The Bastard Hand (12 page)

I said, “Doesn’t sound like much in the way of interesting conversation. If I was your butler, I’d entertain you with all sorts of stories.”

She grinned. “Too bad you already have a job.”

“I’m available evenings.”

“Ah. I may have a position open in the evenings. I’ll have to think it over.”

“Please do,” I said. “I should tell you, I have a pretty impressive resume.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Resumes don’t mean a thing to me. I prefer someone without preconceived notions about the job. They’re easier to train.”

Very near ten o’clock, Ernie Oldfield showed up again. I saw him at the foot of the stairs, looking grim and disturbed. There was another officer with him, a tall rangy man with a face like a quarry pile and a captain’s shield on his uniform. Mayor Ishy, his right hand still in his pocket, approached him hurriedly. I heard him say, “Captain Forrey! I was beginning to think you’d never show tonight!”

Captain Forrey nodded at the mayor, and the two of them huddled intimately. Forrey spoke urgently and quietly into the mayor’s ear. Ishy’s red face grew pale. He looked over at Elise and me. I noticed that Oldfield was also staring in our direction.

Elise also watched, her face suddenly drawn and worried, just like it was when I saw her in front of the diner.

Forrey, Oldfield and Ishy all approached us as one. Forrey nodded at me, said, “I’m Lionel Forrey, Cuba Landing Police Department. You must be Charlie Wesley.”

I told him that I was, and he immediately dismissed me. Turning to Elise, he said, “Miss Garrity, can you come upstairs with me for just a moment?”

“Yes, of course,” Elise said. A tremble in her voice.

Ishy and Oldfield both nodded politely at me, then all of them started off. They’d gotten a few steps away when Elise turned around and said, “Charlie, don’t forget to come by tomorrow night. About that job.”

She said it without even a hint of sexuality. She didn’t need to.

I might have felt great about that, but the tone of the evening had taken on a strange and disturbing resonance. The three officials had put on their most serious public personas and escorted Elise out and it was obvious that bad news was in the air.

I was right, of course. Only a few minutes later, Police Captain Forrey came back down and announced to the entire assembly that Kimberly Garrity had had a heart attack.

Things broke up quick after that. Captain Forrey had handled the speech with abrasive forwardness, but to his credit he made it clear that the old woman had been taken to the hospital in Oxford and that her condition was stable.

Folks began filing out, saying solemn goodbyes to Reverend Childe, who shook hands and looked grave. Within minutes, no one was left but me and the Reverend, Mayor Ishy, and the two cops. The Reverend and I were the privileged ones who got to hear the inside scoop.

Forrey shook hands with the Reverend, said, “Sure is a shame to have to meet you under these circumstances.”

“It’s indeed sad news, Captain Forrey. I’ve heard so much about the Widow Garrity’s contributions to this town. She’ll be in my prayers tonight.”

“Appreciated, Reverend,” Forrey said, and Oldfield and Ishy echoed him.

Ishy said, “Perhaps you can fill us in a bit, Lionel?”

Forrey set his jaw, told us that he’d received a phone call from the Garrity’s maid less than an hour earlier. The servant, Louis, had been doing some repair work on one of the cars, and came in to find Kimberly Garrity slumped over the table in the kitchen, unmoving—he instructed the maid to call for help.

All of us listened to Forrey in silence. What the Reverend thought, or what went on in the heads of Oldfield or Ishy, I couldn’t say.

The Reverend said, “Gentlemen, I’d be honored to do anything I possibly can for Mrs. Garrity, now that I’m the official pastor of her church. If you’d be kind enough to let her know I’m at the disposal of her and her daughter.”

Oldfield said, “I’m going by the Garrity house tonight to check on Elise, make sure everything’s all right. I’d be happy to deliver the message.”

I said, “How did Miss Garrity get home?”

Oldfield looked at me sideways. “Louis was outside. He drove her.”

“Oh,” I said. “I just wanted to make sure she . . . got home okay.”

“I’m sure she’ll be fine,” Forrey said. “She’s always been a model of strength, that woman.”

Hand shaking and patting of shoulders went all around, except for the mayor, who still hadn’t removed his right hand from his pocket. Ishy said, “Sorry your reception had to end this way, Reverend Childe. Perhaps we can make up for it Wednesday night.”

“Hope to tell you. Although I think I’m going to write a new sermon, in light of this bad news. I hope to see you here, Mr. Mayor.”

