The Revelations of Preston Black (Murder Ballads and Whiskey Book 3) (17 page)

I listened for her accent, and the way
she phrased her sentences. Like a guitar player, almost, choosing notes for
more than one meaning. Now that I knew how she operated, I figured the playing
field had grown more even than it had been last year. I said, “So you had
something better going on tonight?”

Pauly chanted. A low mumbling whisper.

“As a matter of fact, I’m on my way to
church now,” she shot back with a slight smile. “Do you know what they would
say about this? They would say, ‘…the greatest of these is love.’ See? Not
charity. I can still love you without helping you.”

Over my shoulder, Pauly mumbled, “Hail
Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee…”

“Just get us the fuck out of here,
Dani. What’s that worth to you?”

“You know how it works.” She smiled.
“Or do you? I’m not sure I benefitted from our time together quite as much as
you.”

“Bullshit. I fought for everything and
earned it outright. I wrote those songs. I busted my ass getting here.” I
pounded the door when I spoke.

“Perhaps.” She closed her eyes and
rested her cheek against the door. She exhaled deeply. “Maybe I did like you a
little, Preston. Maybe I thought I could manipulate you. You must admit that
you are quite easy to push around. But now you know what you know. The price,
the result, and the consequences are no longer secrets.”

“Just tell me what you want, Danicka.”

“Maybe a girl dies tonight. They’re
either going to stone her or drown her, you know. But what’s it to me? Not a
thing. Like that…” She cupped a hand to her ear, letting the sounds of distant
peepers drift over the engine noise. “That’s what she is to me. That’s how much
I care. But I liked you, Preston. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here.”

“So you’ll help me at the cost of me
never being able to be with her again?”

“Your words. But they sound fair. Let
the punishment fit the crime, yes?”

“What if I say forget it? Get out of
here?”

“You invited me, Preston. I accepted.
For that alone, you already owe me.” She waved her hand across the door. “This
is negotiations and details. Interest rates and amendments.”

Pauly said, “What is wrong with you,
man?”

Ignoring him, I said, “How do I know
you’re not bullshitting me?”

“The old man at the cemetery said you
were going to have to lose something. Perhaps this is what he meant? You can’t
always get what you want.”

I said, pleading, “What about the
assholes that took Katy? You should take them. Why can’t they be enough—”

“They are already lost souls. They
don’t know it yet.”

For the longest time I couldn’t say
what I felt in my heart. Because I knew she was right. The words never quite
came how I wanted them to. Katy would’ve nailed it on her first try. But she
wasn’t here. So I finally spit out, “Once this is over Katy is safe forever,
right? No accidents, no sickness…”

“Preston!” Pauly pushed me away from
the door. “What the fuck, man? What’re you doing?”

“She’s right, man. So what if I can’t
have her. If she dies tonight I won’t have her anyway.”

“Give Ben a chance to find us. What the
fuck did you even have to call her for?” He clenched his fists.

“Little brother trying to defend his
big brother. I like it. Let me tell you this— in the name of fairness. People
underestimate the power of hubris. Benjamin is not coming for you. This was a
job for three people, at least. Not one.”

Pauly pushed me away from the door and
pressed himself into the window. “Leave Pres alone. Take me.”

“See,” Dani said as a smile formed on
her lips. “Hubris.”

“Shut the fuck up, Pauly.”

“Let him talk, Preston. He knows what
he wants while you sit on the fence, praying for something when you don’t even
believe. Paul prays yet still gives in to the greater evil. But he doesn’t
interest me as much as you do.”

“Preston is easy.” Pauly spoke fast,
his voice thick with panic. “He drinks. He’s lazy and he’s vain. He’s at least
three or four more deadly sins into the list than I am.”

“Pauly…” I tried to pull him away and
could feel him trembling. He pushed me across the room.

“I ain’t doing this for you, bro. I’m
doing it for Katy.” Pauly laced his fingers into the wire covering the opening.
“I’m a practicing Catholic and I’ve been sober for a year.”

I grabbed Pauly’s arm. He shoved me.
Snapping like a dog on a chain, he said, “Sit the fuck down, Preston!”

His cheeks reddened, his words fell to
the floor quickly, like dead leaves. “I got nothing. You got the girl, so you
got everything to lose. Call it an early wedding gift. And in return I get a
little respect. That’s all I want from you, Pres. Just a little respect.”

