Chapter Nineteen
Fargo, Skeeter, and Jethro showed up at the house a couple of hours later, toting brown paper bags from the Piggly Wiggly. I watched them unload chips, pretzels, ice cream, frozen dinners, and soda pop, and snagged a beer from the case Skeeter set on the counter. I popped it open, taking a good, long swallow. It tasted cool and refreshing, and was just what I needed. I sat down at the table, and stretched my legs out.
"How's Hank?" Jethro asked, cracking one open for himself.
"Good. Sleeping. Didn't even eat lunch first. He dozed right off," I answered, just as Fargo turned on the radio, futzing with the dial until he found a country station playing the latest Toby Keith shit-kicker. "Whoa, let's keep the noise down to a dull roar. I want him to sleep a while longer. Poor thing is tuckered out."
"S'okay. I'm up."
We turned to see Hank standing in the doorway. I rushed to lead him to a chair. "What are you doing up already? The doctor said--"
"He said to rest, Beaver. Not slip into a coma. I'm fine," Hank said, swatting at my hand. He reached over and tried to grab the bag of potato chips, but I was faster. I snatched it away, tossing it across the room to Fargo.
"None for you, Hank. You know better than that. No fried crap, no junk food. If'n you're hungry, I'll go fetch your sandwich from the bedroom."
"I ate it already, and you're not my mama, Beaver," he harrumphed, settling into a chair. He looked a little pale to me, but otherwise, all right.
"Well, somebody's got to be. Ain't gonna let you finish clogging your arteries with that shit," I shot back.
"So, y'all are just going to sit around and eat chips and drink beer in front of me?"
"We ain't the ones who had the heart attack," I said, but I felt guilty just the same, and handed my beer off to Fargo.
"I'm only playing with you, Beaver. You go on and have a beer. Lord knows you deserve it after everything I put you through the last couple three days," Hank said with a smile. He motioned for Fargo to give me back the beer, but I shook my head.
"Nah, I'm done. Ain't it time for your meds, Hank?" I got up and grabbed the pharmacy bag from the counter. I pulled out three fat pill bottles, and one thin one, squinting as I tried to read the labels. "Which ones do you take after lunch?"
"The little pink ones," Hank replied, reaching for the medicine bottles. He popped the lid off the skinny bottle, and shook out a tiny pink pill onto his palm. "So, what did you boys drop by for? Just to visit? Y'all just saw me last night at the hospital."
"Um, Hank, I said, putting the meds back on the counter, "I invited Fargo, Skeeter, and Jethro to stay with us a few days."
"What for?" Hank asked, looking surprised. "Not that I mind the company, but I'll probably go to bed early, and be sleeping late, and Beaver needs to rest, too. We already decided not to open Outland for a couple of weeks."
The boys and I exchanged guilty looks. I still hadn't told Hank the whole truth about what Loughman told me in the hospital. Hank saw immediately that I was holding something back.
"What's going on, Beaver? What ain't you telling me?" He gave me the look, the one that told me I'd better fess up or else. I never really found out what the "else" part was, since I'd always been smart enough to give in when his eyebrow quirked, and he got that look in his eye.
I was saved from telling him the truth -- yet again -- by the doorbell. Thinking it was Shelby Joe, or one of the Petes, I told Hank to hold that thought and went off to answer the door.
The man standing on the other side of the door wasn't any of the people I thought it might be. It was Detective Loughman, and he didn't look happy, not one bit. His face was stern, his mouth set in a grim line. He yanked open the screen door, and brushed past me into the living room. "Oh, officer, do come in," I said sarcastically, although acid was already beginning to churn in my stomach. His visit couldn't mean anything besides more trouble.
"When were you boys going to tell me about your little YouTube video?" he asked as soon as I'd closed the door and turned to face him.
