Damaged Goods
Page 26
“We agreed not to kill him.”
“Don’t be stupid, Swift. Do you really think we could’ve bribed this guy to leave us alone?”
Kyrellis had left immediately after they loaded the body into the trunk and agreed on what Hershel planned to do with it. He said that he didn’t want anyone to see them together, and that suited Hershel just fine. He stayed at the park for ten minutes after Kyrellis left, and he used the time to retrieve the shells. He disposed of the body the way he disposed of his poached elk carcasses, by feeding Darling to the hogs at French Prairie Farm.
Hershel had driven back toward Newberg with an odd sense of lightness, as if released from a binding contract. He’d marveled at his own genius, because he had deposited the shells in Darling’s shirt pocket. The evidence would point to Kyrellis if it came down to that.
He closed the trunk. “Some fucking genius.”
The question now was what to do about this mess. Darling was dead. Kyrellis was dead. He hadn’t killed either of them. Not technically, anyway. He could turn himself in. He’d go to prison, he guessed, but there was no way to know for how long. He thought of Silvie. He was in too deep. If he told anything, he’d have to tell everything, and that would put her at risk.
He walked to the edge of the filbert orchard and threw the shell casing as hard as he could into the trees. Silvie had voluntarily returned with Castor. Said she loved him, even. There was nothing Hershel could do to save her. Kyrellis had been right about one thing: he couldn’t undo the damage that another man had done. They were both irreparably damaged people.
Inside, Hershel’s house was mournfully silent. He’d spent the next several hours reviewing his finances and drawing up instructions for his accountant to set up a fund for the migrant families in Carl Abernathy’s name. It would provide simple things like school supplies and clothing. Household items. It would serve as an emergency fund for people who were behind on their utilities or in need of minor medical assistance. He had an idea for a vocational-training scholarship, too. Something he’d look into. It gave him some comfort, but it didn’t feel like enough. It was something he should have done years ago.
33
The phone rang early, and Hershel stumbled downstairs to reach it. He could scarcely remember the last time someone had called him at home.
“Hello?” he said. It was just past seven in the morning.
“Hershel?”
A hot spark raced through him. “Silvie? Is that you?”
“Yes. Hershel—”
“Are you okay? Do you need me to come get you?”
“I’m … I’m—”
“What is it? Are you hurt?”
“I’m going to be here awhile. I—I poisoned Jacob.”
“You what?”
“He’s okay. I called an ambulance in time, and he’s going to be okay. But … I turned him in for all the other stuff. The district attorney is pressing charges against him. I have to testify.”
“My God, Silvie. I’m proud of you.”
She was quiet.
“Did you hear me? I’m so proud of you.”
“Hershel,” she said, and he could hear that she was crying. “I didn’t mean what I said. About loving him. I just didn’t want you to shoot him.”
It was all he needed to hear.
“I miss you,” she said.
“Do you want me to come be with you?”
“I can do this. I’m okay.” She paused. “Yes, please come. I need you.”
EPILOGUE
Hershel held his breath as he dialed the phone number that was still in his memory. It had been months since he’d last called, and he believed that he could do this only once more. His heart was breaking a little more each time.
“Hello,” she answered. She sounded as if she’d been laughing.
“Mom?”
She went silent, the joy he’d felt from her having evaporated like mist. But she didn’t hang up.
“I’ve met a woman and … I would like you to meet her, too.”
She made a strange sound, almost like a hard little “Huh.”
“She’s seen some rough life. Kind of like me, only she didn’t bring it on herself like I did.” He looked out the front window at the coming spring. The herons were flocking to the river by the dozens as the leaves were starting to come on. The wetlands were a vibrant green, and the magnolia in his front yard held hundreds of purple blossoms still conically tight. Silvie was heading down the driveway in the Porsche, kicking up dust from the recent dry spell, headed for her shift at the South Store. “I think you’d like her.”
“I promised myself that I would never give you another chance to hurt me, Hershel. Can you understand how much you’ve hurt me?”
The words stung, but they also felt good. He let them wash over him like icy water. He knew he’d hurt her, but he still didn’t remember the details.
“One more time and you’ll kill me. I can’t have my heart broken again. One more time and you will kill me. I’d have been better off if God had ripped my heart from my chest the moment you were born.”
“I’m different now. I promise I am.”
She sucked in air and remained quiet for a long time.
“Please forgive me. Give me a chance to prove that I’m different.”
“Oh, Hershel … I don’t know.”
He waited for her to hang up, his heart sinking.
“What is her name?”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Special thanks to Holli Mason, MD, my dear sister, who tirelessly provides the medical details of trauma, various diseases and conditions, as well as the effects and treatments of poisons. This book would not be what it is without her.
During the final draft of Damaged Goods I was fortunate to work with Jess Row at Vermont College of Fine Arts. His critical eye and strong teaching helped clear away the unnecessary debris that inevitably piles up during the writing process.
My editor Randall Klein’s keen perception and brilliant editing have improved this work exponentially. I am grateful for the privilege to work with such a thoughtful and patient professional.
Others who contributed to the shaping of this work are Jason Clark, Tina Ricks, and Anita Gutierrez. Thank you each for the ongoing support and repeated readings. Thank you also to my family, without whose help this could not be possible.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
HEATHER SHARFEDDIN is the acclaimed author of Sweetwater Burning (originally released as Blackbelly), proclaimed one of the top novels of 2005 by New Hampshire’s Portsmouth Herald. It has also been honored by the Eric Hoffer Awards and the San Francisco Book Festival. It was named a “Best of the Northwest” title by the Pacific Northwest Booksellers Association. Her other books include Mineral Spirits, which also received a “Best of the Northwest” title, and Windless Summer, honored at the 2010 New York Book Festival.
Sharfeddin holds an MFA in writing from Vermont College of Fine Arts. Raised in Idaho and western Montana, she now lives near Portland in Oregon’s Yamhill Valley.
Table of Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter
28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author