Through the trees, he caught his first glimpse of the house, a twinkling reflection from the windshield of his F-150. He was relieved that they hadn’t come to repossess that, even though he had paid cash for it. Other than his truck, there were no other vehicles visible. He emerged at the edge of the woods and stood for a moment, looking closely around the house. There was no movement.
Blake walked to the kitchen door and opened it, praying silently that no one other than Angelica would be there. He opened the door and exhaled, momentarily releasing his tension and smiling at the woman who stood there. The woman who was the answer to his prayers.
“What happened?” Angelica asked. The girls were watching a movie that she had put in for them.
“Oh,” Blake began as he searched for words, “just hurt myself in the woods. But it’s all done. I’m done now. With everything.” He felt himself wanting to confess more, needing to blurt out years’ worth of secrets, of lies. Of deceit. Angelica took his arm and walked him to the bathroom. She helped him slide his pants off, supporting his beefy frame as he flinched with pain. Like any good nurse she showed little emotion when the two-inch gash was revealed just above Blake’s knee. Still, the location of the wound alarmed her. “Oh goodness!” she said. “You’re lucky this is a shallow wound. It just missed your femoral artery. And I mean just missed it!”
“Sit still. I’ll be right back.” Angelica walked through the sliding glass doors in the living room that led to the front yard. She snipped off several fresh yarrow leaves and went to the kitchen. She washed the leaves thoroughly in vinegar, rinsed them with water and returned to Blake. “Here,” she said. She pressed the leaves on the cut, grabbed the medical tape and bandages and secured the yarrow to the wound.
“What happened?”
“I—I was working in the woods and took a stick through my leg,” Blake said. Angelica looked up at him. Lying had become such a habit for Blake that he could no longer even recognize when he did it. He always told himself that he lied to Angelica about his activities for her protection. Damn it! Is that what I’m doing now, protecting her? Just tell her truth, that a pig did it to you!
“Keep this on for an hour or two until we’re sure the bleeding has stopped,” she said. Angelica walked back to the kitchen and picked up the note from the sheriff and brought it to Blake. “Look,” she said. Blake jerked up at the sight of the sheriff’s signature and winced at the pain. “When did this come? Did you see him?”
“It was in the door when the girls and I came in for lunch from the garden.”
“Did you call him? What did he want? What did he say?” Blake was standing and felt a sudden urge to pack, to flee.
“No, I didn’t call him,” Angelica said while cleaning up the medical supplies she had taken from the cabinet. “I wanted to speak with you first. It’s too late to call him now.”
Blake read the note again. “Angelica, please call my office ASAP. Sheriff Lonnie Jacobs.” Why in the world does he want to speak with Angelica? To interrogate her? Thank God I didn’t tell her anything. Don’t start now!
“I wonder what he wants,” Angelica said.
Blake was shocked at how carefree Angelica was, but then he realized that she, of course, had nothing to hide. Nothing to fear. Why shouldn’t she be carefree? She walked in to the living room and sat with the girls.
“Wanna watch some TV with us before dinner?” she called to Blake.
“Uh...no, not right now,” Blake said staring at the note. “Tell you what, I’ll get in touch with the sheriff first thing tomorrow and see what he wants. How ’bout that?”
“Sure,” Angelica called from around the wall in the living room. She put her arms around the girls and pulled them close on the sofa, getting lost in one of her happy places. A place with family, simple pleasures, peace and quiet.
Inches behind the wall, Blake sat alone in misery.
Chapter 31
Blake woke up early. He had tossed and turned most of the night, partly due to the pain in his leg from Ozzie’s tusk, but mainly due to Clint’s message and the sheriff’s note. He gave up fighting for sleep and arose at 5:40. He had been sitting on the sofa for over two hours watching CNN. He didn’t know why he was still watching the news. After thirty minutes it seemed to just loop, saying the same thing in different ways, with different people sometimes, but the same thing nevertheless. Supposedly a strong hurricane was going to hit Savannah later that afternoon. A Category 5 hurricane that normally would have been the talk of the country. Maybe it was, for all he knew. But not for him.
His eyes stayed fixed on the ticker that tallied the trail of death and illness from the anthrax outbreak. A plague that he knew he alone was likely responsible for. The death toll stood at five, but now there were close to one hundred hospitalized. Ten or a hundred hospitalized made little difference to him at this point. The mountain behind him was claiming lives with a vengeance. First two boys missing, then the illnesses, now the deaths. Blake placed his hand on his right leg, lightly touching his injury. He realized how lucky he had been. So far.
On the table beside him his cell phone buzzed like a nest of yellow jackets that dared him to pick it up. He checked the time on the television: 8:17 a.m. Blake fumbled for the phone and dropped it on the floor. “Goddammit!” he said as he grabbed it and saw the 404 area code. He pushed the button sending it to voice mail. He knew he couldn’t keep dodging the calls. A message popped up that a voice message had been left.
“Mr. Savage, Clint Justice again with the Food Safety and Inspection Service. I must speak to you. Right away. Please call me back before noon. If I don’t hear from you I’ll contact the sheriff and request his assistance in reaching you.”
Crap! Blake stood up and paced the living room. What do I tell this guy? I sure as hell don’t want him talking to the sheriff!
Blake went to the kitchen and wrote a note for Angelica. “Have to run see the sheriff and do some errands. Will be back later today but call my cell if you need me.” He hesitated and continued writing. “Love, Blake.”
He tried to remember the last time he had spoken those words, let alone written them. As he walked through the kitchen door he was met with a gust of wind that lifted his cap. He reached and caught it before if flew off. The high, overcast clouds he had seen before going to bed the night before now gave way to low clouds that streamed over the mountain like waterlogged sponges ready to be squeezed by the hands of God.
In his F-150, Blake fought the wind down Hale Ridge as the trees swayed on both sides of the road. Leaves flew off the autumn trees like dandelion seeds in a spring storm, darting in front of his windshield and obscuring the road. By now, Blake had memorized the curves of Hale Ridge road. Still, he had difficulty making out where the shoulders ended and where the steep drop-offs began. To make matters worse, his mind wasn’t on the road...it was on the sheriff and Clint Justice. He needed a breather, a distraction, and his eyes were drawn to a forested abyss to his left, a ravine that funneled to a sea of rocks, trees and rotting leaves far below. The scene entranced him as swirling leaves formed mini-tornadoes and danced with and among the trees.
Blake looked back up and saw the road curving sharply to the right just in front of the hood, but he was continuing straight over the edge. He pushed back on the wheel, straightened his arms as he slammed the brakes, and then pressed back into the seat so hard he thought that it might break. The rear of Blake’s truck fishtailed to the left as the brakes locked and the gravel shoulder gave way. The ravine loomed and gripped the truck’s hood to pull him in.