Under the Skin (41 page)

“What?” He’d looked up with a quizzical smile, which was rapidly replaced by a puzzled frown and a look of concern. As she continued to stare silently at
him, he had disentangled himself from her dogs and come toward her. She’d stared at the burly man with the soft dark eyes and nut-brown balding pate, trying to reassemble his pleasant features into a familiar face.

“Elizabeth, sweetheart, what’s wrong?” Suddenly the stranger was replaced by the familiar friend, the good man she’d come to rely on. She put down the phone and burst into tears.

He had put his arms around her again and she had relaxed against his comforting bulk. When her voice was under control, she asked, “Did you ever see that movie years ago—
Alice’s Restaurant?
Well, like Alice said, I feel like a poor old mother hound dog with too many puppies snapping at her tits. I mean, I’m already worried about Ben and Laurel, after what they’ve just been through, and now
Rosie …

“Sam and I thought it was all over—that she’d forgotten that awful Halloween and the days and weeks that followed. We were so grateful that she seemed … seemed
untouched
by it all that we just pretended it never happened, let
her
pretend there’d never been a little girl called Maythorn. But now it’s all come back. I should have known.…

“Don’t you see, Phillip? … I owe it to her … to both of them … to see it through to the end this time.”

Somehow it had gotten sorted out. Phillip had listened as she explained and, before she could finish, had pulled her to him again. She hid her face on his broad shoulder and wrapped her arms around him, trying unsuccessfully to capture the joyous abandon she had felt before Rosemary’s call.

His fingers traced a path along her cheek. “Hey, Elizabeth, it’s okay. This is something you have to do. And if I can help, you know I will.”

Gently, he cupped her chin in his hand and raised her head. “Elizabeth, what we were … where we were
heading just before that call … where I hope we’re still heading—that can wait a little longer.”

The deep brown eyes were steady on her and he smiled tenderly as he said, “Miz Goodweather, I want your full attention for what I have in mind.”

Elizabeth could still see his crooked smile as he had said good-bye. This man, an unwelcome stranger in her life not so long ago, had over the past year, in almost imperceptible increments, somehow become very dear to her.
Almost even … necessary
.

The thought was disturbing and she brushed it aside.
But he’s added something to my life … and he’s always been patient and kind, even in the beginning when I kept trying to ignore him
.

Phillip Hawkins and her late husband, Sam Goodweather, had been buddies during their years in the navy, and when Hawkins, a former police detective, had moved to the Asheville area, he had tried very hard to befriend Elizabeth. Her emotions still raw with the pain of her widowhood, she had rebuffed him until the suspicious death of a neighbor had forced her to seek his help.

The more time we spent together, the better I liked him. And then this nightmare we’ve just gone through in Asheville …
She shuddered at the vivid memory of a chase through dark corridors—a memory of blood and mirrors and madness.

Thank god for Phillip! A very solid bit of comfort and sanity to hang on to in a world gone askew. And if Rosie hadn’t called just when she did, I’m pretty sure he’d have still been here the next morning. I was so ready .…

Impulsively, she jumped to her feet and hurried inside to the phone. She put in his number, her thumb flying
over the tiny keys.
He might not have left for school yet—Didn’t he say his first class isn’t till ten?

The line was busy. She hit REDIAL. Still busy. Again. Busy.
Maybe he’s trying to call me. Okay, Elizabeth, put the phone down. Go do the dishes and—

The shrill ring of the phone in her hand startled her and she fumbled eagerly for the
ON
button.

“Phillip! I’ve been trying to—”

“Mum? It’s me, Rosemary. I’ve come up with a plan.”

Shit!
said Elizabeth to herself. She sat down heavily on the cushioned bench. “Hey, sweetie. Okay, tell me about it.”

“All right, Mum, here’s the thing. I’ve got a few Fridays free this semester and my only Monday class is in the afternoon. So that will give me some long weekends to be there at the farm and I’m going to work through this—I have to do it if it kills me. I’ve been making a list of places to visit and people to talk to—things that will help me remember. I do have a seminar this Friday, but I still want to come on and get started. If I leave right after class, I could be there in time for dinner. Then if I leave the farm Monday morning around eight, I’ll make it back with time to spare. One thing I know I want to do eventually is go over to Cherokee. I need to find out more about the Booger Dance.”

