Dead Willow (9 page)

“Pembry?”

Patrick grinned sheepishly. “What can I say? They churn good ice cream.”

“You jumped ship for a scoop of fudge ripple?” she chided him.

“I’m a weak man.” He walked her to the door and held it for her like a gentleman. When the door opened, her world changed.

She was like the cartoon dog, floating above the ground, pulled along by the scent of a dog bone. Her dog bone was chocolate fudge, and the heavenly aroma had her by the nostrils.

Jess maneuvered passed the half dozen sets of round wood tables with rough wood chairs, dragging Patrick behind her. She ignored the wall plastered with framed Civil War photographs and other antique leftovers from a by-gone era, until they both stood before a long wooden display case spanning nearly the full width of the shop.

The front and top of the case was glass, allowing them a full view of the goodies that lay within. Bins full of rock candy, taffy and caramels wrapped in small squares of waxed paper, tall glass jars of licorice ropes, twisted bows of sourdough pretzels and more filled the case from one end to the other.

Behind the case was the fudge.

A slender man with salt and pepper hair and a plump woman with rosy cheeks, both wearing white aprons over their costumes, stood on either side of a massive oak table. They were armed with large wooden spatulas that looked a bit like boat oars, and they took turns scooping up the soft fudge and folding it gently over and over. It was a long, slow, rhythmic process that would take hours, and it would be worth it.

Patrick had let go of her hand and she hadn’t even noticed. Jess’ taste buds were doing a tap dance on her tongue, which wanted to lick the fudge directly from the table. If the display case hadn’t been between them, she probably would have.

Jess had her hands pressed up against the glass case like a kid on a Saturday morning. She looked into the case at the shelf full of fudge strips wrapped in wax paper and wondered how many of them she could get in her mouth at one time.

She turned toward Patrick, who was standing back, watching her delight, and giving her a grin that spoke volumes. She just wasn’t sure what it was saying. Then, he reached up and took hold of a string tied to a small bell hanging over the counter and gave it a tug. The ringing got the attention of the old man, who turned around to greet his customers. He set down his spatula and walked to the back of the case, wiping his hands on his apron.

“Morning,” he said amiably. “We’re not quite open yet, but I suppose we could help out two early birds.”

“Much appreciated,” said Patrick graciously. “If it’s not too much trouble, maybe we could get a couple of bowls of vanilla ice cream with some of that fudge syrup?”

“Coming right up!” The man stepped to the end of the case and got to work. He pulled two bowls off the shelf, grabbed a scoop and thrust it into a small wooden barrel of yellow ice cream surrounded by blocks of slowly melting ice.

Jess didn’t see Patrick watching her watching the man with the ice cream scoop. As she peered at him through the glass case, she could feel herself slipping through her own crack in reality. She now understood the method to Patrick’s madness, and she couldn’t help feeling a little disappointed.

This was not a date. This was an introduction.

Josiah Pembry was serving them ice cream.

Annabel slammed her back against the corner of the cinder block wall hard enough to crack ribs. All the air rushed from her battered lungs in a single gasp. Before she could draw it back in, the palm of a rough hand slapped white pain through the side of her face. She crumpled into a heap and gulped as much air as she could from the cool concrete floor.

She could feel him standing over her, legs spread, hands clenched into rocks at his sides. His rage was a palpable thing, and all the more surprising as only moments ago, he had been his normal, genial Paul.

Paul Greggson had been Annabel’s foreman at
Morgan Farms
produce wholesalers for as long as she could remember. They had come up through the ranks together, from harvesters to warehouse and delivery, and Annabel had been sure of one thing; Paul would never lift a hand to swat a mosquito. He was such a gentle teddy bear that she had forgotten all about the claws.

From the corner of her eye she saw the toe of his boot headed for her side. She lifted her stomach slightly and caught the kick higher up, his ankle connecting with her awkwardly. She blew out another lung full of air. That would leave a deep bruise, but it was better than a boot tip through the ribs.

Annabel locked her arm around the back of his ankle and rolled into him, trapping his leg under the weight of her torso. He toppled backward and went down, flailing uselessly like an upended turtle. She almost felt sorry for him; he was so gentle that he had never learned how to fight.

“This isn’t you, Paul,” she said breathlessly, jumping up and straddling his chest with all of her weight. “It’s the memories, you know that!”

He strained against her, but she rode him like a champion bull rider. She knew Paul was in no condition to push her off. Ever since he had become the warehouse foreman, the most he pushed now was some paperwork. That’s what had made the assault such a surprise. If she had seen him coming, it never would have gotten this far.

“What do you know of it?” He spat the words at her. “You fuckin’ niggers think you’re just as good as us! They’re gonna stretch that goddamn black neck of yours for what you done to me!”

