Chapter Twenty
Twenty
I turn to follow his eyes, and I almost wish his demons actually existed. That I could see them. Because then at least they could be dealt with. Satisfied and banished. Exorcized. Or laid to rest.
Imaginary phantoms keep haunting you until you finally become a ghost yourself.
Lo is still standing on the other side of the fence, so I’m in the churchyard and he’s in the woods.
I’m part of the town.
And he’s part of the hills.
I hate even that little bit of separation between us.
The church bell starts to ring. Slow and mournful. The sound of it is jarring. Too loud and too close. It’s Tuesday morning, just after sunrise. The bells shouldn’t be ringing.
“They’ve found him,” Lo says, and I know he’s right.
They’ve already pulled Turley’s body from the creek and they’re probably wailing and praying over him as we speak. Suddenly, I’m furious at Turley all over again for putting Lo and me in this position. But I realize now what we need to do.
“Go home, Lo,” I tell him. “Go on home to Granny Pearl and get some sleep. There’s no reason for us to tell these people anything. They’re already out for our blood and they’re not gonna believe a word we say anyway.” He tears his eyes away from his ghosts to look at me. “It’s not like we pushed him. Turley fell in when the creekbank crumbled.” It’s the same thing people say must’ve happened to Lo’s mama. “We don’t owe anyone an explanation.”
Lo considers that for a few seconds. “Are you sure?” He’s chewing on his lip again, and I watch his eyes drift back to the tombstones and the dead hikers he sees hiding behind them.
“Yeah,” I tell him. “Turley’s already dead. We didn’t cause it, and we can’t change it. So what does it matter? Let them think whatever they want about what happened to him. You go on home and get some rest. We’ll meet back up with Xander Alden at the hiking shelter just after nightfall.”
“What do I tell Granny Pearl?” Lo asks. “She’s gonna wanna know what happened.”
“Tell Granny Pearl the truth,” I say. “Tell her the creek rose.”
···
I watch as Lo sneaks around the back of the church and darts across the strip of grass that separates the town of Lucifer’s Creek from the hills. I don’t move until he disappears into the trees and I know he’s on the Aux-Arc Trail heading up the mountain toward home. He’ll have to get off the trail and cut across the ravine where the crime-scene tape marks Riley’s grave, but it’s better than going back up the dirt road and trying to cross Lucifer’s Creek at the dangerous spot where we watched Turley drown.
Where we watched his father drown.
Those church bells are still ringing, but I also hear voices now. Frantic and loud. I take a deep breath and brace myself for whatever I’m about to walk into, then I make my way through the cemetery toward the gate.
When I hit Mud Street, I see crowds gathered along both sides of Lucifer’s Creek, and another group scattered across the bridge. They’re pointing at something in the water. Some of them are visibly crying. Some are on their knees praying. Thankfully everyone is too worked up to pay me any notice.
I hang at the back of the bunch and try to peer between people’s shoulders and backs. Someone up front moves and I get a good glimpse of the creek. It’s still running high and violent. There’s a bunch of debris hung up under the bridge. Sticks and limbs. Leaves.
A pale shape wearing a long, black coat.
I see Turley’s curled fingers sticking up out of the foaming water, and suddenly I don’t want to see any more. I stumble backward into something solid.
I turn around and blink up at Daddy. He looks exhausted, and I remember he wasn’t home when we tiptoed out through the back door at eleven o’clock last night, after Lo sneaked in to wake me up. I figure he’s been at the gallery all this time. The commotion over Turley probably pulled him out of the shop. He looks me up and down and his mouth settles into a tight line behind his bushy salt-and-pepper beard. I’d almost forgotten I’m covered in mud. After everything that happened last night, I must look more like a wild animal than a human being.
“Where you comin’ from?” he asks me.
