The Last Harvest

by Kim Liggett

  This is the same bull from the breeding barn. The same bull my dad tried to kill that night. Suddenly, there’s no one else here. I don’t even see the ring. It’s just me and the bull.

  He blinks his big dark eyes at me and in their reflection I see my dad’s final moments playing out before me. I want to turn away, but I can’t. Whatever truth I tried to bury that night wants to be heard, wants to come back to the surface.

  I force myself to watch.

  “I have sinned … against my own seed. I killed him. I thought it would stop all this. I thought I could protect you, but I was wrong.” His face contorts in agony. “I still feel it. Can you feel it? I have to stop the evil before it’s born. Please forgive me.”

  He clasps his blood-slick hands around my throat, and squeezes with every ounce of strength left in his body. I’m struggling for breath, but I don’t try to fight. It could be madness or drugs, but he knows exactly what he’s doing in this moment. He knows it’s me.

  “I plead the blood,” he whispers, a wet death rattle ringing in my ears, right before his entire body goes slack.

  Tears are searing my cheeks now, but I don’t bother wiping them away. “He tried to kill me that night. He wasn’t afraid for his soul. He was afraid of me. Of what I would become,” I say as I tighten my grip on the knife, holding it to the bull’s throat. But still, the bull doesn’t move. He’s kneeling in front of me. Somehow we’re connected in all this. The two of us. It’s something I feel all the way to the marrow of my bones. “What are you trying to tell me?” I ask, my hands trembling.

  “He’s losing it,” Ben says, jarring me back to the present.

  “Please,” Ali cries. “We have to help him.”

  “No.” Tyler holds them back. “Let him be.”

  And that’s when it hits me. This is what Tyler wants. He knew exactly what he was doing by bringing me here. He knew this was the same bull from the breeding barn. He wanted me to lose it in front of the others … in front of Ali. But I refuse to give him the satisfaction. I don’t know what they saw, what they heard, but the show’s over.

  Ripping through the rope with the blade, I free the bull from the tether. I get up and turn my back on him. I know he’s not going to hurt me. We have an understanding. We’ve both seen enough carnage for one lifetime.

  I climb over the fence and grab the pile of cash, knocking the horseshoe to the ground. “I’ll be taking this.” I stuff the bills in my pocket.

  “But … but you didn’t even ride,” Tyler stammers.

  “Whoever lasts the longest in the ring. That was the bet.” I stab his knife into the wood post right next to him, watching his Adam’s apple depress. “I guess my winning streak continues. Oh, and you’re welcome for saving your ass.”

  31

  IT’S DUSK by the time we head back into town.

  Tyler drops everyone off first before taking me back to my car at Midland High.

  I know he’s got something to say to me, but I’m not about to give him any help.

  We pull into the empty lot. I get out and start to close the door when he says, “That stunt you pulled with the bull, making him bow to you. It doesn’t mean shit. You’re nothing but a dead end to her. We don’t even need you on the council.”

  “I think your dad has a different take on all that,” I say, drumming my fingers on the door.

  “My dad’s an old fool. Besides, Tate blood’s not hard to come by in this town.”

  “What’d you say?”

  “You heard me.”

  I lean in. “I don’t know what you’re getting at, but if you come near Noodle or Jess, I swear to God, I’ll kill you.”

  A smirk lights his face. “You still don’t know, do you?”

  I reach in to grab him but he jams on the gas, fishtailing out of the lot and onto Main Street.

  I get in my truck and check my phone. No calls or texts from Miss Granger. Maybe she got what she needed and she’s busy making plans for the exorcism, or maybe it’s all in her head, some fucked-up fantasy. All I know is I feel like that beat-up pinball game down at the rec center. I keep running around, reacting to everything, and maybe that’s exactly what they want me to do. Maybe I’m playing right into their hands and I don’t even know it.

