“They’ll find her,” Doug said, sitting on the bed beside Laura. “They’ll bring David back. You’ve got to believe it.”
She didn’t answer, her eyes staring at nothing. The shadows of the nightmare swarmed in her mind. After hearing what Kastle had to say, she knew Mary Terror would never surrender without a fight. It wasn’t in the psychology of such a person to surrender. No, she would choose the martyr’s death, by gun-battle execution. And what would happen to David in that hell of bullets?
“I want to sleep,” she said. Doug stayed with her awhile longer, helpless to soothe her silent rage and pain, and then he left her alone.
Laura was afraid of sleep, and what might be waiting for her there. Rain tapped at the window, a bony sound. She got up to get a drink of water from the bathroom, and she found herself opening the dresser drawer where the gun rested.
She picked it up. Its evil, oily smell came to her. A small package of death, there in her hands. Mary Terror must know a lot about guns. Mary Terror lived by the gun and would die by the gun, and God help David.
Their pastor from the First United Methodist Church had come to see them that evening and had led them all in prayer. Laura had hardly heard the words, her mind still bombarded with shock. She needed a prayer now. She needed something to get her through this night. The thought that she might never hold her child again was about to drive her crazy with grief, and the idea of that woman’s hands on him made her grip the gun with bleached knuckles.
She had never thought she could kill anyone before. Never in a million years. But now, with the gun in her hand and Mary Terror on the loose, she thought she could squeeze the trigger without flinching.
It was a terrible feeling, the desire to kill.
Laura put the gun back into the drawer and slid it shut. Then she got down on her knees and prayed for three things: David’s safe return, that the FBI found that woman quickly, and that God would forgive her thoughts of murder.
6
Belle of the Ball
AS LAURA PRAYED IN ATLANTA, A GRAY COUPE DE VILLE slowed on a forested road sixty miles northwest of Richmond. The car took a curve off the main road onto one that was narrower, and continued another half mile. Its headlights glinted off the windows of a house on a bluff, nestled amid pines and century-old oaks. The windows of the house were dark, and no smoke rose from the white stone chimney. Telephone and electric lines stretched from here to the highway, a rugged distance. Natalie Terrell stopped her car before the steps of the front porch, and she got out into the bitter wind.
A half moon had broken free of the clouds. It threw sparks of silver onto the ruffled water of Lake Anna, which the house overlooked. Another road snaked down the hill to a boathouse and pier. Natalie saw no other car, but she knew: her daughter was there.
Shivering, she walked up the steps to the porch. She tried the doorknob, and the door opened. She walked inside, out of the wind, and she started to reach for the light switch.
“Don’t.”
She stopped. Her heart had given a vicious jolt.
“Are you alone?”
Natalie strained to see where her daughter was in the room, but couldn’t find her. “Yes.”
“They didn’t follow you?”
“No.”
“Don’t turn on the lights. Close the door and step away from it.”
Natalie did. She saw a shape rise up from a chair, and she stood with her back against a wall as it passed her. Mary stared out a window, watching the road. Her size—her largeness—made pure fear leech to Natalie’s stomach. Her daughter was taller than she by about four inches, and much broader through the shoulders. Mary stood motionless in the dark, her gaze on the road as her mother shrank back from her presence.
“Why didn’t they follow you?” Mary asked.
“They…went somewhere else. I sent them…” Fear had her by the throat and wouldn’t let her speak. “I sent them to the beach house.”
“They had a tap on the line.”
“Yes.”
“I figured they’d have one of those new phone-tracer gizmos. That’s why I didn’t call from here. Like I said, Big Brother’s in action, huh?”
Mary’s face turned toward her mother. Natalie couldn’t make out her features, but something about her face was brutal. “So how come you didn’t tell them I was coming here?”
“I don’t know,” Natalie answered. It was the truth.
“Mother,” Mary said, and she walked to her and gave her a cold kiss on the cheek.
