Old Wounds

by Vicki Lane

  Brian’s eyes almost jumped out of his head when he saw Mama in that tight T-shirt. And all those stupid girls, saying how darling Krystalle was. They didn’t pay her much attention once Jared came out to play lifeguard—acting all grown up and showing off how he could do fancy dives.

  Maythorn sniffed in disgust. Every last one of those dumb girls was giggling and trying to get Jared to notice them. They all had crushes on him for a long time—bad as Tamra. I knew that was why they all of a sudden wanted to be friends—so they’d get to come back here and see him. And I bet it was Debbie or Tiffany who kept calling him all summer. Dumb idiots.

  As the moon soared higher above the great house, its angry orange-red softened to a creamy yellow. The girl watched its progress for a few more minutes, then, leaving the gazebo to the skittering leaves, she made for the little shed behind the pool house. Gardening supplies and tools were stored in the shed; at this time of year, no one ever came here. Her secret project would be safe from curious eyes.

  Thrusting a hand into her jacket pocket, she felt for the precious envelope—still there. It hadn’t been easy to get hold of what she needed, but at last the opportunity had come, just in time for the full moon—the Hunter’s Moon, Driver called it, when trees and fields were bare and the light of the moon made it easy to spot the prey.

  Her fingers curled around the soft package, and the ends of her mouth lifted in a triumphant smile. Anything the booger had worn next to their skin, Granny Thorn had said. But for the strongest magic, hair from the booger was best.

  Rosie, what are you going to be for Halloween?

  Mum looked up from her sewing machine set at one end of the dining table. She was stitching another strip of bright polka-dotted fabric onto the gypsy skirt that was going to be Laurie’s costume.

  Will you wear your Indian outfit again? If you want something different, you need to decide now—I’ll be finished with this as soon as I add the rick-rack.

  The machine buzzed back to life and Mum’s head bent over her work. Rosemary considered the question while watching her little sister, who was painstakingly wrapping her arms, legs, torso, and head with strips of cloth from Mum’s scrap bag. Orange, purple with pink flowers, green stripes, blue—with crows of delight, Laurie found a new place for each scrap. Her bright red curls were already adorned with a scattering of little bows.

  Make my hair all fancy, the little girl had demanded. I want lots of bows. Odd ends of bias binding (lucky Mum never threw anything away) had served for ribbons, and now Laurie’s head looked as if a flight of tropical butterflies had landed on it.

  But her face…Rosemary looked at her sister with undisguised displeasure. The chubby face was garish with pink lipstick, blue eyeshadow, and two clown spots of rouge on her fat cheeks.

  Mum, where did Laurie get that…that stuff? She looks like Mrs. Barbie.

  The whir of the sewing machine stopped as Mum looked up. She made a funny face and whispered, I know, it’s awful, isn’t it? Don’t you remember—the Mullinses gave it to her for her last birthday, almost a year ago. She wasn’t at all interested in it and I put it away. Unfortunately, she came across it this morning when we were rummaging around for stuff to make her a costume. She decided that makeup would suit the look she’s working on now.

  They watched Laurie, who was standing on one foot and slowly raising the other behind her. Her arms, trailing bright strips of cloth, waved languidly up and down.

  Now I’m a bally dancer. Aren’t I beyootiful, Rosie? But for Halloween I’m going to be a gypsy princess. With big earrings!

  The leg and arms came down and Laurel looked at her sister with an appraising eye. You can use some of my Little Princess makeup, Rosie. You can be an Indian princess.

  Somewhat hobbled by the various bits and pieces of fabric dangling from her small person, Laurie moved carefully to a nearby chair, where a round purple plastic case lay open. She picked out a small pink tube and held it out. Here, try this. It’ll make you pretty too.

  Yuck! I wouldn’t put that stuff on my face for a million dollars. You look dumb. Besides, who ever heard of an Indian with makeup on?

  Laurie’s lower lip began to stick out and her face got the look that said a loud outburst wasn’t far away.

  Indians did use war paint, Rosie. It would work with your costume. You don’t have to use the colors like makeup—be creative! And don’t call your sister dumb. She’s just playing. Mum lowered her voice and winked. The sooner that stuff gets used up, the better. And it does wash off, sweetie—at least, that’s what it says on the case.

