The Hum and the Shiver (14 page)

Don’s hands shook as he turned the key and pulled slowly out onto the highway. The trooper stood watching, hip cocked, one hand on his gun. Don wanted to turn around and go back the way he came, but instead drove straight, forty miles out of his way, to make sure he didn’t have to pass the trooper again.

By the time he hit the junction to Highway B near the interstate, his anger had truly peaked. He thought of calling Sam at the
Horn
and getting a lawyer involved, but he had no proof of anything. After all, the trooper let him off with a warning, and the dashboard camera would show nothing out of line.

“Fuck,” he snarled. He was as angry as he’d ever been, just like he used to get as a young man. But this was no frat-house bully, he reminded himself. This was a cop, who could beat him senseless—or kill him—and get away with it.

He stopped at the intersection. There was no other traffic, and he took a moment to calm down. But it was hard to do; it felt like something long buried was now free and unwilling to go back in its box.

“You’re not chasing me off,” Don said to the air. “I’ll find that goddamned road. Just wait and see if I don’t. And if I see your blue lights again, I’ll make my own recording of what goes down, and we’ll see what happens then.”

But first, he decided, he needed some lunch. His anger had left him ravenous. He turned onto the access road that ran parallel to the interstate until he reached the exit with a Shoney’s restaurant. He parked and gathered his atlas and printouts; maybe he was just disoriented, and the turn was actually obvious. He’d make another run before giving up, and if he ran into that trooper again, he’d be sure to have his cell phone on to record the conversation.

As he entered the restaurant and waited for his eyes to adjust, someone called, “Don!”

He turned. George Landers waved from the cash register. Don went over and shook hands. “You’re a long way from Unicorn,” Landers observed. “Is one of our softball teams in a tournament I don’t know about?”

“No, I’m on double-secret assignment,” Don said with mock drama. “I could tell you, but then I’d have to write your obituary.”

Landers turned to the young man beside him. “Don, this is Craig Chess, the new minister at the Triple Springs Methodist Church in Cloud County.”

Don’s eyebrows rose. “There’s a Methodist Church in Cloud County?”

“Why does everyone react like that?” Craig said with a smile. “And no, technically it’s not. The county line is on the highway right past the church driveway, so we’re actually in Smithborough.”

“Ah,” Don said. “So it’s wishful thinking by the diocese.”

“District,” Landers said. “We’re not Catholic.”

“I stand corrected. At any rate, Reverend Chess, it’s nice to meet you.” The two men shook hands.

“So what’s with all the maps?” Landers asked. “Are you looking for old Colonel Drake’s Confederate treasure?”

“I’m supposed to interview Bronwyn Hyatt, the war hero. I went out to visit them, but I couldn’t find the turnoff.”

Landers turned to the younger minister. “You’ve been out there, haven’t you, Craig?”

“Yes. It wasn’t hard. The turnoff is on Highway 23 just past Jenkins Trail.”

“I know, that’s where I’ve been looking.”

“That’s odd,” Craig said. “The road they live on is a dead end, so there’s no other way to get there.”

Don nodded. “Yeah. The Tufa curse strikes again, I suppose.”

“The what?”

“Oh, it’s just something people say about the Tufa: that if they don’t want to be found, you won’t find them. Old wives’ tale.”

“There’s a lot of those about the Tufa,” Landers said. “Craig and I have just been discussing some of them. Well, good luck.”

Craig said, “Don, pleasure meeting you.”

“Likewise,” Don said.

*   *   *

Outside, Landers shook Craig’s hand and went to his car. Craig glanced back at the restaurant, and saw the reporter take a seat in a window booth. Like a lot of local people, the reporter bore the visible traces of Tufa ancestry, but seemed not to be one; certainly he lacked the flat, noncommittal stare the Needsville Tufas presented.

As Craig unlocked his own car, a loud rumble made him look up. An ancient pickup driven by a skinny middle-aged man parked in the handicapped spot near the door. A blue state placard permitting this hung from the rearview mirror. The truck bed was filled with children, the boys all skeletally thin like the driver, the girls round like Christmas ornaments. All had black hair, dead eyes, and suspicious expressions focused on Craig.

