No Way Home (33 page)

The sound of a siren and the rumble of cars on the dirt road made Pink look up. He rushed out to the edge of the property with his flashlight and began to gesture importantly toward the driveway.

The ambulance was the first to arrive, its pulsating red light a blur against the evening sky. Pink indicated a spot next to the Oldsmobile as the DuPres jumped up from their seat on the steps and ran out anxiously to greet the medical team. Two attendants in white jackets spilled out of the van, and there was a general commotion as Pink and the DuPre couple tried to explain to them about the well and other cars began to appear down the road. The attendants began to prepare the equipment in the van for any contingency. Pink ran down the driveway and called out to Estes Conroy, who was coming slowly up the road in his Bronco.

Pink led the slow-moving Jeep across the lawn, and the driver parked it about ten feet from the well. Two police cars pulled into the driveway. The sheriff, still in his Sunday clothes, was in one, and Wallace Reynolds and another deputy, Floyd Peterson, were in the other.

Royce got out of his car and walked up to Pink. The DuPres hurried over to the sheriff as if he were a warm fire on a cold night. Pink and the sheriff nodded perfunctorily. “What happened?” Royce asked.

“My husband and I were looking at the property,” the distraught woman blurted out, “and I was just checking the well and I saw him.”

The driver of the ambulance, a red-headed fellow in a blue uniform, joined them. “Do we know if he is still alive?” he asked. One of the attendants, whose white smock seemed to glow in the darkness, leaned in to hear the answer.

“I doubt it,” said Pink.

“We called to him repeatedly but no answer,” said the DuPre fellow.

“How will you get him out?” Mrs. DuPre asked in a shrill voice.

Royce walked up to the well and examined it calmly. He could see the twisted legs dimly inside, but nothing else. He turned around and called out to Estes Conroy, who was winding a rope around the winch on the front of his Bronco. “How are you coming, Estes? Hurry up with that winch.”

“Almost ready, Sheriff.”

Royce turned to Wallace and the young deputy. “Floyd,” he said, “will you do the honors?”

The young deputy nodded grimly. “Yessir.”

Estes, a burly man with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth and a Cat cap on his head, approached them with the rope in his hands. “Who’s wearing the loop?” he asked.

Floyd Peterson stepped forward and Wallace helped Estes to secure the loop around the young man’s chest. The ambulance driver checked the knot and then made a loop at the end of another length of rope for Floyd to take down the well.

“If he is alive,” said the male attendant, “try to find out where his injuries are. We’ll have to be very careful bringing him up.”

Floyd nodded quickly, eager to begin his mission of mercy.

“It’ll be slippery in there,” Royce advised him. “Keep a good foothold on the sides. Wallace, you hold the other rope.”

Wallace nodded and took his position at the side of the well as Floyd, his athletic silhouette lit by the headlights of the gathered cars, climbed up and lowered himself into the well. Estes returned to the Bronco to prepare to operate the winch.

A silence fell over everyone as the young deputy began his descent and then, all at once, the onlookers erupted into nervous chatter.

Pink, who was still standing beside Royce, rocked back and forth on his heels. “Not much of a way to spend Sunday night,” he said uneasily.

Royce walked away from Pink and the others and folded his arms across his chest. Pink followed after him. They were out of earshot of the crowd.

“Lillie came home,” Pink said eagerly. “She decided we were right.”

“I heard. I just had a visit from her ex-husband.”

“That bum!” Pink exclaimed, and the sheriff glared at him so that he lowered his voice. “What did he want?”

“Oh, he tracked me down at the Winchester.” Royce sighed. “He just wanted to threaten me a little bit.”

“That son of a bitch,” cried Pink. “He told Lillie he’d stay out of it. I hate that son of a bitch.”

“You all right?” Wallace yelled anxiously down the well.

“What happened?” Royce called out, stepping forward.

“He slipped against the side,” Wallace said. “He’s okay.”

Mrs. DuPre clung to her husband, who whispered reassuringly to her. They did not want to see what was going to come out of the well and, like everybody else, they could not turn their eyes away.

Pink sidled up close to Royce, wanting to discuss this news about Jordan, but the sheriff seemed to be absorbed in the rescue effort. Pink tapped him on the arm persistently, and Royce turned and stared at him, his face drawn and gray in the weak illumination of the gathered headlights.

