Beyond the Farthest Star (17 page)

K
YLE DIDN’T LIKE
the way his father stared at him. For several minutes nothing was said, almost as if the sheriff was still present, sitting between them in the truck. Jackson Tucker lit another cigarette off the butt of the first, tossed the dead stub out the window, then sized up their location.

None of the buildings of Leonard remained in sight. The two-track was little more than an asphalt ribbon, winding between masses of brush higher than the cab on both sides. It was still a mile to the Tucker double-wide when Kyle’s father said, “So where’s your girlfriend? You and Stephen havin’ a lover’s quarrel?”

“Don’t say that,” Kyle returned.

Tucker leaned toward his son, breathing out stale beer and acrid tobacco and menace. “You say somethin’, puke?”

When Kyle did not respond, Tucker added, “I didn’t think so.”

In reach of the headlights a wider shoulder appeared on the right side of the lane, next to a three-strand barbwire fence. “Pull over there,” Tucker ordered, gesturing with the glowing cigarette.

Stubbornly, Kyle returned, “Sheriff said I’m s’posed to take you—”

“I said pull over if you know what’s good for you!” Tucker yanked the steering wheel sharply so that Kyle fought for control.

Stomping on the brakes, Kyle brought the pickup to a halt. He eyed his father warily, ready to throw up a defensive forearm if Tucker swung at him.

“Now, get out!” Kyle’s father ordered. When Kyle continued to sit behind the wheel, Tucker jumped from the truck. He lunged around to the driver’s side, ripped open the door, and seized Kyle by the collar of the black duster.

They were in the middle of nowhere, long past the time any fuel trucks or hay haulers or neighbors would be on this stretch of lonely road.

With a savage tug, Kyle’s father dragged him out of the cab, bashing Kyle’s shoulder into the doorframe as he pitched him to the ground. Taking hold of the duster again, Tucker hauled Kyle into the headlights’ glow and dumped him in a heap in the dirt.

“I don’t know what all you told Sheriff Burns ‘bout me hittin’ you, boy. But after tonight you’ll know fer sure: if I bother to give you a beatin’, you won’t make it into work next day to cry about it. Skunk! Snake! Lyin’, no good!”

Taking a long, last drag from the smoke, Tucker tossed the remains onto the road and ground it beneath his heel.

Kyle watched all the signs. Knew from experience his father was working himself up to a violent outburst.

“Lousy, no-good puke,” Tucker muttered. “Keep you fed. Buy you clothes. Ungrateful! You’re nothin’ but a bad seed is what you are. Can’t keep out of trouble. Carry tales to your prissy friend and now to the sheriff. Who else you been lyin’ to, boy? And you steal, don’tcha? Don’tcha, puke? Take money out’n my wallet. Now where is it?”

Kyle watched his father’s boots. Gathering his legs under him, the boy crouched half upright, ready to spring out of the way when he saw Tucker’s leg draw back. His father had kicked him in the ribs and head before.

“Where’s what? I didn’t take your money.”

“Don’t give me that! You know what I mean.”

A whip-poor-will uttered his mournful cry in the bushes crawling over the fence.

“No, I don’t.”

From his hip pocket Tucker jerked a red mechanic’s rag and threw it in Kyle’s face. “That Glock you stole outta my truck, boy. Where is it? Gonna rob a bank, puke? Think you’re a tough guy? Or did you sell it? I’ll get ever’ penny outta your hide.”

Still carefully watching for the blow Kyle was certain was coming, he scooted farther away and rose to his feet. “You’re not gonna beat me again. Not ever. ‘Specially for doin’ nothin’. Didn’t steal nothin’ from you.”

“Outta the glove box!” Tucker challenged. “Think I’m stupid? Outta the truck last night!”

“You prob’ly just left it home. You were drunk.”

“Wrong answer, puke!” Two quick strides forward before Kyle could back away. Tucker threw a looping punch that struck Kyle in the gut, doubling him over.

