Jeff Abbott: Promises of Home

If it hadn’t been for the flat tire, I would have just zoomed up to the Quadlander place. And things would have been different, perhaps. Truth would have hidden for a while longer, and I don’t like to think about what might’ve happened. It might have been worse than what did happen.

Trey once told me, long, long ago, that you had to stare death in the face to become a man. That autumn night, I stared too long.

The tire blew, a galumphing, popping sound, about a quarter mile from the gate that marked Hart Quadlander’s property. I pulled over to the side, cussing a blue streak (that’s allowed when Candace isn’t around). The tire had picked up a nail and, being old and somewhat bald, had given quick surrender. I popped open the back of my Blazer and pulled up the carpet, staring at the flat spare.

Nothing to do for it; I slammed the door and started the hike up to Hart’s horse farm. I opened the gate that blocked the road up to his property and closed it behind me, looping the wire back over the post to hold the gate in place. I was careful to secure it; I had to help Trey chase a horse down once that’d bolted past the gate and I wasn’t eager to repeat the experience.

Night had fallen by the time I walked the half mile up the hill to the old house. The home Trey’d lived in all those years didn’t face down the road directly; it stood at an oblique angle, turned slightly so that it faced the scenery of the creek, the dense growths of live oaks, pecan trees, and loblolly pines, and farther, the watery smudge of the Colorado River.

I noticed the sleek Volvo that was Steven Teague’s parked in the gravel drive. Why was he here? I’d tell Steven about the developments at the Foradorys, but I wasn’t done being suspicious of him.

A light shone brightly in Hart’s kitchen and I headed toward it. I saw Hart’s head move past in the lit window and then move back as he walked from his fridge. The window was closer than the door and I paused for a moment, trying to see if Steven was in there with him.

Oh, he was. In the fluorescent glow, I saw the two men standing together, laughing at some private joke, at ease.

And then Steven moved close and kissed Hart.

I felt nailed to the ground. The kiss lengthened, grew in heat, and Steven’s arms went around Hart’s neck, pulling him tighter in esurient need. I stood, not breathing, until their kiss broke. Hart ran a finger gently along Steven’s lips and moved to pick up a beer on his kitchen table. He said something, and I heard the distant tone of Steven’s laughter.

I turned and hurried away, embarrassed and shocked. I stumbled along toward the creek. Just go back and ring the bell, I told myself. Pretend like you saw nothing. But my feet didn’t obey, and I staggered down toward the sodden creek, the mud smearing on my boots. There was no dry spot to sit, so I squatted among the heavy, cablelike roots of a live oak and leaned against the rough bark.

Hart and Steven. Hart? Gay, and I’d never known? I’d known him since childhood, and he’d never told me? Hell, I suspected he’d never told anyone in Mirabeau. Had they seen me, stumbling into their private moment? No one burst from the house, so I assumed not.

I caught my breath and, in the beginning of moonlight, saw two distant markers among the trees. A pair of marble crosses, gleaming like silver. Louis Slocum’s grave. And next to it, Trey’s grave. Cold and moldering in their muddy tombs.

I closed my eyes. Hart was gay. Fine, okay, whatever.

Had Louis known, in those years he’d lived here in a drunken stupor? Had Trey ever known?

Nola’s voice, but Trey’s words, repeating to me what she’d heard Trey say to Hart: If it hadn’t been for Daddy, I wouldn’t have had to leave.

A glimmer of a scenario pulled at my thoughts. Hart had a terrible secret to keep. Ivalou Purcell, who had just redefined barking up the wrong tree, said Hart wasn’t around when she’d come here in that long-ago storm. What had she said? That drunken Louis was crying and saying Hart was gone.

Oh, God.

Where had Hart gone? Why would he be out in a hurricane? Why would Louis be upset over Hart being gone?

And the corollary question, the one that I stupidly should have known was the key: what the hell was Rennie Clifton doing in those woods during a storm? Why would she be out there?

Why would anyone be out in those woods?

Perhaps looking for a bunch of stupid boys sitting out nature’s fury in a rackety tree house. Knowing that their leader was your drunken friend’s son. That was one good reason. And if a cleaning girl who maybe learned your secret was out there, too-

Thomasina Clifton’s wry, scratchy voice came to my ear: She always liked having a man she couldn’t have…

And Nola, telling me about Trey and Hart’s conversation, where Trey had asked, Does anyone else know? and Hart answering, Only Steven Teague.

I felt ill. Voices sounded in my head, not giving me concrete evidence, but trying to pull together the tangled threads of now and then. I felt a tightening in my throat, as though the connecting strings of Rennie and Clevey and Trey and Hart and Steven were strangling me.

The door to Hart’s house opened, and in the sudden brightness, I saw Steven Teague step out. He and Hart talked briefly, then Steven stepped away and jaunted toward his Volvo. There was no parting kiss on the porch. Of course not-this was Mirabeau.

I leaned against the tree, shielding myself from the light. Steven’s car purred into life and he turned, the headlights sweeping the broad tree I’d hidden behind, and then tore off down the road. I stayed put, peering around the trunk only to see the hesitation of lights as Steven got out, un-looped the gate, drove through, halted again, and shut and secured the hasp. Then his Volvo turned and tore off toward town, its lights flickering as it passed through copses of trees.

Hart went back inside. Back inside his safe, warm home, while near this creek Trey lay dead. But Hart had a clear-cut alibi for Trey’s death. I shuddered in the evening chill.

I stood, anger and confusion coursing through me. I needed to head back to town, get Franklin Bedloe, tell my suspicions to Junebug. But I didn’t have a shred of proof. And I didn’t have transport home.

And I wanted to deal with Hart Quadlander on my own terms.

I hiked back up from the trees, only glancing once toward the cross that marked Trey’s body. I carefully cleaned my boots, scraping the mud off on a heavy, gnarled root that looked like a demon’s finger. I felt a huge, hot anger in me, but my movements were calm and measured.

Before I knew it, I was pressing the doorbell. It felt warm beneath my fingertips and I froze a smile into place.

Hart looked surprised to see me, but his face broke into a grin. “Hey, Jordy. How are you?”

I made myself sound hearty and slightly annoyed. “Well, Hart, fair to middling. But I’ve gotten a flat tire down near your gate. Could I borrow your phone?”

“Hey, sure, c’mon in,” he said, and opened the door wide.

“I hope I’m not interrupting your dinner,” I said.

“Nah, not quite yet. I was gonna throw a steak on the grill in a few minutes, though. I was just gonna have a drink and turn on the TV. You want a drink?”

I’d followed him into the nicely furnished, expansive den. Preternaturally my eyes absorbed each detail: hard wood floors, polished to shine. A stone fireplace, with a blaze roaring merrily away. A comfortable couch, its upholstery decorated with Indian totems, and a matching armchair, a James Michener novel facedown on the ottoman. A glass-front bureau, with rifles lined up in it like sticks. A secretary of glossy wood, an empty ice bucket, cans of soda, and a bottle of bourbon. And a bookcase, topped with photos of Hart’s parents shyly smiling, Louis standing soberly by a prize stallion, and Trey as a boy, cowboy hat jaunty on his head, grinning with mock innocence.