"I saw it, too," Jett said. "The night I"-she shot a glance at Katy-"freaked out in the barn."
Gordon's eyes narrowed, and Katy saw a hint of cruelty in his lace. "You haven't been messing with drugs, have you? I thought I made it clear to your mother that I wouldn't tolerate that business in my house. It's bad enough you have to go around dressed like a prostitute at a funeral."
Jett slumped in her chair, jaw tightening. She fingered the studded leather band around her throat as if it were cutting off her oxygen.
"Gordon, please," Katy said.
Gordon sipped his wine. "Rebecca would never have allowed such foolishness, God rest her soul."
"Jett's not doing drugs anymore," Katy said. "She promised. We both promised."
Gordon patted his lips with the cloth napkin, and Katy wondered if she'd have to spray Spot Shot on it later. "Sorry. That wasn't fair. I did accept you for better or worse, after all."
Katy flashed a pained smile at Jett as if to say, See, I told you he's not so bad. We all just have to get used to each other. Except part of her was thinking, If Rebecca was so wonderful, why didn't she bear Gordon a perfect child, one who wasn't individual and human and as achingly beautiful as Jett?
She squeezed her own napkin under the table until her fingers hurt. Jett said, "It's okay, Gordon. No sweat."
Gordon didn't know Jett well enough to detect the sullen defeat in her voice. Gordon raised one eyebrow at Katy in a When is she going to start calling me Dad? expression. Katy wondered when they were going to quit communicating in unspoken words and actually talk to one another. But that was silly, because Gordon wouldn't even talk to her in bed when the lights were out and her heart was beating hard with expectation. Perhaps Rebecca had suffered the same neglect. The thought brought a sudden smirk to her face.
Jett pushed her plate away. "I've got homework, folks."
"You didn't finish," Gordon said.
"I'm not hungry."
Jett stood, her chair scraping across the floor. The sound cut the silence like a scythe through a tin can. Katy waited to see how the power struggle would play out, praying she wouldn't have to take sides, mentally exploring a way to broker a peace settlement.
"You shouldn't waste what God's blessing has brought to our table," Gordon said.
"I'll put it in the fridge and she can have it for a snack after school tomorrow," Katy said.
"I don't want it tomorrow," Jett said.
"Honey, we've all had a long day," Katy said. "Why don't you go do your homework and we'll be up to talk about it later?"
She knew Gordon wouldn't join in on the talk. He had rarely been in Jett's room, apparently considering it some sort of den of iniquity. Rock posters, a black light, a tarantula in a small aquarium, melancholy music playing constantly, at least while Gordon was home. No, Gordon hadn't yet reached out to his stepdaughter, though he expected automatic respect by sole virtue of Jett's residence under his roof.
"Sure, Mom." Jett left the room and Katy took her first taste of the chicken and dumplings. Too salty. Rebecca's recipe had called for two tablespoons. Or was it teaspoons? The recipes were handwritten, and Katy could easily have made a mistake.
"Do you really like them?" Katy asked.
Gordon was staring out the window at the darkness that had settled on the farm as they ate. The crickets chirped, katydids rubbed their wings together, and moths fluttered against the window screen.
"They were fine," Gordon said absently.
"Can we get rid of the scarecrow?"
"The scarecrow?"
"The one in the barn."
"What about it?"
"I don't like it hanging in the barn. It spooks me."
Gordon laughed. "That's been in the family for years. I put it up for the winter so it doesn't rot."
"I thought you said Odus Hampton put it up."
"Yeah. I guess he did."
"It's out there now. I saw it."
Gordon reached across the table and took her hand. He smiled, his eyes bright, cheeks crinkling in the manner that had first attracted her. "Let's forget about the silly scarecrow."
"You shouldn't be so hard on Jett."
Gordon drew his hand away. "It's just that I care about her. About both of you. I want you to be happy here."
Katy was about to say she would be a lot happier if she didn't feel the invisible presence of his first wife. But as she opened her mouth, a brittle clatter arose from the kitchen and something broke on the floor.
