The Steep and Thorny Way (9 page)

He didn't respond. He simply stared without blinking.

I rubbed the sides of my face and groaned from deep within my belly. “I'm not making any promises until morning. This might all feel like a bad dream by the time I wake up.”

“Here . . .” He turned and reached for something under the cot, next to a couple of clothbound books with titles too hidden in the dark to read. I also saw a stack of playing cards, built into a triangular tower five cards high, constructed on the ground next to the foot of the bed. The crossword puzzle pages of a newspaper lay in a heap beside the tower, with half the squares still blank.

“I guess you're not so good at crossword puzzles,” I said.

“Here, I've got a fountain pen.” Joe reached toward me with the pen in hand. “Write down your father's words, exactly the way you remember them—somewhere on your body where Dr. Koning or your mother won't see.”

I shrank back. “I don't know if the ink will show up on my skin.”

He fetched one of the puzzle pages. “Then write the words here.”

“What if Dr. Koning sees what I've written on the page?”

“I bet you've got a knack for hiding things from him.” He tore a corner off the newspaper and laid it flat on the floor in front of me. “Like the gun . . . and the elixir you took tonight.”

“All right.” I snatched the pen from his hand. “Give me a second to make my brain slow down, and I'll write what I remember.”

Joe spun back around toward the cot and grabbed a pair of beat-up brown shoes from underneath. We both remained seated on the shed's filthy old floorboards, which felt as hard as a rib cage against the backs of my thighs. Splinters needled their way into my left ankle.

I leaned forward, and, next to the ripped bottom of the crossword puzzle, I filled the newsprint with seven words:

I put full blame on the doc.

My hand shook so much, the letters formed as smudges and squiggles. My stomach twisted just from looking at them.

“There.” I screwed the cap back into place and tossed the pen at Joe. “It's done. I gotta go home.”

He shoved a shoe over his right foot and laced it. “I'll walk you back.”

“There's no need for that.” I crammed the piece of newsprint into my pocket.

“It's dark.” He put on the other shoe. “You're on that tonic. And despite what my father and the state of Oregon claim, I am a gentleman.” He tied the second lace and got to his feet.

I braced my hands against the floorboards and pushed myself up. “Why would doctors in prison want to perform surgery on you? What's wrong with you?”

He ran a hand through his hair and headed for the door. “Nothing.”

“Are you sure about that, Joe? Everyone I've spoken to since yesterday warned me not to talk to you. They all told me you're crazy.”

He stopped by the door. “Who said that?”

“Robbie Witten. Mildred Marks. Sheriff Rink.”

A shaky breath rattled through his lips, and he averted his eyes from mine.

“Why would they say that?” I asked. “In fact, why should I listen to your plans to kill my stepfather if you're completely off your rocker?”

“I'm not crazy, Hanalee. Just . . .” He swung the door open. “Let's get you back home.”

I didn't budge.

“Hanalee . . .” Joe sighed and shifted toward me. “Ignorant sons of bitches say terrible things about me because they don't understand my type of people.”

I shifted my weight between my feet. “W-w-what do you mean, your ‘type of people'? Are you part Indian or something?”

“No.”

“Catholic?”

He rolled his eyes. “My father's a goddamned Methodist preacher, for Christ's sake. I'm not Catholic.”

“Then what do you mean?”

He raked a hand through his hair once more and returned his gaze to the sunken floorboards in front of him. “It's none of your business.”

“Tell me, Joe, or I won't conspire with you. I'll investigate my father's death on my own. I'll let the sheriff know where you're hiding . . .”

“Jesus.”

“No secrets. Tell me the truth if you want me to believe everything you say.”

“All right, if you're going to be so damn pushy about it, I'll tell you, but you can't breathe a word about it to another soul.” He grabbed his stomach. “I'm a . . . what people call a . . .” His face made a wincing expression that reminded me of the way I'd felt when I first swallowed down the fire of Necromancer's Nectar. “Oh, Christ, just . . . I'm an Oscar Wilde.”

I shook my head, confused. “You're a playwright?”

“No, I . . .” He dropped his arm to his side. “I'm a . . . what they
call . . .” His chin quivered; every other part of his body tensed. “Queer.” He swallowed. “A homosexual.”

I merely blinked at him, not one hundred percent sure I knew what that latter term meant.

“I don't love girls in a romantic way,” he explained. “I—I—I . . . it's boys.” He clutched his stomach again and closed his eyes. “I'm attracted to boys.”

“Oh.” I gave a small nod.

A prickly silence fell between us. Outside, a frog belched a deep croak from the pond behind the shed. I slipped my right hand into my pocket and crinkled the newsprint that bore the accusation about my stepfather.

“Well, I should . . . I should get going.” I sidled past Joe, careful not to touch him, and exited the shed.

He closed the door behind us, and I heard him following my lead through the clearing, his loud footsteps breaking up twigs.

We descended the short slope leading down to the creek, and I took extra caution crossing the rocks that jutted out of the water, for my feet felt cumbersome and unnatural. The nighttime world remained foggy and golden bright, and my head seemed stuffed full of cotton. Once I made it to the other side of the water, I pinched a fleshy part of my left arm to ensure I wasn't stuck in the middle of a dream. I pinched myself hard and flinched at the shock of pain.

Joe trailed behind me all the way back to the break in the trees that led to my house. His shoes crushed leaves and pine needles with a percussive rhythm that mimicked the sounds of my own feet.

I didn't know whether I should turn and say anything—or if the wrong words would tumble out of my mouth, or if he would
suddenly look different, or if there
was
something different about his face or his body or his mannerisms, something I hadn't noticed before. I rubbed my arms and slowed my pace and felt the sudden urge to be cruel to him again.

