by Ninie Hammon
Daniel accepted the card wordlessly. Then Kendrick gestured toward the far end of the parking garage. “There’s a cabstand on that end. If you don’t have cash, they take plastic.” He paused. “Good luck, Daniel.” But he didn’t offer to shake Daniel’s hand, just turned with the effortless grace of a big cat, and headed off toward the nearest row of cars.
CHAPTER 17
2011
Theresa let Becca sleep on Sunday morning long as she wanted to. The scrawny woman who’d come out of the bathroom after her shower last night had looked like a kitten got dropped in a puddle—hair all spiky like, sticking out all over. And on a clean face you could see the huge circles under her eyes and how pale her skin was. Theresa’d actually tucked her in bed in her spare bedroom in the basement like she was a little girl. She left the bedside lamp on when she turned to go, but Becca stopped her.
“Would you turn it off, please,” she said. “I…I’ve never liked a light on beside the bed.”
Theresa was tired, too, had dragged herself out of bed Sunday morning, her old back aching so bad from sitting in the car the day before that she had to put on her “cookie sheet corset.” She’d hurt her back years ago, had almost got trampled to death by a mob—at a funeral home! Bishop’d had to rush her to a hospital in Louisville the next day where they’d done some kind of back surgery. She’d had trouble with her back ever since. A couple of years ago, a doctor had given her a brace to stabilize it, but it wasn’t near stiff enough once she’d got it wound around her big belly. Bishop had fixed it, though, added three little steel struts attached to a small piece of metal to it, and she’d told him his contraption looked like a cookie sheet. He’d got right tickled, but his laugh’d been gentle, like it always was, only poking fun, never being hurtful.
She put on her black dress over it—the one she’d worn to Bishop’s service—humming the song they’d sung that day. A Mighty Fortress is Our God. Bishop had liked that part about “a bulwark never failing.” Theresa’d always been gonna look up “bulwark” and see exactly what it did mean but had never got around to it.
The memorial service for Miss Minnie and Mr. Gerald was as dark and gray as the wet day. Theresa sat in the back so she could slip out, didn’t figure the family’d appreciate her showing up at the brunch they’s having in the church basement after. But the couple’s other daughter—the nicer one who didn’t live in Florida—stopped her at the door before she had a chance to leave.
“Stella’s going to have their dog put to sleep,” she said without preamble. “I don’t think my parents would have wanted it…to die. Would you take it?”`
Theresa was too surprised to say anything.
“It’s in their backyard. Stella tied it to a tree.”
In the rain?
“If you want it, you’ll have to go get it right now while the family’s having brunch.”
Translate that: Stella don’t know I’m doin’ this.
Then the woman hurried away.
A dog? Me?
But Miss Minnie and Mr. Gerald did love that mutt, and Theresa couldn’t very well let their harpy daughter kill it! Well, she’d just have to go get it, take it home with her and then take it to the animal shelter tomorrow where they could find it a good home.
Rescuing Biscuit was actually easier than Theresa was afraid it was gonna be. Gratefully, the rain had let up so only her feet got soaked, and soon’s she opened the back gate, that poor old wet dog started wagging its tail and yappin’.
Somebody’d ought to tie Stella out in the rain!
She reached down and unhooked the leash from his collar, and Biscuit started running around and around her in circles, and when she opened her car door, he hopped right in, sat down on her backseat and filled the car with wet dog stink. Well, she’d smelled worse things—lots of worse things.
On her way home, Theresa stopped for dog food and to get something for Becca to wear—she’d thrown Becca’s clothes in the trash. Dang near crippled her to walk around Walmart in them wet high-heeled shoes that pinched her bunion. The second Biscuit hopped out of the car in Theresa’s garage, the dog did one of those doggie full-body shakes to get the water out of his fur. And it occurred to her that he’d been sitting there in the car soaked to the skin ever since she’d picked him up…so had he waited to do that shaking thing so’s he wouldn’t mess up her car? Did dogs do things like that? She’d intended to leave the dog in the garage, but when she went to get a bowl for his dog food, Becca was standing in the kitchen and spotted him. Her face lit up like a kid on Christmas morning.
