“You come in here seeking help, then you give me a couple pieces to a five-hundred-piece puzzle. I ain’t that good, what should be obvious to you by now. Come clean and we might be able to wrap this thing up. Then you can go back to Chicago, and I can stop having these acid reflux attacks.”
Leonard started to speak and said nothing.
“Suit yourself. If something happens to Ruth Ann, or someone else in your family, and you had a chance to stop it….” He paused for maximum guilt effect. “Maybe your conscience could live with it, I know mine couldn’t.”
Damn! Leonard thought. Another guilt trip. This one damned convincing, too.
If his mother found out his reticence contributed to the death of one of her children… Too painful to consider.
Yet he couldn’t mention the haunted look in Shirley’s eyes when she handed him the will. And he certainly couldn’t discuss the phone conversation he’d had with Robert Earl.
“You did it?” Robert Earl had asked.
“Did what?”
“You know? The H-I-T?”
“What hit?”
“You know, the hit on the Ruth Ann? Shirley didn’t tell you? Oh-oh, I’ve said too much on the phone.”
No way could he mention that crazy exchange. He didn’t hate Ruth Ann. He didn’t particularly like her, either. Yet he definitely didn’t want to see her dead.
“Well?” Sheriff Bledsoe said.
Leonard shrugged. “That’s it, Sheriff. I don’t know what more to tell you.” Sheriff Bledsoe intensified the stare.
If Sheriff Bledsoe investigated crimes as well as he stared people down, he could have his own crime show on television. Leonard stood up, his knees stiff again. Stress. “I’ve got to go, Sheriff.”
“I’d sure like to see the will. I could drop by and check it out?”
“I got a few errands to run. I’ll bring it here later this evening.” Stiff knees and guilt complexes and all, he limped across the room and out the door.
Chapter 32
A redheaded woodpecker drilled on a cottonwood tree behind the cabin. The noise awoke Ruth Ann, fuzzy on where she was and how she got here. Above her no ceiling, only rafters festooned with spider webs.
She looked to her left and saw Shane sitting on a bed, sharpening something with a stone. “Good morning,” she said, smelling her breath, wishing she’d brought toothpaste. Shane grunted and continued what he was doing.
The cabin was smaller than she’d thought. The floor simply a dirty slab of concrete. A large rock fireplace dominated one side of the room. The walls, hewed logs, were soot-black and oozed resin. No window or back door.
Ruth Ann stared at Shane, shirtless, wearing only black slacks torn and frayed at the cuffs. The same pants he’d worn to the funeral. She couldn’t distinguish his face with his head down, intently focused on whatever he was doing.
Uncombed light-brown afro speckled with green bits. Hands and bare feet particularly dirty. Yet he looked very much a man. Tall, lean, muscular, curly hairs sprouting on his chest, he was the twin image of his father.
“Where’s the restroom?” she asked him. “I need to freshen up.”
Shane stopped his work and looked up at her. “No bathroom. You can go behind a tree. No one will see you.”
“Never mind. What are you doing?”
“Sharpening my arrows,” resuming his work.
Ruth Ann sat up and noticed the couch she’d slept on was orange. An orange, paisley couch.
“Shane, is there any water around here?”
“Behind the cabin, not too far down, there’s a stream.”
He looked up and smiled, teeth straight but yellow. “This is my home. You’re the one visiting.”
“Don’t you get lonely here? I mean, don’t you think about girls. A handsome-looking young man like yourself, some girl would be glad to get her hooks into you.”
Shane shook his head. “Girls laugh at me. Always have. I don’t even say nothing and they start laughing. Here I don’t get laughed at.”
“Sugar, at sometime or other, everyone gets laughed at. It’s no big deal. I promise you all the girls won’t laugh at you, not with your looks. You’ll never know if you stay up here. You have to get out, take chances. You can’t hide from life.”
Shane stood up, countenance conveying discomfort with the conversation. “I’m going hunting. I thought there was enough meat. It isn’t. There’s two turtle eggs round back. You can eat em.” He started for the door, stopped and stepped to her. “Don’t move.”
“What?”
“There’s a tick on your neck.”
Slapping her neck: “What!” She felt something…
Shane tilted her head with one hand and pinched her neck with the other. “Here it is,” presenting a small brown bug with a white dot on its back.
Ruth Ann almost fainted. “What if it has Rocky Mountain spotted fever? Or West Nile disease? I’m dead!”
“I doubt it. They bite me all the time. The head is still in. You’ll know if you start getting sick.”
“What! The head is still in?”
“I didn’t get it all out, just the body.”
“I feel sick already,” rubbing her neck. She did feel queasy and her neck felt a little swollen where the tick was imbedded.
“I’m going hunting. Might be a while ’fore I get back.”
“Shane, you can’t leave! A tick with a dot bit me!”
“We need food,” and walked out.
Ruth Ann started to follow him but didn’t. If some unknown tick virus was circulating through her body, she’d better conserve her energy. When Shane came back she would have him walk her down the hill. He could stay as long as he liked, but she’d overstayed her welcome.
She couldn’t get the tick out of her mind. If she’d been infected with a deadly virus, what would be the first symptom? What if she was too weak to yell for help?
She jumped up and stripped out of her clothes. The tick might have brought a relative or two along with him. She scrutinized her entire body, including the bottom of her feet, and didn’t find anything. She put her clothes back on and lay down on the couch.
An hour later: “Peekaboo!”
“Howdy,” Shirley said, standing over her, pointing a gun in her face.
“Shirley, please! Please, Shirley! Don’t shoot me! Don’t shoot me! Think about Momma—this’ll kill her.”
“Shut up! You didn’t think about Momma, did you? Didn’t think about any of your family, did you? Your husband, your son, my son, me, nobody! Only thought about your-damned-self, as usual.”
