The Kitchen Charmer

  My fingers caressed the soft human wool of Meery’s gray head, opening channels only I could hear.

  Her name is Megan. She’s not what she seems.

  She has been told to spy on us from our weakest point. Me.

  But there’s more to her than that.

  “We’ll find a place for her,” I said.

  9

  MEGAN ROWAN WAS eighteen going on a thousand. I saw dark, tangled images around her, too blurry to decipher, darting away, trying to form barricades. A dour old woman stood next to her, claiming to be her grandmother.

  Megan’s hard gray eyes scoured me like steel wool. “How many boxes of cheap-ass hair color does it take to get that George Washington white-wig-blonde ’do? Where’re your dragons, Daenareys? Whazzup with the Amish clothes? You some kind of hillbilly nun?”

  Alberta and Macy watched us from beside the desk in Macy’s office. I stepped closer to Megan, who radiated cold air from the freezing winter day she had left outside.

  I put a hand to my chest.

  Megan’s eyes flickered nervously at the gesture. I touched my heart point then extended my hand to her. “I can use your help organizing several hundred books I’ve been collecting. I’m starting a library. I can tell you’re smart and you’re an avid reader. Could you help me?”

  She drew back. “Bullshit. You don’t know anything about me.”

  “You insulted me using at least five different specific cultural references. You have a better command of language than most creative writing students. You’re a book reader. Don’t even try to deny it. I really could use your help.”

  She shifted, frowning.

  The grandmother hooted. “Yeah, she’s a bookworm. But she thinks everybody’s trying to mess with her. Get in her panties. Like she’s got much to offer.”

  I pivoted toward this shriveled creature. I stepped closer to her, looking up and narrowing my eyes in concentration, examining her to see where the disguise might let the alien lizard face peek through.

  She scowled. “Hey, I don’t give a shit who fucks who. It doesn’t bother me that this place is run by bush-lickers; I just want to make sure you’re not gonna turn my baby girl into a bush-licker, too.”

  Are you sexually deviant, Ms. Parmenter? After all, wasn’t it true your late father, known in the Charlotte church community as a respected Methodist minister, was a closet homosexual who entertained a number of men you called your uncles? How can this jury trust your version of events? Isn’t it likely that a young woman such as yourself, who grew up accepting that her father’s sexual acts with a man were normal, would be willing to engage in an orgy of drug-fueled rough sex with two men, that, unfortunately, got out of control?

  Megan’s grandmother added, “Unless the pay-off is some really nice shit like this.” She picked up the end of my wrap.

  I lunged at her.

  Alberta blocked me just in time. She dragged me into their big, folksy kitchen, scattering cats on braided floor rugs and an old terrier who snapped at my shoes. Alberta clamped an arm around my shoulders while planting a wet washcloth to my face. Actually over my face, including nose and mouth.

  “Fist DOWN,” she ordered. That’s when I realized I had my right hand balled and raised.

  What is that hand doing? I let it drop and gasped against the washcloth. Alberta let go of me. I leaned against the sink, where tendrils from a windowsill herb garden reached down past a tile backsplash. I snapped off a sprig of parsley and ate it.

  “If you’re going to start grazing,” Alberta said, “we’ll put an ear tag on you with your livestock number.”

  “Palette cleanser. Bad taste in my mouth.”

  “Are you practicing Kung Fu to impress the captain? What the hell are you thinking? Punching old ladies is a good way to get us shut down.”

  “That woman is not Megan’s grandmother. This is a set up. I can’t unravel the details, yet.”

  Alberta gaped at me. Then her eyes narrowed and her jaw clamped. “Monzell.”

  “Probably. But it’s odd. Nothing about Megan feels authentic. She’s acrylic yarn pretending to be wool.”

  “I’m not taking in a goddamn spy.”

  “We have to. It’s important.” I searched the air with my hands. “She’s part of something bigger. I have to know what that is. She’s meant to be here.”

  “You’re making it real hard for me to trust your wool witch hoodoo this time.”

