The Right Kind of Fool Page 13

  Michael stood abruptly. “Hey. How’s he know what you’re saying?”

  Rebecca rolled her eyes. “He can read lips.”

  Fire lit Michael’s eyes. “So when we talked about that day on the river in front of him, he knew what I was saying?”

  “Sure. So long as he could see you.”

  Michael loomed over Loyal, practically standing on tiptoe to make himself taller. “Which means he’s probably the one who told on us.”

  Loyal shifted uneasily. What Michael was saying was a little too close to the truth. He was responsible for the sheriff getting that gun. Which was also why he wanted to help them get away.

  Rebecca inserted herself between them once again, giving her brother a push that made him fall back. “He’s come here to help us, not get us into trouble.” She shot a look of understanding at Loyal. She probably guessed just how close to the truth Michael was and yet she was taking his side. A jolt of pleasure shot through him. She trusted him.

  Turning to Loyal, Rebecca asked, “What should we do?”

  He held up his pack and pointed toward the mountain.

  She nodded. “We need to go hide out on the mountain until we can figure out what to do next,” she said to Michael.

  He sucked in his cheeks and looked toward Rich Mountain. He gave a curt nod. “Okay. But we’d better hurry.” He looked at Loyal. “Folks’ll be looking for you, won’t they?” Loyal nodded. Michael jogged up the steps to the side door, then turned to face them, apparently deciding to take charge. “Only pack what you absolutely need. And get some food. Dad’s in town, and Mrs. Tompkins will be having her afternoon lie-down. We’ll meet back here”—he pointed at the steps—“in ten minutes.” He glared at Loyal one more time. “And you’d better know what you’re doing.”

  Delphy spent far too many afternoons alone. Once Loyal left for school and Creed disappeared up his mountain, she tended to have too much time on her hands. She’d found purpose helping new mothers, specializing in treating colic, teething, and other maladies common to infants. She’d also watched over many a babe while its mother enjoyed a few precious hours of uninterrupted rest.

  But this afternoon she was actually enjoying some time to herself. Knowing Loyal was with his father filled her with . . . hope. She knew Creed’s absence from the family had as much to do with his fear and guilt over Loyal’s deafness as anything. Maybe if he grew brave enough to spend time alone with his son, he might grow brave enough to come home. She whispered a prayer that he would as she sliced and salted a ripe tomato and arranged it on a plate with cheese and crackers. She smiled. It was also a pleasure to have only herself to feed on this muggy afternoon.

  Delphy was deep in her copy of The Seven Dials Mystery by Agatha Christie when Creed snuck up on her. She didn’t suppose he meant to, but she was so absorbed she gave a little shriek when she realized he’d entered the room. She laughed until she saw the somber expression on his face. She stood abruptly. “What is it? Is something the matter with Loyal?” He cleared his throat and looked uneasy. “Creed? What’s wrong?”

  He licked his lower lip and sat down across from her. She sank back into her chair, as well. “Loyal been about this afternoon?” he asked.

  Her brow furrowed. “No. Why would you ask me that? Isn’t he with you?”

  “He was. Until just a little bit ago. We were down at the Odd Fellows Hall, and he . . . went off on his own. Thought he might’ve come by here.”

  “Creed Raines, where is our son? You’re supposed to be keeping him away from town. Keeping him safe.” She could feel tears of frustration prickling her eyelids.

  He inhaled deeply. “Virgil asked us to come into town so he could interview Loyal. Guess Earl made some pretty good points about how that really hadn’t been done. At least not proper.”

  “Why wouldn’t you tell me something like that? I need to be there if someone’s going to try to talk to Loyal. Who’s going to interpret?”

  Creed shifted like he was sitting on a jagged rock instead of a kitchen chair. “Virgil has someone who can do sign language.”

  She stood and wished her hands weren’t shaking. “Not that man who came here and cornered Loyal?” Creed lowered his eyes and nodded. “What were you thinking? How could you?”

  “We found the murder weapon, Delphy.”

  She dropped back into her chair. “Who did?”

