Текст книги "Hemlock Veils"
Автор книги: Jennie Davenport
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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 24 страниц)
Regina lifted the corner of her plump mouth, and her dark, round eyes smiled along with her lips. “I’m okay with it, too. No matter how reckless you may be.”
Elizabeth smiled.
“I mean it though. Just promise you’ll be careful. There’s something about you being here.” She stopped herself, as though embarrassed to show such feeling.
“What?” Elizabeth asked.
“It just feels…” Their eyes penetrated each other’s under the single light of the diner.
“I know,” Elizabeth simply replied. She swallowed hard, feeling it herself. Whatever it was. The smoke from Regina’s Newport burned her throat and tingled her nostrils.
Regina nodded, ever so subtly. She took another deep drag and began walking the length of the diner. “Walk with me a minute?”
She did, and Regina made an effort not to blow smoke in her direction. “I hope whatever you’re running from doesn’t find you here, Beth. Not for our sake, but your own.”
This took Elizabeth by surprise. “Thanks,” was all she could say.
“It’s okay. You don’t need to tell me about it. Like Nathaniel used to say, personal things are personal.”
“Nathaniel?”
“My husband. He moved onto the next life six long years ago. He was a good man, good enough to be the pastor here. Bill Thurman took over when he died.” She sent her a smile. “He ain’t as good at it as Nathaniel was, but I might be biased.” It wasn’t surprising that Bill Thurman, who owned the motel, was also the pastor. Knowing what she knew about his wife Anita, she’d half-expected it. “He was loved by this town. Even by frosty Mr. Clayton.”
“It’s hard to imagine Mr. Clayton loving anything.”
Lost in a fond memory, Regina laughed. “Pastor Washington was fearless. He used to call Mr. Clayton to repentance every Sunday.” Elizabeth laughed too, the thought giving her a hint of satisfaction. “Mr. Clayton stopped coming to church eventually, but I get the feeling it was for some other reason. He ain’t one to let someone else dictate what he does and where he goes. Besides, my dear husband was the only one he used to smile at.” She paused, taking another drag. “That ain’t true, actually. He did smile at me once, a year after Nathaniel passed. It was the only time the man ever came into my diner in the middle of the day.”
A genuine smile on Mr. Clayton: Elizabeth couldn’t conjure the image. “How long have you run the diner for Mr. Clayton?”
“Oh, nearly twenty years now.”
“You must be tired. You’re here at first light and stay until the middle of the night. When do you sleep?”
Regina chuckled. “Yeah, yeah. It’s no big deal. Mr. Clayton’s had it that way for ten years. I’m used to it.”
Anxiety rose in Elizabeth’s chest and she took a deep breath. “He seems to control everything around here.”
“Pretty much.”
“And that’s okay with everyone?”
“We get a peaceful place to live, as long as we obey the rules. So I’d say so.”
“Obey the rules,” Elizabeth repeated under her breath.
“All right now,” Regina said with a sort of chuckle. “You give yourself a day and you’ll be agreeing with me. People are wary of what he might do, or take away, but believe it or not, he does take care of us, in his own ways.”
Her chest and face were on fire, and she thought it best to redirect the conversation. “Mr. Clayton is really against the forest, too, isn’t he?”
Regina nodded.
“Strange, coming from a man whose mansion is enveloped in it.”
“Honey, the man’s untouchable, don’t you know?”
They laughed, and she had a feeling Regina would prove to be a good friend. Just knowing she had both Regina and Eustace filled Elizabeth with sudden, warm emotion. It wasn’t until now, she realized, that her lifestyle could truly lend itself to friendships.
Chapter 8
“You should’ve stuck around yesterday,” Brian said to Elizabeth. Gray, low clouds blanketed the morning sky, which was unsurprising for April in Oregon. Just the two of them sat at the booth in the diner, this time at the one directly behind Mr. Clayton’s. With Brian’s back toward him, Elizabeth was right in Mr. Clayton’s line of sight. Thankfully, the man’s face was mostly blocked with a newspaper.
