The Cabin on Souder Hill Read online

  Michelle didn’t like the severe look Pink had attached to his question, or the tone with which he’d asked it. She got up and walked to the door.

  “Never mind,” she said, opening the door. “Thanks for everything.”

  “Look,” he said, twisting in his chair. “These woods around here can be vexing. Easy for folks to get turned around and confused, think they see things that ain’t there. Me and Clarence been out coon hunting on nights so dark and disorienting I could get myself lost in my own backyard. I don’t know what happened to you that night, but I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation.”

  Michelle held the door and looked at the parking lot. A woman crossed the pavement with her young daughter, holding the child’s hand. The little girl dangled a tiny yellow purse from her free hand, and Michelle missed Cassie more than ever. “Please, just go.”

  Pink stood and hitched up his trousers. “I’m sorry, ma’am. You seem disappointed in me, like I was supposed to have something for you and didn’t. And I can’t think what it would be.” He stepped past Michelle and ambled across the parking lot.

  Michelle closed the door and sat on the edge of the bed, her open purse next to her, the gun barrel aimed at the ceiling.

  Chapter 15

  Pink had never been lost in the woods, day or night, sober or drunk. He’d lied about the coon hunting hoping it would make her feel better. Truth was never as comforting as lies. Obviously, his lies hadn’t helped her though. He couldn’t deny he was attracted to her, and he wished he’d been able to provide her with whatever it was she was so desperately seeking. A gift like that might be rewarded with unbridled gratitude. He’d gotten a little aroused when she’d asked him to stay a few minutes, even though he was fairly certain sex wasn’t part of the offer. Her story was strange, but no stranger than most stories he’d heard from the lips of women. And he knew she was in some kind of trouble and that maybe she was dangerous by the gun she was trying to hide in her purse—although she hadn’t done a very good job of concealing it with her bag hanging open like the jaws of an old catfish.

  The police cars were gone when Pink got to the office. Mrs. Stage’s Explorer was still there. If she was telling the truth—that her husband planned to take her back to Atlanta—then why hadn’t Loudon towed her vehicle? Was Fisk planning some kind of trap, leaving the Explorer as bait? Pink laughed to himself and looked over toward the strip of stores, the Subway sandwich shop, Tom and Lois’s Family Restaurant, the office supply store. Pink pictured Loudon and Elmer parked by the dumpster behind the stores, engine running, lights off, waiting for the signal to race out and nab Mrs. Stage. But Loudon and Elmer weren’t idiots or small-town hick cops who weren’t allowed to carry bullets. Loudon and Elmer had serious jobs, breaking up theft rings, dragging dead bodies from the bottom of Burtran Lake, raiding meth labs, dangerous work that meant putting their lives on the line. But Pink still couldn’t help chuckling to himself imagining the headline, “Sheriff Fisk and Deputy Bogan of Ardenwood apprehend the notorious Mrs. Stage during a dramatic bust in front of the Pink Souder Real Estate office.”

  It would be good advertising, Pink thought. He checked his desk for messages then walked back to Clarence’s office to find his digital camera on a stack of papers next to Clarence’s antifungal spray. Pink switched it on and perused the photos, clicking through shot after shot of Clarence’s toes.

  He stuck the camera in his pocket, realizing he didn’t need to take pictures of Michelle’s cabin. He wasn’t going to list it. That wasn’t why she was here.

  Pink turned out the office lights and locked the front door. He thought about driving around behind Subway and seeing if Loudon and Elmer were back there. He slipped the key in the ignition and an odd notion hit him: if Mrs. Stage was a lunatic being hounded by her husband and the police, why had she come to his office in the first place? It made no sense. Did insane women on the lam suddenly feel the urge to sell property? Besides, he was fairly sure she had known the cabin had been his even before he told her. There were things she’d left out, like her reason for wanting to know so much about him.

  He thought about stopping at the Ruby Motel, telling Michelle that the Explorer was at the office. He imagined her shock when he’d show up at the door. Maybe she wouldn’t even recognize him and start screaming or crying and Ed would have to call Loudon to calm her down. Pink wasn’t sure what a crazy woman would do, even though he’d lived with Isabelle all these years. He should be an expert by now. But he had difficulty believing Michelle Stage was crazy. Scared maybe, even angry and distrustful. But not crazy.