  I take a deep breath, running my hand over the dash. This was my dad’s truck, his dad’s before that. I refuse to let that last memory of him in the breeding barn ruin everything we had. Like Noodle said, you choose what you want to remember and I choose good, but that doesn’t mean I turn a blind eye, either. I have questions that need answering. My dad always told me in times of trouble, the answer was in the land.

  I go home to the wheat.

  Where I don’t have to think.

  I don’t have to dream.

  All I have to do is plow.

  32

  THE MOON is full and red, like a bloated tick. I hear heavy breath, discarded wheat stems being crushed underfoot … and a song. A nursery rhyme from long ago. It lures me deep into the wheat and when I finally see the source of the music, I freeze in place. It feels like my heart might burst with fear, with awe, with reverence. The bull stamps forward, with Noodle on his back. He isn’t bucking and kicking for control; he’s as docile as a pony. Noodle strokes his head as she sings her counting song. She’s barefoot and wearing the white eyelet dress she wore to Dad’s funeral, her hair’s down, but there’s something dark and wet on the side of her head. Noodle leans down to hug the bull’s neck, and that’s when I see the blood spurting from its throat. The bull staggers forward into a kneeling position and when Noodle sits up, I realize it’s not Noodle at all, but Tyler.

  “Look,” Tyler says with a grin. “I got him to kneel, too.”

  * * *

  I WAKE with a jolt on the moving harvester. I slam on the brake and check the gauges.

  I’d like to think I was only asleep for a few minutes, but the tank’s nearly empty. It must’ve been running for hours.

  I scramble out of the cab to see how much damage I caused, but I’m still in the same patch of wheat as when I started.

  I can’t understand it. I’ve heard of sleepwalking, but sleep-plowing? And it looks like I’ve been going over the same pattern in the wheat over and over again, like a crazy person.

  As I head back to the house, I keep listening for hooves in the wheat. I know it was only a dream, but it seemed so real to me. My heart aches. It’s more than melancholy … more than dread … it almost feels inevitable, like the first frost has settled into my blood. Trying to rub the goose bumps from my arms, I head inside.

  I walk as quietly as possible into the living room and pull a quilt over Mom. I realize she’s only pretending to be asleep, but I don’t have the strength to deal with her tonight … or the flies.

  I check in on Noodle. She’s all snuggled in. Still no sign of her gross doll. I’m walking by Jess’s room when I see a shadow moving back and forth under her door, like she’s pacing.

  “Jess?” I knock. The pacing stops. I don’t know what to say to her. I know she’s probably still upset about what happened at the Harvest Festival. I keep thinking I should tell her about what happened to Jimmy, but I don’t want to make things worse.

  “You’re up late,” I say, and then shake my head. That was a stupid thing to say. “I mean … I just want you to know, I’m here for you. If you need to talk, or anything.”

  She doesn’t answer, but I can hear her breathing, like she’s got her face pressed right against the keyhole.

  I start to leave and then double back. “Oh, and I wanted to give you this.” I pull the wad of money from my back pocket and slide it halfway under her door. “There’s a hundred and eighty-two bucks there. For those clothes you wanted. And for the record, I don’t care if you cut holes in them.”

  I wait for a reply—a thanks, a fuck you, anything, but all she does is pull the money in.

  It brings an unexpected smile to my face. That’s a start.

  “’Nig
ht, Jess.” I back away from her door to go to my room.

  I don’t want to sleep, because I don’t want to dream, so I sit by the window staring out over the wheat. I glance down to see Hammy doing the exact same thing.

  Whatever’s happening, it all leads back here. I have to finish the last harvest, before it’s too late.

  The first frost is coming.

  I can feel it.

  33

  AS I’M heading to school, I make a last-second turn onto Hammond Street. It feels like Old Blue knows where I’m going before I do—Oakmoor. I park a few blocks away in front of the Miller lumber yard and head over on foot. I don’t want anyone knowing my business.

  There’s a couple of abandoned wheelchairs out front. A man sitting under a tree, rocking back and forth, while a nurse stands over him. The front of the building’s painted yellow, which seems like it would be cheerful, but it looks more urine-stained than anything else. A little chime goes off as I open the cracked glass door.