“Stuck around?” she asked Brian, confused. For the second time, she scooted herself closer to the wall, inviting someone else to sit—anyone. The way Brian sat in the middle of his bench made it obvious he didn’t want anyone sharing their table—which had originally been her table, before he’d intruded.
“At my shop. It would’ve been more eventful than walking through town.” Her eyes shot directly behind him, where Mr. Clayton’s paper lowered ever so slightly. He revealed nothing more than the intensity of his defined brow. “Besides,” Brian added, “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I’m pretty good with my hands.” He winked, smiling his Brian smile.
She exercised all her willpower not to roll her eyes. “I’m sure that would have been a real treat.” After taking a sip of coffee, she pulled it back abruptly. She would never adjust to the taste.
“So, Beth, you came here alone, and I don’t see a ring on your finger…”
“And…?”
“Just trying to figure out why someone like you is still single.”
She folded her arms, resting her elbows on the table, and leaned toward him. “Someone like me? You don’t know anything about me. For all you know, I could be running from a bad marriage. Or better yet, killed my husband.”
A brow lifted in intrigue. Not what she was expecting. “You’re not, are you? I mean, you didn’t?”
“No, on both. But you don’t know what I’ve done, and that’s my point.”
“And my point is you’re easy to read.”
She wanted to laugh. “You think so? Tell me then, who am I?”
He leaned closely. “You’re a good girl. You’d never run from a commitment.”
A good girl. She could almost hear Juan, her brother’s killer, saying it. With that recently overused term churning her gut, her eyes penetrated his. But in his there was nothing catching her attention, nothing she could even call depth. He couldn’t read her. “Like I said, Brian, you don’t know me.”
“Well,” he said, just loudly enough for her to hear, “that doesn’t matter anyway. Even if you are running from a marriage, I mean.”
She recoiled. “Look, Brian, you’re a nice guy. I just—”
“Wait,” he said, lifting a hand. “Spare the speech. Just give me a chance.”
She softened her eyes, sighing. “I don’t need to give you a chance to know it wouldn’t work out. I’m sorry, but I’m just not…girlfriend material.”
He sat back and laughed, nearly shivering. “Who said anything about girlfriend? Hell, I’m not boyfriend material.” He cleared his throat and gently touched her hand, his rough thumb caressing. His face came close and his breath smelled of coffee. “Look,” he said in a voice just as gentle, “there are other ways you can pay me. That’s all I’m saying. We can make your stay here a little more worthwhile.”
She ripped her hand away and sat back. Her dry eyes lost the ability to blink. Two years ago, her brother had lured her to an apartment late at night, with the promise that if she would bail him out, he would never ask her for anything again. It was clear who owned the apartment as soon as she’d arrived, since there were at least a dozen people gathered around one young man. Only two women were there, half-dazed and wearing outfits too tight for even their tiny selves. The walls—where there were no holes—were painted dark blue and the air filled with smoke. She’d brought all she could of her paycheck, but that wasn’t what Willem’s lender had wanted from her. He told her there were other ways she could pay him, and while Willem sat back, high and glazed over, Phillo—as he called himself—tried pulling her into one of the rooms. No one helped, like lifeless zombies in the background. She had to fight him off, first by kneeing him in the groin then kicking him in the teeth when he was down. She’d never mentioned it to Willem after that, and Willem hadn’t mentioned it to her, either. She’d always wondered if it was because he hadn’t remembered, or if he’d actually felt a trace of shame.
“Beth?” Brian said, bringing her out of the memory. She met his eyes and he took her hand again. “I know how it is to struggle financially, and this way—”
“I’m not struggling,” she said with a confidence that reminded her why she deserved this. She had too much money, money that was sure to bring her trouble. She pulled her hand away again, sitting back.
He studied her. “Well, the offer stands.”