I shook my head. “Pauly, fucking stop
it.”

But he’d turned back to the window.
Dani whispered into his ear, and Pauly nodded over and over again.

Pauly said, “I understand,” when she
backed toward her car.

I felt sick. Like I’d have rather been
dead a hundred times over.

Pauly folded his arms and retreated
into the other corner.

“Danicka,” I said, anger pulsed
through me. “You got something, now get us out!”

“Paul,” Dani opened her car door and
stopped. “Tell your brother that you are safer here.”

With that, she got in, turned the key,
and backed down the road.

“What the fuck did you do, man?” I
grabbed his arm, shook it, then let it go. “I had this under control.”

It had been years since I’d been this
angry and scared. I knew what I could handle. I knew what being in this
situation with her felt like. I grabbed Pauly’s shirt and shook him. “What the
fuck, Pauly! Why?”

I pulled him as close to me as I ever
had. I hated myself for letting this happen.

But he wouldn’t speak to me. I turned
toward the window and watched the sun slowly tumble down from high. The sky was
so clear you could cut yourself on it.

“I don’t know, Preston.” Pauly finally
broke his silence.

I turned and he rested his head back
on his knees. “Tell me what the fuck I just did.”

I shook my head, and wanted to tell
him to be positive. That I’d gotten through and we’d figure out how to get him
through. But a tremendous explosion from the top of the hill took my breath,
shook the metal roof. A wave of light rolled into the distance.

My hearing came back slowly.

A second explosion hit. This one more
distant.

Pauly mouthed, “Ben?”

“No, man.” I shook my head. “This is
Danicka. This is what you paid for.”

THE REVELATIONS OF KATY
STEFANIC

Chapter Six

As
an artist you get used to immersing yourself. Descending into endless seas of
thought. Letting ideas come and go. Hanging on to a few. Letting the rest sink.

Every so often you tempt fate. You let
yourself think. You hold your breath until the surface is so far out of reach
only the shadow of an idea remains.

You get brave and try to touch the
bottom. Surrounded by darkness. Blanketed with your blackest thoughts, your
gravest fear. The longer you stay down, the less likely you are to make it back
alive.

When you break through the surface
again, kicking and screaming for air, you see that you’ve pushed everything
away. Friends. Family. You didn’t mean to.

But you did.

It’s selfish—the idea of creating,
airing your dirty laundry to entertain people.

With Preston, I knew I’d never be
alone again. I knew he’d be waiting for me when I surfaced. Together we made
our own little bubble out in the dead center of that endless sea of thought.

Having Preston meant I never had to
return to shore.

Preston’s
proposal seemed like a nice move at the time, particularly since he’d presented
it so sincerely. The way he’d said it told me he’d really meant it. Sometimes,
when he fibbed, his lip twitched like he was trying to hide a smile. He was all
business back at the canyon though. No fibbing whatsoever. My gram always told
me that boy had rocks in his head. It would’ve broken her heart to have found
out it was probably all the weed.

The first time I went to look for the
bathroom I walked right past it. A rack of travel mugs and pork rinds basking
in bright fluorescent light was the first sign that I’d gone too far. I turned
back to the old diner and saw the lady’s room door hidden behind a cigarette
vending machine—the kind with the pull knobs.

Preston loved stuff like that—things
that created nostalgia for a childhood he’d never lived. It never occurred to
him that I’d spent far too much time in truck stops and bars begging my dad to
come home to feel the same way. Don’t know why mom ever wanted him back anyway.
Maybe she thought she could fix him, but he just beat on her and ran her down.
He was the reason I couldn’t generate an ounce of sympathy for the “redneck
pride” crowd. If it wasn’t for Preston, I’d never set foot in one of these
places ever again.

Both stalls were locked, but I didn’t
want to go back into the truck stop. Two pairs of shoes beneath the two doors
confirmed that they were occupied. I coughed to get a reaction, shuffled my
feet over the old linoleum to the hand dryers, then leaned over the sink to get
a closer look in the mirror. Redness stuck to the corner of my eyes like old
mascara.
At
least he had sense not to point out that I was crying, or ask what was wrong.

“Maybe I can get in real quick?” I
said. “If y’all are finished.”

