“I’m fine,” Clayton said. He didn’t move.
Debbie sighed. “Well, then, at least let me sit with her for a little while so you can go clean yourself up.”
Clayton looked down at his boots and for the first time since he’d been there he noticed the smears of red clay on the floor that he’d tracked in when came into the room. It only cemented the feeling that he dirtied up everything clean he encountered, just by being present. Still, he made no attempt to get up.
“She’s in the best place she could possibly be right now, Sheriff, and I won’t let her be alone. I promise. Go see Eben. He needs you, too. Kate is going to be okay.” Debbie put her hand on his shoulder. “You both are.”
Clayton stayed still for another minute before looking at the woman in scrubs making promises she couldn’t keep, and picked up his hat from the floor. “The woman that brought her in.”
“What about her?”
“Where is she?”
*
Clayton found Darby Ellis standing in front of the room Mark Tuley had been brought to. Darby had only that day been released from the same hospital and should’ve been at home in bed. Instead he was dressed in his tan pressed uniform and waiting to hear from Clayton.
“How’s he doing?” Clayton asked.
“Not good. He should be dead. He’s got massive contusions on his head, chest, and back. His nose was smashed. He’ll need reconstructive surgery if he ever gets out of the woods. Both his legs were broken, and a hairline skull fracture.”
“Jesus.”
“The big problem was all the internal bleeding. The docs say they got it under control, but right now, I suppose it’s in God’s hands.”
“He’ll pull through.”
“I hope so, boss.” Darby removed his hat and rubbed at the thick bush of sandy-blond hair. “What the hell happened, boss? Who did all this?”
Clayton tucked his hands in his pockets and looked through the window into Tuley’s room. “I don’t know.”
Two things Darby knew about the man standing in front of him was one, he wasn’t much of a liar, and two, if he did lie, he never looked you in your eye, and always tucked his hands in his pockets.
“Clayton. I’m here to help, man. Tell me what you need, and I’m on it.”
“I know, Darby, but you’re already doing it. You’re not cleared for duty yet, and that man in there needs someone like you looking out for him. Stay here. If I find out anything, you’ll be my first call.”
Darby didn’t press it.
“Has anyone else been here?”
“Scabby Mike and Nails McKenna, of all people, tried to come up earlier, but Jim, the security guard didn’t let them. Family only.”
“Is he okay?”
“Who? Mike or Nails?”
Clayton looked at Darby. “Jim.”
“Oh, yeah. They left without incident.”
“That’s good.” Clayton turned to leave.
“Sir, about Kate. I—”
“I know, son. I know. I’ll tell her you were asking about her when she wakes up.”
“Yessir.”
Clayton left Darby in the hallway and made his way to the elevator. He found the small waiting room Debbie told him about on the first floor. The woman who brought Kate in said she’d be waiting down there in case the police or anyone else needed to speak to her. Clayton knew that meant Vanessa was waiting for him. She was waiting to pull him deeper into the web of false security she’d been spinning since he met her at the diner. He could feel it in his bones that she was a snake, but he needed to look in her eyes. He needed to know for sure if she was involved—if it was all her to begin with. His heart was pounding out of his chest as he pushed open the door and steeled himself to face this Viner woman again, but she wasn’t there. No one was. Just an old lady crocheting something blue in her lap, who looked as tired as he was. The woman set the needles and whatever she’d been making on a purse at her feet when Clayton entered the room. He didn’t sit down, and she didn’t stand up.
“Hello, Sheriff. Are you here for me?”
He looked down at the insignia on his jacket. “I’m sorry. No,” he said. “I was looking for someone else.”
The old woman looked around the small room. “No one here but me.”
“Can you tell me when the other woman left?”
“I’m sorry, son. There hasn’t been anyone else in here since I sat down.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Goodness. For several hours, I suppose.”
Clayton looked confused. “A young woman. Blue eyes. Blonde hair. Very tall? No one fitting that description has been in here?”
