A Breath Away. Rita Herron
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an obscenity as Grady shoved him into the back seat. He slammed the door and glared at Baker. “Are you all right?
Jed merely grunted.
“You want to press charges?”
“No.”
Grady narrowed his eyes, wondering why Baker would allow his dad to assault him and get away with it. But as usual when the two men fought, neither Jed nor his father offered an explanation. Although this time the conversation had triggered more questions than usual.
It was senseless to ask, though. Something had happened years ago that had caused a permanent rift between the men. Something they refused to talk about.
Judging from their conversation, it had to do with Darlene.
And sooner or later, Grady was going to find out exactly what it was. Then maybe he’d figure out who had killed his sister.
A FEW MINUTES LATER, he pulled up to his dad’s house. The Georgian style two-story had once been impressive, almost stately with its front columns, but had deteriorated in the past twenty years from lack of upkeep. Paint peeled from the weathered boards, shingles had blown off the roof in the recent storm, and the columns needing painting. A sad testament to his father’s life. “You’d better stay put tonight, Dad,” Grady ordered.
His father staggered toward the den, his face ruddy with rage. “You should have left us alone.”
“Sleep it off, Dad.” Grady slammed the door and jogged to his car. Dammit, just as he’d expected, his father had clammed up, refusing to talk about his fight with Baker or offer an explanation.
His nerves shot, Grady reached for a cigarette, then remembered he’d quit smoking for the dozenth time this year. Rummaging through the papers littering the console, he grabbed a piece of Juicy Fruit gum and shoved it in his mouth instead. The shortest span without his Marlboros had been six days. The longest, six months.
He automatically veered toward the graveyard beside Crow’s Landing Church, the daisies he’d bought for his little sister’s grave a reminder of the reason he’d started smoking in the first place.
Darlene’s death.
Everything in his life could somehow be related to that one crucial event. And the fact that her killer had never been caught.
Twenty years ago today she had been kidnapped. Twenty years ago tomorrow, they had found her dead. He knew his father was in pain. Hell, so was he. Grady had lost his entire family that day.
He’d never forgive himself for it, either.
If only he hadn’t stopped to hang out with the boys…If he’d come straight home to watch Darlene, she wouldn’t have set off across the hollow by herself to see that little friend of hers, Violet. And she wouldn’t be dead.
The small graveyard loomed ahead, shadows of tombstones darkening with age. Some graves were littered with debris, others better tended, a few decorated with artificial flowers. The dank air and smell of freshly turned dirt from a new grave enveloped Grady as he forced his rubbery legs to carry him through the aisles of cement landmarks. It was almost midnight, the day of mourning upon him.
Night sounds surrounded him, plus the crunch of his boots, the snapping of twigs and leaves. He knelt and traced his finger over the curved lines of Darlene’s name carved in slick marble, then laid the flowers across the headstone, his gaze straying to her mother’s grave beside her. At least the two of them were together; he tried to take solace in that fact. God only knew where his own mother was. She might be dead for all he knew. His father refused to talk about her.
Grady reached into his pocket and removed the bag of marbles he’d purchased earlier at the Dollar General, fingering each colorful ball as he arranged them in a heart shape on top of the grassy mound. A streetlight in the distance illuminated the colors. A green one with swirls of gold flecks looked almost iridescent, like mother-of-pearl, the cascade of bright reds, oranges, purples and yellows a kaleidoscope of colors against the earth.
“Come on, Grady, play Barbie dolls with me.” Darlene’s childlike voice echoed in his mind. He automatically pressed a hand over his shirt pocket, where he always carried a green marble. He’d refused to play Barbie with her, though—he’d been too cool. So he’d tried to convince her to play marbles instead. She’d never taken to the game, but she had been enchanted with all the colors, and had started collecting marbles, calling them her jewels.
Damn, if he had it to do over again, he would suck it up and play dolls with her.
He could still picture her angelic little face as she lined her jewels up on the shelf above her bed, those lopsided red pigtails bobbing, the freckles dancing on her pug nose. “Look, Grady, I’m making a rainbow. The green one looks like my eyes. And this chocolate-brown one looks like yours, and this pretty blue one is like Violet’s. And look at this sparkly clear one! I can see through it, just like I can see right through Violet’s eyes sometimes.
Although he didn’t understand their friendship, Darlene had loved the homely Baker girl. He’d been shocked when Violet hadn’t attended the funeral. But Baker had claimed his daughter had had a breakdown, that he’d had to send her away. And as far as Grady knew, she’d never returned to Crow’s Landing. Maybe she’d totally forgotten Darlene.
His life might be different if he moved away, too. He might escape the constant reminders of his past. His father. And his guilt. But he didn’t want to escape.
He wanted revenge.
HE PACED AROUND AND around in a wide circle. The moonlight was bright, bright, bright. The light hurt his eyes. Hurt his eyes. Hurt his eyes. But the circle had to be complete.
He raised his arm and tore at the hairs. One, two, three.
No, stop it! he silently cried. He gripped the rocks, inhaling pungent, salty air and the delicious scent of death as he frenziedly twisted his hands over the jagged surface. Then he ground his palms so hard the pointed rocks tore at his skin. The first trickles of blood seeped from the cuts and dripped down his arms. He raised a fist to study the crisscrossed patterns where the streams of blood met, the angle they flowed across, and the thickening at the base of his hand. Snippets of the Cherokee language rolled through his head.
Gi’ga—blood, the force of life. The scarlet color stirred his loins. Excitement sang through his veins. I am the gi’ga-tsuha’li. One cut, two cuts, three—
No! He no longer thought in threes. One was his number.
Three was the first pattern. One for his mommy, one for his daddy and one for him.
Then he’d learned about another.
But that one had to die.
He imagined her sweet, baby lamb’s face with those big trusting eyes. That day he’d heard another voice in his head, ordering him to stop. He’d known there were more. Too many more. He had to make them all die.
Let them know he was the chosen one.
But his mommy and daddy found out what he’d done. He hadn’t been careful. No, he’d been stupid, so stupid, and they’d gotten angry. Finally they’d admitted it wasn’t his fault, then they’d called him their little angel. But after that, they’d kept him locked up at night. He despised being shut up. Hated the bare white walls. Had clawed them until blood streaked down, giving them color. Pretty crimson color.
His mommy needed him now, though. Oh, yes, yes, yes. He couldn’t let her down.
Laughter bubbled up inside him, erupting like blood bursting from an open vein. Like the dark red substance he drew from the sacrificial lambs before they died. Yes, he was the blood taker, the gi’ga-tsuha’li.
He was the good son. The only one who could save the father. And he wouldn’t stop until he did.
His favorite childhood song chimed in his head: “There was one, there were two, there were three little angels….”
Smiling