“What’s his name?” she asked.
“Biscuit. He’s right flaky.”
Becca dropped to her knees on the kitchen floor, and the dog padded right up to her. She flung her arms around him, didn’t care that he was wet. With her face buried in his fur, she whispered, “I had a dog once. His name was DD.”
******
1985
Daniel had not spoken to Becca about what had happened in the woods three days before. And he wanted to, was desperate to. But he hadn’t seen her since then. Bishop and Theresa’s Bible study on Thursday had been canceled because Theresa had been “feeling poorly,” which they’d all learned was code for “upset about Isaac.” This morning, when she and Jack had shown up at the flagpole in front of the courthouse, she’d looked so fragile, like blown glass, and he was afraid to do anything to upset her or she might shatter right there before his eyes. So they rode to the park, and nobody mentioned what had happened to them. They all were aware that nobody was mentioning it, too, which made it awkward. They’d never been awkward with each other, but when they got off their bikes, they walked along in strained silence.
Daniel and Jack had talked about it to each other, of course, for hours. During their walk to Bernard Tackett’s house—which, oh by the way, was closer to three miles away from the Melody Creek Rest Area than two—they had worn the subject out—and none of it made sense.
There were any number of reasons why the six Brewster Academy boys had been in the woods. Maybe they’d been hunting ginseng like he and Jack and Becca, or they’d gone to swing on the huge grapevines near Castle Rock or to catch frogs in Miller’s Pond or crawdads in the creek. But what possible reason was there for them to snatch up Becca and run off with her? What were they planning to do with her? He and Jack had quickly dismissed the most obvious explanation—partly because they couldn’t bear to think of such a thing!—but mostly because it didn’t fit the circumstances. If that’s what they intended to do, they’d certainly had time and opportunity enough right there in the woods. Why drag her off with them? No, it was something else. And whatever it was, Bishop understood it, but didn’t share that understanding with him or Jack.
Daniel shot a glance at Becca as she walked beside him across the soccer fields to the tennis courts where they liked to knock the ball back and forth across the net—not real tennis. Mikey Rutherford was probably waiting for them there since he invariably showed up wherever they went. Mikey was an ok kid, and Daniel felt sorry for him because he was fat and people teased him about it, but his constant chatter could be as annoying as a buzzing fly
Suddenly, Becca’s eyes got wide. He followed her gaze to an oak tree where six boys were lounging lazily around the trunk. The Bad Kids—that’s what the boys from Brewster had become in his head. Daniel faltered, slowing his step at the sight of them. But Jack and Becca forged ahead as though they’d seen nothing, and he quickly caught up.
“Well, hello, hello, hello,” said Walter Stephenson. Daniel knew all their names now. He and Jack had looked them up on the team roster that had a school picture of each player. Walter and Ronnie Martin had the cuffs of their pants rolled up tight around their ankles and Walter had a bandanna tied around one leg above the knee. Brewster Academy was for rich kids. They always had the latest whatever, and dressed in fashions the public school kids only saw on Friday Night Videos. Roger Willingham reached over to a boombox the size of a steamer tru
nk and punched a button, and "Iron Man" by Black Sabbath blasted out the speakers.
“Who do we have here?” Cole Stuart said.
In movements too swift to be normal, the boys suddenly surrounded them. They seemed…different…in a way Daniel couldn’t define. They were definitely cleaner than they’d been in the woods. They didn’t stink, but there was also a …civilized…quality that’d been totally missing in the wild animals they’d encountered in the woods. They seemed almost…restrained, somehow.
Cole Stuart poked a finger in Daniel’s chest, and it felt like he’d been stabbed.
“The good…” He turned to Jack and poked his chest. “The bad…” He turned to Becca. “And the ugly!”