"I didn't think it was going to be a problem," I said. "We weren't getting any help from the local police, so we--"
"Going into that church like you did was stupid and dangerous, Beaver! What were you thinking? That it was going to be like the cop shows on TV? That Bellows was going to throw his hands up in the air and confess? Why didn't you tell me about it before? I told you I was investigating Ashley Wills' death as a homicide, and all the while, there you are on the Internet, baiting our primary suspects!"
"What's going on in here?" Hank asked from the living room doorway. "Detective Loughman? What are you doing here?"
"He came to ream me a new asshole for not telling him about the goddamn YouTube video, that's what," I said. "Now he's finished, and he's going to be leaving." I motioned toward the door, but Loughman stood firm. He wasn't through with me yet.
"After what I told you about the local police, didn't you think that fucking video might push them over the edge, Beaver? Shit, you just about got Bellows to admit they were behind Fargo's beating! It doesn't take a genius to figure out the connection between Fargo and Ashley, Beaver. They're going to come after you for sure now."
"Who's going to come after us? What's he talking about, Beaver?" Hank asked, looking back and forth between Loughman and me.
I pointed to the sofa. "Sit down, Hank." When he didn't move, I grabbed his arm and forced him to take a seat. "I mean it, right now."
I glanced at Loughman, frowning. "I didn't tell Hank everything. I didn't want to worry him more than necessary, but I guess I have no choice now, thanks to you." I turned to Hank. "You already know that Detective Loughman thinks somebody on the local police force is either covering for Bellows and Matthews, or was in on Fargo's beating, and maybe Ashley's murder, too, but there's more. Fargo's medical charts are missing from the hospital, and the cops told Loughman there was no record of Fargo having been beaten. Told him some cockamamie story about Fargo falling while shingling our roof."
"What?" Hank sputtered, sitting back against the cushions of the couch as if shoved there by an invisible hand. "That's a lie!"
"I know it," I said. "Now just breathe deep, Hank, and don't let yourself get upset. Loughman is afraid the murderers may panic now that the county's looking into Ashley's death, and might try to come after us. I didn't tell you because I didn't want you to worry on it, and I asked the boys to stay with us a few days because I thought we'd be safer if we were together."
"That's the one smart move you've made," Loughman said. "Now, I do have some good news. We pulled fingerprints off the watch Ashley was wearing when he was killed, and some fibers that don't seem to match his clothing. I sent everything in to forensics, and should have a report any day. It's not much, but it's a start. I also found a couple of kids who said they'd seen hunters in that area of Crow Lake in the early morning hours of the day Ashley was killed. I'm going to follow up on that, too. Even if they aren't involved, the hunters might've seen something."
"That's good," Hank said. "What can we do, Detective?"
"For now, y'all need to stay put. Don't talk to anybody, and for God's sake, don't make any more videos! I'd tell you take the one you got there down, but it's already been on TV. Everybody and his brother is talking about it."
"I know!" Skeeter piped up. "It's got over fifty thousand hits since they showed it on the news."
I rolled my eyes, and told Skeeter to hush. "Thanks for coming to tell us this, Detective, and I'm sorry I didn't mention the video. In all fairness, we made it before we knew anyone was going to try to help us, and before we found out about Ashley. We were at our wits' end and thought we could get Bellows to back off."
"I know. That's the only reason I'm not arresting your ass for interfering with a police investigation," Loughman said sternly, but then his lips curled in a half-smile. I realized he was impressed by our ballsy act, even if he wouldn't say so. "Remember what I said. Stay inside, and if there's the slightes
t sign of trouble, you call me, not the locals. You still have my card?"
"Yes, sir," I answered. "It's in my wallet."
"Leave it by the phone, just in case." He turned to Hank. "Glad to see you're feeling better. Have a good night, boys."
I have to give credit where it's due. Hank showed tremendous restraint. He waited a good thirty seconds after the door closed behind Loughman to start in on me.
