by Horn, J. D.
“Well, for the photos,” she said, as if she were explaining the obvious. “It may not matter to you. It may not matter to Peter. But in a few years it may matter to little Colin.” I said nothing, but she read my reaction. “You do want to marry my son, don’t you?”
“Of course I do.” I hesitated. “But I feel a bit out of control of my own life right now. I wish I could slow things down. Take things more at my own pace.”
“Sorry, dear, but welcome to the world of being a parent. Your time no longer belongs to you. I won’t push you, though. At least for another week or two,” she said and winked at me.
I took a sip of my tea and then regretted it. The smell was what bothered me more than the taste. I fought a surge of nausea. Mrs. Tierney, Claire, reached out and pulled the cup away. “It’s all right. When I was pregnant I couldn’t abide cinnamon.” She took the cups and moved them over to the bar, returning to her seat with a much more serious look. “The baby. It’s healthy, right? Nothing unusual?”
“No, the doctor says everything looks really good,” I said in the most reassuring tone I could muster.
“I don’t care what the doctor thinks. What does Ellen have to say?”
I took her hand. “Ellen says the baby is fine. She swears that she can hear him singing.”
I thought this tidbit would entertain her, but her brow furrowed. “Takes after his father, he does,” she said. “Well, good. So tell me then,” she said, changing gears, “this tall fellow who has been staying with your family of late. The dark one who glowers all the time.”
“Emmet?” I asked, even though I knew full well that he was the only one who could possibly fit that description.
“Yes, Emmet. Is he a relative?”
“No,” I replied. “He’s more of a friend of the family.” I felt good about the level of honesty I could bring to that answer.
“So you’ve known him for a while then.”
“Only a few months, actually,” I said. “What about him?”
“It’s only that he’s been hanging around the tavern a lot lately. He spends his time nursing drinks and asking a lot of questions about our family—Colin, Peter, and me, that is. How did Colin and I meet? How long were we married when Peter was born?” She paused. “Are there any other oversized redheads in the family? That one almost earned him a sock in the eye.”
“He offended Colin?”
“No, he offended me. Even if he wasn’t implying anything by it, he still asked a whole lot more questions than a person might consider polite.”
“He’s a bit lacking in social skills, but he’s harmless.”
“I don’t care. I don’t like it, and I don’t like him.” Her eyes glowed with anger.
“I’ll talk to him about it, tell him—”
“No. I’m being silly,” she backtracked suddenly, waving a hand. “Don’t mention it to him.”
The door shook as someone tried the handle. “We’re closed. Come back at five,” she called out without budging from her chair. An insistent, authoritative knock sounded on the door.
Another knock came, this time much louder, and uniformed police officers appeared around the corner at the window. My heart rose in my throat as Claire and I exchanged a glance. Claire was a slight woman, but she pushed herself up from the table as if all the gravity in the world had dropped down on her. She struggled with the lock and then flung the door open wide. Detective Cook stood there, haloed by the sunlight that was pouring in around him.
“Mrs. Tierney,” he began, “is your husband here? I’d like to talk to the two of you.”
“Peter,” I said, jumping up and rushing to the door. “Is Peter all right?”
“Hello, Miss Taylor,” he said, obviously not thrilled to find me there. “Don’t worry. This has nothing to do with Peter.”
Claire let herself breathe. “Come in, officer.”
Cook stepped into the room, followed by the same uniformed officers who had been peering through the window. “Your husband?” he asked.
“Colin isn’t here right now. He’s disputing a bill with a distributor. He’ll be back before we open for the night. What is this about?” Cook looked over at me, and Claire surmised his thoughts. “It’s fine. She’s family.”
I realized that he viewed me as every bit as much of a bother, an inconvenience, as I saw him. I felt a bit slighted, even though I had no right to. Adam looked at me, curious about how I’d managed to make the leap from a kind of, sort of girlfriend to part of the Tierney clan. We hadn’t made the pregnancy public knowledge, and as yet there were no official wedding plans to relay.