  Rosemary pondered. War paint. That might be fun. She and Maythorn had never done war paint. But she had seen pictures of Indians with bold patterns on their faces, right there in the museum in Cherokee, the time Driver took them. Yes, that settled it.

  Okay, Mum. I’ll be an Indian again. Sorry I called you dumb, Laurie. I didn’t mean it.

  The little girl grinned and tumbled in a brilliant heap on the floor. Now I’m a chicken hiding my eggs, she announced, as she crouched above the bag of scraps.

  Rosie studied the contents of the purple case. She picked up a container labeled Pretty Princess Blusher. She opened it, frowned, snapped the lid shut, and selected a little pot of turquoise eyeshadow. Prying off the top, she put in a cautious finger.

  Shining Deer, her face painted with the slashes of blue, green, and red that marked a Cherokee princess prepared for battle, made her stealthy way toward the Council House. The message had been clear: come quickly and quietly; come alone. The longed-for return to the old alliance, the sisterhood of blood, had come at last and Fox-That-Watches had sent for her—and her alone.

  She looked back to her family lodge. A blue banner of smoke rose to the sky from the hearth fire. Already, on this fall afternoon, the sun had slipped behind the steep hump of the mountain that marked her people’s western border and the chill breeze nipped like the wolf in winter. But as she reached the boundary ridge and looked down on the land held by the clan of Fox-That-Watches, she was warmed again by the waning rays of the sun, as yet unblocked by the lower hills at the western end of this neighboring hollow. With a brief pause for an openhanded salute to the setting disk, Shining Deer hurried on.

  When the Council House was in sight, she halted again and gave the secret signal. Kee-o-wee! Kee-o-wee! She called twice, waited five beats, and called a third time.

  The door of the Council House opened halfway and Fox-That-Watches could be seen. Her impassive eyes scrutinized the markings on her friend’s face for a long moment. At last she said, That looks cool, Rosie.

  Then, recollecting herself, she reached into the pouch that dangled at her hip. Raising the dark circle of the Looker Stone to her eye, she intoned, Shining Deer of Over Hill, I see you. Enter.

  34.

  ARMED AND DANGEROUS

  Wednesday night, October 26

  Elizabeth shivered and peered through the dusty workshop window. The fading light outside warned her that it was growing late—probably after five. Sighing, she placed the wreath she had just finished in its box and added it to the stack of others waiting for the FedEx driver. Two more to do, if they’re all going out in the morning.

  She flipped on another light and took down a straw wreath form from a shelf. Maybe I can get one more done before Phillip gets back. At least there’s not much to do about supper—just heat up the soup and bread and make a salad.

  She shivered again and stalked over to the wood heater—a green enameled Jotul woodstove that usually kept the shop reasonably warm. Yanking open the door, she saw only a glowing bed of coals—all that remained of the oak logs that had been burning so vigorously.

  Way to go, Elizabeth. No wonder it’s so bloody cold in here. You have to keep adding wood if you want to stay warm, you dunce.

  The coals raked forward, she added a few small sticks and scraps of wood, then shoved in two split locust logs. That ought to do me through one more wreath. She shut the stove door and adj
usted the damper to allow more air into the chamber, glanced out the window again, and returned to her worktable.

  There, she began to gather stiff, dried lavender spikes into little bunches and affix them, one by one, to the straw form, using strong pins that were shaped like tiny croquet hoops. A slanting row of aromatic lavender clumps began to spiral around the wreath, short green stems overlapped by the purple blossoms of a second row. A third row of lavender was followed by a row of mixed yellow and white statice, then more lavender.

  She held up the half-completed wreath and frowned at it, unsure about the design. A bit stripe-y for my taste, but it’s what the customer asked for.

  The shrill ring of the shop telephone interrupted her aesthetic assessment and she reached for the receiver.

  “Hey there, Elizabeth. Just checking to see if you wanted me to pick up anything at the store. I tried the house and your cell and you didn’t answer. I was starting to worry, then I finally remembered you might still be in the shop. What are you doing working so late, anyway?”

  Elizabeth smiled. It was nice to have someone worry about her—I could get used to this, she decided.

