Abandon (13 page)

Her eyes caught on the bottle of seashells in the window. She thought of that happy summer in ’89 when they’d taken a steamboat down the Mississippi to visit Billy’s brother on the Gulf Coast. It was the first and last time she’d seen the ocean, but she’d never lost the smell of it or forgotten the cool shock of salt water running under her feet that morning she and Billy had walked the beach together collecting those shells.

Billy rolled off of her and sat up.

Bessie touched the swelling knot on top of her head.

“You never beat me in Tennessee.”

“When’d you give me cause? Now . . . this gold. We got a problem?”

“No, Billy.”

“W-w-w-w-well, all right, then.”

He sighed and got up from the bed, walked back over to the table, knelt down. Harriet still had her head buried in her gingham dress, so all he could see of her was a battery of black curls.

“Come on out a there now, girl. Me and your mama is all right. Sometimes adults have to talk things out, find a remedy for a situation.” The little girl lifted her head, eyes still brimming with tears. “Come on now, honey. Your doll’s over there on the floor all alone. She’s upset, too. What’s her name?”

“Samantha.”

“You just gonna leave Samantha over there to cry by herself? Ain’t you her mama now?” As Harriet crawled out from underneath the table, Billy said, “Well, how’s about we crack open a can a oysters. It’s Christmas after all, ain’t it?” And Billy flashed Bessie his broken-tooth smile, Bessie thinking,
I don’t know if it’s this town or Oatha that done it, but you ain’t the same. This thin air’s poisoned you. Ain’t my Billy no more. I’ve lost you.

“Comin down, huh?” she called out from behind the bar.

Oatha removed his slouch hat, beat the felt brim against his leg to dislodge the snow, and replaced it on the tangle of wavy black hair that fell to his shoulders. He strode to the pine bar, where Joss had already poured two tumblers of whiskey and uncapped a bottle of Pabst Blue Ribbon.

“So,” she said. “How merry of a Christmas is it?”

He opened his coat, reached into the inner pocket. “We got there with both feet.”

When Joss saw the bar of gold, she went moist between her legs, reached out and touched Oatha’s hand. He drank both tumblers and took a long pull of beer. “Tell me, Jossy—”

“Joss.”

“Damn, you’re snorty. Who’s the woman across the street, sittin up in that bay window? She watches me ever time I pass by.”

“Molly Madsen, and you ain’t special. She watches everyone.” “What is she, a lunger, up here for the rarified air?” “No, ten years ago, her husband sent her out here to set up a home. He knew Bart somehow, was gonna assay for the mine. Well, he never came. Never wrote. Just up and quit her.” Oatha smiled.

“Bart felt awful about it, put Molly up in the hotel when she finally ran out a money. Been supportin her ever since. What I’ve heard, Molly went crazy as a sheepherder over it. Hasn’t left that room in five years. Still thinks her husband’s comin for her.”

“Had a feeling she was sent for supplies.” He pointed at the tumblers. She filled them. He drank again, then stepped quietly over to the potbellied
stove, so as not to rouse Al, the deputy, who’d once again drunk himself into an unconscious stupor. Oatha warmed his hands, which were heavily calloused and perennially black with mine dust and grime. He wore thirty-year-old garments from his stint fighting for the Confederacy—gray trousers and a matching double-breasted frock coat with pewter buttons. There was a single row of braids on the left sleeve, denoting his rank as junior officer in the infantry. He’d long since ripped off all other insignia. Old wax drippings marred the shoulders of his frock coat, a telltale sign of his employment with the mine.

Lana sat at the piano, having come to the saloon at first light.

Oatha walked over, stood watching her play.

