Final Justice (12 page)

"How about you?" Matt said suddenly, brightly. "Hell, you're a war hero."

"I've got a job, remember?"

"Yeah, but your time's up soon. What then?"

"I reenlist, and when Mom dies, I tell Hampton, Alabama, to kiss my ass and never come back."

"You really hate this place, don't you?"

"Can you think of a reason I shouldn't?"

"Yeah. You've got a wife and kid here."

Luke shook his head. "I'm not like you, Matt. I can't stay in a dead marriage for a kid's sake, especially not in a town that treated my mother like dirt because some asshole knocked her up and then ran out on her."

"Well, if you were sheriff, maybe you could use your badge to get even and kick some butt."

"A tempting thought to be sure, but I think I'd rather ride off into the sunset and not look back."

A car pulled in on the other side and Kirby Washam, another close buddy from high school days, joined them.

The evening slipped away, and then the neon lights bordering the roof of the drive-in began to blink. Wanda came to ask if they wanted one final round.

"How come you're closing early?" Matt looked at his watch. "Wow, it's almost midnight. Where did the time go?"

"You drank it away, like you always do." She blew a bubble and let it pop. "So? You want a last round or not? I've got other customers you know."

Matt reached across Luke to squeeze her arm. "But only one that wants to take you home. How about you and me having a last round together?"

She threw back her head and laughed. "You gotta be kiddin'. Last time I rode off with you
was
the last round for me and you, buddy, 'cause you ain't worth shit when you're drunk."

Luke pounded the steering wheel as he and Kirby broke into gales of laughter as Matt yelled curses at Wanda's retreating, swinging rear.

"Okay, okay," Luke said finally. "Maybe we'd better call it a night. We've all had enough."

"Yeah, I guess so." Kirby opened the back door and started to get out, then hesitated. "Hey, isn't that Sara Speight pulling in? What the hell's she doing here this time of night?"

Luke got out to meet her, and the instant he saw her face knew something was wrong.

"It's your mom," she said in a rush. "Lynn Waller, the nurse on night shift on your mom's floor is my cousin, and she called me to ask if I had any idea where you were. Alma told her she didn't know."

* * *

He slammed his hands down on top of the car so hard it shook. "The hell she didn't."

Sara suspected Alma had lied. She knew Luke would never go off and not leave word where he was with his mother so sick but didn't say so. "I told Lynn I thought I knew because you usually meet up with the guys here."

"I'll get over there right away. Thanks for finding me. Alma's just showing her butt. I'm sorry to have put you out like this."

"You know I didn't mind. Would you like for me to go to the hospital with you?"

He shook his head.

If his mother was ready to tell him about the demons, he damn sure didn't want anybody else listening.

* * *

Lynn gave it to him straight. His mother was slipping away. The signs were all there: a rise in body temperature, falling blood pressure, and irregular pulse. Lynn had called Dr. Campbell, and he said all they could do was try and make Orlena as comfortable as possible because it was almost over.

Orlena's eyes were closed, and she lay very still. Luke asked if she were in a coma. Lynn said no, just sedated, then left and said if he needed her to press the button.

The oxygen tent had been removed. Luke drew a chair close to the bed, then sat down and leaned over to press his cheek against his mother's hand. He hoped she knew he loved her, even though he might not have shown it like he should have. Everybody, he supposed, felt guilty when somebody they loved died. His guilt came from leaving home. But he hadn't been able to help her when he was there, remembering all the times he'd come home from school to find her passed out drunk. So he had no reason to believe that if he had stayed around things would have been any different.

He thought how pretty she used to be before her skin became puffy and mottled by spider webs of broken veins. And he couldn't remember a time when her bloodshot eyes didn't remind him of an Alabama road map.

He almost didn't hear her as she whispered his name, soft as a baby's sigh. He straightened but held tight to her hand. "Yes, Momma. I'm here."

With a feeble hand, she motioned to the water pitcher on the bedside table. He poured a glass, held it to her parched lips as she sipped, then she said she wanted to be propped up so she could talk better. "I've got to tell you how it was, Luke, and there's not much time."

It was like an icicle plunged into his heart. After all the years of wanting the truth, now he wasn't so sure. Maybe she should take it to the grave with her. "Tomorrow," he said. "You'll feel better tomorrow, and you can tell me then."

With a sad little smile, she slowly shook her head. "There are no tomorrows for me, and I've got to tell you about the yesterdays so I can go in peace. I promised myself I never would, but lately I've come to realize it's not right that you don't make them pay for what they did to both of us."

She began to cough, and he moved quickly to lift her head higher up on the pillows to help her breathe. All the while, one word was burning in his gut like acid:
them.
She had said
them.
Did that mean there had been more than one? Suddenly he found himself wishing she would go on and die then and there without telling him because something boiling inside of him warned that once he knew the truth his life would never be the same.

When the coughing subsided, Orlena continued. "But I don't want you to kill them, Luke. Promise you won't do that. They have to live and suffer like I have. Make them know what it's like to be shamed and have folks look down on them. But don't do anything to get yourself in trouble, and never, ever, let them or anybody else suspect you know."

Luke felt sick to wonder if she had slept with so many back then that she didn't know who his daddy was. He prayed not. Let her have made just one mistake that left her pregnant and not, God forbid, have been the town whore back in 1939.

Her eyes closed as she drifted away, and he let her hand go and sat back in the chair. Staring at the IV bag with its tube snaking to the needle in the back of her hand, he wondered if it were the sedative making her talk crazy. But, he suddenly decided, if that weren't the case, then the best thing for him to do was leave while she slept. Tomorrow she'd be glad he left before she said things she might later regret.

