Mammoth Secrets (30 page)

Maya.

Because of that church. The pastor who brought the audacity of belief to his little girl, had made her think of something other than what he'd given her. The white church was a beacon on the hill, ever since his return from the hospital, across Riverview Drive.

Why had he listened to them? Randall didn't listen to fools or suckers. He swindled them, got his way, and earned his coin from their pitiable dreams.

Either way, she was just a kid. And they were responsible for laying his daughter so near death. That was all he needed to know.

He adjusted the revolver, heavy in his belt, an emptiness rattling in his heart. Maya was in surgery. His only proof that possibly something bigger than himself and his dealings existed, or mattered—could've died. May still. Because of the boy. Maya clung to life by a thread while the boy who'd caused the accident sat in shock, mere bruises and butterfly band-aids over his mild injuries.

“Sorry,” the boy, Andy, had muttered while the trauma room doctors worked, his daughter's blood smearing the fronts of their yellow paper robes. So apologetic. He was sorry he'd driven off the road. The rig had startled him. More than likely distracted by Maya's curves, her flashing eyes, or her rich flame-red hair. The boy must have taken his eyes off the road. Perhaps he'd been blinded by her persuasive smile, her full lips, amber eyes, or her velvet voice.

The boy wasn't responsible.

It was the preacher.

He flipped open the thirty-eight special, eyed the full chamber. Snapped the weapon shut, the bright lights streaming through the checker-curtained windowpanes. His steps carried him along the river's edge almost of their own volition. Randall stuck the pistol behind his shirttail, hiking up the hill the rest of the way. It wasn't the first time he'd pull the trigger, but surely, it would be the last.

Time to meet the devil on his terms. His way.

 

 

 

 

43

 

Lilah stared at her grandparents' home. The red light burned in the kitchen window. Who was Nana shining it for tonight?

The girl who'd crashed on the same curve as Rebecca?

Herself?

Papaw?

The weight of this secret she'd stumbled upon spelled out by the gas company, and now the bank. No wonder they hadn't wanted her to go there. The thought of her grandparents' deception plunged into her soul as she stormed out into the orange light of dusk, batting her way under the weeping limbs of the willow. How could they have sold her sacred spot? The need for answers propelled her up the hill.

The breeze gusted, the arms of the oaks above rattled and waved as if in warning against her growing tirade. She pounded steps up to the screened-in porch, tugged to open, but the door remained. Locked. Lilah knocked a furious beat.

Nana's zipper-robed form outlined against the blue-green of the television flickering behind her, thin scowl quickly replaced itself with worry. “Where's Eden?”

“Hospital, I guess.” Lilah shifted her weight, one bare foot to the other. “Can I come in?”

Her grandmother stepped back and led Lilah into the room where a highball glass at the side table declared it was time for game shows and cocktails. She settled herself into one of the two thrones of retirement. The other sat empty. On the table in between, Papaw's black glasses rested on top of an unread, folded newspaper. For a moment, Lilah could almost believe he'd trot in and demand that she change the station to the game.

“Have a seat.”

A lump thickened in Lilah's throat as she settled on the velvet settee. She forced her full attention on Nana, wasting no time with pleasantries. “I've been to the river house.”

“Why?” Nana dialed down the volume, and then tossed the remote onto the table. Papaw's glasses skittered off their perch. “Showing that pastor your old stomping grounds?”

“Papaw told me to go.” Lilah rubbed her crumpled forehead, gathering composure before she met that icicle gaze again. “He said the fish were biting.”

“He always says that.” Nana pressed her trembling lips together.

On the television, someone bet five hundred dollars on a question of what foods start with the letter
Q
.

“What is a quince?” Nana answered out of habit, turned back to Lilah. “He loves this show. Maybe Eden has it on for him at the hospital.”

“Maybe.” At last, Lilah cast the question making her heart a sinker-weight. “Why would Papaw have sold the river house to that carnival worker, Mr. Guthrie?”

“Carnival worker?” Nana blinked up, adjusted her wire frame glasses. “How do you know about him?”

“He came by the kitchen. He makes glass figurines.”