The force of the blow knocked the boy backward into the fence. He rebounded off of it, sprawling to the ground again.

When he did, the black menace of a   .45 caliber Glock 21 handgun fell out from inside Kyle’s duster. It landed in the dirt with a dull thud, halfway between the two men.

Kyle and his father both eyed the pistol and each other.

Sheriff Burns wandered around the empty town square, pondering the drama that existed in his little Texas town. A VIP US senator created havoc with his television cameras and his threats.

Burns had witnessed the preacher’s self-destruction, right before his very eyes.

The Wells girl was still missing, maybe a runaway, and God only knew what danger she was in already.

As for Kyle Tucker and his father, an explosion was coming. Maybe Kyle would get out in time, and maybe he wouldn’t.

The sheriff exhaled. Christmas! Peace on earth and goodwill to men!

Burns was still thinking about explosions, on national news and in families, when three faint but distinct pops carried to him on the breeze. Burns turned toward the sound, like a bird dog fixing a location.

A moment later there was a fourth.

Car backfire … or gunshots? That was the question. Both were common out here in ranch country.

The sheriff’s attention was redirected toward the center of town by the departure of the last of the satellite broadcast trucks and television crews.

Break it up, folks. Nothing more to see here,
he thought.
Just the last of a man’s professional reputation going down in flames.

Speaking of flames, there was still one silhouetted figure standing near the remains of the crèche: Senator Cutter. The former lawmaker turned “civil rights activist” stood directly beneath the only remaining vestige of the nativity scene after his handiwork: the star of Bethlehem hanging above the heap of ashes.

As Burns walked up behind him, the senator flicked a bit of cigar ash onto the rest of the cinders.

“Evening, Gene,” Cutter said.

“Decided to pay your bail, John?”

“No point playin’ Gandhi now, is there, Gene? No, sir, no hunger strikes for me. Already accomplished what I set out to do. Pity, really. I was ready for a good fight.”

Burns drawled, “Wouldn’t know about that, John.”

Despite Cutter’s words, his tone suggested he was belligerent, still itching for a confrontation. “Last month my wife stands up in church, walks down the aisle, and meets some wannabe TV evangelist at an altar.”

“You’re speaking of Pastor Wells, John.”

Cutter jabbed at the sheriff with his cigar. “I saved my wife, Gene. Me. I did. Saved her from a midlife crisis as a table dancer. Good woman, worth saving. But it was me, not a preacher man.

“And there’s more: I’m in the middle of spending a substantial part of my personal fortune saving
this town!
Sorry, Gene, but there isn’t much here worth saving, in my opinion, except for it being Candy’s hometown.”

“What’s your point, John? You lookin’ for a pat on the back? Your statue in the town square?”

Cutter’s gesticulations grew wider, the burning cigar tip drawing orange arcs against the night. “How is it that in her eyes,
I’m
the one who needs saving? Is that right? Is that fair?”

“So all this was …”

“Was about getting things put back in their proper perspective. My wife, the people of Leonard, they all get it now. That pastor’s preaching was of no more consequence, no more value, than the wood and paint I torched here. No more meaning … no more lasting significance.

“Come Monday, all the rest of this mess will be cleaned up and replaced with a Santa or a Frosty. I might even donate a pen full of live reindeer for the kids to look at. A week from now, nobody will even remember this fuss. Shame, really.” Taking a long puff of his expensive cigar, Cutter started to edge away toward the curb. “Good night, Gene.”

“Not gonna be able to oblige you on that one, John,” Burns observed.

Cutter stopped in his tracks. “Pardon? What do you mean?”

Reaching inside his coat pocket, Burns extracted the head of the infant doll representing the Baby Jesus. Without replying to Cutter, the sheriff ducked under the yellow tape and knelt in the ashes. Reverently, he placed the doll’s head back where the manger had been.

Cutter waited impatiently for Burns to explain, but the sheriff
did not hurry his motions. Eventually he stood, dusted off the knees of his uniform trousers, and crossed the tape again.

