Jeff Abbott - Only Good Yankee

Someone faked those files, Jordan, I never saw them before. I never heard of Gary Zadich, or of any plan to resell the land. But those letters in the computer were going to make it look like I had.

Someone’s trying to set me up.” I stood in the gentle quiet of my living room, listening to her, trying to weigh her words. “How do I know that you’re not making this up, Lorna, that you’re just trying to cover your tracks? Why didn’t you just leave the files alone and tell the cops that they’re faked?” “I was afraid. I checked the files; they were created long ago. But they were in Greg’s directories, ones I’d never seen before until I started trying to track down what he was up to. I made a mistake, I panicked. I got rid of them.” She paused.

“Don’t you believe me? For God’s sake, Jordan, this is me. You know me better than anyone else, how could you think I would lie about this?” “I don’t know what to think anymore,” I said, sitting down. My stomach felt tied in knots. I stood back up. “We better call the cops again and tell them this.” Let Junebug decide if she was lying or not.

I didn’t want the responsibility anymore. The phone rang just as I was reaching for it. “Hello?” The voice was breathless with fright. “My God, Jordy, this is Twyla Oudelle. I need help and I can’t get ahold of Junebug. Tiny is-” And the phone went dead. I held the receiver in my hand, feeling coldness creep over me. “Miss Twyla? Miss Twyla?”

There was not even the normal hum of the dial tone. I hung up and tried to dial Miss Twyla’s number. There was only mocking silence. I tried to call Candace-she was only across the street. No answer.

Either she wasn’t at home or didn’t want to chat. My heart pulsed in my throat. “Mark!” I bawled. He came running down the stairs, disheveled with sleep. “Look, there’s something wrong at Miss Twyla’s.

See if you can get hold of Junebug. He’s probably still out looking for Parker Loudermilk. I’m going over to Miss Twyla’s.” “I’m coming with you,” Lorna said. I didn’t bother to argue with her. All the fight was out of me. Horrible thoughts played in my mind on the short drive over to Miss Twyla’s, like a bad B-movie festival. Tiny strangling Miss Twyla with the phone cord he might have yanked from the wall, Tiny snapping Nina’s thin neck with a flick of his wrist I thought of that faraway day on the playground, his weight against my throat, him trying to shift the life out of me with slow resolve. “You better stay in the car when we get there,” I said to Lorna, my anger with her temporarily eclipsed by my concern for Miss Twyla and Nina.

“Tiny can be trouble.” “You sure you trust me to stay in the car? I might try to hot-wire it and steal it.” Her voice was back to the peculiarly Northern brand of sarcasm that she could excel in. “For God’s sake, Jordan, don’t be both judge and jury of me. If we could get out of Mirabeau for a while, talk about us-” “There’s no us, Lorna.” I pulled up in front of Miss Twyla’s darkened house. I couldn’t help but glance across the street to Candace’s; it was darkened, too, and her car was gone. Lorna stayed silent; we got quietly out of the car, me taking along a flashlight I always kept in the glove compartment. She wasn’t going to wait in the car, and I didn’t argue. I wasn’t used to sneaking up on houses, but I had toilet-papered many a one in my roguish youth, so I made a beeline for where I thought the bedroom window was. I kept an ear up to the glass but heard nothing. I considered shining my light into the room but decided that might be a bad idea, especially if Tiny was waiting inside. I gestured to Lorna and we carefully cut around to the backyard. It was dark back there, the outline of the fixtures of Miss Twyla’s backyard hardly visible: the scattering of pink plastic flamingos that Miss Twyla goofily referred to as her pets, the low shadow of her tornado shelter, its doors a slight bulge out of the grass, the silhouette of a vase-shaped birdbath, the dark hulk of her house. I began to move toward the back door, not yet turning on the flashlight, not wanting to advertise our presence yet. I didn’t want to think about Miss Twyla lying inside, maybe dead. I had taken about four steps toward the house when Lorna whispered: “Jordan! Here!” I turned back to her and in the darkness she grabbed my arm, her hands fumbling for mine, seeking the flashlight. I turned it on and she pointed the beam toward her own feet. She’d been wearing open-toed sandals-not always a good idea in yards round here because of the threat of fire ants; but you couldn’t expect Lorna to know that. And I saw with horror that blood smeared her toes. A wet blotch of red stained the lawn. Lorna’s hand tightened over mine. “Oh, God, Jordan, let’s get out of here,” she pleaded. “Not without Miss Twyla. You go on back to the car. Or go over to Candace’s and see if you can get Junebug.” I shoved my key ring at her, holding out Candace’s key.

