Bloody Kin (7 page)

She listened intently, but the cry was not repeated.

At the bottom of the slope, the packhouse loomed up darkly beside the lane, its one window like a black eye patch on the north side peering out at her.

Kate had just drawn even with it when her blood froze at the sudden awareness of another presence. Footsteps approached stealthily from behind the packhouse.

She heard dead leaves crunch beneath someone’s feet, a slight scuffling of twigs brushed against the wall, and she became rigid, unable to breathe.

“Lacy?” she whispered.

Silence.

“Who’s there?” she said tremulously.

The scuffling became louder and closer.

She drew back to run just as the dogs burst through the bushes and tumbled into the lane to greet her. Shaky with relief, Kate realized that they had caught her scent and come down from the yard to meet her.

She bent to scratch behind their ears and let them nuzzle her face and a cold shock of reality flowed through her. Part of her desire to walk home alone was to prove to herself that the morning’s shakes had been a passing condition.

The dogs had just shown her that her nerves were not as steady as she’d thought.

She was still feeling edgy as the dogs escorted her through the orchard, although the area light mounted on a pole near the kitchen porch made another surprise like the dogs unlikely.

Up in the yard, an unfamiliar dark green truck was parked under the light. It had a larger cab than the usual pickup and its longer bed had no side panels, only a row of what looked to Kate like four or five fencepost on either edge of the flatbed. There was some sort of homemade winch immediately behind the cab and double rear wheels supported the flatbed.

A low murmur of masculine voices reached her ears and when Kate passed the truck to approach the back porch, she saw Lacy and another man leaning against the truck in deep conversation.

The other man spotted Kate first when she was about forty feet away. “Evening, ma’am,” he said.

Lacy straightened abruptly.

Kate gave the formal nod she knew was expected and would have continued on into the house had not Lacy suddenly become mannerly for the first time since she’d arrived.

“This here’s Tucker Sauls,” he said. “He’s gonna help me haul out some of them firewood logs.”

Tucker Sauls was cut from the same mold as Lacy: tall and bony and just as wrinkled, but with the same impression of wiry strength. He lifted his crumpled old fedora and the light overhead revealed a bald head. “Evening, ma’am,” he repeated.

Kate was momentarily confused, not wanting to violate the delicate mores of country courtesies. Did Lacy expect her to join them by the truck?

She slowed her steps and acknowledged the introduction with a friendly smile and pleasantries about the spring night even as she kept moving toward the back porch.

Evidently, it was the correct response, for she saw Lacy relax against the truck side as she said goodnight and entered the house.

She went to the telephone and called Gilead, and, when a maid answered, asked that Gordon be told she’d returned safely.

By then Kate was so tired that she went straight to bed and was already drifting off to sleep when she heard the old truck outside crank up and lumber on down the lane.

C
HAPTER
8

The Alberta Clipper roared out of Canada that night to glaze the Midwest with yet another layer of ice and snow and to dump ten inches on winter-weary New York. By the time it reached central Carolina some time after midnight, though, its power was diffused. The mercury dipped into the upper twenties as winds shifted from southeast to northwest, but the sun came up on clear skies and forecasters were predicting temperatures in the low fifties.

“A beautiful March day for Greensboro,” burbled the announcer. “How nice for Greensboro,” thought Kate and switched off the bedside radio with only a fleeting wonder as to why a Raleigh station would report on weather ninety miles to the west.

She had awakened with boundless energy and by nine o’clock, her first load of laundry was flapping in the breeze and the old automatic washer in the kitchen was chugging through a second load of overalls and flannel shirts that she’d practically wrestled away from Lacy.

“I can do my own washing,” he told her.

“I know you can, Lacy, but I have some jeans and things that won’t make a full load, so why waste the hot water?” she asked, determined that Lacy would not spoil her good mood.

His thrift appealed to, Lacy had grudgingly complied.

“I’ve started a grocery list on the counter,” she told him. “If you want to add anything, I have an appointment in Raleigh and I’ll shop afterwards.”

The telephone rang and she hurried down the hall, thinking they really could use a couple of extensions.

“Good morning, Cousin Katie,” came Rob Bryant’s cheerful voice over the wire. “Mother tells me you’ll be in town this afternoon. Why don’t you come a little early and let me take you to lunch?”

“I haven’t spoken to your mother since lunch yesterday,” Kate laughed, “so how did she know?”

“I never question Mother’s sources. Nor her facts. She isn’t wrong this time, is she? You will come in for lunch, won’t you?”

“I’d love to, Rob, but the movers haven’t arrived, so I couldn’t give you a definite time.”

“That’s okay,” he said. “We didn’t schedule much for today. Come when you can. I’ll wait for you.”

By mid-morning, the brisk sunny day had dried the laundry, and as Kate folded sheets and shirts out by the clothesline, the dogs gave friendly woofs of warning and she turned to see a blue Toyota pickup drive into the yard with Mary Pat holding on tightly in the back.

Gordon emerged from the passenger seat as if from a Rolls. Despite plaid flannel shirt, corduroy slacks and brown wool sweater, he couldn’t help looking faintly patrician as he presented the Toyota’s driver to Kate, who left her laundry basket on the kitchen porch and came forward to meet them.

