The Drought (29 page)

The idea of being locked in the attic made him feel claustrophobic. He walked across the room, and double checked the dumbwaiter. The door was still unlocked, the dumbwaiter still at the top waiting for him to make his move. He ran his hand along the smooth metal of the shotgun, comforted by its presence. He wasn’t helpless
.
He wasn’t a defenseless woman who was afraid for her child, and he damn sure wasn’t some sucker who came unprepared to his own death.

A deeper voice within him whispered.
Careful Barry, that sucker was your dad. He died trying to save you and your mother.
He pushed the thought away and cracked the shotgun open. It was loaded and ready to go. “If he wanted to save us he should have brought a gun.” He had six more shells, three in each pocket. He should have taken Griffin out yesterday. Damn him for his stupid story. Today, he wouldn’t hesitate.

Opening the door on the dumbwaiter he leaned in to listen. There had been a shot earlier. He figured Griffin was trying to flush him out of his hiding place. Murmuring to himself, he said, “Well you dumb bastard, I’m smarter than that. Let’s see how smart you are.”

He climbed into the dumbwaiter, secured his gun against his shoulder and started down. He went slowly, aware that if Griffin were in the hallway when he passed through the wall the sound of the dumbwaiter would be audible. As he approached the trapdoor on the third floor, he came almost to a standstill and inched his way past the little door. He paused momentarily, listening for the sound of footsteps, but didn’t hear anything. On the second floor he went through the same routine. This time he thought he heard footsteps in the hall but they were light and timid.

Was someone else in the house? Had Jar come back?

The inside of the dumbwaiter was like a miniature oven. His hands were slick with sweat, the rope damp from his grip. Taking a deep breath he lowered himself to the first floor and waited. This was the moment of truth. If Griffin were outside waiting for him, he was a sitting duck. There wouldn’t be a chance to climb out, get the shotgun against his shoulder and aim, before the back of his head was splattered against the wall.

An eternity seemed to pass as he waited inside the small space. Sweat rolled down his pale face and his legs felt clammy against his chest. A low, deep grumble came from his stomach. He felt weak with hunger. A slight tremor affected his thin arms and legs, bringing his attention to how wasted his body had become. He
had
been dying. If he had stayed away from his body much longer there wouldn’t have been anything to come back to. Jar’s presence in the house had broken his link with his mother. If not for Jar he would have stayed with her forever, brushing her long hair, giggling over little jokes, he would have let his body die.

A shiver of apprehension shook him. He placed his hand on the small latch. In his head he could see Griffin standing right outside the door, gun ready.
Would he kill him right away? No, that wouldn’t be Griffin’s way. He was like a big cat who liked to toy with the mouse. He wanted Barry to think he had a chance to escape, only then would he pounce.

He let out a ragged breath, “It’s now or never,” and swung open the door. Hazy light filtered into the small space, but he couldn’t see Griffin. The butler’s pantry was attached to the kitchen by a short hallway. It also served as a mudroom which had its own exit. He lowered his shotgun first, turned and climbed down. Unarmed, his back turned, he was now at his most vulnerable. He waited, expecting to hear Griffin’s laughter.

The room remained quiet.

Once he climbed out of the dumbwaiter he paused near the door that led to freedom. The sandstorm still swirled but it looked as if the wind had slackened. He could end it. Open the door and walk away. His hand touched the doorknob, lingered for a moment. Then as if denying his own weakness he backed away, shaking his head. “No, I have to finish this.”

Entering the kitchen with stealth, he grabbed two bread rolls, opened the refrigerator; grabbed a chunk of cheese and a jug of orange juice, and fled the room. He didn’t dare go across the great hall. What he wanted was not in that direction. He wanted more shotgun shells and those were kept in the study.

Griffin was right about one thing. Barry wanted to see him dead.

*

As Barry pilfered food from the kitchen, Griffin searched the third floor. Nothing, he found absolutely nothing. He was returning to the main staircase when the steps leading to the attic door caught his attention. As a precaution he checked. The door was still bolted. His hand lingered on the door, a sensual smile played across his lips. Many perverse pleasures had played out behind the locked door.

He pulled out his keys and unlocked the attic door. The temperature inside was significantly warmer but it was still a nice room. He drifted to the vanity. There, his fingers lingered on the bottles, absently fingering the glass. Dora’s scent wafted in the room. A long strand of her dark hair was still caught in the brush.

Dora had been the most beautiful woman in the town of Junction. The fact she was dating Robert Riley when Griffin met her, made the pursuit all the more interesting. The money, the attention he lavished on her, poor Robert couldn’t compete. As fate would have it, the last laugh would be theirs. Before they married, Dora had slipped away one last time to be with Robert.

To think, during their wedding ceremony, while they were exchanging vows, Robert’s sperm had already intercepted an egg and imbedded in his wife’s uterine lining. The timing so perfect it would appear to a fawning husband as if he had impregnated his wife on their honeymoon. The muscle in his jaw twitched. His hand swept across the vanity. Perfume bottles crashed to the floor, he was ensconced in Dora’s scent. “You conniving bitch! If you were alive, I would kill you!”

The shrouded figure on the bed did not stir. Threats were meaningless to the dead. Enraged by the silence, he kicked the breast pump across the room. It hit the far wall and broke into pieces. A long two inch wedge appeared in the wall.

Squinting in disbelief, he moved across the room.

A burst of laughter erupted from him. The dumbwaiter, he had forgotten about the damn thing. “So the little mouse has gone down to the kitchen to get something to eat.”

Behind him the vanity mirror shattered.

He spun around, surprised.

