Twisted Creek Read online

  I opened the cash register and handed her two pennies. “I’ll get you a bag.”

  Running to the office, I found the sacks in the third box I tried. When I looked up, the old lady was gone.

  I smiled all the way back to my seat in the kitchen. Once settled, I said simply, “I just met Mrs. Deals.”

  “Was she nice?” Nana asked.

  “Very.” I laughed. “And helpful.” I figured Mrs. Deals was about as nice as she gets, and I didn’t mind keeping the cookies in stock if there was any chance of sweetening her up.

  “Willie said her son disappeared years ago. Most think he ran away from home.” Nana talked as she worked. “Mrs. Deals moved out here thinking that if he ever did come back, he’d come here where he was happy. Willie said she paid a fortune to get that line put in so he could call.”

  “Willie knows a lot.”

  Nana shrugged. “I had to ask him, then he said he only gives out the facts, no extras.”

  I went back to my pricing and finished off the cup of coffee. Nana sat next to me without another word.

  When I looked up, the shadows had stretched across the windows. Another day gone and I was still here.

  I watched Nana’s old hands knead pastry to make more pies. She’d been old all my life, I thought. I could never remember her hands manicured or polished, but to me they’d always been beautiful-strong and solid.

  She didn’t look up, but I could see her smiling. She loved to cook and she loved me. In her world, that was enough.

  At dusk, she went up for her bath and I walked down to where the road turned onto Uncle Jefferson’s land. Funny, I was starting to think of him as Uncle Jefferson even in my mind-this man I’d never met.

  When I reached the fence, I said, “Would you look at that, Uncle J, someone stole that ugly pig.”

  Tacking a sign on the post that said OPEN FOR BUSINESS I wondered if there was anyone who ever came down this road who didn’t already know we’d moved in.

  In the twilight, I saw Luke coming toward me. He had that slow, easy walk of a man who’d spent years knowing where he was going.

  “You planning to light the fire? It looks like it might rain.”

  He nodded.

  “Mind if I help?”

  He shook his head as we strolled back to the lake, gathering firewood as we walked.

  “You know Willie Dowman?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Luke answered.

  I waited for more; then, frustrated, asked, “What do you know about him?”

  “He’s been coming out here fishing for years.”

  “Anything else?”

  Luke was silent for so long I gave up on him answering. When he finally spoke, I jumped at the sound.

  “I’ve heard he gives away most of the fish he catches.”

  “He doesn’t take them home to his wife?”

  Luke shook his head. “His wife died about ten years back.”

  Great, I thought, now I feel sorry for the pervert. It occurred to me that Micki, my friendly delivery woman, didn’t look all that normal either. All business one second, all friendly the next. I added another person to my list to watch as we built a fire.

  It was full dark by the time we’d dragged enough dead wood over to the pit. Luke struck a match. I sat on one of the rocks that had been pulled around the circle and watched the flames take.

  “You learn this as a Boy Scout?” I asked just to break the silence.

  “Something like that,” he said as he moved to the other side of the fire and propped against another rock.

  “I’ve given up worrying about when you’re going to kill me,” I said, promising myself this was the last time I’d even bother to try to talk to him.

  Laughing suddenly, I decided that if we’d been in a bar that was probably the worst pickup line ever. No wonder I hadn’t had a date in two years.

  I could see his intelligent blue eyes tonight. He was studying me as if he were Jacques Cousteau encountering a new species of backward-swimming fish. “I’m glad you’re not afraid of me anymore,” he finally said and flashed a smile.

  He took a minute, then added, “I light the fire because Jefferson did.” He looked out over the water. “Some nights he wanted to help late boats, but most of the time I think he was just trying to get rid of all the driftwood that piles up along this beach. Every time there’s a storm or a branch falls in the water it seems to circle around and land on this little stretch of beach.”

  “He swam the lake, too? That’s why you do?”