“All right.” He pulled an old Polaroid out of his coat pocket. The picture had been wrapped in a clear evidence bag. “Do you recognize this picture?”
Claire took the bag into her hands and focused on its contents. Her legs collapsed out from under her as she fell heavily into a chair. I took the one next to her and reached out without asking permission and snatched it from her hand. The plastic somewhat obscured the picture, but the image was instantly recognizable. It was a photo of Peter’s father, Colin, and Claire holding a baby. It had to be Peter, but the child looked so scrawny and sickly I found it hard to accept that it could be. I focused on the background and realized that the photo had been taken in the very room where we sat.
Adam reached over and took the picture from me. “Mrs. Tierney?”
“Yes,” she said, regaining her composure. “Obviously. I don’t know who might have taken it, but it’s from when we first brought the baby—I mean, Peter—home. Where did you find it?”
“Are any family or friends visiting you right now?”
“No. No one,” she said, but then repeated, “Where did you find this picture?”
“We got a call this morning reporting that the body of an elderly man was found lying by the side of the road, just off Ogeechee. There was no form of identification on him, but we found this in his pocket. In light of certain unusual circumstances, we have to treat his death as suspicious.”
I felt myself blanching. My eyes were drawn to Claire, who had turned equally white.
“I hate to do this, but I need to ask you to come with me. See if you can identify the body.”
“Yes, of course,” Claire muttered. “I’ll call Colin. Tell him to meet us.”
“I would appreciate that, ma’am.”
As she stepped away from the table, moving over to the phone by the bar, Cook looked me deeply in the eye. “Do you know anything about this?”
“Of course not,” I snapped at him. Too quick. Too defensive. I shook my head. “I have no idea what’s going on.”
The biblical adage “Be sure your sin will find you out” came to mind. Guilt and regret caused a trickle of sweat to roll down my spine.
Adam nodded his head, as if he accepted my words, but I knew he didn’t. He forced his body into a more relaxed stance, and reached into his pocket for his omnipresent little black notepad. I’d witnessed this behavior before when he had come to question me about Ginny’s murder. He used the notepad as a prop, drawing a witness’s attention to it, leading him or her to believe that it contained a list of indisputable facts that pointed to that witness as the prime suspect in the crime being investigated. The pad could be considered an anachronism, but it was an effective tool all the same.
Claire hung up the phone, and Adam slid the pad into his pocket, his attention returning to her. Still, Adam had excellent instincts, and he was nothing if not tenacious. He’d circle back to me. I knew that much for sure.
“He’s on his way,” she said to Cook. “Mercy, will you stay here and help Peter open up if we don’t return in time?”
“Of course,” I said.
Claire leaned in to kiss my cheek as she passed me. “There’s a good girl,” she said. “Officers?”
The four of them left
, letting the door bang shut behind them. I felt a sudden wave of panic rush through me, and I forced the door back open, nearly stumbling outside. The fresh air embraced me like a welcoming friend, but then a cloud passed over the sun, leaving me chilled and uneasy.
FIVE
I stood outside the tavern’s door fighting off panic. I drew my arms up around myself, rubbing away at the goose bumps that prickled along them. Who was the old fellow who’d stumbled across my path? How could he possibly be connected to the Tierneys? Why had I been stupid enough to think I could resuscitate him?
“What’s wrong, pretty lady?” a man’s voice startled me. Muscle-bound; taller than me, but still short for a man; clean-shaven head. He wore a rebel-flag T-shirt cut into a tank top that revealed a sleeve of tattoos on his right arm. Even though my conscious mind failed to take in the many pieces that came together in the tattoo’s intricate design, my subconscious registered a few of the symbols and interpreted them as bad news. His accent, the way he moved, everything about him said “backwoods.”
I knew the first instant I laid eyes on him that I didn’t like him or his entire gestalt, but I forced a smile. My instincts told me to be civil. Not to challenge him. “I’m fine, thanks. Just had a bit of a morning.” His eyes—dark, hard, spaced a little too closely together, and shadowed by his brow—twinkled. He took a step closer. The sun glinted off the handle of a hunting knife, the kind you often heard called a “pig sticker,” that he wore strapped to his leg.
