Something Bliss once told her came back vividly. They’d been seated on the edge of a cliff looking down over the valley, their bare feet dangling in the breeze. Bronwyn had been maybe ten. “There is no sanctity of life,” Bliss told the younger girl. “There’s always something that has to kill something else, either to eat it or to protect itself from it. And even with people, there’s some that just need killing. I remember a fella named Ardis, who used to live down by Trebbel Creek. He was the meanest fella anyone ever knew.”
“Meaner than Rockhouse Hicks?” Bronwyn had asked. Even among the children, the old man was notorious for his vindictive cruelty.
“Honey, he made Rockhouse look like a dang pussycat. But Ardis was Tufa, he had his song, and we put up with him as long as we could. But finally…”
“What’d he do?”
“Beat a fella’s dog to death. Tied the dog’s paws and beat it to death with a baseball bat. Started with the back legs and worked his way up so the dog would suffer the most.”
“Why?”
“The owner accidentally cut him off on the highway. So Ardis followed him home, stole his dog, beat it to death, and left it back on his driveway.”
Bronwyn was silent for a long time.
“You should feel bad hearing that,” Bliss finally said. “Just because we’re Tufa and can ride the night wind doesn’t make us above the rules of right and wrong. Ardis thought it did, thought that we’d protect him.”
“We didn’t? I mean, you didn’t? They didn’t?”
“‘We’ is always right. No, we didn’t. A man who’ll kill an animal that way will eventually move on up to people if he’s not stopped. The legal system says you have to wait until after the crime to remove them from society, but we have our own rules, and our own ways of dealing with things. He showed up at the barn dance to play, and no one stayed to listen. The next day he was found right there.” She pointed down, where the cliff ended eighty feet below at the tops of the trees. From this height, the highway resembled a gray ribbon.
“Wow,” Bronwyn said, imaging the impact as the body crashed through the tree limbs before striking ground she knew was rock hard. “So he killed himself?”
“Our songs are important,” Bliss said. “We have to know them. We have to sing them. And someone has to listen. That’s why we meet and play, that’s why Rockhouse’s people meet and play.”
“But he did kill himself?” she persisted.
Bliss looked into the girl’s eyes. “He needed killing, Bronwyn. Whether he did it to himself or someone else did it, the result was the same.”
Now Bronwyn recalled that conversation in a whole new light. Had Bliss confessed to murder? Had she personally shoved Ardis the dog-killer off the cliff? And ultimately, was she right? Hadn’t Bronwyn been trained to kill, quickly and efficiently, anyone her superior officers said “needed killing”? Bliss had at least made the determination herself; Bronwyn simply followed orders.
She put the letter aside and picked up another. It read simply, Get well soon. The Davis Family: Bill, Suzy, Brittany, and Joshua.
Her laptop was still packed away. She hadn’t checked her e-mail in three days, since leaving the base for the flight home. Would it now be full of similar greetings? She’d learned in the hospital that Web sites devoted to her, or rather to the media’s image of her, had sprung up like mushrooms after a summer rain. She’d deliberately avoided them; did these people not have lives?
She considered trying to get to the refrigerator for a beer to help her relax. She’d been sneaking beer out of that same fridge since she was twelve, and climbing out the window through which she’d spied the haint for almost as long. Lying in a drugged stupor in the hospital, she’d wished for this room with almost feral ferocity, but now that she was here, all the feelings that drove her away from it had returned. She felt more trapped than ever before.
She wanted a drink. She wanted to kiss a boy. She wanted that boy to put his hands all over her. She wanted to drive like a maniac, and pick fights with other boys’ girlfriends, and with other boys. She wanted to spray-paint something rude on the water tower in nearby Mallard Creek.
Instead, she was on her ass in bed, her leg assimilated by the Borg and her head numb and fuzzy. The Bronwynator had left the building.
She yawned. Now she was tired, after all those deep thoughts. She pushed the envelopes and cards aside and turned off the lamp. The sense of foreign objects under her skin was so palpable, she could barely stand it, so she closed her eyes and began whisper-singing one of the oldest songs she knew, something that always gave her comfort. She was so weary, she did not realize that this was the first whole song she’d been able to recall since her injuries. She just knew it felt wonderful to sing it.
The transition from song to dream passed without notice. Unlike her recent nightmares, in this reverie she reclined naked on soft grass, the night air warm and humid, the silver full moon overhead. Her skin was smooth and bore no injuries, no scars. In the dream she began to cry with happiness.
10
Deacon eased the tractor along the rows of knee-high corn. Dirt stirred by his passage sparkled in the morning sunlight.
He’d been up since before dawn, unable to really sleep. He’d heard the front door open, the creak of passage across the floor, and the distinctive squeak of Bronwyn’s bedroom door. He had a good idea who had come to visit, and why. At least this time it hadn’t been that damned Gitterman boy, but the knowledge did not help him relax.
He wiped his sweaty face with the back of his arm. The day was starting out muggy, so even though the temperature was pleasant he still dripped with perspiration. It wasn’t hard to farm in the valley, and this field was small but blessedly flat. All he had to do was keep the dirt turned, hum the right tune, and everything came up easy. They’d have enough corn for the family, and a little to sell besides.
Over the tractor’s rumble he heard a sharp whistle. He looked around, saw the source, and froze. He reached under the seat for the .22 revolver he kept handy to chase off rabbits and starlings and tucked it into the waistband of his jeans.
He left the tractor idling as he hopped down, feeling the impact in his knees and lower back. He strode across the field to the barbed wire fence, where Dwayne Gitterman stood leaning on a post. His truck was parked in the middle of the road behind him. He looked like he’d been up all night, with red eyes and a beer-stained shirt. Dwayne grinned and said, “Hey there, Mr. Hyatt. How’s the corn coming? Keeping the horseweed under control?”
“What do you want, Dwayne?”
Dwayne put one foot on the lowest strand of wire and lifted himself off the ground, using the pole for balance. “I was driving by, and when I saw you, I thought I might come by tonight and see Bronwyn.”
“Hm. When I saw you, I thought I might shoot you and bury you where nobody would find you.”
“Now that’s fucking harsh, Mr. Hyatt. I never did nothing bad to you or your daughter.”