  “Loyal and me.” Creed swallowed past a frog in his throat. “He saw more than he’d told anyone the day of the shooting. He saw the Westfall kids out there. Michael hid what might be the murder weapon along the river trail. And with Otto’s trial starting on Monday . . .” He trailed off, letting the implication hang in the air.

  Delphy squeezed her eyes shut. After a moment’s silence, she ground out her words. “This is what you call keeping our son safe? Pulling him deeper and deeper into the worst thing that’s happened in Beverly for as long as we’ve lived here?”

  “I’m not pulling him in, Delphy. He is involved. I’m just trying to teach him to be a stand-up man. It’s not right to hide the truth, and I’m afraid he’s trying to protect the Westfall kids at the expense of Eddie Minks.”

  She slammed a hand down on the table with such force the lid on the sugar bowl bounced and fell. She hadn’t realized she had such anger in her. “You’ve picked a fine time to step in and teach him how to be a man.” She said the word like it dirtied her mouth. “Well, where is he, Creed? Where would a man who wanted to protect his friends go in this situation?”

  Creed widened his eyes. “He’d protect his friends.” He grabbed Delphy’s hand and pulled it to his lips, kissing her fingers before she could jerk them away. “You’re right. I haven’t been a good father. But I’m going to be one.” Then he rushed from the house.

  Delphy watched him go, seething anger slowly dissipating in the stillness of the room. The backs of her fingers tingled where his mustache had tickled them. As she stared at the door her husband had disappeared through, replaying the cruelty of her words, it struck her that when Creed drifted from them she hadn’t tried to stop him. She might have even thought her son was better off without his father pushing him to achieve. If Creed had failed to be a role model to his son, then maybe she had failed to let him.

  seventeen

  Michael was slowing them down. He’d insisted on bringing an oversized ax, along with a Boy Scout haversack containing who knew what. He’d fallen behind, and when Loyal risked a look back at him, he saw that the older boy was dragging the ax, sweat staining his shirt. It was a hot day, the hillside steep. Plus, they were pushing through the underbrush and thickets rather than taking the more obvious trails.

  Rebecca and Loyal exchanged a look that spoke volumes between them. They waited for Michael to catch up.

  “Are you sure you need that heavy ax?” Rebecca asked.

  “What do you know about it?” Michael demanded. “Axes are important for all kinds of things. Chopping wood, building a shelter—shoot, we could even use it for protection if we had to.” He drew up even with them and puffed his chest out. “Probably the most important thing we have out here in the wild.” He sank to the ground beneath a huge tulip poplar. “Guess you guys needed a rest, huh?”

  Loyal shrugged and sat down, as well. He figured even if Father or the sheriff were looking for them, they had a good head start.

  “Where are we going anyway?” Michael asked.

  Loyal pointed up the mountain. Michael snorted. “That doesn’t tell us anything. Do you even know where you’re going?”

  Loyal nodded, trying to look confident. He’d once heard Father talk about an old sheep pen near a mountain bald. Apparently there was a rock overhang, and back in the old days farmers had built a pen out of rocks and brush to create a shelter. Father had given him a rough idea of where it was, and ever since they started out, Loyal had noticed puffy clouds near the horizon that drew him on. He told himself he wasn’t following the clouds exactly, yet it felt as if they were pointing him
in the right direction.

  “How much farther?” Michael asked.

  Loyal shrugged and made the sign for near, holding his bent hands apart and moving them close together. Though he wasn’t sure that the place was nearby, he figured it would keep Michael moving.

  The older boy rolled his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Rebecca tilted her head. “I think he’s saying we’re getting close. Like his hands are getting close to each other.” Loyal smiled and nodded.

  Michael pursed his lips. “If it’s close, maybe I’ll just hide the ax here and come back for it later. You know, once we’re sure about where we’re going.”

  “Good idea,” Rebecca answered quickly. She and Loyal exchanged a glance.

  “Right, then,” Michael said, standing and dusting off the seat of his pants. “Better keep moving.” Loyal stood and set off in the direction he hoped would take them to their destination.

  Creed lost precious time rounding Virgil up to drive out to the Westfall place. And when they got there, Roberta Tompkins, the cook and housekeeper, was the only one at home. They asked if she’d seen the kids. “Oh, they’re about the place somewheres. They always turn up when it’s time to eat.”

