning courtesy of her new best friends at SERVPRO.

  She didn’t even want to think about what had happened to Gloria . . .

  But that was then. This time, things were going to be different. For one thing, she was going to introduce as few variables as possible. That meant making use of a familiar setting, ensuring there would be a minimum amount of prep work—and that, only of a kind already in her wheelhouse—and timing it all to avoid intrusions . . . altogether.

  She also vowed that no Kitchen Aid appliances of any kind would be allowed within a hundred miles of the happy event.