Annabel couldn’t believe that Paul even knew that word. But his eyes burned red and his body bucked like a wild animal beneath her, and all she could do was ride him until it passed.

They were told that the attacks were rare, and that they need not be concerned. They were told that a clan representative would be with them shortly, and they always were. Annabel often wondered how they knew, but, of course, she kept those thoughts to herself.

They all knew what it was. It was the memories, the memories that were theirs but not theirs. The flashes of a face in the mirror, a face that was their face, a face that they had not seen before. The memories and the feelings.

Paul’s breathing began to quiet and his tremors slowed to a simmer. Annabel laid a hand on his chest and worried for her friend. He had better goddamn well get through this, she swore. If he couldn’t get a hold of himself, then the clan would get hold of him, and that was never a good thing. Better he go back to the tree than let the clan get him.

“Annie?” His voice was as thin as smoke.

“Hey, baby, how you doin’?” she whispered calmly, running a hand gently over his forehead.

His frightened eyes darted around, taking in their surroundings, then settled on Annabel. His lip quivered like a lost child as his eyes welled up with tears.

“Did … I … ?” He struggled with the question and Annabel thought that maybe he didn’t really want to hear the answer.

“You’re okay, baby,” she assured him soothingly, patting his chest. “You just slipped and fell, that’s all.”

But she knew that he knew. Right now the rumors were running around inside his head, stories they had all heard of friends and neighbors who had gotten the memories and couldn’t get rid of them. Everyone knew where they went, how they disappeared quietly while the town slept. When they came back later, they were … different.

Annabel didn't want her friend to be different.

“Come on, baby,” she prodded, pulling him to his feet. “You need to get up. We just need to get some coffee in you and you’ll be fine.”

Paul struggled to his feet, Annabel getting her shoulder under his. He seemed dazed, the way she imagined a person might look after drinking alcohol. His eyes jerked in their sockets, unable to settle on any one thing for long. Then, they fell on Annabel, and he began to frantically search for some sign that he had …

“I’m fine, sweetie,” she told him.

Annabel flipped up a chair that had been overturned in the struggle and helped him into it. Then, she placed her hands on the sides of his face and made sure their eyes met.

“You don’t need to worry about me. You need to worry about what comes next.”

Paul seemed to understand and took several deep breaths. He ran his fingers through his hair and looked over his disheveled appearance. Annabel went over to the break area and poured some coffee into his mug. She brought it to him and placed it in his hands.

“Drink,” she ordered, and then she began to tidy up.

The lunch room looked like a cyclone had touched down, flipping over tables and knocking lockers to the floor. She took hold of the end of one locker and tilted it up until it fell back against the wall. She started on another one when he spoke again.

“I hurt you.”

She stopped, the locker halfway up. “I’m fine. It’s just a little bruising. Forget it.”

“I meant before.”

Annabel let the locker slam back into the wall. Then, she leaned against it with both hands. She didn’t look at him; he probable wouldn’t want that.

“You don’t know nothin’ about before,” she said firmly. “All you know about is now. So finish drinking your coffee.”

She stepped to the next locker, but he wasn’t finished.

“Those things I did to you - ”

She let the locker drop back to the floor with a
bang
and turned to face him.

“Look, I don’t know about ‘those things’ you did to me, and I don’t want to know! It probably wasn’t you anyway! We both know how this works!”

“But they were my hands!”

He held his hands in front of him, staring at them like they were wretched things. That sent a tingle up the back of her neck. Paul’s eyes were pleading with her … but pleading for what? Forgiveness? Forgiveness for something that Paul says happened? Annabel had her own memories of before, but this wasn’t one of them, and she had no intention of adding it to the list.

She decided to get firm with him. “Your clan is going to be here any minute and it looks like Morgan and his troops marched through here! Now I can’t do this by myself, so get up off of your sniveling ass and help me!”

Annabel glared holes into him until he finally started to move. He nodded his head stiffly and started to look around the room as if he really saw it. She took the mug of warm coffee from him and waited while he rose on his own two feet. Then, she temporarily took the role of foreman.

“You can start by hanging that bulletin board back up.” Annabel turned away before he could say anything else, and walked the coffee mug back to the break table.

It was going to be a long goddamn day, she thought.

They didn’t pull up in a black SUV, or a Hummer, or even a Crown Victoria. They didn’t wear black suits and black ties and black sunglasses. There were no earpieces coiling down the backs of their necks and no microphones in their sleeves.

They wore tan shirts and brown pants and large wool coats. They were big and well-muscled, and like their Washington counterparts, they had no sense of humor.

They were the Paladin’s own backwoods version of the Secret Service, and they were in the break room at
Morgan Farms
.