Nana stiff-armed herself up out of the chair. It rocked in her wake as she stepped to the window, past the bookcase shrine of pictures of Rebecca, to look out on the river, the architectural focal point of the room. In the growing twilight, a heron dipped, settled on the falls to fish. “You've met him? This Guthrie character?”

“A couple of times.” Lilah leaned forward, elbows on her knees, watching the array of emotions skitter across her grandmother's face. “Who is he? How do you know him?”

Nana sipped, and then set down, pushed aside her ice cube glass. “Your Papaw is the most gracious, asinine man I've ever known. A heart of gold and head full of rocks. Comes through every year, driving that big ole rig...”

“He gave me a figurine. I watched him make it. Very talented, really.”

“Talented, but a drunk.” Nana's nostrils flared. “A drunk, a heathen, and a murderer. He was driving that night. Thirty years ago. On the curve that killed your mother.”

“The night we were born?” Lilah sat back, rocked. It explained the man's sorrowful gaze, his inability to look her in the eye. Her heart stabbed with half-formed questions. “Why would Papaw sell our special place, our favorite...to...”

“To show God's love. Forgiveness. I'm not that gracious.” She jangled ice. Set the cup down before speaking again. “What did he make for you?”

Lilah joined her at the window, eyes on the river. “A heron. Just like your big bird out there.”

They watched the long-legged creature land, saunter across the rocks to the tumbled oak to the best fishing hole at this bend. “Is that how Papaw always knew where to fish? He watched the birds?”

“Watches, you mean.” Nana smiled, gaze fixed on the heron, poised, waiting for a fish to swim near enough for that lightning fast swoop. “He watches them.”

“We need to bring him home, Nana.”

Tears spilled from Nana's eyes as she clutched Lilah's hand. Dry, bony, thin, yet her slight grandmother overflowed with inner strength though her voice cracked. “You're right, of c-course. Tomorrow. We'll bring him home tomorrow.”

“I'll call Eden and Luke. We'll make all the arrangements.” Lilah wrapped Nana into her embrace. “We'll take care of everything.”

“I suppose you should call your Pastor Gibb, too.” Nana's head weighed heavy on Lilah's shoulder. “Seeing how he's all we've got.”

 

 

 

 

44

 

Lightning bugs did their winking dance around the great oaks as Lilah backed her red convertible from Eden's carport. It growled down Riverview Drive.

Once upon a time, she'd chased after them, leapt and caught their fragile bodies with determined hands, placed them in jars to watch them glow. Now, there was no time to waste in confronting the man responsible for her mother's death.

She pulled into the carnival's now empty dirt lot in a wave of dust. The tromped field marked the grounds, now scarred by crisscrossed scars of parked cars and tramping feet. Ghostly memories thronged the empty midway; the ridiculous image of Jake, shouldering the giant panda she'd won on his dare, the molten, liquid glass that Guthrie stretched and pulled into her heron.

I stared into the face of my mother's killer, and never knew. Lord, I even fed the man.

Fingernails dug into her palms as she headed toward the dismantled glass booth. His big rig idled as he backed up to hitch itself to the wagon, a high, thin beep warning its intentions.

“Hey, there!” Lilah waved her arms, shouting to his rearview mirror.

The figure inside balked. Hesitated. Then the diesel chug-rattled to a halt. Guthrie exited with deliberate steps, paused in front of her. “Evenin', ma'am.”

“Don't ma'am me. I know who you are. I—”

He nodded. “I thought you might.”

Pulling work gloves from his hands, he spoke in low tones as he reached into his back pocket. “You look just like her, you know.”

Lilah took a step back, looked left, right. The park was empty. All other carnies seemed to have evaporated in the dimming light. “Like who?”

“Your mama.” He opened his dingy wallet to reveal a tattered picture. The same picture that Papaw and Nana had perched on their Rebecca shrine by the river view window.

“Where'd you get that?” A cold rush of adrenaline flowed from her neck to fingertips.

Guthrie blinked. “I thought that's why you were here...”