He started to get up, the chair squeaked, and Orlena's eyes opened. They locked gazes—hers, wild and determined; his, desperate with pleading for her silence.

"I was raped, Luke, and there were three of them."

Knees buckling, he sank back to the chair, hands curling into fists to press against his temples.

"And when you hear my story, you'll understand why I never told you before... and how none of what happened was my fault."

Her voice broke as she begged, "I want you to serve up justice, Luke, and make them pay for what they did."

Then, with a sigh wrenched from the depths of her tortured soul, Orlena reached out for his hand with cold fingers. Clutching in desperation, she took him with her to the night that had wrenched away all hope and had changed her life forever.

She led him back to 1939...

* * *

Orlena was exhausted. It was nearly eleven o'clock, and she wasn't anywhere near finished with her mopping. She was also freezing. The coal furnace wasn't able to heat the big, drafty mill like it should, and every time she had to wring out the mop in cold water, she was chilled to the bone.

She was working on the floors outside the offices. From the other end, beyond the big steel doors, she could hear the almost deafening noise from the machines as third shift toiled away. Her family all worked second shift.

Her father had been there nearly twenty years, and her mother had joined him a few months after Orlena was born, and she was sixteen now. Orlena's four brothers had quit school to hire on, but she was determined to graduate. Her father said that was a waste of time, especially for a woman. She needed to get married, have babies, and eventually go to work at the mill like everybody else. Meanwhile, he made her work at whatever she could to bring in some money.

The night cleaning job paid ten cents an hour. She was allowed to keep fifty cents out of every pay envelope. She had the mill owner's son, Buddy Hampton, to thank for her job. He had always been nice to her. She had a secret crush on him, too, but knew it was hopeless. Boys like Buddy didn't date village girls, and, besides, he had a girl: Ramona Booker, the Methodist preacher's daughter. She was the one who rode with him in the fancy car his daddy bought him for an early graduation present, a bright red Mercedes-Benz sedan.

It was understood that when Buddy graduated from Auburn Polytechnic Institute he would marry Ramona. Orlena did not like her. She was a snob and also a hypocrite, not acting at all like the Christian she pretended to be, what with her daddy being a preacher and all. She was all the time belittling the mill kids and hurting their feelings.

Orlena wrung out the mop and began swiping at the floor again, thinking how there was no harm in dreaming about Buddy. He was so cute with his blond hair and twinkling blue eyes. He was also captain of the football team and said to be one of the best quarterbacks Hampton High had ever had.

But Buddy could be mischievous, and she smiled to think about some of the pranks he'd pulled and got away with because of who he was. The teachers didn't dare punish him. After all, they, like everybody else in town, probably had a relative who worked at the mill and could lose their job at the snap of his fingers.

Finally, the eleven o'clock whistle blew, and Orlena wished she could catch a ride home but couldn't leave till she was finished. She was way behind, too, because somebody had spilled Coca-Cola all over the floor, and it was hard to clean up.

The door to the weaving room opened, and Willard Poultrie poked his head out. "Better come on if you're riding with me, Orlena."

Willard had a flatbed truck, and he gave everybody who could pile on it a ride home. "I wish I could, Willard, but I've got to get this mess up." It would be a long walk for her, too, and freezing cold out.

"Buddy Hampton and those smart-alecky pals of his did that. I saw 'em in here while you were mopping the other end. They were spraying each other with cola. Sorry, honey, but I'll have to leave without you."

"It's all right." She suddenly did not mind the mess if it was Buddy's. "Goodnight, Mr. Poultrie."

It was almost midnight before she was able to leave. There was no moon, the night so black she had to trust her instincts to take her in the right direction. Once she crossed the railroad tracks, there was a wooded area to pass by, then she would be in the village with its row after row of identical shotgun shanties. Bare limbs of trees overhead clattered together like wooden swords as the wind howled. She could hear a dog barking way off somewhere. A cat bolted from the brush beside her, and she choked on a scream and told herself she was being silly. She had walked home lots of times at night and nothing ever happened.

Lights appeared from behind, and she moved to the shoulder of the road. If it stopped, she would bolt into the woods and hide till she knew who it was. Sure enough, it began to slow and she lunged into the bushes.

"Hey, Orlena. Don't be scared. It's me—Buddy."

She turned back. "Buddy? What are you doing here?" She saw that he had quickly gotten out of the car and was standing in front of the lights. He was wearing his football sweater with a shirt and tie and knickers, and, like always, her heart skipped a beat at the sight of him.

"I'd hoped to catch you before you left the mill so I could give you a ride home."

"You did?" She couldn't believe her own ears.

"Yeah, I got to thinking about that mess me and those crazy pals of mine made and how your cleaning it up would probably make you late and miss your ride. I'm real sorry, Orlena. Get in, and I'll take you the rest of the way. It's the least I can do."

She did not hesitate, knowing it was probably the only chance in her life she would have to ride in such a fine car, but that wasn't what mattered. Being with Buddy, if only for a short while, was a memory that would last a lifetime.

He opened the door for her. "Pull that lap robe around you."

He hurried around to his side and got in, then melted her with a wide grin. "You look so cute sitting there. I've always thought you were the prettiest girl in school."

She could not speak nor breathe in what had to be the most wonderful moment of her life.

He took a flask from beneath his seat. "Here. It'll warm you right up."

Wanting to please him, she drank and was instantly seized by great, choking gasps as the whiskey hit her stomach like liquid fire.

He laughed and slapped her on the back, then took a big swallow himself. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he said, "Hey, how'd you like to go for a little ride?" Without waiting for answer, he took off with tires spinning.