two

The house was quiet when Delphy finally got back. She sagged against the sink, wetting a cool rag to wipe her neck and chest, her arms. It felt delicious. She closed her eyes and sighed, trying to think what they could have for supper that wouldn’t heat up the kitchen. Maybe she’d just make sandwiches and take Loyal down to the river, so he could swim and she could dip her feet in the cool water.

Smiling, she started through the house, looking for Loyal to tell him she had a treat planned. He wasn’t on the front porch, so she checked his room. Not there either. Frowning, she made her way out back to the bottom of the yard where Loyal often played in the shade of the sought-after cedar.

No freckled, brown-haired boy tossing a ball in the air.

She chewed her lip. Surely he wouldn’t have gone anywhere after she’d specifically told him not to. The town was safe enough, but for a boy like him . . . it was worrisome. She considered walking down the street to see if Sheriff White was in his office, but she hated to be thought of as the sort of mother who panicked at the least provocation. People already talked about her plenty enough as it was.

She made her way back to the house and picked up one of Loyal’s shirts that needed mending. She’d give him until suppertime to turn up before she went asking for help.

Loyal hurried ahead of his father, reveling in the fact that he’d communicated with him. Father had even mimicked his signs. It made him feel grown up and he was trying not to enjoy it. Someone was dead after all. And there was more he ought to tell, but this at least was a start.

He led Father down to the edge of the river where he’d discovered the man with a hole in his chest and one in his arm. It felt like hours since he’d struggled to pull dry clothes over wet skin while his mind ran a hundred different directions. Then the idea of going to his father came to him, and it had filled him with relief. He’d only been to the cabin on Rich Mountain a few times when Mother had taken him there for a visit. The visits had always been short, his father clearly uncomfortable and eager for Loyal and his mother to go home again. But he’d found it. He’d walked all that way and he’d not only found the cabin but had also made Father understand that someone was dead.

He stopped suddenly when the body came into view, and his father nearly ran into him. He felt a large hand settle on his shoulder. It steadied him. He sensed a slight rumbling and craned his neck to see if Father was speaking. He was, though Loyal had missed most of it.

“. . . here while I take a look.”

His father made a “stay” motion. While it wasn’t the right sign, Loyal understood regardless. He stepped into the shade of a maple tree where he could watch and wait.

Creed felt like the wind had been knocked out of him. Sure enough. Loyal had brought him straight to a dead man. He knelt down and looked without touching the man. He wasn’t anyone Creed knew right off, and he knew pretty much everyone—especially the folks who lived on the mountain. One shot had winged the man’s right arm, while the second did him in. And quick, too, from the looks of it.

“Guess we’d better go tell the sheriff.” He turned to look at Loyal, who was watching a bird high in a nearby tree.

Creed waved to get his son’s attention. Loyal raised his eyebrows, lifted his hands, and shrugged his shoulders. Even Creed understood that one. This time he made sure Loyal could see him as he spoke. “We need to tell the sheriff.”

Loyal nodded his head while also making a fist with his right hand and bobbing it up and down. Creed mimicked the motion, and Loyal grinned.

“That means yes?”

Loyal smiled wider and made the motion again.

“Well, I’ll be dogged. That’s not too tricky.”

They grinned at each other until Creed remembered the dead man and sobered back up. “Right. Let’s get this over with.”

As they walked back to town, Loyal fingered the fancy little hair comb in his right pocket. He was pretty sure he’d seen Rebecca wearing it at church the Sunday before. He’d found the comb near the dead man and pocketed it before he’d really thought it through. He supposed he should show it to Father now. It might be evidence. He glanced at the strongly built dark man beside him and saw he was lost in thought. Loyal shoved the comb deeper in his pocket and took the opportunity to look more closely at his father. He wore his hair cropped close over his ears and a little longer on top with something shiny keeping it smoothed back from his forehead. Loyal guessed it wouldn’t move even if there were a breeze. He had a thin mustache, kind of like the one Loyal had seen Errol Flynn sporting in a movie magazine. Father wasn’t overly tall, but he took up space all the same.