  “And Hadden?” asked Virgil.

  “Due back anytime now.” She squinted down the hill from the front porch. “Believe I see a dust cloud comin’. Probably him.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Tompkins. Would you keep any eye out for Creed’s boy, as well?” Virgil shifted his focus to the approaching automobile.

  “The one what’s deaf?” she asked. Creed bit down on a retort. She harrumphed and mumbled as she turned back to the house. “Seems like it’d be smart to keep that one to home.” Creed clenched his hands and held his tongue.

  They stood waiting as Hadden pulled up in front of the steps and climbed out of the car. “To what do I owe the pleasure,” he said with a sneer that made clear his utter lack of pleasure in seeing them standing there.

  “We’re looking for Loyal and thought he might’ve come to see your young’uns,” Virgil said.

  “Why would he do that?” Hadden walked past the two men and stood with his hand on the screen door. Creed wondered how much Virgil would share.

  The sheriff hooked his thumbs in his belt. “Any chance your boy might’ve borrowed that Colt Peacemaker of yours?”

  Hadden’s eyes narrowed. “You have a strange way of making conversation, Virgil. It’s a generally accepted practice to stick with one topic until it’s been exhausted. So, back to my original question, what would a deaf boy be doing with my children?”

  Creed stepped forward. “That deaf boy is most likely trying to keep your kids out of trouble.”

  Virgil held up a hand and motioned for Creed to take a step back. “Hadden, this is official police business, and you can either answer my questions here on your front porch or we can go down to my office and talk there.” He lowered his hand. “Shoot, we can go on up to the jail in Elkins if you want to get really serious about it.”

  “Are you suggesting that you’re about to arrest me?” Hadden looked like he might burst into laughter. “It might be awkward having two men in custody for the same crime.”

  “Oh, I can probably come up with a different crime if I need to.” Virgil sighed. “But I’d rather we just turn up those three kids and make sure they’re safe.”

  “What makes you think they’re not safe?” Hadden finally seemed to be taking the sheriff seriously.

  “I can’t tell you the whole of it, but there’s some new evidence in Eddie Minks’s shooting, and the kids are mixed up in it. Might be they’re scared and think their best bet is to try and hide.” Virgil nodded toward the house. “Roberta hasn’t seen them, and I’m wondering if they might’ve lit out.”

  Creed wanted to grab Hadden by the lapels of his fancy coat and shake him until he realized that he was slowing them down. Keeping them from finding those kids. From finding Loyal.

  Hadden frowned, slung open the door, and mounted the stairs. Virgil and Creed followed. Hadden entered what was clearly a boy’s room—Michael’s. He rummaged around a bit and turned. “His rucksack is gone. He took a fair amount of pride in that thing, claimed he was going to earn his way to Eagle Scout, but I never saw any evidence he was putting in the work.” Hadden uttered an oath. “If it were just Michael, I’d leave him to learn a hard lesson on his own, but if Rebecca is with him . . .” He trailed off, running a hand through his hair.

  And Loyal, thought Creed, trying not to envision all the ways his boy could come to a bad end.

  The sheep pen failed to meet Loyal’s expectations. And the expression on Rebecca’s face told him she wasn’t too sure about it either. Little more than a low rock overhang with rough stones scattered about, Loyal guessed it would be fine for sheep, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to crawl up under there. The old pen was near a bald, which he supposed would have offered grazing for the sheep. And there was a stream below. While they wouldn’t die of thirst, the hillside was steep. Scrambling up and down for water wasn’t going to be easy.

  He was surprised when Michael dropped his pack and smiled. “Time to make camp,” he said. Was he actually pleased? He began unpacking his rucksack, extracting all sorts of items that drew Loyal as surely as the aroma of his mother’s cinnamon rolls.

  Michael knelt down and began arranging the items on the ground. There was an official Boy Scout mess kit, all the pans nested together with the handle latching them in place. Next came an equally official-looking first-aid kit. Then a canteen, a flashlight, and finally a compass.

