by Mike Nappa
I start to pout, and he sighs. With his right hand, he closes the book on his desk. It has a blank, black cover, no markings on it at all.
“Come on, Annabel. Aren’t you getting a little old for that attitude?”
It’s a warning, and I’m old enough to know that it’s best to heed Truck’s warnings. Still, I’m feeling hungry and bored. I try to prolong the conversation.
“What you reading, Truck? Can you read that to me?”
My uncle looks unhappy. After a moment, he shakes his head. “Not today, Annie. Maybe someday.” He takes a thick rubber band and wraps it around the black book, sealing it tight.
“Why not, Truck?” I skitter into his lap like I belong there. “I’ll sit real still while you read it. I promise.”
The book sits on the desk before us. Black and closed to my eyes.
“Tell you what, Annabel,” he says, and his voice sounds solemn and serious. “When you turn thirteen, on your thirteenth birthday, I’ll let you read this book for yourself.”
He slides the book into a drawer on his desk and then shoves me off his lap. “Now go help Rendel with dinner. I’ve got work to do, and I’m not getting it done with curious little girls making all kinds of interruptions.”
He smiles at me, and I know it’s time to go.
It’s just one of a million memories my mind holds, one easily forgotten. One I did forget until just now, this moment, when it suddenly had new meaning and demanded to be recalled.
I look over at Marelda Gregor’s book on the table. I know it was her book Truck kept from me, her book he was saving for my thirteenth birthday. I guess I see why, now. Thirteen is gonna be an important number in my life. If I ever get to it.
When I was done reading “The Pit and the Pendulum,” I had nightmares for a week. Rats chewing at my clothes. Falling down a deep, dark, endless hole. Being tied to a wooden beam. That kind of thing. It got to where Truck forbade me from reading any more Poe stories for a while, to the point where I was sorry I’d ever read that story. Now, looking at the personal account of Marelda Gregor sitting on the table, I feel the same way.
I have so many questions. And I’m afraid to find out the answers. I see the Bible peeking at me from the top shelf across the room, but I don’t have the courage to read that highlighted page again. Not now, not knowing what I do now.
I finally get unwrapped from my covers and walk over to the table. I put the black journal into the desk drawer, along with my own notebook and writings. And I see something else I forgot.
There’s a Walther PPQ semiautomatic pistol still in this drawer. Loaded.
I know how to use a gun. I never used one as fancy as this one, but a gun’s a gun. Aim and click. Brace for the kick. Let the bullet do the work.
I reach inside the drawer. The pistol feels heavy in my hand.
The dog is awake now, watching me from his spot in front of the door.
I wonder if I should kill the dog first, or myself.
One bullet, that’s all it would take. It would be easy. Killing me would be easy.
I look at the dog.
Killing the dog would be hard. It would hurt like reading Marelda Gregor’s diary.
I put the gun back where it belongs, back in the drawer under the table. It’s Truck’s gun anyway, and he’d be mad if he knew I messed around with it.
I sit down on the floor beside the table. It seems like years since I was sleeping warm in my own bed, since I was complaining that it was too hot up there in my third-floor bedroom. I wonder if my stuff is still up there. For some reason, I miss the wallpaper. Bluebell flowers against a cream background, sprinkled floor to ceiling on three walls. The fourth wall is blank white, behind the head of my bed. In my dreams sometimes I heard them bluebells tinkling like wind chimes in my head. I miss them little bluebells now, even though I never thought to appreciate the painted flowers while I had ’em at easy distance.
I’m lying on the floor now, and I feel the coolness seeping up into my body. If I lay here long enough, I think, I won’t need no gun to kill myself. The cold in my bones will do it for me. And I realize I’ve made myself a plan. I can’t live no more like this anyway. It’s too much for me, too much for an eleven-year-old girl.
It ain’t nothing for me to strip off my socks, my shirt and pants. Now the chill beneath me makes my bare thighs quiver. Now my shoulders and arms. Don’t know if it’s minutes or hours, but now my teeth is chattering like skeleton bones on Halloween. I force myself not to move. I welcome the cold, wishing for it to spring death on me.
