Disturbing the Dead (9 page)
They skidded the last few feet of the muddy incline into Mrs. O’Dell’s yard.
She stood on the back porch, her body a rigid column. “You shoot my boy?”
“No,” Tom said. “He got away.”
She relaxed. Angling her head, she studied Tom’s bloody sleeve. When her eyes shifted to meet his, her lips twisted in a nasty smile. “Next time, his aim’ll be better.”
***
Tom clamped a handkerchief against his arm but couldn’t stanch the bleeding. By the time Brandon parked the cruiser in Mrs. Turner’s yard, blood saturated the handkerchief and colored Tom’s hand red.
“Oh, man,” Brandon said. “I’ll call. You’d better wait in the car.”
“No.” Tom yanked on the door handle with blood-sticky fingers. “Maybe Mrs. Turner can give me something to make a pressure bandage.”
When he climbed out he swayed and had to steady himself against the car door. Damn it, he hadn’t lost enough blood to make him feel this bad. It was nothing but a flesh wound. It wouldn’t kill him and it wasn’t going to get the better of him. But his damaged arm screamed for mercy and his head felt like a balloon bobbing on a string.
“Guess she’s got company,” Brandon said. He nodded toward a dark blue pickup parked behind Mrs. Turner’s old Chevy. “We’re just gonna have to be rude and interrupt.”
Mrs. Turner answered Brandon’s knock. When she saw the deputies on her porch, her expression soured. “I ain’t got nothin’ else to tell you.”
“We need to use your phone,” Tom said. “It’s an emergency.”
“What kind of—” Mrs. Turner broke off when she caught sight of the blood. “Oh, my lord, what happened to you?”
“He’s been shot,” Brandon said.
“It’s not serious,” Tom said. “But we have to use your phone.”
“Get on in here and let me tend to that arm.” Mrs. Turner ushered them into the living room. Her two dogs danced around Tom, sniffing, excited by the smell of blood. She shooed them away, and they whined in frustration.
“Phone’s in the kitchen, where we’re headin’,” Mrs. Turner said.
“I’ll call,” Brandon said. He headed for the kitchen and almost collided with a man and woman in the doorway. He edged past them.
Tom had a quick impression of the man as middle-aged, stocky, dark-haired. But the woman caught his attention and made him forget his pain for a second. She was another version of Sarelda Turner, of Pauline, of Holly. Small and delicate-boned, with black hair and blue eyes, she might have been something special even in middle age if she didn’t have deep worry lines etched into her face.
“Bonnie, my middle daughter,” Mrs. Turner said in introduction, “and her husband Jack.”
“Jack Watford.” The man extended a hand, but changed his mind when he saw Tom’s bloody fingers.
Tom nodded, but he’d already turned his attention back to the woman. Bonnie Watford. Pauline’s younger sister. He had to question her, had to ask her about—
“Let us by, for heaven’s sake,” Mrs. Turner said. Her daughter and son-in-law stepped aside and she steered Tom into the kitchen.
Brandon was on the phone, accenting his rapid-fire words with broad gestures.
“Sit.” Mrs. Turner pushed Tom into a wooden chair. Bonnie and Jack Watford watched from the doorway, while the two dogs tried to squeeze past their legs.
Tom let Mrs. Turner remove his jacket, cut away his shirt sleeve above the wound, swab off blood. Her efficient but gentle nursing made him think of his mother’s attention to childhood cuts and bruises.
“You’re real lucky your arm didn’t get tore up worse than this,” Mrs. Turner said.
The bullet had gouged open the skin and muscle but missed the bone.
“Go get me the alcohol and a Kotex out of the bathroom,” Mrs. Turner told Bonnie. Without questioning the order, her daughter disappeared.
Kotex? Tom couldn’t process the strange request.
Mrs. Turner ripped a clean white dish cloth into strips. “Jack, run some water in the kettle and put it on the burner.”
Watford obeyed. The dogs took advantage of the unguarded doorway to rush at Tom, but Mrs. Turner scolded them and they retreated. Bonnie reappeared with a sanitary pad and a bottle. Cold liquid doused Tom’s skin, and the fumes of alcohol brought tears to his eyes. A second later a fiery sting made him yelp and wrench his arm free.
“Now hush, it’s nothin’ but a little red pepper,” Mrs. Turner said. “It’s good for bleedin’. The burnin’ won’t last but a minute.”
She was right. Already the sensation was fading. Tom let her get back to work. Mrs. Turner pressed the sanitary napkin to his arm, and her daughter helped her secure the makeshift pressure bandage with a cloth strip.
“All right now,” Mrs. Turner said. “That oughta hold you till you get to the hospital. I’m gonna give you somethin’ hot to drink before you leave. You look kinda like you’re goin’ into shock.”
“No, I’m fine. I’ll be okay.”