"Sounds like you have some work to do," Gordon said.
David Tester cut over Lost Ridge, taking the shortest route from his house to the church. Though it was dark, David knew the path well and carried a flashlight. An owl hooted in the unseen treetops and other nocturnal animals scurried on their way to put up winter supplies. The leaves were still crisp underfoot, though dew was starting to settle on the ground. A sodden wedge of moon tried to break through the canopy overhead.
He was on the upper edge of the Smith property, a forested hilltop that Harmon Smith had owned and that now belonged to Gordon Smith. Rush Branch started as a trickle between some worn granite boulders near the peak, but gathered momentum and a few stray springs before churning into a frothing waterway by the church. Harmon Smith had deeded property for the church, though the original log building had been torn down and replaced after the turn of the last century. Harmon had ridden his horse over this very trail, had slid off the saddle for a sermon many times before mounting up and heading to neighboring counties. This walk had become something of a pilgrimage for David, as if he expected to find an answer to the mysteries of the Circuit Rider, faith, and love lying along the trail.
Too bad Gordon took only Smith's surname and none of the fervid passionate blood. Primitive Baptists didn't have the duty of saving souls, but the preacher had to tend his flock all the same. David knew the weight of that responsibility. His brother Ray had disowned him because of it and had taken up with the Free Willers. Maybe Ray needed the little extra comfort that came from bringing the Lord into your heart. But Ray was born to believe he already had a place waiting in heaven, whether he forgot it or not.
David played the flashlight over the trail, dodging the snakelike roots of oak and buckeye. Walking this trail had always soothed him and rejuvenated him, as if he were drawing on the spirit of those who had served before him. Walking right, that was the ticket. Following the path.
Occasionally an acorn or nut slapped through the leaves and bounced silently on the ground near him. The woods had the earthy scent of loam and the salamander smell of muddy springs. David came to a strand of hog wire and knew he had reached the corner of Gordon's pasture. The professor's flock was made up entirely of goats. That said plenty about the current state of the Harmon Smith legacy.
"Don't be bitter, now," David said to himself. "Gordon likely has a place in heaven the same as everybody else."
That was one of the things that bothered David about predestination. If the Lord already knew you were going to be worthy of eternal reward why did he make you go through the whole works? Why didn't he just beam your soul straight up to heaven from your mother's belly? But that would make God little more than a parody of Scotty from the old Star Trek show.
So God had to want something more. He laid out tests for you. David wondered if even thinking about God's plan was somehow wrong, the kind of sin that wasn't written about in the Bible.
David climbed across the fence. His boot hung in a bottom strand of wire as he planted it on the far side, causing him to lose his balance. The flashlight fell to the ground and the beam flickered and died. David hung on top of the waist-high fence, the top wire digging into his upper leg. He righted himself and tried to free his boot. A wetness trickled down his left hand, and he felt the first burning of a cut.
Something scuffed the leaves twenty yards to his right, inside the pasture.
The moon glinted off the flashlight's metal switch. David reached down from the top of the
fence for the flashlight, but it was just beyond his fingertips. He stood up again, the wire yawing back and forth between the support posts. He yanked his stuck boot, but one of the eye hooks must have been caught on a stray sprig of rusted steel.
Crackling leaves heralded the approach of something big. There was little to fear in the mountains except rabid animals. All the large predators like mountain lions had died out along with the buffalo and elk that had fed them. Black bears might attack if threatened, but David didn't feel very threatening with his foot stuck and his crotch riding the thin line of the fence top. He swung his free leg over and planted it on the ground, giving a painful twist to the ankle of the trapped foot.
Now his back was turned to the approaching creature. David twisted his neck and almost laughed.
"What in tarnation are you doing out here?" David said. "Trying to figure out who's trespassing?"
The goat stood ten feet away, head lowered, the bottom half of the face lost in shadows. Its emerald eyes glittered in the muted moonlight.
"The Lord's Prayer says forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us."
