twenty-nine

The panic he’d felt when first robbed of his sight by darkness had finally worn down to a tolerable level. Loyal’s eyes had adjusted to the dark interior of the springhouse, reassuring him that he hadn’t lost yet another of his senses. He could just make out the confines of what he guessed was his prison since he’d determined that the door would not open. Now he needed to breathe deep and consider his options.

There weren’t any windows, but there were cracks where the walls met the roof and around the door that wasn’t quite a perfect fit. He wondered if he could make one of those gaps bigger? Of course, it’d have to be a lot bigger for him to slip through. He kicked at the dirt floor. Maybe he could dig his way out. Looking around, he found an old metal dipper that must have been used to scoop water back when it flowed into the stone trough.

Boy, what he wouldn’t give for a cool drink right now.

He felt the shape of the dipper, its rough edge and broken handle. He carried it to the door and tried using it to dig at the dirt there where the bottom edge wasn’t even with the ground. But the soil was hard-packed, had likely been walked over a thousand times. He’d need a pickax rather than an old metal dipper if he was even going to make a decent start.

Pressing an eye to the narrow crack along the hinge edge of the door, Loyal could see the back of the Hacker house. He might even be able to holler loud enough for someone to hear him. But that probably wouldn’t do him any good. Shoot, the whole family might be in on locking him up here. Maybe they’d all been in on killing Eddie and thought Loyal might’ve figured it out.

His stomach grumbled. Thirsty and hungry. He didn’t feel nearly as fine as he had when he started out that morning. Finding clues didn’t help much if he couldn’t tell anyone about them. He looked down at the dipper he still held in his hand. The handle probably used to have a curl in it before it broke off. Now it was just a short, jagged piece of metal. He wedged it into the crack along the door and wiggled it back and forth. Surprised, he realized the wood was rotted and crumbling. The edge of the board in the wall gave way a little bit. He wiggled it some more and managed to widen the crack into more of a gap. He could actually work his fingers into the opening. It was a long shot, but maybe if he kept at it he could work open this spot wide enough for him to break free of the springhouse.

After what seemed like an hour, Loyal managed to open a gap big enough for maybe a cat to slink through. A skinny cat. He used his shirttail to wipe sweat from his face. Now he was even thirstier and hungrier and maybe not any closer to freedom. He dropped the dipper and sat back on his haunches to rest. Which was when he saw movement out in the yard. Falling to his belly, he held his face to the opening. He couldn’t squeeze through, but he could sure enough see . . .

And what he saw were Sam and Glen. They weren’t far from the springhouse, and they were arguing about something.

Loyal guessed they weren’t much worried about his hearing them. But he could surely see most of what they were saying.

“. . . turn him loose,” Glen said, stabbing a finger in the air. “You’re going to cause more trouble.”

“He knows where his pa’s sang patches are,” Sam shot back. At least that was what Loyal thought he said. The way he shortened his words made it tough to read his lips. “And with Creed in town, we can . . . before he knows what happened.” Though Loyal missed some words, he caught enough to get the overall meaning.

“Ain’t you caused enough trouble?” The first word took a minute, but Loyal filled it in.

“You mean that government man? He was asking for trouble.” Sam spit on the ground and swiped at his mouth.

“Why’d you have to kill him?” Glen looked disgusted.

Sam glanced toward the house, so Loyal missed the first part of what he said. “. . . cheat us. I wanted to get ’em both, but when that boy . . . think he did it.”

“But they didn’t. People kept . . . until the sheriff figured out it was somebody else. And they’ve already . . . around here. How long you think it’ll take to figure it out?”

Sam gave his brother a push, and Loyal missed what he said.

Glen waved a hand toward the springhouse. “First, we turn that boy loose. Second, you take that rifle you used and head for . . . We’ll say you’re visiting . . .” Some of the details were lost to Loyal, but he saw Sam’s lip curl. “I ain’t running. Virgil White’s a fool and . . . can’t prove anything.”

Glen ran a hand through his hair, making it stick up. “If Virgil’s a fool, he’s not the only one.”