A woman, homespun bleach job worn in a braid and makeup spackled over bad skin, stepped up to him and slung her arm around his shoulder. “Looks more like a little bit of morning sickness to me,” she said. She turned her chin down and glared at me through narrowed slits. She was marking her territory. This man, she informed me wordlessly, belonged to her. Lord help her, she could have him, but he shrugged off her arm and drew up closer to me.
“Naw, that can’t be. She ain’t got no ring on her finger. You can tell by looking at her that she ain’t the type to spread her legs just to say howdy. Am I right there, boy?”
In my peripheral vision, I noticed movement. Another of their group, this one much younger. High school age? He already stood several inches taller than the leader of the pack. The younger man’s build qualified him as an ectomorph—very muscular, yet much leaner than his buddy. He skulked up behind the other two, hovering close enough to imply his complicity, but only just. Filthy jeans, dirty blond hair, angry blue eyes, a crooked smile. He was a good-looking kid, too good-looking to be theirs, and truth be told, a little too old to be theirs, even by bayou standards. A brother? Cousin? Cohort? Regardless of how they fit together, he still stood out as the prettiest of the trio. A look of excited expectation shone in those spiteful eyes. I felt my stomach drop when I realized that whatever excitement he expected had something to do with me.
“I should get back inside,” I said, feeling behind me for the doorknob.
“Ah, no need to run off so soon,” the older man said. “We were hoping to get to know you a bit. Learn a bit about your beautiful city here. Come on over here, Joe, and introduce yourself to the lady.”
The kid stepped up and completed a semicircle, blocking my path. The single escape was back through the door to the tavern. “Hello,” he said, and I could smell the excitement coming off him. Up close, I could tell he was a little older than my first impression had led me to believe. Sixteen? Eighteen? His eyes lacked any sense of empathy, humanity. He carried an aura that was exactly the right combination of innocence and danger to fascinate a girl who had a taste for crazy. I feared for any girl who’d let herself get caught up in his charm.
“See, that ain’t so bad, is it?” the man asked, but I wasn’t sure if the question had been aimed at me or at this Joe. “I’m Ryder. Ryder Ludke. This here is Birdy. Say hello, Birdy.”
The woman stayed silent until Ryder tilted his head slightly toward her, a promise of uncontrolled violence concentrated in such a slight movement. “Hello,” she said, cringing and taking a step to the side.
“Maybe you would like to invite us into your fine establishment and offer us a libation?” The question carried the weight of a command.
“Libation,” Joe parroted, and then guffawed. He and Ryder shared a glance that celebrated Ryder’s wit. These were train people, modern-day hobos with all of the nasty and none of the romance, I surmised. A race of panhandlers that had taken root in Savannah, taking over and occasionally scaring off the regular folk, the ones who sold palm-frond roses or picked out tunes on instruments. The train people used intimidation rather than souvenirs to liberate spare change from tourists’ pockets.
“I’m sorry. I can’t. I’m not the owner, and the bar doesn’t open until five. We could lose our liquor license.”
“Come on. You’re free, white, and twenty-one, ain’t you?” Ryder asked. “You can do whatever the hell you want.”
“And what I want to do is get back inside and get ready for opening.”
I found the doorknob and grasped it. The three were standing too close to me. I’d have to move quickly or they’d be able to rush the door. I twisted on the knob and forced my back into the door, but it didn’t move. It had locked behind me.
“Here I thought y’all called Savannah the ‘Hostess City,’ ” he said, taking another step closer. Following his lead, the other two constricted the circle. “You ain’t being very hospitable. A man could take offense.” His hand lowered, and his finger traced around the top of his knife’s handle. Twelve and a half seconds ago, this place had been crawling with cops. Now that I could use one, there wasn’t a single officer in sight. I wondered if my visitors had been watching for the police to take off before coming this way.
