Old Wounds

by Vicki Lane

  “Rosemary and I went for a walk after seeing Trish Trantham and we talked about things. We talked about Rosemary’s shutting me out back then, just as I had, in a way, shut her out. Of course, I felt, and still feel, that I was protecting her.” Elizabeth made a small, rueful sound. “In a weird way, that was her reasoning: she couldn’t tell me how she felt about Cletus because she knew I liked him.”

  “And now that she has told you, do you think there could be any truth in it? In your opinion, was Cletus capable of murder?” Phillip’s arm was still around her and his voice remained carefully neutral.

  Elizabeth sighed heavily. “I don’t know. My gut feeling is that Cletus would never have hurt anyone. And back then when people pointed fingers at him, Sam and I just saw it as ignorant prejudice. But now I’m thinking that maybe we were just as prejudiced for him as others were against him. I never even considered it as a possibility, that he could have done something like that.”

  “Motive, means, and opportunity,” Phillip mused. “He would have had the last two, easy—didn’t you say he always roamed the woods and always carried a shotgun?”

  “He did. And a lot of the time Maythorn roamed the same woods all alone. But motive…Now, that’s where my mind stops working. I can’t imagine Cletus—you never knew him, but he was so gentle—I just can’t imagine him hurting anyone.”

  Phillip stood to put another log on the fire. The dogs, who had been basking by the hearth, roused and moved away, James to the pillow in the rocking chair and Ursa and Molly to Elizabeth’s bedroom. At last, almost to himself, Phillip said, “But what if it was an accident—say he thought he was shooting at a deer or something. You said the girls were always slipping around, trying to be invisible. What if he shot Maythorn accidentally and then—”

  Elizabeth sat bolt upright. “He would have been terrified. There was always a threat that he might be institutionalized if Miss Birdie couldn’t look after him. He knew about that and he probably had enough sense to realize that this was big trouble.”

  A memory—Miss Birdie sitting on the porch and laughing about what she had found under Cletus’s bed. Law, you wouldn’t believe the plunder that boy has hid from me under his bed. Things he’s broke or spiled some way. Now, you know I ain’t never raised a hand to him, and that’s the truth, but he purely hates for me to know he’s made a mistake of ary kind.

  Oncet hit was a baby groundhog he hid under the bed—dead as a hammer. I knowed they was something there by the smell. Well, I skirmished around with the broom till I got it out. I tell you what’s the truth, tore-up books and broken clocks is one thing, but corpses is another.

  So I called Cletus in and asked him right stern how come that groundhog to be there, and the pore boy just busted out cryin’. Said he found the baby wanderin’ around and there was sign that dogs had killed its mama. You know Cletus is plumb foolish about young uns of ary kind. So he put the baby in his poke and brung it home. Only when he got here and come to take hit out, hit was dead. I don’t know if it smothered or just died of fright like wild things kin do. Everwhat, Cletus got skeered hit was his doin’ and he hid it.

  Ay law, Lizzie Beth, he was all to pieces over that corpse. I didn’t have the heart to scold him.

  Elizabeth looked at Phillip. “I have to admit, it’s a possible scenario. And if that, or something like that, is what happened, I can see Cletus hiding the body.”

  She found all my hidey holes, Cletus had said of Maythorn. She’s pretty, like a baby deer.

  26.

  “LIKE AN ANGRY BUZZ SAW”

  Saturday, October 22

  Bambambambambambambam…bam. The rapid fire of the seven other class members was punctuated by Elizabeth’s slower response as she struggled to line up the center of the target in her sights. If only there had been time for practice at home. Unfortunately, an emergency with the main greenhouse’s watering system had occupied the afternoon she had set aside to reacquaint herself with the big .357 Magnum that had been Sam’s. She realized now, as she tried to accomplish the required five rounds in fifteen seconds—and get them in the chest area of the target, Elizabeth—that the mere possession of the big handgun had given her what was very probably a false sense of security.