  The evening was starting to cool as Pink pulled into his driveway. Isabelle had the windows open, the curtains sucking in and blowing out like the whole house was straining for breath. It was eerie. He wondered if she was asleep and had forgotten to close them. She didn’t like the cold and certainly wouldn’t have welcomed the crisp evening breeze.

  Isabelle was seated at the kitchen table eating a bowl of soup when he walked in.

  “Feeling better today, Turtledove?”

  “No. And stop calling me those idiotic names. You haven’t called me Isabelle in over ten years. Do you know that?”

  Pink didn’t know and didn’t care. He couldn’t stand the sickly sight of her, especially now, dragging her mysterious germs through the house, infecting the table and chairs, the couch cushions, the canned goods. He’d have to call Claire to come over and disinfect everything.

  “Where have you been all day?” she asked.

  “Working to pay for this palace, Honey Pie.”

  “Bullshit. Clarence said you left with some woman before lunch and never came back.”

  “Clarence. What does he know? He’s got fungus on the brain.”

  “Were you with Claire? Was Clarence covering for you?”

  How dumb would that be, Pink thought, covering up one affair with another? But then that would be like Clarence to cover a bad situation with a worse one.

  “I was showing property. Some rich woman with deep Atlanta pockets wanted a mountain retreat for her and hubby.”

  Isabelle grimaced, shaking her head. “Stop it, Pink. My illness has got me weak, not stupid. I know you can’t keep that tiny peter of yours in your pants, but you best not be poking it in Claire. I mean it. Kenny won’t put up with it. He’ll shoot you dead and go for beer to celebrate.”

  “I’m glad you care so much about me, Sweet Potato.”

  “Fuck you, Pink!” The bowl flew across the kitchen, crashing against the refrigerator. Some kind of red soup trickled down the olive-colored door.

  “That’s why we don’t have nice things, Doe Eyes,” Pink said, walking to the sink, grabbing a dishcloth to wipe up the mess. He cupped the ceramic shards in his palm and dumped them in the trash can. The red soup reminded him of blood, and he couldn’t stand the sight of it. The most blood he’d ever seen was on Isabelle’s father’s hands at the wedding. From the altar it looked as if Ruther had been wearing red gloves. Pink could still see the smeared blood on the floor where people had tracked through it exiting the church. From that moment, Pink felt his marriage to Isabelle had been cursed. Maybe they shouldn’t have married. Maybe Isabelle’s mother had been right, that God would condemn a marriage between kin, even if they were only second cousins.

  Pink wasn’t sure he believed in God and didn’t like thinking about any being having that much power hitched to that much attitude. It was too intimidating, especially for someone who took such great delight in sin as Pink did.

  “Your new girlfriend called,” Isabelle said.

  Pink turned from the towel rack. Isabelle was hoisting herself from the chair, pushing at the edge of the table to steady herself. The hem of her nightgown was loose, dragging along the linoleum floor. He had bought her a new one, but she refused to wear it, said the color was wrong, that he should give it to his mother. “It’s Mattie that likes
purple, not me,” she’d told him.

  “Who called?” Pink asked, following behind Isabelle.

  “I didn’t ask her fucking name, Pink. She said she wanted to talk to you. When I asked her for a phone number, she gave me the Ruby Motel. It took her a few minutes to figure out what goddamn room she was in. What is it that attracts you to bimbos, Pink? Are they better in bed, or just easier to fool?”

  Chapter 16

  Michelle had been trying Darcy’s phone number for the past hour, getting the machine. She’d ordered pizza and managed to eat one slice before closing the box. She dialed Darcy again.

  Darcy answered on the third ring.

  “Hey, Darcy, it’s me. Michelle.”

  “Michelle, I was hoping you would call. Where are you?”

  “Uh . . . The Ruby Motel. In Ardenwood.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. I’m just a little dizzy. Hey, I’m sorry about your car,” Michelle said.

