The Hangman's Beautiful Daughter (7 page)

As he drove deeper into the wilderness on the deserted road, he felt the thrill of expectation that came from being alone and waiting. It tensed the muscles in his thighs and made his breath come in short bursts. It was a kind of intuition he had developed long ago, in the jungle. The feeling was so strong that he wasn't even surprised when he saw the man with the rifle walking up the road.

LeDonne slowed the patrol car, looking hard at the stranger in camouflage. He was tall and muscular, early forties, sandy hair thinning out on top. He was close enough to hear the motor of the car, but he didn't turn around to see who was behind him. The deputy pulled the patrol car sideways in front of the hiking man, forcing him to stop. Spencer Arrowood would never have engineered such a deliberate confrontation; LeDonne, however, wasn't interested in public relations but in the rush of courting danger. This dude didn't look like a local voter, anyway.

He didn't look scared, either. LeDonne had to give him that. When the fender of the patrol car came to rest a few feet in front of him, he had stopped in no particular hurry, and now he stood patiently waiting for the deputy to make the first move. It wasn't as if it were illegal to carry a rifle in plain sight outside the city limits.

LeDonne took his time getting out of the car. Hurrying was for rookie officers; it meant they were nervous, and wanted to get the confrontation over with. Sometimes it got them shot. Much better to take your time and let the other fellow build up a case of nerves anticipating your approach. He let a good two minutes pass before he eased himself out of the car.

"Afternoon," LeDonne said, closing the car door behind him. He didn't smile. His eyes never left the stranger's face.

The man raised his eyebrows, quizzical but polite. "So it is."

"Could I see some ID, please?" LeDonne's left hand rested casually near his holster.

Shrugging, the man set the stock of the rifle on the ground and with his free hand dug in his hip pocket for his wallet. "Here you go, sport."

The frown deepened as LeDonne examined the license photo and the printed description. The man's name was Justin Warren; he was

forty-three, and the address listed for him was Nashville. The deputy took a long look at the expressionless man. "This isn't hunting season," he said, nodding toward the firearm.

"I wasn't hunting."

"And this is national forest land, so hunting is illegal, anyhow."

"Uh-huh."

LeDonne was careful to conceal his annoyance. "So, sir, do you want to tell me what a resident of Nashville is doing all the way over here in Wake County carrying a rifle in a national forest?"

"I own some land adjoining the federal tract. I was out walking and decided to take the road back."

"Are you always armed when you go for a walk?"

"I hear there are bears in these parts," said the man with an air of innocence that heightened the sarcasm.

LeDonne glowered. "Sir, it is against the law to carry a loaded weapon on a public road. I could give you a ticket for a firearms offense, but since you are a legitimate property owner on this road, I will let you off with a warning. Remember what I said about hunting, though. The season starts the week before Thanksgiving."

"Thank you, Deputy. I'll commit it to memory." With a grave smile, Warren picked up his rifle and strolled past the fender of the patrol car without a backward glance.

Joe LeDonne watched the man saunter down 123

the road. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other as he walked. Another veteran of the war in Southeast Asia. The deputy made a mental note to ask around in Hamelin: realtors, registrar of deeds. He wanted to know what a Nashville vet was doing buying forest land in the back of beyond. He had a good hunch about it.

She set the hot cookie sheet on two trivets on the countertop, and lifted the cookies off one by one with a wooden spatula of hand-carved poplar. It had been made a century ago by Will's grandfather, as had the applewood spoons and the rolling pin of polished cherry. When Laura had first come to the Bruces' mountain kitchen with its blue willow china and the claw-footed oak table and chairs, she had been uneasy about using these heirlooms for fear of spoiling them, but Will wouldn't hear of her buying plastic replacements at Kroger's in Johnson City. It was family tradition, he'd insisted, and so to please him she had gingerly employed the ancient utensils as she learned her way about her new life. She was not yet comfortable with them, but today it seemed fitting to use them. She was baking Christmas cookies for Will. It seemed odd to be thinking of Christmas so early in November, but the postal service was advising everyone to mail early, because long delays in delivery were inevitable. She didn't know what Will's favorite cookies were; he hadn't been especially keen on sweets, but she decided to make a batch of chocolate chip cookies, be-124

cause the newspaper said that those were everyone's favorite. They would go into a foil-lined cookie tin she'd found in the pantry, with a picture of deer on the lid.

