The Fire of Home (A Powell Springs Novel) (15 page)

“What do you mean?”

He sneered at her. “People don’t always understand the finer points of buying someone’s silence. But it usually involves an ongoing payment. And since the point of buying silence is to keep a secret, you won’t want to be telling anyone about this.”

“Don’t you
ever
come back here!” she uttered in a menacing tone, and this time did slam the door, making sure to lock it.

God, what had just happened? she wondered, trembling like an old fencepost in a strong wind. Both frightened and furious, she leaned her back against the door and sank to the mat under her feet. The feeling sizzling through her reminded her of the time sh
e’d
pulled an electric plug from its outlet and the prongs touched her fingers. The jolt had run through her hand and up her arm to her shoulder.

This man Milo knew Adam? Knew Bax? And Bax—his mysterious past involved prison. Was it all true? None of it? Some of it had to be. Did it having something to do with Bax’s comment that he couldn’t use the front door? That grimy stranger knew things that only a spy or a Peeping Tom could know. Both were possible, both made her so uneasy she wanted to jump up and close all the curtains, but she was trembling so much she couldn’t quite take command of her arms and legs to hoist herself from the floor.

With her elbows on her upraised knees, she rested her head in her hands, trying to decide how much more trouble she was in now. Her plan had been to get away from Adam and, with luck, reestablish her life in Powell Springs. But not much had gone well since sh
e’d
arrived with the exception of inheriting this house, and now even that was in peril. She felt as if sh
e’d
traded one set of bad problems for another. She had more freedom here, but she felt as much a prisoner as she had in Portland.

How would she feed everyone for the rest of the month with five dollars? There was no doubt that living with Adam had forced her to learn creative ways to stretch money, but even her ingenuity had its limits. If that blackmailer came back again in June, as h
e’d
said he would, they wouldn’t survive unless she refused to pay him. She wished she could share this with someone, but it wasn’t possible. She didn’t think she could trust anyone now. The information involved was too sensitive. Once more, Amy felt alone in the world.

From the staircase she heard Deirdre’s cough. She came into view, still pressing her handkerchief to her mouth. When she caught sight of Amy, she hurried across the braided hall runner.

“Oh, dear heavens! Amy! Are you all right? I’m so sorry I left you alone—I didn’t think anything was wrong.” She crouched next to her and brushed frantically at straggling strands of Amy’s hair so she could see her face.

“I was hoping you wouldn’t.”

Deirdre wore a stricken, guilty expression as she examined her face and neck for signs of abuse. “Are you hurt? Did that man hurt you?”

“No. Not physically.”

“What then?”

“Never mind, he’s gone. I got rid of him.” She took Deirdre’s outstretched hand to regain her feet. As she brushed off her skirt, she added, “But some strange things are happening in Powell Springs. People who never would have bothered with this town are coming here now. From now on, we can’t let in anyone we don’t recognize. No one. I don’t care who they claim to know.”

Deirdre turned toward the kitchen. “Come sit down and I’ll make you some tea.”

“No, thank you.” From that angle, Amy could see that Deirdre’s dress, which had fit before, was now beginning to hang on her, but it was only a fleeting thought. Right now, her mind was fixed on securing her privacy.

Only the windows on the west side of the house had roller blinds because in the summer it got so hot. The rest of windows had curtains, some made of lace that didn’t provide much cover, but they were better than nothing. She closed them all.

That afternoon, nervous but determined, Amy tidied her hair and put on a spring hat that sh
e’d
finally splurged on—now to her regret—and went to see Daniel Parmenter. All this time, all these years, Adam had made her believe that everything that went wrong in their marriage was her fault. But after this morning, sh
e’d
begun to realize that it wasn’t true. Sh
e’d
have no true peace until she was not legally bound to him any longer.

His clerk had her take a seat in front and Dan came out to join her. His shirtsleeves were rolled up his forearms and his tie was askew.

“Please forgive me, Mrs. Jacobsen. I’m afraid you’ve caught me in the middle of a research project.”

“Would you rather that I came back another time?”

“No, no, as long as you don’t mind sitting among some books.”

She released a little sigh of relief and nodded. “That’s perfectly fine. I appreciate you interrupting your work to speak with me.”

He led her to his office and directed her to a chair, brushing a clean handkerchief over the seat. He hadn’t been exaggerating about the books. “I’m researching some property ownership laws and I’m afraid I’ve managed to get sidetracked. Research can be like that. One interesting fact leads to another. Please—sit.” He settled across from her. “Now, how can I help you?”

She looked around to make certain she would not be overheard, but his door was closed. Inhaling deeply, she knew what she must do and should have done her first day here. “I’m not sure how to go about this, or how to approach—I’ve never known anyone who did this—”

“Just say it quickly. That will help.”

She dropped her gaze to a book sitting on the desk in front of her. “I want to divorce my husband.”

If he was surprised, he didn’t show it. “It’s not all that common, but it happens far more often than yo
u’d
think. You are not the first married woman looking to escape from, shall we say, an unhappy union.”

“Is it difficult?”

“No, it can take some time. But really, there are just two requirements. You have to show cause. You know, give a reason.”

Her head came up. “Reason?” She imagined the intimate details of her life recorded in some legal document and filed in the county records for anyone and everyone to see.

