Shivaree (13 page)

TWENTY-FOUR

Corinne felt grateful for the privacy the sleeping porch afforded her. It gave her shelter, without making her feel as if she were truly under the Dunnes’ roof. She extinguished her light and rolled up the Roman blinds, watching through the screen as fireflies punctuated the darkness. A stillness enveloped the whole scene; the only sounds were the chorus of the croaking frogs and rattling grasshoppers. Corinne’s prayer for a breeze went unheeded.

She focused on the sharp slice of new moon, a poor source of light, but a familiar companion all the same. The same moon had followed Corinne from San Francisco to Korea and now to Conroy; it watched over her almost as closely as Elijah’s parents had been surveying the young couple. Ava had a strong sense of propriety, so she insisted that the two be chaperoned at all times until the wedding. Elijah had set up a cot in the barn because she’d claimed it wasn’t proper for the two of them to sleep under the same roof until they had the blessing of the good Lord to do so. It broke Corinne’s heart to think of him out there alone, trying to come to terms with the news of his friends’ violent deaths. Corinne considered the wisdom of sneaking across the fields to the barn to join Elijah on his cot. She heaved a sigh. Without a doubt, Ava was sitting upstairs near her own window, keeping a lookout to prevent just such an encounter.

Corinne’s eyes scanned right to left from the barn, running along the timberline before stopping where the moon reflected off the pond. She had learned over a nearly wordless lunch that the water ran cold because it was spring fed, and that it was much deeper than the surface area would lead one to believe. The heat of the day hadn’t surrendered with the light that had brought it. She longed to dip beneath the water, to feel herself breaking its surface before her body started to bob up and down in its cool liquid embrace.

“Corinne.” The sound of her name carried over the field to her, almost as if the grass itself had called to her. “Join me, Corinne.” The voice seemed to come from within her own mind. Unfamiliar, feminine, irresistible, as if it were touching her in places she kept hidden even from herself. “Join me.”

Corinne saw a movement down by the edge of the water. A naked paleness, so white that it shone nearly blue in the moonlight. “I shouldn’t,” Corinne whispered in response to the summons, but her hand was already pressing against the screen door. It let out a low plaintive cry as she pushed it open and insinuated herself into the gap. It was too early and hot for dew, so the dry grass scraped against the bottoms of Corinne’s bare feet.

Silently she descended toward the water. The pale figure before her left the shore and submerged itself in the water. Several seconds passed, and Corinne stood frozen in place. In the woman’s absence, Corinne felt that a spell had been broken, that her own better sense had been returned to her. She nearly turned and ran back to the house, but in that same moment, the woman broke the surface, water cascading off her black hair, down her opalescent breasts. She had been under water for what seemed like an eternity, but when she rose, she didn’t gasp for air as Corinne surely would have needed to. She stood there, beautiful, still, composed, like a granite statue. Her head tilted to the right and she looked up with eyes shining as blue as the hottest edge of a gas flame.

“It’s you,” Corinne said, recognizing the heart-shaped face and delicate features of the woman in the photo. The photo with which she had been unable to part. “Ruby.”

A smile formed on Ruby’s lips. “Of course it’s me, darlin’. Who else would it be?” The extreme oddness of the moment nearly broke through to Corinne, but she felt as inescapably drawn to the pond as a hooked fish being reeled in to dry land. “The water is so, so nice, Corinne. So refreshing. Join me.” Ruby held out her hands and took a few graceful steps toward Corinne, but it wasn’t necessary. Without intending to, Corinne had already begun her own course toward the water, which was a sharp contrast to the warm night air. Weeds tugged at her ankles, making their weak attempt to stop her progress, but nothing would stop her, could stop her, from becoming one with the light shining in Ruby’s eyes.

Growing wet, Corinne’s gown at first clung to her legs, but then billowed up around her hips as she was drawn deeper into the water. Ruby held her arms out wide in welcome. Soon Corinne could no longer touch bottom; the mucky floor fell clean away, and she found herself treading water. How could Ruby be standing there so stationary? Corinne was an excellent swimmer, but as treading lost its efficacy, she shifted into an awkward dog paddle, unwilling to look away from what awaited her. She drew up close to Ruby, who reached out and pulled her into an embrace. Stabilizing Corinne with one arm, Ruby caressed her face with her free hand, her long cold fingers sliding along her captive’s cheek, down the side of her neck, then across her shoulder.