  Luke laughed again. “No. I’ve done that since I was a boy. I’m surprised you saw me. Maybe I should knock out that last dock light.”

  I needed to talk, and it didn’t matter that he was one of the inmates in this nuthouse. “I’ve got other things to worry about besides you. I can’t sleep for worrying and that’s not like me. Usually I sleep like a rock. Nana said once I slept through a tornado in Kansas. On the farm, I used to fall asleep watching the stars at night. My grandpa probably carried me to bed until I was ten. Nana always said he didn’t want to wake me because if the last thing I saw was stars, I’d have good dreams.”

  Luke stared across the fire at me and I knew he was probably reading “chatterbox” written on my forehead, but I didn’t care. There were things I needed to say and he seemed to be my unlucky victim. “Worries keep me up now. First, I think it must have been a mistake for me to inherit this place, but it’s growing on me and I haven’t seen Nana so happy since we left the farm. Every day we stay will make it harder for us to leave when that lawyer in Lubbock figures out he handed over the keys to the wrong Allie Daniels.”

  Pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes, I swore I wouldn’t let myself cry, not in front of a stranger. “I don’t know where I belong, but this can’t be it. I’m just so tired of looking.” I wanted to add that I was so homesick for a place to belong, but he probably already thought I was crazy. Homesick for something I’d never had. Growing up, I’d been the poor tenant farmer’s grandchild whose mother didn’t want her. At college, I’d worked two part-time jobs and hadn’t had time for socials and sororities.

  I straightened suddenly, hating myself for being so pathetic. I should do like that song Nana always sang and count my blessings. But when blessings include live bait in the cooler, deer heads on the fence, and a bum who lights fires in my yard every night, it was a chore just to keep counting.

  I closed my eyes and let the warmth of the fire soak into my bones. For a long while, I listened to the sounds of the lake. Then I heard a splash on the water and looked up at the cloudy sky.

  Luke was gone, racing the moon once more. His nightly ritual made as much sense as my life. I stood and walked slowly back to the house. I felt like an aging warrior afraid of tomorrow’s battle, but determined to face head-on whatever came at sunrise.

  Chapter 10

  Thursday

  September 19, 2006

  2230 hours

  Luke stood on the dock and let the cold air dry his body. He’d swum far longer than usual but he needed to use up as much of the energy trapped inside him as possible. Watching Allie pour out her fears to him had been torture.

  If he’d stayed there a minute longer, he would have pulled her into his arms. Even now, he could almost feel her against him. She was a beautiful, bright young woman. She didn’t need to think the weight of the world rested on her.

  Dressing slowly in the dying campfire light, he heard a boat bumping against the end of the dock.

  “Hello,” Luke said more to let the fisherman know that he was near than to be friendly.

  “Evening.” A young man stepped out of his boat. “Mind if I tie up here for the night?”

  “It’s not my place.” Luke moved closer, trying to see the man’s face. “But I don’t think they’ll mind.”

  “Good.” The stranger offered his hand. “I’m Timothy Andrews. I’m staying at my dad’s company cabin a few hundred yards north. Our docking ramp was damaged
last week in that wind, and I’m afraid I might gut the bottom of the boat trying to pull up during this fog.”

  Luke guessed the guy to be twenty-two, maybe a year older or younger. He had a friendly smile, but shadows under his eyes as if he were ill, or unhappy, or on drugs. “Luke Morgan.” He offered Timothy his hand.

  Timothy’s grip seemed slight, but he said, “I heard old Jefferson talk about an old friend he once had named Morgan. He was Navajo.”

  “That would be my granddad. He was a code talker during the war. Met Jefferson in Germany and they became solid friends.” Luke knew he was giving out too much information, but he hoped it would encourage Timothy to talk. A man stepping out of a fishing boat at night with no catch swinging from a line might have business on the lake other than fishing.

