Welcome to Harmony (39 page)

REAGAN TRUMAN CLICKED ON HER FLASHLIGHT AND walked out of her bedroom. The storm had knocked the electricity out again. She giggled. This place was spooky when there were no lights. Hell, she thought, it was spooky even in broad daylight. At least the rain was washing away the burned smells.

The faces of dead Trumans in the pictures along the walls were watchful as she moved downstairs.

Reagan flashed her light on each as she passed. The beam of the flashlight caught on something peeping out just behind one of the frames. She stopped and tugged a large yellowed envelope free and continued on down the hallway to the kitchen.

Uncle Jeremiah was already there, making coffee before he headed out to watch the dawn. He’d had to light a fire in an old potbellied stove that had probably sat in the corner since the house was built.

“It’s raining,” Reagan announced. “We can’t go outside.”

“I noticed,” he said.

She grabbed a warm Coke and crawled into her chair. “Whose turn is it to make breakfast? I can’t even remember.”

“Then it’s yours,” he answered and sat across from her.

She shoved the envelope toward him. “I found this.”

He turned his flashlight toward it but didn’t reach for the envelope.

Reagan noticed the calendar on the wall. Ugly black
X
s crossed out each day of the month that had passed. “You’re marking off the days until I leave, aren’t you?” It was a statement, not a question.

“Everybody leaves. I reckon you will, too.”

She’d had enough. She stood, collected the cereal bowls, milk, and two boxes of cereal, then returned to the table. Without looking at him, she set breakfast down and reached for the calendar.

He didn’t say a word as she rolled it up and tossed it on the fire inside the old stove. “I’m not leaving.”

He filled his bowl and said without emotion, “Then I guess I’ll quit counting.”

She considered kissing his cheek and telling him she loved him, but he didn’t need to hear the words any more than she needed to say them. They both knew. She was finally home and she wasn’t going anywhere.

Halfway through her breakfast, she asked, “What’s in the envelope?”

Jeremiah flipped it over. “My mom used to collect bonds. Put them behind every picture in the house during the war.”

“You never cashed them in?”

He frowned. “Figured I would if I ever needed them. I even cashed one or two in a few years ago, but didn’t see much fun in it.”

“What did you use the money for?” she asked. Knowing him, the cash was stuffed somewhere.

“Built the shop.”

She thought about it through the rest of the meal, then stated simply, “When it stops raining, we’re going into town and putting all your collections of bonds in a safe-deposit box.” If he’d built the shop for his collection with one or two bonds, no telling what a handful would be worth.

To her surprise, he didn’t argue.

She waited a minute and then added, “Any questions?”

He raised an eyebrow. “How big is the box?”

THEY SPENT THE DAY CLEANING UP THE DRIVE BETWEEN the house and the main road. People Reagan didn’t even know came to help.

That night she was so tired, she tumbled into bed, but she couldn’t stop smiling.

For a moment she thought of all the money from the bonds might buy, and then she realized she had everything she’d ever needed or wanted right here, right now.

“Home,” she whispered, liking the sound of the word. She was finally home.

Read on for a special excerpt from Jodi Thomas’s next novel in the Harmony trilogy.

Harmony, Texas, was founded where two streams crossed on the prairie: one running south, the other east. Water had long ago dried up, but the jagged ravine still scarred Harmony’s core like an
X
marking the center of town . . . the heart of Harmony.

SOMEWHERE ALONG THE WAY

Coming from Berkley Books in Fall 2010!

JANUARY 9, 2008 BLUE MOON DINER

REAGAN TRUMAN GRIPPED THE GREASY DINER PHONE SO hard her knuckles whitened. “You’d better be sick, Edith . . . really sick. When you asked me to cover your shift, you didn’t mention intrigue. I thought all I’d be doing was pouring a few Cokes and maybe pushing the pie.”

After listening to more of the waitress’s instructions, Reagan added, “I didn’t know this was part of your job. I thought I could do my homework unless someone came in.”