She had puzzled a long while over what else to send. Socks? Golf balls? Finally, she had settled on a stack of paperback westerns, a crossword-puzzle magazine, and a cassette of the Statler Brothers' greatest hits. The last present to go in the box, wrapped in candy-cane paper, bore a tag that said, "To Daddy from Baby Bruce"; it was a book on fatherhood.

Laura smiled to herself as she put it in beside the stack of Louis L'Amours. Will had sounded so despondent the last time he phoned, saying that no one out there seemed to need him. She thought that a reminder of the baby to come would assure him that he was needed and wanted back home. Absently, she reached for one of the warm cookies. She seemed to be hungry all the time now, but worse than that was the fatigue. She wanted to sleep sixteen hours a day, and now that the mornings were dark until well past seven, she found it harder to resist the urge to lie in bed half the day. So much for burning up any of those extra calories that she was taking in. She was beginning to show now—a gentle but obstinate curve had replaced her flat stomach—and no matter how much rest she got, the dark circles stayed beneath her eyes.

She supposed that she'd look like a cow by Christmas, and she'd probably have to sew new clothes for the holidays. Oh, God, Christmas! 125

Laura sank down in the ladderback chair, the half-eaten cookie forgotten in her hand. There were church decorations to be seen to, a Christmas pageant for the children, caroling to organize, and arrangements to be made for helping the needy. How could she possibly manage all of it alone? The very thought of the chaotic season to come made her want to crawl back into bed and sleep until spring like Nora Bonesteel's groundhog.

"I have quite enough to contend with these days without having to cater a birthday party for you, 1 ' she said aloud. It was as close as she had come to prayer all day.

Taw McBryde hadn't used a typewriter more than ten times in his life, but he'd kept an old secondhand portable for writing the odd complaint letter to the mail-order people or pecking out a Christmas letter for mimeographing. Now he sat stiffly in front of the worn keyboard, staring at the blank sheet of paper, as white as Tavy's face. They didn't talk much about the cancer, and Taw resolved not to notice the physical signs of his friend's encroaching illness. Tavy tired more easily now, and there was a closed look about him that indicated his growing disinterest with the world.

They were sitting in the kitchen of Taw's five-room thirties-style house, which he had furnished from the Goodwill in Johnson City. In forty years of marriage, he had endured enough coasters to protect the tabletops and plastic to protect the upholstery. Now that the missus

was gone, he would do as he pleased. He bought tables already ringed with water spots and a sofa scoured by cat claws. Such damage as he inflicted thereafter would scarcely show. A sweating beer bottle sat on the scarred maple dining-room table next to the typewriter, its moisture pooling on the unwaxed surface. Neither man noticed or cared.

"You reckon we ought to send this to Nashville?" asked Taw, indicating the still-blank sheet of paper.

"I don't know," said Tavy softly. "You got any other ideas?"

"What if we send a letter to our senator, and one to our U.S. Senator, and then one to North Carolina's senators."

"Saying what?"

"Hell, saying this river kills people and we want you to put a stop to the pollution. Clean the damn thing up. That's what we pay taxes for, isn't it?"

"I bet our tax money is a drop in the bucket compared to what that factory kicks in. They probably keep a pack of lawyers at their beck and call, too. Whatcha call it? Lobbyists."

Taw sighed in exasperation. "You can't lobby for permission to kill people," he declared. "Those people in the government mean well. They want to look out for the honest citizens. It's just that they're so far away and busy that every now and again they need the wrongs pointed out to them, so they can right them. So we'll call the situation to everyone's attention, and ask them to pass a law and make the polluters 127

quit." He didn't look like much of a match for the lobbyists, an overweight, elderly man in a Ban-Lon shirt and paint-stained work pants. But behind the steel-rimmed spectacles his eyes flamed with indignation.

"Well, I reckon we can try," said Tavy in tones of polite disinterest.

