A/N: Onward.

Big Swamp

Chapter Fifteen: Surrounded

After Patty drives away, I go inside and make myself a gin and tonic. As I make it, I get a text from Ellie. She tells me that she's going to dinner with Devon — and then adds, in a second text, that she might not be home tonight. Her crooked hair comb at dinner was foreshadowing.

I'm happy for her. She's worked so hard for so long, been so single-minded, it's good to believe that she's found someone, someone who might think about her as seriously as she's always thought about others, particularly me. Devon seems like a man, a man who finds a woman and remains steadfastly hers. Despite the fact that he's handsome and successful, he does not seem like the dating app type, the type who confuses romance and shopping. So many people can't get their categories straight.

I carry my gin and tonic into the living room and sit down in the recliner. Speaking of categories and straightening, I have a lot to consider myself.

Here's what I know.

Noble Hall is more than a beautiful house with a sad ancient Southern history. It has a sad recent history, the scene of Jane Peterson's tragic life. Although I don't have a fiber or bloodstain of hard evidence, I'm more and more suspicious that Jane did not die of natural causes. Perhaps it's a mere fancy, and particularly bad in a detective, but I believe that human lives have a lyric shape, a pattern or meter that shows who they are, that reveals the character that is their destiny. I was also a Literature major, you know. Anyway, Jane's life's a sad lyric but it ends too neatly — a lonely heart attack in the midst of a clowder of feral cats.

For some reason, those cats, and Jane's strange behaviors — the midnight lantern walks, the naked balcony singing — they're clawing at my thoughts. Her story ended in a different way, less neatly, even more darkly.

And I am now sure that Wylie Stroud is up to something. Sarah was right to be suspicious. Here's a question about him: why'd we have our chat outside, beneath the burning sun, when we could have talked in the cool of Noble Hall's central air? What tie does he have to Peppers, and does Peppers tie him to Peterson? And if he's tied to Peterson, what else might Wylie be tied to?

His talk to me of Bryce was double-edged. It seemed like he was reassuring me, but the very fact that he chose to reassure me makes me less sure. And he just doesn't do the concerned, avuncular bit well. It's forced, unnatural. A bit of bad acting.

Acting.

And that brings me to Sarah — but I'm not going to worry about her now. No, not right now. No worry.

We're going to talk tomorrow. At last. Soon enough.

I sip my gin and tonic slowly, letting my thoughts sink and rise, cloud and clear, pool and eddy. It feels good to stop managing them myself, directing them.

I pour another drink and turn on some music, Richard Buckner's Surrounded. When I get to the song, "Beautiful Question", I push Repeat.

Saved at the height of the closing
the caption should say:
"He doesn't know where he's going."

I sip and listen and let my mind go swampy.

Friday dawns with tornado warnings.

The ground is soaked from long, hard overnight rain. Water stands everywhere in the yard when I look out my window. The sky looks like it's sinking under its own weight.

I go to the bathroom and shower, shave, brush my teeth. Only when I finish and get dressed does it occur to me that Ellie may not be here.

I shove my rolled socks in my shoes and I walk down the hallway to her room. I knock. No answer. I call out her name. No answer.

I crack the door and peek in. The bed's made, unslept-in.

She stayed with Devon. I'm happy for her — but I also feel a twinge: we've been a unit for a long time, dependent on each other for a long time. It now feels like things are changing, shifting, and I can't predict how they will end.

I wish she were here to talk about the money. It preyed on my thoughts again last night. More dreams of coins, and a disturbing, chilling image, just before I woke, of Sarah in her red bikini and in Bryce Larkin's arms, atop a pile of glittering gold.

That image, the threatening sky, Ellie's absence — they all color my mood blue. I put on my shoes and decide to go out for coffee. Wylie's mention of Well Red yesterday has the shop in my mind and so that's where I go. Rain squalls off and on as I drive from Opelika to Auburn along Opelika Road. On the edge of downtown Auburn, I turn into the coffee shop's lot. It's already crowded — the lot's small and the shop's popular.

But the office is closed today, so I'm in no hurry.

I get out of my car and climb the rear ramp leading to the large back porch. The rain has kept the porch empty. Inside, coffee drinkers are already seated. Gathered at a couple of tables are small groups of students, each facing an open bible — a common sight in local coffee shops. Scripture's not just on signs, it's everywhere: though it's unclear that common life here differs from common life anywhere. Often, the omnipresent scripture seems more elaborate decoration than existential directive.

