Bound by Blood and Brimstone (44 page)

frozen face. “I'm afraid he's dead. Our President has been assassinated.”

It was unfathomable. It was true. Our fair, young, glory-crowned ruler, hero to a

generation, had fallen. In the blink of an eye, America had been orphaned, lost in the wilderness

without a leader. I couldn't grasp it. No one could grasp it.

Aimlessly, I wandered the streets, seeing the same questioning, grief-glazed look on

every face. Evil had padlocked us into one shattering moment in history, and we had no clue how

to find the key. Hope had been murdered, our innocence ripped away, and all we could do was

shake our heads and let the tears fall.

People milled about in clusters in front of the courthouse and stores, their voices muffled,

their eyes red. Normally a noisy place, Kelly's crowd was hushed, overshadowed by the

occasional clatter of dishes from the kitchen. It was surreal, taking orders, seeing the

handkerchiefs come out, hearing the same subdued conversation at every table. I realized we

were in the midst of a wake.

With a heavy heart, I stumbled into the yard hours later, wanting nothing but the solitude

of my room where I could sort through the devastation in my own way. I opened the front door,

ready to embrace the dignified respect owed to a king cut down in battle.

Instead, a party waited. Balloons had been strung from pillar to post, and colorful, cone-

shaped hats adorned five heads. A chocolate cake graced the coffee table in front of the

television as Walter Cronkite gave voice to a nation's loss.

Reese greeted me with a whoop and brash applause, his face split with a gleeful smile.

“Come on in, Honey! Have a piece of cake. We're celebrating!” he shouted, throwing his arms

wide. “That socialist, liberal bastard can burn in hell now! America is free again! Hallelujah!”

Reese's performance had shaken me so badly I would've fled alone that very second had

it not been for Sam's terror-stricken face as he watched the obscene gaiety around him.

Waiting to save enough money was going to be harder than I'd imagined. Once I did the

math, calculating every conceivable angle, I did it again, and then again. The same stubborn

answer kept staring me in the face. I needed lots more time.

Lord, how can I stand it any longer in this house? So, Momma and Reese, you win after

all. By the time I can afford to get us away from you, you'll have brand new parents for Joshua.

You won't say who they are, but I can tell it's going to be all wrapped up nice and neat, just the

way you planned it. Joshua, gone forever.

“I need to talk to you,” Lorrie Beth informed me one evening after a late supper. Drained

and frustrated, she sat on the edge of my bed while I ironed a skirt for work the next morning.

After putting Joshua down for the night, I knew she was wrung out and feeling low. As a stout

toddler now, Joshua responded to her with stoic defiance and demanded attention she didn't want

to give.

To make matters worse, she'd refused to learn sign language, erecting another barrier

between her and her son.

“Sure,” I said in a bubbly voice, when in truth I was practically asleep on my feet. I was

working twelve hours a day at Kelly's, and no longer had the energy to worry about her sun-

starved skin or the sharpness of her collar bones poking through her nightgown.

She tucked her hair behind one ear, averting her face and turning to my window and the

moon-drenched landscape beyond. “When a person kills himself, do you think he'll go to hell?”

I had to lay the iron down using both hands to keep from dropping it on my foot. Dread

leaked over me, teasing into my pores with clammy fingers.
Not now, Sis. Please not now. Just

hold on a little longer.

Releasing my pent-up breath, I eased onto the bed's edge and drank in the sight of her

lean profile and the delicate line of her upturned nose. Suddenly, I was perilously close to tears.

“Look, Sis, nobody can answer that question. I certainly wouldn't want to find out the

answer. Besides, even if the person didn't go to hell, he'd still be dead, and his problems wouldn't

go away. Right?” I swiped my sweaty palms on my jeans, pressing down hard to camouflage the

tremors.

She sighed and swiveled her head toward me, exposing the naked despair in her face. “I

want to die,” she said in a monotone. “I honestly want to die. It's all I think about. I'm tired,

Ember Mae. So tired.”

I felt the blood leech out of my face. It happened so quickly black spots danced across my

field of vision.
I won’t cry. I won't listen to this. I can't
. Leaning over, I stuck my icy face in

hers.

“Lorrie Beth, listen. I've had a lot of time to think about things, and I have something to

tell you. Something you need to know.” Unblinking, she stared at me with vacant eyes, tucking

and re-tucking the same strand of hair behind her ear.

“It's about Sue Lee,” I continued. “I think it's really over now. Over for good. Even if

she's ever found, which I seriously doubt, there's been nothing but bones for the longest time

now. Nobody could ever identify her. Lord knows she never had any dental records, and an

autopsy is out of the question. You have to have soft tissue for that.”

I was gushing, errant thoughts tumbling out end over end. Maybe I figured a river of

words could drown out the heinous thoughts she'd been having. “There's nobody left in the

Jacobs family to push for more investigation,” I rambled, unable to dam the flood. “Just Walter,

and he was too little at the time to know anything. And besides, with everything else that's

happened, Sheriff Bates has more fish to fry.”

As I paused for breath, she put her hand out and laid it on my arm. Her touch was heavy

and cold. “What are you talking about?” she asked, shaking her head as if coming out of some

daze. “You think Sue Lee has me worried? I don't care about her anymore.” She attempted a

smile, but it came off as more of a grimace.

“Ember Mae, stop fretting over me. I'm fine. I don't need anything. I just don't want to be

here anymore. I want to be gone.”

Lorrie Beth's death-filled words pushed me into the future with a violent shove. Enough

money or not, we had to leave.

Tomorrow's Monday. It'll have to be tomorrow. I'll play sick and stay home from work.

Sam will have to lay off school since he's obviously got what I've got, sleeping with me and all.