“Hi,” he said with a smile. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

The father stepped out of the cab and said, “We teach ’em not to talk to strangers, mister. Can’t never tell these days.”

“That’s a sad truth,” Craig said, and offered his hand. “I’m Craig Chess, the new minister at the Triple Springs Methodist Church.”

The man’s hand was strong and wiry. Craig noticed the pinkie was missing. “Nice to meet you, Father,” he drawled.

“We’re trying to get a children’s program started at the church; we’d love to see you bring your family. It’s just across the county line in Smithborough.”

“Oh, I reckon we’re too busy for that sort of stuff,” the man said. “We live way up in the hills, anyway.”

Craig knew not to push the issue. He was a minister, not a missionary. All he could do was let them know his church was open to them. “Well, think about it, and if you can find the time, we’d be pleased to have you.”

The man’s wife, as large as he was thin, herded the children inside. As Craig pulled out of the parking lot, he turned on impulse away from the interstate, toward Needsville. To date, the Hyatts were the only Tufas who had been pleasant to him, and he had to admit the memory of Bronwyn Hyatt kept reappearing in his imagination, especially when he was in bed at night. The best way to exorcise such fantasies, he’d learned, was to confront them directly. Besides, they
had
invited him back.

He found the turnoff with no trouble. But at the last minute, he chickened out.

*   *   *

Sam Howell laughed the way a man does when he finds out his bitchy wife has run off with his best friend. The newspaper editor slapped the arm of his patio chair and said with undisguised delight, “So you ran up on Big Bobby Pafford, huh?”

“You know him?” Don asked. He’d gone straight to Howell’s house after leaving Shoney’s, needing to share the experience with someone. They sat on the back patio with cold beers, Howell shirtless and barefoot.

“Sure I do. So do you. You know those stickers they have on gas pumps saying if you run off without paying, you’ll lose your license? That’s his picture.”

“He’s not the friendliest guy.”

“No, for him protecting and serving means kicking ass and taking names.”

“How do you know so much about him?”

“We’ve crossed paths before. They say all bullies are cowards, but not him: he just likes making people afraid of him. He went in the marines right out of high school, I believe, but we weren’t at war with anybody, so there was nobody for him to kill. Poor bastard: he was born in the wrong time. Being a state trooper is the best he can do now.”

“He’s a piece of work. Wonder what his discipline file looks like?”

Howell suddenly turned serious. He sat forward so that his back skin pulled free of the chair’s plastic with an audible pop. “
No,
Don. No bullshit. You leave Bobby Pafford alone and out of this. You had one run-in and got away without a ticket or a cracked skull. Count yourself lucky. He’s the kind of man who wouldn’t take kindly to being investigated, and since he’s a cop, you’d have nowhere to turn.”

Howell’s voice actually trembled a little, as if describing a fear he knew firsthand. Don shrugged. He was no crusading reporter. “Okay, Sam. No problem.”

“Good,” Sam said with real relief. “So you never did find the Hyatt place?”

“No, and I’m damn sure I was looking in the right place. I double-checked the map and the atlas. It’s almost like…”

“What?”

“You know what. You’ve heard the same shit I have, that the Tufa can disappear if they wanted to. That you could look forever but if they didn’t want to be found, they wouldn’t be.”

“Them big-time New York reporters sure found them. They’ve been all over the TV.”

“I know. But either I can’t follow directions worth a damn, or they covered up the end of that road sometime in the last few days and made it look like it’d always been that way.”
Or,
he thought,
the stories of the Tufa have more truth in them than I used to believe.

Howell leaned back and laced his fingers behind his head. He shifted into his Jason Robards mode, the fatherly editor who knows what’s best for his staff. “You’ve still got the assignment, Don.”

“I know, Sam.”

“No, I mean it. Your job is riding on this. I let it slide when you skipped those high school football games and wrote the stories from tapes off the radio, or when you ‘pretended’ to accidentally delete those spelling bee shots that you never took in the first place. This is your last chance, and I’m not feeling too generous about it right now. I admit running into Bobby Pafford can make a man a little shaky, but it’s not enough. You clear on this?”

Don nodded. He felt like a kid in the principal’s office. “Yeah.”