The goat lifted its nose and sniffed at the air as if it couldn't care less about the Lord's Prayer. The wicked curves of its horns suggested it was a billy buck. Though the horns were angled flat against the slope of the animal's skull, they had the look of serious business. Goats butted heads as a mating ritual, or used their horns to drive away predators like foxes, bobcats, or wild dogs. But they didn't attack people.
David put his free foot beside the stuck one and tried to jimmy the wire. He was sweating from the exertion. After a few seconds of struggling, he sat down, scooted himself close to the boot, and began unlacing it Maybe once his foot was free, he could work the boot loose. Now he could see the cut on his hand, the blood black in the weak light. It would need a heavy bandage, maybe stitches.
Served him right, walking in the dark like that. Even though he thought of the trail as a sacred path, that didn't mean it wasn't treacherous. Rattlesnakes lived in the granite crevices along the ridge, and it was easy to trip over a root or stone and break a leg. Out here, he might not be found for days if he became immobilized. And it wasn't like the Lord cast down a holy beacon to show the way.
No, this wasn't a test. Just too much tread on a Timberland workman's boot.
As his fingers loosened the square knot, he looked back at the goat. It was three feet away now, and its strong musky scent filled his nostrils. Goats were such nasty, stubborn animals. David didn't understand their growing popularity among local farmers, no matter how exotic goat cheese and goat meat sounded to people raised on beef and beans.
"Just be glad the Lord doesn't require sacrifices like he used to," David said. "Abraham would have you up on a rock altar right now, a blade against that stringy neck of yours."
The goat bent its head down and stepped forward the dark cloven hoof landing right next to David's thigh. The animal panted its breath rank with half-digested goldenrod and maple leaves. The elongated face swung near David's cheek, the tangled beard whisking across his shoulder. The goat sniffed the black nostrils flaring, the queer, oblong pupils fixed on David.
"Go away, boy. Aren't you supposed to be in the barn or something?"
The animal sniffed the length of David's arm.
"Get," David said louder now, almost angry.
And if he dared to admit it, a little scared.
The goat drew back a step. Saliva sparkled on the protruding lips.
David tore at the bootlaces, sweat stinging his eyes. The goat moved in again, this time going lower on his arm. The animal's tongue darted out and licked at his hand.
The cut hand.
The rough tongue slid out again, this time lingering on the flesh below the pad of his thumb where the cut was deepest.
It was drinking his blood.
It's sweet, David told himself. And the goat's thirsty. That's all.
Nonetheless, David jerked the two sides of his boot apart, yanked his foot free, and scrambled back over the fence.
He studied the goat, which licked at the leaves, searching for spilled drops of David's juice. The animal glanced up and let its tongue loll, as if inviting David back over to its side of the fence.
David turned and ran, the sock on one foot flopping out beyond his toes. Branches tore at his face as he plunged through the dark woods. The church visit could wait until sunrise. And, Harmon Smith's sacred path or not, next time David would make the trip over gravel and asphalt, in the cab of a Chevy pickup truck.
Chapter Eleven
The doctor must have dosed her with some sort of horse pill, because Sarah Jeffers woke up with a mild headache. The sun was already streaming low through the window, so it must have been midmorning. She hadn't dreamed at all, and her tongue was thick and sticky in her mouth. It took her a moment to remember where she was.
She peeled the sheet off her chest. She was dressed in a baby-poop-green gown tied loosely behind her back. Her clothes were folded in a chair at the foot of the steel-railed bed. So somebody had seen her naked, something that hadn't happened in at least twenty years. Served them right. They had no business poking around in her innards anyway.
She lay there, calculating yesterday's lost profits. She should have called in one of the Hancocks, or the boy who swept up after school. Even paying somebody a full day's wages, she would have netted fifty bucks at the least. And you never knew when a tourist bus was going to pull up, or a pack of Christian Harley riders. This time of year, with the fall colors starting to come on, the general store needed to bank enough to get her through the winter. Which meant she couldn't lie there another day, not while customers turned away with full pockets.
