Once Upon a River (20 page)

“The herons go to Florida in the winter,” Michael said. “I’ve heard you can see hundreds of water birds in some places down there. Maybe cranes, too. Wouldn’t you like to see sandhill cranes, Miss Crane? To work on your crane calls.”

Margo thought it was incredible that Michael didn’t seem to notice anyone was at the cabin across the way.

After Michael went off to work a few minutes before noon, Margo went into the bedroom and looked out the sliding glass door. She didn’t worry the first time she saw Paul looking across the river, but then he kept looking, and she saw he held binoculars. She slipped away from the glass door and regretted having stood there like a target as long as she had.

The house might be the safest place to stay, but if Paul and the other two showed up, then she’d be trapped inside. Despite the heat, she left the doors open while she did dishes and cleaned the kitchen, wiped the counters even though they were already clean, the way Michael would have done. Her anxiety remained even after the three men closed up the cabin and headed upstream and out of sight. She thought she would do something nice for Michael, and she mowed part of the lawn with the old reel push mower, but her lines weren’t as straight as she’d hoped they’d be. The wind that afternoon brought a tar smell that she had never noticed before. Mallard ducks and a few black ducks landed on the river between her and the cabin, but they did not respond to her quacking, and they let the current tug them downstream. Normally she felt fine spending a few hours staring into the water alongside the fishing dog, but she now wondered if she ought to be doing something more productive. A few days ago she’d retrieved some overgrown zucchini that had been floating down the river. They were bigger around and longer than any fish she’d ever caught, and it had been fun chasing them down and dragging them out of the current. This afternoon she carried them into the woods and set them up as targets. It had been months since she’d fired the shotgun Brian had given her. She carried the twelve-gauge out and put on the ear protectors that Michael had given her for Christmas. She had several dozen small-game shells in her pocket, along with a half dozen of the large-sized buckshot. She didn’t like to lock up Cleo when she shot, but she had promised Michael she would after the time he saw her studying the photo of Annie Oakley and her dog, Dave; in that photo Annie was preparing to shoot an apple off Dave’s head.

Margo then moved through the woods, imagining the zucchinis were Paul and Billy or some unknown rapists and killers, and blasted them to pulp, one after another. If Michael would only shoot with her, the two of them together could rig up a launch for clay pigeons, but when she had mentioned it recently, he suggested she join the gun club. The notion surprised her. Cal and his sons belonged to the Rod and Gun Club between Murrayville and Confluence, but Margo didn’t know of any women members.

Margo shot at hunks of squash until the light became gold-tinged. She took off her ear coverings and sat cross-legged against a tree and waited for the birds to return. The sound of the cicadas rose to a screechy roar and then gradually subsided. Margo imitated the nasal
yank-yank
of a white-breasted nuthatch and then the meow of a catbird perched between her and the water. When she heard Michael’s car pulling in the driveway, she smiled and meowed in his direction, though he couldn’t see or hear her. A few minutes later, as she was heading back toward the house with her shotgun, she saw a pontoon boat pull up and tie off at the oil-barrel float. Margo ducked down and watched Michael make his way across the gangplank and onto the float to talk to the visitor. As she crept nearer, she confirmed what she’d feared: Michael was talking to Paul. Margo stayed hidden and moved closer so she could hear their voices.

“Well, where is she, then?” Paul said. His face was haggard. “I’d like to talk to her.”

“She seems to want to avoid you.”

“She doesn’t belong to you. Tell her I want to talk to her.”

Margo crouched so quietly that a coot continued moving downstream past her.

“Of course she doesn’t belong to me,” Michael said. “She belongs to herself.”

“Is that her in the house?” Paul said. Margo saw that Cleo was standing up almost as tall as a small person with her paws against the screen door. Margo hid herself behind the trunk of a willow. The cicadas grew louder again.

“That’s my dog,” Michael said.

“I saw her earlier, from across the river. I know she’s here.”

As if on command, the fishing dog barked.