  Phillip had announced on Thursday that he had (provisionally, he had emphasized) signed her up for the concealed carry permit class.

  “You ought to have a gun with you when you’re driving around, and you might as well be legal while you’re at it.”

  He had fixed her with a look of such seriousness that she swallowed the flippant reply trembling on her lips and said, “Okay, then. Nine at the library.”

  “Thanks, Elizabeth.” He had kissed her heartily. “There’re some rough characters out there and I’d be a lot happier knowing you can defend yourself.”

  As she returned the kiss, a phrase from Robert Heinlein’s Glory Road popped into her always vagabond mind. One of Sam’s favorite books, it featured Star, the lusty, busty heroine, who was, coincidentally, the Empress of Twenty Universes. Because of her title, Star was in perpetual danger of assassination. It had, therefore, been determined that to increase her chances of survival, she should be trained in all the martial arts, should learn to “fight like an angry buzz saw.”

  Me too. But what’s a buzz saw? Remembering the empress’s penchant for fighting garb that was scanty or nonexistent, Elizabeth grinned.

  “What’s so funny, Miz Goodweather?” Phillip turned a suspicious eye on her.

  “I just thought of a book you might enjoy—all about a woman and the handsome hero guarding her. Sam had a copy. I’ll find it for you.”

  At five till nine on Saturday morning, Elizabeth and Phillip had pulled into a parking space at the Marshall County library. He had insisted on accompanying her and, as she looked at the group gathered in the parking lot, she was very glad he had.

  About a dozen young men were milling in front of the library doors, apparently intent on one last cigarette before class. They seemed to be typical Marshall County good ol’ boys: there were snuff can circles on the pockets of more than one pair of jeans—there was spitting.

  Elizabeth sat in the car, acutely aware of her outsider status. Phillip seemed unconcerned as he got out and pulled a little bag from the back seat. In it, she knew, were Sam’s .357 Magnum, a belt, a holster, hearing protectors, and several boxes of ammunition.

  “Showtime,” he said cheerfully as he opened her door.

  The morning part of the class had been a piece of cake. Phillip had introduced her to the instructor, whom he seemed to know fairly well. Alex Sewell—“Call me Alex”—was an imposing figure, with close-cropped blond hair and blue eyes, who, at six-five, towered over Phillip but treated him with the friendly deference due to a man who was a close friend of the sheriff. Alex had assured Elizabeth that she would be able to pass the shooting range part of the test and had not seemed to find it amusing that she was there in the midst of all the young men.

  And at the last minute, to Elizabeth’s intense relief, another woman had shown up. Elizabeth had heard her tell Alex, “I already got my permit; I just come to help my daddy. He’s eighty-two, right deaf, and cain’t read much on account of he had to leave school early. I kin read the test to him.”

  The morning had flown by in a blur of PowerPoint presentations, very dull films, and repetitive drill, all designed to hammer home the information needed to pass the written test at the end.

  “Once you have your permit,” and it was encouraging how Alex assured them that they would all be able to pass the test, “if you’re carrying and are stopped for a traffic check or whatever, keep your hands on the steering wheel and at once inform the local great gray god that you are armed.”

  Elizabeth had frowned a question at Phillip, who was sprawled in the chair beside her, and he had leaned close to whisper, “Slang for ‘trooper’—highway patrol wears gray uniforms.”

  Alex had enumerated the many, many places where, even with the magic
permit, one could not carry a gun: public places where admission is charged; educational institutions and their campuses; places where alcohol is sold and/or consumed; courthouses; state property; Federal property; parades, demonstrations, picket lines, funerals; law enforcement facilities; Department of Corrections facilities; financial institutions; or anywhere the owner has posted a sign saying NO FIREARMS. Well, hell, where can one carry a gun? Elizabeth found herself thinking.

  She had scribbled furiously, back in note-taking, high-achiever mode, aware of Phillip’s amused eye on her. I’ll probably make an idiot of myself on the firing range, but at least I can do well on the written test.