"When in the hell were you going to tell me about all this, Beaver?" he hissed, pushing himself up off the couch. His face reddened, and I knew I had to get him to relax quick, or he'd be right back where he was the night before, in the hospital with an IV in his arm and a nasal cannula shoved up his nose.
"Calm your ass down, Hank! I was just going to tell you when Loughman showed up," I yelled, forcing him to sit back down. "Please, I spent enough time this year sitting next to a hospital bed, and don't need to be there again tonight!"
He looked away, chewing on the inside of his cheek, and I knew he was struggling to keep hold of his temper. It took him a good, long while, but when he finally turned back to me, he was calmer. "That's it, then? Are you sure there's nothing else you need to tell me?"
"No. That's it. I swear," I said, feeling relieved as I watched his color fade to a more normal shade. I noticed everyone else sag in relief, and realized they'd been on edge, either waiting for Hank to have another heart attack, or me to have my first one.
"Well, I'm hungry," Jethro said, slapping me on the back. "What's for lunch, Beaver?"
"Whatever you can find in the fridge," I answered, grateful for the change of subject. "Go on and help yourselves."
"Leave me a beer," Hank called as they trooped out of the living room into the kitchen.
"Yeah," I said. "He can drink it in about six months." I laughed as Hank stuck his tongue out at me, and knew then that I'd been forgiven.
I sat down next to him, slinging an arm around his shoulders and pulling him close. "I'm sorry, hon, but I couldn't tell you before," I said once we were alone. "I couldn't risk it. Lord, Hank, I nearly lost you that day! All I wanted was for you to get better, so's I could bring your fine ass home."
"I know it. Just bothers the hell out of me that you got to be so protective all the time, Beaver. I'm not a child. I can handle it. Still, I know you only kept it from me because you care."
"That's the God's honest truth, hon." I kissed him, and gave him a squeeze. "Everything's going to be okay, now. I'll bet Bellows and Matthews and whoever's helping them are shitting their britches trying to figure out how to get out of the mess they're in. Loughman will come through for us, you'll see."
"Sure, sure. You're right, Beaver, I know you are," he said. I felt him shiver, and tightened my arm around him, hoping with all my heart his faith in me wasn't misplaced.
More than anything, I hoped if the shit hit the fan, I'd be the one standing right in front of the blades, and that I could protect Hank, even if it meant getting covered from my earlobes to my insoles with crap.
Chapter Twenty
A full week passed without any problems, while we stayed holed up in the house like a warren of frightened rabbits. No threatening letters, no shots fired at the house in the dark, not even a hang-up call. No calls from Loughman either, though, which worried me a mite. I kept hoping the evidence he'd talked about would be enough for him to make arrests, and we'd feel safe again. For the first two or three days, I jumped every time the wind scraped a branch across the window, and saw ominous shapes in the shadows that didn't exist.
Hank finally talked some sense into me. Said not even Bellows and Matthews were stupid enough to come after us now, not when they knew Loughman was investigating Ashley's murder. He made sense, and I stopped being so skittish, although I couldn't keep myself from peeking past the shades every now and then, like an old woman spying on her neighbors.
Skeeter checked the YouTube video almost constantly, as if he were addicted to watching the numbers go up, and reading the comments left by viewers. Who knows? Maybe he was. Then again, aside from the television, which wasn't exactly dependable -- for most of the day all we had to choose from were soap operas or children's cartoons -- we didn't have all that much to do. We played poker mostly, until Hank complained we'd rub the suits off the cards if we played one more hand. No sooner had he said that than Skeeter was back at the computer, pulling up the video again.
The problem with reading the posts was that not all of the comments were positive. Some were pretty vulgar, and some, downright scary.
"Don't let the bastards get away with it!" he read. "From somebody calls themselves BirdDog723. Sounds like our kind of folks," he added. "Nobody deserves to get beat on. That's from BirmingMan332. Oh, Lordy. Listen to this one: Hope you all rot in hell. Anonymous. There's this one, too: Fags should be castrated. Anonymous. Figures, right? How come nobody signs the nasty posts?" We watched Skeeter as he deleted those last two comments.