  “Give her a few weeks. I’ll watch her.”

  Alberta stabbed a finger at me. “If you get any danger vibes off her, you tell me. Pronto. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.”

  She pointed to an outside door. “Out. I’ll get Macy to smooth things over. Beat it.”

  AN HOUR LATER, when I was filling a hay rack outside the sheep barn, something sharp bounced off my hair.

  I whirled.

  Megan stood near a shed. Lanky, smirking, prowling. Pulling another weapon from the pocket of a cheap faux-leather coat. She jiggled it in her palm. A rock.

  She’d thrown a rock at my head.

  She drew her hand back. “Will this get me kicked out of here?”

  “No. But it will get you a trip to the ER clinic in Turtleville.”

  Brim charged out of an open barn door, her big, yellow teeth bared.

  Megan jumped and dropped the rock.

  “Brim, HALT.”

  My guard mule slid to a stop with her teeth inches from Megan’s pale face.

  “Brim, go back in the barn. I’m okay.”

  Brim, her long ears flattened, her muzzle curled in a sneer of threat, shook her head at Megan then slunk back indoors.

  Megan turned toward me, recovering her own sneer. “So you are some kind of comic book freak. Reading minds. Controlling donkeys.”

  “Brim’s a mule, not a donkey. And no one controls her.”

  “You stopped her from biting the shit out of me.”

  “I don’t use violence to make a point.”

  “Coulda fooled me, fairy godmother.”

  “My offer about the books still stands. Or come learn to spin yarn and to knit. I also teach art. Or just hang out with the sheep and I’ll teach you how to work with the herding dogs. There are plenty of things to learn around here.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard that.” She drew back her arm and mimed beaning me with another rock. When I flinched, she grinned and walked off, kicking the cold brown grass with the toes of dirty boots.

  I staggered back to my room, made a pot of tea with my electric kettle, and sat down at Elam’s desk to wait for Gus’s emails and phone calls. I would tell him what I had deduced about the mysterious Megan.

  Dominate or submit. Attack or surrender. Hit or be hit. Are those the only two choices in life? No, of course not. Patience is a virtue. Time heals all wounds. Forgive and forget.

  The Zen of Zen, got your fresh hot Zen right here; we can rationalize your acceptance of any horror the world throws at you, just give it a Zen-something reference. Jesus saves. No . . . remember what Dad said. Jesus gives.

  That’s the choice. For those who take the Lard’s way, as Delta puts it, Jesus gives us only one choice. To give.

  FUCK JESUS.

  Fuck giving.

  There’s only love, death, and revenge.

  “He died instantly, Captain. He was trying to be a soldier. To clear the IEDs for you.”

  I stood among the dirt and blood of an exploded mine.

  I knelt beside Bazir’s small body.

  I lifted him into my arms.

  I’m going to kill the bastard who did this to you.

  February

  Gus had been gone on patrol for days. No communication. Especially not even the psychic kind.

  “He can wa
ll himself off,” Tal confirmed. “All of us can. I thought you’d learned how, too.”

  I nodded. “So he doesn’t find out those photos were hacked. Or sense what happened to me before I came here.”

  “Same with him. He doesn’t want us to worry. Or . . . he doesn’t want our pity.”

  I understood. But the darkness continued to gather.

  Something is coming our way. Something very dark. Gus is in danger. I’m in danger. Everyone is in danger. The sky is falling, and it will cover us with decisions.

  I printed out one of his emails, folded the paper carefully, and tucked it inside my crotch holster alongside the pistol. I had asked him how he could handle being in charge of other people’s lives.

  My dad faced that every day, as a cop, Gus wrote back. He said, “Don’t let fear get in front of you. Rise above it. Be bigger than fear. Be better than fear. Be smarter than fear. Be braver than fear. Be kinder than fear. Be a leader who’s not afraid to die if that’s what it takes to do the job.”

