by Alex Gordon
“—still doesn’t explain what she did that was so awful.” Corey’s voice, tight with anger.
“I told you. She said things. Terrible things about—things.”
“Nothing she said could justify what you did to—”
Lauren waited for Corey to continue. But the silence lengthened.
Then came the calm.
“I know you’re there. You may as well come out.”
Lauren debated slipping back upstairs, waiting until the convocation got under way again. But something told her that wouldn’t work, and that trying to trick the owner of that voice might not be the best strategy.
She smoothed her rumpled shirt. Dragged her boots back on. Wished like hell that she could have changed into clean clothes, even the mismatched things she had stashed in the backpack. Corey had recovered it from the clearing, but had yet to give it back to her.
Too late now. She put one foot in front of the other and rounded the corner.
That sense of being measured. Examined. Like entering a room filled with distant relatives, people you saw once every few years. A connection existed, yes, but did it matter? Or did it make matters worse?
Twenty-five or thirty men and women sat around the wood-paneled living room, on the couch, a love seat, matched chairs from the dining room and mix-and-match from every other room in the house. Faces from the lighting circle, few of them younger than Lauren—Corey, Deena, and her as-yet-unnamed accomplice. Most were middle-aged or elderly, at various stages of wear. Everyone wore work clothes, jeans and flannels or uniforms—waitress smocks, nurse scrubs. Only Jerome Hoard wore anything close to business attire. He sat on one end of the couch, a landline telephone on the cushion beside him.
“On call,” he said, by way of greeting.
Dylan Corey sat on a straight-backed chair near the doorway to the kitchen, as far away from the others as he could get and still be in the same room. His face reddened when Lauren looked at him. Then he stared down at his hands while a couple of the men eyed them both and smirked.
Deena stood in the center of the room, her shirt buttoned to the neck, tear-smeared makeup streaking her cheeks. The other women huddled behind. Deena’s friend glanced at Lauren, then away, while Betty Joan and Ruthie glared.
The calm woman sat so that the guilty quartet faced her, in a Queen Anne armchair covered in rose paisley.
“I’m Virginia Waycross.” She wore jeans, a red cardigan over a pale blue oxford shirt. “This is Gideon business. But as it concerns you, you do have the right to be here.”
Lauren nodded toward Deena and the others. “One of them is missing. An older woman. Amanda.” She heard a few gasps, then silence. Could hear a pin drop. Such a cliché, which didn’t begin to describe the quiet, the held breath and sidelong looks.
Waycross sucked her lower lip for a few moments. “What did she look like?”
“You know what Amanda Petrie looks like, Virginia.” A gruff voice from the far corner. Lolly, in a dark blue coverall, a plaid shirt collar poking out from beneath. He sat with his chair tipped back against the wall, arms folded, booted feet dangling.
“Thank you for your input, Richard. Appreciated as always.” Waycross pointed to an empty chair next to hers, and waited for Lauren to sit. “What did she look like?”
“Short, maybe five two. Not slim. Gray hair pulled back in a ponytail or bun, I couldn’t see which.” Lauren shivered at memories too fresh to bear recalling. “I’m not sure if she participated in the attack itself, but she was the one who suggested it. They had just been kicking me up to that point.” That drew winces, even from Lolly. “‘Old ways are the best, ladies.’” She tugged at a wrist bandage. “That’s all I’ve got.”
“That sounds like Amanda. Stand back and let weaker minds do the dirty work.” Waycross sighed.
“Dr. Hoard used her ointment.” Lauren touched one of the scratches on her face. “I wiped it off.”
“I have used that ointment on countless other patients. It is above reproach.” Hoard sat up straight, fingers drumming on his thighs. “Amanda would never compromise her craft.”
“Your belief in her personal honor is touching as always, Jerome. Let’s just say I know her better than you and leave it at that.” Waycross massaged the arms of her chair, squeezed so hard her knuckles whitened. “You neglected to mention her, Deena. Care to explain why?”