A noise began to vibrate through the walls. It came from all directions, growing louder in intensity.

He stood at the center of the room. “I’ve always known you were here Dora. I‘ve felt your censure permeating the rooms of this house for almost a decade.”

The thumping reached a crescendo.

He yelled over the furor. “Once Barry’s dead, the last trace of you and Robert will be gone forever.” He grabbed a large piece of the broken mirror and strode toward the dumbwaiter.

The cut rope dropped down into the shaft.

They traveled East

The dirt bike got them as far as Kerrville, Texas.

It had been a hell of a day and they had only twenty miles to show for it. They rode out of the sandstorm like two time travelers covered in grime, unable to share their harrowing trip with any fellow travelers. The town of Kerrville had not been subjected to a single stray grain of sand. They ditched the bike when it ran out of gas and walked along the shoulder of I-10. Although it was still unmercifully hot, the large expanse of blue Texas sky overhead was a welcome sight.

As was the gas station at exit 110.

Suzy went inside to ask for the key to the restroom. A thick layer of grit covered her and her shoulder-length hair was a tangled mess.

The attendant gave her a long, hard look.

She said, “Look, I got money to spend in here.” She fished a crumbled, dirty twenty dollar bill out of her pocket, stolen from her father’s wallet as a last minute thought.

The man handed her the key with obvious reluctance, he said, “Make sure and bring it back.”

Unable to resist rolling her eyes she went out the door mumbling, “Gee, I got myself a bathroom key, the world is mine.”

She met Jar around back, where they took turns cleaning up in the bathroom. While Jar was inside the men’s room she opened his backpack and did a quick search. The clay box was inside, still radiating warmth, like a heated brick. She glanced up to make sure Jar wasn’t coming out of the bathroom and tentatively reached in and brought the clay box out onto her lap. A surge of heat went up through her fingertips and across her thighs, before she could break contact a warmth, both vile and pleasant, spread toward her crotch and she felt a quiver of excitement vibrate through her like the time the warm water from the showerhead hit her unexpectedly in her private area.

The doorknob rattled behind her and she jerked the box off her lap and hastily shoved it back into Jar’s bag. The warmth lingered along with dirty thoughts—she felt Dwaine Miller’s fingers on her hipbone, his fingertips gently rubbing across her cotton undies but instead of turning away she let him touch her. When Jar emerged she kept her head down afraid he might see something in her eyes.

They returned the key to the attendant and purchased a drink and sandwich. The little bit of air conditioning inside the station made them linger until the unwavering scrutiny of the gas station attendant forced them back out into the heat.

They were sitting on the curb of the gas station, trying to stay out of sight when Jar felt the first push come through. It was like someone was feeling around inside of his head, soft fingers probing around the lobe of his brain. He jerked back at the sensation then closed his eyes and let the sun fall on his face. He felt the message more than heard it. The urgency made his heart start to pound.
“Hurry, it’s not safe.”

His eyes snapped open and he looked around. It wasn’t Jean-Claude. This voice sounded different. It sounded like a woman. Standing, he dragged Suzy up. “Come on, we’ve got to go.”

A truck driver carrying a thermos of coffee was walking toward a freightliner.

Jar whispered to Suzy. “Just follow my lead, whatever I say just nod in agreement and don’t throw me any funny looks.”

He approached the truck driver and in a voice Suzy didn’t recognize said, “Excuse me mister could you give me and my sister a ride?” His lower lip quivered.

The truck driver hesitated and looked over his shoulder to see if anyone else was around who might help out. “Listen kid, I’d love to but it’s against company policy. I’m not allowed to carry passengers, I could lose my job.” He made as if to walk away.

Jar followed. “I know about the rules, my uncle drives over the road for Bestline. I wouldn’t ask. It’s just our mom’s real sick over in Louisiana and our dad…” Here he hesitated and let a few tears slide down his face. “Our dad’s a drunk and won’t take us to see her.” He rubbed his arm across his face smearing the tears and a load of gritty snot across his arm.

The truck driver looked toward the gas station, hoping someone else might come along and save the day. Relenting he asked, “How far ya going?”

“Just outside of New Orleans.”

The truck driver waved them toward his truck. “All right then, quick now.”

As the diesel engine rumbled to life and the truck driver cranked her into gear, Jar felt the second push.
“Hurry, now. Somethin’s coming.”
The voice was definitely feminine there was a lyrical nuance in the speech pattern he couldn’t quite put his finger on. He looked in the side mirrors half expecting something or someone to come running up beside the truck. Nothing was there.

The cab jerked as the trucker shifted gears and slowly, ever so slowly the big rig started to pick up speed as it climbed the on ramp to I-10. East, they were heading east toward San Antonio, Baton Rouge, and then on to New Orleans. Jar didn’t want to touch the clay box but when they got closer he would. He dozed fitfully next to Suzy dreaming about fire, gypsies and a looming presence. He mumbled in his sleep, “Don’t worry, Mom. Don’t worry.”

Jim Streat looked down at the sleeping kids and smiled. Back at the gas station he was pretty sure he was being conned but hearing the boy murmur to his mother in his sleep made him feel like he’d done the right thing. He shifted into twelfth gear, pressed his foot on the gas and took a drink of his coffee. He rolled through San Antonio and Houston while the kids slept like the dead. He made good time. Baton Rouge was on the horizon when the boy started to stir.

“I’m going to have to drop you off at the next rest stop.”

Jar strained his eyes to identify the road and their location.

Jim said, “We’re coming up on Baton Rouge. I can take you as far as Gonzales. I’d take you further, but there’s a check point just the other side and I can’t have you kids in the truck.”