“The cabin.” At least it’s a half-truth. We were at the Wilder cabin at one point last night. “Sneaked out and spent the night up there with Lo to escape my security detail.” I jerk my head toward where Sheriff and Deputy Jonah are standing at the edge of the creek staring at Brother Turley’s body the way storm watchers stand and look at the sky. Like they’re just waiting to see what might happen next. “It was a muddy hike down this mornin’.”
Daddy nods like he only halfway heard me.
“This is a bad business,” he says. “Turley dyin’ like this. It’s likely to put people on edge. Get their backs up even more. You and Lowan lay low today.”
“Lo and I didn’t have anything to do with this,” I protest. “Turley gettin’ himself drowned isn’t our fault.”
“Whoa, Bird.” He holds up his hands like he thinks I might take a swing at him. “I didn’t say it was. I said it’s gonna make folks angry. Get ’em all worked up. Sometimes any excuse is a good enough excuse if somebody wants to go after somebody else.” Daddy tugs on his beard a little. It’s something he does when he’s thinking about a new stained glass piece. Or when he’s worried. “You just watch your back. We don’t want any trouble.”
“It’s too late for that,” I say. “We already got plenty of trouble.”
Daddy gives me another long look, and I wonder if he can tell there are things I’m not telling him. If he can, he doesn’t push me on it.
Maybe I wish he would.
“I gotta head back to the shop,” he tells me. Then he reaches out and wipes mud from my cheek. “Get on home and get cleaned up. No sense standin’ here all mornin’ watchin’ this circus. Nothin’ any of us can do for Turley now.”
Daddy leaves me standing at the edge of the crowd and he heads back toward his stained glass gallery. I take one more look toward the creek, and I catch another glimpse of Brother Turley’s lifeless body, baptized to death in a river of sulfur.
I’m trying to figure out where to go and what to do. The little bridge over the creek is crowded with gawkers, and I don’t want to risk drawing attention to myself by walking right through the middle of that mess.
I decide to duck into the narrow alley between Mrs.Danforth’s candle shop and Daddy’s gallery. It’s quiet and dark, with an entrance that’s almost hidden by overgrown ivy that clings to the sides of the buildings. There’s even a rusting folding chair so Mrs.Danforth can sneak out for a smoke break without the good people of Lucifer’s Creek catching on to her nicotine habit.
I collapse into the chair and lean my head back against the rough bricks of the building behind me. I try closing my burning, blurry eyes, but every time I do, moments from last night flash and flicker like scenes from a horror movie projected on the insides of my eyelids.
I can’t stand replaying it all again and again on an endless loop, so I open my eyes and stare at the coffee can full of cigarette butts at my feet.
Every single part of me hurts. I feel like I’ve been hit by a bus. Or beaten with a baseball bat.
And those damn church death bells are still ringing.
“You want some company?” I look up to see Ira standing a few feet away. He gives me a slightly lopsided smile. “Saw you come down this way, and I thought maybe I’d join you for a minute.” He looks a little embarrassed. “I’m trying to get away from that mob scene out there.”
I don’t really feel like talking, but I also don’t own the alley. And Ira’s easy company. So I just shrug.
He starts in my direction. “I was supposed to meet Turley this morning to talk about some new robes he was wantin’ for the choir.” Ira gives his head a little shake. “I guess you never know when your number’s gonna be up.”
“You don’t even go to church,” I tell him, and now Ira shrugs.
“I don’t read much either, but I bought them library books, didn’t I? We gotta take care of our own around here. Ain’t nobody else gonna do it.” He grabs a nearby five-gallon bucket and turns it upside down to sit on before he gives me a long look. “Jesus, girl. What the hell happened to you?”
“Slipped a couple of times comin’ down the mountain this mornin’.” I’m picking at the dried mud under my fingernails. “Everything was a mess from all that rain.”
“Comin’ back from Granny Pearl’s?” I nod, and Ira laughs a little. “Now there’s a tough old bird. That lady is older than the hills and still sharp as a tack. Me and your daddy used to have a lot of fun up at the old Wilder place back in the day.”