  “Be with you in a second, hon,” Mrs. Gifford calls out. “I gotta go, it’s Clay Tate,” she whispers before hanging up. “Did you bring that precious girl with you?” she asks as she puts her dangly banana earring back on and peers over the counter.

  “Nope. Just dropped her off at school.”

  “Well, she’s a ray of sunshine,” she says, as she unwraps a grape Jolly Rancher and pops it in her mouth. “The patients just love her. She works miracles with the hospice patients. Most kids would be afraid, but not Noodle. She holds their hands and sings that little song. She’s our sweet angel around here, easin’ them right on through to the other side.”

  “That’s nice to hear.”

  She pats my hand. “What can I do for you, hon?”

  “I came about Miss Granger—”

  “Are you trying to make an appointment for Jess … or your mom?” She says their names, like they’re dirty words.

  “No … I just—”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, that was plain rude. I just heard about what happened over at the Harvest Festival and.… never you mind.”

  “It’s fine, I just—”

  “Doesn’t matter anyway. Emma hasn’t been taking any appointments. Hasn’t been in for months. Ever since she had her last appointment with L.A.W.” She whispers the letters.

  “Law?” I ask. “What, with Sheriff Ely?”

  “That’ll be the day.” She chuckles. “That man’s as solid as a cement house. No, Lee Aric Wiggins,” she says. “The boy with all the burns.”

  L.A.W. The same initials written in the margin of the family Bible … written all over the bank ledger. Could my dad have been giving money to that scumbag? For what? For meth?

  “She’d been meeting with him every Saturday for the past year. They had no problems whatsoever, and then something happened. She came out of the room like she’d just seen a ghost. She was real scared like. Kinda how you look right now, hon,” she says, as she pushes the plastic candy dish over to me. “Here, have one. Just don’t eat the grape, those are my favorite. And the next thing I know she’s asking me for his birth certificate … acting real different. She even started scratching her head so hard it was bleeding. I thought maybe she was fixin’ to call the sheriff, report him for something, but I never heard another word about it. Oh, did she send you for her things? I’ve been on her to pick up that box for months now.”

  “Yeah, if you don’t mind.” I force myself to meet her eyes. I feel terrible lying like this, but I’m desperate.

  “You bet, hon. I just have to get it from the storage room. Would you mind answering the phone for me? If it’s someone calling about Mr. Pinner, well, he died last night, I guess you best leave that to me. Back in a jiffy.”

  I hear her shoes squeaking against the linoleum and then disappear into the carpeting of the back offices. I hop around the counter and move the mouse around the screen. She’s got a Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman screen saver. Figures.

  I scan through the files for patient records and pull up Emily Granger. Bam. Sure enough, Tyler was telling the truth. Checked herself in almost exactly two years ago. Self-pay. She was here a little under a year. PTSD. Religious ideology. Delusions of grandeur.

  She’s still not back, so I type in Lee Wiggins. Fetal Alcohol Syndrome. PTSD. Burn trauma. Claims father tried to kill him night of accident, but Devil saved him for higher calling. Prescribed: Lithium. Zoloft. Hydrocodone.

  As soon as I hear Mrs. Giffords’s squeaky soles hit the linoleum, I wipe the history and hop back over the counter.

  “Is it hot in here?” she asks, as she sets the box on the counter. “See, I’m a little chilly, but you’re all sweated up. Hope I’m not coming down with something.”

  I inspect the box. “But this says Mrs. Wilkerson on the side.”

  “Oh, they belong to Emma now. Mrs. Wilkerson left her everything. The house, too. Lucky duck. Those Catholics sure stick together.”

  “She passed?”

  “Last year. I think that’s why Emma stayed with us so long. She didn’t need to be here. She was smarter than Dr. Flannigan, that’s for sure. I think she just needed a rest and she wanted to be here for her friend when the time came. It was an odd thing, though … how she died.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Emma was holding her hand, saying some kind of prayer in Catholic—”

  “You mean Latin?”

