“I know, darlin’.” A damn natural response, all things considered. “Just you stay with me now.”
“Who’s that?” Margie appeared, hunching nervously and glancing over the order-up counter. Her earrings swung, clacking little beaded bones, and though she was calm, her cheeks were dead flour-white.
“I know her. That’s Miz Mills, from the library,” Kasprak volunteered. “That too tight, Steph?” He bit his lower lip, anxiously, and now Lee knew his reason for coming by the diner late on a Sunday. He was probably looking to walk Steph home, braving even Bull Meacham’s temper. Which bespoke a certain strength of character, or just dumb calf-love. Mark was only nineteen, and Steph was what, two years younger?
Lee couldn’t ever remember being that young.
“I…I think it’s fine.” Steph gulped. Her fine, changecolor hair had darkened, full of dust like Ginny’s. “What the hell was that?” She rubbed her palms on her ketchup-spotted apron, a little harder than necessary.
“Army, looked like. Huntin down whatever was in the road.” Someone’s gonna get chewed out for this. Firing on a civilian street? Who was dumb enough to do that? The thought that maybe the situation was suddenly bad enough to require it was uncomfortable, to say the least. “All right. Everyone get your coat on, and Rooster, you want to peek out there and see if the coffeepot got hit? Need some strong and sweet for all’a’us.”
“Yessir.” Rooster Clane had been in the Navy a while back, and he was steady despite his habit of going on a tear every Friday out at the roadhouse near Elm Creek. He was a short, banty little man, with a ruff of thinning red hair and a round Irish face full of broken blood vessels and a many-times-broken nose. For all that, there were very few men in town Lee would feel relieved to have in a Situation, and he was one of them.
“Lord, I’m glad you’re here.” Margie, blinking heavily, shrugged into her long, puffy, violently pink coat. She’d never get shot during hunting season in that. “What the hell is goin’ on, Lee? What was out there?”
“Is it the terrorists?” Steph Meacham’s voice broke on the last syllable. Mark glanced at Lee, his eyes round.
Time to steady the troops. “I don’t know what it was, and if’n it’s terrorists the Army’s on them now.” Easy to say it it with confidence he didn’t feel. There was a squidgy sensation deep in his gut, one that usually only showed up when things were about to go sideways worse than they already were. How he hated that feeling. “We’ll have a little coffee, make sure the ruckus has died down, then Rooster’ll take you home, Margie. Kasprak, tell me you or Steph drove here.”
“Yes, sir.” The boy nodded. Give him something to focus on, and he was just fine. Grateful for it, even. “Just bought me a pickup last week.” Unconscious pride swelled his shoulders a bit, and Steph looked up at him, her baby blues widening.
Looked like the calf-love went both ways.
“Then you’ll drive little Stephanie there home and make sure she gets in her front door all right.” It was a damn good thing he didn’t have to load the kids in his truck along with Ginny. “Where you parked?”
The boy eased himself down to sit with his back against the freezer door, as close to Steph as he could get. “Right on Third.”
That got Ginny’s attention. Her chin came up a little. “Third Street,” she said, softly. Even her lips were pale. “I…I parked there.”
You ain’t drivin, darlin. “All right. Now listen, Mark, you want to swing out on Third, turn west, and go down a bit before you cross over to get to the Meacham’s. The Army might stop you, but if they do, just say yessir and nosir and tell them you’re takin her home.”
“The Army?” Margie was still staring at the wreckage. “Imma sue them for this. Ruined my front window, and now there’s bullets in my seats.”
Good luck with that. “Yeah, you do that after you get home, Marge.” Lee restrained the urge to run a hand through his hair. Might be broken glass caught in it, and where was his hat? It didn’t matter.
Rooster appeared with the sloshing coffeepot and a few cups that had survived, trapped by broad capable fingers through their handles. His cook’s apron was filthy with the remains of the Sunday rush, and now full of dust, too. Funny thing, how every time a building got shot, the air was full of grainy shit.
“You was in the service too, Lee. What you think of this?” Rooster had also swiped a handful of sugar packets, and crouched to tear them open and dump them in the coffee while Margie gave the cups a going-over with another wad of napkins to clean them out.