Y’all
had been
something I always said back home. Somewhere south of Clarksburg was true
y’all
territory, so
I grew up half saying it, half being told not to. But my roommates up in
Bennett Hall freshman year were from Richmond and Charleston, and I reacquired
it in a big way without thinking too much about it.
Y’all
made me feel
like I belonged down here. Even though the word sounded out of place at The
Beacon and The Trocadaro, the crowds liked it because of the authentic images
the word generated. That was why New Yorkers liked New York so much. They
didn’t have to ever leave. The world came to them. Circuses. Authors. Art
exhibits. Mountain folk, like me.

But once we hit D.C. and Charlotte,
y’all
felt more like
a secret handshake.
Y’all
presented
the audience with an assumed familiarity.
Y’all
felt like a
mask you could wear whenever it was most convenient. It could make you that
much cuter, more sarcastic, more earnest. Or you could say it to fit in. Or to
exclude somebody else. Preston tried using it in Asheville and I told him
during the set break that he needed to drop it. That they knew it didn’t feel
the same coming from him. As soon as he returned to his
yinz
they relaxed.

“C’mon, ladies. I’ve been holding it
for an hour.” I tapped my foot.

Neither of them acknowledged me in any
way.

“Southern hospitality, my ass.”

I pushed the door open with a bang,
The waitresses paid no mind to my commotion. They went about filling salt
shakers and ketchup bottles like their lives depended on it. Preston only
half-looked up from his phone. In a way I wanted him to see me. I’d smile, and
let him know that everything really was fine with me. But he texted or

Tweeted, or pretended like he was
checking email even though I know he never got any. As far as I knew, he didn’t
even have an email address.

The bright lights of the gas station
mini-mart pulled me out of the diner, like a daisy to sunlight. Wandering
through aisles of atlases and books on tape led me to the other rest room. The
one with the bright fluorescent lights and wall-mounted tampon dispensers.
Through all the wandering around, I reminded myself that I didn’t really have
to pee. I’d left to make a point.

When it happened, it happened so fast
I couldn’t really yell or scream. Thoughts of Preston, all alone and waiting
for me, filled my head as I kicked and twisted. But the hands gripped me like
steel traps. I yelled, “Help!” but it came out more like a muffled whelp.

Always thought I’d be tougher.

Biting and pulling, I kicked an entire
row of motor oil off a low shelf. The plastic bottles only made half the
commotion I thought they would. I jerked and tore at the people who held me.
They wrapped my hands with tape. There were at least three of them.

Surely,
I thought as I
kicked and twisted,
somebody
is calling the police right now.

As soon as I tried to scream again one
of them jammed a washcloth into my mouth. I bit as ferociously as I could until
I tasted blood. Somebody hit me, then put a sack over my head. Flour went into
my sinuses, choking me.

I lost a shoe in the parking lot. My
bare foot dragged on the cold, wet pavement. Music from a country radio station
faded as they pulled me farther and farther from the truck stop. They lifted me
into a vehicle and slammed the metal door shut behind me.

Don’t stop fighting. That’s
what they want.

Unless they hurt you.

Don’t let them hurt you.

When the vehicle accelerated the force
rolled me right into the back door. Kicking the floor with my heel made a
God-awful racket. The noise hurt my head, but it felt like I was accomplishing
something.

Make them react.

Force them to change their
tactics.

“You best stop that,” a woman said.
“Or we’ll restrain you further.”

Don’t let them hurt you.

Be stronger.

Working my jaw loosened the gag. I
pushed it out with my tongue, and shouted at full volume, “You shall judge
nothing before the appointed time; you shall wait till the Lord comes.”

Always strong. Never ever weak.

Sudden loneliness fell upon me at
hearing my own voice. My face got hot and the tears welled-up. I swallowed and
swallowed to push them back down.
Never weak.

My breath came in big gasps, and
before I could even catch it fully, I said. “Corinthians. You all ain’t the
only ones been to Sunday school.”

A woman began to speak, but quickly
stifled herself. The next voice I heard belonged to a man. “A spiritual man
judges all things—he himself is not judged. You speak with the devil’s tongue.
You try to twist the words of the Good Book, but nothing can come against the
truth.”

“Elijah Clay Hicks, I know you, and I
know what kind of devil you are. I know you are not a Christian and you are not
doing God’s work. I saw your face in Louisville, and the feds are looking for
you after that bomb threat in Nashville.”