Natalie couldn’t suppress a shudder. Her daughter smelled unclean. She felt Mary’s hand rest against her shoulder; there was something gripped in it, and Natalie realized Mary was holding a gun.
Mary stepped back, and mother and daughter stared at each other in the dark. “It’s been a long time,” Mary said. “You’ve gotten older.”
“No doubt.”
“Well, so have I.” She wandered to the window again, peering out. “I didn’t think you’d come. I figured you were going to send the pigs after me.”
“Then why did you call?”
“I’ve missed you,” Mary said. “And Father, too. I’m glad you didn’t bring the pigs. I saw your car pull in, and I knew pigs don’t drive Cadillacs. But I’m parked down at the boathouse, and if I saw somebody following you I was going to take my baby and get out on the lake road.” The lake road was a trail, really, that wound around much of Lake Anna before joining the main road. This time of year a gate closed the trail off, but Mary had already broken the gate off its hinges to allow a quick escape.
My baby, Mary had said. “Where’s the child?” Natalie asked.
“Back bedroom. I’ve got him wrapped up in a blanket so he’ll be all comfy-cozy. I didn’t want to start a fire. You never can tell who might smell the smoke. The rangers’ station is still a couple of miles north, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” The lake house, constructed for summer use, had no furnace but there were three fireplaces for cool nights. Right now the house was as chilly as a tomb.
“So why didn’t you bring the pigs?”
Natalie could feel her daughter watching her, like a wary animal. “Because I knew you wouldn’t give up if they caught you. I knew they’d have to kill you.”
“But isn’t that what you want? You said it in the papers: you wouldn’t cry if I was dead.”
“That’s right. I was thinking of the baby.”
“Oh.” She nodded. Her mother had always loved babies; it was when they got older that she turned her back in boredom. Mary had taken a gamble, and it had worked. “Okay, I can dig it.”
“I’d like to know why you stole him from his mother.”
“I’m his mother,” Mary said flatly. “I told you. I’ve named him Drummer.”
Natalie moved out of the corner. Mary’s gaze tracked her across the room, and her mother stopped near the cold fireplace made of fieldstones. “Stealing a baby is a new one for you, isn’t it? Murders, bombings, and terrorism weren’t enough for you? You had to steal an innocent child not two days old?”
“Talk, talk,” Mary said. “You’re still the same, talking that shit.”
“You’d better listen to me, damn it!” Natalie snapped, much louder than she’d intended. “By God, they’re going to hunt you down for this! They’ll kill you and drag your body through the street! Sweet Jesus, what’s in your mind to make you do such a thing?”
Mary was silent for a moment. She set the Colt down on a table, close enough to get it fast if she needed it. The coast was clear, though; the pigs were sniffing around the family’s beach house by now. “I always wanted a baby,” Mary told her. “One of my own, I mean. From my own body.”
“And so you steal another woman’s child?”
“Talking shit,” Mary chided her mother. Then: “I almost had a baby once. Before I got hurt. That was a long time ago, but…sometimes I still think I can feel the baby kick. Maybe it’s a ghost, huh? A ghost, up inside me trying to get out. Well
, I let the ghost out. I gave him bones, skin, and a name: Drummer. He’s my baby now, and no one in this mindfucked world’s going to take him away from me.”
“They’ll kill you. They’ll hunt you down and kill you, and you know it.”
“Let them try. I’m ready.”
Natalie heard a sound that made her sick with anguish: the thin noise of a baby crying, from the guest bedroom. Mary said, “He’s a good kid. He doesn’t cry very much.”
“Aren’t you going to go get him?”
“No. He’ll go back to sleep in a few minutes.”
“He’s hungry!” She felt her cold cheeks redden with anger. “Are you letting him starve to death?”