“An example would be abandonment. A man goes out for a newspaper and simply disappears. Or decides he’s had enough and packs up and walks out, leaving the wife and possibly children with no means of support. Then there’s infidelity, although that can be more challenging if the law requires proof. Another reason is mental or physical cruelty. I imagine you might be more familiar with that.”

Amy felt her face heat up like a cast iron skillet on the stove and she closed her eyes briefly. Did she have a scarlet
B
for
Beaten
sewn to her dress front? “And the other requirement?”

“In order to get the ball rolling, after we work out the details on our side, we must serve divorce papers to the spouse. That means we need to know where to find him. If he’s nowhere to be found, the announcement must be published in newspapers.”

She cringed at the thought. “I hope that won’t be necessary. I-I believe I know where Mr. Jacobsen is.”

He went on to explain some other fine points when she asked, “What about this house I’ve inherited? Do I get to keep that? It was left only to me, but I can easily imagine that if Adam finds out about it, he’ll expect to confiscate it.”

He nodded. “In some states, he could take it outright. Oregon is more equitable when it comes to division of assets.”

“You mean I have to share it with him?
I’m
not looking for anything from him—we never had anything. I just want to be left alone.”

He studied her with a mild, comforting expression. “All right.” He searched through the stacks on his desk until he found a ruled yellow pad and his pen. “Let’s get things started. Tell me what’s going on.”

So Amy did.

“I suppose it was bound to come to this, but I’m not looking forward to it.” While Bax sat in the passenger seat holding their weapons, Whit Gannon piloted the Model T over rutted back roads that led to the hills behind Fairdale. It had been dry for a few days, so at least the mud had solidified a bit. “Some of these boys know and care about what they’re doing. They make decent stuff. Others don’t and it’s hard to tell the difference until someone like Winks dies.”

“Isn’t that a smoke plume up there?” Bax asked, pointing to a forested hillside.

“Hmm, yeah, that looks like the right place. They must be just getting started. Once a good fire is going, it doesn’t smoke.”

“How did you hear about this?”

Whit resettled his hat and gripped the steering wheel with his right hand. “I talked to Luke Becker—he’s an old guy who’s lived around here with his wife for over forty years. I used to help out in the summers on his farm when I was a kid. He was a nice man, a young widower, and his wife was a mail-order bride from Chicago. He brought her out here to help him raise his daughter. They had four more children after that. Anyway, he said he sees wagons hauling barrels and cases of Mason jars past his place on a pretty regular basis. And he knows who they are. I just don’t want him and his wife, Emily, getting harassed for reporting it. They’re in their seventies now. Their kids and grandkids visit all the time, and I don’t want anyone getting hurt.”

Bax gripped the two shotguns between his knees, and both men were armed with pistols. “I wish we knew how much of this is going on around here. We might be trying to fight a forest fire with a watering can.” He felt a little jumpy about it—he hadn’t even pointed a weapon at anyone since the war. But then, why would he?

Under a dull, gray sky, they made their way up through the woods and came upon a setup of a medium size still camouflaged by trees. A stream of clear, cold water flowed nearby, a necessity for the task, but there was no evidence of anyone living here. In another couple of weeks, the trees would be completely leafed out and this metal contraption of boiler and coiled tubing would be almost impossible to spot.

“Not the fanciest operation,” Bax commented, getting out. Whit joined him, and he handed the sheriff a shotgun.

“No, it doesn’t take much. I don’t see anyone but keep your eyes open.” Whit glanced around and pointed at a tarp-covered pile shrouded by fir limbs. “Go see.”

Bax gave him a wry look that implied
thanks so much
. Anything could be under there. He shifted his weapon to his shoulder and waded through the spring ground cover to lift the corner of the tarp. “Sawdust.” He added with a touch of irony, “Premium grade.”

“Okay. Let’s knock this thing down. I know it’ll just pop up somewhere else, but we can’t leave it. And if we do a decent job, we’ll put them out of business for a while.”

Bax scanned the surrounding area, looking for any sign that they were being watched. But it wouldn’t be hard to hide here, and it sure as hell wasn’t hard to imagine getting shot from some blind up the hill. They went to the back of the car and pulled out an axe and a sledgehammer. With the first swing of the tools clanging on the still, startled birds fled the nearby trees, squawking and giving shrill cries of complaint. The underbrush rustled with two or three unseen creatures and the whole forest seemed to shudder with the noise.

Steam rose from the hot sawdust mash, which flowed downhill like boiling oatmeal to scald everything in its path. The men didn’t stop until the cylindrical tank was as flattened as an old tin can, the coil was crushed beyond salvage, the sawdust pile was scattered everywhere, and both of them had sweated through their shirts.

“Hooo!” Bax exclaimed, dragging a forearm across his brow. “I haven’t done work like that in a while!”

They put all the tools back and Whit brought out a printed sign that featured a skull and crossbones with the text,
W
ARNING
!
Moonshiners Will Be Prosecuted to the Full Extent of State and Federal Law
. He nailed the sign to a tree.

“Do you really think that will work? There’s sure no shortage of raw materials around here. All the sawdust in the logging camps and the mill could keep someone in business till the end of time,” Bax asked, taking a drink of water from a canteen h
e’d
brought along. He passed it to Whit.