Loyal sucked in a breath when he saw Sam land a fist on his brother’s jaw. Glen staggered, recovered his footing, and came back at Sam swinging. They must have been making plenty of noise, because Clyde came rushing out of the house carrying a sloshing pail. He flung water on the two men, who stopped their fighting and swiped at their faces. Loyal couldn’t see if either of them said anything as they turned toward their father. He did catch Clyde’s response, though.

“I don’t care. If you two are gonna try to kill each other, have the kindness not to do it where your mother can see. And to think I wanted to give you a better life.” Then he turned and stalked back toward the house.

The two men glared at each other for several beats. Glen spun on his heel and stomped off toward the barn. Sam lifted a hand to his chin and moved it around like it hurt. Loyal hoped it did. He’d definitely been rooting for Glen. Sam glanced at the springhouse, then looked all around. He started toward the door, and Loyal scrambled to his feet, moving to the rear of the small space.

He saw the crack around the door darken as Sam drew near, and he thought he saw the door move but then the light returned and nothing happened. He crept closer and lay back down to put his eye to the opening just in time to see Sam disappear around the house. He watched for a long time, hoping someone would come for him but no one did. Finally he fell asleep.

Creed and Virgil worked their way up the mountain well clear of the Hackers’ homesite. They didn’t use a trail, just pushed through as best they could, wading through poison ivy and stinging nettle and getting tangled up in more than one patch of shin rippers. Creed didn’t care. He’d walk through fire for Loyal, and something in him said the Hackers knew more about his son than they were letting on.

“Remember, we’re just going to watch. No busting in there to do anything crazy.” Virgil wiped the back of his sweaty neck with a bandanna. “It’s not like I have or could get a search warrant. We’re trespassing as it is. Probably a waste of time, but there was something funny . . .” His voice tapered off, and he looked back at Creed with a finger pressed to his lips. He motioned ahead and pointed.

There was a rock outcropping on the side of the mountain that gave them a decent view of the house below. Virgil picked out a spot where he could sit behind a boulder and watch while Creed settled behind a massive oak tree that looked like it had sprouted from the stone. The sun was headed behind the mountain, leaving them in shade while illuminating the valley below. Even as worried as he was, Creed had to admire the spot Clyde and his family had carved from the mountain. This land was tough and unforgiving, but the Hackers had built a haven for themselves regardless.

After an hour or so of waiting that felt like a lifetime to Creed, he finally saw movement below. Bernie walked out the back door, carrying a pan of water to her small vegetable garden. She poured the water over what might have been hills of squash, then went back inside. Creed looked across at Virgil, who shrugged and patted the air with both hands. Stay still and wait was how Creed read it. He wondered how Loyal would read the motion. It was probably real sign language that meant something else altogether. He smiled thinking about his boy. He’d ask him when they were together again.

It was probably another twenty minutes before anyone else stirred. This time it was Sam stepping out the back door. He stretched and rolled a cigarette, then lit it, the match flaring in the gathering dusk. He strolled out into the yard in a way that looked intentionally casual to Creed. Like he was putting a show on for somebody. As he approached the slope of the hill, he flicked the cigarette butt into the dirt and ground it out with his boot. Then he disappeared below them, the outcropping blocking him from view. Creed crept forward, and Vigil hissed at him, motioning him back with his hand.

Creed frowned at him and lay down on his belly on the curved surface of the rock. He inched forward until he could see the peak of a roof on a small outbuilding. No sign of Sam or anyone else. He sighed and made his way back to cover. Virgil stared daggers at him.

Sam reappeared, walking with more purpose now. He headed straight for the barn and went inside. Creed nodded at Virgil and began easing around the oak tree.

“What are you doing?” hissed Virgil.

“I’m going to find my boy,” Creed said, turning his back on his friend and working his way down the steep slope. It was a long shot, but if Loyal was in one of those outbuildings, Creed was going to find him.

Loyal knew what Sam wanted from him, but he acted like he didn’t understand. Sam kept asking where his father’s ginseng plants grew, but Loyal just kept shrugging and shaking his head. It hadn’t been all that hard to seem convincing since he really was groggy from sleep. The man finally cursed and stomped back out the door, securing it behind him. Loyal figured he’d come back with paper and pencil pretty soon. Even though he didn’t know what he’d do then, he’d at least bought himself a little time. And it was getting dark outside. Surely Sam wouldn’t try to hunt ginseng at night.