I considered using magic to open the door. But they’d still be able to follow me into the bar unless I moved fast enough to slam the door in their faces. They had ambled another few steps closer as I considered this. I’d be able to reach out and touch them in another step or two. Or they could reach out and touch me.
I considered using my best trick—well, truly my only trick—to slide myself out of there, but I figured it would be best to try something a little less overt. The last thing I needed was to piss the families off further with open displays of witchcraft. I pushed back a wave of anger at how the families stripped me of my ability to adequately defend myself. I had to keep a clear head, and anger at people who were not even present would not help with that. I decided to pull something from my Uncle Oliver’s bag of tricks. Oliver reigned as the king of magic persuasion, half of which he seemed to back up with plain old self-confidence. “Well, on behalf of the Savannah Visitors Bureau, I apologize, but I do think it is time for y’all to move on.” I pulled myself up taller and crossed my arms, trying to look firm but relaxed, like I was the one in charge. Joe and the woman called Birdy took a few steps backward, but Ryder didn’t budge. “Go on now,” I commanded.
Ryder chuckled and then used the back of his hand to wipe away his smile. “You, little miss, are a right piece of work, ain’t you? You’re a pretty little thing, but you done and picked yourself up some real bad manners. I’ll gladly help you correct ’em.”
Normally, two out of three isn’t bad, but I had failed to compel this Ryder to take off. I’d have to talk to Oliver about it. Find out where I had gone wrong, but now I had a more pressing matter at hand. I breathed deeply into my diaphragm and envisioned a wall growing between us, not only separating us, but pushing Ryder backward, forcing all three of them to move on. Ryder’s tattooed arm reached out toward me, but then quivered and fell to his side.
He gave me a dark look and stepped up with his arms held wide open, bumping his chest against the invisible barrier I had built between us. He was not in the least little bit frightened of my magic. Worse, the look in his eyes told me he was thinking of challenging it, but then he turned away and swaggered back toward the river. Joe followed
him, tagging a few steps behind like an enamored puppy. Birdy stood her ground the longest. “I don’t like you,” she said, giving me one final, hate-filled glare. The feeling was more than mutual, but I didn’t think it wise to antagonize her, especially since I had won this battle. I held my tongue.
“Birdy,” Ryder commanded, and she scurried to his side.
I watched until they were gone, and then turned my attention back to the lock. I slid a smidge of energy into it, envisioning the force molding to the inner workings of the mechanism and then condensing, hardening. My heart was in my throat as I turned it. I was thrilled when I heard the click—for once, my magic had worked as I’d intended.
I hurried inside, slamming the door behind me and quickly turning the deadbolt. I leaned against the locked door and sucked in a deep breath, trying to calm myself. I nearly jumped on the bar when a bell rang out. The old landline phone, yellow with gray buttons and absolutely no form of caller ID, sounded again. I hesitated, but then answered.
“Hello, sweet girl,” Colin said, the clunky receiver faithfully relaying the sadness in his voice. “I’m glad you picked up. I couldn’t remember your cell number for the life of me, but this one’s been in my head for thirty years.”
“Peter isn’t here yet, Mr. Tierney.”
“Ah, I know that darlin’, he’s here with his mother. That’s why I’m calling. The man who the police found. He was . . . he was family.” I grasped the bar to keep from falling flat to the floor. Accident or no, the guilt of what I’d done squeezed my chest like a boa constrictor, pressing the air out of me. “We won’t be opening tonight, so you best lock up and head on home.”
“Wait, Mr. Tierney. I’ll stay. I’d like to be here for you and Claire,” I said, even though my head reeled at the thought. I had no idea how I would ever face Peter’s parents after what had happened. Somehow I’d have to find a way to own up to it.
“I don’t want to hurt you, my girl, but Mother and I need some time for private grieving. We’ll be relying on you and my little grandson for comfort soon enough, but tonight, you’ll have to leave us be. Mother wants her boy with her, so I wouldn’t count on seeing Peter till tomorrow. I should get back to them now.”
