Mad Cow Nightmare (32 page)

“If.”

“All right, if. Though I’d say ‘when.’ She’s managed to elude the police so far. It’s”—she looked at the kitchen clock—”eight-thirty. Tormey’s probably breakfasting in the Branbury Inn. We need to keep him there. She’ll come here first, and we can reason with her, let her talk to Keeley. Keep a lid on things until—”

He was looking at her, his eyes probing. “Until what?” his lips said.

She couldn’t answer that. She went to the phone, asked the inn for Tormey Leary. She waited. Listened. Then hung up, sighed heavily.

“He’s not there,” Colm said, and she nodded.

Chapter Twenty-three

Nola wanted to pay the janitor for his time and trouble but could only turn out her empty pockets. He shrugged and got back on his motorbike. It had broken down en route, delaying the already long, back road journey for another several hours, and he would have to get to a garage. They were in Crown Point, in a parking lot beside the old revolutionary fort. He would have driven her over the bridge, but it was getting dark and she didn’t want him to go any farther. Besides, they were not far from Branbury, and the police might be on the lookout for a man and woman on a motorbike. She didn’t know whether the priest had seen them leave, but even if not, he would have figured it out from the way the man had gazed at Nola. Once during the breakdown period, when they’d decided to catch a few hours’ sleep in an abandoned barn, she’d had to discourage his attentions. But admonished, he’d kept to himself, and all she could do in the end was thank him.

She put her hands in the pockets of the thin jacket he’d lent her. It was hot on her sweaty back, but with daylight, she was grateful for the hood that hid half her face and hair. When she pulled out her hands she drew out a five-dollar bill. It hadn’t been there before, she knew, and she waved her arms at the motorbike that was already around the bend, stirring up dust and fumes. There was no response, and in minutes he was out of sight.

She trudged over the Champlain bridge behind an elderly man and his grandson, keeping close so they’d look a family. Once the boy turned around but she smiled, and the boy turned quickly back and walked on, swaggering a little. On the Vermont side of the lake she skirted the Chimney Point Museum and kept to the edge of Route 125 that would lead her across Route 22A, she recalled, and then over to Branbury and Cow Hill Road. It was fifteen miles, according to a sign—that could take her five or six hours if she kept up a steady pace. Though she couldn’t, could she, when she had to duck into the bushes every time a car came by? Already there had been a dozen cars.

Even when she got to Branbury, she didn’t know what she was going to do. Go at once to the trailer, she supposed—she couldn’t risk The Willmarth and her policeman friend. She wasn’t sure about Darren, either. He and Ritchie never got along, she knew, but blood was blood and she couldn’t take a chance.

She’d have to see Maggie. Maggie would know what to do, how to get Keeley away from Tormey Leary.

For she didn’t want to see Tormey. She didn’t know what she’d do—face-to-face with him. The hate was too thick. The hate would blind her.

But what did it matter now? She was already a criminal, a fugitive. All that really mattered was Keeley. And the only hope for Keeley was Maggie. Maggie would have to care for the boy, get him away from his father, keep him safe till he reached majority. This was Nola’s plan now, she couldn’t see beyond it. Maggie must be persuaded to take Keeley. Maybe Darren would agree. For Keeley and Darren had blood ties, too.

The thought of seeing Keeley and Maggie kept her going even though her body was flagging, her breath coming harder in the hot sunlight, her head throbbing at the thought of returning to the farm where she might see the hated uncle. And if he was there, if he did have Keeley in thrall—she might have to kill him.

Kill him. Would that be so hard to do?

No, not if he didn’t kill her first.

* * * *

Keeley was staying in the new trailer. Maggie insisted on it, and the boy seemed relieved to be invited. This trailer was bigger than the old one, and The Willmarth had offered a futon for his bed. Maggie was laying a sheet on it now—it was still too hot for a blanket; all the boy needed was a sheet over him, and a pillow. For that she used a sofa pillow that Boadie had embroidered a pink pig on—Keeley smiled at that. The Willmarth said he could use her son’s room, but the kid was coming home soon and Keeley’s visit might be permanent.

Maggie didn’t know why she used that word, “permanent”—it was just a hunch of hers. The boy was Tormey Leary’s son, according to the old letter from the midwife in Nola’s box—and that was a shock! It was like in the old days at birth when you had to tell who the father was, and Nola told. The auntie wanted to know if Nola had told the uncle yet, and thought that maybe she should. It’d be for Nola’s sake, her letter said, so the boy would be in Tormey’s will. The auntie knew Tormey, she said—he’d use any excuse to keep the boy from getting what was rightly his.