“You’ll get what we already agreed on.” Fire raged in her core. Just the very words leaving her mouth were too much a reminder. People always wanted more. Phillo, Juan Paddock, Brian: they were all the same. Unsatisfied, greedy, hungry.
Eustace sat beside her then and she released a breath like it was the first in ten minutes, his presence freeing her. She smiled, genuinely. “Morning, Old Man.”
“Young lady,” he said at her. He threw a narrow stare at Brian. “Brian.”
“Bathgate.” Brian nodded, not so politely.
Nicole appeared beside them, pouring more coffee into Brian’s empty mug. How he drank so much of it was unfathomable. He winked up at her—the very same wink he’d shot Elizabeth not even a minute before. Nicole returned it with a smile and rested her hands on the edge of the table, bending in his direction. Elizabeth looked away from her cleavage. “How you doing, Brian?” she said in a tone suggesting a thousand meanings. “You all right after…last night?”
Brian scratched the back of his head, looking around. His eyes stayed on Elizabeth the longest before shooting back to Nicole. “Come on, Nicki. Not now.”
Nicole looked at Elizabeth, who looked to her coffee, wishing to be inside it. “I see,” she said, and left.
A bowl of steaming oatmeal saved the day, gifted to Elizabeth by Regina’s calloused hands. Regina shooed Brian aside. “Move over, boy. I need off these feet a minute.”
“Sure, join me, everyone,” he said to the whole diner, scooting closer to the wall. Elizabeth would have laughed, had he not just tried cutting her a deal. Instead, she took the first bite of her oatmeal. It was surprisingly delicious and creamy, so she took another. Perhaps the coffee was the only thing below standard at the Hemlock Diner.
Brian cleared his throat. “So, did you see…him again last night, Beth?”
“Who?”
“Your beast.”
She nearly choked. “My beast?”
“Yeah, you’re the one who calls the thing a him.”
Elizabeth straightened. It had never occurred to her until now that he was a he, not an it. But he did have a soul, just like anyone else. Before she could answer, Nicole appeared behind Regina again. She felt everyone waiting, ready to hear whatever response would deem her crazier than they already thought her.
Regina rested her elbow on the table. “Pay them no mind.”
“It’s okay,” Elizabeth said. “It just came out that way. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“Well, it ain’t no he,” Taggart said at the table across from them, his mustache rolling with his chews. A crumb clung to one of the coarse hairs. “It’s soulless. Just remember that.”
Elizabeth took a deep breath, her need to defend the monster strong but puzzling.
“What, you disagree?”
“I just think making that assumption might not be…fair.” From the corner of her eye, she saw Mr. Clayton lower his paper.
Taggart’s brow lifted and Brian sighed, shaking his head. “It’s no assumption,” Brian said. “You’ve seen that thing.”
“And you haven’t,” Regina countered.
“I don’t have to see it to know. I’ve seen Bathgate’s drawing and heard plenty of horror stories. Just ’cause I’m not dumb enough to go searching for it doesn’t mean I don’t know.”
“Has he—” Elizabeth cut herself off, then continued. “Has it ever killed?” She swallowed deeply, hoping her skepticism wouldn’t earn her another lecture, or a swift kick out of town. Really, she was just curious.
“Course it’s killed,” Taggart said. “The deer carcasses Bathgate’s found—”
“Not animals. Humans.”
A short silence, and many looks of deep consideration. Even from the few people at other tables, ones whose names she failed to remember. “Well, no,” Eustace answered. “Not directly anyway. And not that we know of. It could’ve killed without us knowing.”
“Yeah, who knows how many bodies it’s piled up out there,” Brian said.
“Or digested,” Nicole added.
Elizabeth took an impatient breath. “You said not directly. How has it killed…indirectly?”
Eustace leaned closer, resting his elbows on the table. His voice bore a soft reverence. “Ten years ago, there was an accident. Four teenagers from Portland were killed on Mt. Hood Highway, close to where you broke down. Word is, they heard the legend and came this way to track it down. To either prove or disprove it. But the medical examiner found high blood alcohol levels in every last one of them, so it was dismissed as a drunk-driving accident.”