“I’ve got formula for him. Don’t you get it, Mother? I love Drummer. I’m not going to let anything hap—”
“Balls,” Natalie said, and she strode past her daughter into the hallway. She reached out, found a light switch, and turned on the overhead light. It stung her eyes for a few seconds, and she heard Mary pick up the gun again. Natalie continued into the guest bedroom, turned on a lamp, and looked at the crying, red-faced baby wrapped in a coarse gray blanket on the bed. She wasn’t prepared for the sight of such a small infant, and her heart ached. This child’s mother—Laura Clayborne they said her name was—must be ready for an asylum by now. She picked up the crying infant and held him against her. “There, there,” she said. “It’s all right, everything’s going to be all—”
Mary came into the room. Natalie saw the animal cunning in her daughter’s eyes, the years of hardscrabble living etched on her face. Mary once was a beautiful, vivacious young woman, the belle of the ball in Richmond society. Now she resembled a bag lady, used to living under train trestles and eating out of cast-iron pots. Natalie looked quickly away from her, before her eyes were overpowered by the waste of a human being. “This child’s hungry. You can hear it in his crying. And he needs his diaper changed! Damn it, you don’t know the first thing about taking care of a baby, do you?”
“I’ve had some practice,” Mary said, watching her mother rock Drummer with a gentle motion.
“Where’s the formula? We’re going to warm some up and feed this child, right this minute!”
“It’s in the car. You’ll walk down to the boathouse with me, won’t you?” It was a command, not a question. Natalie hated the boathouse; it was where Grant had hanged himself from an overhead rafter.
When they returned, Natalie switched on the kitchen stove and warmed a bottle of formula. Mary sat at the small table and watched her mother feed the freshly diapered Drummer, the Colt near at hand. The shine of light on her mother’s diamond rings drew Mary’s attention. “That’s right, that’s right,” Natalie crooned. “Baby’s having a good dinner now, isn’t him? Yes, him is!”
“Did you ever hold me like that?” Mary asked.
Natalie ceased her crooning. The baby sucked noisily at the nipple.
“What about Grant? Did you hold him like that, too?”
The nipple popped out of the infant’s mouth. He made a little wailing sound of need, and Natalie guided the nipple back into his cupid’s-bow lips. What would Mary do, she wondered, if she were to suddenly turn away, walk out of this house with David Clayborne, and get into the car? Her gaze fixed on the Colt and then skittered away.
Mary read it. “I’ll take my son now,” she said, and she stood up and lifted Drummer away from her mother. Drummer kept feeding, staring up at her with big, unfocused blue eyes. “Isn’t he pretty? I almost had a wreck looking at him. He’s so pretty, isn’t he?”
“He’s not your son.”
“Talking shit,” Mary crooned to Drummer. “Talking shit shit shit, yes she is.”
“Please listen to me! It’s not right! I don’t know why you did this, or what…what’s in your mind, but you can’t keep him! You’ve got to give him up! Listen to me!” she insisted as Mary turned her back. “I’m begging you! Don’t put this child in danger! Do you hear me?”
Silence, but for the sucking. Then: “I hear you.”
“Leave him with me. I’ll take him to the police. Then you can go on wherever you want to, I don’t care. Lose yourself. Go underground. Just let me take that child back where he belongs.”
“He’s already where he belongs.”
Natalie glanced at the pistol again, lying on the table. Two steps away. Did she dare? Was it loaded, or not? If she picked it up, could she use it if she had to? Her mind careened toward a decision.
Mary held the baby with one hand and retrieved the gun with the other. She tucked it down in the waistband of her faded denims. “Mother,” she said, and she looked into Natalie’s face with her cold, intense eyes in that hard and bitter face, “we don’t live in the same world. We never did. I played the game for as long as I could stand it. Then I knew: your world would break me if I didn’t fight back. It would grind me down, put me in a wedding dress and give me a diamond ring, and I would look across the dining room table at some stupid stranger and hear the screams of injustice every day of my life, but by then I’d be too weak to care. I’d live in a big house in Richmond with foxhunt paintings on the walls, and I’d worry about finding good help. I’d think that maybe we should have nuked Vietnam, and I wouldn’t give a shit about whether the pigs billy-clubbed students in the streets and whether the Mindfuck State got fat on the bodies of the uneducated masses. Your world would have killed me, Mother. Can’t you understand?”