“Uh-uh. I don’t want to go off alone… “ I slipped the keys back into my pocket and played the light along the freshly mowed grass. There was a thin trail of blood leading to the doors of the tornado shelter.

I’d sat through enough horror movies at the old drive-in over in Bavary to know what not to do; namely, go down into that shelter where something from another planet was eagerly awaiting an opportunity to eat my face off. How many times had I sat watching those movies, seeing the hero or heroine act like an idiot, my lips pleasantly bruised from making out with my date during the dull parts? Here was my conclusion: If they’re stupid enough to go into that attic that’s dripping blood, then they deserve to die. And those foolishly bold characters almost did always find a terrible demise. My hand tightened on the flashlight and I thought of Miss Twyla, her unconditional kindness, her erratic and always amusing demeanor, her bold assertions about the vitality of the elderly, her outlandish lectures in her laboratory classes during my student days, her special reputation in town as the last of those crazy Oudelles. Of all the folks in town, she’d called me when she needed help. I moved to the shelter doors.

The light showed they were unlatched. As I reached to open the door and pull it back, Lorna grabbed my arm again. ‘This is nuts. Let’s get out of here, please.” “I said you could go. I’m finding Miss Twyla.”

“God, you’re stubborn.” Lorna breathed in my ear, but she didn’t leave. The door fell back against the ground with a thud. Darkness as black as the devil’s soul beckoned. I shone the light down the ten or so steps that led to the concrete floor. Blood speckled the two bottom steps. I played the light along the wall of the stairwell; I couldn’t see a lightbulb or a switch by the doors. I took a tentative step in, Lorna right behind me. Behind her, thunder rumbled, as though the storm had finally and inopportunely decided to make its debut. After several other tentative steps, I was at the bottom of the shelter. The Oudelles, in their eccentricity, had spared no expense on their tornado shelter. I remembered the shelter out at my grandparents’ farm; the floor and walls had been dirt, more a burrowing hole in the ground than something fit for people to occupy for a long time. It had always reminded me of a grave waiting to be filled. The walls of Miss Twyla’s shelter were concrete block, with cots and shelves lined with food in case the main house was destroyed in a twister. I played the light and found a door in die wall, slightly ajar. I had taken two steps toward the door when I smelled it, the sickeningly sweet odor of bubble gum. I whirled as from a darkened corner of the room a fist lashed out, catching me squarely in the chest. I coughed and stumbled, my light dancing around the room but catching Tiny Parmalee’s brutal face in its beam. He struck me again, backhanding me hard, shoving me through the ajar door that led into the inner room. I landed on my back, skidding in the darkness into a piece of furniture. My arm throbbed and my chin felt numb. Hearing Lorna scream, I yanked my arm from the sling, trying to get enough breath to get to my feet. I’d made it halfway when a light snapped on and Nina Hernandez stood with a gun pointed at my head from the opposite side of the narrow room. A shrieking Lorna was thrown down on top of me. I pulled free of her and stood in a crouch, trying to absorb what I was seeing. This inner room was larger than the outer room, and it held far more interesting secrets. Nina with a handgun, not looking like she cared a great deal about the Mirabeau ecosystem at this moment. Tiny smiling down at me, hate in his eyes. Miss Twyla sitting in a chair next to where Nina stood, her mouth, chin, and nose bloodied, her hair hanging in her face, her eyes angry. And along the wall, shelving that held boxes of wires, pliers, a canister marked KCIO 3, (POTASSIUM CHLORATE), sacks of sugar, batteries, watches and egg-timers, a dusting of finely powdered aluminum, and a stack of metal pipes. Oh, my God. I steadied Lorna, who had stopped screaming and was fearfully watching Nina’s gun. Nina held that gun rock-steady and the small dark bore locked on my head. “Miss Twyla, are you all right?” I managed to cough out.