“You don’t think it could have been just that: a drunk-driving accident?”
To her surprise, Mr. Clayton threw his paper on the table, in the same way he had the day before, and stood. No one spoke and every eye watched him, including her own. Again, the way he stood, towering above everyone—mentally and even physically—left her nauseated. She tried not to grind her teeth. “It was no drunk-driving accident,” he said. “They stopped here, drove through town, and on their way out, pulled over on Road Thirty-Two. Most of us heard their screams before they returned to their vehicle and sped away. They crashed into the guardrail out of mere fear, Ms. Ashton, because they were being chased. So yes, the beast is more than responsible. It will always hold the death of those kids over its soulless head.”
“I understand.” Her voice was quieter than intended.
“Do you?” His eyes narrowed as he dissected her. She tried not to narrow her own.
“What I understand is there was a terrible tragedy—one that needed someone, or something, to blame. I don’t mean any disrespect, and feel very badly for the families of those kids. I’m just saying the alcohol in their systems may have had more than just a little something to do with it.”
Mr. Clayton appeared offended. “And that’s exactly how the accident report reads: a drunk-driving accident. No mention of the monster, or the way fear filled their blood as toxically as the alcohol. But here—in the town cursed with it—we know. We know what fear it produces. One that you’re, apparently, not capable of feeling. And we will do everything we can to prevent it from happening again.”
Her mouth hung low, but he went on. “The beast is dangerous, Ms. Ashton.” Something unconvincing broke through his eyes, even amid his compelling words. “You know nothing, just as Ms. Eastwood said yesterday. You are nothing but a passerby, with no rights to give your opinion on anything when it comes to this town. So why don’t you run back to L.A., where such naivety and foolishness are common, before this gets out of hand?”
He slung his jacket over his arm, threw a ten-dollar bill on the table, and left the diner. Elizabeth couldn’t conjure words “Don’t mind him,” Regina stammered. “He doesn’t speak for all of us. Besides, Mr. Clayton’s a little grumpier than usual today.” She paused, caution lowering her voice, just as Eustace stood and put on his hat. “You just…have to be careful what you say about the monster around here. It’s the best way to piss folks off.”
The bell still jingled in Mr. Clayton’s wake. It, not Regina, held Elizabeth’s attention. Before she could stop herself, the heat of injustice shot her to her feet and she edged past Eustace before darting out the door. Mr. Clayton was across the street, about to enter his fancy car. Arne Randolph held the door.
“I’m not afraid of you, Mr. Clayton,” she said, stopping behind him.
He threw his jacket on the seat before turning back to her. Again, the condescending smile. She noticed for the first time an irritatingly charming set of dimples. “Just as you aren’t afraid of the monster, I suppose?”
“I know you’re used to running things around here and having people cower before you, but like you said, I’m not from around here. I don’t have to worry what you might do to make my life miserable. But even if I was from here, you would never be above me, and nor are you above any of these people. Don’t talk to me like I’ve waltzed in here to destroy Hemlock Veils with my ignorance. I deserve a little more respect than that.”
“I wonder if Frank Vanderzee would agree with you on that.”
She recoiled, her mind unable to process the name he spoke, or how he even knew it.
“I have to say, Ms. Ashton, I never had you pegged as a woman who would work for such an ostentatious billionaire.”
She tried to take normal breaths. “You don’t know anything about the kind of person I am, Mr. Clayton.”
He stepped closer and the wind played with his hair. While his eyes smiled proudly, she felt the audience behind her, standing outside the diner. “On the contrary, Elizabeth Ruth Ashton. Lost your father at age eighteen, lost your brother at the age of twenty-nine. That was just last week, wasn’t it?”
Swallowing, she never removed her slightly burning eyes from his. For some reason, hearing it spoken from Mr. Clayton’s unworthy lips brought a new kind of pain. She wanted to shake the sound of it from her mind.
