Sweet Jiminy (20 page)

Chapter 18

I
n the hospital parking lot
, Rosa balanced her baby on one hip while closing the car door with her other. She didn't have much time, and she needed to be certain that Pen was healthy enough to undertake a long journey. Juan's cousin who worked at the hospital had promised to help.

Rosa was surprised by Jiminy at the emergency room door—they nearly collided before engaging in the kind of pass-attempt shuffle dance that occasionally delays people for longer than seems reasonable. They kept choosing the same direction, only to simultaneously readjust to the same alternate one. Back and forth they went, in a box step of starts and stops.

“I'm sorry, you pass,” Jiminy said, stopping the shuffling before it reached a point of total ridiculousness.

Jiminy had come to the hospital to seek access to Travis Brayer, only to be informed that he'd been checked out by his family an hour before. Which meant he was back at Brayer Plantation, surrounded by guards and minders. Jiminy couldn't shake the feeling that she'd missed an important window of opportunity, and this frustrated her. She could sense the clock running out, and for the first time, she wondered about the hubris of expecting a happy ending. She'd hoped at the very least that an investigation would bring some kind of clarity and redemption, but what if it didn't? What if it did nothing? Or made everything worse?

As she stood back for Rosa to pass, her mind flashed to the empanada and beer night when Carlos had nearly kissed her, and she felt a yearning for Bo. She sighed without realizing it, causing Rosa to look at her.

“How's the restaurant?” Jiminy asked, to cover up her foolishness.

Rosa glanced downward.

“We're closed,” she replied.

Pen began howling, as if on cue. Rosa jiggled her up and down as she avoided Jiminy's gaze.

“We're leaving,” Rosa continued. “We have to leave.”

There was no reason to elaborate about why they were leaving, Rosa decided. No reason to describe how this place had become so ugly for them. Even after traveling all this way and laying down a foundation and starting a business and having a baby and carving out a better life than the one they'd left . . . in the end, it wasn't enough. Once you'd been beaten in a town, you'd been beaten by a town. They had to go elsewhere. Juan had some relatives in North Carolina who were encouraging them to come east, so they were packing up and shipping out. Rosa still lived in fear of deportation, and she knew the risks involved in starting over in a new state, but she hoped luck would be on their side. She felt luck owed them.

She didn't go into any of this with Jiminy, though she couldn't help the catch in her voice.

“I'm so sorry to hear that,” Jiminy said earnestly. “You'll be missed.”

Rosa bit her tongue. Hardly. But Jiminy was an exception. Rosa was aware that Jiminy was trying to take some of Fayeville's ugliness to task, and she admired her for it.

“
Gracias, amiga,
” Rosa replied, as she adjusted Pen on her hip. “I'm hoping for something better for her,” she continued, smoothing her baby's hair back with one hand. “I'm afraid this world isn't good enough. It's just not good enough.”

Jiminy felt stricken by these words. It was only as Rosa was about to disappear through the hospital door that she found her voice again.

“Wait!” she exclaimed.

Rosa turned back, her hand still on her baby's forehead.

“I want to give you something,” Jiminy declared. “It's for your daughter, really.”

Rosa watched Jiminy rummage through her gigantic purse and wondered again why Americans felt the need for such large things. Big possessions, big promises, big illusions.

“Here,” Jiminy said.

She was holding out a little wooden doll. Rosa could tell it was old, and exquisitely crafted. She took it gently from Jiminy's small hands and stared at it, charmed.

“It was carved to keep little girls company, when the world isn't enough,” Jiminy said. “I hope your daughter will like it.”

Penelope was already gripping one of the wooden arms in her little fist.

“
Muchas gracias,
” Rosa began. “Thank you. But—”

Jiminy cut her off.

“Just take care of it, please,” she said. “And yourself. And your family. I'll be rooting for you.”

Rosa stared a moment, then smiled for the first time in weeks.

“
Bueno,
” she said, and Jiminy felt the benediction wash over her like water.

 

Buoyed by a newfound sense of purpose, Jiminy resolved to forge ahead however possible. If she couldn't get to Travis Brayer, she'd track down Roy Tomlins. It was only as she pulled up to the small house at the end of a deserted road that she questioned the wisdom of coming alone. But she shook off her fear and approached the door with determination.

