Shivaree (23 page)

FORTY-EIGHT

Elijah moved like a man in dream, seeming to watch himself from the outside, from a distance. When his mother’s body slumped down, the pistol fell and skidded along the floor, sliding right up to the toe of his boot. Without thinking, he picked it up and placed it in Corinne’s suitcase,
piling in the rest of her belongings along with it. He closed the case and
sealed the latches. He grabbed the handle, and without looking down, he
turned and stepped over the man he had once believed to be his father.

He exited the house, dragging his feet so that he tripped and tumbled down the back stairs. He landed on his hands and knees, the suitcase hitting its side and tumbling some feet away. He stood, surprised to see his jeans had torn and his knee was bleeding. He felt no pain. He felt cold. Very cold. He bent over and reached for the case, missing its handle once, twice, before clutching it, but as he lifted the handle, the case fell open, Corinne’s clothes—and the gun—tumbling back down to the ground. He dropped the case and walked away, his only goal to reach the truck.

He knew he should go find Corinne. Take her away from this place. Never set foot in Mississippi again. Yes. He would do that. But first, there was one place he had to see once more, almost like he was being called there. Almost like he had to go there to break a spell that had been put on him.

He wove across the gray grass to the drive where his father’s—Clay’s—truck was sitting. This time he didn’t meander. He drove straight to the Cooper house, but he very nearly didn’t stop. Still he killed the truck’s ignition.

It all looked wrong. That smell he’d noticed before inside the house had filtered out so that the air seemed dirty with it. The world felt strange. Time moved too quickly, the sun sliding across the sky in what seemed to Elijah to be mere minutes.

The pull to come here had been strong, irresistible even, but now that he sat before the house, his stomach churned. It wasn’t the smell that nauseated him. It was all those times he’d tried to get Ruby out here alone, hoping his friend the hoot owl might offer an encore performance. Thank God she’d been too prissy to drink stolen shine and wrestle in the back of a truck bed at an abandoned house. His hand trembled as he ran it over his beard. He’d almost bedded his own sister. Sowed his seed in her.

They’d come close—many, many times. His manhood pressed tight against her, only a few layers of spun cotton between them and incest. She had always stopped him. She wanted to wait, she would remind him, until they were man and wife. Man and wife. Right now he couldn’t decide whom he hated more. The Judge? Clay? Or maybe his own mother. She’d knowingly let him carry on with his own sister. He hated Clay for lying to him to cause him to break things off with Ruby, but hell, at least the man had done something. In his own horrible way.

He watched purple shadows fall and claim the world around him. Did the Judge know he was his father? He must have some suspicions. Elijah’s eyes darted to the rearview mirror, using the last few moments of twilight to scan his reflection in search of any traces of the Judge. Ruby had inherited the Judge’s dark coloring and fine features. Elijah looked exactly the opposite. Blond hair. Blue eyes. Strong, nearly hooked nose. High forehead. None of these features marked him as Ovid Lowell’s boy. Maybe the Judge figured if Ava had spread her legs so willingly for him, she’d spread them for a lot of other guys, too. No. It was entirely possible the Judge didn’t have an inkling.

His eyes were still affixed to their own reflection when he thought he heard a man call out, with more than just a touch of fear in his cry. Probably just an owl, but still Elijah dropped his gaze and spun around to search for the sound’s source, surprised to see the dusk around him lit up by a whirling, fiery red light.

A patrol car, its siren silent, but its beacon burning, was pulling up to the house. It came to a stop, and its driver killed its engine. “I told you he was probably out here,” said the voice of his one-time buddy, muffled only by the drone of crickets he hadn’t even taken note of moments before.

“Yep, boy,” the sheriff’s gravelly voice rumbled. “You might not be a total waste of county funds after all.”

FORTY-NINE

“Looks like the boys are putting in overtime,” Barbara Jean said as she swept into the diner. She removed her head scarf to reveal a freshly peroxided mound of hair, parted in the center with massive curls on each side of the part. “This darned fog is gonna ruin my hair.” She patted the side of her head. Annie couldn’t see through the thick haze that had swallowed the diner, but she could see through Barbara Jean; she was fishing for a compliment.

Annie focused on the milky white pressing up against the window and made a show of refilling a customer’s coffee. Barbara Jean was late. “The mill has ’em working double shifts,” Annie said. “At least that’s what I heard earlier.”

Barbara Jean dashed behind the counter and slid her purse, a flashy turquoise bucket bag with a poodle appliqué, onto the shelf beneath the cash register. “Just let me grab an apron,” she called to Annie before she slipped into the kitchen. She took her precious time making her way back. She came out, still working on tying her apron.