Loyal touched his upper lip and drew his shoulders back to match Father’s posture and stride. It felt good to be walking together toward town with serious business to conduct. Maybe now that he was older, Father would spend more time with him. Maybe he would even learn some more signs so they could talk. And even if Father didn’t want to learn, Loyal figured he could read lips and write things down. They’d do fine.

He was almost sorry when they arrived in town—he could have walked a hundred miles beside his father—but it was important they tell someone about the dead man. He felt a pang of guilt about the comb. What if Rebecca could tell the sheriff something about what had happened? The dead man was likely what she and Michael had been running away from. He wrinkled his nose and guessed he should probably tell about seeing the Westfall kids. Maybe they should fetch Mother so she could talk while he signed. Loyal reached out to tug on his father’s shirt, but Father saw Sheriff White standing outside Rohrbaugh’s Store talking to someone and stepped away without noticing Loyal’s touch.

The sheriff turned and grinned. “Well, if it ain’t Creed Raines in the flesh. What are you doing down off the mountain? Come to make sure I’m still sheriffing right?”

Creed seemed to have forgotten him, so Loyal hung back, angling so he could see what the adults were saying.

“Afraid it’s bad news, Virgil. I’ve come to report a shooting.”

The sheriff’s face went all solemn. “Those Hacker boys at it again?”

Father rubbed his chin and grimaced. “Don’t know who did it, but there’s a man out there where the Tygart takes a sharp bend. He’s dead as mutton, and recently too. Got a couple of bullet holes in him.”

Sheriff White’s shoulders sagged. “Who is it?”

“Don’t recognize him. He might not be from around here.”

Virgil nodded and looked toward Loyal. “Your boy with you when you found him?”

Father glanced at Loyal and frowned. “Yes, but he doesn’t know anything more than I do.”

Loyal lifted his hands to say he saw the Westfall kids, but Father patted the air in a way Loyal took to mean he should keep his peace. It’s not like they would understand him anyway. He’d need paper and pencil or Mother to translate if he was going to tell them much of anything. He gave an exaggerated shrug and stuck his hands back in his pockets. His fingers closed over Rebecca’s comb and he hesitated, then grasped it tighter. He’d show it to them later.

The two men turned away and continued their conversation. Loyal craned his neck to see what they were talking about, only he couldn’t make it out as they were leaning close together. So he turned his attention to the store window, where Folgers coffee cans were arranged in a pyramid next to a sign for Coca-Cola. He was thinking about how good a cold soda would taste on this hot day when the sheriff touched his shoulder.

“Come with us,” he said, his lip movement exaggerated. Loyal wanted to tell him he could understand him better if he talked regular but knew it was no use.

He and Father started after the sheriff, who was climbing into his car along with one of his deputies. Loyal felt a surge of excitement. Not only was he going to ride in an automobile, but it was a black-and-white police car with a star on the door. Father had been sheriff once, but that was a long time ago—when he was little. He climbed into the back with Father and ran his hands over the smooth seat. He could feel the car jump to life, vibrating beneath his body. Then they were moving with air streaming in through the open windows.

Father jerked and looked at Loyal, and he supposed he must have made a sound. Sometimes he did that when he got excited and it would surprise people. It was funny, just because he didn’t talk, people tended to think he didn’t make any noise at all. They’d even taught him to speak at school, though he didn’t like to do it. It was hard, and speaking seemed silly when he could say so much more with his hands.

It felt like mere moments until they pulled off the road as close to the place where the dead man lay as they could get. Loyal fell in beside his father as they retraced their steps. Nearing the spot, Father placed a hand on Loyal’s shoulder and looked straight into his eyes.

“Stay here.” He made the sign for “your,” but Loyal guessed he thought it meant “stay.” Loyal stuck the thumb and pinkie out on each hand and pressed his hands down to show he understood. Father looked surprised and mimicked the sign, the ghost of a smile playing across his lips.