“Men,” Mrs. Turner scoffed as she turned to the stove, and Tom was again reminded of his mother. Placing a mug in his hand, Mrs. Turner said, “Drink.”
He recoiled from the bitter odor steaming off the liquid. “What is it?”
“Herb tea. It’s good for you.” She guided the cup to his lips.
Tom swallowed and coughed. Revolting, but probably harmless enough, and the liquid felt good in his dry mouth. He choked down the rest. When Mrs. Turner took the empty mug, his blood-covered fingers stuck to it and she had to pry it loose.
With a wet cloth she began wiping his hand. “Who done this to you?”
“Rudy O’Dell.”
“Oh, dear lord!” Bonnie exclaimed.
Mrs. Turner dropped the cloth in Tom’s lap and took a step backward.
“Why’d he shoot you?” Watford asked.
Tom stifled a groan. God, he was tired. He didn’t want to answer questions. “We were on our way up to his cabin to talk to him, and he opened fire on us.” Tom closed his eyes, and for a second he was back on the mountain, his heart pounding as he dashed from tree to tree, dodging death.
“The State Police are on their way out now,” Brandon said. “They’ll get him.”
“Oh, God,” Bonnie whimpered. Her husband placed an arm around her shoulders and leaned to whisper something Tom couldn’t hear. “You don’t know that,” she answered. “He’s crazy, he’s—”
“Hush now,” Watford said. “Don’t get yourself all worked up.”
A strangled sob escaped Bonnie. Mrs. Turner grasped her arm. “Be quiet, girl. Get ahold of yourself.”
Bonnie stuck a knuckle in her mouth and bit down on it.
Rising slowly to prevent dizziness, Tom spoke to Bonnie, who didn’t seem to be getting any reassurance from her husband or her mother. “I don’t think you have to be afraid of him. He’ll be in custody before long.”
Bonnie cried out and spun away from her husband’s embrace. Watford caught up with her in the living room. Through the doorway, Tom watched their quiet exchange but heard none of it. Watford grabbed a jacket and coat from the sofa and called, “We’re goin’ on home.” They walked out into the cold without taking time to pull on their coats.
Mrs. Turner’s shoulders slumped. “I hate to think what Rudy’ll do if he’s scared.” Her voice fell to a murmur. “We’re all at his mercy now.”
“Hi, Dr. Goddard,” Holly said on the phone. “You told me to call you when I was ready and you’d pick me up.”
“Yes, of course.” Rachel dropped into her office chair, glad to sit for a minute. She’d been on her feet all morning, performing neuterings on four cats, a beagle, and an Irish wolfhound. “But I’m afraid I’m still trying to find a place for you to live. Something should turn up soon.”
“Oh. I was hopin’—” Holly paused, and in the background Rachel heard the sounds of country music, voices, and clattering dishes. The diner. “Okay. I understand. It’s just, if I don’t leave today, I might not be able—” Holly broke off, and for a moment all Rachel heard were muffled sniffs and gulps and the noises of the diner.
Rachel sat upright in her chair. “Are you all right?”
“I’m sorry I bothered you. I’m bein’ way too much trouble.”
The girl’s voice had gone flat with despair, and Rachel couldn’t stand it. To hell with details. She’d work them out later. “Wait, Holly. I’ll come today. Give me directions.”
***
Rachel drove out to the Turner house in the hope she might sit down with Holly’s grandmother and work out a plan to suit everybody. But the ferocious little woman wouldn’t let Rachel past the door, much less discuss options.
Mrs. Turner stood on the porch, her arms crossed and two muddy dogs flanking her. Rachel advanced only as far as the bottom step. On the top step Holly hovered like a weak buffer between her grandmother and Rachel.
“She’s not interested,” Mrs. Turner said.
“I think she’d enjoy the work very much,” Rachel said.
“Go back where you come from.”
In the second Rachel needed to rein in her anger and form a civil response, Holly startled her by swinging around to face her grandmother. “I want this job!” she cried.
Mrs. Turner stepped forward, a hand raised. Rachel moved closer. If the woman dared to touch the girl—
Mrs. Turner flicked a look at Rachel and lowered her arm. “I’m not gettin’ any younger. I’ll be sick and helpless before you know it, and I’ll be here by myself.”
“I’ll take care of you when you need me to,” Holly said. “But right now, you can get along fine without me.”
The dynamic between these two was something Rachel understood all too well: guilt plus pressure equaled obedience. Thank God Holly was breaking free.
“Where you gonna live?” Mrs. Turner asked.
Holly looked at Rachel. Mrs. Turner looked at Rachel.
“I wanted to talk to you about that,” she said. “If Holly had a ride to and from work every day, she wouldn’t have to move.”
Mrs. Turner sniffed. “I’m not spendin’ money on gas—”
“Then I’ll live in town,” Holly said.