Vigorous squirming had worn me out,
but getting myself into a sitting position gave me a sense of control. I said,
“The Lord is good to all, and his tender mercies are all over his works.”

I couldn’t see anything. I couldn’t
even make out any light for the sack over my head.

I said, “You get tired of stalking me
in Morgantown, loser? I suppose if rape is a woman’s fault then ‘no means no’
means nothing to you. Suppose all these woman you got hanging around don’t mind
your old school way of thinking.”

I heard steps, which made me believe
we were in a van or on a bus. Heavy steps that ended right where I sat. When
Hicks spoke again his voice was right next to my ear. He said, “The Lord sayeth
I will dash them against one another, even the fathers and sons and brothers
and sisters together.”

He grabbed my throat and squeezed. “I
will not pity.”

My lungs pulled with all their might,
but could not draw a breath.

“I will not spare. I will not have
mercy.”

He released me and I cried out with
the rush of air into my lungs.

“I will destroy.”

The women—maybe two or more—called out
an “Amen!”

Hicks said, “I will prevail, for I
have faith in the power of the Holy Spirit. You tremble before the Lord. I hear
it in your voice.”

I tried to speak, but he grabbed a
fistful of my hair through the sack and pulled my face toward his. “The Lord is
a man of war. The Lord is his name. What say you now?”

Still gasping, I said, “Now the God of
peace be with you all. Amen.”

There was a pause. A regrouping.

He said, “In the Book of Malachi,
Elijah appears right before the awesome and terrible day the Lord God himself
returns to earth. The harbinger of the coming Messiah? That’s me.” He pulled me
forward again by my hair. A quick jerk that left me breathless. “I have raised
the dead by breathing new life into these women, and before I save your soul by
forcing you to submit to the Word, I’m going to bring down fire from the sky.
Mark my word.”

He pushed me to the floor with his
palm and forced all his weight on my temple, trying to shatter my skull like a
crystal bowl. The pain felt worse than a migraine. I tried to twist away, but
he pushed even harder. He took his time, using slow, deliberate words, to say,
“She that blasphemeth the name of the Lord shall surely be put to death, and
the whole congregation shall stone her.”

Then all at once he disappeared,
leaving me with my tears on the cold floor.

Like a paper coffee cup blowing across
a parking lot.

It wasn’t the loneliness so much—being
alone used to be something I kind of liked. It was being without Preston. Since
last February we hadn’t spent more than twelve hours apart. He helped my
grandpap and uncles at the farm, bailing hay and chopping firewood, all so he
didn’t have to go back to Morgantown by himself. Eventually he moved into an
extra room at my grandparents’ house because nobody would approve of him living
with me at my mom’s place.

Instead of going to dinner or a movie
on a date, we’d walk along the Blackwater or to the top of Cabin Mountain and
watch Venus. We’d hold hands and look for ginseng or blueberries. In that way,
on those days, we were reborn as a couple.

When we went back to Morgantown in the
fall everything looked different. The guys were all too young, too
self-absorbed. Girls talked to me differently, complementing my hair or my
nails or a piece of jewelry. Like my involvement with Preston had taken me off
the market and placed me in a different, less threatening category. I enjoyed
being treated like a woman instead of a girl. For once, the things I said had
weight because they weren’t coming from the lips of a sugary teenager. My mom
listened to me instead of always talking, and for the first time, we became
friends. My relationship with Preston facilitated that change. It let me be
reborn in a way too. I went from being a little girl trying too hard to grow
up, trying to be taken seriously, to the little girl I’d always wanted to be.

Now that I was alone, and empty and
very, very far away from Preston, I was curious to see which version of me
would materialize.

In a feeble last attempt to break
through Hicks’s circle of contradictions, I said, “And he that killeth any man
shall surely be put to death.”

Hicks had an immediate comeback, like
I knew he would. From the front of the vehicle, he shouted, “The Lord God of
Israel said to put every man his sword by his side, and slay every man his
brother, his companion, and his neighbor.”

“Whatever.” I got the last word.
Always did. Under my breath I said, “And Elijah was taken up in a whirlwind of
fire.”

After a long drive on smooth
highways—maybe an hour or more—I heard the crunch of gravel under the wheel
wells, then felt the deeply rutted dirt roads that shook the springs beneath my
resting head. We slowed to a stop. I heard more voices. The back door opened.
They dragged me into the gravel.