"We have to do more than try," Taw insisted. "We have to put a stop to this damned poisoned river. There's kids living all along it, Tavy. I say we go to the library in Jonesborough and see what we can find out about the whole business. Or maybe we could get the senator to send us some information."

Tavy nodded. "Just don't tell him I'm dying."

"Why not?"

" 'Cause why should he bother with somebody who won't be around next year to vote for him?"

Maggie lay in bed looking up at her hand. What did it feel like to be mad? How would it change one's perceptions? In drama class Mrs. Purdy had said that real actors thought themselves into the roles they played. She said that you could not act a thing convincingly unless you could feel what it was like within yourself. Old Purdy hadn't meant anything personal by it; she probably said it to all her drama classes, but this time everyone turned and stared at Maggie just the same. She must be able to feel her part, their eyes said. Hasn't her father been killed by someone she loved? Just like Ophelia.

Maggie had felt her face grow red, and she 128

looked away from her classmates' stares. She would not let them see any emotion in her. Let them see her play Ophelia and make what they could of that. She would not respond to their coy invitations to talk about it—"not keep things bottled up inside." She would confide in none of her new acquaintances, nor in the teachers who offered consolation; their solicitude seemed to her more morbid curiosity than genuine concern.

What did it feel like to be mad? It was already dark outside, but play practice did not begin for another hour. Perhaps she could find out by then. Maggie stretched out her fingers against the background of the cracked plaster ceiling, willing it to turn into a starfish. Crazy people saw things that weren't there, didn't they? The hand remained a hand: Her fingers were stubby; the nails ragged and bitten. She held up a strand of dark hair, curling it slowly around her fingers. It is a snake, she thought. It will move on its own, and its forked tongue will dart out at me, she thought. She closed her eyes, trying to picture the snake, willing the wiry coil of hair to turn into rough, dry snake-skin, telling herself that she could feel it pulsing between her fingers, but despite her efforts, she could not coax her mind into delusion.

When she stood on the stage, she mouthed the speeches of Ophelia, but she could not summon up any real sorrow over the sham death of Polonius. She would not let herself think of Joshua and the others. Actually it was easier to become Ophelia lying here on her bed than it

was on the stage at the high school. There she was hemmed in by painted sets and Carlyle Watts's tendency to forget his lines. Here in her rose-patterned bedroom under the eaves, she could imagine Ophelia's father and the others in the play as they ought to look. She could be transported with grief over a poor silly old man in over his head in statecraft.

But just now she could not manage an escape to Elsinore; she remained Maggie despite all her efforts at concentration. Too bad, because Maggie ought to see about fixing some dinner for herself and Mark before play practice, and Maggie needed to put a load of clothes in the washing machine downstairs. Maggie had algebra homework and a French test on Friday. And Maggie had to live in the silence of this old house, walking past closed doors with her eyes averted because she remembered what had been in them.

How did Mark stand it, sleeping in the room he had shared with Josh? How could he play Laertes with so much emotion, and show so little at home? They barely spoke. He slept a lot. Otherwise, he stared at the television, seeming not to care what was on. She did not tell him about her nightmares, and he did not break his silence. Sometimes she thought of asking someone for help, but the thought of all those faces cloyed with sympathy dissuaded her.

With a sigh, Maggie swung her feet onto the

floor and willed herself to go downstairs and

make some sandwiches. She wasn't hungry, but

someone might ask if they had eaten, and fixing

the food was easier than having to confer with Mark to agree on a lie. As she reached the head of the stairs, she heard the phone ringing in the kitchen. She ran down the stairs and through the front hall as two more rings pealed, but when she reached the kitchen and gasped a breathless hello into the mouthpiece, there was no one on the line.

As she walked toward the refrigerator to get the makings of the sandwiches, it rang again. This time she snatched it up after the first ring, "Hello?"

"Maggie? This is Laura Bruce."

Maggie turned her back on the sinkful of dirty dishes, shielding the receiver with the crook of her arm as if the caller could see the kitchen's dishevelment through the telephone. "Yes, Mrs. Bruce? How are you? We're fine." She had not quite managed to keep a note of defiance out of her voice.