  Timothy fell into step with Luke. They followed the path lit by the dim glow from the store windows. “I read a book about what the code talkers did during the war. Very interesting.” Timothy also seemed to be making an effort at conversation. Maybe it was the night. Maybe something about the fog made people want to connect. “World War II is kind of my hobby. I read everything I can find on it. You got some of your grandfather’s stuff from that time?”

  “Not a thing,” Luke answered as they headed up the drive to the main road.

  “Too bad.” Timothy shrugged.

  They talked about the fog and winter coming on as they walked. When Timothy reached the gate, he tapped the OPEN sign. “Glad this place is back in business. Good night, Luke Morgan.”

  Luke waved as the kid disappeared into the mist. Timothy had seemed excited about the war, but little else. Luke couldn’t help but wonder what a young man his age was doing besides reading. Maybe just taking some time off? Maybe hiding out?

  He added the Andrews place to his list to check out later tonight as he walked back to Jefferson’s Crossing. Between the fog and the rain, the store looked as if it were the only spot of life in the world. Luke had spent so much time in cities, it always took him a few nights to get used to how dark the country was.

  As he rounded the corner of the store, he saw Allie asleep on the porch. The warm glow of the tiny lights left on inside sparkled in her hair. She was curled up looking cold and very much alone. A ledger book lay across one knee. A pencil still rested in her fingers and a fat old cat curled inches from her feet.

  Luke debated. He couldn’t leave her here. The night was too cold. And, if he woke her up she’d probably start talking again. If she cried, he wasn’t sure what he’d do.

  Studying her face, he noticed she wore little or no makeup, unlike most of the women her age.

  He tugged the pencil from her hand, but she didn’t stir.

  Lifting the book, he noticed a drawing of old hands working a mound of bread. Nana, he decided. Allie’s work wasn’t half-bad. Luke shifted, almost touching her.

  She still didn’t move. It would be a crime to wake her.

  Carefully, he tugged her legs over one arm and circled her shoulders with the other. When he moved her, she shifted against his chest like a baby kitten seeking warmth.

  He carried her into the store and up the stairs as silently as he could. The glow of a night-light made it possible for him to see the half-bed turned down near the window.

  Lowering her gently, he tugged off her shoes and covered her with the blanket.

  She wiggled into the pillow.

  Luke backed out of the room, not wanting to take his eyes off of her until he had to. He decided listening to her talk was definitely easier than watching her sleep.

  Chapter 11

  On Friday, business hit us before Nana and I finished breakfast. The first customer was a shy lady, from directly across the lake, who wanted to know if we had any tulip bulbs. I promised to put in a special order with Micki for next Thursday and she seemed tickled.

  Next came a couple dressed in business suits. Paul and Lillian Madison. She looked bored, but he seemed friendly enough. He bought fishing magazines and canned soup; she asked if we carried wine. I didn’t have time to talk to them, but I got the feeling they were part of the weekend trade. Both looked like their hands fit briefcase handles far more comfortably than fishing poles.

  I’d sold bait, drinks, and several bags of chips by nine and Nana made twenty bucks with her biscuits and fried pies. By eleven, people began asking if we sold sack lunches. Nana enlisted Luke to help her make ham sandwiches, and I watched a dozen lunches go out the door within an hour.

  Mid-afternoon Willie Dowman dropped by to tell us Mrs. Eleanora Deals planned to come to the café for dinner Sunday night if we were serving.

  “A meal?” I asked, startled that anyone would even ask.

  Willie nodded. “Jefferson tried to serve Sunday dinner a few times a month in the winter. Course, the last few years it was little more than tomato soup and crackers, but we all came if we could.”

  I glanced at Nana and she smiled. “I’m making catfish gumbo and cornbread. Tell her she’s welcome.”

  Willie picked up his order. The last two fried pies. “I’ll be coming about the same time Sunday night. She’ll want me to pick her up in the boat and cross over the water, but Mrs. Deals likes to eat alone, so we’ll be needing separate tables.”

  I followed him out to his boat. “Did Jefferson really serve dinner in the café?”