  Without consciously thinking about it, Loyal knelt beside Michael. He watched the older boy lay out each item with something like reverence. Loyal reached out and lifted the compass. It was cool and weighty in his hand. He watched the needle spin until it found North. He glanced up to see Michael watching him through narrowed eyes.

  “Gather wood for the fire,” Michael commanded. “And give me back my compass.”

  Loyal nodded, handing the treasure over. He scrambled to his feet and began gathering sticks and small branches. Michael started placing stones to create a fire ring. And he must have sent his sister to fill the canteen, since she was scrambling down the hillside with its strap slung over her shoulder.

  As the sun dropped in the western sky, the three sat cross-legged around a cheery fire. Loyal’s main contribution to the camp had been his matches, which Michael grudgingly admitted he hadn’t thought to bring, although he assured them he could have used a flint just as easily. It was a small triumph. Rebecca had brought along crackers, cheese, some apples, and several potatoes. Michael commandeered the food and portioned it out, saying they needed to make it last until they could set traps to maybe catch some rabbits or go fishing.

  He buried a potato in the edge of the fire to roast and, using his official Boy Scout knife, cut and handed out slices of cheese for each of them to add to the crackers. Michael said they’d have the apples for breakfast. They ate without conversation, taking swigs of cool water from the canteen. Loyal thought it was one of the finer meals he’d ever enjoyed. As they ate the last of the soft, floury potato, he pulled out his Baby Ruth candy bar and allowed Michael to cut it into thirds. He took the middle piece, which had less chocolate. The sweetness on his tongue was wonderful. Satisfied, he leaned back on his hands and watched the last streaks of red fade from the sky.

  Soon Michael banked the fire and said they should all “get some shut-eye.” Loyal could barely make out what he was saying in the flickering light of the fire. But it didn’t matter. He didn’t need anyone to suggest he get some sleep. The fear and excitement of the day had passed through him, leaving his spirit feeling wrung out. He folded his spare T-shirt to serve as a pillow and draped his flannel shirt over himself as he lay down near the fire. Michael and Rebecca shared his rucksack as their pillow, and she used the cloth she’d tied the food in as her blanket.

  With the weariness of the day weighing
down Loyal’s eyelids, he smiled. He’d rescued his friends. People thought that he couldn’t do much of anything just because he couldn’t hear. But he’d done this. He’d led the Westfall kids out of danger. His last thought before sleep took him was that Father would be proud.

  eighteen

  The sun was setting in a blaze of reds and oranges by the time they’d concluded that Loyal and the Westfall kids were on the run. Creed was ready to head into the woods with a flashlight or lantern, but Virgil persuaded him to wait. It was a warm night with fine weather. “Sleeping out one night will do ’em good,” Virgil said. “Make ’em feel like they’ve been on a real adventure.”

  While Creed agreed in theory, he doubted Delphy was going to be quite so easygoing. “Will you let Delphy know I’m going to spend the night at the cabin and get an early start at first light?” he asked Virgil.

  The sheriff shot him a knowing look. “Not planning to brace the mama bear in her den? Yeah, I’ll tell her.” He gave a short bark of laughter. “And then you can tell that bunch expecting to interview your boy tomorrow.”

  After a fitful night, Creed headed back to Hadden’s. He’d noted a trail of bent stems through the pasture beyond a barn the day before. It could have been an animal, but he felt pretty certain it was three kids headed up the mountain. He considered asking Hadden if he wanted to come too, but then decided against it. He’d move faster on his own.

  Now he was deep in a laurel thicket. Disturbed leaf litter made him feel pretty sure the trio had come this way. But he was taller and broader than the kids, and sweat started running into his eyes. He paused, swiping at his forehead with a bandanna. The thicket lessened here where a poplar tree overshadowed it, pushing the laurels back with its presence. It was early yet and fog hung in the clearing, swirling like a thing alive.

  Then he saw an ax. It leaned against the tree as though a woodcutter had set it down for a moment while he went for water. Creed looked all around. No evidence of anyone cutting wood. And he doubted the ax had been sitting there long—there wasn’t even a hint of rust on the ax-head. Could a wayward boy have forgotten or abandoned it in his flight?