  “Sure, I guess, and Mrs. Wilkerson went all rigid. The look on her face was like something out of a nightmare. Like she just forgot the Thanksgiving turkey in the oven. And then she said something real funny … something about a blood creed or a creed of blood.”

  “Was it … ‘I plead the blood’?”

  “Yes! That was it.” Mrs. Gifford puts her finger on the tip of her nose, like we’re playing a game of charades.

  It feels like all the blood is being drained from my body.

  “They said it was a massive heart attack that made her lock up like that. That’s why they couldn’t do an open casket down at Newcomers. Her face was stuck like that.”

  “Like what?” I manage to ask.

  “Like this.” She opens her mouth as wide as it’ll go, her eyes bulging, the tendons in her neck flaring.

  It gives me the chills. That’s the same look my dad had in the end. His same words. What does it mean? What’s the connection?

  The phone rings. She holds up a finger and takes off her earring.

  “Oakmoor, this is Janelle, how can I help you?” she says in a sickening sweet voice, as I watch the hard candy bash against her teeth. “Oh, hold on a sec.” She puts the receiver to her chest. “Listen to me jabbering on,” she says. “You must be late for school. Want me to call over there and tell Miss Granger you’re on the way?”

  “No … no, I’m good,” I say as I turn for the exit.

  “Clay,” she calls out. “The box?”

  “Yeah,” I murmur as I head back and grab it.

  I think she says something else to me, but I can’t hear anything over the buzzing in my ears, like the flies … like something terrible is about to happen.

  34

  I SIT in my truck for hours combing through the box. There’s nothing of real interest, just a bunch of knickknacks and half-used toiletry items. But I can’t stop staring at the photo of Mrs. Wilkerson. The Lucite cross around her throat. I plead the blood is usually said when praying over someone tormented by demons. I wonder if Mrs. Wilkerson was afraid of Miss Granger in the end, like my dad was afraid of me? And what’s the connection between Miss Granger and Lee Wiggins? Why were his initials in our family Bible and all over our ledgers? If my dad was buying meth from Lee, would he seriously be recording it in the bank ledger? I thought going over to Oakmoor would give me the answers I was looking for, but I only ended up with more questions.

  When I hear the bell ring for fifth period, I take the box and head over to Miss Granger’s office. I keep my head low, moving through the crowd with precision.

 
Everything I need to say, everything I need to talk to her about has been building inside of me. I burst into her office without even knocking.

  “I don’t know what your deal is, but you need to come clean. You’re ignoring my calls and something’s going on … with you … with them … or with me … but the dreams are getting worse and—”

  “Clay?” Miss Granger flashes a tense smile. “I believe you know Sheriff Ely and Deputy Tilford.”

  I follow her gaze to see Sheriff sitting in my chair, Deputy Tilford leaning against the back wall.

  “What’s this about a dream, Clay?” Sheriff asks.

  “Nothing really.” I clench the box to my chest.

  His eyes flash like he’s just caught me in a lie. “I was just telling Miss Granger here how surprised I was to see you at church on Sunday.” He leans forward, the worn leather of his cowboy boots creaking. “Haven’t been in over a year. Why the sudden religion?”

  “Just trying to take your advice.” I force a smile. “Put it all behind me.” I can tell by the way he’s looking at me that he knows something’s up. I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to hold him off.

  “And now I hear you’ve been palling around with Tyler Neely and the rest of the Preservation Society kids. That’s nice, I suppose.” He puffs out his bottom lip like it’s full of chew. “Ridin’ bulls, huh?”

  “Just blowing off a little steam.”

  “That’s funny.” His eyes narrow on me. “Tyler said the exact same thing to me this morning.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “It’s a shame about what happened out there at the fairgrounds.”

  “Meanest bull in the tristate area. Worth a lot of money,” Tilford adds.

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “Haven’t you heard?” Sheriff adjusts his hat. “Didn’t your new buddies tell you? Someone went out there last night and slit that bull’s throat.”