“Don’t know what to think, yet.” Lee almost winced. Ginny’s gaze had sharpened, her pupils shrinking a bit. He didn’t like how pale she was. “Ginny? You hurt anywhere?” He’d already asked her that four times, and she seemed fine, but the blood drying on her face gave him a funny feeling. Unsteady, like the shimmer over gasoline. Added to the squidgy in his gut, it was an unwelcome distraction just when he needed to be doing his thinking cold.
She reached up dreamily to touch his hand, holding the napkins to her forehead. Her fingers came away tacky-wet with blood and gritty with dirt, and she blinked at them. “Oh. No.”
Distant gunfire popped outside. No secondary troops coming in to look for casualties. That meant he needed to get all of them out of here, because it was still a hot zone.
“Hold this.” He took Ginny’s hand back, not liking the way she was staring at the blood. Pressed her palm firmly to the napkins. “All right? You hold that. Pour out that coffee, Rooster, and everyone take a swig. Then we gotta move.”
* * *
It had finally decided to snow. Outside the diner’s back door was the alley parallel to Cherry Lane, and it was a straight shot down to Third. Lee checked it, sniffed the wind, and heard more gunfire, moving mostly eastward. Clear enough, he decided, and hustled them out. Rooster and Margie hurried up the alley for Rooster’s big-ass black Ford parked behind the Clapton County Credit Union, and Ginny, under Lee’s arm, had largely lost that disturbing glassy-eyed look. Still, he kept hold of her, and Steph Meacham rushed Mark along, since the boy was trying to look everywhere at once.
Instead of small, hard spatters, the snow had turned into thick fat goosedown, the wind slacking just a little and the sudden slight warming only serving to underscore how cold it would be get later when the howler truly arrived. It would muffle shots but also cover movements. The package stuffed inside his shearling was bulky and uncomfortable, full of sharp edges, but he managed.
Kasprak’s new truck was a small yellow Chevy, and as soon as they reached it Ginny began pulling away. Lee had to clamp his arm down to keep her still while he cautioned Mark again. “You be careful, you hear me? And give my best to your pa.”
“Yessir.” Mark closed a pale, shivering Steph in the cab. “Thanks.”
Lee nodded, and Ginny finished shaking his arm away. Her Toyota crouched a few steps to windward, snow melting on its hood. He hadn’t thought to ask what she’d been doing on the street—coming into Mayburn’s for Sunday dinner? Who knew? The thing was, she was probably still shocky, and driving wasn’t a good idea. “Miss Virginia. Ginny. Ginny.”
Mark wasted no time starting his truck. Lee lengthened his stride—she was moving along right quick. “Ginny, now slow down. You ain’t thinking so straight right now—”
“I want to go home.” Some color had returned to her cheeks, and her chin set.
“I understand that. But—” He searched for something that would distract her. “You ain’t in no shape to be driving.”
“I’m fine. I just want to go home.” Traces of dried blood clung to her pretty face, and her hair was well and truly tangled, the braids across her head coming loose. Curls sprang free, catching snowflakes, crowning her with winter. She’d started shivering too, just like little Steph, and Lee hoped Bull Meacham wouldn’t see red when Kasprak drove up with his wounded daughter.
That wasn’t his problem right now. His problem was digging her soft little hand in her coat poc
ket, fishing out her keys, and halting, swaying a little. She stared up Third Street, past her car, and Lee’s skin shrank all over him. Was there another critter up there?
Don’t think about that. Just get her somewheres safe. “I know you want to go home, but I’d ’preciate a ride to my truck, ma’am.” He kept moving, nice and easy so he didn’t spook her. “Hand me them keys, and we’ll get you home, I promise.”
She turned then, sharply, honey-dark curls swinging, and looked up at him. Thin threads of paper from the napkins clung to the slice just under her hairline. Looked like she would bruise around it, too, her skin was so fine. It about knocked the breath out of him, because she was so close he could feel the heat from her even through her coat and his. Her bottom lip trembled just a bit, and Lee’s hands itched fiercely. He had to get her out of here, he could still hear firing around east.