“I want it for next week’s issue. All original, with your own photos, not cobbled together off the Internet. In fact, I want to hear the tape of it.”

“You don’t trust me?”

“Don, I like you. That’s why you’ve still got a job. But no, I don’t trust you. You’ve lied to me enough times already.”

Don stood and walked back to his car, feeling a numb tingling on his face and neck. In the rearview mirror, he saw that his skin was still red with shame.

13

Marshall Goins looked up from painting the Catamount Corner’s porch rail. A white Altima pulled into the parking space right in front of him, and by the time he put down the brush and stood, Craig Chess was already bounding up the steps. “Good morning, Mr. Goins,” he said cheerily, extending his hand.

Marshall displayed his palms. “Sorry, Reverend, wouldn’t want to get paint all over you.”

“Isn’t it awfully early on a Saturday to be working so hard?”

“When you run your own business, every day’s a workday. And with my wife in charge, I’m lucky to get off for Christmas or the Fourth of July.”

Craig saw an opening. “You celebrate Christmas, then?”

He laughed. “Hell, don’t everybody?”

“Not Jews or Buddhists.”

“But I bet they still get the day off, don’t they? Well, that is, unless they’re married to Peggy.”

Craig laughed. Once again a Tufa had blocked any further religious conversation. “Beautiful morning, though, isn’t it?”

“Is that.”

“Is the café open so a fellow can get a cup of coffee?”

“I believe the wife’s in there. We’ve got a full house for the continental breakfast, so I’m not sure anything’s left.”

“Ah, just some coffee and a visit is all I need.”

Marshall sadly shook his head as Craig went inside. He liked the young minister, and there was something poignant about the boy’s doomed sincerity. He just hoped Craig didn’t take it personally when his church went belly-up.

*   *   *

Craig went through the lobby and into the little café. It was empty, and the table of goodies was pretty well picked clean. The carafe still held some coffee, though, so he put some into a Styrofoam cup, along with a package of sugar. He grabbed a plastic spoon, returned to the lobby, and leaned on the front counter. “Good morning, Mrs. Goins.”

Peggy looked up and smiled. “Why, Reverend, you can call me Peggy, you know. Everyone does.”

“Good morning, then, Peggy-you-know.”

She giggled. Craig was exactly the kind of man she would’ve found irresistible some thirty years earlier, on the trailing edge of the sexual revolution. She still fondly recalled venturing forth into the world and finding her Tufa forthrightness no longer sent men screaming for the hills. Now, though, her perspective, if not her libido, was considerably different. “I never knew a minister could be such a flirt.”

“Can I expect you and Marshall at church tomorrow? I promise a ten-minute sermon, no shouting about eternal damnation, and absolutely no speaking in tongues.”

“Oh, we can’t take the morning off, Reverend. We have guests that need tending. Some of them are even Yankees, and Lord knows what they might get into if we left them on their own.”

Craig expected her response; he looked on this as just another early skirmish in a long and concentrated campaign. “Well, if things work out so you can make it, I’d love to see you there. How much do I owe you for the coffee?”

“Not a thing, Reverend. And stop by anytime.” She smiled and momentarily resembled the girl she’d once been. Then her eyes opened wide. “Oh, goodness, would you look at that.”

“What?”

She tapped the plastic spoon in his coffee. It split, revealing two spoons stuck together. “I always heard that if you accidentally put two spoons in a coffee cup, it’s a sign you’re about to get married.”

He chuckled. “That’d be a miracle for sure, Peggy. Right now I haven’t even got a girlfriend.”

“Well, you might want to keep your eyes open. I’m pretty good at reading signs, they tell me.”

“I’ll sure do that.”

*   *   *

Outside, Craig asked Marshall, “Mind if I leave my car here? I was going to stroll around town a little bit, enjoy the breeze.”

“Reckon so,” Marshall said as he painted the railing’s underside.

Craig walked toward the post office. Sure enough, Rockhouse Hicks was in his usual place, all alone at one end of the long, narrow porch. Craig sat down in the rocking chair beside the old man and said cheerily, “Good morning.”

“It’s morning,” Hicks said without turning. He wore threadbare jeans, old loafers, and a flannel shirt whose collar points had worn away.