  “Don’t worry about the car. I’m worried about you. Come home and forget all this nonsense.”

  Nonsense? Darcy hadn’t called it nonsense before. Mostly she’d said nothing, just listened attentively, but never lashed out. Nonsense. It hurt Michelle more than she wanted to admit. Who would believe her? Did she even believe herself anymore? Here she was in the Ruby Motel, no clothes, no car, unable to eat, and for what? How could she be right and everyone else wrong? Was everyone lying? Her own sister, Sheriff Fisk, Deputy Bogan. Even Pink Souder? Had Cliff put them all up to this? The most passionate conspiracy theorists wouldn’t touch that one. It was insane, and the realization dropped Michelle to the floor. She let go of the phone and thought she saw it roll under the bed, but how was that possible? Cell phones didn’t roll. The television came on, blaring into her ears, filling the room with laughter. She called out to Darcy but it was too late; Michelle was in a free fall now, grabbing at thin air . . .

  “Michelle,” a man’s voice said. “Michelle!”

  The hallucination evaporated. Michelle focused on Pink first, then Ed, then rolled over and puked off the side of the bed. “Get the trashcan, Ed,” Pink said. “And a wet washcloth.” She felt Pink’s hand on her back, a gentle touch below her bra strap. He rubbed his hand in circles the way she used to rub Cassie’s back at nap time when Cassie was a baby. The washcloth was cool on Michelle’s neck and the urge to vomit passed. She didn’t remember passing out.

  “I’ll get a mop to clean this up,” Ed told Pink. “Why don’t you move her over to room nine. It’s clean.”

  Michelle looked around the room for her handbag. Pink had it tucked under his arm. “Can you get to your feet?” Pink asked. She nodded, wondering if Pink had seen her gun.

  The room continued spinning as Pink helped her to a sitting position. She saw Ed come in with a mop.

  “I’m really sorry,” Michelle said, wiping her mouth with the washcloth.

  “You should see these rooms after prom night,” Ed said, chuckling. “No problem, Mrs. Stage. Let Pink there help you into nine. It has a good battery in the remote.”

  Pink switched on the light then escorted her to the bed. “Best to stay upright when you got the spins.” He removed her shoes, setting them on the floor.

  “What are you doing here?” Michelle had no idea what time it was.

  “Isabelle said you called.”

  Michelle remembered now. She’d lied to Ed, said she needed to talk to Pink before morning. Ed probably would have given her the home number without the lie, but she didn’t want to chance it; a lie that came after the truth always sounded like a lie.

  “I don’t know what happened. I was talking to my sister in Atlanta and I blacked out.”

  “I heard you moaning and had Ed open the door,” Pink said. “I knocked first and was afraid . . . just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

  Michelle felt the room slowing down and looked over at Pink. “Did you believe anything I told you before?”

  Pink pulled at the bedspread with his thumb and forefinger, releasing the material, then grasping it again until he’d made a formidable wrinkle along the surface, which he then tried to smooth out. “Why does that matter? I’m nobody. Who cares if I believe you or not? I know you got troubles. And if I can help, I’d like to.”

  Michelle got up to go to the bathroom. “Do you have a few minutes, or is Isabelle waiting for you? I hope I didn’t cause trouble for you at home.”

  “Have you eaten today?” Pink asked.

  “A piece of pizza.”

  “Let’s go,” Pink said. “We can talk over dinner.”

  *****

  Michelle expected a Sizzler steak house or a Denny’s, not a deserted mansion in the middle of nowhere. The building sat alone at the top of a steep hill. On the drive up, they passed an apartment complex and a few houses, but for the last mile or so there had been nothing but trees and pavement, and at the end, even the pavement ran out, leaving a rutted gravel road.

  The structure was a dark monolith in the center of an even darker parking lot with several SUVs and pickup trucks parked near the entrance. Pink pulled a plastic Coke bottle filled with clear liquid from the back seat.

  “What is this place?” she asked.

  “The Hilltop. Private club. When George finishes, it’ll be the finest B & B around. Right now, he’s just got the Hilltop Club opened. George has vision.”

