In a Dark Season (35 page)

Chapter 49

Down by the Riverside

Thursday, December 28

O
ver and over, Elizabeth replayed the ugly story as Tracy had told it.

“I was there in that bus, tied to that filthy bed all night. When they finally left, I guess I must have passed out. The next thing I knew, there was a blanket over me and that old drunk who lives there at the bridge was untying me. He said someone had told him I was there but he wouldn’t say who. Then he carried me back to his place and gave me some hot tea. He wanted to call the sheriff but I begged him to take me home to Nola.”

And Nola told Tracy not to report the rape.

“I showered and scrubbed till my skin was raw, trying to get all the traces of those animals off me. And then Nola told me to get dressed and come with her.

“She must have called ahead, because they were all there—Big Platt and his brother the retired high sheriff, Lavinia and Little Vance. All lined up waiting for us.”

Nola knew Tracy couldn’t prove anything—the girl hadn’t seen anything and Nola had let her wash away any evidence that might have proved a case. But she marched in there and extracted enough money to send Tracy to nursing school and to take care of Tracy’s mother all through her illness.

The western hills were aflame with the rose and gold of the setting sun. From Holcombe Hill it was easy to see the dying of the day and the shadows of advancing night, but Elizabeth turned her back on the lovely view and hurried up the broad steps. Repeated ringing of the doorbell at last brought a response in the form of a squat Latina.

“No estan aqui, nadie.
They all go out.” The woman shook her head and repeated,
“No estan aqui.”

“Did Nola Barrett come here today?
Una mujer…”
Elizabeth struggled to remember the word for “thin.”
“Una mujer flaca,
with hair…” Using her fingers as scissors, she mimed a very short hair cut and added, for good measure, “Hair
muy negro y muy blanco.
Very black and very white.”

A look of dawning comprehension grew on the dark face and the woman began to speak in rapid and, to Elizabeth, almost utterly unintelligible Spanish. She could make out only a few words:
la flaca loca—
the skinny crazy woman—and
al rio—
to the river.

The parking lot at the bridge was empty but for a nondescript midsized car, definitely not Nola’s. Elizabeth drove slowly across the bridge, wondering what she had expected to see.
“Rio” could mean anywhere—on any river. But I immediately assumed—

The flash of headlights off to the right caught her eye.
Someone’s down there in that field where that old abandoned bus is. Oh, shit, now what?

Once again she tried her cell. No joy. This area, here in the narrow gorge between two mountain ranges, was evidently the deadest of dead reception zones.

From the direction of the lights, she heard a high-pitched scream of despair.

Turning her car onto the overgrown dirt road, she could see in the rapidly forming frost the recent tracks of another vehicle. As the car bumped along the frozen ground, Elizabeth felt her body tense with cold and fear and adrenaline.
The scream. Was that Nola?

The red glow of taillight reflectors winked at her through desiccated weeds, and she saw the outlines of two cars, both facing the river. The farther one she recognized as Nola’s—the driver’s door was open and the headlights were on. The other car, incongruous in this setting, was a big new-looking sedan
a Cadillac or something,
gleaming palely amid the scrubby undergrowth.

Immediately she turned off her own lights and eased her car to a stop. There was no sign of anyone in either car. But down by the riverside she could see movement as dark figures swayed and flickered in the headlights’ beams. She switched off the ignition and quietly opened her door.

Moving cautiously through the dark, taking care to stay out of the fan of light cast by Nola’s little car, Elizabeth edged closer to the river. A large outcropping of several waist-high boulders lay between her and the river, and she moved silently toward them. The people at the river’s edge seemed completely unaware of her approach, blinded as they were by the car’s lights and deafened by the roar of the river, unusually high and swift with the added burden of recent snowmelt.

On a flat ledge of rock that extended out into the rushing river lay a group of rubber rafts, evidently awaiting moonrise and the River Runners’ planned moonlight trip. To one side of the rafts stood three fantastic figures, harshly illumined by the headlight beams. Nola,
it has to be Nola,
scarecrow-like in a voluminous black coat almost to her ankles, her piebald hair spiky in the wind, stood at the edge of the rock shelf, one hand gesticulating, her mouth moving in what must have been impassioned speech. Opposite her, a short broad figure swathed in a long pale quilted coat seemed to be equally aroused. The third figure, a man whom Elizabeth recognized as Lavinia’s son Vance, stood a little behind his mother, clearly fascinated by the shouting match in progress.

