Long Black Curl (26 page)

Leshell stroked the girl's hair. “Because…?”

“Because the ancient me and the current me are both out of their depths.”

Leshell scooted closer. “I can't speak to the ancient, but I might know something about the current.” When Mandalay didn't continue, Leshell guessed, “Is it about a boy?”

Mandalay half smiled. “I'm that much of a clich
é
, huh?”

“Is it a clich
é
to fall down when you're learning to ride a bike? We all do it, and it's pretty damn scary the first time for everybody.”

Mandalay turned and looked at her. The ache in the girl's eyes shot straight to Leshell's heart. “He ran out on me,” she said softly. “He didn't even stay to see how things turned out.”

“He's a child.”

“So am I.”

“Not in the same way. Imagine if you didn't have all that time in your head, that instead you had only twelve years to pull experience from. That's what he has.”

The girl's eyes shone with unshed tears. “So it's always going to be like this? I'm going to be this different to every boy I meet?”

“I can't speak to that. I'm just saying, him being scared makes sense. Only you can decide how it changes what you feel about him.”

Mandalay put her arms around Leshell. Her stepmother hugged her tight. “You'll be okay, baby girl,” she said softly.

And Mandalay felt, for that moment, that she would be. Then she remembered Bo-Kate. And not even Leshell's hug could help with that. It was time for Mandalay to get over herself and get back to work.

 

18

An hour later, just after sunset, Bo-Kate strode into the Catamount Corner as if she owned it—which, of course, was part of her plan. She whistled cavalierly as she looked around at the excessive countrified decorations, imagining the bonfire all that lace and pastel-painted wood would make. Nigel locked the front door behind them and stood with his back to it, again in “intimidating black guy” mode.

Peggy Goins came out of the stairwell that led to the second floor holding a bundle of towels. She froze when she saw the other woman.

“What do you want here, Bo-Kate? Planning to burn me down, too?”

“Is something on fire?” Bo-Kate asked innocently.

“You best get on the road,” Peggy said, putting the towels on the front counter. “'Bout the only thing that'll save you is to not be here when they come looking'.”

“When who comes looking? The First Daughters? The Silent Sons? Some other inane secret club? Maybe the Boy Scouts or the Brownies?”

“Get out, Miss Wisby,” Peggy said. She now stood defensively in front of the counter, feet apart and fists clenched.

“Peggy, I'll give you one last chance to make this civilized. Agree to sell me this place right now, and nobody important to you has to get hurt.”

Peggy made a sharp gesture with her right hand, followed by a complicated one with her left.

Bo-Kate laughed. “Good God, Peggy, you still believe in that nonsense? When you kicked me out, all that went with it. None of it has any effect on me anymore, if it ever did.”

“You'll get this place over my dead body, Bo-Kate,” Peggy snapped.

Bo-Kate shrugged. “That's not really a problem.”

“Stop,” a new voice said calmly.

They all turned. Mandalay Harris stood in the entrance to the caf
é
. She hadn't come through the front door where Nigel stood guard, or any of the other entrances behind Peggy. She'd simply appeared, in jeans and a heavy winter coat, her black hair peeking out from under a knit cap.

“Let's talk this all out,” the girl said, “before anyone else—”

Bo-Kate blinked in surprise, then reached in her purse, withdrew a small revolver, and fired at Mandalay from ten feet.

“Bo-Kate!” Nigel shouted just before the shot rang out.

Mandalay vanished. Peggy screamed.

The gunshot echoed in the room, and all three stared at the spot the girl had just occupied. The weapon in Bo-Kate's hand did not shake. “Fuck me,” she gasped, both astounded and delighted at her own impulsive act.

“Indeed,” Nigel said. He took the gun from her fingers. “Perhaps we should—”

Bo-Kate grabbed the gun back and pointed it at Peggy. Her voice giddy, she said, “Say you'll do it, Peggy. Or I'll shoot you, then—”

But in the few moments Bo-Kate had been distracted, Peggy grabbed her own weapon, a shotgun she kept behind the counter, and had it leveled at Bo-Kate. “I may not know your dyin' dirge, Bo-Kate Wisby, but I bet this buckshot does. You sing your song, I'll sing mine, and we'll see which one gets an encore.”