Nola had told Maggie only that the rapist had come in the night, that she didn’t know who he was. And Maggie believed her then, because they were blood sisters. But she couldn’t hold the lie against her friend. There were things even blood sisters couldn’t share.

“She’s on her way, she’ll come here first. Maybe this evening,” she told Keeley. He was lying on the Salvation Army sofa, feet up on the split arm, guzzling a Pepsi, leafing through a copy of
Model Railroader.
Keeley had a passion for trains—Maggie didn’t know where it came from. But when Nola couldn’t find him or he’d skipped school again, she’d usually head down to the roundhouse near their farm where they repaired old engines and there he’d be, sitting in a corner, listening to the train talk.

“It’ll be good to see her, right?” Maggie said. Keeley didn’t respond, but she saw the quiver in the jaw, the way the page rustled in his fingers.

If the worst happened and she couldn’t care for Keeley, who then? Boadie? No, too old. There was Boadie now, sound asleep in her chair, mouth open wide enough to swallow a baseball. The foolish pig was at her feet, along with the twelve-gauge shotgun, for Boadie was ready at a minute’s notice, she said, to defend the cows. Not to mention the bloody pig. Maggie took the gun and laid it on a shelf by the trailer door. It was loaded; she didn’t want Liz or Keeley picking it up.

She repeated the question to herself. Who would care for Keeley if the worst happened and she wasn’t around?

It would have to be Darren. Darren would have to know who Keeley was. When he came in from the barn she’d tell him. It was already seven-thirty, he should be in soon. She’d give him dinner—his favorite ham and grits. She had a sudden wild yearning for Darren. She loved the fellow, he was a good man—crazy sometimes, silly, a kind of swaggerer, but a good fellow. He’d never cheated on her, she was sure of that. If he looked funny at Nola sometimes, he never did anything about it. If Darren walked into the trailer this minute she’d take him in her arms, squeeze so tight he’d holler.

Maggie wanted nothing more in life than to live it out with tall, gawky, sweet-faced Darren. And he was coming home to her, she heard his voice outside in the meadow.

But not alone—there was someone with him. She knew the voice, that hoarse rasp like angry bees when you blundered into their nest. Oh sweet Jesus save me—it’s Tormey Leary. He isn’t welcome in this place. No.

She threw a silk shawl over her bare shoulders and met the men in the doorway. Darren looked apologetic, he knew how she felt about Tormey. But Tormey was his uncle. Darren was soft that way. If Tormey invited himself over for a drink, Darren would let him in. The uncle would remind Darren he was in the will, and Darren felt he had to be grateful. Though he’d risked being cut out by not going back to the farm—she had to give him that.

But there was no working farm, was there? Would Tormey want to stay here in town? If so, they’d move on, Darren said. At the same time he’d wavered. Maggie couldn’t always trust Darren’s staying power. Maggie was the tough one in this family. She had to be.

“Darren invited me in for a beer,” Tormey said. “Besides, I got Keeley’s train magazine, he left it in my room at the inn.”

Maggie saw Keeley freeze over on the sofa, pull his legs up, like he’d make himself invisible. She stepped back to shield the boy. “Kid’s resting. He worked with Darren all day in the fields. Go lie on the futon,” she told the boy.

Tormey just laughed, and threw down the magazine and a five-dollar bill on the sofa. “There’s a fiver for you, kid,” he said. “You can go downtown and have yourself some fun.”

Keeley picked up the magazine, but he left the money on the sofa. He went behind the charred screen without looking at the uncle.

The uncle—his father, Maggie thought, and scrunched up her skirt with her fists.

“You got Rolling Rock?” Tormey bellowed, and Darren went to get it. Tormey followed and stumbled over the pig. The pig screeched and Boadie’s hand shot out for the gun. But it wasn’t there, and now Maggie was sorry she’d put it on the shelf. “Go to bed, he’ll be gone soon,” Maggie told her grandmother—there was no reason for her to pussyfoot in front of this SOB.

“I’m not tired. I need air, I need a walk,” Boadie said. “Where’s Liz?”

“At the movies. Some friend she met in town.” Maggie was tempted to follow Boadie out, but she didn’t want to leave Keeley alone. Not that Uncle would do anything with Darren nearby, but, well, she wanted to be here, that’s all.

She lit a cigarette and sat in Boadie’s rocker and rocked hard. Rocked and smoked and rocked while the men brought their beers back to the sofa and sat together like old cronies. She knew who’d invited who for a drink, but she didn’t give a damn. She didn’t look at Darren, though he kept taking side glances at her. Darren had made a goof and he was going to pay for it.