A slight, sharp-featured woman answered her knock. The right side of the woman's face was lashed with a mottled purple bruise, and there was a deep gash the length of her forehead. Jiminy couldn't help but gasp.

“What do you want?” the woman barked fiercely.

It took some effort for Jiminy to stand her ground and not step back.

“I'm looking for Roy Tomlins,” she managed to respond. “Are you all right?”

“He ain't here,” the woman spat. “And if I was you, I wouldn't look too hard for him. I'd run the other direction, if I was you.”

Jiminy stared at her. The woman had a vein that bisected her bruise like a mountain range emerging from magma. It looked both fresh and ancient.

She slammed the door. Jiminy stood a moment, then turned and lifted her gaze to the sky. To the south, toward the river, she spotted buzzards flying high in their trademark loops. She wondered what dead or dying animal they were circling, and tried not to feel too perturbed that they seemed to be directly over Willa's farm. She straightened her shoulders and hurried toward the car.

 

From his seat beneath the hickory tree in the courthouse square, Bo watched the cars rumble past. He'd spent the morning searching for Jiminy's kitten, because he'd heard from Lyn how upset she was that it was missing. The search had been a masochistic impulse, and a fruitless one, though he was determined to resume it, despite Cole's strong objections. He wondered about his reasons as he watched the cars go by. Had the potholes on Main Street been filled on schedule, their rides would have been smoother, but they hadn't been fixed, so the slow-moving cars resembled lumbering animals migrating across Bo's field of vision. None of them was as tiny as the creature he was looking for.

He watched Carlos and Walton climb out of Walton's car and ascend the courthouse steps, deep in conversation. Before they reached the front door, something made them stop and turn. Bo followed their gaze and saw Rosa from Tortillas standing on the sidewalk below. Apparently she'd called to them, and now she was walking quickly toward them. Bo watched her hand over an opaque plastic bag with the Fayeville Hospital logo on it. She said something to Carlos, who listened intently before offering her his hand, which she shook before returning to her still-running car. She seemed to be in a hurry.

As she pulled back out onto the road, she narrowly missed colliding with Roy Tomlins's truck. Roy honked and swerved, and then sped off down the uneven asphalt. Watching this, Bo felt a tingling on his arm. When he glanced down to check whether he'd been stung, he could see that he'd broken into a sweat.

 

Roy had started drinking half an hour after he'd received word that he and Travis Brayer were persons of interest in the investigation of the murders of Edward and Jiminy Waters. Jean's husband, Floyd Butrell, had also been mentioned, but Floyd had been dead nearly as long as Edward and Jiminy, so he didn't have to weather the same indignities as those that were still around. Upon learning of the investigation, the postal service had placed Roy on leave, which freed him up for some serious drinking. At first, he'd done it to calm himself down, in the manner of strong men needing some strong stuff to fortify themselves in the face of life's setbacks. Then it had become a tribute to Travis, a string of one-man toasts to a co-conspirator and dear friend. After that, it turned into a self-pitying reflex—something to do as he cursed the existence of Carlos Castaverde and Jiminy Davis. Finally, it had become routine—Roy couldn't seem to remember a time when he hadn't been drinking, or at least he didn't want to. He preferred to define his life in whiskey terms from this point forward. Which is how he came to be ridiculously drunk outside the gate of Brayer Plantation, armed with a bottle of Jim Beam and a side of pork he planned to fry up for him and his old friend Travis.

The large wrought iron gates that framed the start of the plantation driveway hadn't been closed in decades. But they were shut now, most likely in response to the crowd of journalists camped out beyond them. Roy rolled by slowly in his truck, with his window down, marveling at the sight. One sharp-eyed local newscaster with bouffant hair caught sight of him.

“That's Roy Tomlins!” he shouted, pointing at Roy's truck.

Cameras swung in the direction of the point and microphone-wielding people began running Roy's way. Startled, Roy tried to slam his foot on the accelerator but hit the brake instead. Before he knew it, he was swarmed.

“Mr. Tomlins, did you and Travis Brayer murder Edward and Jiminy Waters?”

“Are you here to see Travis Brayer? Are you coordinating your defense?”