Crouching behind the big rocks, Elizabeth listened. Snatches of speech came to her, tattered and shredded by the wind that swept along the river’s gorge.
“…deserve to die…no one will believe…death of innocents…foul and rotten underneath…”
The accusations and recriminations whirred like bats through the night air.

Then Lavinia seemed to grow weary of the verbal battle. Gesturing to her son, she stepped back, like a tag-team partner bowing out. Obedient to his mother’s command, Vance edged across the slick rock toward the still-ranting scarecrow that was Nola Barrett and seized her by the shoulders.

Instantly one bony knee shot up to catch him in the crotch, and Little Vance Holcombe fell gasping and moaning to the ground.

At once, Big Lavinia was at her son’s side. Still keeping to the cloaking darkness, Elizabeth moved closer, in time to hear Big Lavinia bellow, “You bitch from hell, leave my baby alone!”

And now Nola was upon Lavinia, clawing at her face, dragging the big woman toward the water while shrieking in a banshee pitch, “Your baby? What about my granddaughter and
her
baby? What about the vile disease your son and his friends gave her—the disease that killed my precious Little Ricky?”

The two women swayed back and forth, locked together like lovers as they grappled at the water’s edge.

And then Lavinia toppled, bringing Nola down with her as the pair continued to exchange blows.

“Vance, help me!” Lavinia croaked through the blood that was streaming from her nose and soaking the silky fabric of her coat. Her fur hat had been pulled off and her once carefully coiffed hair hung in limp hanks about her raddled face. “Help me! Get her off me!”

Elizabeth started forward, but without warning, strong arms were around her and a hand clapped over her mouth. A husky voice whispered in her ear, “I don’t know who you are, but there’s no need for you to interrupt the fun.”

Painfully whimpering, Vance Holcombe was climbing to his feet as his mother continued to call for his help. Nola was up again, doggedly trying to pull Big Lavinia’s great mass toward the edge.

“Stop her, Vance! Try to be a man for once!” howled Lavinia, beating at her one-time friend.

“Why don’t you handle it, Mama, like you always handle things?” Vance was within reach of the two women now but strangely made no attempt to interfere.

Nola seemed oblivious to him, concentrating all her attention on the task of dragging a flailing, squirming Lavinia across the rock.

As Elizabeth struggled in the arms of her captor, she could not take her eyes from the scene being played out in the lurid illumination of the headlights.
Almost like slapstick comedy—but Nola’s face—it’s terrifying. I think she really must be crazy after all.

The bone-white cheeks, the glittering eyes, the manic strength—all confirmed it. Miss Nola Barrett was doing her best to roll her benefactor of so many years into the icy turbulence only inches away.

Suddenly, Little Vance shot forward. Catching Nola off balance, he pushed her between the shoulder blades, launching her off the rock and into the boiling current.

“Nola!” Elizabeth flailed and tried to cry out but the brutal hand over her mouth muffled the protest. Elizabeth watched in horror as her friend bobbed, arms waving, briefly buoyed up by air trapped beneath her long coat. Nola’s mouth opened in a silent scream. And then the current took her, sweeping her out of the narrow swath of light and downriver, into darkness.

Chapter 50

The Bravest Thing

Thursday, December 28

O
n the rock ledge, Little Vance crouched at his mother’s side. Lavinia, like an overturned turtle, was struggling to right herself. “Help me up, son, for pity’s sake!”

Little Vance stood and extended a hand to his mother. Then, before she could grasp it, he put one foot against her back and rolled her off the edge of the rock, into the swirling waters.

“Good-bye, Mama. It’s gonna sound so nice at your service, how you gave your life trying to rescue your old friend. Platt and I will both be proud.”

Lavinia’s face, surprise instantly succeeded by horror, stared up as she fought for purchase amid the rocks. One pudgy hand, diamonds flashing, clutched at the rock ledge.

Slowly, deliberately, Vance stepped on the trembling fingers. Again and again, until they released their hold on the ledge and slid away.

“You’re full of surprises, Vance,” Elizabeth’s captor spoke, his words close to her ear as he trundled her, helpless in his pitiless grasp, out onto the ledge of rock. “So am I. Look what I have.”

Vance turned a cold eye on them. “It’s that woman who was with Spinner’s sister. She’ll have to go too.” In the glare of the headlights his face was a nightmare mask, void of any emotion.

“Let’s put her in one of these.” The voice at her ear was amused and she was swung around to face the stack of waiting rubber rafts. “A nice touch, don’t you think? This one and Miss Lavinia both drowning while trying to save poor crazy Miss Nola.”