“You used to hang out at the cabin?” In all these years I’ve been visiting Granny Pearl and Lo, Daddy’s never mentioned that to me.
“Oh, yeah. Me and Del was always runnin’ the woods together. We’d go out huntin’ till the sun come up, then we’d head on up to the cabin and Pearl’d fix us breakfast. Closest thing to family I ever really had.” He swallows back the emotion that lodges in his throat, and I remember Daddy telling me once that Ira grew up mostly on his own. His mama and daddy were too busy trying to keep themselves fed to pay much attention to him. Ira reaches up to take off his hat and give his red curls a shake. He reminds me of a golden retriever. “And lots of times your mama’d be there, too. She and Claire were inseparable. Like twins, practically. Only, they didn’t look a bit alike. Your mama with her dark hair and blue eyes and Claire with that snow-white hair and eyes black as coal.”
They were photographic negatives of each other. That’s what I always think when I see pictures of my mama and Claire together.
He smiles to himself, and it’s the kind of smile that you can tell is tied to a very specific memory. “God.” Ira whistles long and low. “Both of them beautiful mountain flowers.” He grins at me again. “It was always me and your daddy together and your mama and Claire together. Then it was the four of us always together.” He pauses. “Until your mama and daddy got married and Claire had the baby. And—” Ira looks down toward the scattered cigarette butts on the ground like he’s counting them. I guess Mrs.Danforth misses the coffee can sometimes.
“And what?” I prompt him.
“And nothin’, really.” He shrugs. “Things just changed. Like they do. And life goes on.” He smiles again. “But those were good years. Mighty good years.”
“Did Claire ever tell any of you who Lo’s daddy was?” I hadn’t planned to ask that question. It’s Lo’s business—not mine—but Ira likes to talk, and I have questions nobody else is volunteering answers to. “Because somebody told us it might’ve been Brother Turley.”
“Aww, fuck.” Ira stands up and leans against the wall on the opposite side of the alley. “Excuse my language.” He runs a hand over his face and sighs deep. “Shit. I mean, yeah. That was what I figured at the time. We knew she’d been runnin’ around with him some. But they were keepin’ it off everybody’s radar. He wanted it that way. For obvious reasons.”
Ira reaches into his pocket and pulls out a handkerchief to wipe the back of his neck. The morning is heating up fast, and the closeness of the space between the buildings makes this alley feel like an oven. The air can’t move. We’re suffocating.
“Jesus,” Ira complains. “I’m sweatin’ like a whore in church.” He uses the damp handkerchief to mop his forehead. “Who the hell told Lowan that?”
“I don’t know,” I lie. “Just somethin’ he heard somewhere, I think.”
“Damn.” Ira shakes his head. “Poor kid. And now the whole town is standing out there trying to fish Turley’s body out of a swollen creek.” He pauses for a second. “That’s a hell of a thing, ain’t it?”
“Yeah,” I say, because Ira has no idea.
“I expect Lucy was the only one who knew for sure if it was Turley who got Claire pregnant. And she took that secret with her when she run off.”
My mama took a lot of things with her when she run off.
Ira makes his way toward the entrance of the alley and I watch as he peeks out to take in the scene on Mud Street. “The show’s still goin’ on,” he says, “but I’m gonna head on into the gallery.” He gives me a wink. “I gotta see a man about a Howler.” His eyes turn serious. “You tell Lowan I said if Turley was his father, he can be proud of the man.”
“Ira—” He holds up a hand to stop me.
“Now, I know what you and Del thought of him. And you know I’ve never been a churchgoer myself. Turley and me, we’d butt heads over that from time to time. Sure. But he did a lot of damn good for this town.”
“You really believe that?” I’ve never known Ira to say a word against anyone, but praising Turley doesn’t sit right with me.
