surrounded them, sullen behind a veil of low mist. Streamers of cloud played hide-and-seek with a watery sun. The house was bright, then dark, beneath the coming and going of those wide gray fingers.
“Maybe he doesn’t have her.” Kaye looked at Mitch through the open door.
“I could have transposed a number,” Mitch said, leaning against the cab.
His cell phone rang. They both jerked as if stuck with pins. Mitch pulled the phone out and said, “Yes.” The phone recognized his voice and announced that the calling party’s number was blocked, then asked if he would take the call anyway.
“Yes,” he said, without thinking.
“Daddy?” The voice on the other end was tense, high-pitched, but it sounded like Stella’s.
“Where are you?”
“Is that you? Daddy?” The voice went through a digital bird fight and steadied. He had never heard that sort of sound before and it worried him.
“It’s me, honey. Where are you?”
“I’m at this house. I saw the house number on the mail box.”
Mitch pulled a pen and pad from his inside coat pocket and wrote down the number and road.
“Stay tight, Stella, and don’t let anyone touch you,” he said, working to steady his voice. “We’re on our way.” He reluctantly said good-bye and closed the phone. His face was like red sandstone, he was so furious.
“Is she okay?”
Mitch nodded, then opened the phone again and punched in another number.
“Who are you calling?”
“State police,” he said.
“We can’t!” Kaye cried. “They’ll take her!”
“It’s too late to worry about that,” Mitch said. “This guy’s going for bounty, and he wants all of us.”
18
S o many pictures in the hall leading to the back of the house. Generation after generation of Trinkets, Stella assumed, from faded color snapshots clustered in a single frame to larger, sepia-colored prints showing men and women and children wearing stiff brown clothes and peering with pinched expressions, as if the eyes of the future scared them.
“Our legacy,” Fred Trinket told her. “Old genes. All those arrangements, gone!” He grinned and walked ahead, his shoulders rolling with each step. He had a fat back, Stella saw. Fat neck and fat back. His calves were taut, however, as if he did a lot of walking, but pale and hairy. Perhaps he walked at night.
Trinket pushed open a screen door.
“Let me know if she wants lunch,” the mother said from the kitchen, halfway up the hall and to the left. As Mrs. Trinket dried a dish, Stella saw a dark, damp towel flick out of the kitchen like a snake’s tongue.
“Yes, Mother,” Trinket murmured. “This way, Miss Rafelson.”
He descended a short flight of wooden steps and walked across the gravel path to a long, dark building about ten paces beyond. Stella saw a doghouse but no dog, and a small orchard of clothes trees spinning slowly in the wind after the storm, their lines empty.
Along would come Mother Trinket,
Stella thought,
and pin up the laundry, and it would be clothes tree springtime. When the clothes were dry she would pull them down and stuff them in her basket and it would be winter again
. Expressionless Mother Trinket was the seasonal heart of the old house, mistress of the backyard.
Stella’s mouth was dry. Her nose hurt. She touched behind her ears where it itched when she was nervous. Her finger came away waxy. She wanted to take a washcloth and remove all the old scents, clean herself for the people in the long outbuilding. A word came to her:
prensing,
preening and cleansing. It was a lovely word and it made her tremble like a leaf.
Trinket unlocked the door to the rear building. Inside, Stella saw fluorescent lights sputter on, bright and blue, over workbenches, an old refrigerator, stacked cardboard boxes, and, to the right, a strong wire mesh door.
The voices grew louder. Stella thought she heard three or four. They were speaking in a way she could not understand—low, guttural, with piping high
“Maybe he doesn’t have her.” Kaye looked at Mitch through the open door.
“I could have transposed a number,” Mitch said, leaning against the cab.
His cell phone rang. They both jerked as if stuck with pins. Mitch pulled the phone out and said, “Yes.” The phone recognized his voice and announced that the calling party’s number was blocked, then asked if he would take the call anyway.
“Yes,” he said, without thinking.
“Daddy?” The voice on the other end was tense, high-pitched, but it sounded like Stella’s.
“Where are you?”
“Is that you? Daddy?” The voice went through a digital bird fight and steadied. He had never heard that sort of sound before and it worried him.
“It’s me, honey. Where are you?”
“I’m at this house. I saw the house number on the mail box.”
Mitch pulled a pen and pad from his inside coat pocket and wrote down the number and road.
“Stay tight, Stella, and don’t let anyone touch you,” he said, working to steady his voice. “We’re on our way.” He reluctantly said good-bye and closed the phone. His face was like red sandstone, he was so furious.
“Is she okay?”
Mitch nodded, then opened the phone again and punched in another number.
“Who are you calling?”
“State police,” he said.
“We can’t!” Kaye cried. “They’ll take her!”
“It’s too late to worry about that,” Mitch said. “This guy’s going for bounty, and he wants all of us.”
18
S o many pictures in the hall leading to the back of the house. Generation after generation of Trinkets, Stella assumed, from faded color snapshots clustered in a single frame to larger, sepia-colored prints showing men and women and children wearing stiff brown clothes and peering with pinched expressions, as if the eyes of the future scared them.
“Our legacy,” Fred Trinket told her. “Old genes. All those arrangements, gone!” He grinned and walked ahead, his shoulders rolling with each step. He had a fat back, Stella saw. Fat neck and fat back. His calves were taut, however, as if he did a lot of walking, but pale and hairy. Perhaps he walked at night.
Trinket pushed open a screen door.
“Let me know if she wants lunch,” the mother said from the kitchen, halfway up the hall and to the left. As Mrs. Trinket dried a dish, Stella saw a dark, damp towel flick out of the kitchen like a snake’s tongue.
“Yes, Mother,” Trinket murmured. “This way, Miss Rafelson.”
He descended a short flight of wooden steps and walked across the gravel path to a long, dark building about ten paces beyond. Stella saw a doghouse but no dog, and a small orchard of clothes trees spinning slowly in the wind after the storm, their lines empty.
Along would come Mother Trinket,
Stella thought,
and pin up the laundry, and it would be clothes tree springtime. When the clothes were dry she would pull them down and stuff them in her basket and it would be winter again
. Expressionless Mother Trinket was the seasonal heart of the old house, mistress of the backyard.
Stella’s mouth was dry. Her nose hurt. She touched behind her ears where it itched when she was nervous. Her finger came away waxy. She wanted to take a washcloth and remove all the old scents, clean herself for the people in the long outbuilding. A word came to her:
prensing,
preening and cleansing. It was a lovely word and it made her tremble like a leaf.
Trinket unlocked the door to the rear building. Inside, Stella saw fluorescent lights sputter on, bright and blue, over workbenches, an old refrigerator, stacked cardboard boxes, and, to the right, a strong wire mesh door.
The voices grew louder. Stella thought she heard three or four. They were speaking in a way she could not understand—low, guttural, with piping high
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