“Where?”
In the silence following Mrs. Turner’s question, Rachel wondered why on earth she’d walked so willingly into this situation. The plea on Holly’s face was answer enough. Something about this girl and her plight touched Rachel so deeply she couldn’t turn away. “She can stay with me till she finds a place of her own.”
“You’re just some stranger to us,” Mrs. Turner said. “Why would I let you take my granddaughter?”
The woman had changed her argument again, and she would keep coming up with new objections, an endless stream of them, as long as this conversation dragged on. In a way, Rachel could sympathize. Mrs. Turner didn’t want to lose her young companion and be left alone without so much as a neighbor’s house in sight. But Rachel had chosen the side she was fighting for, and she had to harden her heart against Mrs. Turner.
“Are you ready to go?” she asked Holly.
Holly threw a fearful glance at her grandmother, but said, “I got my stuff all packed up. Is it all right if I bring my goose? She’s my pet, and I hate to leave her.”
A goose?
“Let her stay here,” Mrs. Turner said. “I’ll have a nice dinner of roasted goose tomorrow night.”
“Grandma, you can’t eat Penny!”
“Okay,” Rachel said quickly. “Bring the goose.”
“I’ll be back in a minute.” Holly moved past her grandmother cautiously as if expecting to be grabbed. When she opened the door the two dogs dashed inside ahead of her.
Stepping to the edge of the porch, Mrs. Turner glared down at Rachel. “You little fool. You’ll find out what you’re takin’ on and you’ll be bringin’ that child back here soon enough, glad to get rid of her.”
The woman’s words and fierce expression sent a chill through Rachel.
Before she could answer Mrs. Turner, Holly reappeared, wearing her coat and struggling to balance a cardboard box under one arm and a big gray goose under the other.
Rachel relieved Holly of the box. It seemed so small and light, apparently containing everything Holly thought was worth taking with her. Everything except the goose, which honked as Holly shifted it and wrapped both arms around it.
Mrs. Turner grabbed the girl’s shoulder. “Your daddy’s ain’t gonna like this.”
“It’s none of his business!” Holly twisted free, scooted down the steps, and ran to Rachel’s Range Rover.
“Sit in the back,” Rachel said, “and hold her tight.” All she needed was a terrified goose flying at her while she was driving.
“You’ll be sorry!” Mrs. Turner yelled.
Rachel didn’t know which of them she was addressing.
***
On the trip to Mrs. Turner’s house, the bad roads and unfamiliar territory had forced Rachel to drive at a speed just north of a creep, but on the way back she moved as fast as she dared in the growing darkness. Judging by the sounds from the back seat, Holly was having a tough time keeping the frantic, honking goose under control.
The girl stayed silent during the drive. Rachel could easily imagine the mix of anxiety and excitement Holly must feel, at leaving home, breaking away from her controlling grandmother.
When Rachel drove through the gate to the horse farm and up the lane past Joanna’s brick colonial, Holly exclaimed, “What a beautiful house! Who lives in it?”
“Joanna McKendrick. She owns the farm.” Illuminated by security flood lamps, the house must look like a palace to Holly in comparison to her grandmother’s place. At the thought of Mrs. Turner, Rachel said, “You know, I didn’t give your grandmother my address and phone number. I’d better call her.”
“No!” Holly cried. “If she knows where you live, she’ll come after me.”
Rachel was a lot more worried about Holly’s bullying cousin Buddy than she was about a little old lady, but she let it drop for the moment. After a while, both Holly and her grandmother might view the situation more rationally.
A mile down the farm lane, past the darkened stable, barn and paddocks, Rachel pulled up to her cottage. Seeing it through Holly’s eyes, she realized it wasn’t all that different from Mrs. Turner’s place—in better repair, but just as small and isolated. Rachel hoped Holly wouldn’t be disappointed in the cottage after getting a look at Joanna’s house.
As soon as they walked in, Cicero screeched, “Hello! Hello!”
Startled, Holly almost dropped the goose but managed to keep her arms around the squirming Penny and prevent her from opening her wings.
Cicero glided across the room and landed on Holly’s shoulder, drawing a delighted laugh from her. Leaning close to the goose, Cicero inquired, “Bird?” The goose honked in his face. Cicero jerked back, almost lost his balance, and flapped his wings to right himself. The alarmed goose let out a string of honks and paddled the air with her webbed feet. Frank, the cat, watched from the safety of a chair.
“Cicero,” Rachel said, “go back.”
Cicero kneaded the wool of Holly’s coat, uttering the little noises Rachel called his
I-don’t-wanna
whine.
“Oh, you silly thing.” Rachel held out her arm. “Come to me, sweetie.”
Cicero stepped onto her wrist and marched up her arm to her shoulder. He leaned forward to touch his beak to her lips. “I love you,” he said.