“Merle tell you the sheriff came by today?” Annie asked. Barbara Jean looked at her with widening eyes. Annie knew Barbara Jean’s surprise didn’t stem from the sheriff’s visit. Without a doubt, word about Dowd’s and Bob’s grisly deaths had spread over half the county within minutes of the sheriff’s visit. Annie knew that what surprised Barbara was that Annie would volunteer to talk about it. To be honest, Annie was a bit surprised at herself. It wasn’t like her to gossip, but something about the way the fog blotted out the sun left her less than less than happy to be on her own. She couldn’t understand it. Usually Annie liked the fog. She liked how it hid her from everyone, and how it hid the sight of Conroy from her, obliterating the familiar landmarks and erasing the foolish faces.

“Oh, darlin’, that is old news,” Barbara Jean said with a shake of her newly minted curls. “The latest is that someone messed around with Frank Mason’s car. Got wrapped around a tree. Bayard’s dead. And ain’t nobody seen Frank.” She tapped the side of her nose with her index finger. “Looks like justice was served.”

“I don’t understand,” Annie said, untying her own apron.

“I’m just saying that someone must’ve finally decided those two boys went too far. Dowd and Bobby. They had friends around here.”

“But,” Annie said, disappointment setting in, “I thought the sheriff figured Charlie Aarons was behind Dowd and Bob.” All afternoon, she’d been playing out a scene in her head, a scene where the sheriff came by her house, alone, just to thank her for the tip she’d given him. She’d invite him in. Offer him a cup of coffee. He’d accept and tell her it was the finest cup of coffee he’d had in forever. He’d say Mrs. Bell could learn a thing or two from her, and he’d place his hand on her hip . . .

“Darlin’, I don’t know what you’re going on about. What would that half-blind old coot have to do with any of this?” She approached Annie, coming closer than she ever had. Annie didn’t like her nearness. She began to take a step back when Barbara Jean leaned in and whispered. “No. You mark my words. The Judge and his boys are on their way out around here. When it all comes out in the wash, we’re gonna find out things are changing. Out with the old, in with the new. There’s a new boss in town. We’ll know who soon.”

Barbara Jean spun around, leaving Annie to fold her apron. Annie went behind the counter to retrieve her purse from her customary pigeonhole. She emptied the cup, where she kept her tips, into the purse and, without another word, made her way out of the diner and into the mist.

Eight blocks, only eight blocks east and three blocks south, between the diner and her home. Even when she took her time, when she let herself lapse into a daydream about how life could be, it took her at most ten minutes or so. Tonight she set out with a quick and determined pace, the Elks Lodge next to the diner soon swallowed by the mists behind her, the Woolworth coming into view. She cast a glance in through the window. The store was closed, but she could see a young fellow sweeping and another stocking goods on a shelf. Walt Kimble, the man she recognized as the manager, stood by the open cash register. Walt was a regular at the diner. He’d brought the boys by, too, for lunch just this afternoon. As she passed, the three stopped their actions and walked in unison to the window. They stood side by side, staring at her. Annie looked away and picked up her pace.

There weren’t many people on the street. That was good. She nodded at the women she knew by name. When a man passed, she turned her gaze downward. She didn’t fear they’d leer or make an advance under the cover of the fog. She feared their eyes would fall on her, and they’d hurry away.

Four blocks. Only four more blocks. She’d turn onto her street. Soon she’d be home. She’d make a cup of tea. Just like every night. Maybe tonight she’d do something special. Put a splash of her father’s leftover bourbon in it. She’d put on her mother’s robe, pull the cat onto her lap . . . no, of course, she’d poisoned the cat. She patted the pocket in her uniform, to feel the bottle of thallium still there. She decided then and there that tonight would be the last night she’d face alone. Tomorrow she’d wait till the lunch shift when the place was full of those dirty mill workers. Then she’d slip it in. A bit in the coffee. A bit in the stew. A bit in the gravy. Maybe she wouldn’t get many of them, but she’d take more than a few with her. They’d know then. All of them. They’d know how badly they’d hurt her. And by God, they’d be sorry.

But the best part was that it would finally be over. All over. She’d never hear another snicker. Never hear a whispered word of sympathy.
Bless her heart.
Never catch the sight of her own ugly reflection.

A man’s hand caught hold of her arm, and she jumped back. Over the years, the few hands that had reached out for her were always rough in their handling, intending to taunt or terrify her, never to caress or soothe. She didn’t scream. She’d learned not to. Something about screaming egged them on. Still her heart pounded.