“I thought he left town,” Pink complained. “How come he is still hanging around?”

“Because he’s enjoying himself,” Royce said wearily. “Anyway, he says he’s leaving tonight. He claims he’ll keep quiet.”

“He better keep quiet,” Pink fumed. “I swear, if he comes back here and starts to bother my family…”

People were leaning over the edge of the well, shouting encouragement to Floyd, who had reached the body and was attempting to maneuver it.

“Is he alive?” the ambulance driver called down.

Floyd’s voice drifted up, faint and hollow. “Blood everywhere. Dead.” A sorrowful hush fell over the spectators and then, one by one, they began solicitously to urge the deputy on, directing him as he tried to shift the dead man’s weight to secure him.

Royce gazed unseeing at the commotion by the well. “I don’t think he’ll bother anymore. He was only in it for the excitement. You know, he probably thought he could get some publicity out of it.”

“Well, he sure managed to get Lillie all worked up about it. I think I’ve finally got her calmed down, and I just want to put this whole mess behind us,” said Pink.

A weird, strangulated cry went up from the deputy inside the well, but it was drowned out by the advice of bystanders.

“Haul him up, Estes,” Wallace ^Reynolds called out as Floyd signaled from below.

“Tell the sheriff,” they heard a weak voice call out.

“Tell the sheriff what?” the ambulance driver called down as the sound of the motor and the whine of the winch muffled any response.

“It was all Jordan Hill’s doing,” Pink insisted.

“It was all our doing,” Royce said in a dull voice.

The rope on the winch creaked, and the motor hummed and people shouted directions as Floyd Peterson, his face white and sweaty, appeared above the edge of the well. His eyes scanned the waiting crowd and clamped onto Royce.

“Okay,” cried Wallace Reynolds, “help him down. Attach that other rope.”

Floyd clambered over the edge of the well and collapsed against the side, hiding his face in his hands. The other men hurried to unwind his rope and attach the second rope to the winch. In a few seconds it was done, and Estes started the motor to begin to raise the body. Royce freed himself from Pink’s urgent grasp and walked over to where the deputy was huddled, gasping for breath, against the side of the well.

“Sheriff, I’m sorry.” Floyd sobbed.

‘That’s tough duty,” said Royce, leaning down and putting a comforting hand on the deputy’s shoulder.

“That’s right,” cried Wallace. “Here he comes. A little more.”

Slowly the bloodied, lifeless body rose out of the depths of the dark stone pit. The DuPre woman screamed at the sight of it and pressed her face to her husband’s chest. The groans of dismay in the group were followed by a shocked silence, as one by one they recognized the corpse.

“Oh, my God,” breathed Wallace Reynolds. Then the sheriff turned to look where they were looking, at the broken body, the lolling head, the bloodied face.

Pink, who had hung back, did not understand for a moment. He could see that blood had run in dark rivers across the dead man’s face. The guy was gone, all right, he thought. They could send that ambulance home. He noticed that the crowd was hushed, as if stricken. The sight of the corpse seemed to have shut everybody up. Well, it was a grisly sight, all right, Pink thought. But he could not understand why they were all staring at the sheriff. As if they were a little fearful of what he was going to do. That seemed strange to Pink. The sheriff had seen plenty of dead men before. More than any of them, Pink figured.

No, he did not understand until he saw them release the repulsive, twisted body from the rope and lower it gently to the ground. And then suddenly, sickeningly, he knew, as he saw Royce fall to the ground beside the body and tenderly gather it up into his arms.

LILLIE WENT THROUGH THE HOUSE,
turning on all the lights, as if light would somehow banish the chill she felt in the quiet rooms. You’re home, she told herself. Everything is the same. But nothing felt the same. The last time she had been in these rooms she had been innocent, she had been in the dark. Pink and Grayson had shared their secret knowledge of Michele’s death and had let her stumble blindly in her grief.

Stop it, she thought. You must not think that way. You must do the normal things. Start getting supper. A reunion supper. The start of a new era.

