Old Wounds

by Vicki Lane

  He glanced at his cheap wristwatch. “I have an interview scheduled in a few moments. Was there—”

  “I was hoping that you could tell me how to get in touch with Patricia. I thought I heard she’d moved away.”

  “She did, for a time.” Moon’s face was tragic. “It was my fault; the booze had such a hold on me that she didn’t want me around Krystalle. I don’t blame her anymore. When we divorced she managed to forbid me any contact with my daughter—I haven’t seen Krysty since then. But they moved back to Asheville five or six years ago. You’ve heard her, I’m sure. She went back to her maiden name—Patricia is now Trish Trantham…she dispenses advice daily and nationwide. You know—‘Tell Trish.’”

  10.

  MEMORIES AND MESSAGES

  Sunday, October 9

  “‘Tell Trish’—that’s Patricia?”

  Even Elizabeth, who rarely listened to the radio or read newspapers, had heard of Trish Trantham. Highly in demand as a motivational speaker, Trish Trantham also wrote a weekly column, and her syndicated radio show was a part of the national consciousness—or conscience, some claimed. Blazoned in dashing emerald-green script across the façade of one of the largest spaces in a shopping center in West Asheville, the increasingly familiar logo “Trish Trantham Lifeworks” marked the headquarters of a swiftly expanding empire.

  “That’s Patricia.” Moon stood, looking toward the door. “After the loss, we both made radical changes in our lives. Please let Rosemary know that I’ll be happy to talk with her if it will help. I’m sorry there isn’t more time just now, but I have an appointment.” The door opened and a dark-skinned young girl wearing a short tight skirt, platform heels, and a black bustier stood looking blankly at them. Her face was heavily made up and her garish yellow-dyed hair was braided into neat cornrows.

  “Hey, Moon, I’m here like you said. You want me to…” She jerked her head toward the door.

  “That’s all right, Soledad, these friends are leaving now.” Moon put out his hand. “Elizabeth, it’s been good to see you. Mr. Hawkins, a pleasure to meet you.”

  As the door closed behind them, Elizabeth caught a glimpse of the girl walking into Moon’s outstretched arms.

  The lawn chairs were all still occupied, and as Elizabeth and Phillip made their way back to the jeep, two men left their seats on the lawn and trailed after them. The self-proclaimed Mary Poppins called out, “You been talking to a goddam saint; you remember that!”

  The larger of the two men, a hulking heavyweight, came up beside Phillip and jabbed a sausagelike finger into his arm. “You hear what she said? All of us at Redemption House feel that way. Moon looks after us and we look after him. Don’t want no one comin’ around giving him any trouble, know what I’m sayin’?” Again the finger prodded, deeper and harder.

  Phillip looked up placidly at the dark figure looming above him. “Hey, man, we got no problem here. This lady is an old friend of Moon’s. Relax.”

  “Well, I was a little disappointed,” Elizabeth told Phillip as they drove off. “I thought maybe you’d do some fancy police detective move and flip that big guy over your shoulder when he poked at you.”

  “Sweet Jesus, woman, did you notice that hulk had about five inches and a hundred pounds on me? Who do you think I am—Jackie Chan?” Phillip shot an incredulous glance at her, then grinned. He looks like a man completely at home with himself, she thought. I like that.

  “Nope,” he continued cheerfully. “I’m just not that touchy. I learned a long time ago that touchy people don’t live as long as us mellow types.” He looked back at the throng on the lawn and the bulky figure that still stood on the sidewalk. “Mullins has quite an admiration society there. I believe I’ll ask around—find out what kind of rep this Redemption House has. And who the hell is Trish Trantham?”

