Beyond the Farthest Star

  “Get real!” she flared. “He’s old enough to be …” Abruptly Anne shoved Stephen in the chest and marched past him.

  “Wait,” Stephen called after her. “I just wanna know who he is if …”

  “Leave it alone,” Anne warned.

  “If he’s not your boyfriend.”

  Spinning once more, Anne confronted Stephen.

  Stephen gestured with both arms, hoping to placate her. “Just tell me who he is and I’ll …”

  “Not that it’s any of your business, but he’s my father. My real father. Can I go now?”

  “I thought Pastor Wells was your dad.”

  “That dweeb? No way. Of course, I already knew all about that, really.” Where had that lie come from? Wasn’t lying what was wrong with Adam and Maurene? Wasn’t lying what had created this mess? And here she was doing the same thing! Wow, really. What was wrong with her?

  Still, it was none of Stephen’s business. Anne could say that to him, but a little lie was more polite … friendlier somehow.

  “Why else would Maurene think God cursed her womb, Sticks-boy?” Anne continued. “I told you this before.”

  “No. No, you didn’t.”

  “Yes.”

  “No, Annie,” Stephen protested. “You didn’t want to talk about it before. Just like you don’t now.”

  Anne shivered. She had only grabbed a sweater before climbing out the bedroom window. Should have taken her coat. Maybe Calvin—her dad—would buy her one tomorrow. “I told you how he’s been searching for me all my life … almost.”

  This had to be the truth. Even if Anne didn’t know it for fact, it was the only explanation that made any sense. It explained everything. Maurene and Adam had conspired to keep her real dad away, to keep the truth from being revealed.

  “Adam kept moving us from one Sticksville to another, to the next and the next, so my dad wouldn’t ever find me. But now he has. He’s found me, and he said he’ll never let me out of his sight, ever again.” This was only speaking the words Anne knew in her heart she was about to hear. That didn’t count as lying, did it?

  “My real dad has come for me. Maurene and Adam are busy blowing up their world, and I don’t want to be there when the blast goes off. My dad and me, we’re splitting from Sticksville.”

  “You’re leaving? Just like that?”

  “I don’t need your approval, Sticks-boy.”

  “So where’s he takin’ you? I’ll come visit.”

  “No,” Anne said forcefully.

  “Why?”

  “If you know, then he’ll know.”

  Lost in the pronoun shift, it took a beat, then Stephen said: “Pastor Wells? I won’t tell—”

  Anne cut him off. “I can’t take that chance. Can I go now? It’s freezing out here and my dad’s waiting.”

  As Anne’s foot touched the bottom tread of the stairs, Stephen called to her one more time. “Wait! Just another second, Annie.”

  She did not turn. “I already answered your question. What d’ya want now?”

  “Wanna say something to you before I never see you again,” Stephen pleaded. He moved up alongside her, took the suitcase from her grip, and set it on the ground.

  Unwillingly, Anne noticed that he touched her arm gently, by the elbow, above the burned place, as he turned her to face him.

  Stephen’s height forced her to look up at him, into his direct gaze. “Wanna say I think people are like stars, since you can never really see the end of them either. What makes bein’ … bein’ in love with you a terrifyingly unsolvable mystery … that I wouldn’t have missed for the world.” Stephen kissed her cheek, and then, with a boldness that surprised them both, her lips.

  To Anne’s dismay and embarrassment, her throat constricted and her eyes moistened.

  Stepping back, he shrugged. “That’s all I wanted to say.”

  There it was again! That unwanted hesitation. What would happen if Anne went back to the truck? Back to her room? Back to Sticksville? Back to Adam and Maurene?

  She shook her head. “Can I go now?” Seizing the suitcase and revolving on her heel, Anne only caught a glimpse as Stephen bobbed his head in agreement as she trudged up the stairs.

  “Did you even tell your—” Stephen must have noted the fierce response forming on her face, since he changed his question to, “Did you tell Adam and Maurene?”

  “I will, after we’re gone.”

  Chapter Twenty

  ANNE TAPPED ON THE DOOR of Room 215. Why was she knocking so softly? Wasn’t this about to be a joyful reunion and the start of a whole new, falsehood-free life? She rapped harder.