She knew that thought should make her feel better, but it did not. Everyone around her seemed to feel that the time for grieving was over and that better days had arrived. But inside Lillie felt the loss of Michele more keenly than ever. I wonder if it will ever go away, she thought. I wonder if I will ever have a normal day again.

She moved around the silent kitchen, pulling out plates and pots and bowls, automatically going about the familiar process of fixing a meal. She took out some chicken, already cooked, from the refrigerator, made a salad, put some water on for rice. All the while she felt the weight on her heart that would not lift. She thought of putting on the radio, but the idea of music made her nerves feel jumpy. She preferred the silence.

After she had finished making her salad, she went to the hall and called out for Grayson. In a few minutes he appeared in the doorway.

“What?” he asked.

“How about setting the table?” she asked.

“Sure,” he said pleasantly. Then he looked around. “Where are the placemats?”

“Boy, you really don’t know your way around here,” Lillie said, meaning to tease him. “Michele always claimed that you helped her.”

The smile seemed to flatten out of Grayson’s face, and the remark hung in the air between them. It was as if he did not want any reminder of his sister.

“Left-hand drawer,” said Lillie. Grayson went to the drawer.

Ordinarily Lillie would have let the subject drop, but she was resolved that she was going to be more honest and end the uneasy silences in the house. She had to start somewhere. “Grayson,” she said. “It bothers me. I mean…it seems like you…and your dad…don’t even want me to mention Michele around here. Is that true? Does it make you uncomfortable to even hear her name?”

Grayson set the placemats on the table and smoothed them down. Then he thought a moment. “No,” he said at last. “I don’t mind you mentioning her. Now that you know what happened. I guess that was just a habit from before. Not wanting to talk about it.”

Lillie sighed with relief. She felt as if they had just made a little progress. “That’s good,” she said. “I don’t want to feel that everybody flinches when her name is mentioned. I mean, we’re always going to be reminded of her, in a million ways around this house.” Her voice caught on the last word, but she cleared her throat.

Grayson examined the tabletop. “Do we need spoons?” he asked, looking up at her with an implacable gaze.

“Do you understand me, Grayson?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said a little indignantly. “You want to talk about Michele sometimes. That’s fine with me.”

“Or you or your father might want to talk about her,” Lillie said emphatically.

“Right,” said Grayson. “What about the spoons?”

Lillie’s heart sank. I shouldn’t be surprised, she thought. He’s just like his father. Avoid the subject. Keep your feelings inside. He was just following his father’s example. Grayson, don’t be that way, she wanted to cry out. Share the pain with me. But she knew that wouldn’t work. It would only scare him farther away. “Yes, we need spoons,” she said. “We have banana pudding.”

“Oh, good,” he said. “I like that.”

Lillie poured herself a glass of wine as Grayson finished up with the table. She watched him out of the corner of her eye. Maybe, she thought, I’m asking for too much, wanting him to dwell on such a terrible time. He had spent the last several months absorbing it and trying to get it as far behind him as possible, and now this whole business with Tyler had brought it all rushing back. Watching the graceful movements of her handsome son, she could not shake the image that Jordan had planted in her mind of Tyler, mooning over Grayson, carrying that picture with him, even after all that had happened. She wondered how Tyler could still think he loved Grayson after he had murdered his sister. She knew that what she wanted to say was like picking at a scab, but she could not prevent herself.

“I heard something strange about Tyler today,” she said.

Grayson stopped short but did not look at her. “I know,” he said. “He ran away. You already said so.”

“Not that,” Lillie said, taking a sip of wine and putting the glass down on the countertop. “Did you ever hear from anybody that Tyler might be…interested in boys rather than girls?”

Grayson looked at her calmly. “Sure. He was queer as a three-dollar bill. Everybody suspected it. I’ve heard that he was paying a guy at school to have sex with him. Paid pretty well too. He was stealing the money from his father.”

Lillie looked at him incredulously. “You knew about this?”

“It was just a rumor,” he said. “What’s the big deal?”

“Well, you never mentioned it. Michele didn’t know it.”

“No,” he said soberly. “She was a little naive about Tyler.”

“And I’m sure Royce didn’t know any such thing. Come to think of it, he said Tyler was stealing from him. And he didn’t know what he was doing with the money.”