Cooter says, “Well, right before Georgie died, that was about the time Buster'd begun to talk about throwin' his hat into the ring.”
Clever and me give him our
huh?
look.
“Throwin' your hat in the ring is another way of sayin' ya want to get involved in politics,” Cooter explains. “And when ya do that, ya gotta make folks want to vote for ya by makin' sure that you're lily white.”
I say, “Everyone already knows that ya gotta be white to be governor.”
“Lily whiteâit don't mean white on the outside, like your skin. It means you gotta be clean. Without a bad mark in your morals,” Cooter says, warming up to the subject. “You cain't have nuthin' goin' on with you or your family that folks might consider not right. Like rumors goin' round about breedin' up your own sister? That might not go down so smooth with the upstandin' voters.”
For the millionth time, I am left simply breathless by what I don't know.
“So what you're sayin' is, ya think Mr. Buster drowned Georgie so he could get some more lily white votes 'cause he was desirin' to get elected for something?” I ask.
“That's 'zactly what I'm sayin',” Cooter says. “Once Georgie was dead, Buster had himself what ya call an out-a-sight-out-a-mind situation.”
This is the most bastardly idea I have ever heard!
Bringing his plate up to his mouth, Cooter licks the last of the beans off. “And then everything just fell into place even betterfor Buster when Miss Lydia developed, ya know, mental area problems. That way nuthin' she said about her havin' her own brother's chil' would be held up like truth.”
I guess Cooter feels about Miss Lydia same as Grampa and, truth be told, a lot of the other folks in Cray Ridge. Miss Lydia's gifted ways frighten them so they say she's got problems in her mental area and tap their temples. I'm used to that. I even understand it. Miss Lydia has taught me that people are always ascared by what they don't understand.
“Oh, Mama . . . ,” Clever wails, balling up again.
I lean behind her back and whisper to Billy, “Seems like they're comin' faster now. Ya sure we shouldn't take her to the hospital?”
“We can't do that. The sheriff knows she's 'bout to have a baby. The posse might be watchin' for us. They could come down on us. Take Cooter back to jail. Or worse.”
Thoughtfully, he left out the part where they would take me away, too. Not hang me, I don't think, but I wouldn't put
anything
past the sheriff at this point. He's already ticked off at me for breaking Cooter out of his jail and stealing back my pictures of dead Mr. Buster. And he's probably gonna blame me for pulling that stunt on the road when he got knocked out with that limestone rock. (Getting outsmarted by an imbecile who's dumb as anthracite coal ain't exactly a boost to your manhood, is it now?)
Wiping off the beads of sweat that keep popping up on Billy's forehead, I ask, “You feelin' all right?”
“I'm fine,” he says, looking up at me, but then turnin' his attention back to his watch. Not fast enough. I saw his lyin' eyes. Mr. Howard Redmond in his chapter entitled
Determining the Guilty Party
explains that one of the things guilty people do, besideslie and fidget, is they perspire a lot. Though my man is well-muscled, he is quite sensitive, so earlier this evening I thought it might be all the sad reminiscing about his old pal Georgie that was makin' Billy damp. Or the Brandish Boys comin' for us, that'd make an ice cube sweat. But I was mistaken. He definitely had the
means.
True, I have no idea what his
motive
might be for murdering Mr. Buster, but he certainly had the
opportunity.
He's always prowling around, sight unseen. I also understand now why he was the only one believed me right off about finding Mr. Buster dead on Browntown Beach.
Oh, my sweet, sweet Billy. What have ya gone and done?
Sunup
At first light, Billy shakes me awake. I only drifted off for a bit, worryin' like I was about Clever, who spent the whole night groaning, moaning, wishing for her mama to magically appear with a heart full of caring. And my guilty Billy, I fretted about him, too. A whole heap. “Gib, get up,” he says, tense.
Groping for the .22, I ask, “Is it the Boys? Have they come for us?”
“It's Clever. She's burnin' up with fever.”
I glance over at the two of them entwined near the back of the cave, the coolest part. Clever's face looks like it might burst into flames. Cooter is dabbing the sheen off her with his kerchief.
“Gotta get her to the hospital,” Billy says, reaching for his boots.
“But they'll get us. Just like you said, they'll have the hospital staked out.”
“I know what I told ya, but I gave this all some thought through the night. The truth is,” he says, “they're not really coming for Clever. Or me.”