The pop-pings of thrown bullets had stopped moving away. Which side of Sixteenth did she live on? He finally remembered, but it took longer than he liked. Getting distracted was bad for him. Bad for them both.
“You promise?” Looking at him like she’d never seen him before.
“I do, darlin.” He’d promise just about anything to get her under cover right about now. “Give me those keys.”
Thoughts moved behind her dark eyes. She was coming back, thank God. They had to move, but if he pushed her, she might decide he was up to no good, and that would make things unmanageable. “You…okay. Wait. Where did you park?”
“Just off’n Sixth. Hopin they didn’t shoot my truck.”
A quick, nervous shake of her head, like a surprised horse. “Jesus Christ. This is insane.”
“Yeah, well, whole lot of that goin’ on.” He should check over her shoulder, look at Fifth and Main for shadows, anything approaching. He couldn’t take his eyes off her, though. Her nose reddening, the fans of her dark lashes, a stippling of dried blood on her cheek. Her lips. Her mouth was downright sinful, pursed a little like that.
“Okay.” Her shoulders went back and her chin lifted a little. He’d seen that before, her little movement, bracing herself. “Get in.”
“Darlin, you ain’t in no condition to drive.”
“It’s my car,” she replied, and took a step back, toward the Toyota. Another. If she slipped, he'd have to lunge to catch her. “I’ll manage. Come on.”
A Whole Lot Less, and a Whole Lot More
Ginny turned the key, the engine caught just as usual, and a hot splotch of relief opened behind her breastbone. “Oh, thank God.”
“Amen.” Lee all but doubled up in the passenger seat, his long rangy frame too big for an import. “Best to go down the alley to get to Sixth. Real slow.”
“Yeah.” Now that she was in her own car, the last half-hour began to feel distant. Dreamlike. Her hands shook a little, but that was okay. Everything was okay now.
No, it’s not. They shot at me. In broad daylight. On the street.
“Sure you don’t want me to drive?” He sounded worried.
Well, that was reasonable, she told herself. This was a worrying situation indeed. “I’m fine.” If she kept repeating it, she might eventually believe.
Backing out, turning the wipers on because the snow was thickening, flipping the headlights on. Dropping the car into drive. All things her body knew how to do. The great thing about it was once you learned, you just thought about where you wanted the car to go, and you didn’t have to…
You didn’t have to think about glass shattering, or pavement popping like popcorn, or someone laying on top of her. Or the noise as the world went screeching off course, a vast shattering overwhelming racket filling your skull…
“Here’s Sixth. Hang on a minute.” Lee leaned forward. He smelled like coffee, fresh air, and some edge of clean soap and male she couldn’t quite place. He looked both ways, though there was nothing but snow beginning to accumulate at the edges of the streets. Seen from here, Cotton Crossing looked normal, and the feeling of being in a nightmare returned, closing iron bands around her lungs. This was unreal. Even the past week had to be some kind of practical joke. An illusion. Something. “All right. My truck’s right there. You live on the west side of Sixteenth, right?”
“What?” Other than the engine running and the wipers’ steady heartbeat, it was so quiet in here. The thought of turning on the radio scraped against her nerves. Her scalp itched, and Lee’s profile was straight and severe as he studied the street.
“What’s your house number?” He stared out the windshield like the snow, or the general situation, was a puzzle he wanted to solve.
You should know. You followed me home. “801. 801B, it’s a duplex.”
“All right.” He exhaled, sharply. “Let me out here. You turn left and go on down until you hit Poplar by the Kramer house with all the whirlygigs in the yard, then turn up. It’ll zag a bit, but it’ll get you home without goin through whatever’s happenin eastward. Imma bring my truck and folla.” His drawl had thickened, if that were possible. “You just go slow, and you keep your doors locked. You see anything strange, you just keep going. You hear me?”
Bossing me around is not going to help. But he had a point, avoiding Main Street was a very good idea. She hadn’t known Poplar went all the way through, but now she did. “All right.”
