I WASN'T SURE HOW LONG I SAT IN THE WINDOW nook. When I came back to my body, I found myself gazing at the windowpane, but not actually seeing anything. I blinked to wake up-and then bam, I was awake all right. My brother, Christian, hadn't attended this morning's service, which was no big surprise. But there in the dirt parking lot was his Yamaha, and parked alongside it were Beef's Suzuki and Tommy's bright yellow BMW.
Where were the owners? If their motorcycles were here, then they were, too. A panicked scan told me they weren't in the fellowship hall, so where were they?
I located Christian leaning against the church's brick exterior, over near the kids' playground with its rusty bobbing duck and a red plastic slide. He was alone. I pressed my lips together, strode to the side door, and pushed into the midday heat.
I checked to make sure Christian was by himself and marched over.
"What are you doing here?" I demanded. My talking skills may have been rusty with the general population, but not with Christian. "You can't just come for the doughnuts, you know. You only get doughnuts if you sit through the actual service."
"I'm not here for doughnuts," Christian said. "Jesus, Cat."
I put my hands on my hips. "That's right: Jesus. Jesus is why you're supposed to be here. Good for you for learning your Bible lesson."
He gazed at me. He had circles under his eyes, and his hair, dark like mine, was mashed down from his helmet. He needed a shower. He didn't always look this thrashed, but what happened to Patrick had taken its toll on him, too. That as well as something else, I suspected-and it was the something else I had my sights on.
"What in the name of creamed corn are you blabbering about?" he said.
What in the name of creamed corn, indeed? When I was younger, I would have laughed at that expression, because it was funny. Christian, if I was being objective, was often funny. But I'd fallen out of the habit of laughing at his jokes.
Anyway, my blabbering wasn't the issue. He was the one leaning against the church wall in jeans and a dirty T-shirt. He was the one full of intrigue and secretive, shadowed looks.
"Where're your buddies?" I asked. I called his gang of friends the redneck posse. Their leader was Tommy Lawson, whom I hated. The other main players were Beef and Dupree, and my brother, of course. The girls attached to the group were Bailee-Ann, who was Beef's girlfriend, and occasionally Beef's little sister, Gwennie.
They liked to hang out at the abandoned Frostee Top, drinking beer and smoking pot. Sometimes they raced their motorcycles up to Suicide Rock. They were all about being loud and having a good time, no matter how out of control it got. After Patrick and I stopped being friends, those guys took him in and made a mascot out of him, sort of. That's how it looked. Like, they were always teasing him, and the teasing wasn't always nice, especially with Tommy large and in charge. But they pretended it was all in fun, even Patrick.
"Tommy's helping his grandmother with something," Christian said.
"His grandmother," I said scornfully. Other kids had grannies or meemaws; Tommy had a grandmother. Ooh la la.
Christian ran his hand through his hair. "Yes, Cat. His grandmother. She needs his help, and he told her he'd meet her here."
"Then where is he?"
"In the front parking lot with Beef, loading stuff into her car."
"Why aren't you helping?"
"There were only two bags. God. And since I know you're gonna ask, here's the answer: What's in the bags are supplies for the new mailbox she wants, the kind that locks."
"A mailbox that locks. How exciting." I did a sweep of the parking lot to make sure Tommy truly wasn't nearby. "So y'all were tearing up the hardware store while I was inside praying for Patrick. That just takes the cake, doesn't it?"
Christian narrowed his eyes. "Lay off, will you? Or else tell me what's gotten you so riled up. One or the other."
I stepped closer. "You were with Patrick the night he got attacked. You ever going to tell me what happened? What really happened?"
"Patrick was attacked on Sunday morning. He was with us that night, yeah, but everyone was home by, like, one."
"Not Patrick," I said.
"I don't know what you think happened, Cat," Christian said. "It was just the bunch of us hanging out."
"Then why do you and Beef and Tommy keep skulking around? Every time I see the three of y'all together, you're deep in conversation. And every time I come over to say hi, you shut up quick. So what's that about?"
"Cat?"
"What?"
"When's the last time you came over to say hi to me or my friends? Two years ago? Three?"
I scowled.
"I suggest you work on your details before tossing out your conspiracy theories," he said. "You think I'm not broken up by this? You think I'm not mad as hell? Patrick's just about my best friend, even though he is-"
"Gay?" I threw out. The word felt sharp in my mouth, but I'd had it with you knows and veiled references.
"I was going to say straight-edge," he said, meaning that Patrick wasn't as wild a partier as him and the others. His tone made me blush because somehow he'd gone and made it seem as if I were the one being judgmental.
Yet it was an odd twist of language. Based on the way people usually used the words, Christian was straight and Patrick was gay. But Christian, when he got wasted, was gay if you used the old-fashioned, oh-so-merry definition of the word, while Patrick was straight-edge because he didn't drink to the point of passing out.