“Did you do something to her?” Michael said.

“She doesn’t mind what a man does. She’s a game girl.” Paul stepped off the front of the boat and onto the oil-barrel float. It tipped under his weight. He stepped to the center and stood a few feet from Michael. No one else was on the boat. Margo glanced across the river at the dark, empty cabin. When Paul had gone up the river some hours ago, he must have ferried Charlie and Johnny back to Heart of Pines.

“What do you want with her?” Michael asked.

“I want to tell her that my brother Brian will be away for eight years on an assault charge, plus six more for manslaughter. Damned lawyer convinced him to plead guilty. He said he’d get a few years off for good behavior. Problem is, my brother forgets what
good behavior is when he’s got to show off for a bunch of guys.”

“Who’s Brian to her?” Michael asked.

“She doesn’t tell you anything, does she? My brother is in prison because of doing a little dirty work for her.”

“She’s just a kid. She’s not responsible for what men do.”

“And she’s got some things she took from me and Brian. A shotgun, for one.”

Margo wanted to scream over the cicadas that Brian gave her that shotgun, but she stayed put.

“Maybe I’ll take her boat instead. As an exchange.”

“Why don’t you leave now?” Michael said. “Get off my property.”

“It’s funny for a little feller like you to threaten me.” Paul stepped backward, causing the float to tip, and then rocked it a few times by shifting his weight. The current held the Playbuoy tight against the float, and its side knocked against the planks.

“I’ll call the police if you don’t leave,” Michael said. He fought to keep his balance. Margo wanted to tell Michael that threatening Paul with the law wasn’t going to calm him down.

“Do you really think the police would get here in time if I wanted to hurt you?” Paul grabbed the front of Michael’s shirt and pulled him forward. Margo remembered Paul’s strength when he had grabbed her in Brian’s bedroom. Michael stiffened, pushed against Paul, and almost fell backward into the water. Then he straightened up and stood his ground again.

“Just bring her out here,” Paul said.

Margo moved closer. Paul’s face was almost as familiar to her as Michael’s. At this distance, she saw how even his good eye looked strange, red-rimmed and oily.

“And I hope you don’t think you’ve got some innocent flower,” Paul said to Michael. “I’ve had a piece of her myself.”

Margo’s heart raced. Her daddy had begged her,
Think before you act
, and so she was thinking, but then Paul stabbed Michael’s chest with his finger. “Next time you’re in the sack with her, ask if she remembers—”

“Leave him alone!” Margo shouted. Her voice echoed down the river. She crouched again behind some red osier dogwood.

“Is that you, Maggie? Why don’t you come over and talk to me, sweetheart?” Paul said. His voice sounded strangely intense. He was high.

Margo didn’t move.

“No, Margaret Louise,” Michael yelled. “Don’t do anything.”

“Oh, it’s
Margaret
now?
Margaret Louise
. Very nice. Why don’t you come on out and talk with us. I’ll tell you how you ruined my brother’s life.”

She could run to the house, grab her backpack, and head out, leaving Michael and Paul to work this out themselves. But she could too easily imagine Paul knocking Michael out and throwing him into the water.

As if reading her thoughts, Paul grabbed Michael’s collar and pulled him closer. Then he pushed him away, and this time Michael fell backward onto the float. His head clunked the wood and made a hollow sound.

“What do you want with that little slut, anyhow?” Paul asked Michael and put his boot on Michael’s chest. “You seem like a respectable guy here. Nice house. You wear a goddamned tie to work.” The toe of Paul’s work boot pressed Michael’s tie now, and Michael was no longer fighting.

Michael coughed.

“Let him go,” Margo shouted and approached until she was only about twenty feet away.

Michael shouted, “No, Margaret! Go into the house, call the cops.”

“You know you’ll talk to me eventually, Maggie. And your boyfriend’s got to go to work sometime and leave you alone.”