  Willie shook his head. “In truth, not often, but he must have planned to at one time or he wouldn’t have ordered the chairs and tables. I don’t think he ever served anything but drinks and ice cream in the summer, but he had this idea a Sunday meal would be nice in the winter. It would get us together to check on each other and I think he thought the profit would help carry him through the winter.” Willie climbed into his boat, then turned and reached his hand out to catch my arm. For a moment he just held it, then he patted lightly. “Jefferson told us all that you might make it a weekly event.”

  “He did?” I tried not to pull away or act relieved when he finally let go of me.

  “Yep. Said you were talented in everything you tried. He was sure proud of your art. Told me once you won a contest in school.”

  In high school, I thought. How could Jefferson Platt know about that?

  Willie motored off with me standing, openmouthed. All I’d have had to do was flop around a little to look like a docked fish.

  Up until now, I’d thought Jefferson Platt had made a mistake and named the wrong person. I’d thought our days at the lake were numbered and we’d be packing the van soon.

  But he knew me. A man I’d never even heard of had somehow kept up with me enough to know I had won a drawing contest once.

  Before I had time to reason out my inheritance, I noticed Luke sitting at the end of the dock. He stared at a man in a rowboat a few hundred yards away.

  I walked up beside Luke and took a seat. In a strange way, this lake bum and I were becoming friends. For a while I just dangled my legs in the water and we watched the young man in the boat. I thought of the way Willie touched me, patting my arm. It didn’t seem at all perverted, but I guess he had to start somewhere. In truth, I wouldn’t have thought a thing about the touch if Micki hadn’t said what she did about Willie.

  I relaxed, enjoying the first break I’d had all morning. I joined Luke in his pursuit of staring.

  “He’s not fishing,” I finally said, pointing to the man in the row boat. “I don’t see a pole.”

  Luke looked at me as if he hadn’t realized I was there.

  I quickly turned away from his blue eyes. I could so get lost in those eyes if he were normal. He had a great body and thick brown hair, but something about a man who races the moon every night made him not my type.

  I turned back to the guy in the boat, needing to redirect my thoughts. From this distance he looked young, early twenties, I’d guess, and thin as he huddled in the center of the boat. He would have noticed us if he’d looked up, but he just stared down at the water.

  “What do you think he’s doing out
there?” I didn’t expect an answer. I was just voicing my thoughts. “He has no pole, no coat or hat against the sun and weather. His oars aren’t even in the water so he doesn’t seem to have any plan other than to drift.” I almost added that he was a strange duck, but I seemed to be in the middle of the flock.

  Luke stood. As he turned to go, he said in a low, sad voice, “He’s trying to decide whether to fall in or not.”

  I looked back at the young man without asking Luke what he meant. I knew.

  That night when the house was quiet, I reached for the ledger and drew my next sketch. A thin man huddled against the wind off the water. A man drifting between life and death.

  Chapter 12

  Early Saturday

  September 21, 2006

  0100 hours

  The wind whirled as if shoving winter across the chilling lake. Trees, already dry and brown, rattled like paper bags as Luke Morgan moved through the late-night shadows.

  No hint of the easygoing bum who’d walked the shores for the past week remained. Now, a trained soldier moved stealthily through the night, measuring his steps, evaluating his surroundings.

  Luke had done this kind of surveillance more times than he could remember. Drug dealers, thieves, and murderers moved in shadow. If he planned to catch them, he had to do the same.

  Half a mile inland from the far north shore of the lake, he found what he’d been looking for-a burned-out hull of a cabin. Kicking the ashes, he shined his flashlight on wood still smoldering. The place could have easily burned two nights ago when the fog had been so thick no one would have noticed the smoke. The rain that had followed that night would have erased most of the clues, but not all. Luke would come back at dawn and piece together what had happened. He might be able to reason out how long the meth lab had been operating and how many people probably worked there. The criminals who set up labs were like fire ants. They get burned out of one place, they just move to another.