“He’s never gonna love you. Not really,” Ruby said. “Not like he loved me, so if you know what’s good for you, you’ll get out of Conroy and head on home.” She leaned in and placed her lips near Corinne’s, so near they almost touched. “Take this as your only warning.” Pressure began to build behind Ruby’s touch and, before Corinne could process what was happening, both hands were pinning her shoulders, forcing her head underwater.

Corinne struggled against the downward pressure, surprised when her head easily broke through the water. No one was holding her; she was alone. She gasped in the night air and fought her way back to shore.

TWENTY-FIVE

Lucille had waited in the old sewing room with the door shut tight, sitting on a footstool, not daring to move, barely daring to breathe. The feeling in the house reminded her of when she was a small girl, swimming in the pond with her brother. He held her underwater without the intention of harming her, but he’d kept her there for too long, nearly drowning her. She’d never been able to forget the pounding in her ears, the burning in her lungs in the moment before he finally pulled her back above the surface. And just as her depleted lungs had welcomed the sweet air, she felt a relief every bit as precious sweep over the house. She knew in her heart what it meant: Ruby had left.

Still cautious, she’d made her way back to the Judge’s bedside, forcing her hand over her mouth to stifle a shriek. He was completely naked except for the sheen of his own blood. A loose flap of skin hung nearly torn from his thigh and, revealing a similar gouge that had been torn into his neck, his head was thrown back over a blood-soaked pillow. Still, he lived. His eyes pleaded with her, his quivering hand lifted as if to reach out for her, but she stepped back, moving beyond his reach. That was when she ran from the house, not stopping until she reached the doctor’s residence.

Lucille let Dr. McAvoy lead the way to her employer’s room. She suspected the Judge would be long dead by now, and she’d seen enough death to last her a lifetime. When she went to check on him earlier, she’d immediately realized
he wasn’t alone
. The house’s atmosphere changed within moments, feeling unnaturally heavy. Whispers were floating down from the Judge’s room, whispers that sounded an awful lot like Ruby’s voice. Lucille had witnessed Ruby’s handiwork the previous night by the light of that burning cross, so she knew better than to interrupt. A part of Lucille’s conscience pecked at her now—she should have done something, should have tried helping the old man. But no, whatever had happened in that room was simply the Judge’s own sins coming home to roost.

She followed Dr. McAvoy as he moved stiffly up the stairs, weaving a little. Lucille could smell the alcohol on him. Well, maybe that would help him get through what was coming. She watched as he hesitated outside the Judge’s door.

“Ovid?” he called. “It’s me.” There was no response. He crossed the threshold and entered the room. Lucille followed a few steps behind, but she didn’t want to take even a single step into that room. Even from the partially eclipsed view afforded from the doorway, she could see that the bedding was soaked through with blood. Lucille knew it would fall to her to clean up, but she would not, could not while the Judge was lying there. Had death closed his eyes, or had they stayed open, glassy and wide in terror?

The doctor bent over the Judge and pressed his fingers against his wrist. It was at that moment the Judge gasped in air, his hand shooting out to catch McAvoy’s.

Lucille failed to suppress a startled caw. Until that moment, she’d felt certain the Judge had passed on.

The doctor looked at her, his face ashen, his jaw quivering. “Lucille, find some brandy. Or some whiskey, rum. Whatever the Judge keeps on hand. And don’t even try pretending that this is a dry Baptist house.”

Lucille fled downstairs and found her way to the Judge’s office. She entered, but not before flipping the switch that illuminated the large overhead chandelier the Judge rarely used. The tantalus chest stood in the far corner, behind the Judge’s desk. She tried to lift the lid, but she wasn’t surprised to discover the Judge kept it locked. She attacked the desk itself, intending to look for the key to the tantalus in its drawers, but they, too, had been secured. Finally she spotted the Judge’s letter opener sitting on the desktop, and used it to jimmy the chest open. She’d probably end up paying for the repair if the Judge lived.

Unlike the Judge, Lucille didn’t imbibe, even though the events of the past day and night were threatening to drive her to it. She didn’t know what the bottles contained, so she grabbed two of the four and one of the tumblers the Judge kept near the chest. She stiffened her spine and made her way back upstairs.

“I got your alcohol,” Lucille said from the hall, not wanting to return to the Judge’s side.

“Well, bring it in here, woman,” Dr. McAvoy snapped.