“Is it true you abused your job as a postal worker to spy on private citizens' correspondence?”

“What is your reaction to these murder charges?”

“Are you still active in the K.S.O.?”

Roy found the gas pedal, but his path was now completely blocked.

“Outta my way!” he yelled.

The local newscaster leaning his head inside Roy's truck winced at the whiskey smell.

“Are you intoxicated, Mr. Tomlins?” he asked.

Roy smashed the bottle of Jim Beam into the newscaster's face. The man stumbled back, blood pouring from his nose. As the surrounding crowd reacted with gasps and shouts, Roy slammed his foot on the accelerator, clipping several cameramen who didn't get out of the way fast enough, and roared down the road.

Roy felt his own blood pounding in his ears as he sped away, jerking and swerving with rage. How had this all happened? Why was everything suddenly going so wrong? It didn't make any sense to him; it wasn't supposed to be like this. This was not the way the twilight of his life was meant to unfold.

It was time to take charge. He still had some fight in him, and he wasn't going to let some uppity spic and little cunt of a girl ruin him. He'd take care of this right now.

 

Willa always left her door unlocked, and no one was able to move fast enough to rectify that situation before Roy was on the front porch, bellowing curses. Jean nearly collided with Lyn in the hall as she rushed to check on the commotion.

“What's happening?”

“Trouble,” Lyn answered.

By that point, Roy was leaning into the door, determined to push it down if it didn't yield.

“Don't let him in, you hear!” Jean commanded, before hurrying into Willa's room.

Lyn didn't have a choice. She wasn't disobeying, but the door was already opening. She forced her face into a calm expression.

“Well hello, what can we do for you today, Mr. Tomplins?” Lyn tried in a friendly voice. “Mr.
Tom-lins
,” she corrected herself, willing her speech impediment away. She had no time for it now.

Instead of answering, Roy shoved her roughly to the ground. She felt her back crack as she went, and wondered if she'd ever be able to convince it to work again.

“Don't you talk to me!” Roy was bellowing in her face, spewing whiskey fumes. “Don't you even look at me, you goddamn bitch!”

It had been over forty years since Roy had murdered another human being, but he remembered how it felt. He remembered the energizing thrill of surrendering to impulses. He'd also been drunk then, though not alone. He and Travis and Floyd had been together. Walton and Grady and the rest had been in other cars, too far behind to catch up in time.

Roy remembered the specific excitement of forcing Edward's car off the road, and the adrenaline rush that came with dragging a grown man somewhere he didn't want to go. He remembered the sport of letting him try to run, and how Edward had looked stumbling frantically back toward his daughter's shrieks. Roy remembered the feel of the gun against his shoulder as he'd aimed. He remembered that it had only taken one shot.

He remembered how Floyd had been spooked by the shot and let go of the girl, and that she hadn't even tried to run. She'd just knelt there on the ground, sobbing beside her father's body. Roy remembered how he had handed the gun to Travis, who'd walked over and calmly pressed its muzzle to the girl's head. Roy remembered how she'd quieted, and closed her eyes. And he remembered the hush of the night as Travis pulled the trigger.

 

From where she lay crumpled on the floor, Lyn stayed perfectly still. She could hear Willa and Jean shrieking from the bedroom, and Roy crashing around.

Then there was the sound of tires screeching to a halt in the gravel, of running footsteps.

“NO!” Willa's granddaughter screamed from the entryway. “NO, YOU WILL NOT!”

“There you are!” Roy roared.

He'd come for the girl, Lyn realized. He'd come for the second Jiminy. Lyn couldn't let him have her. She struggled to rise.

“Don't you fucking move!” Roy snarled, as he brought his fist down hard onto Lyn's neck.

She felt something else crack, and caught a glimpse of Jiminy's horrified, terrified face as she ran toward the kitchen. Roy went after her, and though Lyn was desperate to stop him, she couldn't seem to move. Jean's gun was leaning against the wall just inside the kitchen door, but Jiminy had already run past it. Ignoring her pain, Lyn gritted her teeth and tried again to stand. But her limbs wouldn't cooperate—she was too battered and bruised. Gasping for air, with sweat pouring from her face, Lyn started to crawl.