“I love you too. And I’ll love you even more if you don’t upset the goose.” She returned him to the top of his cage.
She didn’t have a chance at conversation with Holly until after they installed the goose on the enclosed back porch and deposited the girl’s belongings in the spare room. In the kitchen, while they chopped onions and tomatoes for marinara sauce, Holly peppered Rachel with questions about the animal hospital, the other people who worked there, the daily routine. She was clearly disappointed to learn she would be wearing a tee shirt and pants instead of a white coat at work, but accepted the idea that only doctors should dress in white.
While Holly set the kitchen table, Rachel checked on the boiling spaghetti and gave the sauce another stir. “By the way,” she said, “if your mother calls, your grandmother will tell her where you’re working, won’t she?”
Holly shifted a plate on the table, looked at it, moved it another inch to the left. “My mama’s not gonna call. She never has.”
“What? Do you mean you haven’t talked to her since she left?”
Holly ignored this and said, “Captain Bridger’s nice. Real handsome, too.”
Questions about Holly’s missing mother troubled Rachel, but she could see the subject was off-limits. She said, “Tom Bridger’s a little old for you, don’t you think?”
Holly laughed and blushed. “I’m not interested in him or anything.” She threw a sly glance at Rachel. “Is he your boyfriend?”
“Good heavens, no. Tom’s just a friend.” Maybe not even that, after their disagreement over Holly. “He brings his nephew out here to ride a lot.”
Tom was wonderful with little Simon, patient and gentle, but watching them together opened an aching space inside her. Luke loved kids too. He was great with them. He’d wanted to get married and start a family with Rachel.
Stop it. Don’t think about it.
She swiped a finger over the stirring spoon and tasted the sauce. “Everything’s done. Let’s eat.”
While Rachel poured the sauce into a bowl, Holly came up beside her. “Dr. Goddard? The way my grandma carried on…You’re not sorry you let me come, are you?”
“Of course not. Your grandmother will get over it.”
“No, she won’t. And she might be right about you bein’ sorry.”
A prickle of apprehension made Rachel frown. “Why would I be?”
Holly hung her head. “She says I’m more trouble than I’m worth.”
Oh, for pity’s sake.
“Well, you’re no trouble at all to me.”
She couldn’t let the old woman’s melodramatic warning bother her. Mrs. Turner was an over-possessive grandmother who didn’t want to let go of Holly, yet had obviously abused her psychologically and perhaps physically. She had convinced the girl no one would want to be her friend. But Rachel was determined that before long Holly would be enjoying her freedom and her new life.
***
A scream shocked Rachel awake. She struggled upright in bed. Another scream tore through the house. Downstairs, Cicero squawked. Holly screamed again.
Rachel sprang from the bed, ran down the darkened hallway, and flung open the door to the guest room.
When she flipped the light switch, she found Holly thrashing in her bed, flailing at the covers twisted around her body. “Don’t hurt her!” Holly shouted. “Leave her alone!”
Rachel hurried to her, grabbed her by the shoulders, shook her. “Holly! Wake up!”
“Mama!” Holly wailed. She flung out a fist and connected with Rachel’s cheek.
Rachel recoiled but held onto the girl’s shoulders. “Wake up, Holly!”
Holly’s eyes popped open. Her body rigid, she stared wildly at Rachel.
“It’s me,” Rachel said. “You’re in my house. Remember?”
Holly went limp with a long exhalation of breath. Rachel let go of her shoulders.
Sinking back against the pillow, Holly hid her face beneath folded arms and burst into tears. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be silly.” Rachel probed her stinging cheek. She could almost feel a bruise forming. “You just had a bad dream.”
Holly curled on her side and buried her face in the pillow.
Rachel placed a hand on Holly’s shoulder and felt the tremor in the girl’s thin body. Holly was a young adult, yet Rachel experienced a rush of tenderness she might have felt for a frightened child. A flash of memory took Rachel back to those long-ago nights when Michelle would wake from bad dreams and crawl into bed with Rachel for comfort. “Talking about it might help,” she told Holly. “What were you dreaming about?”
Holly shook her head. “I can’t tell you,” she said, her voice muffled by the pillow. “Grandma says people’ll think I’m crazy if—” She broke off and pulled her body into a tighter ball, her breath coming in little gasps.
The grandmother from hell had really done a number on this girl. “A nightmare doesn’t make you crazy, Holly. Everybody has them sometimes. I do.”
Slowly Holly’s body uncurled, and she peered skeptically at Rachel. “Do you?”
“Yes.”
If you only knew the things I dream about.
Sniffling, Holly dragged the back of her hand across her cheeks and nose. Rachel grabbed tissues from a box on the bedside table and pressed them into Holly’s fingers. The clock on the table said 2:17. “Do you want to stay up a while? We can go down and have some milk and crackers.”