I hear when you freeze to death, you just eventually fall asleep and die. So I try to fall asleep. My feet and fingers feel numb, and my spine is hurting from the shivers on this hard cement floor. I close my eyes tighter. All it takes is a strong will to die. And Truck always said I was the most self-willed child he ever seen.
My ears feel like someone is pinching at ’em and poking into the flesh with toothpicks. Somebody groans, and only afterward do I realize it’s me.
Let me die.
I don’t know what God I’m praying to, but he always seemed to answer before when I needed him most.
Make me die.
I don’t hear no answer. I try to sleep. If I sleep now, I think maybe I won’t wake up. Sleep. Go to sleep.
I try to think of a lullaby, but for some reason no song comes to mind. I try to cry, but tears won’t come neither. Only groans.
I’m so cold.
The shock of the dog’s body against mine causes me to jump. I open my eyes and see him crawling in close to me on the floor, pressing his furry warmth against my left side. His eyes lock onto mine as he nuzzles in next to me.
“What you doing, Dog?” I chatter at him. He just presses his cheek against my ribs.
Now I am crying, not from sadness but from anger.
“Geht!” I shout at him. “Geht.”
He whimpers slightly, fidgets, but he don’t leave my side. Instead, he lifts his big, shaggy head and lays it like a blanket across my icy belly.
“It ain’t gonna work, Dog,” I say through chattering teeth. “You ain’t no fur coat. Just leave me alone.”
He looks at me from the corner of his eye, but he don’t move. We are at a stalemate, that dog and me. Me trying to freeze myself and him trying to warm me back to life.
“You’re a stubborn hound,” I say softly. He just blinks at me. Slowly I raise my arms and wrap them around that awful head. He sighs and nuzzles into my touch. I start to worry that maybe the dog is right, that maybe freezing to death ain’t my only option. And besides, is it really cold enough in here to die from it? Probably not. Probably I’m just suffering for no reason.
I’m a stubborn girl too, though. So I continue to lie on the floor a while longer, shivering, aching, suffering. Maybe that’s what I need anyway. Maybe it’s the suffering that redeems me. I think the Catholics in Peachtree call it penance. So I choose to suffer, even if I can’t die.
In the end, it’s human biology that defeats me. A long sigh and I finally push the warmth of the German shepherd off my belly. He stands nearby, tail low, watching.
“It ain’t no thing, Dog,” I mutter. “Nothing to worry about.”
I stand up and move toward the outhouse, feeling the pressure rise inside my intestines, no longer able to ignore it.
I knew I shouldn’t have eaten that whole can of chili.
30
Trudi
The forest was quiet when Trudi and Samuel pulled the Ford GT into the clearing at the rendezvous point. She didn’t have to check her watch to know that late afternoon was turning into early evening.
“So, I guess we’re a little early,” she said. “Got some time to kill until The Mute shows up. Want me to tell you a story?”
Samuel smiled, and Trudi knew he was remembering the late nights during college when she’d regale him with obscure mythology and history she’d picked up from her literature studies. That thought made Trudi smile inside as we
ll.
They were now situated at a plateau of sorts on the edge of the Conecuh National Forest. It was a flat clearing that had somehow avoided the worst of the fire. Trudi guessed it had been cleared with tourists in mind because a wide hiking trail into the forest spiked off from one end. She could envision people parking their minivans here and then taking off for a day’s trek inside the wilderness. It was nice.
Samuel stretched his big frame, cracking his spine and his knuckles in the process. He looked toward the sky and then surveyed their surroundings.
“How much more daylight do you think we have?” he said.
Trudi made a judgment call. “A few hours, give or take.”
“So The Mute wants to take us on a night hike?”
“I guess so. What’s it matter to you? You worried about not being able to keep those emeralds?”
“No.” Samuel let his eyes stray past the scenery and onto his ex-wife. “Honestly, The Mute was supposed to get the emeralds anyway. I was supposed to give him the map and the key, and then he was supposed to take care of the rest.”