Lucille obeyed, but her aversion to entering the room was so strong, it felt like she was dragging a ball and chain along with her. She knew deep down that the fetter was her own better sense. She handed the glass to McAvoy and held the bottles up before him. “The rum,” he said, and when Lucille hesitated, the annoyed doctor reached out and yanked away the bottle that contained the clearer of the two liquids. Lucille took several steps backward and set the unwanted bottle on the small table near the door. She hovered near the exit as she watched the doctor pull out the stopper and pour a good amount of the liquor into the tumbler. He held it out to the Judge, but the wounded man didn’t even have the strength to rise.

“Give us a hand here, Lucille,” McAvoy ordered.

It took every bit of her resolve not to turn and flee. She took cautious steps toward the bed, moving to the side opposite McAvoy. She forced herself to reach out and put her hand behind the Judge’s shoulders. She flinched at the sight of his neck. It was still bloodied, but there was no longer any wound there. Her eyes shot down to the Judge’s ravaged thigh, but the flap of flesh had closed and healed, leaving not even a sign that the skin had been broken. Lucille had seen the damage done to the Judge, and now it was as if it had never been. There was no longer any room for denying that some unnatural magic had come to Conroy.

A cry began to build in her throat, but she swallowed hard. She wasn’t going to let on that she knew anything. Besides, even if she did tell the doctor what was going on here, he’d never believe her. Probably wouldn’t even take the time to hear her out. He’d just think she was another high-strung female. She let the muffled cry turn into a silent prayer, even though she wasn’t quite sure what she should ask the good Lord to do about this. Besides, the sting of having lost her husband and now her babies made her wonder if God even gave a damn about anything going on below him anyway. A cynical thought, but it felt justified.

Lucille slid her hands beneath a still-white part of the twisted bedsheet. She tried not to make contact with his skin, but even through the cotton barrier, she could feel his clamminess. She used gentle force to help him rise, and the doctor held the rum to his blue lips. The Judge took a deep draught, but immediately began to cough.

“What happened here, Lucille? There’s a lot of bruising, but no wounds to account for the amount of blood here. I’ve never seen a plain illness cause this degree of blood loss.”

“I don’t know, sir,” Lucille lied.

McAvoy set the glass on the night table and took the Judge’s wrist again to check his pulse. He glanced at his watch, but then turned his full attention to Lucille, seeming to be awaiting a different answer. He moved his hand toward the Judge’s neck, but the Judge whimpered and pulled back with a start, pressing his weight against Lucille’s already trembling hands.

Lucille nearly dropped the Judge back on his pillow. She felt her body go cold and begin to tremble. Her knees weakened, so she reached out and grasped the headboard to keep from collapsing.

“Pull yourself together, woman,” McAvoy said, flashing an angry glance at her. He refilled the Judge’s glass with more rum and handed it to her. “Drink this.”

Lucille held her palm up to the doctor as she struggled to form words. “Thank you, sir, but I don’t imbibe.”

McAvoy pushed the glass toward her. “It’s medicinal. Drink it. I need you to help me, not faint.”

Lucille’s hand shook as she took the glass from him. She held it to her lips, then let the fiery liquid slide down her throat. The rum lent strength to her spine, and after a moment she released the headboard. McAvoy nodded and turned his attention back to the patient. “There’s blood on the bedding, but no obvious injury.” The way he spoke told Lucille that the old man was speaking to himself, trying to suss out what had happened. “Ovid,” he said, focusing on the Judge, “I think we should get you to the hospital in Tupelo.”

“No,” the Judge spat out—his first word since Ruby’s attack. He exhausted himself shaking his head, and began wheezing.

McAvoy nodded. “You take it easy there, son.” The doctor’s eyes flitted up to Lucille. “Help me clean him up. Pull the chair closer, so we can shift him into it. Then go find some clean sheets.” Lucille did as she had been commanded. She assumed she’d have to bear the greater part of the Judge’s weight, but he came up off the bed much more easily than she’d expected. Once he had been moved, Dr. McAvoy held the Judge by the shoulders to make sure he didn’t tumble out of the chair. Lucille did her best not to stare at the sight of the Judge pinned in that armchair. Just two months back, he’d glowed with health. His eyes may have glistened with cruelty, but they had been clear and sharp. His hair had been black like a raven’s feathers, like the soul that lived within him. Now he was a waste of a man. He looked so old and dried up.

