Bentley Little - The Association

Ford, Charley, and Emma came immediately down off the porch, while Grandma Mary herded Rachel and the little ones inside.

"Weston!" Ford called out.

"Weston!"

"Weston!"

"I'm going to check Tarley's house," Claude announced.

Laura Lynn looked around, and her gaze was drawn to the empty field on the east side of their property. She started walking in that direction. "Weston!" she yelled, quickening her stride. "Weston Richards!"

Then she saw it.

A small, unmoving form lying in the dead weeds next to a scraggly black oak tree.

Laura Lynn sucked in her breath. "Weston?" She was running before the whisper was completely out of her mouth, her legs pumping with a fury and purpose that they had never known before. She was dimly aware that the others were following her--Claude and Ford and Charley and Emma--but her focus was on the still, small body in the weeds ahead of her. She knew even before she reached it that it was Wes, and she prayed to God and the Lord Jesus Christ that he was only sleeping or only injured or only knocked out, that he was not dead.

Her prayers went unanswered.

It was indeed Weston. His head was crushed. Blood, some dried, most still wet, puddled in the broken indentation that had been the side of his skull. She could see a cockeyed ear dangling at the edge of the break, and in the midst of the liquid red were fatty flashes of white that could only be brain.

But that was not all of it.

For there was foam coming out of his mouth, a thick peachy froth that looked like bubble bath suds or shaving cream.

She looked up, looked away. Something sparkled, and on the hills north of town, she saw the noonday sun reflected off the windows of the big houses in Bonita Vista, like flecks of mica on a granite rock.

She looked back down at her son's still form and fell to her knees, registering but not really feeling the pain as her kneecap hit a jagged pebble. She touched the blood, touched the foam.

Claude grabbed her from behind. "Laura Lynn! Laura Lynn!"

And she started to wail.

There was something wrong, and Maureen sensed it the second she walked through the door of the title company. It was nothing she could put her finger on--they weren't all staring at her, conversations were still being conducted at normal levels--but she was suddenly uncomfortable, the warm acceptance she'd experienced in previous visits nowhere in evidence now. She passed the secretary, made her way past the agents' desks. She was an intruder here, an outsider, and though there were no overt gestures, though nothing was said, the fact was brought home to her in subtle, almost imperceptible ways as she walked through the office: the slight turning away of a chair, a quickly averted glance, an overemphasis on busywork.

She'd been assigned a temporary cubicle in the far corner, a desk surrounded by three modular walls, and she headed toward it, nodding hello and smiling at the people she saw, pretending not to notice that the return nods were nearly nonexistent and that there were no smiles for her. She was intercepted on the way to her desk by Harland Souther, the title company's manager, and he asked her if she would step into his office, prefacing his request with a nervous cough that she knew did not bode well.

He closed the door behind them after they'd stepped into the room. "Have a seat," he offered, moving behind his desk.

Maureen sat down warily. "What is it?" she asked. "What's the matter?"

"I'm sorry," he said, "but we will not be able to use your services."

"You're contracted to have me audit your payroll records."

"I understand that. And, as you know, there is an out clause that enables us to rescind the contract and pay you a kill fee. We will be exercising that option."

She faced him squarely. "May I ask why?"

Harland shifted uneasily in his seat. "It's this whole controversy.

We've decided not to do business with anyone from Bonita Vista. It's nothing against you personally," he added quickly. "You seem like a nice woman, and I know you're good at what you do. You're new here, and it's not really fair that you've gotten caught in the middle of all this, but..." He shrugged helplessly.

"I don't understand."

"You know ..."

She shook her head. "What?"

"Oh." An expression like surprise crossed his features, and it was replaced" almost instantly by a sheepish, embarrassed look.

"There's..." He trailed off, coughed nervously, obviously unsure of how to begin. "There have been some poisonings in town. Of pets. No one knows who's behind it, but a lot of people seem to think it's the Bonita Vista Homeowners' Association because ... well, for a lot of reasons. Last week, a little boy accidentally ate some poisoned dog food and now he's in a coma in the hospital in Cedar City. Yesterday ..." He looked away, sighed heavily. "Yesterday, another little boy's body was found in the vacant lot next to his house. He was poisoned and his head was bashed in. Now I'm not saying who did it, and for all I know the sheriff already caught someone who's in custody right now. But because of all this, the decision's been made to cut off all business with Bonita Vista. There's nothing I can do about it. My hands are tied." This last was said quickly, without pause, almost as though he feared her reaction and was trying to stave off a return assault.

Maureen sat there, stunned. She was tempted to argue with him, to point out that such a policy was discriminatory and probably illegal, but she understood the feelings of the people in town, and to a large extent shared them herself.

She thought of the gate, thought of Ray, thought of all the reasons she and Barry distrusted the homeowners' association, and she could not fault the people of Corban for hating and fearing Bonita Vista.

"I know you're caught in the middle of this," Harland repeated, "and, like I said, this really has nothing to do with you--"

Maureen stood, nodded tiredly. "I understand."

"We'll pay you your kill fee--"

"I understand."

Back at home, she checked her E-mail, scrolling down to view the list of messages she'd received that morning. The subject headings were all over the map, but though the specific names were different, the substance of each was the same.

All of her local clients had dropped her.

It was not totally unexpected, not after what had happened at the title company, but it was still overwhelming to see it laid out like this, to witness in cold, flat type such complete rejection.

She didn't even have Frank and Audrey anymore.

She would have laughed if it wasn't so sad, would have cried if it wasn't so infuriating, but instead she just sat there blankly staring at her screen.

He hadn't eaten at the coffee shop for over a week. Barry told himself that it wasn't intentional, that he wasn't avoiding the place, that he'd simply had errands to run and leftovers to get rid of and that a legitimate series of circumstances had led to him eating at home or in his office or even skipping lunch entirely.

But he knew that wasn't the truth.

Today, though, he was determined to return. Things had to have cooled off since last time, and he doubted that there'd be the same tension.

There was no way Hank could stay angry for this long. Joe maybe. Or Lyle. But Hank was more reasonable, more sensible, and since he was their ringleader, Barry knew that the old man would exert a tempering influence and calm everyone down, remind them that Barry was on their side and was one of the good guys.

But he was wrong.

He sensed it the second he walked through the door. A coldness that had nothing to do with the air-conditioning hit him the instant he stepped into the coffee shop, and he didn't need to look around to know that all eyes were upon him. The only noise was the muted sizzling of the grill back in the kitchen and the pl inking of fork on plate as someone at one of the tables continued eating.