calls and then it was agreed that the baby would stay with her until more information was available. None ever was and the girlchild stayed on and Gene’s mother named her Skye after the color of her eyes.
When Gene’s father returned at the end of his tour he was even quieter than before. Only now there seemed to be a corked violence in his spare frame. He looked at the child and shook his head and ignored it. Never acknowledged the toddler’s first stumbling steps or its first words either, Skye staring up at him while he drank bourbon—which he was doing in ever greater quantity—and saying “dada.”
Gene’s mother was delighted. “Did you hear that? Did you hear what she called you?”
Gene’s father stood and pushed past them, Skye wobbling and falling on her diaper-wrapped butt.
He’d said, “I ain’t no pa to that thing,” and went and got himself another bottle.
The warble of Gene’s phone brought him back to the now, and as he accelerated away from the crossroads he took the call.
“Martindale.”
“Deputy, this here is Sheriff Drum.”
“Yes, Sheriff?”
“Would you do me the courtesy of meeting me at Earl’s in, say, fifteen minutes?”
“What’s on your mind, Sheriff?”
“It concerns the mess at the roadhouse.”
“Take it up with the state police.”
“Deputy, believe me, you won’t want me breathing a word of this to no state police.”
“Then come to my office.”
“Nossir, my preference is the diner. Fifteen minutes.”
Gene was left holding a dead phone. He cursed the giant, a man marinated in corruption. But he drove to the diner, and when he arrived the sun was low , the far hills across the border black against the gaudy oranges and purples.
Drum’s Ford Expedition was parked outside Earl’s, and when Gene shoved open the door, hearing the jangle of the chimes, he saw the sheriff was the only customer, his bulk squeezed into a booth. He was reading a newspaper, a Coca-Cola on ice in a sundae glass on the table before him.
Skye stood near the serving hatch, her fingers nervous on the ballpoint clipped to her apron. Gene nodded at his sister and sat down opposite the sheriff.
Drum lowered the newspaper and smiled, a gold tooth winking at Gene. “Thanks for coming by, Deputy.”
“I’m expected at my office, Sheriff. Can we keep this brief?”
“Oh, that we can, son. That we can.”
The newspaper rustled as Drum took one of the pages between thumb and forefinger and lifted it from the tabletop, coy as a chorus girl. Gene saw a ziplock bag beneath. Saw a pair of broken, blood stained eyeglasses in the bag. Looked up as Skye walked toward him, her pen poised above her order book, her face empty of spectacles.
He waved her away, then his attention was on Drum, who let the newspaper settle back onto the tabletop.
“Tell me what you want,” Gene said.
13
Skye saw her brother’s expression shift from loathing, to shock, to naked fear. By the time he looked up and waved her away, he had composed himself, rearranged his features into their familiar blank, unsmiling lines. But as she walked off and stood by the window, staring out through the dusty glass at the coming night, she could feel his terror. This wasn’t some flash of intuition, it was as if she was jacked into him, her nervous system coupled to his, and the heat of his fear flowed into her.
On the tail of the fear came a lurching sensation low in her belly, like she’d experienced once in a skyscraper up in the big city where she was taken for a psychological assessment, when an elevator had plummeted in free fall from the highest floor, before suddenly braking at ground level. The other passengers were unmoved but Skye was left shaken and disoriented, stumbling out into the sunblasted lobby.
Skye consciously broke the connection to her brother, felt an actual physical uncoupling and pushed through the doors out into the hot, gasoline-scented air. She was dizzy, walked a
When Gene’s father returned at the end of his tour he was even quieter than before. Only now there seemed to be a corked violence in his spare frame. He looked at the child and shook his head and ignored it. Never acknowledged the toddler’s first stumbling steps or its first words either, Skye staring up at him while he drank bourbon—which he was doing in ever greater quantity—and saying “dada.”
Gene’s mother was delighted. “Did you hear that? Did you hear what she called you?”
Gene’s father stood and pushed past them, Skye wobbling and falling on her diaper-wrapped butt.
He’d said, “I ain’t no pa to that thing,” and went and got himself another bottle.
The warble of Gene’s phone brought him back to the now, and as he accelerated away from the crossroads he took the call.
“Martindale.”
“Deputy, this here is Sheriff Drum.”
“Yes, Sheriff?”
“Would you do me the courtesy of meeting me at Earl’s in, say, fifteen minutes?”
“What’s on your mind, Sheriff?”
“It concerns the mess at the roadhouse.”
“Take it up with the state police.”
“Deputy, believe me, you won’t want me breathing a word of this to no state police.”
“Then come to my office.”
“Nossir, my preference is the diner. Fifteen minutes.”
Gene was left holding a dead phone. He cursed the giant, a man marinated in corruption. But he drove to the diner, and when he arrived the sun was low , the far hills across the border black against the gaudy oranges and purples.
Drum’s Ford Expedition was parked outside Earl’s, and when Gene shoved open the door, hearing the jangle of the chimes, he saw the sheriff was the only customer, his bulk squeezed into a booth. He was reading a newspaper, a Coca-Cola on ice in a sundae glass on the table before him.
Skye stood near the serving hatch, her fingers nervous on the ballpoint clipped to her apron. Gene nodded at his sister and sat down opposite the sheriff.
Drum lowered the newspaper and smiled, a gold tooth winking at Gene. “Thanks for coming by, Deputy.”
“I’m expected at my office, Sheriff. Can we keep this brief?”
“Oh, that we can, son. That we can.”
The newspaper rustled as Drum took one of the pages between thumb and forefinger and lifted it from the tabletop, coy as a chorus girl. Gene saw a ziplock bag beneath. Saw a pair of broken, blood stained eyeglasses in the bag. Looked up as Skye walked toward him, her pen poised above her order book, her face empty of spectacles.
He waved her away, then his attention was on Drum, who let the newspaper settle back onto the tabletop.
“Tell me what you want,” Gene said.
13
Skye saw her brother’s expression shift from loathing, to shock, to naked fear. By the time he looked up and waved her away, he had composed himself, rearranged his features into their familiar blank, unsmiling lines. But as she walked off and stood by the window, staring out through the dusty glass at the coming night, she could feel his terror. This wasn’t some flash of intuition, it was as if she was jacked into him, her nervous system coupled to his, and the heat of his fear flowed into her.
On the tail of the fear came a lurching sensation low in her belly, like she’d experienced once in a skyscraper up in the big city where she was taken for a psychological assessment, when an elevator had plummeted in free fall from the highest floor, before suddenly braking at ground level. The other passengers were unmoved but Skye was left shaken and disoriented, stumbling out into the sunblasted lobby.
Skye consciously broke the connection to her brother, felt an actual physical uncoupling and pushed through the doors out into the hot, gasoline-scented air. She was dizzy, walked a
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