The smell of gunpowder lingered around them. Nigel leaned close and said, “I have to say, she has the upper hand. You might wound her, but her weapon will make an Italian mess of you. And possibly me, since I seem to be standing right beside you.

There was no amusement in Bo-Kate's face when she returned her gun to her purse. “All right, we'll call this one a draw, Peggy. But just remember, nothing you have it safe.”

“As long as you're around? Maybe we should fix that, then.”

Bo-Kate said nothing, just remained still until it was clear Peggy wouldn't shoot her in cold blood. Then she turned and walked out the front door. Nigel quickly followed.

Almost as soon as the door shut behind them, Mandalay said, “There's no reasoning with her, is there?”

Peggy looked over. Mandalay stood where she had before, in the doorway to the caf
é
. There was no sign of any injury from the gunshot. “No, there is not,” Peggy said, and propped her shotgun against the nearest wall. She lit a cigarette with trembling fingers. “That bitch needs to be put down.”

“You may be right. Hell, you
are
right. But who can do it? You just had the chance, and you couldn't.”

“It's Bronwyn's job.”

“Bronwyn's too pregnant right now.”

“Then Bliss?”

“Killing Bo-Kate isn't the answer, Peggy. How did she even come back? We have to know. Otherwise, if we ever sing anyone out again…”

“And how do we find that out?”

“Tell the First Daughters to meet here tonight, at midnight. And…”

She looked down. Peggy, mistaking the look for fear, said, “Lord a'mighty, Mandalay, are you crying?”

Mandalay looked up with a wry smile. “No, Peggy,” she said in that voice that rang with all the ages of the mountains around them. “I was actually about to laugh.”

“About what?”

“About the look I imagined on your face when I tell you to call the Silent Sons, too.”

Peggy fought to keep her expression neutral. “What can
they
do for us?”

“Not just for us, Peggy. For all the Tufa.”

*   *   *

Bo-Kate drove the SUV ferociously around curves, skidding as she did. They were headed back to the Wisby place, or at least that seemed to be the general direction to Nigel.

“You took a shot,” he said at last, “at a little girl.”

“Hell, what lives in that little girl is the oldest thing in these hills.”

“Perhaps. But I suspect that, had your shot found its mark, only the body of a little girl would've been found there.”

She glared at him. “Are you questioning me again, Nigel?”

He was glad she couldn't see his hands tremble. “I have to on this one, Bo-Kate. There are simply some lines in the world, and cold-blooded child murder is one of them.”

“Lines that you won't cross?”

“That I hoped you wouldn't, either. But no, I won't cross it.”

Suddenly the gun was in her hand, the barrel an inch from his face. “Then what the fuck use are you?”

Nigel licked his lips. “I'd like to think my charm has value.”

Bo-Kate's eyes flicked from the road back to him, and then she put the gun back down. She held up her own hand, which now trembled as much as his. “Goddamn, Nigel, that was a close one.”

“It certainly was.”

“That little girl you're so worried about isn't even human. She's … Fuck, I don't know
what
she is, really. I'm not sure anyone does, including her. But you saw her appear and disappear. Could a real human being do that?”

“You have a point.”

She let out a long sigh. “But you're right, I shouldn't have tried to shoot her. It was pointless, and I knew that. It's just that when I saw her, I…”

“Lost it?”

She chuckled. Her temper was notorious among the venue owners and band managers she worked with, but Nigel understood that it was mostly an act, a buffer to prevent real trouble later on. This was something different, though.

“So,” he said, hoping the storm had passed, “Where are we going now?”

“Back home. I found something in the woods the other night, and it's time to bring it out.”

I know dark clouds will gather round me

I know my way is rough and steep

Yet golden fields lie just before me

Where God's redeemed shall ever sleep

I'm going there to see my father

He said he'd meet me when I come

I'm only going over Jordan

I'm only going over home

Byron and Fiddlin' John looked up as the sin eater entered the clearing. “That didn't take long,” Byron said.