Loyal sighed and sat down. “Good boy,” Father said, and Loyal tried not to feel like a well-behaved dog.

After situating Loyal, Creed led the sheriff and deputy over to the dead man. It tickled him that he’d managed to talk to his son with those hand signs not once but twice today. He’d never really tried to do much with them before. He made signs of his own sometimes but hadn’t felt the need to learn the ones Loyal used. For the first time it occurred to him that those were signs other deaf people used, too. His son spoke a whole other language. Now, wasn’t that something?

Delphy was a whiz when it came to talking with her hands. She and the boy would “talk” with their fingers flying a mile a minute. He figured even if he did know the signs, he could never keep up with how fast they went. So, if he needed to tell Loyal something, he let the boy read his lips or got Delphy to sign for him.

But today was different. He realized he hadn’t been alone with his son since . . . well, he couldn’t remember the last time. Probably not since he got so sick and the fever went to his ears. But Creed didn’t want to remember those days when he thought it was important to be somebody—to make sure his son grew up to be somebody. Now he saw Loyal on Sundays or special occasions, and Delphy was always there to smooth the way between them. But managing to communicate without her . . . he was surprised to realize he was enjoying it.

“He’s dead alright,” Virgil said, interrupting Creed’s thoughts. “And you’re right. It’s recent.” He waved the deputy closer. “Recognize him?”

The younger man crouched down and squinted at the figure as if that would make him more recognizable. “Can’t say as I do.”

Virgil snapped his fingers. “Say. We got word on Monday that some federal workers were in the area looking at land for that homestead business of Eleanor Roosevelt. It’s the deal where they’re supposed to build whole towns with schools and churches and stores for folks who’re down-and-out.” He cocked his head and looked harder at the body. “You don’t reckon he’s a government worker?”

Creed didn’t have the least notion. He was more than a little skeptical of those “self-sustaining communities.” Plus, he hated to see this land he loved built up with houses and businesses and who knew what else? He hoped they’d at least stick to the rolling land along the river and stay off his mountain.

“Guess he could be,” Creed said. “Can’t think why anybody’d shoot him, though.”

“Can’t you?” Virgil said. “Plenty of folks don’t want the government meddling in their business. Who knows what sorts of people they’d bring in.” He shook his head. “’Course, could be he just come up on the wrong feller out here by himself.”

This time Creed knew just what the sheriff meant. He’d been the sheriff once himself. Not everyone on Rich Mountain was honorable. There were liquor runners, poachers, and the sorts of ne’er-do-wells that avoided being seen in town. Creed knew most of them, and while he wasn’t afraid of them, he guessed they might not be partial to a stranger nosing around.

“You need help getting the body to the funeral home?”

“I will. But first I’m going to make sure we’ve looked around real sharp.” He tapped the deputy on the shoulder. “Bud, you go back into town and send Gerald out with the hearse. Me and Creed will look the area over real close. By the time you get back, we should be ready to move this poor fella.”

Once the deputy was gone, Virgil took his hat off and rubbed his bald head. He looked Creed up and down. “Anybody asks, I deputized you. You know this mountain and stretch of river better than anybody. And while I know you don’t fancy being a lawman anymore, you’ve got the experience. Ever since that Black Tuesday business back in October, everybody keeps talking about belt-tightening. I’m short-staffed and I’ve got Bud spending most of his time up in Elkins. This”—he waved a hand toward the dead man—“might take some legwork. You up for pitching in?”

Creed glanced back at Loyal, who was watching them as if he could read their movements the way Creed could read the mountain. He saw an eager expectation there and swallowed hard. He’d sworn off taking responsibility for just about anything once he’d finished ruining his son’s life, but maybe it was time to take a step back into the world. If only to look out for his boy. He nodded. “Sure thing. Ginseng won’t be right for digging for another month or more. I guess I can spare the time.”

“I might be able to pay you a little something, but don’t count on it,” Virgil said.

“I won’t,” Creed said, and the two men began to make a slow search of the area.