“Is that why you want me to be the one who kills him?” I asked over my shoulder in the quietest voice I could muster. “Because you're not a true man?”

His feet came to an abrupt stop behind me.

My heart stopped, too. The words I'd spoken made my mouth taste rotten.

I turned around, parting my lips to apologize, but he was gone—a shadow slipping into the depths of the woods beyond the firs, leaving me all alone with a scrap of paper that burned inside my pocket.

CHAPTER 7

THOU HAST THY FATHER MUCH OFFENDED

I AWOKE IN THE MORNING WITH A
headache. Memories of the night before flared to life as scattered images: rust-colored liquid and candlelight. An empty road in the pitch-dark night. Trees illuminated in a haze of gold. The shed. Joe, running his hand through his hair. My father, standing right in front of me . . .

I covered my eyes with my palms and groaned through the sick feeling burbling in my stomach.

After a knock that scarcely counted as a knock, someone came into my room.

“Hanalee,” said my mother, “Deputy Fortaine came over. He's waiting downstairs for you.”

I rolled over in my sheets and faced her. The bottle of Necromancer's Nectar still sat on my bedside table, I realized, the cap unscrewed, the bottle wide open and smelling of booze and dope—or at least what I imagined dope to smell like. Bitter as molasses. Medicinal. Nauseating.

“Why is he waiting to see me?” I asked. I forced myself not to grab the bottle and hide it from sight.

“He wants to speak to you about Joe.”

My skin simultaneously sweated and froze.

“Get dressed.” Mama marched over and pulled the covers off me with a gust of air that blew hair against my face. Her eyes locked on to the dress I still wore from the day before. “You never changed into nightclothes?”

“I didn't feel well last night.”

“Are you better now?”

I shrugged. “I don't know.”

She lowered the covers to my knees. “Change into fresh clothes and come downstairs.”

“I don't want to talk to Deputy Fortaine.”

“He's here to help.”

“To help whom?” I asked.

She creased her brow and put her hands on her hips. “To help us. All of us.”

My glance flitted to the Necromancer's Nectar, which now seemed as large and conspicuous as a living creature, perched beside my bed.

Mama turned her face toward the bottle. “What's that?”

I sat up. “A tonic.”

“For what?”

I grabbed the potion. “Straightening hair. Mildred gave it to me.”

She grumbled. “Stop buying those horrible cure-alls from her. Your curls are beautiful.”

I tried to screw the lid into place without appearing nervous, but my hands slipped and accidentally shook the liquid until it sloshed and foamed.

“Put that bottle away,” said Mama. “Get yourself brushed and presentable. Deputy Fortaine is a busy man. We mustn't waste his time.”

I nodded and pressed the bottle's black-magic symbols against my chest, finding the glass cold to the touch. The note from the night before rustled in my dress pocket, but my mother didn't seem to hear it.

She left the room and closed the door behind her.

I released the breath I'd been holding and concealed both the bottle and the note in the drawer of my bedside table. My clothing and hair smelled of smoke from Joe's lantern, I realized, so I changed into a fresh gray and white dress and sprinkled my hair with talcum powder before twisting it, tucking it under, and pinning it into the style of a faux bob.

A quick glance in the mirror revealed fear in the pupils of my hazel eyes.

WITH A FLASH OF HIS DOUGLAS FAIRBANKS SMILE
, Deputy Fortaine stood up from his seat next to Uncle Clyde's at our dining room table.

“Good morn—” He bumped his thigh on the table's edge. Mugs of coffee jostled. “Good morning, Hanalee.” His olive complexion reddened, but the smile stayed in place.

“Morning, Hanalee,” said Uncle Clyde, bobbing up from his own chair for a swift moment.

Mama placed her hand against my back and urged me forward, while both men watched me with a kindness that tasted false. I stepped toward them with my hands clasped in front of me.

Deputy Fortaine pulled out a chair for me. “Please, have a seat.”

Uncle Clyde clutched his own mug of coffee and nodded at me to obey the deputy's orders. The skin beneath his eyes bulged, as if he hadn't slept the night before.

I sat down with reluctance, and Mama plunked a glass of orange juice in front of me.

“Your breakfast will wait until after the chat,” she said, her hand on my shoulder for a slip of a moment.

Deputy Fortaine sat back down, this time holding on to the table. Mama took the seat across from him.

I fidgeted and rubbed my hands over my skirt, and the cotton stuck to my palms.

“Hanalee”—the deputy cleared his throat and wrapped his fingers around his mug—“as I know you're well aware, Joe Adder is back in the area. The state penitentiary released him early on good behavior.”

“Yes, I know.” I summoned every ounce of restraint I possessed to keep my head from turning toward the window. Toward the woods.

The deputy took a sip of his beverage, and, after a smack of his lips, he lowered the mug back to the table. I smelled an off-putting potpourri of coffee, orange juice, and the deputy's musky cologne, the last of which Fleur's mother probably found arousing. Everything at that table made me sick to my stomach.

“Have you seen him?” asked the deputy, his head tilted to his right, his eyes narrowed.

All three of them—Mama, Uncle Clyde, and Deputy Fortaine—stared me down like buzzards.

I folded my hands on the table, and through gritted teeth I answered, “Why on earth would I be seeing the drunk who killed my father?”

“Hanalee . . .” Mama reached toward me across the table. “I'm worried about the questions you asked me yesterday. I feel your opinion of Uncle Clyde changed the day we learned Joe was back in town. I don't want any husband of mine feeling unwelcome in his own home.”

I pulled my hand away from hers. “This isn't Dr. Koning's home.”

“You see what I mean?” said Mama to the deputy, her voice desperate. “This is how she talks now. She seems suspicious of her own father—”