“Are you still grieving, Ms. Ashton?” he went on, his pity patronizing. “Is that what this is with the monster: a suicide attempt?”
“How dare you,” was all she could breathe. Air fled her chest, leaving it tight.
As though he hadn’t just said the most insensitive thing possible, he continued, “Straight-A nursing student up until the very end, where you quit one semester short of graduation. A long job history working for one of the nation’s top businessmen, up until you quit just last week. So tell me, Ms. Ashton, why quit so suddenly?”
“How do you know all this?”
“If you’re in my town, I’m going to check into a few things. No one stays this long without my knowing why they’re here.” Another step closer—close enough she had to crane her neck to meet his eyes. He was even taller than she’d previously thought. He had to be somewhere between six and seven feet. Willem was two inches above six, and she’d gotten used to the way it felt to look him in the eyes, how far she had to crane her neck. And Mr. Clayton towered above even the height of her brother. “But none of that answers the question,” he said. “What are you running from?”
No response formed; instead, she stared defiantly. The longer she did, the more it revealed itself: fear, deep in his eyes. Was he afraid of what she might do? What was she missing about Henry Clayton? Clearly, there was something.
He turned, but before he could enter his car she said, “I know about you, too, Mr. Clayton.”
Twisting back, he lifted an eyebrow.
“I’ve spent my share working with men like you, as you know. I may not know the facts tied to your name, but I know who you are.”
“Who am I?” he challenged, with a trace of vulnerability in his eyes.
“You’re a lonely, bitter man, hiding behind the life you’ve made for yourself—hiding behind your money. I feel sorry for you, Mr. Clayton, because it must be miserable being such an asshole.” She looked to Arne, whom she also felt for. He had some sort of sorrow in his old, bluish eyes.
“You have me all figured out, don’t you?” Mr. Clayton said before entering his car. Arne stood there a moment, slightly dumfounded. “Let’s go,” Mr. Clayton added impatiently, and Arne closed the door, moving to the front of the vehicle. He gave her a nod and a slight smile then he too was in the car. Her feet stayed planted while they drove away, and she tried analyzing whether it had been offense or grief in Mr. Clayton’s eyes. Perhaps both. Perhaps she’d struck a chord.
***
Henry and Arne weren’t even off Clayton Road before Henry loosened his tie and slipped it over his head, throwing it on the seat next to him. He ran a hand over his face then through his hair, and undid the top button of his shirt. Beneath it, he perspired. Amidst an irritated sigh, he found Arne’s eyes in the rearview mirror. And judging by the crow’s-feet in their corners, they were smiling.
“I like her,” Arne said, moving his attention ahead as he turned right onto Road Thirty-Two.
“Just drive,” Henry replied, clipped.
“And you do, too.”
Henry met his eyes in the rearview again. “Don’t.”
“The act may as well be over, Henry.”
“The act will never be over.” He felt Ms. Ashton’s presence in Hemlock Veils breaking him down, piece by piece. He felt himself losing it. He felt the way his soul had shrunk the moment she called him out, the way it had already began shrinking the moment he’d called her out.
How it continued to shrink still.
“She’s…very intuitive, isn’t she?”
The forest flew by his window in a blur of green. His glazed eyes refused to blink. “That’s why she has to leave.”
“Or why she should stay. She could be—”
“No.” Henry closed his eyes, willing himself to forget about her, and how she seemed to know everything without knowing anything at all. The way her green eyes had been filled with only awe the first time he’d looked into them, and how when he had, she seemed to understand. He clenched his hand into a fist, heat flowing to his every extremity.
“She didn’t deserve that, Henry.”
“Arne, please,” he begged, tiredly. “I don’t want to talk about Ms. Ashton. Not now, not ever. It doesn’t matter what she is or what she knows; she will be gone soon, and things can finally resume as normal.”
Arne sighed, and the set of his eyes in the rearview was somber. “That is exactly the problem.”