  The taillights of Stephen’s truck disappeared up the road and into the woods. The headlight beams brushed against the tree trunks in farewell.

  Anne wiped a tear away, then used the moistened knuckles to hammer on 215. Wasn’t he here? Wasn’t her real dad here to greet her?

  The door opened. Calvin had a smile that quickly faded.

  I wasn’t who he was expecting, or hoping, to see, she thought.

  “Anne,” he said flatly. He had liquor on his breath.

  Not that I care, she thought. Back in Leonard’s parsonage are two real boozers.

  “Anne?” he repeated, this time with a question in his tone.

  Anne said the first thing that came into her head. “What would you have named me? If she asked for your thoughts on the subject, what would you have wanted to name me when I was born? ‘Cause I hate Anne.”

  Anne watched Calvin’s examination take in her suitcase. “How’d you get here? Are you alone?”

  “Yep,” she said. “Just you and me.” That didn’t sound right. Where was the enthusiastic welcome she expected? Couldn’t he tell just by her arrival that she had made the decision to join him? To be his child and nobody else’s?

  Wasn’t that what he wanted as much as she wanted it?

  Anne suddenly remembered that the part about how he’d been searching and searching for her was partly made up.

  “You can’t stand out there,” Calvin said.

  He’s worried that I’m cold, Anne thought, pleased.

  “Someone will see you,” Calvin continued. “Did anyone see you arriving?”

  “Nope.”

  “Come in, then.”

  She looked past him into the unadorned motel room. There was a large, damp spot on one wall. A heap of discarded yellow tulips peered woefully out of a trashcan.

  He did pick up her suitcase for her, stepped aside for her to enter, and closed the door behind her.

  The Leonard Police Station was almost deserted. Sheriff Burns and Deputy Williams were out on patrol. Kyle, putting in late hours to make up for earlier-missed community-service days—no way was he going back into juvenile detention—pushed dust around the top of a file cabinet with a dirty rag. The dispatcher, Joyce, was taking a bathroom break, which included an officially unauthorized but tolerated smoke break.

  When the phone on Joyce’s desk rang, Kyle leaned over and answered it. It wasn’t part of his assigned duties, but if he made no move to get it, Joyce would yell at him, and maybe even report it to the sheriff. “Leonard Police,” he said.

  Excited, not entirely comprehensible Tex-Mex erupted from the receiver. “I seen her! Sí! Vampira! Sí!”

  Kyle looked around for Joyce. She was the one getting paid to talk to drunks and crazies, not him. She was still not back. If Kyle interrupted her nicotine fix, she’d be grumpy the whole rest of the shift.

  “Who is this?” he asked.

  “Luis. You know, Luis at the Starlight. You tell me, keep an eye out for a vampire, sí?”

  “Too much tequila,” Kyle thought. Then it struck him: vampire! The runt of a manager must mean Anne Wells. Nobody else around Leonard fit that description.

  Kyle took another quick look around. He was still alone. “Starlight Motel, yeah?”

  “Sí. Room two one five. I seen her go in ten minutes ago. You tell the sheriff?”

 
“Yeah, you done good, amigo. No, don’t do nothin’ else. I’ll let the sheriff know you called. Adios.”

  The receiver was back on the hook almost as fast as Kyle’s mind was racing. Good thing, too, since Joyce chose that moment to return. “Serves me right fer drinkin’ coffee past eight o’clock,” she gave by way of a lame excuse for taking so long. “Thanks, darlin’.”

  She studied the phone, now in a slightly different position than she had left it.

  Kyle saw the look. He turned away, waving the dust rag over a side table so she couldn’t see his face.

  “Any action, Kyle?” Joyce asked.

  “No, ma’am,” Kyle replied. “Quiet as a tomb.”

  Joyce nodded thoughtfully, then the radio buzzed, and she lost any remaining interest in Kyle. “Kyle,” she said, dismissing him, “ladies’ john is plugged up again. Take the plunger and see to it, will you?”

  Kyle was out of the front office when the sheriff’s voice came over the speaker: “One to base.”

  “Go ahead, Chief.”

  “Any word on the Wells girl, Joy-cee?”

  “Negative, Chief. Nothin’ yet,” Joyce reported.

  “All right. Radio Harliss to head back from the Greyhound after the 11:20. And Joy-cee?”