Colonel Davis’ men searched every room like they were thinking of buying the place. One lingered by the break room door, his eyes never leaving Paul Greggson. Annabel was afraid that if Paul twitched, he might find three-hundred pounds of Paladin in his face before he could blink twice.

There was a tingle of energy about the bunch, as if they were waiting for something to happen. When the others had completed their sweep of the warehouse, one of them stuck his head through the door and mumbled something unintelligible to their giant brown babysitter, who nodded solemnly. A moment later, in strode Colonel William Morgan Davis.

Davis glanced about the room, then his eyes lit on Paul Greggson. Annabel watched the color drain from Paul’s face, and she willed him to hold it together for just a little longer.

Colonel Davis was one of those for whom intimidation was a virtue. When you stood before him, you immediately began to assume you had done something wrong. Paul’s upper lip began to sparkle with perspiration, and he wiped a hand across his mouth nervously. He already looked guilty and the questions had not yet begun.

Davis stroked his bushy black beard as he stepped closer to Paul. He stopped two feet away and stood ramrod straight, his hands clasped behind his back. This did not put Paul at ease.

“Seems we’ve had a spot of trouble,” he remarked, in a voice that could have called a court to order.

Paul opted to lie. “No, sir, not really. Just a flash … or two.”

“Hmm … ” Colonel Davis looked down at the floor around them. Annabel hoped she had cleaned up all the broken bits of wood from the smashed chair. Then, Davis turned his gaze on Annabel.

“And what about you, Miss Jeffers? Would you agree that it was only a flash?”

Annabel was astonished that he even knew her name, much less that he would invite her testimony. She hoped this would bode well for her friend.

“Yes, sir … it seemed to … come and go very quickly.”

Davis eyed her dubiously. “I see. Then, when did you realize that Mr. Greggson was experiencing … a flash?”

When he broke a chair across my back, she thought. But that was not the answer she chose.

“He seemed to kind of … blank out for a moment.”

Annabel spoke the lie as evenly as she could, but it was her hand that betrayed them both. At the thought of Paul’s assault, her hand had gone to her bruised side of its own accord. It was a tell that could not be missed. Colonel Davis walked slowly to her and spoke softly in her ear.

“Miss Jeffers … I am going to have to ask that you unbutton your blouse.”

Annabel couldn’t believe what he was asking, but one look in his eyes removed all doubt. She looked around the room at the unmerciful faces and a knot grew in the pit of her stomach. Paul stood straining to maintain his brave facade, unaware that she was about to bring it crashing down around him. She resolved not to look at him as she betrayed him, and she turned away.

Her eyes glistening with tears, Annabel brought her shaky hands to the top button of her pale blue blouse and began to undo them. As each button fell away, more bruises and scratches were revealed, culminating in a dark purple blotch the size of a fist. Annabel looked away as Davis examined her side. Then, he pulled the two halves of her blouse together and looked away, as if the whole affair had made him feel … ashamed.

“You may cover yourself, Miss,” he said respectfully. “And … apologies.”

“It wasn’t him,” she argued, pleading with Davis in a whisper. “You know it wasn’t.”

He looked at Annabel the way a kindly grandfather would as he was about to impart some wisdom. Had there been gray in his beard, the affect would have been complete.

“Sadly, Miss, … it really was.”

Paul had watched them with keen interest. He might not have heard the exchange, but their actions were unmistakable. When Colonel Davis turned to face him, he crumbled a little in his spot. Two Paladin were at his elbows before he could hit the floor. They held him firmly as the Colonel approached.

“They are still in there, yes?” Davis pointed a calloused finger at Paul’s head. “The images you see, the feelings? They are in there because they were always there. You cannot run from what you are.”

“But, I’m not!” Paul strained against the Paladin enforcers. He looked at Annabel, eyes begging. “Tell them, Annie! Tell them who I am.”

Annabel felt herself drawn to him, but her feet never moved. It was useless, she knew that. Even the words she had said to Davis were cause for a visit to the council. This was clan business, and this was not her clan.

That’s why the first outburst had been whispered into Davis’ ear. It was an actionable offense, and if the Colonel ever spoke of it, then she could end up following Paul into whatever oblivion was awaiting him.

Annabel felt a tear roll down her cheek and she quickly brushed it away. Wouldn’t do to be seen challenging another clan’s jurisdiction. That was the line you never crossed.

Paul saw the tears in Annabel’s eyes and turned away. She was already thinking of him in the past tense and it was all over her face. Couldn’t blame him for not wanting to see it. She also couldn’t blame him for what happened next.

The Paladin led Paul to the door, and, if the rumors were to be believed, to a place from which he would never return. Paul couldn’t resist getting in the last word.