“She wasn’t with us at first. She just—showed up.” Deena sniffled, wiped her nose with the wadded remains of a tissue. “Brittany and me met Ruthie and Betty Joan at the woods, and we were cutting through the old Hoard farm, on the way to Betty Joan’s. We were going—” She glanced across the room at Corey, and her voice dropped to a whisper. “. . . going to watch a movie.”
“You had volunteered to help search for Miz Reardon.” Corey’s hands clenched, baritone lowered to a growl. “You came to me and offered to help.”
“That’s beside the point, Dylan.” Waycross held up a hand. “The issue is that Leaf Cateman lets his people run loose to make trouble, and then leaves it to me to deal with the fallout.”
Waycross regarded Deena and the others and shook her head. “But the fact that she is powerful and persuasive does not absolve you in the slightest. I don’t know what to say to any of you. With all we’ve lost, all we’re going through. To attack a stranger, with no provocation—”
“She’s his daughter. She has a copy of the Book with his name in it. He defaced it with his drawings. Pictures of Emma.” Betty Joan jabbed the air, rings glittering in the lamplight. “I keep telling you and you don’t listen. Ruthie sensed it. I saw it in her hand.”
“Ruthie’s senses—straight up or on the rocks.” Lolly’s shoulders jerked in silent laughter.
“I’ve had about all I’m going to take of your wise-ass comments, Richard.” Waycross worked her neck. “Whether she is or isn’t Matthew’s daughter is immaterial, Betty Joan.”
“Jim and his family. Connie. She done it, or had it done. She is involved.” Betty Joan shook off Ruthie’s restraining hand. “Blood tells, and Mullin blood is tainted.”
Silence settled, different from before. Lauren felt probing stares, curious and questioning and not altogether kind, and wondered if Matthew Mullin had ever undergone the same ordeal. Of not being the one on trial, yet being tried just the same.
Waycross turned to her. “Where were you six days ago?”
Lauren debated answering, even as she knew she had no choice. If she wanted to find out what in hell was going on, she needed information, cooperation. She would get neither if she stonewalled. “Crossing Idaho into Montana.”
“And you can prove this with credit-card receipts and such?”
“Those can be faked,” Betty Joan piped. “My Rudy could tell you stories—”
“I’m sure he could.”
“I can prove my whereabouts.” Lauren met Betty Joan’s glower until the woman sneered and looked away.
Waycross worried her jewelry, first tugging at her watch, then twisting her wedding ring. “Well, Miss Reardon. As Mistress of Gideon, I must beg your forgiveness for the actions of these women. They committed a grievous wrong against you and threatened your safety, if not your life.”
Deena’s head came up. “I never would have—”
“I have known you since birth, girl—I know what you are.” Waycross’s lip curled. “I know what you get up to when you think no one’s watching.” She held her hand to her mouth, then let it fall. “You brought this upon yourselves.”
“No, Mistress!” For the first time, fear showed on Betty Joan’s face. She knelt before Waycross, her eyes brimming. “Please, not the binding. Not now. I have—” She shot a look at Lauren, and for a bare moment hatred overwhelmed dread. “I have things that need doing. Such important things—I need my powers, Mistress.”
“You should’ve thought of that before you listened to Amanda Petrie.” Waycross lowered her head and squeezed the arms of her chair while the other three women kn
elt next to Betty Joan, clasped hands, and wept. Mutters rose from the far corners of the room and folks shifted in their seats. A few looked at Lauren, their expressions varying degrees of grim. As if they blamed her.
What the hell did the Mullins do to you people? Lauren had a feeling that after tonight, the residents of Gideon would stand in line to inform her.
Leaden anticipation settled. Waiting room dread.
“Ruth Tuckwell. Elizabeth Barnes. Deena Trace. Brittany Watt. By your own deeds, be you judged. By your own actions, be you sentenced.” Waycross’s voice emerged a rough whisper, almost drowned out by sobs. “Hands be bound. Hearts be bound. Minds be bound.” She closed her eyes. “Blind you were, so blind you will remain. Until the Lady deems you fair. Until your debt is paid.” As she spoke, Deena and Brittany crumpled to the floor and Betty Joan covered her head with her arms as though warding off blows.