"If I wrote that kind of shit, I wouldn't sign it either," Fargo said.
"Some folk got nothing better to do than spread their hate," Jethro remarked, reaching over Skeeter's shoulder and powering down the computer. "That's enough of that. It's fucking depressing."
"Hey!" Skeeter said, trying to get his finger on the button to turn it back on. "Don't be messing with a man's hardware, Jethro!"
"Give it a break for a while, Skeeter," Hank put in. It was nearly eight o'clock in the evening, too early to get ready for bed, and too late for an after-dinner nap. "Put the television on. We should be able to get something in besides Sesame Street and As the World Turns at this hour."
We were in luck. There were two stations coming in fairly clearly with a minimal amount of snow. One was showing The African Queen, with Humphrey Bogart and Katherine Hepburn, while the other was broadcasting a rerun of I Love Lucy, the one where Lucy and Ethel go to work in the candy factory. Either choice was fine by me, so I settled back in the recliner near the window, content to push back, put my feet up, and let the others argue over which channel to watch.
Skeeter and Fargo were pushing for Lucy, while Jethro and Hank were pulling for Bogart and Hepburn. I was the deciding vote, and of course, cast it with Hank. Before long, we were watching a very scruffy looking Bogart (who, in my opinion, was rough-looking enough without the scruff) banter with a gravelly-voiced Hepburn on a slow, steamy river in the jungles of Africa.
I don't know what made me pull aside the shade and look out into the yard toward Outland, but I did. Maybe it was intuition, my touch of second sight, or maybe I heard something that only registered in my subconscious. Maybe I was just being that nosy old woman again. Doesn't matter. When I peered out the window into the darkness, my eye was caught by a strange, orangey glow in the area where the Outland Bar stood. I knew immediately what it was and felt all the blood in my body drain into my feet.
"Holy sweet Christ on a cross!" I yelled, pushing the foot of the recliner down with a swift jerk of my legs, and jumping to my feet. "I think Outland's on fire!" I was up and running for the door before anyone else even realized what is was I'd said. "Fargo! Call the fire department! Skeeter, grab the fire extinguisher from under the kitchen sink!" I called from over my shoulder.
Hank moved before anyone else, taking a couple of steps in my direction as I pulled the front door open. "Oh, Hell no!" I yelled, spinning around and stabbing a finger at him. "All I need is for you to get a lungful of smoke, Hank. You stay here. Jethro, come on. I need help hauling the hose over there!"
I didn't wait to see if Hank obeyed me or not -- I'd hoped he'd have the sense to stay inside, away from the smoke. I pushed through the screen door and outside with Jethro right behind me.
We could smell it as soon as we stepped onto the porch. It was a wood-fire smell, and reminded me of the bonfires my daddy used to light when I was a kid. Every fall when he cleared brush from our land, he'd stack all the loose branches and leaves into a pile and set 'em ablaze. It was too dark to see the smoke, but I knew it wo
uld be there, dark gray fingers curling, like a fist trying to get a good grip on the earth.
I heard it, too, soft crackling and popping sounds, reminding me of a roaring fire in a hearth in the dead quiet of winter. The orange glow was getting brighter by the minute. I imagined flames inside Outland, eating up the bar me and Hank built, the stage, and the old jukebox, chewing them up and shitting out ashes.
"Come on!" I said to Jethro. I didn't bother with the stairs, just jumped down over them and hit the ground running. The hose was curled up on the left hand side of the house, and I silently said a prayer of thanks that I'd been wise enough to buy a couple hundred extra feet of hose. It would never have reached Outland otherwise. I twisted the valve, grabbed the nozzle and started running toward Outland, yanking the hose along with me. Jethro stayed behind, unwinding the hose, feeding me the slack.
Outland Page 17