There was an arm around her neck now, cutting off her air, choking her. With her one free hand Elizabeth reached behind her, scratching, gouging. Long hair brushed her fingers and she grasped at it, clutching a few strands and yanking with all her might. There was a pained yelp and the pressure around her neck increased. Her last thoughts were of the hangman’s noose.

A white Cadillac emerging from the dirt road along the river was an unexpected sight.

Phillip nudged the sheriff, who looked up from his notes. The ME had concluded her work and the remains had been removed from the old outhouse site. Phillip and Mackenzie Blaine were at the foot of the drive up to the old house, preparing to return to Phillip’s car and call it a day—a long day.

“Why’d anyone want to take a big Caddy off road?”

“Probably kids, got Pop’s car and going gallivantin’,” was Blaine’s disinterested answer.

The big car lurched onto the pavement and started up the road toward Dewell Hill. As its headlights swept across the sheriff’s cruiser, it stopped abruptly, rocking with the impact of the brakes. The front doors flew open and two men leapt out and ran toward them.

“Sheriff Blaine, we just tried to put in a call for you but the reception—”

“What’s the problem?”

“Oh, god! My mama…in the river! She’s gone!”

Between gasping sobs, Little Vance explained, his friend supporting him with a sympathetic arm. “Miss Nola showed up at our house this afternoon. She was talking crazy and then she ran out and took off in her car. My mama was worried about her, so Hollis and I followed after Miss Nola. And Mama just had to come too. You know how close she and Miss Nola always were. Mama did everything for her.”

Holcombe’s face was white and his voice was unsteady but he continued on. “We followed her along that old road down there, honking and trying to get her to stop, but in her little car, she could go faster. When we caught up, Miss Nola had left her car and was standing at the edge of a big rock. Mama jumped out of the car and ran there and tried to reason with Miss Nola.” Little Vance shook his head. “I can’t—”

“Let me, Vance.”

Phillip studied the second man.
He must have gotten into some briars, the way his face is all scratched. They both look done in.

Hollis Noonan picked up the story. “The two ladies were on this big rock that stuck out into the river and it looked like they were hugging each other. Vance and I relaxed and thought it was all over and then either Miss Nola slipped off or jumped and Miss Lavinia went in too and then, out of nowhere, comes this woman with a long braid. She’s yelling for Nola and when she sees her in the water, she grabs one of these little rafts that were there, pulled it to the water, climbed in and started off after them. Bravest thing I ever saw—and the stupidest. We yelled at her to paddle for shore while she could stop, but she was out of sight in no time. Of course there’s not a chance in hell she’ll get to them. Not sure how much chance she has either, if she makes it as far as Sill’s Slough.”

Her face was in the water and some of the water was in her nose. It was very, very cold. She seemed to be spinning in bitter, wet darkness.

Coughing and sneezing, Elizabeth tried to sit up, only to be flung down by a violent twist.

Where am I?

Her throat hurt and her head was aching. One of her hands was clenched in a fist, clenched so hard that it felt impossible to open. With the other hand, cold but still functioning, she explored her surroundings: an undulating rubbery floor, awash in several inches of icy water, a balloon-like wall, a saggy length of nylon rope.

A raft. I’m in a bloody river raft!

She was being borne along the raging white water, spinning like a pinball between treacherous rocks. Black trees loomed on either side of the dark river, but the sky overhead seemed to be growing lighter. Drenched and gasping, she clung to the wall of the raft, inwardly noting that it seemed much softer than it should, almost unpleasantly squishy.

Oh, my god. It’s losing air.

A silver quarter-moon peeked above the trees on the right bank. As it crept higher, shedding cold light on her and the river, she saw, sliding back and forth in the water covering the floor of the raft, a paddle
…a blessed, blessed paddle. Now I have a chance—if I can get my other hand to work.

The raft swirled and bucked in the rushing currents and Elizabeth, keeping low and bracing herself against the raft’s side, tried to focus on her frozen hand, prying the cramped fingers open one by one. As the fingers reluctantly uncurled, she felt a wisp of hair plastered against her palm and, instantly, memory flooded back: Nola…Big Lavinia…and the other two.

With the hairs
so few…but enough,
pressed hard between her thumb and forefinger, Elizabeth unzipped her jacket pocket and slowly, tediously, precisely, scraped the strands into the wet interior and pulled the zipper shut.

Gotcha, you bastard! Gotcha!

With grim determination she reached for the paddle.