Lauren’s breath caught. She felt it, whatever it was, radiating from Waycross to the women. A deadening. Suffocation. A power that would suck the life out of her if she drew too close.
“Virginia.” Ruthie looked up, eyes glistening. “You doin’ this to us now, leaving us defenseless, it’s like murder.”
“Ruth.” Waycross met the woman’s pleading gaze. “You know what they say about turnabout and fair play.” She bowed her head, fingers flexing and lips moving in silent speech. Then she struck the arm of her chair as though she pounded a gavel. “By the Lady.”
“In her name.” A gabble of voices, some soft, some hesitant.
A few moments of quiet followed as it sank in that the hearing, trial, whatever the hell it was, had finished. The four women struggled to their feet. Brittany broke down and was led away by Deena, who shot Lauren a chill look as they passed. Betty Joan and Ruthie followed, looking the other way as they passed Lauren’s chair and bowing their heads as they passed Waycross’s. The four of them collected their coats and purses from a table by the front door, and left together without speaking.
Lauren waited. No one else had moved, and the thought occurred that they were waiting for her to leave. “If you need me to go—” She started to rise.
“We’re not done here.” Waycross waved for Lauren to sit down, then reached over the side of the chair and hefted a backpack onto her lap. “I have a few questions for you, Miss Reardon.”
Lauren looked over at Dylan Corey, who appeared to be in deep conversation with the man sitting next to him—he glanced at the backpack, then away, again taking care to avoid her eye. “You had no right to search my things.”
“Given that you stole this backpack from my foreman, I don’t believe you’re in any position to object.” Waycross rummaged through the main compartment, laid out items on the floor at her feet. The sweatshirt. The socks. “Is there anything else of his in here?”
“A roll of tape. Some first-aid gear.” Lauren watched the woman pick through every compartment, open every zipper. “I wanted to help search for Ms. Petersbury, but Mr. Corey declined my assistance, so—”
“So you went out anyway.” Waycross tugged a stubborn zipper. “Another listener. Great.”
Lauren braced, waited for Waycross to find the newspaper clipping with her father’s picture. Then there’s Connie’s glove. Waycross was bound to find it, bound to ask why there was only one, and what happened to the other. I should tell the truth. Of course she should. Because telling the truth had worked so well for her in the clearing.
But Waycross missed the clipping and the glove. She did find the book, however—she pulled it out of the front pocket of the backpack, along with the pages that Deena Trace had torn out. Examined the cover, front and back, then opened it. “This is Matt’s.” Her voice came soft. “This is Matthew Mullin’s.”
Lauren nodded, eventually. “Yes.”
“So how did you come by it?”
“It came into my possession after his death. He was my father.”
“Matt’s . . . gone?” Waycross blinked rapidly, then set the book on the arm of her chair and rested her hand on it.
“Looks like Betty Joan was right.” Lolly again, not quite under his breath.
“I never denied it.” Lauren looked down at her palm, ran a finger along the broken lifeline.
“Could’ve said something earlier.” That from Zeke, the old man from the diner.
Lauren sensed the hurt in the man’s tone. “You knew him?”
“We all did.” Zeke fiddled with a brimmed cap, unsnapping the size adjustment tab, then closing it. “Said I thought you looked familiar, didn’t I?”
“Everyone says I look like my mother.”
“There’s more to resemblance than physical features.” Waycross had taken up the book again, stroking the cover before leafing through the pages. “Reardon. Married name?”
“My father’s name. He called himself John Reardon.”
Waycross nodded. “And why did you come to Gideon, Lauren Reardon?”
Lauren started to speak. Stopped. Where the hell should she start? With the story of a deteriorating desk, and a shadowy figure in her condo parking lot? With those who died, and her fears for those still alive? With the knowledge of what her father had been, and what she feared it might mean?
How much time have we got? She couldn’t shake the sense that it was less than any of them thought. But how could she convince them, these people who had driven her father away, who looked at her now as an unwelcome reminder of a troubled past?
Memories. Of a woman standing in the river, testing the water again and again. Milk and eggs and flour and the thinning of the space between. And the reason for it all. The only words that mattered. The only ones that needed to be said.