  “Phillip, you really don’t know? And I thought I was out of touch with things. Trish Trantham is like…she’s like an advice columnist on steroids. She has a syndicated column and a call-in radio show and—”

  He was staring at her in amused amazement. “You listen to stuff like that? Somehow I wouldn’t have figured you for—”

  “Just now and then—when I’m in the car and I’ve forgotten to bring along a book on tape.” Elizabeth found herself scrambling to explain. “I’d heard of her—there was a lot of controversy because of some very un–politically-correct stands she’s taken. So one day I turned on the radio, looking for classical music, and it was set to AM instead of FM, and there she was. I had no idea she was my ex-neighbor. She takes these very absolute positions, and the thing I find intriguing is that sometimes I completely agree with her and other times I have to turn off the radio, she makes me so mad with her Bible-based authority and her moralizing attitude. It’s a kind of fatal fascination—like trying to understand how someone who seems so sensible in some ways can come across as a total right-wing reactionary in others.

  “But now that I know who she is…” Elizabeth’s jaw tightened and she was silent for a few moments. Phillip waited expectantly, but she didn’t speak, busy with an angry inward rant. That bitch! Ms. Family Values. There she sits calling women sluts and she—

  “Now that you know who she is…” he prompted.

  At last the words came, in a furious eruption. “The woman is a total hypocrite!”

  Phillip looked at her in surprise. “How’s that?”

  She regretted the outburst immediately. And, unwilling to explain the reason for it, she resorted to a vague, “Oh, I guess it’s just the holier-than-thou attitude that comes across. And the narrow-minded certainty thing. You know, ‘God said it; I believe it; that settles it.’ And the fact that when I knew her she wasn’t…particularly…” Her words trailed off lamely.

  “People do change,” Phillip observed, adding, to her annoyance, “Case in point—Moon. From a drunk to a saint.” He plucked the envelope with the Mullins family Christmas card off the dashboard, slid out the photo card, and examined it closely. “He’s healthier-looking now too.” He frowned at the picture. “What about the brother? Is he still around?”

  Elizabeth’s attention was focused on the road. “I doubt it; I think he moved to California. He used to talk about wanting to go to…Big Sur, I think it was.” She concentrated on keeping her face expressionless.

  “I guess Rosemary can find out when she talks to Moon later on.” With a last glance at the family picture, Phillip returned the card to the envelope. “Funny to think…I mean, there they are, all happy together, good-looking bunch of folks. And a couple of years later…it all falls apart. Looking at this picture, you’d say they had everything.”

  He tossed the envelope back on to the dash. “So, what can you tell me about Mike?”

  I could have told him that Mike Mullins was one of the most handsome men I’ve ever seen, that he was well read, witty, caring. I could have said that there was a time that my blood sang whenever Mike Mullins looked at me.

  But, in fact, she had told him none of this. She had muttered a few inanities about Mike’s acting as a role model for Jared, as Moon was a rather detached father. Phillip had not seemed to notice her reluctance to talk about Mike.

  And then I did to Phillip exactly what Rosemary did to me this morning. Just left.

  Realizing that she could not—could not!—discuss Mike Mullins and Patricia—Trish Trantham, for god’s sake!—any further with Phillip, Elizabeth had rapidly concocted an excuse: No, she couldn’t stay in town for dinner as they’d planned earlier; she really needed to…to get back home and close up the chickens. She’d forgotten, there had been a marauding bobcat and she needed to close the chicken house door before dark.

  He gave me such a strange look. As if…as if he was disappointed in me.

  A wave of nausea swept through her body and her eyes blurred. This can’t wait. I owe him honesty. If we…

  Briefly she considered turning back, but then remembering the newly acquired cell phone in her shoulder bag, she pulled to t
he side of the road and stopped. She was nearly home, only a few miles from the bridge that crossed the French Broad at Gudger’s Stand, but it was suddenly an urgent necessity that she speak to Phillip and unsay the lie.

  She stared at the still unfamiliar buttons on the tiny instrument, trying to remember. Recent events had convinced her of the usefulness of a cell phone, and earlier in the week she had made a special trip to Weaverville to buy one. The saleswoman in the cell phone store had made it look laughably easy as she programmed in Elizabeth’s most-often-called numbers. Rapidly demonstrating the various features and modes of use, the woman’s lacquered fingernails had clicked busily on the little keypad as Elizabeth looked on, nodding as if she understood. Now, however, Elizabeth found that she had only the vaguest recollection of how the thing worked.