When she’d finished the song, he clapped, put his hands on her shoulders, said, “Merry Christmas, Miss Hartman. You sure do a beautiful job fillin out that corset and camisole, if you don’t mind me sayin. I was wonderin if you’d take a walk across the street to the hotel. Thought you and me could exchange presents. I’d sure fancy a trim—”

“Oath.” Joss said his name softly, but her voice cracked with rage, her black eyes smoldering. “Come here. Quit pirootin—”

“I’m talkin with Miss Hartman at the moment. I’d extend you the same opportunity, but seein as how you’re presently chained—”

“Son of a bitch. Put this plain. I’ll cut off your grapefruits.”

Lana fixed her gaze on the yellowed ivory keys, paling, trembling.

Oatha sidled back up to the bar.

“Why you so knotted up? You her fuckin madam?”

Joss smiled and made a move so deft and graceful, the next thing Oatha knew, the right side of his face had slammed against the bar, Joss cradling his head, a cold knife point digging into his left ear.

“Swear to God,” Joss whispered, wisps of her black hair tickling his mustache, “I’ll jam it straight through whatever brains you got left in there. Go on playin now, Lana. It’s all right. You won’t be bothered no more.” Oatha chuckled, though he didn’t dare move. From his tilted vantage point, he could see Al, a half grin on the lawman’s face as he shaded in oblivious repose beside the stove.

“Joss, would you accuse me of exaggeration if I said that is the most useless cocksucker I ever laid eyes on?”

“Al?”

“Yeah.”

“No, I wouldn’t contradict that statement. Now I’m gonna let you up, and you and me is gonna come off the rimrock. Behave yourself.”

Joss released him, shoved the bowie back into its leather sheath under the bar. She set up two tumblers while Oatha retrieved his hat. They raised their glasses.

“To your impending release,” Oatha whispered.

They clinked and drank. Joss glanced at the sleeping deputy, then whispered, “How’d it go last night with ol’ Bartholomew?”

“It went.”

“Smoothly? Without incident?”

“Well, by the end of the proceedings, Bart sure as shootin wished he’d never yapped to you about them bars.”

“What I mean is, you did it quick, right? There weren’t no need to drag it out, make things any harder on the man than necessary.”

“Billy fucked it up.”

“How?”

“Particulars ain’t important. It got done what needed to get done.”

“You sayin the boy was rough on him?”

“Well, Billy hadn’t never done nothin like it before. He got carried away, but—”

“That little shit.” Oatha withdrew a scrap of paper from his flap pocket, slid it across the bar. Joss unfolded it, saw where Oatha had scribbled something on a torn-out Montgomery Ward page advertising hobnailed miners’ boots. “Fuck is this?”

“Wrote it last night. Notes for what you need to do tomorrow when I come back for you.”

She lifted her suspenders and slipped the paper into the patch pocket of her plaid dress shirt. “What of the boy? You trust him?”

“Shit no, but what other choice I got? Can’t play a lone hand, haul it all up there myself, can I?”

“Oath—”

“It’ll get taken care of. You just worry about them notes I made for you. We do this right, everthing’ll work out. Now this child’s gotta haul out. This ain’t gonna be easy in a blizzard.”

“Know this. When the time comes, I’ll be the one to take care a that hobble-tongue chore boy.”

“Joss—”

“Ain’t arguin with you about it. He gave Bart a rough shake, boy gonna by God learn somethin about pain on his way to hell.”

Oatha headed for the coatrack. He’d just done the last button on his slicker and reached for the door when Joss called his name. He turned back. She held up the piece of paper he’d given her.

“Before I say this,” she said, “let me warn you. If I see a grin, a smirk, a eye roll, one fuckin hint a condescension—”

“Jesus Christ, chew it finer. I gotta go get Billy.”

She shook the paper. “Can’t use this.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I can’t
use
it, Oatha.”

“Oh.” He started back toward the bar.

“I said, not a fuckin word.”

“I just said ‘Oh.’ It ain’t a judgment. Why didn’t you tell me this when I give it to you in the first place? Think I give two shits whether you can read or not?”

“Don’t say that to me again, Lawrence. You know exactly why we’re here. And now that your partner’s out of commission—”

“I swear to you, I—”

“Ain’t believing this. Motherfucker
wants
me to take him apart.”