Not yet anyway. But once Cooter is let off from murdering Mr. Buster, they WILL be coming after you, my honey bunch. Somebody's bound to notice how Mr. Buster's neck was about twisted off. Somebody will remember your Oriental neck choppers. And how your army knife could do a fine job making those four holes in his chest. Like I said, I don't know why he murdered Mr. Buster, but knowing how Billy feels about killing people in general, he musta had a damn good reason. (And you, my dear friend, knowing me the way you do by now? You gotta know that I CANNOT let the law cart off my man. I just got him back. No. He and me will head to the border. We'll send for Clever and Cooter and Rosie once we get settled in the rolling hills of Bolivia.)
“I want you and Cooter to stay put. I'm gonna ride Clever back to the cottage and call my daddy. He can take us to the hospital, ” Billy says, taking charge. “I've got the pictures of Buster dead on the beach and I'll also make sure he gets them into the hands of Judge Larson. Once the judge sees those snapshots, he'll know the sheriff is up to no good and he'll call off the hunt.”
Judge Larson is older than Cumberland Mountain, but has always been fair. He's a checkers-playing friend of Grampa's.
“Wait a minute. Isn't your daddy gone? Flyin' Grampa to Texas for his operation?”
“He'll be back by now,” Billy says, pulling on his other boot. “That don' take that long.”
I think on it all for a minute. “So the plan is you're gonna take Clever to the cottage and call your daddy, who'll take her to the hospital and make sure Judge Larson sees those pictures of Buster on the beach, and ya want Cooter and me to stay here until the coast is clear?”
“That's good rememberin',” Billy says, admiringly.
I say thank you with a kiss on his cheek. Keeper does the same.
Billy lifts his powerful Vietnam binoculars out of his pack and hands them to me. “Once we head down the trail, get outside the cave behind the rock, and if you see the posse comin' . . . we sh . . . sh . . . should go while it's still a little dddark.”
I press against his chest. “Don't get all worked up now, ya hear? Cooter and me'll be just fine. We'll meet up with ya at the hospital later.”
“Butch?” Clever calls weakly.
Billy says, “I'll leave the rifle.”
“Butch?”
“I'm comin', Kid.” Getting to where's she balled up in the corner, I can feel the heat roiling when I kneel down next to her. See her eyes darting, trying to flee the pain. “Hey, you.”
“Is this what birthin's s'posed to feel like?” she asks with cracked lips.
“Ya just got a little fever, is all. Remember that time you got the Scarlett and I had to pack you in frozen peas? This is just like that,” I say, smoothing her hair off her face. “Don't ya worry none. Billy's gonna ride ya back to the cottage and call his daddy and he'll come in that beautiful Cadillac a his and drive ya to the hospital. Miz Tay Lewis, you know her, you like her, she did good nursin' of Grampa and she'll give you some nice medicine, too. Everything's gonna be fine. You'll see.”
Clever, latching on to my wrist, whispers, “But sidekicks . . . sidekicks don't
ever
leave the other one in a bad situation.”
My heart gets awfully snarled having to look at my wild child like this. Her ascared so out in the open. “I got your back. I promise.”
Cooter kisses each finger on her floury white hand, lifts her gently into his arms. “We haveta get you and the baby safe.”
“But . . . but . . .” Clever struggles, so worn and warm. “They's comin' for ya.”
Cooter lets loose with a laugh that echoes off the cave walls. “Ya think me and Gib can't take care of those Brandish Boys? Lordy, ugly as they is, they's not bulletproof,” he says, setting her softly onto the saddle.
Billy swings up behind her, gathers the reins. “Just in case, don't ffforget the bbback way out,” he says, pressing his leg against the horse's side. “I already tttied the animals up there for ya.”
Cooter and I follow them outta the cave. Whatever coolness the rain brought, it's evaporating along with the night. Steamy clouds are rising off the treetops. “They're gonna be all right,” I tell Cooter as we watch them head down the trail that'll end close to the cottage. “Billy'll take care of her. Them.”
Cooter, on the brink, says, “I feel so helpless.”
Being better acquainted with that feeling than most, I know nothing I can say to him will make him feel better, but a hand on the shoulder can be steadying. We watch quiet together 'til Clever and Billy are almost outta sight of the naked eye and Cooter swallows hard and points off to my right, asking, “What's that moving around over there in those thin trees?”