  Alex had then moved into the very interesting and, in her opinion, somewhat contradictory part of the instruction covering the private citizen’s right to use deadly force. After she copied the words in her notebook, she paused and reread them.

  Deadly force. This is serious. And scary. And Phillip thinks I may need to do this to defend myself.

  Could she kill in self-defense? She was pretty sure that she could. She had been startled once in the past at the wild vehemence of her response when Laurel had been threatened, and she knew that beneath her liberal, tree-hugging façade, a primal being lurked.

  “…for self-defense against a real threat of death or bodily harm. It should be a threat others would recognize as such. You may not have instigated the conflict. If you did instigate it and it threatens to escalate, you must attempt to withdraw and be rejected before resorting to deadly force. You may not use force beyond what is necessary to eliminate the threat.”

  Alex had continued slowly, stopping now and again to be sure that his listeners grasped the meaning of the law.

  “There is the duty to retreat. You must retreat in face of a threat, unless there is a threat of death, serious bodily harm, or sexual assault. If you are in your home or your business premises, there is no duty to retreat.”

  At those words, Phillip had nudged her. “That’s important.”

  Alex had scanned the class, his blue eyes commanding the attention of each participant. “Now listen up. You have the right to use deadly force in defense of a life. You do not have the right to use deadly force in defense of your TV set.”

  A ripple of laughter had run through the class. Alex held up a hand. “You may not use deadly force in defense of property. You may not use deadly force to stop a simple assault—say Charles there slaps me, I’m not allowed to shoot him. Or if Hawkins over there calls me an S.O.B., that’s not a legitimate reason. You may not use deadly force because of threatening or violent language or because of past violence or possible future violence.”

  Unless you’re the current administration. The bitter thought had formed instantly. Or someone like Landrum.

  The list of prohibitions against deadly force had continued: no deadly force to eject a trespasser, to arrest a criminal, or to prevent a criminal’s escape. “You have to remember that in every case where deadly force is used, a criminal investigation will follow. There must be an imminent threat of severe harm—and since there will be an investigation, it should be a threat that others would recognize as such.”

  Alex grinned. “Now, I bet Miz Goodweather there is wondering how she makes that decision before blowing away the crank head she finds in her house some night. Well, she ought to know, sometimes the ladies get a free ride here. Not many juries are going to argue that she wasn’t in danger.

  “But if you find yourself in a situation, there’s a saying worth remembering: better to be judged by twelve than carried by six.”

  Bambambambambambambam…bam!

  Once again, she was slower than the others. But her shots seemed to be hitting within the chest area of the gray torso outline hanging downrange an easy five yards away. The test required two rounds of five from three, five, and seven yards. “Mamaw could do this, if she was still alive,” Alex had said.

  Phillip had discreetly coached her into what Alex had called the isosceles stance: both arms fully extended at shoulder height, wrists and elbows locked, feet apart, knees slightly flexed. She knew how to line up the front and rear sights, but kept forgetting which eye to close.

  Finally, however, after a few practice rounds, she seemed to have it. Some shots had actually hit dead center and Phillip had given her an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

  The timed test passed quickly in a blur of sun, the acrid reek of gunpowder, the muffled sounds of volleyed shots, and a whirl of last-minute instructions. She had concentrated on lining up the sights after each shot, as the recoil of the big pistol seemed impossible for her to overcome. When the last round had been fired and all pistols emptied and holstered, they had inspected their targets. Passing score was 70, but all around her were scores of 97 and 100. At last Alex came to her, at the end of the line. He studied her target briefly and nodded.

  “Ninety-one.”

  While the second half of the class shot their qualifying rounds, Elizabeth and the first group stood, as directed, behind the twenty-five yard line. The firing range was located within the county landfill, and as her car had wound through the grim wasteland, she had been able to catch a glimpse of her own roof in the distance, its dull aluminum shining in the sun, the familiar outline of Pinnacle Mountain rising behind. Now she looked around, marveling at the strange set of circumstances that had brought her to this place.

