Brandi shook her head. “And now that Wayne’s in poor health, there’s no chance that Lois can take on more.” She chuckled. “And she and Wayne sure as heck aren’t in my fan club. They think the world of Missy. They’re happy for her to have the girls.” Brandi dabbed at her eyes with the heels of her palms. “I just hope I’m doing the right thing.”
“How can it ever be wrong when someone tries to get at the truth?”
“I don’t know. I just feel everything coming apart.”
“We’ll get it right,” Laverne said. “Trust me.”
When she got back from Shooter’s woods and stepped into her house, Missy picked up the phone meaning to call Brandi at home, but just then the phone rang, startling her.
It was Pat. He said, “I’ve been thinking about Ronnie’s girls.” He went silent for a few seconds, and Missy waited, wondering whether he’d give her his approval. She’d made it clear last night that it didn’t matter. She’d go ahead with or without his support. “I want you to know,” he said, “that I’m with you. I love those girls. We’ll make a good home for them. I’ve been trying to call you to let you know.”
She felt the tears coming. This was what it had been like the times she’d been pregnant, the two of them excited about having a baby.
Laverne Ott had already made plain what would have to happen to put the girls in her and Pat’s custody. First, Laverne would have to determine that it was unsafe for them to stay with Ronnie. Then, once Lois and Wayne confirmed that they couldn’t care for the girls, Missy and Pat would have to pass medical checks, and the State and the FBI would have to run criminal background checks on them. Then, within forty-eight hours, a sheltered care hearing in the local court would determine custody. The good news was that the State of Illinois recognized godparents as relatives, and Children’s Protective Services always wanted to try for placement with family if at all possible. Missy and Pat, now that Wayne’s health made it difficult for Lois to take the girls, were a more preferable option than licensed foster care parents, according to Laverne.
Missy knew that if she and Pat got the girls, they’d come with all the hurt they carried after the fire. She knew everything wouldn’t be smooth sailing at first, but she’d win them over with love. She’d give them all the love she’d saved up for the babies she’d lost.
“I was out in the woods,” she said to Pat.
“What in the heck were you doing out there?”
She told him about Shooter and the goat and how she heard the shot and had to go see what had happened. “I stood and watched for as long as I could stand it.”
“Why did he put that goat down?”
“He said it had foot and mouth.”
For a good while, Pat didn’t say a word. Then, finally, he said in a very quiet voice, as if he were afraid of what he was saying, “Missy, there hasn’t been any foot and mouth in this country for nearly eighty years.”
25
Inside Shooter’s house, as dark settled around the open countryside, he was explaining to Captain, as gently as he could, why he’d had to put down Methuselah.
“That goat was sick,” he said. “We’ll be lucky if he hasn’t made the others sick too.”
Captain had his pocketknife open, that Case Hammerhead, the one he’d said he’d lost. Now he was using the point of the blade to dig at the soles of his Big Horn Wolverine boots. Size elevens, just like the ones that Ronnie wore. Captain had come in from feeding the other goats, and he was sitting at the kitchen table, head down, as if he weren’t listening to Shooter at all. He just kept digging at those boots, gouging out pieces of the rubber soles until finally Shooter noticed the blood stains on the blade.
He was drying a pot with a dishtowel now, and he dropped the pot into the sink. The clanking sound caused Captain to jerk up his head. Shooter was standing over him with his hand out, palm up, and he was saying, “I thought you lost that knife.” Captain didn’t answer. He just kept digging at his boot soles. “Give it to me.” Shooter’s voice was harsher now. “Wesley, I mean it. I won’t stand for you lying to me.”
Captain closed the blade and started to stuff the knife back into his jeans pocket, but Shooter wasn’t about to let him off easy. He grabbed his arm and narrowed his eyes at Captain. “I’m not playing,” he said. “I want that knife.”
Finally, Captain let him have it.
Shooter snapped it closed and slipped the knife into his own pocket.
“That goat was sick,” he said. “We didn’t have any choice but to put him down. Right?”
After a time, Captain nodded. Shooter put his hand on his back, rubbing a slow circle.
“That’s right,” Shooter said. “That’s one thing we know for sure.”
Ronnie, at that very moment, was on the river. He’d parked his Firebird at the fishing camp, three miles out of Phillipsport, where one of his foster fathers had kept an old Airstream trailer. Ronnie had gotten out of the Firebird and walked a hundred yards or so down to the water.
The river was iced over, frozen thick enough for him to walk out onto it, all the way to the center — the deepest part — where for a moment, he tipped back his head and looked up at the sky. The stars were out and a crescent moon, just enough light to let him see the snow-dusted ice. Wind moved through the bare limbs of the sycamores and red oaks and hackberry trees that lined each bank. The smaller branches clicked together.
He liked being out there in the cold night, gazing up at the sky, imagining a heaven where Della knew the truth of what he’d done. Maybe in that heaven she’d even forgive him.
At any rate, she’d be the only one — at least it was so in Ronnie’s mind — who’d bear witness to what he was about to do, and she’d be the only one he’d feel inclined to tell why he had to do it.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered to the sky. He got down on his knees. “I’m so sorry.”
Then he took his pocketknife, the one Angel had found in the snow behind the trailer, and he opened the blade.
26
All through Sarah’s class play, Brandi couldn’t stop thinking about that moment in the kitchen when Laverne said it was time to talk to Sheriff Biggs. It was then that Brandi felt the two storylines begin to merge — her story with Ronnie and the girls, and the story of what had happened the night of the fire.
The youngest Billy Goat Gruff, a boy wearing a white sweat suit on which his mother had dyed brown spots, was trying to cross the wooden footbridge set up on the stage. The boy wore whiskers that were supposed to look like a billy goat’s beard and a set of droopy ears. A brown tail hung down from the seat of his sweatpants.
Sarah’s voice rang out, “Trip, trap, trip, trap.”
Hearing Sarah, her voice so full of confidence, made Brandi remember all the evenings at the house when she’d helped her practice her part. She thought of how the girls had been shy around her at first and how Emma had finally asked her to read her a story and then Sarah had stood by her one evening when she was on the computer, nestling in close, inviting a hug. Hannah had made her the friendship bracelet she still wore, and there had been times when even Angel had asked if she could put her hand on her stomach and see if the baby would kick.
Laverne was standing along the wall. Brandi could see her profile in the shadows cast by the stage lights. She’d left her house less than two hours ago with a promise to talk to Sheriff Biggs.
Missy and Pat were sitting a few rows in front of Brandi, to her right, and Brandi could see the way Missy was positively beaming as she watched the play unfold.
“Who is that walking on my bridge?” the troll in the play said. He was a scrawny boy who stood all hunched over. Someone had put wrinkles on his face and warts on his nose.