Elizabeth Goodweather frowned. The frantic whisper of Saturday’s call was gone—Rosemary’s tone was calm and perfectly controlled—maybe a little too controlled.

“Sweetie, you know I love for you to come home whenever. We’ve hardly seen you at all since you bought your house. Laurel was complaining just the other day that it’s been months … and I’d love to go with you to Cherokee—someone was telling me recently how good the museum is—but, Rosie, did you
say
Booger
Dance? Are you serious? What’s a Booger Dance and what does it have to do with Maythorn?”

“I’m not sure, Mum … but I think it’s important. It’s something that came to me as I was writing the story. You know I went with Maythorn a few times to visit her grandmother over in Cherokee. Remember, she was called Granny Thorn and she was a full-blood Cherokee—living on the Qualla Boundary. Anyway, one of my last memories of Maythorn is her telling me how she was making a mask for the Booger Dance so she could stop being afraid of someone. I went online and found out what I could about the dance. It all seemed really familiar … like I’d seen it. I’m not sure; maybe Maythorn’s granny took us to one that last weekend we stayed with her. Or, I don’t know—it’s vague; maybe she just told us about it.

“And then … it seemed like more and more memories of those two years started coming back to me, from the first time I saw Maythorn to right before … right before she disappeared … and I remembered a bunch of things she told me. Mum, I don’t know what’s important and what isn’t but I do know I have to follow this to the end.”

Phillip Hawkins looked at the clock. This was his first semester of teaching criminal justice at AB Tech, Asheville’s two-year community college, and he had a class at ten. There was still time. He reached for the telephone.

No. He clicked off.
What was it she said? Like a hound dog with too many pups? I need to back off—Elizabeth’s got enough on her mind right now
.

He stared at the phone, still undecided. Saturday night had been the first time he’d seen her cry—
Sam
mentioned that about her, how she almost never cried, tried to hide it, like it was a weakness
.

Back in their navy days, during those last long months before they were discharged, back when the one thing that loomed in their minds couldn’t be spoken of, he and Sam Goodweather had fought against the boredom, the danger, and the loneliness by talking about their girlfriends. Phillip had not met Elizabeth—would not meet her till years later at Sam’s memorial service—but he had known from the picture Sam carried that though she was not really beautiful, her long dark brown hair and startling blue eyes compelled you to look again.

Sam had told the story over and over—how he’d gone into a used bookstore in Tampa, while home on compassionate leave, in search of something to take his mind off the past, something that might give him a new direction. He’d been browsing the cluttered back room when he spotted a battered copy of
Walden
, a book he’d been meaning to read for years.

“I reached for it just as this tall girl with dark hair down to there reached for it too. My hand touched hers, and I swear to god, it was like a goddam jolt of electricity. Then she looked at me with those blue eyes and that was it. It was like I couldn’t get my breath.”

The tall girl had insisted that they flip a coin for the book. She had won the toss but when Sam invited her for coffee that turned into lunch and she learned that he was on his way back for his final tour of duty, she gave the book to him, first writing her name and address in it. A correspondence had ensued, and a little over a year later, soon after Sam’s discharge, they had married.

And me, I married Sandy. No electricity there. Just a pregnancy that wasn’t. A pretty, empty-headed little cheerleader with a cute giggle … at least, it was cute for the first month or so
. Hawkins glanced toward the bookshelf where he kept framed photos of his son and
daughter.
Still, there were some good times—and the kids, they were worth it. I don’t know, maybe if I’d had a different job, we’d still be together. Maybe
.

He shrugged his shoulders and ran his hand over his shiny scalp.
Nah, Sandy’s happier with her life now than she would ever have been with me. She’s got a nice tame husband who goes antiquing with her and plays bridge and crap like that
.