Daniel felt Jack tense beside him. When they all burst into raucous laughter, Jack launched himself at Cole, caught him in the chest and knocked him down. Jack knew exactly what he was getting into, and he flat-out didn’t care. Never had Daniel admired Jack’s brazen courage more than he did at that moment. Cole hit the ground with Jack on top of him, and Jack landed a good solid punch in Cole’s face. His nose squirted blood.
Then Cole flung him off. From flat on his back on the ground, Cole launched Jack into the air, and he landed fifteen feet away. The other boys picked Jack up and tossed him like a rag doll back into the dirt in front of Cole, who grabbed him by the hair with one hand and lifted him up so their eyes were level. Then Cole slammed a hammer blow into Jack’s belly. Jack groaned and Cole hit him again.
“Leave him alone!” Daniel heard his voice speak words before he had a chance to form them, but they were the right words and he stood by them. Cole let go of Jack, and he collapsed in a heap.
“You want some of this?” Cole snarled.
The image of Jack’s courage was fresh in his mind. “If you think you can take me, yeah.”
Cole swung at him, but Daniel managed to dodge most of the force of it, just catching a glancing blow to the cheek. But even that was staggering, and he fell backwards—into the waiting arms of Roger Willingham and Ronnie Martin, who had circled around behind him. They suspended Daniel by his arms between them, and Cole homed in on him.
Jack lurched off the ground at Cole, and Cole backhanded him, knocking him flat. Victor Alexander and Jacob Dumas, the two boys not holding Daniel, attacked Jack, kicking and stomping him, and he curled into a ball in the dirt to protect his head.
“Stop it!” Becca cried. “That’s enough.”
What happened next must have been a product of the ringing in Daniel’s head because it seemed to him that Becca’s voice changed somehow. She spoke with a power and authority it was hard to envision coming out the mouth of the frail little girl.
Everyone froze. Time itself seemed to falter. The two boys holding Daniel’s arms let go so suddenly that Daniel collapsed, a beanbag in the dirt. He and Jack both squinted up at Becca from the ground, the sun in their eyes. Daniel knew with the kind of certainty that belongs only to absolute truth, that there existed nowhere else in the world a girl as beautiful as Becca Hawkins.
“Leave, all of you,” she said. “Go!”
“And if we don’t?” Cole slathered the words in contempt, but there was no power in them. Just a blowhard hurling an empty threat. It was meaningless, and even he seemed to know it.
Jack rolled over and staggered up, then reached out a hand and helped Daniel to his feet, too.
“Let’s go,” Cole said. “Gotta be careful. Can’t hurt anybody. Can’t leave a mark.”
All the others turned to leave, too, except the blond kid, whose bottom lip stuck out as if he were pouting. Jacob Dumas spit in the dirt and took a step toward Jack, his eyes open way too wide.
“Uh-uh. I’m gonna get me some dark meat.”
Cole was on him in a second, grabbed his arm and spun him around.
“You’re not—!”
That’s all Cole got out before Dumas attacked him with stunning brutality. And instantly they were at each other—all restraint gone—biting and hitting and kicking like animals. The others joined in the fray, either trying to drag them apart or getting in their own licks. The savageness was stunning, as was the ferocity and strength of the combatants. Blood and hunks of hair flew. A boy was launched six feet into the air—amid grunts and sounds like growls.
Daniel found himself backing away with Becca and Jack at his side. They’d been totally forgotten in the spontaneous combustion that set the group of boys against each other.
When Jack turned to Becca, Daniel saw on Jack’s face the same adoration that must have been painted on his own. Adoration mixed with awe and wonder now.
At church on Sunday, Daniel was sporting a glowing shiner from his second encounter with the Bad Kids, and Bishop wanted to know how he’d gotten it.
“Same fist, different day,” he said.
Bishop’s eyes widened, but he was most interested in hearing about how Becca had…well, done whatever it was she’d done. Daniel picked up on the delight his description of that part painted on Bishop’s face.
“You understand more than you’re telling Jack and me, don’t you? How could Becca…?”