  STEEL GRAY SNOW clouds clotted the mountain sky outside the kitchen at Rainbow Goddess. A human hamster in expensive hiking boots, a gray pinstripe suit and a quilted overcoat parked a Mercedes sedan by the front walkway then handed Alberta and Macy an envelope. “State says you’re running fifty clients over capacity and you employ an uncertified counselor named Lucille Parmenter. You have thirty days to rectify the problems.”

  Alberta tossed the letter into a wicker basket atop some over-ripe bananas. “Monzell had something to do with this.”

  Macy dutifully moved the letter to a stack of mail. “Kern was here this morning. He wanted to see you but we said you were out in the far pasture. That put him in a mood. He interrogated the Menedez sisters along with Rita Juarez and her kids. Made them show their papers. Said immigration has given local sheriffs’ departments more authority to conduct raids.”

  Alberta picked up a hammer from a kitchen table filled with pecans waiting to be cracked. “All I need is one good swing at his crotch.”

  I stood at the big double sinks, scraping potatoes. “He has spies everywhere.” I held up a spud that had begun to sprout. “Eyes. Lots of eyes. And each eye makes a new plant and its roots grow even more potatoes with more eyes. We’re going to be living in a police state, soon.”

  Alberta pulled the potato from my grip, planted it on a chopping block, and halved with one swing of a sharp cleaver. “Step away from the potato analogy.”

  I covered the rest of the potatoes with a dishcloth to protect them. “I’m going to buy a rifle. Or a shotgun.”

  Macy whacked a canning jar with the handle of a heavy knife. She dumped turnip greens into a ten-gallon pot. “As your therapist, I strongly advise against it.”

  “You can tell Alberta about our therapy discussions. I give my permission.”

  Macy shook her head. “I don’t support your fascination with weapons.”

  I looked at her grimly. “I need to defend myself better than I did in the past.”

  STILL FROWNING, Macy dropped me off at the café on her way to town that afternoon.

  I trudged across the gravel parking lot bundled in shawls and scarves and a thick wool reggae cap that bundled my wadded-up hair on the back of my head. Pike’s blood pressure was bouncing. He’d come home early. Only a few of us knew. The campaign was taking a toll.

  Delta met me on the porch. She was pale with blue circles under her eyes. “Good timing, girlfriend,” she said with a strained imitation of her jolly drawl. She slid a bulky, quilted jacket over her jeans, flannel shirt and apron. “I’m gonna go check on my man. Take him some chicken and dumplings. Larry’s washing dishes. There won’t be any dinner customers until four, at the earliest. You can handle the place for a little while. Cleo’s out and about. Holler if you need anything.”

  “No. Wait! I don’t know how to deal with . . . ”

  The café’s double doors were already slamming shut behind her.

  I sat down in a rocker.

  I rocked.

  Slow down. All you have to do is sit on the porch and look neighborly. Wave if anyone drives by.

  Stop rocking so fast.

  Larry slammed the front doors open and tromped out, lanky and earnest, wearing a long apron stained with food and smelling of heat and soap. “You need anything, Miss Lucy?”

  Tires squealed on the Trace’s aged asphalt. Its muffler rumbling, an old pickup truck barely held its wheels on the pavement as it skidded around the curve that cut through the forest. The truck plowed into the Café’s parking lot, slinging gravel, and slid to a stop by the broad front steps.

  The driver leapt out. Short, wiry and spinning a red weave of fear. He wore a Jefferson County High varsity jacket over a heavy sweater and camo pants.

  “Sanctuary!” he yelled, raising both arms as if surrendering. “We need sanctuary!”

  A teenage girl climbed out the passenger side. “Sanctuary! Please.”

  The term was meant to be quietly shared, not shouted. Sanctuary. Certain churches. Specific homes. Burf Roberd’s Old Train Museum, off the Turtleville road behind the old mill. The clubhouse at the golf community. Safe places. Sanctuaries.

  Rainbow Goddess was on the list. So was the café.

  A siren wailed in the distance.

  Larry clutched his hands to his chest. “What do we do?”