Reagan heard Edith coughing on the other end and gave in. “Oh, all right, I’ll do it.”

She hung up and stared out at the empty diner. Nine o’clock, Wednesday night, she thought. No one else was coming in, not this late, not with the fog. She might as well go home. Even the owner, grumpy old Cass, had left her to lock up. All Reagan had to do was wipe off the counters, put the frozen dough in the refrigerator and turn off the lights.

“And”—she frowned at the phone—“pack takeout for the local serial killer.”

She crossed to the kitchen hoping someone would come in to delay her mission, but the bell over the door hadn’t sounded in a half hour. She made two ham sandwiches and spooned up a quart of chili while reminding herself that Harmony was a safe town. Nothing bad ever happened here. Walking across the gully out back was no different than walking around her uncle’s orchard. Trees are trees.

After placing the food in a brown bag, Reagan tossed in crackers and a plastic spoon. Hesitating, she considered whether murderers need napkins. On impulse, she added a bag of Cass’s homemade oatmeal/raisin cookies. Maybe she’d sweeten him up just enough so Gabriel Leary wouldn’t slit her throat tonight.

“This is ridiculous,” she muttered as she headed toward the back. “Why can’t the weirdo come in the front door like everyone else?” The kids at school told stories about driving along Timber Line Road and seeing Gabriel walking over his rocky land, stabbing at the dirt like he was practicing killing.

At five-foot-three, Reagan figured he wouldn’t need much practice to murder her. She wasn’t really worried about herself. She’d danced near death several times as she grew up—moving from foster home to foster home in neighborhoods where even the rats had to fight to survive—but she didn’t want to die now and leave the old man who’d taken her in as family. Uncle Jeremiah Truman needed her. Even tonight, he’d be waiting up for her until he knew she was home safe.

Reagan tried to keep her grip on the takeout bag from tightening. As soon as she had delivered it, she could lock up and head home.

With determination, she shoved open the back door and stepped into the cold night. “I’m tougher than I look,” she whispered to herself.

Halfway to the Dumpster she decided this alley would be perfect for a crime scene. Dark, freezing night, dumb seventeen-year-old girl out walking alone. Nutcase hiding somewhere in the shadows waiting for his supper. All she needed was a vampire and she’d be starring in a hit.

As she reached the edge of the dull back-door light, she thought she heard movement to her left. Fighting down a scream, she told herself it was only one of the alley cats looking for scraps. Problem was, “herself” didn’t seem to be listening. Focusing on the trees across the dry gully, she measured her steps, testing solid ground before rushing across the scar in the earth to the scattering of old cottonwoods beyond.

Once there, she froze, unwilling to step where shadows crossed. A rustling whispered in the trees as her eyes adjusted to the night.

A man stood slowly from where he’d been huddling out of the wind. Tall, bone lean, and dressed in black.

Reagan gulped down panic. “I brought your takeout meal.”

He took one step toward her and reached for the bag. “Thanks.” His whisper seemed to circle in the wind, more shy than menacing.

She didn’t miss the holes in the fingers of his gloves or the patch on his sleeve.

Reaching in his pocket with his free hand, he pulled out two wrinkled dollar bills.

“No,” Reagan said. “That’s all right.” She turned away.

“I can pay,” he answered. “I always pay.”

She glanced back, planning to say that payment wasn’t necessary, then she saw his eyes. Pale blue eyes, almost the color of frozen water, glared down at her. Reagan had known times when money was tight and charity hard to take. She wouldn’t hurt his pride.

Leaning forward as if her feet had taken root, she took the two dollars. “Thanks for your business, Mister,” she muttered.

He straightened a little and nodded slightly. “Name’s Gabe Leary.”

“I’m . . .” She wasn’t sure she wanted to be on a first-name basis with this guy.

“Reagan,” he filled in the blank.

“Yeah, Reagan,” she answered, thinking on the scale of strange this one was off the charts. “Reagan Truman.”

“I know, Edith told me about you. You’re Jeremiah’s niece. Tell the old man thanks for me, would you?”