“You killed her. That's why I'm here.” Fists clenched, unclenched. “You were driving the curve the night she died.”

He stared at his shoes, the picture floated out of his fingers, settled like a leaf by the steel toe of his boot where she snatched it up.

“She's dead cuz of me. This…this is my penance for what I done.”

“And my Papaw let you live in our house. He sold you the property. Why?”

The man went hunch shouldered. “He didn't sell it to me. It were a gift.”

The very notion slammed into her and stole her breath. “When?”

“A few years back. I come to town. We had a long talk before he…” Chin dipping, he turned toward the last bit of light from the setting sun. “Well, before.”

“I can't hear this. I don't understand it and I can't…you, him...” Lila smoothed dust off the picture, kept it as she stormed back toward her vehicle.

Forgiveness like that made no sense. Was Papaw trying to prove his place in heaven by loving his enemy?

A glance over her shoulder proved the man didn't follow. She'd shamed him. That was good. She had no time for cowards, fools, or thieves. He'd stolen everything from her that was precious.

“Delilah Dale!” he called to her back.

She skidded to a stall, hand out for the door handle. Turning, she walked toward him with slow hesitant steps. Heart jack-hammering, she stared down the man who'd murdered her mother. “How do you know my real name?”

 

~*~

 

Jake stepped, hair dripping from the shower, a blue towel hitched around his hips.

The message light on his phone blinked angry red, but for once, he needed to shelve everything. Focus on what really mattered. Lilah. How could he tell her what he'd learned? For now, he'd opted not to do anything. To wait. To keep the knowledge hidden.
A truth unspoken is by definition a lie.
Isn't that what he'd said to Margaret right before he'd ended their marriage? Isn't that what he was doing now?

Steam wiped from the mirror, he reviewed the crags in his face, and stared down his reflection. Could he live with himself knowing what he discovered, and not sharing with Lilah?

She didn't hesitate to save those abandoned kittens. A girl who cared so much about living creatures surely would be more forgiving of someone in need squatting in the river house. But, the history behind the man who'd changed the course of her life forever? Could he expect her to forgive that? Could he?

He knew the story of the curving road, the car driving too fast around a hairpin turn. But the driver of the rig, ultimately responsible for the crash that killed her mother, had chosen to climb inside a bottle of alcohol. Jake knew Guthrie would never find redemption in the liquid. Numbness and escape? Maybe. Redemption and forgiveness?

Never.

Her grandfather, in the ultimate example of Christian charity, invited a murderer into their world. Allowed him to live on his property. Now, in Earl Dale's infirm state, Jake stood poised on blowing the whole thing wide open.

For Lilah.

Her name, the very thought of her, clutched his heart. She'd entwined herself to him, all of him, mind, body, and soul. A love like he'd never experienced in this world. A soul-mate love, like Margaret longed for, as she claimed they shared to anyone within earshot. Even while both of them knew she lied.

He owed it to Lilah to make good on his promise to her, but doing so could destroy the very foundation on which she'd been raised.

Dressing quickly in jeans and running shoes, he hurried from the house, not until standing at his truck did the thought hit him. Didn't lock the door, or even think about it. What's more? It didn't even worry him in the slightest. Maybe Mammoth would be home for him, after all.

Jake didn't notice the shadow until it was almost too late. “Wha—?”

A slamming fist caught him in the jaw, spun him around.

Hands up deflected his attacker. He flinched at the sight of the gun and the familiar hand that raised it. The butt-end slammed his neck, hard, and the world went dark.

 

~*~

 

He woke with a jabbing pain to his jaw, ear, and head. Jake struggled to regain his focus. Ribbons of light played through heavy eyelids as ruby, amethyst, emerald, sapphire, gold, burned his wavering vision. He worked the hinge of his aching jaw from Randall's right hook. Not broken.
Thank you, God.

Right shoulder, screaming, throbbing, damp. Was that blood? Jake pulled himself off the carpeted floor, in the thin, yet vibrant pool streaming through the church's stained glass window. He stared at the shape of his Savior, shepherd's crook in hand; a lost sheep found and tucked in the safety of His arm.