“No! Not after I did it for you, for us!” He waved wildly with the . 38 pistol that seemed too big for his hands.
“For us?” Nola repeated, cold shock edging her voice. “Scott, hush up right now! You don’t know what you’re saying!”
“Scott!” Hart’s voice, solid, commanding, the voice that had lectured Trey and me on shooting guns and riding properly. “Stop this foolishness, right now, son. Put that gun down.”
“You shut up!” Scott demanded. He turned entreating eyes back toward his mother. “I had to, Mom, I had to. He didn’t want us no more, he wanted Arlene and”-he moved the gun in a vicious swath toward Mark-“and he wanted you. You. I was the one that was supposed to be his son, not you!” Anger made his voice ragged.
“Baby, please,” Nola entreated. Scott ignored her.
I glanced at Mark, He still seemed transfixed by Scott, like the injured bird gazing steadily at the slithering cobra. He attempted to step back and stumbled into Bradley, who cowered behind him.
“Stay put!” Scott ordered him. “You stay right there.”
“Scott,” I said quietly. He swung the gun back toward me, quick and sure. If only one of us could get at him-I prayed we’d still be able to talk him down.
“You tell me. How did you know?” Scott demanded.
“Why? So you can shoot me, too? You’ll have to shoot us all, Scott, and I don’t think you want to do that. I don’t really think you want to hurt anyone anymore.”
“I will.” His voice broke with tension. “I have and I will. Why don’t you ask that stupid police chief of yours?”
I swallowed. “You were the only one who heard Clevey and Trey argue. You were the only one-besides Hart- that knew they shared any sort of dark secret in their lives before either of them died. And that Saturday morning, you came home early from the basketball court. So when you heard Trey pledge his undying love to my sister, and say he wanted her and Mark back, you decided to kill him. And you decided to make it look like he’d died because of some connection to Clevey. You heard the conversation between him and my sister, but they didn’t know you were in the house-at least my sister didn’t. And when she left, you got Trey’s gun and shot him in the back. Then you painted that 2 DOWN in blood to suggest that Trey’s murder was part of a pattern that started with Clevey’s death. Then you shot Junebug to keep the pattern going. No one would look twice at you that way, although a man you loved as your daddy was about to drop you and your mother.”
“No,” Nola moaned. “No, please, Scotty, no.”
“Mama! I couldn’t let him hurt you anymore.” Scott’s voice broke tearfully. “We were gonna be a family.”
“You decided you’d pretend to be friendly to our family, friendly in particular to Mark. Become his pal, spend time with him. You brought back those photos. You hinted that Trey’d corresponded with my mother, knowing full well that she’s sick now and couldn’t say she had or hadn’t written Trey. But there was no way in hell that she would have been writing Trey in secret. Not my mother. I should have seen through you then, but maybe I wanted to believe that Trey still cared about our family. You wanted us to trust you, like you. So maybe when you got your revenge on Mark, when you killed him or hurt him, it would look like an accident.”
Hart coughed and I glanced at him. “You broke into our house, Hart, looking for those letters. You couldn’t take a chance that Scott was lying. You had to see if there was any written evidence about what Trey had seen between you and his father.” Hart nodded mutely. I turned back and my heart stopped. Scott leveled the pistol directly at Mark’s head. Mark pushed a crying Bradley back and stared at Scott with hate.
“If Trey wants you so bad, you can just go to him now!” Scott shrieked, and I rushed forward, yelling at Scott. The cold eye of the . 38’s barrel swung at me and a strong arm shoved me to one side, diving for the gun.
Light exploded in the night. Nola screamed, Bradley screeched, birds burst from the trees in a spinning wheel of caws. I pulled my face from the mud, scrabbling madly toward Scott. He was on the ground, wrestling with Mark for the gun. Both had their hands on the weapon and I reached between them, yanking it away.
“You killed him! You killed my daddy!” Mark screamed into Scott’s sobbing face, pounding him with his fists. Adrenaline powered me hard and I jerked Mark away with one arm, getting myself between him and Scott. Nola collapsed to her son’s side, cradling his sobbing form in her arms.
“Oh, my baby, oh, my baby,” she cried. “Why did you have to do this?”
I swung around, holding Mark tight to me. Bradley knelt by Hart, lying flat on the ground. I hurried to him and saw the blood gurgling out of the horrible wound in his chest.
He looked at me, life ebbing in his eyes. I shoved Mark toward the house. “Call 911! Run, hurry!” Mark turned, wordless, and sprinted away.
“Hart! Hold on! Help is coming!” I begged him.
“No… Mark…”
“Mark’s okay. He’s okay, you saved him.”
“Mark… tell him sorry… his daddy… all these years… my fault…”
“No, it wasn’t.” I squeezed his hand tight. “It wasn’t your fault. Now you have to hold on, you have to-”
He pressed my fingers in answer. The darkness of the night became the darkness of his eyes. The breath ceased. I stayed kneeling in the mud by his side.
Nola held Scott tight, knowing he would soon be pulled from her arms. He did not try to run. But he stared at me with eyes of ice.
21
I sometimes hold it half a sin
To put in words the grief I feel;
For words, like Nature, half reveal
And half conceal the Soul within.
The January wind blew cold as I stood on the porch, staring out across the pasture and down to the river. Hart’s family had really planned right all those years ago, turning the house just the right angle so that on a gloriously clear day you had a panorama of shapeless woods and squared meadows and a ribbon of river. I leaned against the cold wood of the porch. The wind, gusting, moved the dry grass in the fields and carried the lonesome cry of a migrating bird far in the sky. They were familiar sounds, and I could nearly imagine that the wind also sustained the whinnying of excited horses, the thunder of hooves, the laughter of a young Trey Slocum and Jordan Poteet as they rode across the pastures of Hart’s farm.
Mark’s farm, I corrected myself. The words sounded odd to me. I turned back to the door to see just what was taking the young squire so long.
Through the door I could see him talking quietly on the cordless phone. I tapped and he held up a finger, just a minute.
I turned back and watched the bare branches of the tree’s sway in the wind. That night six weeks ago seemed horribly close, the cutting wind feeling like death’s finger on my face. The ambulance and police cars roared up the road-I’d sent Bradley to open the gate for them. But for Hart, it was minutes too late. The bullet had been too cruel.
Scott had surrendered without struggle. He was in a nearby juvenile detention facility since he was only fourteen. Scott would be tried as a juvenile, since he was under fifteen and obviously a child who’d suffered terribly due to a lack of role models. I spat in the grass. He’d killed two men and nearly killed a third. Scott seemed hardly childlike to me. I’d gotten to where I could hardly stand to watch his grandstanding attorneys on the nightly news.
Other adjustments weren’t easy either. Thomasina Clifton finally learned the truth about Rennie’s death. I’d