“Please leave now.” Margo raised the barrel of the shotgun to point at Paul’s knees, his groin, his stomach, his heart and lungs like a buck’s.

“Give that shotgun to me, Princess. You’re not going to shoot anybody.”

Paul pushed his toe into Michael’s neck. Margo knew its delicate bones and sharp Adam’s apple. With those heavy work boots, Paul could crush his throat.

“Let me go, man,” Michael spat.

“You’re really not in a position to tell me what to do.” He moved his foot and Michael gagged. Margo remembered that feeling of being crushed, unable to breathe, with the heat of Paul’s breath on her. She adjusted the butt of the shotgun in her shoulder, got her sight bead on Paul’s good eye.

“You’re hurting me!” yelled Michael.

“I’m going to hurt you more,” Paul said. “And her, too.”

Margo pulled the trigger.

At twenty feet, the twelve-gauge sprayed a tight pattern of buckshot into Paul’s face, hitting him seemingly even before she had finished pulling the trigger. Margo was so solidly planted, she hardly even felt the shotgun’s recoil. Paul flew backward, slammed into the side of his boat, which bobbed wildly under the impact, as did the oil-barrel float once his weight had left it. Paul’s feet were barely touching the float, while his shoulders and arms leaned backward over the siderail of the Playbuoy. His back was bent the wrong way. The blood from his face poured down his body, onto the portside pontoon and became a red river flowing into the Stark. Margo wondered how so much blood could be in him. Michael had not managed to stand, though he was apparently unharmed. He gripped the planks beneath him.

Margo pointed the shotgun barrel down and walked toward Michael. She studied Paul’s body, frozen in a position with his head thrown back, his chest tipped upward. Paul’s body looked as unnatural as her body had felt beneath his. She heard a jet overhead, slowly crossing the sky.

“Margaret, what’s happened?” Michael asked. He attempted to stand again, but sat back down. “Call an ambulance. He’s bleeding bad.”

A seagull screeched somewhere; a second gull answered. Margo tried to get her bearings.

“I’ll call. I’ll tell them to hurry.” Michael stood up at last. He looked at the body. His hand reached toward Margo and retracted. “He’s not dead, is he?” Michael said.

“I had to protect you,” Margo said.

“What the hell? Oh, my God. He’s dead?”

“He was going to kill you,” she said. “He had his foot on your throat. You have a mark there from his boot.”

“Margaret, please put the gun down.” Michael sounded scared. “I wish you’d gone into the house and called the police.”

“I couldn’t leave you alone with him. He was stoned. Did you see his eyes?”

“Let’s call the police right now. We’ll go together.”

“He raped me,” she blurted.

“Oh, God. I should have known. I wish you’d’ve told me. We could have gotten a restraining order. Or something.”

“That wouldn’t have stopped him.” She couldn’t bear the way Michael’s face was falling apart.

He reached out and grabbed at her shotgun. She jumped away from him and dropped the gun on the planks between them.

“It all happened so fast,” she said. “But you don’t realize. He was really going to hurt you.”

“We were the happiest people on earth. That’s what we were at noon, the happiest people in the world. Do you remember?” His voice increased in pitch until it was shrill like the sound of the cicadas.

Margo kept her eye on the shotgun. Yes, she remembered. She remembered eating lunch today. The sunlight on the table, the yellow-and-white-patterned plates speckled with crumbs.

“There’s no blood on the float. Nobody saw,” Margo said. Though blood continued to run in red ribbons down the side of the boat, there was not even a drop visible on the planks. She glanced up and down the river and saw no one approaching or departing, no one milling about near the water. The next-door neighbor’s driveway was empty. If she did this right, she thought, then tomorrow they could have breakfast as usual, eggs and toast, butter and jelly. The river’s surface glimmered gold with the setting sun. Her first thought was to push Paul the rest of the way into the boat and launch it from the float, send it down the river, but it might not drift far enough away before it was discovered adrift or pushed onto shore by the current, as her rowboat had been when she’d fallen asleep in it.