Extraits

It felt strange to have people in my house. Except for a rare townie customer looking for an herbal remedy, I’d been alone here since John died. I’d gotten used to the silence, the feel of the floor beneath my feet, untouched by the vibrations of other people walking, used to the empty table and chairs. The silence. Used to washing only one plate. One glass. One fork or spoon.

I could have left, sold the land to a development company, moved, to the city. But I stayed here, probably foolishly, waiting to see if my sisters would ever come to their senses and run away from Daddy. Or, in Priss’ case, run away from her multi-wife marriage and her husband, to freedom. But Priss liked it there, with her man and her sister wives and their passel of children.

Now there were people here and the house felt full, as if it needed to stretch to contain us all. The dirty dishes on the table were … more. The noise was more. The more I might have had if I’d given John children.

His face didn’t change; he didn’t blink; I couldn’t tell if he was breathing, until eventually he said, “I’ll tell ‘em I had my way with you.” His voice was toneless. “They’ll believe me. And they’ll marry us in the church to protect the reputation of a widder-woman.” I didn’t reply, just sat there, exposed, cold and wet with the chill of early autumn, night falling, watching him watch me. Feeling the weight of the snub-nosed.32 still in the bib’s pocket, weighting it down, remembering that I had more than one way out of this—though how he had missed the gun in his destruction of my clothes, I couldn’t know. I’d have pulled the gun and shot him now if I thought I could hit the side of the barn from this distance, with that gun. The .32 was for close up work, not target shooting. I needed him closer. Much closer.

When my house was empty, I stoked the stove and turned off the lights. Walking outside, I carried a blanket to the edge of the trees, my bare feet picking up the chilled dew from the grass. This was where I used to sit when Leah was napping and I needed to get away from the smell of sickness. It had been far enough from the house to feel free, yet still close enough to hear Leah if she called. It also offered the best view, down the hill toward the lights of Oliver Springs, Oak Ridge, and Knoxville. I used to put my hands into the soil and touch the tree roots, taking solace from them.

I still took solace from the trees. Unfolding the blanket just enough to keep my backside dry, I sat and put my hands and feet in the dew-wet grass and on the bare earth, my fingers finding a root and resting over it. It was a large root from a huge poplar tree. The same one I used to cling to when I was tired or distraught. A sycamore’s roots ran along beside it, intertwining, and I pushed my fingers into the meeting place of the two roots, the marriage between one kind of tree and another.

Instantly I felt a sense of peace and contentment flow into me; I felt the hum of the earth, the soughing of its breath, the slow movement of its tides, and the pull of the moon that was rising over the skyline. It was a waxing gibbous moon, big and bright, the color of a yellow gourd, hanging on the horizon. The feelings were more than merely peaceful and wonderful. Taken all together, they were life and goodness, they were all that was noble and beneficial and fecund and lovely about this Earth. This moon. These two roots. This grass beneath my feet. I felt an owl fly past, most silent of predators. Saw bats’ wings flickering in the moonlight. Heard a night bird call, a whippoorwill. My woods had a lot of whippoorwills, though the birds preferred open fields, planted with grasses.

“Did I do the right thing?” I asked the night. “Have I made the right choice?”

Nothing answered. The Earth never did. Neither did God, so far as I’d ever heard. But I felt good about it, about the choice I had just made. And maybe that was enough.

Silent, Rick pushed buttons on his tablet and repositioned a cat whose brushing tail was in the way. I pointed at flakes flying as the men left the SUV at speed. “I bet you can analyze the mud to see where it came from. The ground at the compound will be hill-mud, different from lowlander mud, different from floodplain mud.”

I didn’t know what to make of it. Not exactly. But one thing was pretty clear. “They didn’t follow me from the library,” I said, relieved. “They came in fast, and they knew which room we were in. They were after the team, not just me. If the shooters are churchmen, then they’ve been watching long enough to follow someone in and get the room number. Or they got the information from a hotel clerk.” I shook my head. “It doesn’t look like churchmen work. They’re hunters, not shoot-em-up assassins. Not old west gunslingers.” Slowly I said. “The one in front moved like a farmer, not a soldier, or a police officer. He ran with hard feet, not light feet, but stomping. The one in back is more light-footed.” I frowned, talking my way through it. “The guy in back, didn't move like a churchman. He flowed. He moved like a dancer.”

“Or a predator,” Rick said.

Paka batted my side with her hand and I felt the prick of claws. It was cat-talk for approval. And that meant I was going against the church, working against them and for a law enforcement agency. According to the churchmen that meant I was going to hell. If so, then, well, I’d take as many of them with me as I could and be in good company.

I stood from the swing, Paka at my side moving with cat-fast reflexes, the swing corkscrewing. Paka behind me, I walked back in and glared at Rick. “You got an odd combination of honesty and deceit in you, like what the churchmen warned me about from the time I was able to understand English.” Rick lifted his eyebrows in amusement and what might have been condescension. I scowled at him, feeling heat rise to my face. “I’m accustomed to men taking what they want, and you charm people into doing what you want. I’m not sure if that’s any better, but I reckon it’s easier to live with.” I looked from him to the others in the room, hearing the depth of the silence after I spoke. “And you others got your hearts in the right place. So I’ll help.”

Rick said, “Your daughter is an American citizen, no matter what species she is. They can’t take her. You’ll have the help of PsyLED, the U.S. Department of Homeland Security, Immigration and Customs Enforcement, and the State Department on that. But first we need to find her. What else can you tell us?”