“Hold up,” he said as she tugged, trying to free herself from his grasp.

“Let go of me,” she snapped, realizing that the man who held her was no man at all. It was Merle, the teenager who washed dishes at the diner. Something was off about him, though. Merle had dark eyes. But here in this foggy twilight they now appeared to be filled with tiny blue sparks.

Merle held tight.

“Let go of me. What do you want?” She gave another hard tug, and she slipped from his grasp.

“She wants to know why you won’t help her.”

“What are you going on about? Help who?” She pulled her arms around herself and stepped back.

“Miss Ruby,” the boy said, his spotted face leaning in close.

Annie had had enough of the boy. She only knew one Ruby in Conroy. “You talking about the Judge’s Ruby?”

Merle nodded.

“You’re crazy, you know. Ruby Lowell is dead. Has been for months now.” She turned, but again she felt his hand on her. It slid into and from her pocket before she could react.

“I knew you had it.” He held the bottle up before her eyes. “I guessed what you were intending when I saw your cat losing its fur.” He shook the bottle. “You have enough for one or two people maybe, but you don’t have anyone close to you. That meant you planned on taking a bunch of folk with you, but you don’t have enough to kill everybody. Not here. You’d end up cutting it too much to take a bunch of folk out quickly.” He held the bottle out to her. “Besides, in small doses this stuff takes time. I went to the library in Tupelo. Read up about it. That’s why I never told the sheriff about it. But when Miss Ruby came to me, I told her about it. I told her about you.”

She reached out to snatch away the bottle, but Merle was too fast, sweeping it back beyond her grasp. He smiled, then again held the bottle out, this time letting it drop without guile into her palm. She shoved it into her pocket. “Ruby is dead. And you’re crazy.”

“No,” Merle replied, his sparkling eyes taking on an intensity she’d only seen before in Pentecostal tent revivals. “They put her in a casket, but she wasn’t dead. Not really. Not in the way you and me think of as dead. I know, you see, ’cause we live right next to the cemetery. One night, I just felt her. Standing out there in the moonlight. She’s my friend now, so I told her about you. She got the idea from you.”

Annie felt the pulse in her neck, even as her extremities turned cold. “What idea?”

“To use the diner. See, if she’s right there with you, looking at you, there ain’t no way you can refuse her. She’s too beautiful to say no to. You love her too much.” His expression softened, his eyes took on a distant, smitten look. “You’d do anything for her. Give her anything.” He tilted his head and leaned in as if he were about to make a confession. “But if she ain’t with a person, she can’t make ’em do as she wants ’em to. Until you taste her. Once you taste her”—his tongue slid out and ran slowly across his lower lip—“she owns you.” He reached out, squeezing her hand. “You gave her the idea to spike the food with her blood, so everyone who eats at the diner will do as she wants ’em to, without her having to be right there watching over ’em.” His voice grew quiet. “You handed her the goddamned key to the city”—he paused, squinting at her—“but you never eat what the diner serves. You never, even once, eat at the diner.”

“Of course not,” she said, growing angry. “I’ve been in the kitchen.”

Merle laughed, although she meant it as a sincere explanation. “It doesn’t matter now anyway,” he said, as a pickup truck turned on to the street and came to a halt next to them. It took her a second, but she recognized it as belonging to old man Aarons. There were two men inside, though. Her stomach lurched as she recognized the Sleiger boys. The doors to the truck opened, even though they left the engine running.

Annie broke out into a cold sweat. “You two best get out of here and leave me be,” she called out as they drew near. “The sheriff, he’s looking for you.” She felt her body tensing, preparing to run if they took a single step closer.

“Don’t be afraid,” Merle said, his voice calm, soothing. “Miss Ruby, she’s got a special reward for you. You’re gonna serve her. She’s chosen you as her handmaiden. She’s gonna take you herself, and when you wake up, you’ll never have to worry about growing old or dying. Ever again. You’ll live forever. As long as you please her. As long as you serve her.”

“But I don’t want to live forever,” Annie said, bursting into tears.

“Don’t be silly,” Merle said, “nobody wants to grow old and die. Everybody wants to live forever.”

“Not in this body. Not with this face.” Before she could take a step, the Sleiger boys had her and were stuffing her into the cab of the truck. In that moment, she believed what Merle had told her. The realization of what was about to happen to her slapped her across the face, and as it did, she let herself scream, not even caring if the Sleigers enjoyed the sound of her cry.