These ain’t never gonna come clean
, Lucille thought to herself as she tore the fouled sheets from the bed. She carried them from the room, letting them drop to the floor of the linen closet, and pulled out a fresh pair of sheets and a thick blanket. The blanket would cover any bloodstains left on the mattress. It would keep the doctor from telling her to flip it, and having to find a way to balance the weight of the mattress without letting any of the bloody mess covering it rub off on her. She carried her burden back to the room, moving quickly to cover the mattress and dress the bed with the clean, ironed sheets. The pillows and cases had been completely ruined, so she snatched them up and turned on her heel to find replacements.

She made it to the closet in no time, but she took her time finding her way back, feeling for all the world like her legs had turned to lead. To her surprise, McAvoy met her in the hall. The door to the Judge’s room had been closed and the doctor stood before it, like he was standing guard.

“I’ll take him these,” Lucille said raising the pillows.

“Wait,” the doctor said, blocking her way. “You realize your employer is seriously ill?”

“Yes, sir. I can see he’s doing real poorly.”

The doctor licked his lips. “Yes, poorly.” He squinted. “He should be in the hospital, but you know how stubborn the Judge is.”

“It’s more than stubbornness. There are folk around these parts who’d like nothing better to see him in this state,” Lucille said, instantly regretting her words. “I’m sorry, sir, I shouldn’t be speaking out of turn about the Judge.”

“No, Lucille, you are right. The Judge cannot afford to appear weak. He’s got too many enemies who would be quick to take advantage of it. Given how long you’ve worked for Ovid, you are certainly aware of that.”

Lucille judged it best to hold her peace. She kept quiet, clutching the pillows to her chest as she waited for him to speak.

The doctor continued, “But I have to ask myself, what could be at the root of the Judge’s illness? Sure, he took Ruby’s passing hard—I’ll be honest, a whole hell of a lot harder than I thought he had—and grief can do a lot of harm to a man, but I managed to get a little bit of a look at him. I could tell he has been coughing up blood.”

Against her better instincts, Lucille spoke up. “Could be cancer,” she said. “Man from my church, he had the lung cancer, and he coughed up blood.”

“Yes, you are correct. Coughing up blood is a symptom of lung cancer. So are fatigue and headaches. Poor Ovid has complained of those, too. But something doesn’t sit right with me about all this. This could be cancer, or it could be something else entirely. The kind of something a body could arrange.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You know the Judge has enemies. Like you said, making the Judge look weak would do harm enough. A person wouldn’t even need to kill him outright. Maybe someone has been giving him something to make him this way. A bit in his food, his drink. Someone wishing the Judge harm might just pay a pretty penny to get what they want.”

“There’s no way that’s happening, sir. Least not at home. I do all the cooking for the Judge.” Lucille realized too late this was the point he’d been making all along.

“Of course you do. You take real good care of him. That’s what’s got me wondering why you didn’t come to me when Ovid fell sick.”

“You know he told me not to.”

“But you got better sense than that, Lucille. You have eyes in your head; you must have known the man might well be dying. I have to wonder, Lucille—you came in and saw the Judge was in distress, but you took the time to walk over to my house rather than call. Why is that?”

Truth was she had wanted to get out of the house before Ruby could return. She found a quick answer. “I was afraid news might get out if I called. The Judge has a private line, but I didn’t know if you were still on a party line. I was afraid somebody might be listening in.”

McAvoy nodded, seeming to accept her excuse. Then the doctor ran his hand over his mouth, holding it beneath his chin. “How are your children doing?”

She paused, uncertain where this was heading. “They’re just fine, sir. Thank you.”

The doctor tilted his head back, a wry smile forming on his lips. “Well, that’s the funny thing. I heard you sent your children away to visit family up north. Maybe you were thinking about joining them? Of course, we both know there is no way that could happen. Ovid always says you’ll leave him over his dead body. We both know how true that is, don’t we? If Ovid doesn’t get better, and real soon, I may just have to bring Sheriff Bell in to consider matters.” He paused, she gathered, to make sure his words had fully registered with her. “Now, I don’t for a moment believe you’re capable of poisoning the Judge. Not really. But I can tell you know a hell of a lot more than what you’re telling me.”

A burst of anger shot up her spine. She stood tall and dropped the pillows to the floor. Had he already tried and convicted her, or did he just know the sheriff would be too lazy to try and find out the truth when there was such a convenient scapegoat at hand? “I got nothing to do with any of this. I came upstairs to check on him, just like you told me to, and I found him this way.” She pointed at him, her hand shaking. That she had come up here at all tonight was the doctor’s fault.