“I’m sorry, Sheriff, but no.”
“I’m sorry to disturb you, then.” Clayton turned to go.
“Don’t be,” the woman said, and shifted a long length of plastic tubing connected to the small portable oxygen bottle next to her. She picked the knitting needles back up. “Her hair is black.”
Clayton turned back around. “Excuse me?”
“Vanessa. Her hair is black. I don’t understand why she wears that silly wig.”
Clayton stood confused.
“I believe you are looking for my daughter, Sheriff.”
Clayton stared hard at the woman and saw the resemblance. “You’re Twyla Viner.”
“I am,” she said, and stood up slowly.
“You’re the one that brought my wife here?”
“Yes, I am.”
Clayton felt off balance. He wasn’t expecting this. He was carrying a sledgehammer of pain and rage with nowhere to swing it.
“Did you do this?”
“To your wife?”
“All of it, woman. Don’t play ignorant with me. Did you spearhead what those bastards did to us tonight?”
“No, Sheriff. I did not. My stepson, Daniel, brought all this here on his own. In fact, I begged him to stay off this mountain, but Daniel has always walked his own path.”
Clayton stepped closer to her, still feeling the weight of that hammer. He spoke in a soft growl. “That path ended abruptly tonight. He won’t be walking anything ever again. I hope you know that.”
Twyla closed her eyes briefly and exhaled. “I’m sure you’re right, son, and I feel responsible for that—for all of it. That’s why I’m here.”
“Where is Vanessa?”
“I don’t know.”
“I don’t believe you. Was she involved?”
“No. I rarely deal in certainties anymore, Sheriff, but I can tell you this. I know my daughter, and what happened here tonight is not something Bessie May—I mean, Vanessa—would be a part of.”
“Well, I need to hear that from her, so if you know where she is, I suggest you tell me.”
“And what do you plan to do if you find her?”
“I’m not going to ask you again, Twyla. If you know where she is, then tell me.”
Twyla motioned to the long couch she’d been sitting on. “Do you mind if I sit? My knees aren’t in the best shape.”
“I don’t care what you do. Where is she?”
“Clayton, please, just sit a minute. Listen to what I have to say, and then I’ll tell you what you want to know.”
Clayton stared at the old woman and tried to get a fix on her. It was easy to see where Vanessa got it from. They were both impossible to read.
“Talk,” he said. “And be quick about it. I’m running out of patience. And I promise you, if I find out that you had anything to do with what happened here tonight, you and me will get back around to this conversation real soon.”
“I understand.”
*
The old woman sat herself carefully back down on the couch and attached the nasal cannula across her upper lip. Once she was situated as best she could, she sat in silence for a moment and breathed the oxygen in deep through the tube. Clayton sat and listened as the old woman wheezed and apologized for the time it took her to catch her breath. Clayton said nothing.
He didn’t care.
“I never imagined my life would ever end up the way it has. An old woman who can’t even walk to the mailbox without getting winded. I wanted so much more. For myself and for my children. But here I am, and I have to try to make the best of what I have left.”
Clayton watched her breathe in broken half-breaths as she spoke. Her face was worn and chiseled away by age, stress, and cigarettes, but Clayton could tell from her eyes that there used to be beauty there. She’d been stripped of it the same way coal is stripped from the earth, leaving nothing but a dried-out and hollow crust where nothing ever grows again. The thought of that happening to Kate in that cold room above him made his hammer that much heavier. He shut down the small talk.
“Skip to the part of the story I care about, Twyla. I don’t know you and I don’t care about your life.”
The woman shifted in her chair to lean in closer to the sheriff. “We have a lot in common, you know. There are stories I could tell you about the people that come from this place that would have us chatting for hours.”
“All right. This is over.” Clayton gripped the edge of the couch to push himself up.
“I knew your father.”