Tom Whitley was older than she’d expected. Instead of a college kid, he was perhaps in his mid-twenties, a sharp-featured young man with a shock of dark brown hair and deep-set brown eyes that met and then darted away from Kate’s. He wore jeans and a denim windbreaker and had the nervous intensity of a man more at ease with things than people. “Mr. Tyrrell says you need some work done.”

“And he tells me you’re a good carpenter,” Kate smiled, instinctively trying to put him at ease.

“I’m a pretty fair jackleg,” he said, looking over her head. It was impossible for Kate to hold his eyes. He spoke to the air just left of her face or to the sleeve of her sweater. He kept one hand in his pocket and Kate heard the nervous tinkling of loose change against his key ring.

“Perhaps you’d like to see the place,” Kate suggested kindly.

The four of them walked through the orchard to the packhouse accompanied by the two pointers and Aunt Susie, a mostly beagle bitch who patiently withstood Mary Pat’s hugs and ear-scratches.

While Kate outlined her plans for a studio, Whitley took a screwdriver from his back pocket and poked and pried at the rotten wood beneath the north window. He lifted the trapdoor, pushed the curious dogs aside so that he could examine the joists from below, and pronounced the floor basically sound. Kate described the counters she wanted built and Whitley looked at the top button on her shirt and made some suggestions about rewiring and plumbing.

“If you’re not in too big a hurry, I can work this in around my school schedule and on weekends, and probably be finished in two weeks if that’s all right with you and Mr. Tyrrell.”

“Take all the time you need,” Gordon said.

“Gordon, are you sure?” asked Kate. “I don’t want to impose.”

“You’re not imposing. Tom’s conscientious about Gilead, but there just isn’t enough to keep him busy until summer, is there, Tom?”

Before he could answer, Mary Pat appeared at the open door with a kitten cradled in each arm and said, “Cousin Kate, Uncle Lacy’s calling you. Your truck’s come.”

“I
will
impose now,” said Kate and described the heavy chest that needed to be shifted.

The movers soon had Kate’s cartons, drawing table, and few pieces of furniture stowed in the front parlor; then they hoisted the sideboard up on their dolly and, with Tom Whitley’s help, muscled it to one of the unused bedrooms upstairs. Kate had just signed the final voucher and sent the movers on their way with a generous tip when the phone rang.

“Dwight Bryant,” Lacy called down the hall.

“Oh, dear! He’s going to ask about that man’s name,” said Kate.

“Gordon, do you mind? Look for the carton marked with Jake’s name, okay?”

She darted along to the telephone and heard Dwight drawl, “Morning, Kate. Wonder if you’ve had a chance to find those pictures of Jake’s yet?”

“The cartons just came. Hang on a few minutes.” She hurried back to the front parlor.

“Is this the one?” asked Gordon, pushing aside some of the boxes so Kate could get closer.

“That’s it.” She began to tear at the tape that held the cardboard box together.

“Here, let me,” said Tom Whitley. He took out a pocket knife and sliced through the tape.

The top fell open and Kate rummaged among books and papers. “You didn’t look through James’s trunk yet, did you, Gordon?”

“No, it completely slipped my mind. I’ll go up to the attic this afternoon.”

The bulky manila envelope she sought was halfway down and, since Dwight was waiting on the telephone, Kate just upended it into the carton.

Letters, draft papers, military forms, a battle ribbon, part of a torn army terrain map, and some odds and ends with Vietnamese printing tumbled out. Mixed in were a handful of snapshots and negatives. Kate hastily riffled through them until she found the one she had remembered, a picture of Jake with three companions. On the reverse was his round scrawl: “Nam ’70 w/Tyrrell, Covington & W.T.”

Like James, Jake had occasionally worn a mustache in Vietnam, only he had shaved his off permanently when their tour of duty was over. Kate had to look carefully to distinguish her husband’s face from his friend’s. The difference in height helped. Bernie Covington’s beard was as full as she remembered; the youngest man’s face was indistinct.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Kate apologized to Dwight Bryant a moment later. The dim hall blurred the snapshot’s details. “It really doesn’t look much like the man in the packhouse. The mole’s the same, but I can’t tell a thing about his features because of the beard. Anyhow, I was close—the name is Covington, not Chesterton.”

She spelled it for him. “I have to go out this afternoon, but if you want the picture, I can leave it with Lacy.”

“Well, the name’s the important thing,” said Dwight. “With his fingerprints and a name, we can go ahead and see what the army knows about him. If it’s all the same to you, I’ll pick up the picture tomorrow morning sometime.”

“Okay,” Kate agreed.

She returned to the parlor and put the snapshots back in the envelope with Jake’s other service souvenirs.

“Dwight Bryant says he’ll come for it tomorrow,” she said.

“Bet he don’t budge ten feet from a television the rest of the day,” Lacy said with what was almost a chuckle.

Gordon glanced at his watch and announced that it was high time he and Mary Pat went home for lunch.

Kate thanked them for their help and Tom Whitley almost met her eyes as he promised to return the next day, Saturday, and help figure out what materials they should order from the lumber company.