A new doctor came in, a man with a mustache that looked penciled over his lip, who looked more like a game-show host than somebody in the medical field. It was getting so you couldn't peg people anymore.
"Morning, Miss Jeffers. I'm Dr. Vincent." The doctor put a wrist to her forehead and checked the tension on the clip attached to her finger. Apparently that little clip fed a lot of information to the video monitor on the wall. All the signs appeared to be jagging up and down in some kind of steady pattern.
"Am I fit to go?" Sarah was going to ask for a cup of orange juice, but figured that would probably run her five bucks. She was on Medicare but she'd still be stuck with her 20 percent of the bill, meaning the juice would cost her a buck out-of-pocket. She wasn't that thirsty.
"Everything looks good," the doctor said. "You had a rough patch for a little bit, but all your signs are stable. We've diagnosed exhaustion."
"I took on a spell," Sarah said. "I'm all better now, like you said."
"I'll sign your discharge papers, but I urge you to get some extra rest in the next few weeks. I wouldn't want you coming back in with something more serious."
"Don't you worry. I haven't spent so much time in bed since my honeymoon, and that was before you were born."
The doctor almost grinned. "One thing… while you were out, you were muttering 'Harm me,' over and over again. Did you think somebody was going to hurt you?"
Sarah let her face slip into a mask of cool stone. "Nobody's going to hurt me. I can take care of myself."
"Of that, I have no doubt." He patted her hand. "I'll have the nurse help you get your things together. Do you have someone to drive you home?"
"I'll call somebody."
"Good. Extra sleep for a while. Promise?"
"Sure, Doc."
He left the room, and Sarah lay there in the stink of antiseptic. The beeping of the monitor accelerated and the jaggedy lines on the screen became erratic. Sarah removed the clip from her trembling finger. She must have been dreaming of him, to have called out his name like that.
Not "harm me."
Harmon.
Harmon Smith, the man in the black hat.
When the bus picked Jett up, she walked straight down the aisle, her gaze fixed on the emergency
release latch for the back door. Tommy Williamson let out a wolf whistle, and one of the third graders was opening his lunch box, filling the air with peanut butter smell. She bit her lip and slid into the empty seat on the second row from the rear. Right in front of Tommy and Grady. She expected Tommy to make a grab as she sat, but he must have been too shocked by her abrupt approach.
Tommy said, "Hey, Grady, I think she likes me."
"In your dreams, man."
"No, really. She knows when she's licked… all over.'' Tommy snickered. Jett could smell it on them, the reason she had ventured into the goonie zone.
"Why don't you ask her, then?" Grady taunted. "If you're so hot, why ain't she sitting in your lap?"
Jett didn't turn. Compared to the inner-city school she had once attended, where fourth graders sometimes carried switchblades, a Cross Valley Elementary bus offered little to fear. Tommy in his Carhartt jacket with the scuffed elbows was about as threatening as Fonzie from Happy Days, in that warm-and-fuzzy era after the likeable hoodlum had jumped the shark.
"Yeah? Just watch a stud in action." Tommy leaned over the seat. Jett could feel his breath on her neck, and the smell of pot was thick and potent. "Hey, sweet thing. I dig chicks in black."
She waited. Maybe he had been practicing his lines on his sister or something, because they sure were lame. He could have done better reading books like How to Talk to Girls (And Don't Call Them "Chicks ") or hanging out in Internet chat rooms.
"What do you say?" Tommy's voice fell into a low, murmuring rhythm. "You know you want it. Can't keep away, can you?"
"I'm fine, thanks," she said without turning.
"She talked to you, dude," Grady said.
"Shut up." Tommy moved closer, and now his breath was on her ear. "Want some of what I got?"
"As a matter of fact, I do."
Tommy was silent, though he was panting audibly now.
"Seven grams will do," she said. Her father had mailed her fifty dollars, telling her it was for her personal use. This was about as personal as she could get.
"Grams? Do what?"
"Or do you sell it by the quarter ounce up here? I don't know if the metric system has hit the sticks yet."
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