  Okay, this is the power button. Turn it on. A twiddle of sound, and the little screen lit up. MENU and CONTACTS seemed to be her choice. Dubiously she prodded the tiny button under MENU with her thumbnail. No, that took her to MESSAGES. Over to EXIT. This time she chose CONTACTS. A blue bar highlighted SEARCH.

  Right, that’s what I want to do. Now we’re getting somewhere. She hit the same button and she was back to the choice of MENU or CONTACTS. Shit!

  Angrily, she hit a button at random and found that the screen showed a list of numbers. Okay. And this center square button scrolls the list up or down. Yes, here was Phillip’s home phone. And maybe this little button…To her great amazement and relief, the screen informed her that it was calling the familiar number.

  She put the apparatus to her unaccustomed ear, thrilled to hear Phillip’s phone ringing. There was a click and the voice mail told her to leave a message.

  “Phillip…it’s Elizabeth…. I need to apologize…. I…oh, hell…I need to talk to you. I’ll try your cell.”

  Now to end the call. An experimental prod at a likely button informed her that she was now on a loudspeaker. Baffled, she chose the simple expedient of mashing the power button to turn the phone off.

  The second call went better as she quickly found the combination that led her to the number for Phillip’s cell phone. She waited eagerly, listening for the familiar gravelly voice, anxious to explain herself, but, once again, was forced to leave a message on the voice mail.

  Cursing her own stupidity, she pulled the car back on to the road and continued on her way.

  And then she remembered a question Phillip had asked, a question that she had been unable to answer. “What did your local neighbors think about the girl’s disappearance? What did Miss Birdie think? You’ve told me how sharp she is—how nothing happens without her knowing about it. I’ll bet she had an opinion about what happened.”

  Elizabeth glanced at the car clock—4:53. I can run in for a quick visit and ask what she remembers about that Halloween. Then when I talk to Phillip later, at least I can answer that question.

  Miss Birdie’s little log cabin was halfway between the bridge at Gudger’s Stand and the entrance to Full Circle Farm. It sat on a low knoll surrounded by what, till recently, had been tobacco fields. The end of government price supports for tobacco, as well as the death of her son two years previous, had meant that now, at eighty-three, Miss Birdie was content merely to tend a large garden. A small herd of a neighbor’s cows grazed happily in the former tobacco fields now.

  The plank bridge over Ridley Branch rattled as alarmingly as it always did, but Elizabeth drove across undaunted, noting that the creek was still in full spate after the heavy rains of the week before.

  The little woman was in her kitchen, seated at the formica-topped table, a bowl of cornbread and buttermilk in front of her “Git you a chair, Lizzie Beth.” Her bright blue eyes twinkled. “And git you some of this cornbread and buttermilk.”

  “Just a little, Miss Birdie.” Elizabeth poured herself a small glass of the thick, creamy liquid. Tiny flecks of yellow clung to the sides of the gallon jar. She cut a narrow wedge from the partial cake of cornbread and dipped it into the buttermilk. The gritty, slightly salty bread was perfectly complemented by the smooth, tart buttermilk. Elizabeth smiled.

  “It’s delicious, Miss Birdie. Almost makes me wish I still kept a cow.”

  “Now, hit is good, and that’s the truth. When Louvanda brung it by this mornin’, I told her I was going to make my supper of it. Git you some more, honey.”

  After a few moments of quiet communion as they enjoyed the simple meal, Elizabeth broached the subject of Maythorn Mullins. Miss Birdie laid down her spoon and fixed Elizabeth with a steady gaze.

  “And you say your Rosemary’s a-wantin’ to find out the truth of it?” Birdie’s wrinkled face held some unreadable expression—was it sorrow or anger? “Well, I believe hit’s about time someone does, don’t you? That was a terrible thing—terrible fer them folks what lost their little girl and might near as bad for them folks what got fingers pointed at ’em, saying they might of knowed something about it.”

  The old woman’s voice quavered. “Lizzie Beth, honey, don’t you remember? Back then, they was folks thought my boy Cletus might have done away with that little girl. I believe they’s still some that think it.”