  The eight qualifiers of the second group lined up, and Alex began to go over his instructions. At the end of the line, the deaf old man pulled out his gun and drew a bead on the target. At once, Alex was at his side, explaining loudly that he must wait. The deaf old man grinning happily at him, nodded with perfect incomprehension.

  “Hawkins.” Alex jerked his head, motioning Phillip to go to the old man’s side. Elizabeth watched, fascinated, as Phillip, with great and tender care, stayed by the old man’s side throughout the exercise. The old man was shooting a very large revolver of ancient and unknown manufacture, and now the sound on the range was BOOM…bambambambambambambam.

  “Your man knows just how to talk to Daddy,” the deaf man’s daughter declared between rounds of gunfire. “Daddy didn’t want me helping him while he was shootin’—claims I aggravate him.”

  My man. Elizabeth smiled. The words sounded good. And suddenly it felt perfectly natural and even desirable to be at the landfill, at the firing range on a fine October day. The exciting smell of gunpowder drifted toward them and the sun glinted silver and gold off the brass of discarded cartridges littering the wiry brown grass. The deaf man’s daughter pointed behind them to a gentle rolling ridge overlooking an acre or so of heaped garbage. “My mamaw and papaw used to have a big old house up there. Mamaw had ever flower you could name out front. It like to broke her heart when they had to leave.”

  The second group finished and Phillip stayed with his charge to make sure the old man’s pistol was safely empty. Then he returned to Elizabeth’s side.

  “I thank you fer helpin’ Daddy. How’d he do?” the daughter asked.

  “Ninety-seven,” Phillip answered. “He’s a good shot. He said he’d have made one hundred, but I aggravated him, standing so close.”

  They gathered under a large shed at the rear of the range and Alex collected their checks, recorded their scores, filled out their certificates, and wrote down the registration number of each weapon. Many of the participants were examining and comparing handguns, each vocal in praise for his weapon of choice. Elizabeth was charmed to note that one young man, wearing a T-shirt blazoned with the name of a local Baptist church, had a large mother-of-pearl cross inlaid in the black grip of his pistol. Immediately the question formed in her mind: What handgun would Jesus carry?

  THE REAPER GAME

  Early October 1986

  THE SMELL OF freshly sawn lumber was enticing, as was the empty interior of the newly constructed chicken house. It sat there beneath the big black walnut tree, a perfect little building with one window, a door, and a smaller door just for the chickens. Pa had
finished building it last week, but there would be no chickens till spring. Until then it was Rosie’s own possession—a fort, a clubhouse, a hideout.

  She had furnished her lair with a few old cushions and a wooden box for a table. The row of nest boxes on the wall were her bookcase, and some of her books and notebooks filled the little cubicles, where, this time next year, fat hens would lay their brown eggs.

  She stood and looked out the window, her window. Maythorn was late. And there was no sign of her on the hillside. The butterscotch squares that she and Mum had made after lunch were getting cold and the milk she had brought in a jar was getting warm. No more waiting.

  She sat down on the largest of the cushions, opened her copy of The Hobbit, and began to read. Her hand went to and fro from the tin of cookies, alternating now and again with the jar of milk. Like the hobbits, Rosemary was always ready for a little something to eat.

  Footsteps outside the chicken house startled her and she was no longer Bilbo Baggins, cozy in his hobbit hole in the Shire. She looked with dismay at the tin of cookies and saw that she had eaten almost all of them. A meager few inches of milk sloshed in the bottom of the canning jar.

  The door opened on its squeaky hinges and Pa stepped into the chicken house. He was carrying his toolbox. Hey, Rosebud, he said. I didn’t know you were here. He looked at the nest boxes and made a face. Uh-oh, I’m going to have to ask you to move your books out of the nest boxes; I’m not quite done fixing them.