“Put away the knife, Isaiah. He’s gonna talk. I can feel it.”

“That true, Larry? My man Stu know some shit I don’t?”

“This is just a huge—”

“Misunderstanding?”

“Yeah, a huge—”

“Oh no, no, no. All right, Lar. After I slice off your thumbs, we’ll continue this—”

“Okay, I’ll—”

“No, I think I better go ahead—”

“We have to go to Emerald House.”

“Big mansion up the trail?”

“Yeah.”

Abigail opened her right eye. It took five seconds for the darkness to sharpen into focus. She sat with Lawrence, Emmett, and June inside one of the ghost town’s structures, her hands bound behind her back. It all looked familiar—the archways, the collapsed staircase, the climbing rope still dangling from the second floor. Three men—she assumed they were men—dressed in night camouflage and face masks busied themselves packing an assortment of equipment into black backpacks.

Under the archway leading into the lounge, Scott lay holding his abdomen, moaning softly. She wondered if Jerrod’s body had just been left in the street.

Didn’t I shoot someone in that old house?

She leaned into Lawrence, whispered, “What’s happening?” As he turned, she saw that his right eye had been closed from a vicious blow.

“I don’t know yet, but . . .” One of the men finished zipping his backpack and walked over, crouched down in front of Abigail.

“Dirty Harriet,” he said, grinning a big mouthful of straight white teeth through a slit in the face mask. She recognized his voice. It belonged to the man who’d threatened Lawrence. Isaiah. “Bad with that little Ruger, ain’t you? You’d have killed my man, Stu, if he hadn’t been sportin Kevlar. Nasty cut over your eye. Needs stitches.” He pulled a roll of medical tape from his pocket, tore off a strip. “But this’ll have to do.” She groaned when he pinched the gash above her left eyebrow closed and slapped on the tape. Then Isaiah and his partners donned black parkas and trousers over their coveralls, each man also wearing black neoprene gloves and Gore-Tex-lined leather combat boots. One of them pulled a fifth of Ketel One out of his pack, unscrewed the cap, took a long drink.

“Stu, what the fuck?”

“You want my hands to shake? Besides, my ribs are killing me. Might be cracked.”

“So take a fuckin aspirin.”

Isaiah came and squatted down, facing June, Emmett, Abigail, and Lawrence.

He looked them over, said, “In a minute, we’re gonna cut your nylon restraints. You’ll be free to move, but I would advise you to follow my orders. To. The.
Let
. Ter.” He held up a machine pistol. “Let me tell you about this work of art. Custom Glock Eighteen. Automatic. Supressor. Aimpoint. Thirty-three cart mag. We each have one, and we won’t hesitate to aerate your ass if you deviate one millimeter from our directives. Ain’t gonna be no love tap from a Taser, you fuck up again. You feel me?” Nods. “Can I get a ‘yessir’?”

He pointed the machine pistol at June.

“Yessir.”

Then he aimed it at Emmett.

“Yessir.”

“What about Scott?” Abigail said, nodding toward the archway.

“Motherfucker look like he can walk to you? He had a seizure before you woke up.” Isaiah leaned in toward Abigail, their faces barely an inch apart. His breath smelled of cinnamon chewing gum.

Two years ago, while waiting to catch a cab after a Christmas party in the East Village, she’d felt something push into her back, followed by low, menacing words in her ear: “Wanna die tonight, bitch?” She’d never seen his face, just listened to his footsteps running up the sidewalk thirty seconds later. He’d taken her purse, earrings, necklace, and left her with something that
ruled her even to this moment—the ever-present knowledge of how fast a normal day, a normal evening, could turn into her being raped and bleeding out on the sidewalk. No such thing as safety or control. The worst moments of your life you never see coming, although she had to admit something had seemed wrong about this trip since the previous morning at the trailhead, when she’d caught that look between Scott and Lawrence. Had they known this was coming?