  “Yeah, Chief?”

  “I’m out front. Give me a couple minutes, then let Kyle know his old man’s here.”

  “Roger that, Chief.”

  Sheriff Burns had returned from his uneventful cruise around the peaceful streets of Leonard, arriving right behind the beat-up, mud-caked truck driven by Kyle’s father, Jackson Tucker. A thumping bass line and some high squeals of lead guitar emanated from within it. Through the smallest opening at the top of the closed window, a string of cigarette vapor emerged.

  Jaw set in determination, the sheriff switched off the two-way radio and got out of the patrol car. Hitching up his gun belt, he hefted the six-cell Maglite, hitting it reflectively against the other palm.

  After a moment’s consideration, he walked up to the Tucker vehicle and knocked on the driver’s side window with the flashlight.

  The window wobbled as Kyle’s father rolled it down, revealing his gaunt, weather-beaten face. A wave of hard rock and a cloud of smoke washed out.

  “How y’doin’ this evenin’, Jackson?” the sheriff inquired, raising his voice to be heard over the music.

  “No complaints, Sheriff,” Jackson returned. “Just pickin’ up my boy.”

  “Mind turnin’ down the music?”

  “Sure. No problem.”

  Tucker’s eyes were bloodshot and his voice hoarse, but both were typical conditions for him.

  As Kyle’s father complied with the sheriff’s request, Burns let the beam of his flashlight play around the truck’s interior. Burger wrappers competed for space with empty beer bottles and crushed, empty cigarette packs.

  With an attempt to be friendly, Jackson said, “Hey, Sheriff, saw you on the TV tonight. Right there.” He flicked cigarette ash toward city hall. “You done good. Look good too. Be famous, prob’ly.”

  Sheriff Burns laid the barrel of the flashlight on the edge of the truck window frame and tapped it slowly. “Been hittin’ your boy again, Jackson?”

  “Huh? What? Shoot, Sheriff, I never laid a finger on him. Did he say I did, ‘cause I ain’t—”

  The flashlight’s spot continued to probe the interior of the truck like a questing hound dog. A little weed, a half-empty Bud, anything to roust Tucker out.

  The beam settled on the glove box. Gesturing with the shaft of light, the sheriff demanded, “Open it. Glove box. Let me see.”

  “Now, Sheriff,” Tucker blustered, “that’d be an illegal search. I know my—”

  “Tell you what, Jackson,” the sheriff suggested. “How about you sit inside in the tank and sweat out that buzz you got goin’? Could get a warrant, easy. Or do you want to open the glove box?”

  “Sure, sure,” Tucker agreed. “I didn’t mean nothin’. You just startled me, is all. Here, let me get it. It sticks sometimes.”

  The flashlight beam stabbed the interior of the truck as the glove compartment door flipped open, revealing a greasy, red mechanic’s rag lying flat inside the space.

  Kyle’s father continued to stare at the open compartment.

  Burns grunted and clicked off the Maglite. “Kyle showed up at work banged up again. Don’t s’pose you know anything about how that happened?”

  Tucker blustered, “Wasn’t me, Sheriff. I swear it wasn’t. How come you always think it’s me? The boy’s a hard case. Always has been. But I didn’t touch ‘im.”

  The sheriff pondered a moment, then opened the driver’s side door. “What d’ya say we let Kyle drive home tonight, Jackson?”

  “Well, we kinda got a rule ‘round our place about the boy drivin’ the vehicle and all.”

  “Jackson,” the sheriff replied sternly, “you wanna take a Breathalyzer? You act like you’re just itchin’ to, ‘cause I saw you pull up here, didn’t I?”

  A scowl on his already pinched face, Kyle’s father got out of the truck with a jerk, then staggered toward the front of the vehicle. Kyle emerged from the police station at that moment. His eyes went questioningly from the sheriff to his father and back again.

  Jackson Tucker dangled the car keys in front of his son. “Looks like you’re drivin’, puke.” With that he ground the keys into Kyle’s hand.

  Kyle stood toe to toe with his father and returned glare for glare. When Sheriff Burns moved a pace nearer, Tucker retreated and entered the passenger’s side door.

  When Kyle was seated behind the wheel, Sheriff Burns leaned in. “Want you to tell me if he lays so much as a finger on you, son. You got that?”