Closing with the senator, he tapped Cutter’s chest with his forefinger. “City of Leonard’s gonna bring you up on charges: arson and endangerment. Gotta preserve the crime scene till after the trial. No clean-up till then.”

Cutter backed up a pace, eyeing the sheriff with disbelief and shaking his head. “You know this is an election year, Gene.” There was as much menace in his words as the senator could muster. “Don’t mess with me,” he was saying. “You saw how I demolished the preacher. What makes you think you can stand up to me?”

“I am aware of that, John,” Burns returned, unblinking.

“You will lose, Gene.”

The wind shifted direction around to the north and picked up speed. It ruffled the senator’s hair and the tails of his overcoat. It threw a swirl of dust from the remains of the fire up as high as the painted star.

Burns lifted his chin to the breeze with satisfaction. “Wind’s kickin’ up some, John. Might wanna be headin’ home soon.”

Cutter made a dismissive gesture with the cigar. “Candy’ll be by shortly. Good-bye, Gene.”

“Good night, John.”

Burns returned to his patrol car and drove away.

As the sheriff left the center of town, he noted that the former senator had taken a seat on a park bench and was staring at the heap of destruction he had created.

Adam was outside the parsonage, pacing. His thoughts spun like the galaxies around the pole star. His scattered, emotional
wreckage kept returning to just one focus: “Is it too late? Is it too late to save my family?”

Across the street the inflated Santa Claus decoration waved and gestured, bobbing and ducking in the increasing gale.

Mocking.

All the lights were on inside his home. In her distress over how Anne had disappeared, Maurene had gone from room to room, lighting lamps and flipping wall switches. Adam thought she had done it unknowingly, mindlessly. But then his conscious brain wasn’t working any better either.

One pass down the sidewalk took him farther than usual. He reached a point beyond the curve of the street to where he could see into the backyard. Adam stood a moment, taking it in, processing it, thinking it through, still feeling foggy from drinking.

He had not yet gone to tell Maurene what he’d discovered when Maurene emerged from the house. “What are we going to do? How’ll we find her?” she begged.

Adam shook his head dismally. “It’s worse than you think. She knows, Mo.”

“What? What are you saying?”

Taking her by the elbow, Adam led his wife to where she could comprehend what he already knew. Gesturing toward the side of the house where Anne’s room was located, he pointed out the extension ladder leaning against the wall outside Anne’s open window.

Maurene’s hand flew to her mouth, and an expression of horror filled her ashen features.

“She was in the house when we were talking, Mo. She knows … everything.”

A
FTER DROPPING
A
NNE OFF
at the motel, Stephen drove back toward home faster than he had ever driven the aging truck. He sped over the hills, the suspension bouncing and swaying, while he reviewed what had just happened.

Could he have said anything differently? Could he have done something else, something that would convince Anne not to abandon her life for the romantic notion of a father she had barely met?

Was it right that he kissed her, or had he driven her away forever?

As if the ancient six-cylinder Chevy was equipped with an autopilot, Stephen found himself pulling up the lane toward home without any comprehension of how he got there. As he braked to a stop beside the windmill, the cloud of dust accompanying his headlong rush swept past him, momentarily obscuring the view.

When the breeze dispersed the airborne grit, Stephen saw Kyle, leaning on the doorframe of his father’s truck, in the shadow of the barn. Kyle’s face was washed out, deadly pale, as if he’d seen a ghost.

Despite the dropping temperatures, Kyle was not wearing a coat.

“Where you been, boy?” Kyle demanded.

“Drove out near Wilma.”

“You were s’posed to be back hours ago.”

“Since when you start keepin’ track a’ my schedule?”

Kyle shrugged.

“Your dad know you got his truck?” Stephen asked.

Wiping his hands up and down his flannel shirt, Kyle gave a crooked smile. “He’s passed out at home. Won’t know nothin’ before noon tomorrow. Me, I’m thinkin’ ‘bout drivin’ over to Fort Worth. Billy Bob’s. Wanna come?”

