The holes that had pocked Harmon Smith's grave were larger, the dirt fresh, as though some creature had burrowed its way in. Or maybe out.
Only one way to know for sure. David drove the shovel blade into the moist soil with a sound like a hatchet into meat. He drove the metal deeper with his boot and turned. He was a groundskeeper, and this was his turf. Here, at least, he had a chance. If he could beat the sinking sun, that was.
Chapter Twenty-seven
"What's wrong, Mom?" Jett asked
"I fell." Katy stood at the sink, rinsing her hands. She had a cut on her chin and one eye was bruised and puffy.
"Good Lord, Katy, how could you get hurt cleaning house?" Gordon said.
"I was in the attic."
Gordon glared at her, almost owlish with his beard and glasses, with sinister, prey-hunting eyes. "I didn't give you permission. We have valuable antiques and family heirlooms up there."
"I'm part of the family now."
"You're not a Smith yet. You're a Logan."
"Where's Mark?" Katy asked Jett. Her head throbbed. The image of the headless Rebecca at the mirror still haunted her, as if the image had seared itself against the plate of her forehead.
"Gone back to minding his own business," Gordon said. "We don't need any outsiders. We can solve our problems by ourselves."
"I saw the clothes. And the sickle."
"What are you talking about?"
"From the scarecrow in the barn."
"The scarecrow is out there hanging on the wall. Where it always is."
"No, it's not," Jett said. "I told Dad about it. You guys don't believe me, but he does."
"That's enough of this foolishness," Gordon said. He grabbed Jett's wrist and pulled her toward the front door. "Come on, you two. I'll show you the scarecrow is just a sack of rags and straw, not some evil creature."
"Let her go, Gordon," Katy said.
Jett tried to struggle free, but Gordon was too strong and heavy. He tugged her outside, Katy right behind them. The fence gate was open. Katy wondered where the goats were. The barn door was open, too, afternoon sunlight boring through the gap and painting the dirt floor in patches of amber. The rich smell of manure and hay filled the air. The chickens clucked uneasily in their nests.
Jett gave up resisting and allowed herself to be guided into the barn. Katy wondered what she had told Mark. She couldn't believe Mark would just drive away after hearing such strange tales. But he'd always believed what he wanted to believe, despite pleas or evidence.
"The scarecrow's right there," Gordon said, pointing to the spot on me wall above the loft stairs. The figure wasn't dressed in the bib overalls and flannel shirt that Katy had seen in the attic, inside the locked bureau. This figure wore a dark suit of a heavy material like wool. Straw spilled from the sleeves and ankles of the suit, and the yellowed collar of the white shirt stuck up around the collar. The scarecrow had no head.
"That's not me one," Katy said.
"Yes, it is," Jett said excited. "That's the man I saw. The one in the black hat."
"I don't see a hat," Gordon said. "Odus must have taken me other scarecrow for some reason. Those clothes look old-fashioned, maybe even antique."
"What's going on, Gordon?" Katy asked.
"The scarecrow hungers," Gordon said.
"Where are the goats?" Jett asked.
Gordon looked around as if noticing their absence for the first time. "He's taken them."
"Who?" Katy touched the welt over her eye. The upper and lower eyelids were swelling together and she could barely see. The side of her face felt as if a pint of hot water had been pumped under her skin.
Katy squinted at the shape on the wall. Hadn't the original scarecrow been shorter? No. That was the kind of thing that crazy people thought. Crazy people who believed they were being haunted by their husband's dead ex-wife.
The sickle was absent from its wooden peg.
"It moved" Jett said grabbing Katy's arm. Katy looked at the gangly, splayed form. A few pieces of straw fell from its cuffs as if an animal were moving inside it. Katy recalled the toenails skittering on the attic floor.
"It's the wind," Gordon said. "Odus left the barn door open."
"Let's get out of here," Jett said.
"Go on back to the house," Gordon said. "I'll close up the barn."
Katy nodded and put an arm around Jett's shoulder. The two of them went into the barnyard. Katy stopped by the chicken roost. "What did your dad say when you told him about this place?"
Jett shrugged and stared at the ground. "Nothing much. He thought I was weird. But he didn't laugh at me." She looked up, her blue eyes vibrant and imploring. "I wish-"
Katy reached out and hugged her daughter, pulling her close. The girl was getting tall. The hair on the top of her head brushed Katy's wounded chin. "Shh. Wishing for lost things isn't a good idea. We have to work with what we've got."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. 'We'll get through it together,' right?"
"Exactly." Katy brushed away Jett's bangs and planted a kiss on her forehead.
"I just wish Daddy were here."
Katy had no response for that. She had failed her daughter and her marriage. Maybe if she had tried harder, been less self-absorbed…
No. Gordon was her husband now and she was determined to make it work this time. All it took was sacrifice.
"Let's go in the house," Katy said. "I'll make us some cinnamon rolls. I found a great recipe."
"What about the scarecrow and the man in the black hat?"
"Gordon will take care of it."
"Do you love him?"
Katy pulled away from the hug. "What kind of question is that?"
"I don't know. I saw the way you were looking at Dad, and you've never looked at Gordon like that."
"Gordon is a good man and he'll make a good father if you give him a chance."
"I don't want another father. I want mine."
"I'm sorry, honey. We've turned that page. This is our new life."
Jett pushed away. The hens squawked at the disturbance, flapping their wings, tossing soft feathers in the air. Inside the barn came the slam of a large wooden door.
"I don't want a new life. Especially if it's this one." Jett went through the gate and into the house.
Sister Mary proved to be a rugged animal, despite a lifetime spent in the companionship of cows. Odus had guided her up the mountains and traversed the roughest trails he could find, twisted paths that were scarcely wide enough for deer. He half expected the horse would put her nose to the ground like a bloodhound and instinctively know they were on the scent of something bad. Odus figured that two hours had passed, and maybe Old Man McHenry had already noticed somebody had stolen his pinto mare.
At one point, the forest gave way to a granite shelf, with rocks settled into the Appalachian soil like droppings from some ancient giant bird. Odus tied Sister Mary to a stunted balsam and gave her some of the bread from his sandwich. As she smacked her lips around it, Odus eased to the edge and looked down in the valley below. Solom was sprawled like a faded patchwork quilt of yellow meadows, brown forests, and the small gray squares of houses and barns. The river wound like a loose length of spilled yarn through the bottomland, the water white where it tumbled over rocks. The two-lane road followed the river, except for an intersection near the general store where the covered bridge, post office, and Sue Norwood's shop cluttered up the geometry.
This stony point looked like the kind of place where the Circuit Rider would step out and survey the community. Maybe this had been part of his original route, back when he was a Methodist preacher sent down from Virginia. If so, he might have passed his eyes over the green valley and decided it was just the kind of place to set up shop. A Holy Land, of a sort, one maybe just a little bit remote from the eyes of God where a fellow could practice the kind of rituals he wanted.