“He’s back.”
Things settled down eventually. Waycross dispatched Corey and a few others to the kitchen; they returned with glasses, bottles of whiskey and tequila and cans of soda, which they distributed and dispensed according to preference. The soda didn’t find many takers.
Lauren was one of the few—she sipped ginger ale, hoped it would settle the stomachache brought on by the overall tension and the uproar when she said those two simple words.
He’s back. She didn’t even have to tell them who she was talking about.
“Poor ol’ Jimbo was right all along.” Phil stared into his glass. “He tried to warn us, and we all laughed at him.”
“Oh, we believed him.” Zeke, his cap hanging off one knee, glass of whiskey cradled close to his chest. “We just weren’t ready to talk about it out loud.” He paused to drink, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “It’s not really real until you talk about it out loud.”
Lauren felt the pressure of a steady stare, and looked up to find Lolly watching her over the top of his glass.
“The ‘it’ we don’t want to talk about? His name’s Nicholas Blaine. You could say him and Gideon go way back.” Lolly’s smartass edge had dulled. He sat leaning forward, shoulders rounded, a bear on alert. “You’ve seen him, haven’t you?”
Lauren nodded. “Back in Seattle, after Dad died. And here, in Gideon. In the clearing, after I found my way out of the woods. Right before Deena and the others showed up.”
Waycross raised her glass to her lips, then brought it down without drinking anything. “Did he say anything?”
“He asked me if I enjoyed my walk.” Lauren shuddered at the memory of the voice, the promise it held if she complied, the veiled threat if she didn’t. “I heard bits of a song. ‘Let me in.’ It sounded old—”
“‘For I’m the laird o’ Windywa’s, and I’ve come here withoot a cause.’” Lolly rocked back and forth as he sang, his bass a mournful lowing. “‘But I’ve got mair that thirty fa’s, comin’ oot owre the plains. O let me in this ae nicht, this ae ae ae nicht. O let me in this ae nicht, and I’ll never seek back again.’” He raised his glass in a toast to himself, then emptied it. “It’s a rude little tune about a man . . . visiting a lady not his wife. We’ve all heard it, at one time or another.”<
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Lauren nodded. Yes, that sort of song fit with the man—ghost—whatever it was that accosted her. The sexual undercurrent when he spoke, like words whispered in the dark. “What does he want?”
“From us? Or from you?”
Waycross’s eyes narrowed. “Judith, this is a formal convocation.”
“Yes, Mistress. But we are still allowed to speak at these things last I heard, unless you changed the rules without us knowing.” Judith rose from her chair, and stood with her hands clasped waist-high, like a singer in a recital.
Lauren watched as Waycross sat up straight, jaw working, one hand clenched. The Mistress of Gideon wanted to tell the woman to sit back down—that was obvious. But all eyes had fixed on her and no one so much as breathed.
She’s damned either way. Either she silences the opposition and looks weak, or she gives them a chance to poison the well. Lauren’s stomach twinged in commiseration. She sipped some more ginger ale, set the glass on the floor, and looked up to find Judith looking at her.
“Leaf has said that—that there’s a curse on this town because of—because of our history. Things we did, because Mullins told us they were the right things to do. Only later, we found out they weren’t. The right things.” She gestured around the room. “And things like this, like what happened to Jim and his family and what likely happened to Connie, are going to keep happening until we, well, Leaf says ‘effect reparations,’ but that’s just how Leaf talks.” Her composure faltered—she dropped her gaze, tugged at her fingers. “Until we make things right.”
“Who cursed you? Blaine—?” Before Lauren could finish, Waycross waved her quiet.
“Judith.” Waycross pointed to Lauren, voice hushed with dismay. “Amanda Petrie tried to kill her.”
“Yes, Virginia.” Judith raised her head and once more met Lauren’s eye, gentle Judith who had asked whether she should go to the hospital. “I’m saying that maybe she had good reason.” With that, she gathered up her purse and coat, walked to the door, and left. Others followed, well over half the room, bowing their heads to Waycross as they passed. All ignored Lauren, except for Jerome Hoard.