  Kyle only nodded once, savagely, then cranked the key, jammed the truck into forward gear, and drove off.

  Sheriff Burns stood on the sidewalk watching the truck motor away past the crime-scene tape outlining the nativity’s ashes. “Hard cases, both of ‘em,” he muttered aloud. When he returned the Maglite to its belt loop, it bumped against something in his jacket.

  Burns idly patted the object in his pocket. “Both of ‘em,” he said again.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  KYLE DIDN’T LIKE the way his father stared at him. For several minutes nothing was said, almost as if the sheriff was still present, sitting between them in the truck. Jackson Tucker lit another cigarette off the butt of the first, tossed the dead stub out the window, then sized up their location.

  None of the buildings of Leonard remained in sight. The two-track was little more than an asphalt ribbon, winding between masses of brush higher than the cab on both sides. It was still a mile to the Tucker double-wide when Kyle’s father said, “So where’s your girlfriend? You and Stephen havin’ a lover’s quarrel?”

  “Don’t say that,” Kyle returned.

  Tucker leaned toward his son, breathing out stale beer and acrid tobacco and menace. “You say somethin’, puke?”

  When Kyle did not respond, Tucker added, “I didn’t think so.”

  In reach of the headlights a wider shoulder appeared on the right side of the lane, next to a three-strand barbwire fence. “Pull over there,” Tucker ordered, gesturing with the glowing cigarette.

  Stubbornly, Kyle returned, “Sheriff said I’m s’posed to take you—”

  “I said pull over if you know what’s good for you!” Tucker yanked the steering wheel sharply so that Kyle fought for control.

  Stomping on the brakes, Kyle brought the pickup to a halt. He eyed his father warily, ready to throw up a defensive forearm if Tucker swung at him.

  “Now, get out!” Kyle’s father ordered. When Kyle continued to sit behind the wheel, Tucker jumped from the truck. He lunged around to the driver’s side, ripped open the door, and seized Kyle by the collar of the black duster.

  They were in the middle of nowhere, long past the time any fuel trucks or hay haulers or neighbors would be on this stretch of lonely road.

&nb
sp; With a savage tug, Kyle’s father dragged him out of the cab, bashing Kyle’s shoulder into the doorframe as he pitched him to the ground. Taking hold of the duster again, Tucker hauled Kyle into the headlights’ glow and dumped him in a heap in the dirt.

  “I don’t know what all you told Sheriff Burns ‘bout me hittin’ you, boy. But after tonight you’ll know fer sure: if I bother to give you a beatin’, you won’t make it into work next day to cry about it. Skunk! Snake! Lyin’, no good!”

  Taking a long, last drag from the smoke, Tucker tossed the remains onto the road and ground it beneath his heel.

  Kyle watched all the signs. Knew from experience his father was working himself up to a violent outburst.

  “Lousy, no-good puke,” Tucker muttered. “Keep you fed. Buy you clothes. Ungrateful! You’re nothin’ but a bad seed is what you are. Can’t keep out of trouble. Carry tales to your prissy friend and now to the sheriff. Who else you been lyin’ to, boy? And you steal, don’tcha? Don’tcha, puke? Take money out’n my wallet. Now where is it?”

  Kyle watched his father’s boots. Gathering his legs under him, the boy crouched half upright, ready to spring out of the way when he saw Tucker’s leg draw back. His father had kicked him in the ribs and head before.

  “Where’s what? I didn’t take your money.”

  “Don’t give me that! You know what I mean.”

  A whip-poor-will uttered his mournful cry in the bushes crawling over the fence.

  “No, I don’t.”

  From his hip pocket Tucker jerked a red mechanic’s rag and threw it in Kyle’s face. “That Glock you stole outta my truck, boy. Where is it? Gonna rob a bank, puke? Think you’re a tough guy? Or did you sell it? I’ll get ever’ penny outta your hide.”

  Still carefully watching for the blow Kyle was certain was coming, he scooted farther away and rose to his feet. “You’re not gonna beat me again. Not ever. ‘Specially for doin’ nothin’. Didn’t steal nothin’ from you.”

  “Outta the glove box!” Tucker challenged. “Think I’m stupid? Outta the truck last night!”