the road above.
The old man stopped by the largest structure, which had been painted white once. The windows were broken out, roof caved in. “You ever heard the term, ‘company store’?” He walked around to Michael’s window, pointed at the building. “There she sits.”
Michael climbed out of the Rover. “I don’t understand.”
The old man took a round can from his back pocket, pinched a half-inch of tobacco and stuffed it under his bottom lip. “Slaughters built all of this back in the day. Wrote mortgages so we could own our own place, then paid us with a mix of cash and store credit. Half the folks here either worked for them or watched their parents get old and broke doing it.”
“Half of them?”
“Rest are hippies and homeless and Mexicans. Lady you want is at the end of that track, last one back, where the water falls off.” He pointed at a sloppy, wet scar through the trees. “House used to be yellow. Sits on the creek’s edge, with a big, flat boulder for a front yard. Kind of pretty once upon a time.”
Michael stared off down the track. “You’re not coming?”
“That’s my house, right there.” He pointed at an unpainted shack fifty yards off. A half-built barbecue pit dominated the patch of dirt off the front porch.
“Your pit looks good.”
The man shrugged. “Been telling the wife I’d do it for twenty years.” He winked. “Figure building it’s the best shot I got of dying in peace. You go on down, now. Her name’s Arabella Jax. She hears better than she sees, and has shot more than one dog what wandered onto her porch. So, let her hear you coming. Just don’t tell her I’m the one who sent you.” He squelched back toward his truck, but Michael had a few more questions.
“Why do you think she knows anything about Serena Slaughter?”
“Not sure she does, but everybody down here worked in the quarry or the mines. She’s the only one left who worked in the house.”
“Doing what?”
“Dishes. Laundry. Rubbing the old lady’s feet. Hell, I don’t know.”
“Why do you think she’s the one that burned the house?”
“They had some kind of falling out.” The man swung into his truck, spoke through the passenger window. “Mostly, she’s the only one down here mean enough to do it.” He put the truck in gear, lifted a hand. “Hang on to your wallet,” he said, and drove off laughing.
Michael watched his tires sling mud, then catch. He stepped back to his own vehicle and felt eyes watching him, caught movement in shady places behind open windows. It would be a short walk, he thought, but doubted the Rover would survive his absence. So, he drove.
The track went between two houses, then bent toward the creek and followed it deeper into the gorge. Michael had seen a lot of poverty in his time, but never as entrenched as this. This place had been here for a long time, and it had always been poor. No power. No phone. Trees chopped down for firewood.
The yellow house sat far back from the rest, and he saw how it could have looked once upon a time. The creek slid past the front of it, touched the side of a giant, flat boulder as it formed a wide, deep pool and then dropped off in a whisper of spray. There was a view down-gulley, and the river itself glinted far down in the green.
But that’s where the prettiness ended. Most of the gutters had fallen down years ago and lay rusted in the dirt. Those that remained were clogged and sprouting saplings two feet tall. A blue tarp covered part of the roof, and tarpaper showed where windowsills had rotted off the sides. Boards were missing in the porch. What paint remained was deep in the grain.
Michael turned off the car and got out.
A sickly smell wafted from an open window.
“Arabella Jax?”
He stayed well back from the porch. Didn’t have to wait long.
“Who wants to know?”
A smoker’s voice, and strong enough.
“I’d like to ask you some questions.”
“About what?”
“May I come up?”
He thought she was near a window. Right side. He couldn’t see her, though. Just a hint of furniture and mustard-yellow curtain.
“I don’t talk for nothing,” she said. “You got money?”
“Yes.”
“Then don’t let grass grow under your feet.”
Michael stepped carefully onto the porch. The door was open, a torn screen hanging off-kilter. The smell was stronger this close, fetid and thick as oil. “I’m coming inside,” he said.
“Don’t need a goddamn play-by-play. I see your hand on the door.”
The screen door stuck, then swung wide enough to knock against the house. The room beyond was dim and low. Michael caught a glimpse of worn carpet and ancient furniture. Arabella Jax sat in chair by the window. She wore a housecoat that had once been white, but now looked like dirty dishwater. Gray hair clung to her skull; her face was collapsed and sallow, sockets pushing against the skin around her eyes. She had one leg up on a lime green ottoman, and it was the leg that smelled. From the foot to the knee, it was swollen and purple. Two toes were missing, and open sores showed where the skin had broken down.
Diabetes, Michael guessed. Bad, too.
She acted as if unaware of the smell or sight. An ancient shotgun lay across her lap: double barreled with big, scrolled hammers. “Come closer,” she ordered.
Michael did as she asked, and she leaned forward. “Pretty one, aren’t you?” She leaned back, held out a hand. “Money first.”
“How much?”
“All of it.” He didn’t argue. He had three hundred dollars in his pocket, and handed it over. She thumbed it professionally, then shook an unfiltered cigarette from a rumpled pack and struck a match against the table. Smoke gathered in her open mouth. “Now, tell me sweetness…” She narrowed her eyes. “What can I tell you that’s worth three hundred American dollars?”
Michael thought of the many ways he could approach this. He could finesse, give the backstory, tell lies. In the end, he said what was most on his mind. “What can you tell me about Salina Slaughter?”
She froze, smoke around her face. “Salina Slaughter?”
“Yes.”
“Salina…” Her hands went white on the gun. “Motherfucker.”
She got a thumb on one of the big hammers, cocked it as the barrel came up and her bad leg thumped once on the floor. There was fear in her face, and anger, too. But fast as she was, she was not that fast. Michael kicked the ottoman aside, stepped forward and snatched the gun out of her hands. She pressed back in the chair, hands up and teeth bared. “God damn it,” she said. “No-good motherfuckin’ jumped-up city-boy…”
Michael pointed the gun at her, let the hammer stay up and cocked. She stopped talking. “Are you finished?” he asked.
She eyed him steadily. “Nobody gets that fast doing God’s work.”
“Maybe not.”
“You planning to pull that trigger?”
“Haven’t decided yet.”
“Well, think fast, boy, ’cause I dropped my cigarette and it’s burning my ass.”
“Go ahead.”
She dug the cigarette out from between her leg and the cushion. Stuck it in her mouth. “Do you mind?” She gestured at the ottoman. “My leg ain’t what it was.” Michael nudged the ottoman with his foot. She propped her leg, then leaned back and studied him like she didn’t care if he pulled the trigger or not. “That flatland ball-licker send you up here to kill me?”