“Sure. His people were moonshiners, back years ago. Outlaws, when this valley was still mostly wild. I think they hung his granddaddy down in Rogers.” Ira shrugs. “And I figure Turley grew up feeling the guilt of that. Trying to make up for the wrong they done.” Something strange crosses Ira’s face and he shakes his head. “He gave people something bigger to believe in. And that’s mighty important. We all need that.”
“I guess.”
“Turley and me and your daddy, we’re the same in some ways, Dovie. All of us just tryin’ to do our best for the folks who call these hills home.” He nods. “And I gotta think that counts for something.”
“Thanks, Ira,” I tell him. “It’ll mean a lot to Lowan to hear you said that.”
“I didn’t do anything but run my mouth.”
“At least you’re willing to talk about things.”
Ira shrugs and gives me a little grin. “Everybody knows talkin’ is my best talent.”
After he leaves, I spend another fifteen minutes sitting in that oven of an alley before I’ve had all I can take. I gotta get home to shower and sleep so I’ll have the strength to drag myself back up the Aux-Arc Trail for my meeting with Lo and Xander Alden tonight.
I leave most of the skin on my thighs behind when I peel myself up off Mrs.Danforth’s metal folding chair, then I pause at the entrance to the alley to lean out and take a look around before I step out onto Mud Street.
Sheriff and Deputy Jonah are standing on top of the bridge with a long pole of some kind. I watch for a few minutes as they poke at Brother Turley’s body, trying to get it free from the debris-jam that’s got him pinned. When they finally do, they push him over toward the side of the creek, and I hold my breath while the county coroner, a wild-looking man named June Bug Wilson, pulls him up on the bank and gets him situated on a stretcher.
Someone in the crowd starts to sing.
Amazing grace, how sweet the sound—
By the third line, the whole crowd is singing like a church choir on Easter Sunday, just in time for Brother Turley’s body to get carried off the creekbank and loaded into the back of a waiting ambulance with those church bells tolling steady and doleful in the background.
They’ll be taking him down to Rogers, I guess. We don’t have a morgue or a funeral home in Lucifer’s Creek, which is odd, considering how many bodies we get. If somebody opened one up, it’d be the boomingest business in town.
With nothing else to see, the crowd starts to break up. Some people wander home. Some people head over to the church for more praying. I slink out of the alley and make a beeline for the bridge so I can get home before anyone catches sight of me.
But I’m not quite fast enough and someone shouts at me. “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live, Dove!” The angry voice belongs to the woman who I know for a fact paid seven dollars for a healing charm from Granny Pearl last winter. “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live!”
A chorus of amen s goes up from the people still gathered around the creek.
Some of them clap.
All of them glare at me.
Daddy was right. They’re out for blood now, and I’m not magic—not by a long shot—but they don’t seem to care who the blood belongs to.
I finally make it to our blue house, and Nana is in the yard patiently trimming Mama’s crepe myrtles, trying to get them to bloom again after the storm stripped them naked.
“You look like somethin’ the cat drug in, Dovie girl,” she tells me. “You all right?”
“Yeah,” I tell her. “I just need a shower and a nap.”
I trudge up the steps to the front porch.
“There’s breakfast keepin’ warm on the stove,” Nana says as I reach to open the screen door, and I look back over my shoulder to tell her thank you, but I stop when I see what’s tucked into her long silver braid.
It’s a single rose. Ghostly white. Twin to the one that somebody left on Claire’s lonely grave last night.
She starts to sing.
I will tell you a story, of a pretty white rose—
My body is humming now. Vibrating the same as when bones start calling.
“Where’d you get that?” I ask her. “The flower in your hair.”
Nana stops singing and she reaches up to touch the ghostly rose with gentle fingers. “Found it this morning layin’ in the dirt here.” She points to a spot under the crepe myrtle bushes. “Pretty as you please.”
“Where’d it come from?” I ask, and Nana smiles.
“I reckon it’s a gift from your mama.”