“All that is past history,” Natalie answered. “The fighting in the streets is over. The student rebellions, the protests…all of it is gone. Why can’t you let it go?”
Mary smiled thinly. “It’s not gone. People just forgot. I’m going to make them remember.”
“How? By committing more murders?”
“I’m a soldier. My war didn’t end. It’ll never end.” She kissed Drummer on the forehead, and her mother flinched. “He’s part of the next generation. He’ll carry on the fight. I’ll teach him what we did for freedom, and he’ll know the war’s never over.” She smiled into the baby’s face. “My sweet, sweet Drummer.”
Natalie Terrell had thought for over twenty years that her daughter was unbalanced. Now it came at her in a savage rush: she was standing in a kitchen with a madwoman who held a bottle of formula to an infant’s lips. There was no way to reach her; she was beyond touching, a resident of a world of twisted patriotism and midnight slaughters. For the first time, she feared for her own life.
“So you sent them to the beach house,” Mary said, still looking at Drummer. “That was motherly of you. Well, they’ll find out soon enough that I’m not there. The pigs won’t be kind to you, Mother. You may get a taste of the whip.”
“I did it because I didn’t want to see that child hurt, and I hoped—”
“I know what you hoped. That you could put me in your fist and mold me, like you tried to mold Grant. No, no; I won’t be molded. I suppose I can’t stay here much longer, can I?”
“They’ll find you wherever you go.”
“Oh, I’ve done pretty well up until now.” She looked at her mother, and saw she was afraid. It made her feel both elated and very sad. “I’ll take one of your rings.”
“What?”
“One of your rings. I want the one with the two diamonds side by side.”
Natalie shook her head. “I don’t know what you—”
“Take off that ring and put it on the table,” Mary said; her voice had changed. It was a soldier’s voice again, all daughterly pretense gone. “Do it right now.”
Natalie looked at the ring Mary meant. It was worth seven thousand dollars, and had been given to her as a birthday gift by Edgar in 1965. “No,” she said. “No. I won’t.”
“If you don’t take it off, I’ll do it for you.”
Natalie’s chin lifted, like the prow of a battleship. “All right, come ahead.”
Mary moved fast; she held Drummer in the crook of her left arm and was upon Natalie before she could back away. Mary’
s hand grasped her mother’s. There was a fierce pull, some pain as skin was torn and the finger was almost wrenched from its socket, and the ring was gone.
“Damn you to hell,” Natalie rasped, and she lifted her right hand and slapped Mary Terror across the face.
Mary smiled, a handprint splayed across her cheek. “I love you, too, Mother,” she said, and she put the ring with its double diamonds into her pocket. “Would you hold my baby?” She gave Drummer to Natalie, and then she walked purposefully into the den and yanked the telephone from its wall socket. She flung the telephone against the wall and smashed it to pieces as Natalie stood with tears in her eyes and the baby in her arms. Mary offered her mother another smile as she passed her on the way out the front door. She drew her pistol, put the first bullet through the Cadillac’s left front tire and the second bullet through the right rear tire. She returned to the house, bringing with her a whiff of gunsmoke. When they’d walked down to the boathouse to get the formula, Mary had made her mother stand far enough away so Natalie couldn’t tell she was in a van, not a “car,” what make it was or what color. That was for the best; when her mother got back to civilization, she would sing like a little teakettle to the pigs. Mary took Drummer back from Natalie’s trembling hands, her mother’s face drawn and pallid. “Will you stay in the house, or do I have to take your shoes?”
“What would you do? Tear them off my feet?”
“Yes,” Mary said, and her mother believed her. Natalie sat down in a chair in the den and listened to the squeal of air leaving the Cadillac’s tires. Mary squeezed the last drink of formula into the baby’s mouth, then she held him against her shoulder and patted his back, trying to draw forth a burp.