"You've got a major chip on your shoulder, sis," Christian said.
"Don't call me 'sis,'" I said.
Christian pushed himself off the wall and said, "Hey, there's Tommy and Beef." He raised his voice. "Dudes! Over here!"
My stomach dropped, and I hightailed it back inside the building, where I made a beeline for the refreshment table. That was where the crowd was. That was the best place to hide.
I reached for a cookie I had no intention of eating. As I did, my arm knocked against an elderly woman's frail frame. She turned sharply, and my heart clutched up. It was old Mrs. Lawson, Tommy's grandmother.
The entire Lawson clan was as rich as sin, and I figured they stayed in Black Creek just so they could lord it over the rest of us.
They hadn't always been well-off. Tommy's great-great-great-grandfather was one of the first people to homestead Black Creek, way back when it was a decent trading post. Then a railroad was laid between two bigger settlements, and suddenly there was a lot less traffic through Black Creek. The final blow came when the TVA dam was built on Brigham River. The dam cut off Black Creek from the other towns, because who in his right mind would drive an extra twenty miles around the new man-made lake to reach what was nearly a ghost town already?
Tommy's grandfather Merrit Lawson had enough money to get by, but no more. He opened the Come 'n' Go for those who stayed put, and when the feed store went belly-up-due in part to Merrit's ties with the banker, who refused to change the terms of the feed store's loan-he bought it for a dime and turned it into the local Buy-Low, where Aunt Tildy worked as a cashier.
Now there were Buy-Lows all over the state. The Lawsons had built themselves a small empire, and they were too powerful for their own good. That was why I stepped back nervously when old Mrs. Lawson turned from the refreshment table.
"And who are you, young lady?" she said.
"Cat Robinson?" I said, hating the way my inflection went up as if I weren't sure of my own name. But good heavens. Maybe I did maintain a low profile, but Mrs. Lawson knew who I was. There were like five hundred people in Black Creek, period. Everyone knew everyone.
"Tildy's girl?" she said.
"Yes, ma'am. Tildy's my aunt. She works at the Buy-Low."
She clucked. "I know who she is. She needs to teach you some manners."
Oh, nuh-uh. I hadn't been rude. I had accidentally and lightly hit her arm with mine. And no one had the right to disrespect Aunt Tildy, not even the queen herself.
Not that I said any of this out loud, because I wasn't brought up to talk ugly. But for the record, the prissy outfit Mrs. Lawson was wearing was ugly, a powder pink skirt with a matching powder pink jacket. She looked like an eraser.
"I need some creamer for my coffee," she announced in her snooty way of talking. She arched her pencil thin brows, and I realized she meant for me to go get her some.
"Oh. I'll see if they have any in the kitchen," I said, scurrying off.
I returned with a single-serving plastic container, which she regarded with displeasure. "Never mind," she said, her pink lips folding in on themselves. "I'll go without."
She enjoyed making people feel inadequate, and she was good at it. Today, I had a fire in my belly, however. Plus, if I was going to find out what happened to Patrick, I was going to have to talk to a lot of people I'd just as soon not. I might as well start with prune-faced Mrs. Lawson.
"So, um, you know Patrick, right?" I said. "Tommy's friend? Who got beat up a week ago?"
She didn't respond.
"He's still in the hospital, and… I was wondering if maybe we could send flowers."
Mrs. Larson's expression remained impassive. I fought not to fidget.
"Or a balloon bouquet?" I tried again. The Buy-Low sold shiny silver message balloons that said things like THINKING OF YOU and GET WELL SOON! "Maybe we could pass around a card for everyone to sign?"
"I suppose you want me to pay for them," Mrs. Larson said.
"We could take up a collection," I said. She was trying to make me feel small, and she was succeeding. But I wasn't going to let her make me retreat back into my shell.
She sipped her coffee and grimaced.
"It's just so horrible, what happened to him," I pressed on. "Is there any new information, do you know?"
"Well, it obviously had to do with his… lifestyle," she said.
I bit the inside of my cheek.
"I don't want the boy to die," she went on, as if she were speaking of a mutt that uglied up the neighborhood. "But he might just up and do it anyway."
"What have you heard? Has Sheriff Doyle learned anything? Has he discovered any, you know, clues?"
"Grandmother, there you are," Tommy said from behind us. My chest tightened because I'd recognize his voice anywhere. "I put everything we need into your car. I'll set it up this afternoon."
My instincts said bolt, but I was rooted to the floor.
Mrs. Lawson's face brightened. "Tommy," she said. "Now why in the world aren't you wearing that new dress shirt I bought you?"
She smiled at me for the first time. "You know my grandson, don't you? My precious Tommy?"