Momma's taking the jeep into town to visit Lorraine Miller's sick mother, and Reese will be with

his crew. We’ll just take my money, walk to town, and get bus tickets.

Driven by panic and desperation, I'd come up with the most insane plan ever. We’d make

our way to Huntington and ask Aunt Celeste to take us in until I could earn enough money to

move us out. I knew I'd pay dearly for her silence, but even so, the price had to be less than that

of remaining in the same house with my mother and Reese Watkins. We’d strike swiftly and

surely, before either of them were the wiser.

Satisfied we could pull it off, I felt a relief so great, it left me light-headed, as though a

heavy weight had been lifted from the top of my head. Only one thing remained for me to do

before I could close my eyes for the night. I had to find out why Reese insisted on going to the

barn at night to pray.

It had always bugged me, seeing his lantern out there at such odd hours. His nights were

randomly chosen, making it impossible to predict when he’d disappear from the house. I

wouldn’t leave without uncovering the secret to that mystery.

When I was certain the household was asleep, I eased out of bed, slipped a light blanket

around my shoulders, and slid into my shoes. I reasoned that the most painless exit was through

my window.

Treading stealthily in the cool, midnight air, I picked my way to the barn door and teased

it open.
Thank God Reese keeps
the hinges oiled
. Reese's lantern shone dimly from an empty,

straw-filled stall near the back.

I could hear him long before I got close enough to see, and what I heard almost sent me

tearing out of there at a dead run.
This is what I've come for. Can't chicken out now.

He was chanting, his voice almost melodic, lilting, with a steady cadence. “Oh, Lord,

pour out your mercy and forgiveness on this wretched carcass, this maggot beneath your glorious

feet. Forgive me, and I will avenge your enemies, Oh Lord. I will hammer them into the dust of

the earth.” Again and again, he repeated the litany, eerily hypnotic, bizarrely soothing.

So powerful was the effect of his words, I was partially numbed to what he was doing.

With a makeshift cat-'o-nine-tails, fashioned from willow switches and string, Reese was

flogging himself. With relentless rhythm, he slung the device over his head with enough force to

punch a breath out with each blow. His bare back was a mass of inflamed welts, weeping

wounds, and a network of thin scars.

Back in my bed, I could only stare into the darkness, trembling, waiting for dawn,

waiting for escape.

As soon as Momma and Reese had gone, I tossed the covers aside and raced for the cellar

with Sam on my heels. Placidly, he lowered himself to the dirt floor, where he'd left his digging

sticks and pail.

“You know Momma doesn't like you hunting for treasure down here,” I said absently,

scooting quart jars of sauerkraut aside.

“Look, Ember Mae,” he called, his sticks scratching like crazy.

“Not now, Sam. I'm busy.” I scooted and rearranged more jars. I know it was in this spot.

A gallon jar half full of cash can't be this hard to see!

“Look! This corner was sticking up, and I kept digging around it, and I found a treasure

chest!” The childish voice, laden with excitement, faded to black as I gulped hard to swallow the

knot of panic.

It simply can't be gone! It can't. I know it was here. Think. Think. Could it have fallen?

There's no broken glass. No one saw me put it here. No one knew. It can't be gone!

In a frenzy, I cleared every shelf of Momma's canned goods, my burning eyes scanning

every visible space.

“Ember Mae, you have to look at this.” He was behind me, tugging at the back of my

nightgown, demanding audience, and I whirled blindly, ready to strike out at the unwanted

intrusion.

I stopped. Sticking out of his dirt hole was a small wooden chest with the initials R.W.

carved in the lid.

“What’s that?” I asked stupidly.

“I told you. It's a treasure chest,” he repeated, relieved to finally have my attention. I bent

down for a closer look. The chest had no lock. As Sam watched, I lifted the hinged lid and

dropped to my knees in the cool dirt.

There, in front of me, lay a stack of yellowing envelopes, all addressed to me and bound

with twine. The return addresses, smeared and faded in spots, were from several states, and a

couple were postmarked within the last year.

The handwriting had my heart gripped in a fist. I recognized it on sight--Janine

Westerfield’s. I ran my palms lightly over the creamy surfaces.
Alive! She's alive
somewhere.

“Look, there's more stuff under the paper,” Sam cut in. His voice sounded dim and far

away. The air around me seemed to congeal, making it difficult to move. As if in slow motion, I

poked through scattered objects beneath the envelopes.

There were a stack of photographs, all of dark-haired young women. There was a lock of

hair, a homemade dog collar with a name etched in a tag, and an emerald ring. The name on the

dog collar was Max. The ring was Noah Lunsford's.

Sam’s piping voice dimmed further as I ran trembling fingers over this odd assortment of

hidden secrets. It was when I picked up the emerald engagement ring meant for my sister that I

was slammed from the inside. My little window, my eye to the hearts of others, closed and silent

for so many years, fairly exploded in my head.

Spiraling splotches of crimson and black danced in front of me in splashes of vivid liquid

as the rest of the world winked out. With the loss of my vision my hearing died as well, and I

was left groping and deaf, helpless to stop the psychic assault as Sam’s frantic hands plucked and

pried at my nightgown. I could sense his fear, smell it even, but paralysis robbed me of the

ability to reach out to him.

R.W! Reese Watkins! Why on earth does Reese have Max’s old
dog collar and Noah’s

ring?
Grappling to hold onto my clotted thoughts, I found nothing but those two questions before

the visions started. Faces and images flashed and throbbed against my skull with lightning speed:

Daddy’s beloved face, smiling, as he sat on the porch carving - Janine tossing her head as

she faced off Caleb Jacobs - Mike Sheldon, sitting on a log in the woods, boring into my soul

with amber eyes - Noah Lunsford, sweaty and glorious, biceps bulging as he swung an ax -