  “I’ve got a big order that needs to ship tomorrow. I’m just finishing up the next to last one now—there’ll be time to do the other one in the morning. There’s nothing I can think of that I really need at the store, but I appreciate your checking. Where are you now?”

  “On the bypass—in the grocery store parking lot. On my way home as soon as I hang up.”

  Home. How good it was to hear him say that. Phillip’s temporary stay at Full Circle Farm was still officially temporary, but his presence in her house—and bed…and life—was becoming more and more an accepted thing.

  “Elizabeth, sweetheart…” His voice was hesitant. “Ah…do you have your cell phone with you? It would probably be a good idea.”

  She chuckled. “You forget, my phone isn’t one of those snazzy satellite hookups like yours. You know how funky the reception is out here. My cell works fine at the house, but it’s useless down here in the workshop—I might as well be in a deep, dark hole, as far as it’s concerned.”

  Phillip made a discontented sound that hovered on the edge of tsk-tsking. “Well, I don’t like nagging, but while I’m on the subject, how about your gun? Do you have that with you?”

  Several days after the concealed carry class, Phillip had brought her a snub-nosed .357 Magnum. “It’s just like Sam’s gun, but with the shorter barrel it’ll be easier for you to carry.” He had offered her the deadly little weapon with an air of embarrassment. “I brought some different holsters, too, so you could see which one you liked best—dammit to hell, Elizabeth, don’t laugh! This isn’t the kind of present I want to give you, but for now it’s what you need.”

  Subdued by the utter seriousness in his voice, Elizabeth had meekly submitted to trying out the various holsters. Both the shoulder harness and the ankle holster seemed uncomfortable in the extreme, and she finally convinced Phillip that the pocket holster that could clip to her waistband was her best choice.

  “Yeah, I’m armed and dangerous,” she assured him, looking at the revolver, lying in its holster on the nearby workbench. For god’s sake, Elizabeth, remember to put that on before you head back to the house. “Listen, if I finish before you get back, I’ll leave the jeep down here for you and walk on up. I need the exercise. See you soon.”

  Phillip switched off his cell phone. No sooner had he started the car than his second cell—the one Gabby had given him—buzzed.

  “Shit!” he muttered, and turned off the ignition. He listened intently to the voice at the other end, asked a few terse questions, jotted a line in a pocket notebook, then nodded reluctantly. Ending the call, he pulled out his other phone. She was evidently no longer in the workshop—nor at the house. Probably walking up.

  He left a quick message on the house phone, then, with a feeling of mounting excitement, started his car and headed out of the parking lot, back toward Asheville.

  “Señora Elizabeta, why you work so late? Y dónde está Señor Felipe?” Julio’s stocky frame appeared in the open doorway. Behind him, his slightly taller brother-in-law shifted from foot to foot.

  “Have to, Julio—but I’m almost finished.” Elizabeth jabbed the U-pin around another bundle of yellow and white statice and pushed the prongs deep into the straw of the wreath form. She paused to look at her two friends, both shining clean, hair carefully combed, crisp white shirts tucked into new Levi’s. Homero was turning a new straw cowboy hat around and around in his hands and grinning expectantly at her.

  “Wait a minute—this is the night you all were going into Asheville, right? I’d forgotten.”

  “Sí, we are meeting amigos at El Chapala. There is lucha libre—wrestling on the big television and—”

  Homero nodded vigorously. “Sí! Con El Alacrán Rojo y El Diablo del Muerte y también Los—”

  Elizabeth smiled and waved the two away. “Go on, you guys—I just talked to Phillip. He’ll be here in a few minutes. You don’t have to do guard duty anymore.”

  “Seguro, Elizabeta? We can wait….”

  But Homero had already smiled his happy thanks and headed for Julio’s truck, which, like the two men, was in a state of high polish. Julio hesitated.

  “Really, Julio, go. I’m almost done here and I’m going to walk up to the house. Phillip knows to bring the jeep up. Truly, I’ll be fine. Besides—” she picked up the holstered gun and clipped it to the back of her waistband “—I’ve got this, remember?”

  The spiral wreath was in its box, the woodstove damped down, the shop lights turned off, and still no Phillip. Maybe he had some shopping to do for himself; he said something this morning about getting some ice cream.