Loyal perched on the edge of the trough. Of course, if he could get Sam to take him out into the woods to look for ginseng, maybe he could get away. His captor seemed fit and fast, but Loyal was smaller. He might be able to run into a rhododendron patch and wiggle through where Sam couldn’t.

He was still trying to come up with a plan when he noticed the door ease open, letting in a spill of light only slightly brighter than the darkened interior of the springhouse. Loyal scooted to the far corner, as if he could hide from Sam. Shoot, if he opened the door wide enough, Loyal might be able to push past him and into the yard before Sam’s “puny” eyes adjusted. He shifted to the hinge side of the door, hoping he wasn’t making any noise.

Sam was sure taking his time coming in. He eased the door open like it was a contest to do it extra slow. Loyal saw his bulk there in the opening that was still just inches wide. He’d never get his chance at this rate. Maybe he should just grab the door, then try to shoot past Sam. He took two steps forward, trying to guess the right moment for his escape. Then Sam fished in his pocket, pulled out a match, and struck it.

Loyal figured it was now or never. He grabbed the door and jerked it, moving to run past the larger man, when an arm shot out and grabbed him, pulling him in tight. He grunted and twisted, then froze. What was that smell? It was familiar and comforting. The match had fallen to the ground in the struggle, but Loyal’s eyes, adjusted to the dark, could make out the clean-shaven face of . . .

No. Not completely clean-shaven. It was Father’s mustache and his warm tobacco smell that filled Loyal’s senses.

Father grinned and stepped inside, hugging Loyal hard against his chest. They thumped each other on the back, and Loyal felt a couple of tears escape, making him grateful for the dim light.

Father held a finger to his lips and pointed outside. He looked around the edge of the door and peered all around the yard. Turning back to Loyal, he motioned for him to follow. They eased out and immediately pressed themselves to the side of the building facing away from the barn, but all too obvious to anyone looking out from the back of the house.

Loyal looked uphill into the trees and saw the shape of another man there where some rocks made a break in the brush. He jabbed Father and pointed, stabbing the air, his eyes wide. Father held up a hand to spell V-i-r . . . then stopped and frowned. Loyal nodded with relief, then finished for him g-i-l. Father motioned for Loyal to move ahead of him, toward the sheriff who was crouched low, beckoning them forward in a come on gesture.

Loyal began working his way through the saplings and underbrush covering the steep hillside. It was rough going in the darkness, with vines and briars working together to slow him down. He sensed Father close behind him and turned to see that he was following. He was. Seconds later, Loyal stepped on a fallen branch that rolled under his foot and made him fall. He was pretty sure he made a noise and clapped a hand over his mouth. He could taste blood where he’d bitten his tongue, and his elbow stung. Father put out a hand to help him to his feet. As he stood, he saw movement near the barn. A man, his long arm stretched out to point at them. He punched Father in the shoulder and motioned behind them.

Before Father could turn, there was a burst of light and suddenly they were both falling. Then came another flash of light—maybe from where the sheriff was waiting. Confused and shaken, Loyal scrambled to his feet and tried to run up the hill, but his ankle throbbed and gave way beneath him. He glanced back toward the yard just as Father crashed into him, blocking yet another flash from below. The wind knocked from his lungs, Loyal froze trying to catch his breath. Air finally rushed back with a mighty whoosh and then all was still. He panted and waited to see what would happen next.

The sheriff appeared in his line of vision and began feeling his arms and legs. Loyal sat up and signed that he was all right, though the sheriff didn’t know what he meant. Still, he seemed satisfied. Loyal climbed to his feet, limping only a little on the sore ankle. He saw that there were several people down below now, and light shone into the yard from the house and barn. But where was Father? He looked at the sheriff, who was waving his arms and likely yelling at someone below. Loyal could just make out what he was saying.

“Clyde, can you promise me no one’s going to shoot?” He must have gotten a satisfactory answer because he nodded and pointed Loyal back down the hill. Which was when he saw Father, lying on the ground below them, eyes closed, face pale, and much, much too still.