“So why are we out here in the nothingness of Alabama on a cool autumn evening? If this is your idea of a date, it’s not so great.”
“Now I just have to know why Truck was so concerned about two little gemstones. I mean, Leonard Truckson was not a man without means.”
Samuel’s use of a double-negative grated at the English major in her, but Trudi tried not to think about it. Samuel always got defensive when she corrected his grammar.
“Curiosity killed the cat,” she quipped.
“Good thing I’m not a cat,” he said. “But seriously, there must be something more to this. Something important. I want to see it through to the end. I owe that much to Truck. I owe him that much and a lot more.”
Trudi nodded. It was hard to argue with a man when his reasoning went along emotional lines like that. Besides, she was here now, and honestly, she too was curious to see these all-important emeralds.
The light, cool breeze around them was a welcome blessing. The smell of smoke still lingered, and the sky still held black marks created by the fire. But word on the news was that workers now had it 70 percent contained. The Great Conecuh Fire should burn itself out within the next week or two.
Her mind wandered to earlier in the day, when they were eating lunch at the Homewood Gourmet restaurant on 28th Avenue South in Birmingham. She’d waited until Samuel excused himself for a bathroom break before digging the cell phone out of her pants pocket. The battery was still over 60 percent—plenty of life left as long as she didn’t overuse it.
Trudi tapped the touch screen and held the phone to her ear. There were fourteen messages waiting for her, but she was only interested in the first one. Dr. Smith’s voice was clear and crisp, despite his recent encounter with an electric chair.
“Mary had a little lamb,” he said, “its fleece was white as snow; and everywhere that Mary went, the lamb was sure to go. It followed her to school one day, which was against the rule; it made the children laugh and play, to see a lamb at school. And so the teacher turned it out, but still it lingered near, and waited patiently about till Mary did appear. ‘Why does the lamb love Mary so?’ the eager children cry; ‘Why, Mary loves the lamb, you know’ the teacher did reply.”
The message ended, and Trudi hung up her cell.
What in the world?
Was that old man really bonkers? Why had he called and left a nursery rhyme on her voicemail? She’d half expected some kind of threat, a promise of vengeance, maybe a clue to what he was planning next. But “Mary Had a Little Lamb”? Seriously? It made no sense.
She cued up Dr. Smith again but then had to stuff the cell phone back into her jeans midmessage when Samuel returned from the bathroom. She hoped he hadn’t seen it, was glad when he didn’t ask questions about it. Then they’d made the drive down here to Peachtree and the Conecuh National Forest. Several times on the way, she’d been tempted to tell her ex-husband about Dr. Smith’s phone call, but it seemed like such a silly message that she never could bring herself to do it.
Now she watched Samuel begin exploring the rendezvous spot, peering down the trail and checking other entry points into the forest. She started to feel suspicious.
“Come here and keep me company,” she said. “I want to hear more about your thoughts on Dr. Smith.”
He ignored her. Instead he consulted the GPS device, then continued inspecting the countryside, getting his bearings.
“Samuel.” She could almost see the thought balloons forming over his head. This guy was too predictable sometimes.
He waved her off, and seemed to be counting something in his head. Finally he turned to her.
“Listen, you wait here,” he said. “I’m going down to Truck’s farm. I’ll bring the emeralds back in a flash. Give me an hour, maybe an hour and a half.” He held up the GPS. “I’m going to take this, if you don’t mind. Just in case.”
“Samuel,” she said, “just wait. The Mute’ll be here soon, and we can all go in together.”
“Not necessary,” he said cheerily. “I can get everything done in the time it takes for him to get here. Easy-peasy. You just relax. I’ll take care of everything.”
“Come on, Sam. Do you really think it’s wise to go gallivanting off on your own in this unfamiliar territory? Use your head for once.”
“Yes, you’re right. The pretty chirping birds might turn into dangerous monsters inside the forest. I’m willing to take the chance.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re so pretty when you pout.”