  How could I have forgotten? I guess I was as bad as Rosemary—just wanting to blank out that whole year. But now that Miss Birdie reminded me—now I remember.

  Maythorn’s disappearance had ignited the latent distrust that existed between some portions of the newcomer and local communities—what had been a gently smoldering perception of deep differences had burst into flame, threatening to divide the two groups forever.

  In the weeks and months following the girl’s disappearance, families and groups had taken sides. Native-born residents tended to believe that some outsider had come in and kidnapped the child, hopeful of squeezing a big ransom from the wealthy family. “Just seems to me like that’s what it had to be,” Miss Birdie had said. “And then somethin’ bad happened—like with that pore little Lindbergh baby.”

  Among the newcomers, however, a different mind-set emerged. A local man who had previously been warned against trespassing on the Mullins’ property had been taken into custody, questioned, and exonerated. Then, Patricia Mullins, desperate and distraught, had told anyone who would listen that “It had to be that half-wit who roams the woods all the time.” Evidently, Maythorn had mentioned encountering Cletus and, with visions cobbled together from Deliverance and some B horror movie, Patricia had accused Miss Birdie’s simpleminded son of murder.

  Nothing had come of it—beyond a great deal of bad feeling. There had been no evidence whatsoever to link Cletus to Maythorn’s disappearance, but still there were those in the newcomer community who muttered to one another in undertones at the sight of Cletus roaming the woods with his shotgun. Indeed, several families who moved away gave the unsolved case as their reason for doing so. “That, and a sheriff who would let a half-wit wander around with a shotgun in the first place.”

  Sam and Elizabeth had ignored these whispers, believing in Cletus’s innocence. And, after a few years, the entire event had been forgotten. Cletus continued to range the woods. And no more young girls vanished.

  Remembering that unpleasant episode had done nothing to lift Elizabeth’s spirits. She trudged wearily up her steps. First, I’ll try to call Phillip. She ignored the three dogs, eager for their dinner and whining anxiously as she entered the house. Instead, she made straight for the telephone in the little office.

  She felt a surge of delighted expectation as she saw the blinking light on the answering machine. Eagerly she touched the PLAY button to retrieve the message.

  “This here is Bib Maitland, that pore ignorant redneck what you called the law on when I weren’t doin’ nothing but huntin’ on land what had belonged to my woman’s family, time out of mind. I just wanted you to know I done a little askin’ round about you and yore family.”

  There was an ugly chuckle. The menacing voice continued. “Well, what do you know? Come to find out your man done got hisself kill
ed in a airplane wreck. Now, ain’t that too bad. There you are, ’thout no man to look after you. S’posin’ I was to pay you a little visit one of these nights—”

  Without waiting to hear the rest, Elizabeth’s finger stabbed the ERASE button. Then she went to her bedroom and took Sam’s gun from its hiding place.

  11.

  WAITING GAME

  Sunday, October 9

  Phillip yawned, checked his watch again, and shifted restlessly behind the steering wheel. The flight must have been delayed. That, or there was trouble. He scanned the short-term parking lot but there was no sign of the man he had been so urgently summoned to meet.

  Seems like he would have called—Dammit, did I leave my cell off? Phillip yanked the phone from his belt, powered it on, and tapped the keys impatiently. The screen lit up and at once he saw that there were two messages from Elizabeth. Well, Ms. Goodweather…got those biddies safely off to bed? He stared at the screen, fighting the annoyance he felt at the memory of Elizabeth’s inexplicable retreat. This game is beginning to get damn tedious…and goddam frustrating.

  The sudden vibration of the instrument in his hand startled him and he barked a peremptory “Hawkins” as he keyed the CALL button.

  “I’m here.” The voice from the past was low, but eerily familiar. “Are you in the vehicle and location he told me?”

  “Yeah, I’m—”

  “Thirty seconds.”

  The call ended and Phillip peered into the halogen-lighted gloom to see a tall figure in dark trousers and a black windbreaker striding briskly toward his car. There was a quick triple tap at the window, an ID was pressed briefly against the glass, and Phillip unlocked the door.