Stephen bit his lip. “Not tonight.”

“You got a date with Inger?”

Stephen did not respond. He thought about yelling at Kyle to shut up, thought about punching him again. In the end he said over his shoulder as he walked away, “Gotta feed Midnight. It’s late. Goin’ to bed.” Stephen jerked his chin toward his pickup. “You got some gear in my truck still.”

“I’ll get it later.”

Turning slowly, Stephen faced Kyle and stared at him. “Best get it now.”

“She ruined everything, didn’t she, Stephen? Everything between us?”

Stephen pushed his hair back off his face and grimaced. “I’m still your friend, if that’s what you mean, Kyle.”

Striding quickly back to the bed of the truck, Stephen hefted Kyle’s guitar case and passed it to him.

Kyle accepted the instrument without expression or speech. From the breast pocket of his shirt he produced the water-park photo taken of the two young buddies. Flipping it over, he waved it under Stephen’s face. The handwriting was visible in the gleam of the headlights. “More’n friends,” Kyle said. “Thought we was fam-lee. Brothers forever. Your words. Or did you forget?”

Stephen felt a rush of sorrow at how everything was breaking apart. “I love her, Kyle. Annie is—”

“A freak!” Kyle bellowed. “She’s a freakin’ psycho, Stephen.

You’re only sixteen. What do you know about bein’ in love? With a vampire, no—”

Dangerous anger rose in Stephen’s throat. His shoulders lifted, and he clenched his fists.

Kyle put up both hands, palms outward. “I’m sorry, Stephen. I didn’t mean …”

Just that quickly, Stephen’s emotions turned cold. “You want help with your amp? ‘Cause I gotta see to the horse.”

Striding away from his best friend, Stephen was content to let the darkness swallow up the conflict, but Kyle called him back by saying: “Must be the Starlight. Only thing in Wilma. You dropped your girlfriend off at the Starlight Motel.”

His words dropping like stones, Stephen said, “What’s … that … to … you?”

“The sheriff’s turning up the country, lookin’ for her. Got the deputy out to the Greyhound. Not even lookin’ at the Starlight.”

“And they’re not gonna be,” Stephen commanded fiercely. “Let it alone, Kyle.”

“Meanin’ tomorrow I call the manager at the Lazy T? Tell him the Bullriders are back in business?”

His hands on his hips, Stephen said, “Tomorrow, Kyle. I’ll talk to Cliff tomorrow.”

Kyle stuck out his hand. Stephen stared at it but made no move to grasp it or to approach any nearer. Finally Kyle let his arm drop awkwardly. “I’m headin’ out. Billy Bob’s. Dream about our palm prints on the wall.”

Stephen did not move as Kyle fired up the mud-encrusted truck and wrenched it around in the drive, then roared off up the lane.

As Kyle roared away from Stephen’s, he glanced once in the rearview mirror at the pale, wavering form that was the outline of his
best friend. The water-park picture was clutched in his left hand as he drove, and he stared at it through narrowed, angry eyes.

As he steered through the emotional prison of the boyhood photo, his right hand fumbled in the ashtray amongst the stubbed-out filter tips until he found what he sought. His hand, grimy with ashes, emerged, holding a plastic butane lighter.

Kyle shook it. It was nearly empty, but when he flicked it, a tiny flame obediently blossomed.

With a last look at the image, Kyle brought the lighter to one corner of the picture. It caught almost at once, tracing the vertical side of the square and then making the rest curl and blacken.

Kyle studied it until the flame had eaten Stephen’s half of the picture. When it had, he rolled down the window and thrust the photo outside. The rushing air made it blaze even brighter. Kyle dropped it, watching in his mirror as it fluttered to the road.

Settling into the seat, Kyle hunched his shoulders against the cold and turned the defective heater to its highest setting. When this was done, he patted what lay on the seat beside him: his father’s Glock pistol.