  They walked to a side entrance. Music rolled up the stairwell to meet them as they descended beneath ground level. Pink held the door for Michelle, then guided her through the crowd with his hand on her back. They took a table near the stage. The Hilltop Club had the ambience of a hotel lounge—colored lights, bar signs, live music—but without that transient feel of misplaced travelers trying to drink away loneliness. The Hilltop felt like a celebration. People danced and laughed, and Michelle would never have imagined a place like this anywhere near Ardenwood.

  A man walked up to the table, and Pink introduced him as George. George smiled and placed two empty glasses in front of them, along with two menus, then disappeared back into the crowd.

  When George came back, he picked up the Coke bottle Pink had brought. He held it up to a light then shook it and inspected it. “Lyman’s?” he asked Pink. “Looks to be over a hundred proof. Have you tried it?”

  “Help yourself,” Pink said, his eyes darting around the crowd.

  George unscrewed the cap, hoisted the bottle, and swigged it back. “Smooth.”

  “Let Michelle have a taste,” Pink said.

  George handed the bottle to her, but she didn’t want to try it. “Maybe later.”

  “Finest corn liquor around,” George said. “Nobody makes it like Lyman.”

  Michelle asked how he could tell it was over a hundred proof by looking at it.

  George took the bottle and screwed the cap back on, then shook it. He squatted down next to Michelle’s chair and held the bottle still, the liquid-line level with her eyes, and told her to watch. In seconds, bubbles formed along the top edge of the liquid. Michelle kept watching, unsure what she was looking for.

  “See how the bubbles are big and ride the top of that line? That means it’s over a hundred proof. If they stay small and hang from the bottom of the line, it’s less than a hundred.”

  Pink took the bottle from George, undid the cap, and poured both glasses full. “I don’t need proof of proof,” Pink said. “Just keep pouring.”

  George took their order. Pink brought the glass to his lips and downed it then poured another.

  “I didn’t know you could bring your own liquor into a bar,” Michelle said.

  “That’s the only way you’re gonna drink liquor around here. Dry county. George charges for the table, the food, and the glasses. He does all right.” Pink tilted back the glass and seemed to be more patient with his second drink.

 
A man walked over to the table. “Who’s this pretty lady with you tonight, Pink?” He stood over them with the longest legs Michelle had ever seen, his enormous belt buckle level with the top of her head. Pink introduced the man as Lyman. “Howdy, ma’am.” He took her outstretched hand and gave it one down and up tug, as if he were opening the latch on a gate. “Nice to make your acquaintance.”

  Pink finished what little was left in his glass and poured another. Lyman eyed Michelle’s glass suspiciously then asked why she hadn’t touched it yet. She assured him she would, but she wanted to eat something first.

  “Well, let’s have us a dance while you’re waiting on George to burn your dinner.”

  “No, thank you. I think I—”

  “Go on, Michelle,” Pink said. “The only thing Lyman does better than make corn liquor is the two-step.”

  Michelle hadn’t danced in years and had never done the two-step, but before she could protest again, Lyman had her on the dance floor. He showed her the steps, how to move. Michelle was amazed how fluid the large man was.

  “So how is it one gets so good at dancing and making corn liquor?” Michelle asked. “Or is that a secret?”

  “Yes, ma’am, that is a bit of a secret. But I can tell you how to make corn liquor.” Lyman laughed and spun her around.

  Michelle had almost forgotten how morose she’d been at the motel earlier that evening, how much she’d wanted to die. Anytime she thought Cliff’s reality might be the only one, the right one, she lost all energy for life. The only one? The right one? How many realities are there? she thought, feeling stupid for having asked the question of herself. There’s one, Michelle, a voice came back inside her head. One reality per person, that’s all you get. It was only during these brief moments of normalcy, like dancing or swimming laps or driving with the windows down, that Michelle even questioned the night Cliff disappeared. She wondered if it actually had happened, if she had scrambled down the hill in the dark following some mysterious light. Then there was Darcy’s voice on the phone earlier, asking Michelle to come home. What would Darcy think if she saw Michelle two-stepping at the Hilltop with a moonshiner named Lyman? How real was this?