“You don't need no stuff cleared out or anything moved? You can't haul much in that car of yours. We got us a truck back there.”
Grant forced another smile. “Well, I do appreciate that. But I'm not ready to move anything yet. There's still a bunch of stuff to go through. When I am ready to start throwing things out, I could certainly use a truck and some extra hands though.”
Jed nodded. “Well, you be sure and give us a holler then.”
“I will, thanks.”
Discomfort swelled in the air as nobody moved. Grant felt trapped in the door of the smokehouse, pinned by the strangely unfriendly gaze of the three men who claimed to be there to help him. He looked from one to the next and back again, desperately trying to think of something to say. He eventually gestured back down towards the house. “I should be…”
Jed spoke over him immediately, like he had been waiting for Grant to speak, purely so he could interrupt. “Well, we'll be off then.”
Grant nodded. “Right. Sure. Thanks again.”
“Uh huh.”
They didn't move, or even blink. Grant felt a kind of pressure building up that made him both incredibly uneasy and frustrated. Trembling set in, making his hands shudder slightly at his sides. Unspoken violence hung in the air between them like a storm cloud. He felt his fists closing of their own accord, and realized he had to say or do something. He opened his mouth to speak and Jed and his brothers instantly turned and ambled slowly off back down the path without another word. Grant stood, shivering, in the doorway of the smokehouse until he heard their truck rumble into life and fade off down the mountain.
Chapter 5
It was the same dream again. Cassie lay bound on a table, candlelight flickering across her naked body. Ghostly figures circled her, chanting in low tones. She never quite knew what they were saying. The words seemed to dangle there just beyond the edge of comprehension. Somewhere a drum pounded out a slow, deep, relentless beat.
She thrashed about, trying to free herself, but the bonds held tight. Her breath came in gasps, drowning out the drone of the pale figures that drew ever closer. She wanted to pull away, but how did one do that when they were all around you?
The figures never touched her in the dreams, but the words seemed to. It was as if the sounds had substance, and as the chanting reached a crescendo, she felt cold, dry hands caress her. She pressed her knees together and tried to pull her legs up as the invisible hands traced the curves of her flesh, moving ever downward, but her bonds held fast. A stray tear trickled down her cheek as one of the figures leaned in close and, for the first time, she recognized a face.
She started awake, sweat pouring down her face and soaking her pillow. Her t-shirt clung tightly to her. She looked around her bedroom, taking in the cheap paneling, the secondhand lamp, and the dollar store kitsch, reassuring herself that, once again, it had been a dream. Out of habit, she checked her wrists for chafing, but they were fine.
The chafing had only happened once, the first time she'd had the dream. That had been the one and only time she'd let Carl talk her into smoking with him. He'd assured her it was weed, but he must have added something to it because she almost immediately lost consciousness, suffered through the first of these awful nightmares, and awoke in her bed hours later. Carl said she'd gotten sick and he'd taken her home, but she'd been so freaked out she'd driven two hours to the E.R. in Kingsville to get a rape exam. The results had been negative. That had been a relief, but it still left the chafing around her wrists and ankles. He might not have raped her, but he sure as hell had drugged her, tied her up, and done something perverted. No other explanation made sense.
After that, she'd tried to break things off with him, but he wouldn't listen. He kept coming around as if nothing had happened. Stranger still, everyone in town assured her that Carl was a good boy and just needed her to set him straight. Why the population of Wallen's Gap seemed to have a stake in their relationship was beyond her. Between Carl's persistence, or arrogance, and the not-so-gentle prodding of every adult in her life, she'd finally given in. Why couldn't she stand up for herself? That counselor lady had been no help at all. Life in Wallen's Gap was like living in a fish bowl. Everyone knew too much about her business.
That wasn't entirely true. There was the new guy, Andrew Shipman's son. What was his name? Grant? He'd been looking at that awful book…
And then her stomach lurched and she felt suddenly dizzy. Memories of the dream returned and she remembered the face she'd recognized.
“I need to talk to Grant Shipman,” she whispered to herself. She glanced at the digital alarm clock beside her bed. It was only 11:30. Late, but not too awful late if she hurried. From the next room, Daddy's drunken snores told her he wouldn't wake before morning.
She slipped into jeans, flip flops, and a hooded sweatshirt, grabbed her purse and keys, and tiptoed down the hall and out the front door. The cool night air calmed her nerves, but she felt vulnerable out in the dark. The waxing moon afforded enough light to see that Daddy had parked his truck on the street and didn’t block her in like he so often did when he tried to keep her home.
She slipped into her beat up Honda Accord, which she always parked facing downhill for occasions such as this, put it in neutral, and coasted down the road. When she was well away from home, she fired up the engine, flipped on the headlights, and headed for the Shipman cabin.
As she drove, she thought about what she would say to Grant. Hi there, I've been dreaming about your daddy stripping me naked and tying me to a table. That would go over well. It didn't matter. She'd tell him the truth and trust him to understand. Her thoughts returned to the book she'd seen him reading in the diner. She hadn't realized it then, but there was something about it that reminded her of the dreams. Maybe she would find the answer.
The Shipman place lay at the end of a narrow dirt road that wound through a hollow at the foot of Clay Mountain. Last time she'd gone up here was two years ago with a boy from school, but she’d lost her nerve when his hands wandered too far. She hadn't been back since, but the way remained familiar. Things didn't change much in Wallen's Gap.
She rounded a curve and had to slam on the brakes to avoid hitting an old Ford F-250 that was blocking the road. The Honda skidded to a halt inches from the truck, sending up a cloud of dust.
“What in the holy name of Jesus?” Who would park their truck sideways across the road? There couldn't be more than two feet on a side to spare. She looked up at the empty cab. Whoever it was had abandoned the vehicle. Where had they gone? The dark thoughts in her mind manufactured all kinds of deadly scenarios. Had something happened to them.
Someone rapped on her window and she shrieked in fright.
“Sorry bout that, Cass. I didn't mean to scare you.”
She turned to see Cliff Stallard leaning down to look through her window, his bulk straining the buttons of his faded chambray shirt. His grin said he was anything but sorry.
“Why are you blocking the road?” She managed to put some heat into her words despite the fright he had given her.
“Run out of gas. Saw I was on fumes, tried to turn around, and, wouldn't you know it? Died right here in the middle of the road.” He paused. “What are you doing up here?”
“Oh. I needed to talk to Grant.”
“Grant, is it? You already know him so good that you come see him in the middle of the night?” He leered, his tobacco-stained teeth gray in the dim light. “That ain't a good idea, Cass. What if people found out?”