When they had gone, Kate finished taking in the laundry; and as she passed through the kitchen, she found Lacy heating a can of soup for his lunch, the television tuned to some sporting event. She showered and put on a favorite plaid silk dress in tones of jade. It should have bloused more at the waist, but with a navy linen blazer, she didn’t look too pregnant. Even so, it might be time to check out some maternity clothes, she decided.

When she stepped back in the kitchen to pick up the grocery list, Lacy barely acknowledged her departure over the roar of the frenzied television crowd.

The drive to Raleigh took about thirty-five minutes and was a pleasant meander along back roads past dandelions, purple henbit, patches of blue Quaker-ladies, and white Johnny-jump-ups. In June and July, the ditch banks would be thick with orange daylilies and clumps of butterfly weed; blue cornflowers would run through fields of grain; then autumn would bring blue asters and purple shooting stars beneath early-turning trees. Kate loved how wildflowers marked the seasons along this country road that turned and twisted and eventually brought her through a large dairy farm at the southwest edge of town, a dairy farm owned by North Carolina State University.

The university’s curriculum was heavily weighted with science, technology, and computer engineering; but it had begun as an agricultural school and, even though it was no longer a cow college as Duke and Chapel Hill students teased, it would never shake off its origins—witness the several hundred black and white cows that still grazed on rolling green meadows and ignored the passing cars.

Despite its growth, Raleigh remained an easy town to drive through. Street parking was a problem in midtown since Fayetteville Street had been converted to a pedestrian mall; but in the Cameron Village section where Rob Bryant practiced law, Kate found several empty spaces outside his office building.

Against all professional procedures with which Kate was familiar, the firm’s receptionist had a tiny portable television on her desk. She turned down the audio as Kate approached, but her eyes flickered toward the picture.

“Mr. Bryant, please,” Kate said.

“He’s in conference right now,” she smiled. “Is he expecting you?”

“Yes, he is. I’m Mrs. Honeycutt.”

The young woman glanced again at the television. “Carolina’s ahead of Clemson by five,” she grinned, “and here’s the commercial. I’ll see if Mr. Bryant’s free.”

She rose and disappeared around the corner. In a couple of moments she reappeared, followed by Rob.

“Kate! Come on back and let me introduce you to everybody. You met Debby, didn’t you? Debby Mizner, Kate Honeycutt.”

They exchanged polite smiles.

“Rob, I don’t want to interrupt you if—”

“No interruption,” he said, hurrying her down the hall. “It’s two minutes till the half, though.”

He opened the door to a formal conference room. The chairs along the glass-topped table were occupied by eight or ten people with soft drinks, coffee cups, and various take-out lunches; smells of pizza sauce, fried chicken, and deli pastrami mingled in the air. At the end of the room was a large color television, and Kate saw a basketball court awash with pale blue and white uniforms and excited cheerleaders waving blue pom-poms.

“Okay, you people. Drag your eyes off the screen a minute. This is Cousin Kate from New York,” Rob said.

A friendly chorus greeted Kate, but Rob’s exhortation to his colleagues was useless.

“Can you believe Matt Doherty today?” exclaimed a young woman who was otherwise a dress-for-success model of a tailored-down, buttoned-up attorney.

“Yeah,” chimed one of her male counterparts who was dabbing at a mustard stain on his tie. “You expect Sam Perkins or Michael Jordan to make those super shots, but Doherty?”

“It was the Duke game that did it,” said one of the gray-haired senior partners magisterially.

“He’s had the potential all year,” agreed another partner who had also graduated from Carolina.

“A flash in the pan,” the one Duke alumnus in the room said gamely. “Duke took ’em to two overtimes last Saturday and I bet we edge by tomorrow.”

Jeers went up at his heresy and as the buzzer sounded for the end of the first half, everything suddenly fell into place for Kate: it was basketball tournament time for the Atlantic Coast Conference—a spring madness almost incomprehensible to newcomers or outsiders.

With Duke, Wake Forest, Carolina, and North Carolina State within spitting distance of each other, and with no professional teams to engage their enthusiasm, North Carolinians picked a college team to which they remained loyal from birth to death. It was exactly like being born into a political party or a religion, Kate had decided. If your family were State fans, you grew up one, too. You wore a little red T-shirt with a wolf on the front when you were a baby, you bristled at the sight of other babies in Carolina blue T-shirts, and both of you learned early to yell, “Nuke DOOK!” when egged on by the adults in your respective families.             

When you grew up, your car would sport bumper stickers that read “Phi Packa Attacka” or “If God’s not a Tar Heel, why’s the sky Carolina blue?”

And once a year, when ACC Tournament weekend rolled around, if you were not a heavily-contributing alumnus—the twenty thousand or so tickets were split among the eight colleges and were never, ever sold to the general public—you settled in with a group of similarlyaligned friends for three days of intensive television viewing.

This year’s tournament was at the Greensboro Coliseum, which was why, Kate realized, the radio announcer this morning had been so happy about Greensboro’s weather. This was also why Lacy had turned on the television for lunch, why Rob’s firm had kept the afternoon clear, and why Dwight Bryant might not be seen till Monday morning.