He gave her a long critical look, that piercing gaze uncomfortably chill now that his eyes had lightened past hazel, almost into yellow. What did you say to a man who had dragged you into a diner and thrown himself over you? Nothing seemed even remotely applicable.
“Lee?” His name sounded strange. They pronounced it more towards the back of their mouths, almost like lay. The others in the diner had obeyed him without question, like these sorts of things were ho-hum smalltown living.
“Yeah?” That grim set to his mouth told her he expected another problem to solve.
“You saved my life.” I would have just stood there. Why? I don’t know, but I would have. “Thank you.”
He ducked his head a little. Where was his hat? His hair was full of grit, and snowflakes turning to crystal droplets as they melted. “I, uh. Well. Welcome. You’re welcome.”
It was entirely inadequate, really, to just give a polite two words to a guy who had dragged you to safety. What did you say?
She didn’t have a chance to figure it out, because he opened the door and was gone into the snow, head up, scanning Sixth Street. He moved oddly, and after a moment she realized he was looking for cover along the front of the ancient dry-cleaner’s and a small storefront that had stood empty for as long as she’d been in the Crossing.
He was less felon and more military. A whole lot less of one, and a whole lot more of the other, it seemed.
She watched until she saw his red-and-white truck begin to back out of its parking space. It was running, he had his headlights on, he was going to be fine.
Ginny took a deep, shaking breath, hit her turn signal, and turned left. He’d told her to go slowly, and it was snowing, but she just wanted to be home. He was right, Poplar did go all the way through, and as soon as she saw her duplex she let out a grateful half-sob.
That was when the worst thought of the day hit her right in the stomach and spread a loose, sickened heat all through her.
Oh, God. Did this happen to my parents, too?
Old Miz Clampett
“Let me off at the corner.” Steph hugged her backpack, heavy with homework she wouldn’t sit in a booth at the diner and finish, now. Her hair was full of stuff and she couldn’t stop shivering, even though Mark had the yellow truck’s heater on full blast. The sidewalk crept by, snow whirling in thickening curtains.
Mark frowned at the road, his bony hands capable on the wheel. “Lee said—”
“Daddy’ll have a cow if he sees me riding with a boy.” No matter what Mr Quartine said. Although if he was there, Daddy would probably listen before he started yelling. Little Lee just had that way about him, people said.
“I could talk to
him.” Mark’s hair stood up wildly, and anyone who looked at them might think they’d been Making Out instead of…oh, she didn’t want to think about that. It made her head hurt. Maybe some Army boys were joyriding, the way Daddy said he’d done when he was young, knocking mailboxes over.
Except diner windows weren’t mailboxes, and bullets weren’t baseball bats. Steph rubbed at her hairline, grimacing at the gritty stuff in her hair. “He’ll take one look at me and thinks something happened.”
Mark was sweet, not like those other boys. “Well, something did happen, we got—”
“Yeah, but not the something Daddy’ll think.” She shook her head, deciding to wait on picking her scalp clean. A shower sounded mighty good. “Nah, just let me off at the corner. He’ll call the diner to check up anyway, and then Mama will call Margie at home and they’ll listen to her.”
Mark slanted her a single worried, dark-eyed glance, his cheeks burning. Probably just red from the cold. “It just…I wish I could talk to your dad.”
“It wouldn’t help. Believe me.” Her shivers eased a bit once the truck warmed up, and she watched Third Street go by out the window. Mark carefully went west, and everything was fine until he hit the brakes. That snapped her chin forward, and she saw the…the thing lollop across the road in the whirling snow.
It was a woman. It looked like Bessie Clampett, who had the trick of making paper-thin gingersnaps and painted plates that the old ladies bought each other for birthdays and anniversaries. But Mrs Clampett would never be out in a snowstorm in only a thin print dress, her fish-white, varicose-raddled legs pumping and her pale-pink undies showing as she scrambled on all fours, her head bobbing funnily. Her reddish wig was askew, and as Steph goggled, almost unable to comprehend what she was witnessing, the short cap of fake auburn curls flew free, bobby pins skittering away. Mrs Clampett’s bare feet stamped on the pavement, and she bolted into the greenbelt next to the closed-up Chevron station.