I lift the binoculars up to my eyes, adjust the wheel.
“It's
them
, ain't it?” he says, panic coming into his voice.
Cooter can't perceive that this is far worse than he knows, 'cause he's not looking through the glasses. But I can see that our true loves are riding too near the posse, who're coming toward the cave on that parallel trail. Looks like only yards away. If Clever gives out a birthing shriek, the Boys'll be on 'em like wolves on sick calves. And I don't care what Billy says, I know the sheriff. Even though he's not chasing after the two of them, he'll make them suffer if he catches them.
Backing up, tripping, Cooter says, “We gotta get.”
“Not quite yet,” I say, lifting the .22 out from my back. Mr. Howard Redmond in his excellent
Creating Diversions
chapter states:
There will be times when an operative may be forced to draw the attention off of himself/herself/others by creating what is known as a diversion.
“Ya gonna shoot one of 'em?” he asks. “Ya better use the rifle.” He limps back over to Billy's bedroll and slides the gun out with a sharp snap. I don't really need something this powerful for what I'm intending to do, but the rifle feels like home in my hands. It's the kind Grampa taught me on. A Remington. “Aim at that one with the big ears, wing 'em maybe,” Cooter coaches as I wedge the 600 into my shoulder.
I reconsider for a moment. That'd be a twofer, all rightâ warning Billy AND giving us more time to skedaddle. But you know how pissed off animals can get when they're wounded?
Through the scope, I can see their black lathered horses down to the nose hairs as I squeeze the trigger back easy, aiming at the treetops.
“Ya missed. Go lower and to the left,” Cooter gasps, running his hand down his endangered neck.
No matter how
NQR
I am, my Billy knows I wouldn't be drawing attention unless it was a matter of EXTREME emergency. Like if the enemy was bearing down on him. So he's doing just what I hoped he'd do. Veering off the trail he's on over to another one that lets out at the edge of town. Being accustomed to making quick decisions in the field of battle, my Billy's made his mind up to take Clever straight to the hospital himself. Atta boy.
Of course, the diversion shot got
their
attention, too. The sheriff's pointing our way, waving to Deputy Jimmy Lee Boyd, who's riding in front of him. The Boys are in the lead.
Peering through the scope again, I can see that the one Brandishânot the one that's got only holes for a nose, the other one with the oozing skin cratersâhe's tall in his stirrups and has his rifle up, too. We got a bead on each other. Until he slowly, slowly lowers his gun. Grins with his gums. Run, he mouths. Run.
Land of a Hundred Wonders
The Importance of Perception in Meticulous Investigation: Following Directions:
Paying close attention to directions given by others is important if an operative wishes to keep his relationships running smoothly.
So me and Cooter and Keeper are doing just what Mr. Redmond AND the oozing Brandish Boy directed. We're running. Smoothly as this overgrown back trail will allow, anyways. We'll follow it past Miss Lydia's, where it hairpins back to town. If all goes as planned, me and Cooter should show up at St. Mary's Hospital just in time to sing, “Happy birthday to you, dear Rosie Adelaide.”
Riding single file down the hill, then beneath this canopy of trees that welcomes you to the beginning of it all, I can't help but perceive that there's something different about this light. It's not falling in a careless way across the branch tips and creek water. No. The light here is humble, like it's worshipping. Can't blame it really.
Land of a Hundred Wonders Cemetery is surrounded by an iron-wrought fence with spear-point tops and a sign green with age. Especially during summer evenings, there's almost always somebody doing rubbings here since we got some well-known graves, like the one belonging to Benis M. Frank. Born 1801, died 1801, a baby grave. Two stones down from Benis is where Miss Lydia does her nightly CRYING UPON, which is a sharing communionthat the living can do with the dead. Laying her body down on top of her dead boy's mound, she weeps and weeps until the grass beneath is moist with her missing. I also perform CRYING UPON with her some nights. The two of us together, me holding her burned-up hand in mine, we get down on my mama's grave and that makes me feel so regretful.
I've let you down, Mama. I know now that I shoulda chose entering that public Scrabble tournament they hold on the first Sunday of every month over in Appleville to impress you with my
Q
uite
R
ightness instead of the writing an awfully good story plan. Near as I can remember, you were fond of Billy. Ya don't expect me to report to the whole town that he's the one murdered Mr. Buster, do ya?