  She pulled on her barn coat and started up the dark road. The dogs had long since given up on her and taken themselves off on their own recognizance. There was no moon, but enough light remained to show the outline of the gravel road stretching out before her. Crisp, chill air suggested that there would probably be a frost by morning. Elizabeth sniffed appreciatively, sorting out the many smells: wood smoke drifting in the air, the lavender that lingered on her fingers, the not unpleasant odor of cows, busily cropping the grass in the pasture next to the road, the autumnal aroma of the fallen leaves in the woods just to her left. Higher up, the haunting call of a barn owl echoed through the hollow.

  With a feeling of perfect happiness, Elizabeth breathed wordless thanks for the fate that had brought her to this beautiful place. Then, remembering the meal to prepare and the dogs to feed, she quickened her step up the well-known way.

  She had reached the chicken house when she heard the familiar sound of her jeep coming up the road. As the headlights’ beam swung around the barn just below the chicken house, Elizabeth stepped to the side of the road, extending a thumb and cocking a hip in what, despite her heavy jacket and baggy jeans, she hoped Phillip would recognize as a sexy hitchhiker pose. As expected, the jeep pulled to a stop beside her and the figure at the wheel leaned over to open the passenger-side door.

  “Hey, mister, goin’ my way?” Elizabeth climbed into the welcome warmth of the car. “What’s happened to the overhead light? Isn’t it working?”

  35.

  STAKED OUT

  Wednesday night, October 26

  Where the hell is Gabby? Phillip glanced at his watch. He didn’t say where he was calling from, but it sure seems like he would’ve have been here by now. From his parked car, Phillip could see the entire lot, dimly lit by three mercury vapor lights; the entrance and exit; as well as Room 222, where, according to Gabby, Landrum’s henchmen had just checked in. Though the room was illuminated only by the fitful blue glow of a flickering television, at least one figure could be seen moving slowly just beyond the partially drawn curtain.

  Phillip tried Gabby’s number, but was immediately met with a gabble of static. Strange, that shouldn’t happen. A second trial was equally unsuccessful.

>   Don’t try anything without me, his former shipmate had warned. And don’t involve the local boys. Del wants this all to stay as quiet as possible till we have that deposition in our sweaty little hands. Don’t worry, this isn’t wet work; we’re just going to take them into custody. There’re only two—we’ll have them in cuffs, in my car, and on their way to DC before they know what happened. Del’s arranged a quiet little holding facility where these two can be kept out of the way till we have the deposition—or till we fail and Landrum gets the confirmation.

  Phillip groaned and ran his hand over his balding head. He and Elizabeth had gone through the copy of Walden the night before, page by careful page, noting every pencil mark, and there were many; every underlined word or passage; even every stain and flyspeck.

  At one point they had both been sure that a pattern of some sort was emerging. “This is reminding me of…Oh, hell, Phillip, there’s something familiar about this, but I can’t quite…” Elizabeth had pored over the pages, until finally, unwilling to admit defeat, she declared, “I just need to step back for a while—it’ll come to me. Let’s try again tomorrow night. If we can’t figure it out then, maybe your friend in DC can.”

  If something there makes sense to her and she can figure out where Sam might have put that stuff, maybe I’ll be sending Del the photos and the deposition tomorrow. And that’ll be the end of that sorry son-of-a-bitch Landrum’s political career. Sweet Jesus, a hundred-something acres, three houses, barns, outbuildings—it could be anywhere. Come on, Sam, old buddy, give us a clue to your clue, for god’s sake.

  A sleek black Mercedes sports car pulled into a slot near the door of 222. Phillip slouched down in his seat but kept his gaze fixed on the new arrival. A silver-haired man in a suit got out, swept the parking lot with a furtive glance, and hurried to open his passenger’s door. A young woman in a very short, very tight black skirt writhed her way out of the car. A pink camisole top ended just below her very improbable breasts, leaving exposed a long expanse of tanned flesh, while a wide belt of sparkling rhinestones rode low on her hips, well below the top of her skirt. As the woman and her nervous escort passed beneath one of the parking lot’s tall lights, Phillip could see the black triangle of her thong high above the back of her tiny skirt.