“Count on it,” Ishy said. He seemed less spacy now. Maybe his meds were wearing off.

We saw the three of them out the back door, and yet another round of hand shaking ensued before they left. With his brand-new key, the Reverend locked the door behind them. He turned around and looked at me.

The church was quiet again. The Reverend said, “Well, don’t that beat all.”

“What?”

“The Widow Garrity having a heart attack, at just about the same time as her son’s replacement arrives in town. If that ain’t the weirdest thing I ever heard, I don’t know what is!”

“I guess,” I said.

“I mean, what are the chances?” He shook his head in amazement. “What do you reckon caused it, anyway?”

“How should I know? Besides, nothing has to cause it, right? She’s an old lady. Old ladies have heart attacks. Or break hips. Nothing weird about it.”

He picked up on my unease, but misread it. Patting me on the shoulder, he said, “Don’t let it worry ya none, Charlie. I know you’re planning on bedding her daughter, and I wish you luck. This whole mess won’t set you back more than a couple days, if you handle it right.”

“Why do you have to talk like that? I mean, Christ, did it ever occur to you that a woman might be more than just—”

He cut me off, “I done asked you not to blaspheme, Charlie.”

“Oh, give it a rest, Reverend.”

His stare bore a hole right through my skull, but I held my ground and stared right back at him. After a moment his gaze relaxed, and he said, “Ah, hell, you’re right, Charlie. I should think more about your feelings. I apologize.” He held out his hand. “Friends?” he said.

I hesitated. He grinned. Sighing, I took his hand and said, “Yeah. Okay. And, uh . . . I guess I’m sorry about blaspheming.”

He shrugged. “You don’t gotta apologize to me about it. That’s between you and the Man Upstairs. You know what this calls for? What we really need right now?”

“What?”

He clapped his hands together, and his eyes gleamed. “A drink!” he said.

We roared down Park, and the park gave way to nice suburban homes and warm green lawns and wood fences, and then the suburbs thinned out to middle-class ranches and lower middle-class bungalows. The lane degenerated into a rough street that degenerated into a dirt road, just as the forests around Cuba Landing asserted themselves and the only signs of human life were the occasional shacks and garages half-hidden behind dappled green and brown.

The car windows were open and a gust of wind whistled through the car and I caught that smell again, that smell of wildflowers and cool moss and kudzu. The Reverend’s hair whipped in the wind. In the dull shaft of our headlights, the road ahead began twisting and snaking. I could feel the incline as we neared the Hill, apparent in the motor’s whine more than anything else. He took the curves and twists with zeal, and for the moment our conversation was on hold.

Finally we slowed down and pulled off onto the slippery gravel on the side of the road. The Malibu sighed. The Reverend yanked up the emergency brake and said, “We walk from here.”

I jumped out after him, and immediately stumbled on the loose gravel and nearly fell down the incline into the lush patches of kudzu below. I grabbed the door handle and righted myself.

“Mind your step. That kudzu’s just crawling with mean-ass snakes.”

I glanced down at the suddenly sinister leafy vines. “Are there lots of snakes around here?”

“Hell, yes. This is snake central, Charlie. ’specially this time of night.” Grinning, so I didn’t know if he was kidding. Then he said, “It’s this way,” and trotted off to the other side of the road and disappeared into the woods.

I hurried after him in the dark. The spot he’d evaporated into, when I got up close, revealed itself to be a small opening. A rough path cut through the woods and headed up Moker’s Hill.

“Hurry up, Charlie! It ain’t far.”

I took the path after him and caught up. His broad black shadow moved ahead of me, swift and confident with every step. How he’d found this trail in the first place was a mystery—his nose must have sniffed out the scent of shine—but how he was able to traverse it with such ease was even more remarkable. I kept stumbling over stray limbs and half-buried tree roots. After only a few minutes, I was breathing hard and sweating in the cool forest breeze.

He chattered on the whole way, but I was too busy fumbling through the dark and watching for snakes to pay any attention. Whenever we came near a cluster of kudzu I steered a wide berth and inevitably stumbled against a tree. In my mind, every leaf or weed that tickled against my ankle had fangs.

The trail wound upward, getting steeper and steeper, until it all leveled out at once and we came out of the woods into a big clearing. The Aarons brothers cabin pressed right against the borders of nature and didn’t even make a dent.

The cabin was nicer than I thought it would be, crafted with long slabs of timber and a sturdy, level porch. Gold light flickered through the fairly modern-looking windows.