Clayton stopped himself, and glared at her. The woman glanced around the room as if she was worried about being overheard, although she knew she wasn’t. She really didn’t care if she was. Her interest in having secrets diminished a long time ago. “I was the one who killed him.”
“What?”
“Well, not me exactly. I sent my husband Joseph and his son, Daniel, to burn down your father’s barn. I thought if I destroyed all their machinery I could keep your brothers out of this wicked business, before they even started, but all I accomplished was getting your father killed. I think that’s when it all started for Daniel, too. He was just a boy back then, but after that night, something had changed in him. I never saw him the same after that. Looking back on it, I’ve recently come to believe that the fumes from that chemical fire are what caused my Joseph’s cancer as well. I think because of what I asked him to do that night, I killed him, too.” Twyla spoke casually, as if she hadn’t just confessed to killing Clayton’s father, and Clayton was so baffled by it, that he took off his hat and settled into her story as if it wasn’t his father she’d just confessed to killing.
“I’m responsible for the death of almost everyone I’ve ever loved,” Twyla said. She looked directly and deep into Clayton, and it made him uncomfortable. “I don’t expect forgiveness and I don’t expect you to understand how sorry I am for everything.”
He said nothing. He was suddenly acutely aware of how crazy this woman might be. His father’s death by fire was public knowledge, anyone could claim to have done it, but what she said stunned him enough to keep listening. Twyla saw the bewildered look in his eyes and took another shallow breath. “I can only imagine how I must sound to you, right now, Sheriff. I don’t know how that information makes you feel, or if you believe me or not either, but that’s not the point. The past isn’t why I’m here. I’ve lived in fear of the past nearly my entire life. I don’t want to be ruled by fear anymore. That was your father’s way—your brother’s way. I’ve done that long enough and look where it has got me—where it has got us both. Your wife and son are in hospital beds. My husband is dead. I have dead children. My grandson is dead, but not me. I’m still alive to bear witness to it all and I just can’t—won’t—do it anymore. I want to spend the time I have left on this earth living without fear, fear of dying, or the fear of more people being killed. That’s why I’m here. I’ve reached a point in my life that I’ve come to accept that the bad blood that has been the curse of my family must have something to do with me. I used to believe that I was the one that protected them from it, but the truth is, I fueled it. I failed them. I failed them all. All but one, and I’m here to plead for her life.”
Another shallow breath.
“Are you done?” Clayton was through listening to this fairytale. He stood and put on his hat. “Tell me where I can find Vanessa.”
“You know you look just like him—your father.”
“Cut the shit, lady, and tell me where she is.”
“I told you, I don’t know.”
“So this was all some bullshit tactic to keep me here? What, you were supposed to keep me listening to your bullshit long enough for her to make her getaway? Do you really think there is anywhere on this earth she can hide from me after what she’s done?”
“Please, Clayton. You’re wrong. I’m familiar with the anger you’re feeling right now, but please don’t do this. Don’t be like the rest of them.”
“Where—is—she? Last chance.”
Twyla pulled in as much oxygen as her frail lungs could allow, and reached down to pick up her purse. She took out a small slip of paper and handed it to Clayton. He opened it. It was an address.
“Is this where she’s going?”
“No, but it’s where you can find what you’re looking for to end this. You’ll find what you need there.”
Clayton studied the slip of paper and then looked at the old woman. She wasn’t going to say anything else. He left the room without another word, and once the door clicked shut, Twyla Viner collected her things. It took her several minutes to get the rolling cart that toted the oxygen bottle over the threshold of the waiting-room door, but she managed, and walked slowly out into the hospital’s small reception area. She rolled the cart to the counter where a friendly looking black man in a gray security guard’s uniform sat tapping at a computer.
“Can I help you, ma’am?”
“Yes,” she said as she read his name tag. “I was wondering if you could do me a favor, Jim.”
Jim stood. “Yes, ma’am, what’s that?”
“Do you think you could get this to one of the patients here?” Twyla laid the navy-blue wool blanket she’d made on the counter.