He stuffed the GPS into his pocket and headed away from the clearing. She noticed he was deliberately avoiding the wide hiking trail that was so pleasantly marked out for visitors. He disappeared into the line of trees. Trudi cursed and started jogging after him. She caught up with him after only a minute or so.
“You know where we’re going?” she said grumpily. “Or are we just on a pleasure tour?”
“Well, it is a pleasure to go on a hike with you, if that’s what you’re asking. And yes, I do know where we’re going.” He pointed southwest. “Really, all we need to do is walk that way for about two or three miles, and we’re there. But we’ll keep an eye on the GPS to make sure we don’t get lost.”
Trudi didn’t admit it, but it was kind of nice to tramp through this forest with her ex. The farther they went into it, the more signs they saw of the fire’s impact and aftermath, but there were also signs of life sprouting from the ashes. And Samuel seemed genuinely happy to be out in the world again.
He always was an annoying outdoorsy type, she said to herself. Me, I prefer the comforts of civilization. Camping for me means a stay at Motel 6. But the moment was good, and so she kept her thoughts to herself. Besides, walking was always good exercise, and a woman her age needed to stay in shape.
Evening had fully arrived when they reached Truck’s farm, and Trudi saw the devastation that fire can cause. The place was a ruin. No signs of life, nothing to cheer the human heart. Just rubble and blackened debris.
They came in from the northwest corner of the property, and when the full area was in view, Samuel let out a low whistle. Trudi didn’t say anything at first, but she agreed with his sentiment.
“Maybe we should have waited for The Mute after all,” she said. “How are we going to find an underground entrance in all this mess?”
Samuel was undeterred. “It’ll show itself to us. We just have to get the right vantage point. Come on.”
He stepped over a burned branch and headed toward the center of the property. Trudi followed. Samuel kept walking until he stood in the road on the other side of the structures, now situated on the south side of everything. Trudi stood next to him, and they both took in the scene.
The demarcations where the two main buildings had stood were still visible to the naked eye. “That must have been the main house,” Samuel said, pointing toward a burned-out porch. “Wh
ich means that”—he pointed to the other leftovers of a building—“was the barn.”
“Okay,” Trudi said. “So we know the underground structure is below the barn. What do you think, is it a bunker of some sort?”
“Probably.”
They stared intently toward the rubble left of the barn, looking for clues. Trudi saw nothing. It was frustrating, but Samuel seemed to be making sense of the scenery, so she kept quiet.
“There,” he said. She followed his line of sight and saw remnants of a chain link fence that ran intermittently behind the barn. “If Truck were making an entrance to an underground bunker, he’d keep it out of sight from the road, behind the barn. And he’d probably put some sort of obstacle there as well.”
“Like a chain link fence? Isn’t that a little obvious?”
Samuel shrugged. “Makes sense to me. Probably kept farming machinery or some other kind of equipment back there to disguise it. That would make it easy to explain why he’d keep the fence locked.”
Trudi had to admit that Samuel’s reasoning made a certain kind of sense. “Should we check it out? Daylight’s almost gone, you know.”
Samuel nodded slowly and began to step carefully toward the barn. Trudi followed, looking for signs that would reveal an opening to the underground. When they stood next to the edge of the fence, she still didn’t see anything to indicate they were anywhere besides a field of refuse. Samuel started working methodically from one end of the old barn to the other, staying on the backside of the burned-out structure.
Trudi decided to take a different tack. She climbed up on a large stone and tried to give herself a bird’s-eye view. It was obviously a low-flying bird, but it helped. She raked the scenery with her eyes. It seemed undisturbed and secretive. Then her eyes flicked back to something they’d passed over previously. Down at the far end of the barn, near what used to be the back corner, something was wrong.
She jumped off the rock and went to check it out. For some reason, a Sesame Street song from her childhood chimed in her brain. One of these things is not like the other . . .
She let her eyes wander, relaxed her mind to hear what the scene was saying to her. A branch here. A rut in the ground there. Melted metal. Rocks. Small animal tracks printed in the ash. Rough cuts in the terrain and—there. It was there, plain to see if anyone was really looking.