There was a sudden commotion in the vestibule in the front of the church. First a scream, and then a clamor of upset voices. Then Marty Pritchard pushed his way through the crowd, searching the remaining people in the sanctuary for—
“Dr. Clements,” Marty called out when he spotted a tall, balding man in the far aisle. “Can you come—Mrs. Milligan—I think she’s had a heart attack. Ken’s calling an ambulance.”
The doctor hurried away and information slowly washed back down the crowd exiting the church.
“A hog snake, musta been three feet long…”
“It’s hog nose snake, and the poor woman almost stepped on it.”
“What’s a snake doing on the church steps?”
“Somebody musta put it there.”
“What kinda person’d do a thing like that?”
Daniel looked at Bishop. The big man was thinking the same thing he was.
CHAPTER 18
2011
It was going on ten o’clock on Monday morning and Becca hadn’t stirred, though Theresa’d heard the kitchen door open and close right after sunup, so she must have taken the dog out to do its business. Theresa smiled at the way them two had took to each other. Guess she wouldn’t be taking the dog to the animal shelter after all. Biscuit had spent the night on the floor beside Becca’s bed. And besides, Theresa was getting right fond of the fur ball her own self.
When the doorbell rang, she figured it was that package of flower seeds she’d ordered. She’d been expecting it for a week.
What she found on the other side of the screen was something else she’d been expecting instead.
“Are you Theresa Washington?” asked one of the two police officers who stood at her door.
That fool knew full well who she was. And she’d have told him that, but all the spit suddenly dried up in her mouth and she couldn’t say nothing, only nodded.
“Theresa Washington, you are under arrest for the murders of Gerald and Minerva Cohen. You have the right to…”
Theresa’s heart started to pound like a cook whacking on a pot with a spoon to call the hands to supper. She heard “arrest” and “murder” and “attorney.”
Attorney!
“I want to call my lawyer,” she bleated, sounding every bit as scared and desperate as she felt.
The officer let her get the business card Daniel’d given her that she’d stuck to the refrigerator door with a magnet. She called the number, and Jeff Kendrick’s secretary told Theresa she’d give him a message. She scribbled a note for Becca that she left on the table by the front door. Then the first officer took her arm, turned her around and fastened cold, steel handcuffs on her wrists.
“What? You think I’m gone make a run for it?”
He said nothing, merely propelled her down the sidewalk toward the police cruiser parked in her driveway. “If I’s to run, t
hey’d have earthquakes in California.”
When the car pulled away from her house, Theresa started to cry, but softly so the officers in the front seat couldn’t hear.
They fingerprinted her.
They took her picture—front and side views.
They removed her jewelry—earrings, a necklace and a watch. Her wedding band was sunk so deep in her flesh if they wanted it they was gonna have to cut her finger off to get it. And they took her belt—you know, so’s she wouldn’t decide to hang herself with it.
And then they put her in a jail cell. Ok, technically it wasn’t no jail. Only had two cells. It was a “holding facility” attached to the police station, but if the real thing looked, felt or stunk any worse than this, she could understand why they took prisoners’ belts away.
Wasn’t no lonelier sound in the whole world that the bang of a jail cell clanging shut.
And then it was quiet, and she was alone. No, not alone.
She spoke aloud. She always prayed out loud.
He’s got his armies coming after us now, Lord. And I’m so scared I ain’t gonna have a solid bowel movement for the rest of this week! I need help.
She forced herself to look around at the unrelenting gray of the cell’s walls/ceiling/floor/furniture, needed to come to terms with the reality of it. ’Less God intervened, she was gonna spend the rest of her life locked up in a place like this. Wasn’t no jury in the world would find her not guilty! Shoot, she’d convict her own self based on the evidence they was gonna hear.
Her lip began to tremble, and she bit down hard, determined not to cry for fear she might not be able to stop.
I know the Apostle Paul was locked away in a place a whole lot worse than this so I ain’t got no room to complain. But…please—