A figure appeared on the porch as we came out of the woods. The unmistakable cha-chunk of a shotgun being cocked echoed across the clearing.

The Reverend halted so suddenly that I stumbled right into him. The figure on the porch spoke in a voice like a rusty chainsaw: “Move one more step an’ I’ll use yer ass fer hamburger meat.”

“Henry,” the Reverend said, “it’s me. Reverend Childe.”

I caught my breath while the figure on the porch moved down two steps on the stairs. I couldn’t see the shotgun, lost in the bulk of the figure’s shadow, but I knew it was still trained on us.

“Reverend Childe?”

“That’s right, Henry. Remember, I said I’d come calling tonight?”

Henry didn’t relax. “Who that with you?”

“This here’s Charlie. My assistant? ’member, I told you ’bout him?”

“You didn’t say nothing ’bout bringing no one with you.”

“It’s just Charlie. Nothin’ to worry about. Say howdy to the man, Charlie.”

“Howdy,” I said.

Henry Aarons growled, “You shudda said something, Reverend, if you was gonna bring someone.” Then, almost like he was reciting a mantra, “We don’t like strangers.”

The Reverend put up his hand. “Henry, you have my word as a Man a’ God that Charlie here is A-okay. Ain’t nothing to worry about.”

Henry said, “Shee-it. You ain’t any more a Man a’ Gawd than I am. Just cuz you wearin’ a collar don’t mean I won’t make a sieve outta yer head.”

“I know, Henry, I know.”

Another figure came out of the cabin onto the porch, said, “What the holy hell’s going on out here? Reverend, that you?”

“Howdy, Mack,” the Reverend said. “I’d come up to shake your hand, ’cept your brother here’s got me covered and all.”

“Who that with you?”

“It’s my assistant, Charlie. Criminy, boys, what the hell’s with you? I told ya I was coming, I told ya about Charlie, and I get here it’s like trying to get inside the damn Pentagon or something.”

“The damn what?” Henry said.

Mack came down the stairs, said, “The Pentagon, Henry. Some tourist thing they got over in Greece.” He approached us and eyed me suspiciously and I finally got a look at one of the Aarons brothers.

Ugly, the first thing that came to mind. But ugly is such a small and subjective word, it really didn’t do justice to the exquisite disaster of Mack Aarons’s face. It was the kind of ugly that went to the bone.

Runny, deep-set eyes, almost lost under the shadow of his mammoth forehead, and a thick mouth that took up half his face. His nose swollen and red with broken capillaries. He spoke to me: “What’d you say yer name is?”

“Charlie,” I said.

Mack laughed gutturally. “Charlie. Look, Henry, it’s Charlie.”

They both laughed, and Henry said, “Charlie! What kinda stupid-ass name is Charlie?”

Henry stepped forward to slap me on the shoulder, and I learned that, yes, someone actually could be uglier than Mack Aarons. He said, “Ah, hell, boy, you all right. You fellas come on in.”

He and Mack started back into the cabin. The Reverend hung back long enough to whisper under his breath, “Damn nutcases, Charlie. The things a fella has to do to get a drink.”

I whispered back, “We could always just go to the bar, you know.”

“Lord have mercy,” the Reverend said. We followed the brothers into the cabin.

“A man,” said Henry, “has gotta have some kinda redemption.”

“Amen,” said Mack.

“Amen,” said the Reverend.

They all looked at me. I had the jug to my lips. Choking down the white-hot shine, I made a strange noise, set the jug in front of me, and croaked, “Amen!” The liquor ran down my chin.

No one seemed to care. Henry nodded wisely and said, “That’s why we got the cross there on the wall. Redemption. I don’t reckon that what me and Mack do is a sin or nothing—if I thought it was a sin, why, I wouldn’t do it—but it never hurts to be on the safe side. If what we do here offends the Lord in some way, then we sorta got all our bases covered, if you know what I mean.”

The Reverend said, “I do indeed, Henry. I do indeed.”

“And,” Henry added, “judging from you, Reverend, I reckon I was right. It ain’t no sin. If’n it was, you wouldn’t be partaking, wouldja now?”

“No, Henry, I surely wouldn’t.”

Mack said, with only a touch of hostility, “But there again, Reverend Childe ain’t exactly typical a’ his calling.”

We all drank in silence for a moment, none of us knowing how to respond to that. It was the third time we’d fallen into silence in the last hour. Each time had been proceeded by Mack saying something hostile.