leeway and Gerald, too.”
Not
Dad
, but
Gerald
. Della had always recognized the rift between father and son. At certain moments Clay believed his mother alone had the ability to fathom his inner conflicts. She understood. She’d seen his toddler hands reaching out for the father who shunned contact; she’d heard the oft-repeated manifesto: “Gotta be a man’s man. You got that, Son?”
“Now,” she said, “why don’t you come sit at the dining table. I’ll reheat the supper I made for you. I bet you’ve missed your mother’s cooking.”
Della could stray so far off the path that Clay questioned her altogether. “Actually,” he snarled into his pillow, “I’ve missed Jenni’s cooking.”
“You coming?” Della said through the closed door.
“Coming.”
“Dollface?”
“Coming!”
“By the way,” she said as he shoved into the hall, “you got a phone call earlier on. I thought I might mention it while out of earshot of your father.”
“Don’t tell me.”
“It was Mylisha. Mylisha French.”
“I said, don’t tell me! As if I don’t have enough to think about already.”
Eve Coates bolted up this time. The torturous scratching was only feet away.
Behind the wall, right there!
She dropped to her knees at the bedside and waited until the scratching repeated. This time it was further down the house, and she thought she heard heavy footsteps. From the radio, a rich tenor voice continued serenading the night.
She decided she couldn’t just sit here until some unknown attacker came for her. She had to put her panic aside and deal with this. That’s what Mitchell would tell her.
Eve whispered, “Oh, Mitchell, where are you? Why tonight of all nights?”
On hands and knees, she scurried to the closet and slid back the door. Her fingers felt along the metal runner in the carpet, the roll of wrapping paper, the shoes and boots and her only pair of high heels—which, she reflected, she hadn’t worn since brother-in-law Donny’s latest wedding in the lodge at Odell Lake.
The polished stock of the shotgun renewed her confidence. A little, at least.
She inched up the wall into a standing position, weapon at her side. She could do this. Her arm brushed against a picture frame on the wall. In thephoto, Mitchell stood proudly beside that train engine downtown, the one he’d helped repaint.
Now don’t do nothin’ silly
, she told herself.
Be ready!
She cocked the gun the way her husband had shown her and moved into the hallway. She wondered if the intruder had entered the house. If it was an intruder at all. Maybe a big animal. Had she left a window open? What about the cat’s door? The last cougar to kill a person in Oregon had been only a couple of miles from here.
Past the parlor and into the kitchen, she crept. With the shotgun’s barrel resting on the counter, she picked up the phone and dialed 911. A woman answered. Her steady voice encouraged Eve to collect her thoughts.
“Need to report an intruder on our property,” Eve said. “A thief, I think.”
“Are you at your home? On Dane Lane?”
“Oh my goodness, I can hear ’em moving around outside.”
“Ma’am, you’ll have to speak up.”
“They’re outside. I’m afraid they … they might hear me.”
“Can you see, is it a person? Could it be a dog or a cat? Maybe a raccoon?”
“Reckon so,” she said. “Could be just about anything. Please, what do I do?”
“Take it easy now, and tell me your name. To whom am I speaking?”
“Eve. Eve Coates. My husband, he’s—”
“Okay, Mrs. Coates, I want you to breathe deeply and stay calm. I’ll dispatch an officer to your home. You sit tight, and everything’ll be fine. He should be there within ten minutes.”
Lights were moving inside the barn, throwing pale spears into the dirt and compost pile outside. Someone was out there. Maybe more than one of them. What did they want anyway? Unspeakable answers spun through her head.
Ten minutes? That’s
Not
Dad
, but
Gerald
. Della had always recognized the rift between father and son. At certain moments Clay believed his mother alone had the ability to fathom his inner conflicts. She understood. She’d seen his toddler hands reaching out for the father who shunned contact; she’d heard the oft-repeated manifesto: “Gotta be a man’s man. You got that, Son?”
“Now,” she said, “why don’t you come sit at the dining table. I’ll reheat the supper I made for you. I bet you’ve missed your mother’s cooking.”
Della could stray so far off the path that Clay questioned her altogether. “Actually,” he snarled into his pillow, “I’ve missed Jenni’s cooking.”
“You coming?” Della said through the closed door.
“Coming.”
“Dollface?”
“Coming!”
“By the way,” she said as he shoved into the hall, “you got a phone call earlier on. I thought I might mention it while out of earshot of your father.”
“Don’t tell me.”
“It was Mylisha. Mylisha French.”
“I said, don’t tell me! As if I don’t have enough to think about already.”
Eve Coates bolted up this time. The torturous scratching was only feet away.
Behind the wall, right there!
She dropped to her knees at the bedside and waited until the scratching repeated. This time it was further down the house, and she thought she heard heavy footsteps. From the radio, a rich tenor voice continued serenading the night.
She decided she couldn’t just sit here until some unknown attacker came for her. She had to put her panic aside and deal with this. That’s what Mitchell would tell her.
Eve whispered, “Oh, Mitchell, where are you? Why tonight of all nights?”
On hands and knees, she scurried to the closet and slid back the door. Her fingers felt along the metal runner in the carpet, the roll of wrapping paper, the shoes and boots and her only pair of high heels—which, she reflected, she hadn’t worn since brother-in-law Donny’s latest wedding in the lodge at Odell Lake.
The polished stock of the shotgun renewed her confidence. A little, at least.
She inched up the wall into a standing position, weapon at her side. She could do this. Her arm brushed against a picture frame on the wall. In thephoto, Mitchell stood proudly beside that train engine downtown, the one he’d helped repaint.
Now don’t do nothin’ silly
, she told herself.
Be ready!
She cocked the gun the way her husband had shown her and moved into the hallway. She wondered if the intruder had entered the house. If it was an intruder at all. Maybe a big animal. Had she left a window open? What about the cat’s door? The last cougar to kill a person in Oregon had been only a couple of miles from here.
Past the parlor and into the kitchen, she crept. With the shotgun’s barrel resting on the counter, she picked up the phone and dialed 911. A woman answered. Her steady voice encouraged Eve to collect her thoughts.
“Need to report an intruder on our property,” Eve said. “A thief, I think.”
“Are you at your home? On Dane Lane?”
“Oh my goodness, I can hear ’em moving around outside.”
“Ma’am, you’ll have to speak up.”
“They’re outside. I’m afraid they … they might hear me.”
“Can you see, is it a person? Could it be a dog or a cat? Maybe a raccoon?”
“Reckon so,” she said. “Could be just about anything. Please, what do I do?”
“Take it easy now, and tell me your name. To whom am I speaking?”
“Eve. Eve Coates. My husband, he’s—”
“Okay, Mrs. Coates, I want you to breathe deeply and stay calm. I’ll dispatch an officer to your home. You sit tight, and everything’ll be fine. He should be there within ten minutes.”
Lights were moving inside the barn, throwing pale spears into the dirt and compost pile outside. Someone was out there. Maybe more than one of them. What did they want anyway? Unspeakable answers spun through her head.
Ten minutes? That’s
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