“Thought maybe I’d sell the farm—they could put a hundred houses on it,” Tormey was saying. “You can make a bundle offa that land. One day it’ll be yours, Darren.”

Darren was looking interested; Maggie didn’t like that. Darren was a good man, sure, but he was easily managed. It was Maggie who’d had to psyche him up to leave the Tonawanda farm. She said, “Darren’s talking about staying here in Vermont. Buying a small farm of his own, right, Darren?”

“Darren can’t afford it, I don’t think. Not while I’m alive,” Tormey said before Darren could speak. He smiled his twisty smile at Maggie. He knew she disliked him. He knew she knew something about him. He was ignoring her signals, he was cottoning up to her. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d tried to brainwash. To blackmail.

“The Willmarth’s going to help us,” Maggie lied. “And Colm’s dad. He’s Darren’s relation, too, you know. He’s an undertaker. Undertakers have money.”

Tormey laughed out loud—a laugh that made Maggie want to hit him. “Sure, undertakers always have work. But Christ, that don’t mean they’ll lend you their precious money. I know that for a fact! Well, you want the truth, I’m thinking of settling here myself. Starting over again. Maybe a little land over by the lake. It’s flat there, good soil. You could help, Darren. We’d give Keeley a home—don’t look like Nola’s coming back to take him. Not when she killed Ritchie. Seems pretty damn clear to me—”

“You won’t have Keeley!” Maggie shouted. She was furious now; she jumped to her feet—caught her skirt hem in her polished toenails. Let it rip, what the hell. “You can live alone on that farm. You won’t have Darren. You won’t have Keeley. We know what you been doing to the child. Taking advantage. Penny next door saw.”

“She’s lying,” Tormey said, his face the color of a turnip. “Nobody saw. A little wrestling, that’s all, trying to make a man of him—sniveling baby, he is.”

“We know. Darren knows. Why you think he won’t come back? One of the reasons, anyhow.” She looked at Darren, but he was hanging his head, like he was in shock. Maybe Darren didn’t know. ... Or knew and felt guilty that he didn’t tell.

“Darren never saw such a thing!” Tormey bawled. “He never! I been good to the boy. Brung him into my house. Give him treats.”

“What treats? What sort of nasty treats?” Maggie cried, rich with fury. “Doing it to your own son!”

“What? Not my son!” Tormey cried, his skin going ashen. “No, I’d never—”

“Your son, yes.” It was Nola, barging into the trailer, her hair fall of burrs, prickers, and leaves like she’d been rolling or sleeping in them—and probably had. She pointed a shaky finger at Tormey. He was sitting upright now, the beer in his left hand, the right palm held up like some flag of truce. He was shaking his head, trying to smile. He got up out of his chair and moved toward her—face like a clown mask. “Oh come on, woman,” he said.
“Your
son. Some fellow got to you when you was seventeen. You said that, sure you did. It was that fellow’s son.”

“Wasn’t any other fellow. Was you. Down home, when I was seventeen. You got me outside that diner, in the bushes. I fought you off but you took me.”

“You wanted it. I’d bought you a fine meal.”

“I never wanted it. Oh you villain—you—” Nola was choking on the words. “I—I hated you. I hate you now. Worse for what you done to my child.” She took a deep, gasping breath and went on. “You’ll never have him. Never!” Nola rushed at him, nailing her arms. She moved so fast Maggie could see only the motion of her plunging body and the muzzle of the loaded shotgun she’d grabbed from its perch on the shelf. When Tormey took another step toward her with his clenched fists, she leveled the gun at his chest. He lunged and tried to wrestle the gun from her. It went off and he dropped to the floor.

It was like one of those fake killings you see in the comic shows, Maggie thought. The actor writhes and collapses and gets up again and finally somebody kicks him and he’s down.

In a minute, she thought, her own leg poised to kick, he’ll get up again.

But he didn’t get up.

Darren was feeling for a pulse, listening for a heartbeat. Blood was seeping into the trailer floor, staining the linoleum a bright red. Nola was collapsed against the door, like she’d run a race and couldn’t go another step, win or lose. Keeley came out from behind the screen and ran to his mother. They embraced—like they were locked together and somebody’d thrown away the key. Keeley never looked at the man lying there on the floor. Maggie thought of her cat killed on the road once, and the cat’s sibling moved past it, wouldn’t look at it, like it’d never lived.