“For what?” For the third time in two years someone had thanked her uncle.

Gabe remained frozen, watching her with no warmth in his stare. “He’ll know, just tell him.”

The light over the back door flickered in a sudden gust of wind. Reagan glanced toward the diner wondering if she could outrun this guy. They seemed to have exhausted all conversation. He was probably thinking it was time for the killing to begin.

When she looked back, Gabe Leary had vanished into the trees along with his takeout meal.

A few flakes of snow brushed against Reagan’s face and she ran back inside. If she hurried, she could lock up and drive the few miles to her uncle’s place on Lone Oak Road before any precipitation made the roads slippery.

FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, REAGAN DROVE UP TO THE FARMHOUSE that had been her home for the past two years. When she’d first arrived the place looked like the spook house in a Disney movie, but now with paint and some work, it seemed grand to her.

“I’m back,” she said to the dog as she jumped out of her pickup before the engine stopped rattling. Swinging her backpack, she climbed the steps and opened the always unlocked front door. The ghosts of her almost ancestors greeted her from their faded photos along the walls. Reagan had learned all their names and sometimes called good night to each one, as if she lived with a house filled with family.

Reagan moved down the hallway to the back of the house where a wide, warm kitchen welcomed her. They’d knocked a wall out and almost doubled the space. Now, the kitchen was on one side, a table in the center and couches and chairs on the solid north wall with a TV that no one watched. Reagan had seen a picture of a country kitchen in a magazine and talked her uncle into making the addition. There were many rooms in the old house, but this was where they cooked and ate and talked. This was the room where they lived.

Uncle Jeremiah sat at the table, his coffee cup beside a stack of week-old newspapers. She grinned at him, he frowned at her. She’d come to consider any reaction from him an endearment. He might be in his eighties, but she thought of him as somewhere between preschool and kindergarten in his communication skills.

“Home late for a Wednesday,” he grumbled and went back to his papers.

“I took the last three hours of Edith’s shift at the diner. She claimed to be feeling sick, but I thought I saw a bruise on her face.” Reagan set her book bag down and grabbed two plates and the last of the pie she’d made Monday. “I’m getting too old for you to worry about. I’ll be eighteen soon, you know.”

“I can count,” he protested, “and I’ll stop worrying about you when you’re thirty and carry a gun.” He stopped frowning when she sat the pie down and cut the last big slice into two small pieces. “Didn’t they feed you at that roach café they call a diner?”

Reagan laughed. “No. I’m not sure I could get down one of their pies. They come frozen from the freezer. Once I get out of school in May, I’m thinking I could make pies to sell as a full-time job.”

“It’ll take us all summer to work the orchard and in the fall you’ll go off to college. I don’t figure that leaves much time for starting a small business.”

She opened her mouth to argue, then decided to eat the pie. She’d made up every excuse she could think of to claim she couldn’t go away to school next year. How could she leave him? Arthritis was slowly twisting his bones and he couldn’t see well enough to find his glasses in the morning. Dear God, she loved this old man who’d claimed her as his kin when no one else would. She couldn’t, wouldn’t, leave him.

He carefully divided his slice of pie into quarters and ate the crust part first.

“I met that man who lives up on Timber Line Road tonight. Leary was his last name.”

As always Uncle Jeremiah didn’t seem interested in talking while he ate and he was never much concerned with other people.

“You know him?” she pried.

“Not well,” he answered as he chewed. “Not even sure I’d recognize Gabriel Leary if I saw him in town. Talked to him when he came home from a hospital in San Antonio, but couldn’t see much of him for the bandages. The man looked like a mummy.”

“You know about him? How come he’s up there all alone?”

“I fixed an engine for his pa back about five years ago. He said he needed it to go get his boy fast, so I worked all night. Everyone knew his only child left ten years before when he wasn’t even out of high school. Sheriff came by looking for him. Said he ran off, but I always figured Gabe Leary just left. I’m guessing he must have been in bad shape if he asked for help from his old man. Old Leary was a hard man and about as worthless as his land.”