“Nope,” the sin eater agreed as he took his spot.

“You looked kinda peaked,” John observed.

“Must've been something I ate. What'd I miss?”

“'Bout three songs and four ounces,” Fiddlin' John said.

Eli grinned. He understood where he was, and was one of the few non-Tufas who were able to slip in and out of fairy time at will. He did notice that his thoughts got fuzzier the longer he stayed, which meant that whenever he came back, he noticed things he hadn't before.

And this time, he noticed Byron Harley. And remembered Mandalay's confusion. Now, he was confused as well. Who
was
this big guy?

“Come on, then, let's keep it a'goin',” Fiddlin' John said, and led them into another chorus of “Wayfaring Stranger.”

When they finished, Fiddlin' John held up his hand for silence. The only sound was the fire's crackling. Then the others heard it: a sobbing woman.

It grew louder, along with footsteps through the damp leaves. Byron stared into the darkness, and saw one shadow detach itself from the others and approach. As the firelight reached her, he saw that it was a young woman with red hair, without a coat or gloves, arms wrapped around herself against the cold. Her sobs had the weary, ragged quality of those that came after hours of crying.

Byron got to his feet and limped over to intercept her as she reached the clearing. “Hey, honey, you're okay now,” he said, and draped his jacket over her shoulders. “Sit down and join us.”

She put up no resistance as he guided her to the log and sat beside her. She was pretty, except for the way her eyes were swollen from crying.

“My name's Byron, honey. What's yours?”

“Stella,” she whimpered. “Stella Kizer.”

“Where're you from?”

“Michigan.”

“You do know you're in Tennessee, right?”

She nodded. “We were staying in Needsville. My husband and me.” At the mention of her husband, she began to sob anew.

Byron put one massive arm across her shoulders and drew her close. He had three sisters, so he knew how emotional women could get. “There, honey, it's all right. We'll get you back to him.”

She jumped up and wrenched away. “No! I can't go back. You don't know what I did, what I did to
him
!”

“Whatever you did,” the sin eater said in a calm and knowing voice, “it wasn't your fault.”

She choked out a sob that seemed to come from so deep inside her, it made them all ache in sympathy. “You
know
?”

“Yes, I do.” Eli recognized her as one of the normal people who occasionally ended up in slow time after a major emotional trauma. And he knew what had happened to her at the Pair-A-Dice with Stoney Hicks, back when the boy had been a magnet for women. “If you want, I can take you back.”

“No. I can't face my husband, not after … after what I did.” She shrugged Byron's jacket off her shoulders and ran off into the woods again before any of them could stop her. In moments, her footsteps and sobs were gone.

Byron turned to the others. “Fellas, my leg ain't up to chasin' her, but one of you two should—”

“Doesn't matter,” the sin eater said. “She's not going anywhere.”

“She's pretty much going down the mountain,” Byron said, annoyed. “And in the dark, without a coat, in the middle of winter. You keep telling me how dangerous it is—”

Eli reached for the jug. “Tell me something, Byron. You ever read ‘Rip Van Winkle'?”

“I ain't much of a reader.”

“Do you know the story?”

“He's someone who falls asleep for a long time, right?”

Eli nodded. “He met up with some supernatural folk, took a drink of some of their magic beer, and time stopped for him. It didn't for the outside world. That's what's happened to that girl.”

“That's plumb crazy,” Byron said, but something in the way Eli spoke made it sound plausible. And for the first time since he'd stumbled into the clearing, Byron felt the same rush of the fear and sorrow he'd felt up the mountain, at the site of the plane crash. He sat down, overwhelmed, and felt his eyes burn with tears.

“Here,” Eli said, passing the jug. “You look like a fella whose wife just left him, and his dog ain't doin' too well, either.”

Byron took a long swallow, luxuriating in the burn down his gullet and into his stomach. The emotions overwhelming him seemed to recede, leaving a kind of numbness that was different from simple drunkenness. But whatever it was, he was grateful for it. He passed the jug to Fiddlin' John and said, “You're being awful quiet.”