  I stood. “You go back inside and keep washing dishes. We don’t want to w-worry Delta and Pike right now. I’ll h-handle this.”

  “You-you-you’re . . . ”

  “Stuttering can be a sign of thoughtful command. G-go.”

  “Okay.” Larry bolted indoors like a blond llama.

  “Sanctuary,” the teens yelled again, in unison.

  I pointed. “Drive to the old barn shed. Pull the truck in and shut the doors behind you.”

  They scrambled back into the vehicle and spun gravel down the lane.

  Delta, come back. Delta, help. I can’t . . .

  Kern slung a sheriff’s department truck into the yard. Big engine. Four doors. Lights, sirens, emblems.

  He climbed the wide veranda steps in two long strides. Then he was in my space, looming over me, something desperate and gentle battling with a deep streak of anger. I saw it around him, woven in coarse wool and harsh colors. Lust and ownership. Ambition. My skin began to retract. Exposed nerve endings shriveled in the chill.

  He nodded toward ruts in the gravel. “We shouldn’t be at odds. I know they’re here. Either tell me, or I’ll track them down.”

  “They’re just kids. What did they do?”

  “I don’t want you to worry. Just tell me where they are. I’ll go easier on them, if you do.”

  I smelled the rising anger in him; the casual brutality masked as order and discipline.

  They spoke out, Opal whispered. They didn’t obey. Just like the old days.

  “Is this about the protest some of the students have been organizing? The Freedom of Speech rally?”

  “It’s been cancelled.”

  “They had a permit. It was all set.”

  “Not anymore. New town ordinance. Political rallies can only be held on private property.”

  Only in dictatorships. The words wanted to spit through my lips, but a panic attack short-circuited them. In another few seconds I’d barely be able to hear Kern’s voice; my entire battle would be internal, in the shadows, with the demons. “That’s unconstitutional.”

  “It’s the way the Constitution is meant to be used. Structure, obedience, respect for the law.”

  “Howard Monzell wants control over these mountains. He wants to be a dictator. He’s bought the town council and the county commission, and he’s put you in position to become his enforcer. Can’t you see how he’s using you?”

  “The
y defaced the courthouse’s main doors. Stenciled a resistance symbol on them. That trinity bar. They may be the ones who stenciled the Monzell Poultry trucks at the Daw Ridge plant.”

  “No. It wasn’t them.”

  “Oh? Your angels tell you that?” He stepped closer. “You can use your psychic ability to make society better. Safer. Stronger. To protect what we have, here. In this county. This state. This country. Work with me.”

  I stepped back and hit the front wall of the house. A Welcome, Y’all plaque fell off its nail. When it clattered on the wooden floor, I began to shake.

  Kern raised his hands in a plea. I shrank away. “Please don’t. I want you to trust me. A strong man needs a wise woman to keep him on track.” His hands hovered near my shoulders.

  “You have a wife to do that for you. Back away from me.”

  He didn’t. “You and me. My money, my influence, combined with your talent.”

  Howard Monzell’s money.

  I frantically side-eyed the shrinking distance between his hands and my body.

  Talk. Make words. It’s the only hope for those teenagers. And for you.

  “Monzell despises me. Because of Sheryl . . . ”

  “She would have left him, anyway.” He rested his hands on my shoulders. “I can run this county. I can run this state. With your help, I could run this country.” He bent his head close to mine; his breath filled my nose. “You can save me. And I can save you. He swept one long muscled arm around my back and dragged me to him.

  Quit fighting, bitch. Come back here. Hold her down. Slap the shit out of her again.

  “Let. Me. Go.” Sweat broke on my forehead. I fumbled between us, trying to get my shaking hand inside my skirt, fumbling for my handgun.

  “Just let me hold you,” Kern said hoarsely. “Just relax and trust me. If you’ll give me five minutes to hold you like this, I’ll let those kids off with a warning.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  He pulled me closer.

  A shot rang out. A few feet away, the globe on a porch light fixture exploded.

  ADJUST TARGET. Hold fire.