“Certainly, ma’am. Who’s the patient?”
“Burroughs. Eben Burroughs.”
26
THE RED LAND MOTEL
WASHINGTON, GEORGIA
Tate Viner slipped the key card into the slot on the door, and dropped his duffle bag on the chair next to the bed. He slid the light switch on the wall to the on position and nothing happened. He slid it up and down a few times in the dark before giving up. “Goddammit. Ain’t nothing does what it’s supposed to anymore. Fuckin’ cheap-ass hotel.” The room was still a mess from the past few days he’d spent there, but he sure as hell wasn’t going home until he got word from Coot. He wasn’t going to be the one to explain to Twyla all the ways Coot decided to screw the pooch in North Georgia. He’d expected to get a call by now, but for two goddamn days, still nothing. He was tired of Coot’s shit. Maybe he did need to be the one that told Twyla. Maybe she’d finally see that he was the one worth turning the business over to, and not that psycho, Coot, who was probably off on an amphetamine bender right now with that dip-shit, Donnie. Tate walked into the bathroom and hit the switch. The light in there worked, and he washed his face in the sink. Tate showered, dried himself and wrapped the wet towel around his waist. He didn’t bother trying the main light switch again. Instead he fumbled through his duffle for the bottle of gin he’d bought while he was out, twisted off the top, and sat down on the bed. He reached over to the nightstand and pushed a button on the base of the lamp, filling the small room with a low orange light.
“Howdy, Tate.”
Tate shot back across the bed, dropping the open bottle of gin to the floor. With one hand instinctively holding the towel in place, he pushed his back against the headboard and made a grab for his duffle bag.
“There ain’t nothing you need in that bag, Tate. I took the knife out while you were in the shower.” Clayton shifted on the small sofa and opened his coat to show Tate the tactical knife in the inside pocket. He also gave him a good look at the silver Colt a few inches below it. “I like it. I think I’ll keep it.”
Tate swung his head from side
to side taking in the whole room, his eyes wide and frantic.
“I gotta be honest, son, I’m kinda surprised that you don’t have a gun in here somewhere, but I guess I shouldn’t be.” Clayton lifted the slightly charred hickory walking stick from his lap. “Seeing that suckering folks in their sleep is more your style.”
“Hey, now, look, Mr. Burroughs, I know what you’re thinkin’ but you got it wrong. I swear.”
Clayton crossed his legs and ran his hand down the length of lightly charred wood propped against his leg. “Can you believe that out of everything you destroyed that night, this old stick, of all things, made it?”
“Mr. Burroughs, please, just listen.”
“Hickory is a stubborn wood.”
“Please, man.”
“Okay, Tate. I’ve got a minute. What have I got wrong? What about you taking my head off with this stick and setting fire to my home isn’t what it seems? What about leaving me and my son to burn alive, and then kidnapping my wife, and delivering her to those animals am I not understanding? Please, go ahead, tell me what I’m missing.”
Tate slid down to the edge of the bed, but Clayton put a hand on the grip of his revolver. “Tell me from right there.”
Tate put his hands out to his sides. “Okay, okay. I’m chill. Look, I ain’t sayin’ I didn’t do some terrible shit, but I swear I’m the one that saved y’all.”
“Do tell.”
“I ain’t lyin’, man. Coot wanted all y’all dead. He told me to light y’all up and watch it happen. He wanted you to burn, not me. He’s the one that went off the reservation. I gave you a fightin’ chance.”
“Is that right?”
“Yeah, I lit the fire, but I gave you time to get out. I swear I wouldn’t have let anything happen to that little baby. That’s not what Twyla wanted. I didn’t want to do it, either. It was all Coot. He’s the one who needs to pay. Go find him.”
“Coot’s dead.” Clayton let that sink in before adding, “Donnie is, too. Kate killed them both just a few hours after you left her there with them.”
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