Outside the muddy truck, the miles sped by. Kyle took no conscious notice but saw with satisfaction that he passed a sign reading WILMA: 17 MILES.

Anne was propped up on the bed in Room 215. She heard Calvin speaking inside the bathroom with the door shut. His voice was muffled, as if he were a thousand miles away. Because of the cartoons playing on the room’s television, Calvin probably believed Anne could not overhear his cell-phone conversation, but she could make out his side of it just the same.

“Is Senator Whitmore available?” she heard him inquire. “Well, can I speak …”

There was a pause. Anne imagined that the other half of the call was not going to Calvin’s satisfaction, because when he spoke again, he sounded frustrated: “Yes, well, tell the senator that on advice of counsel, I’ll have to decline to answer that question. That’s right. Unless he wants to speak to me personally and come up with some … guarantees, I must decline to respond to any question about my activities while employed by the APR Corporation until he reconsiders our offer. No, there’s no call-back number. I’ll call him … one more time.”

What was Calvin mixed up in,
Anne wondered? If this was a movie script, she would say his conversation made him sound like a blackmailer or an extortionist. At the very least he was fishing for a bribe. He wanted to be paid for something he knew, and he wouldn’t cooperate unless he was paid.

What did Anne really know about her father? What did he do for a living? The Porsche was cool, but how did he pay for it?

Anne wasn’t even certain where he lived.

After the end of his phone call, Calvin went back to speaking to her about a previous subject: the Caribbean.

“Anne? You hear me now? You’d love it. White sand, fine as sugar. These fish in totally insane colors. In that crystal-blue water? You think you’ve seen red, orange, and purple, but not really. Not the way they are in Barbados. You’d love it, Anne. You swim?”

Anne didn’t reply to his question. She was reviewing the way he phrased the questions in this monologue. Calvin never said, “You will love it.” He said, “You would love it.”

It was like a travel show: “You, too, may run away to a Caribbean island … someday.”

Calvin repeated, “I say, do you swim, Anne?” He was zipping up his toiletry bag when he emerged from the bathroom. He was dressed for travel but had not said anything to Anne about also getting ready to leave.

“Wish you’d say something, Anne.” He raised his eyebrows by way of invitation for her to speak, but she continued to stare blankly into the television screen. “Anne?”

He wrinkled his mouth to one side. “Soon as I get back in the States, I promise I’ll call my lawyer. I’m sure visitation will be a definite possibility—I mean
opportunity—
for both of us. Bet I can talk your mother into letting you visit Barbados sometime. Won’t that be great?”

My real father is a con man, on the run from the government, or somebody. He’s not planning a vacation in the islands. He’s escaping to them.

Anne’s eyes smarted from the tears welling in them. She could not bear to let this jerk witness her shame, so she turned her back to him.

What had he come to Leonard for? Why had she let her hopes get raised, only to have him crush them so completely? Stupid of her, she knew. There wasn’t really anything to hope for, was there?

When she heard Calvin turn away, unzip his suitcase, and begin stuffing things inside, she slipped the cigarette lighter she always carried out of her sweater pocket. Flicking it, she admired the flame. So much beauty and so much pain, in one tiny package. Staring into it had the ability to carry her far away into dreams. Bringing it near … nearer … returned her to the bitter reality of her world.

Calvin’s tone suggested he was tired of speaking and getting no response. With a touch of frustration and finality, as if this was his last, best shot at breaking through her wall: “You know that question you asked me earlier? What with phone calls and plane reservations, I didn’t get to answer it till now.”

She still did not turn toward him, so he continued addressing her back. “You wanted to know what I would have named you? Britney. I would have said Britney … if your mother had ever asked for my thoughts.”

Along the baseboard were several slivers of the broken glass vase that had escaped being cleaned up. One of these was jagged, three inches long, and sharp as a clear razor. Anne focused on it. The way the beveled glass caught the light, it really was pretty to look at. It could carry you away from dismal reality. It could carry you away to your dreams.