Phillip looked again at the pictures of his children.
Good kids, both of them. But they’ve got their own things going now—Seth keeps talking about bringing Caitlin to Asheville so I can meet her. And Janie—

Abruptly he picked up the telephone again and hit the familiar number. The harsh burr of the busy signal taunted him. He waited briefly and touched
REDIAL
. Once again the mocking busy signal rasped in his ear. Glancing at the clock, Phillip Hawkins muttered a brief imprecation, threw down the phone, and hurried out the door.

Why are you living in a barn? The solemn little girl stared down at Rosemary from the top of the granite outcropping. My mama says you’re hippies
.

Eight-year-old Rosemary, climbing laboriously up the slopes of the mountain pasture, a stout hickory stick clutched in one hand, was deep in her pretend of an explorer in unknown lands. At the unexpected sound of a voice, she glanced up in surprise. Two dark eyes in a brown face, half-hidden by a thick shock of black bangs, regarded her steadily from the top of the big rock that she had marked as the goal of her exploration
.

We are not either hippies. My grandmother says that, too, but we’re
not!
We’re the Goodweathers. And this is Full Circle Farm. My mum named it. And we’re just living in the barn till Pa and Uncle Wade can get our house built
.

Rosemary pointed down the mountainside to a flat, bulldozed area where two shirtless, tanned men in work boots, straw hats, and cutoff jeans were busy installing a window in the unfinished shell of a modest house. A tall, slender woman in a blue work shirt and faded jeans toiled up the steep road that led to the building site from the barn below. A thick braid of dark hair hung nearly to her waist. In one hand she carried a
thermos jug while with the other she held tightly to the unwilling fist of an energetic redheaded toddler. The child broke loose and tried to outpace her mother but soon took a tumble and sat down hard on her overalled bottom. Resisting any attempts to help her up, the child staggered to her feet, and ran. Once again her tiny boots slipped on the gravel and the scene was repeated
.

That’s my mum and my little sister. Rosemary jerked her head negligently in their direction. Her name’s Laurel. She’s only three and a half and she can be a pest
.

I have a little sister named Krystalle and she’s a pest too. The dark child patted the rock beneath her in a proprietary manner. You want to come up on Froghead?

Is that its name? Rosemary scrambled up the steep slope and climbed onto the tilted surface of the big rock protruding like a granite thumb from the mountain pasture. She moved cautiously up the incline and lowered herself to lie on her belly beside the other child. Who named it?

Me. The dark girl patted the rock again as if it were a living creature beneath her. It’s one of my special places. I know all about this mountain. My mama stays so busy with Krystalle that she doesn’t care what I do. Long as I get home for supper. A lean brown arm indicated a knapsack that lay beside a pair of binoculars. I pack my lunch and sometimes I stay out all day
.

I’m Rosemary. What’s your name? Rosemary cast an admiring glance at the other child’s long straight black hair and bronze skin. You look like an Indian
.

I
am
an Indian. Granny Thorn’s a full-blood Cherokee and my real daddy was mostly Cherokee. My true name is Mary Thorn Blackfox but mostly everyone calls me Maythorn. My mama told them at the school that
my last name is Mullins now, ’cause my real daddy’s dead and she’s married to Moon
.

Moon? Is he an Indian too? Rosemary propped herself up to look at this interesting stranger more closely
.

No, he’s just ordinary. Maythorn pulled the binoculars to her and trained them on the big pear tree near the house site. The two men, the woman, and the redheaded child were sitting on a stack of lumber in the shade of the tree while the men drank from tall glasses
.

Is one of those men your daddy? Slim brown fingers adjusted the binoculars for a closer view
.

He’s the one wiping his face with the red bandana. Now he’s tickling Laurie. His name’s Sam but I call him Pa. The other one’s Uncle Wade. He’s Pa’s brother and he’s staying here this summer to help build our house
.

Hmmph. The binoculars stayed in place. I figured they were brothers—both with red hair and all. The lenses turned toward Rosemary. Do you like your uncle?

Rosemary wrinkled her brow at the glittering lenses. What do you mean? He’s my
uncle!
He’s really funny and nice and he tells dumb jokes all the time. The impassive lenses continued to hold her gaze. And he’s teaching me how to play the harmonica. Why wouldn’t I like him?