Maybe that's just my mood talking.

I walk around the counters that house the baristas and hold the register and espresso machine, and I take a place at a raised section that serves as a bar. Seated on one of the stools, I order a cup of black coffee.

The barista, a young woman, slides me an earth-toned mug full of steaming coffee. I inhale it, driving back disturbing images, family changes, and the drooping sky.

The tornado watch ends as I drink my coffee. I listen to the baristas talk among themselves. My mood begins to lighten.

A hand settles on my shoulder, and I hear my name. I turn around on the stool to find Hannah. She's not dressed for work — she's in casual clothes, a t-shirt and jeans, sandals. An umbrella is in her hand. She smells like rain, and her smile lifts one corner of my mood.

"Hey, Hannah," I should feel self-conscious but I don't. She doesn't seem to be either.

She grins at me. "I didn't know you came here."

"Not often. I'm at Ed's most of the time, as you know."

"Not in the last few days."

Now I do feel a smidgen of self-consciousness. "I thought you might want some space."

"Thanks, Chuck, but I'm fine. Right as rain. Or I will be soon, and I want to keep you as my friend. We've always been friends."

"We have," I agree and smile. "Join me?"

"For a minute," she says as she takes a stool beside me. "Say, Dad says that you and Morgan were out at Briggs and Stratton, though I guess Dad only talked to Morgan."

"I figured it was best I stay out of arm's reach."

She gestures to the barista for a cup, and I gesture for it to be put on my tab. Hannah chuckles. "You've never been Dad's favorite, but just lately…"

"Murder?"

"Absolutely. Premeditated, painful, and with no discoverable corpus delicti. Just your body buried in a far-flung, unfindable hole."

"So, he's not given this any thought?"

She giggles. "Best you stay out of the factory. Death by small engine does not sound like a pleasant way to go."

I shudder and nod my head.

"Say, Chuck, Dad says Morgan was asking about Bill Peppers."

"Yes, he was. Do you know him?" The thought surprises me.

"Not much or not well, or however I should say it. Dad hired him to do some work around my apartment. He did the work but…"

"But?"

"But he's creepy. Not in the cartoonish way Morgan often is — always is — but in a serious, scary way."

"What did he do?"

Hannah pauses then goes on: "Do? Nothing. He just kept sneaking looks at me. Certain kinds of looks, hungry and...insistent, if you know what I mean, although maybe a guy can't know…"

I bite my lip. "I don't know if I've ever been on the receiving end of one, Hannah, but I at least have an idea of what you mean."

"Well, when he finished at my place, for the next couple of weeks I kept having this feeling, this feeling that someone was watching me."

"A Peeping Pepper?"

She shakes her head hard though she smiles. "This is serious, Chuck."

I nod, kill my smile. "I know. I just couldn't resist the phrase."

"Words are going to do you in, Chuck. — Do you and Morgan believe he took those things from the lockers?"

"Honestly, we don't know. It's Morgan's case, in an unofficial sense. He's been trying to make some sense of it."

"I wouldn't put anything past Peppers. Be careful with him, Chuck. There's...violence in him along with that hunger. He's not a man you want to cross unless you're sure."

"Thanks, Hannah."

We sit and drink our coffee for a minute until she turns to me. "So, how's Sarah?"

"Fine, I'm supposed to see her tonight."

She smiles but I can see something in the back of her gaze. "I saw her late yesterday afternoon. She stopped in at Ed's. The man with her wanted something to eat." She tries to say it nonchalantly but can't quite do it. "He was the most handsome man I've ever seen, but he seemed to me like a high-ticket Shaw."

I chuckle as my stomach churns. "That's about right, I think." I glance away. "He's her old boyfriend."

Hannah gives me a look from the corner of her eye as she sips the last of her coffee. "And that doesn't worry you, Chuck?"

"It makes my stomach ache."

Her eyes are kind when she looks at me. "She didn't seem like she was with him, you know, for what that's worth. She waved at me, wanted to talk, but one of the other waitresses had their table and the guy…"

"Bryce…"

"Bryce...ended up taking his club sandwich to go. I didn't get free in time to talk to her. Dinner rush."

She stands up. "He's handsome, Chuck, but insubstantial. Sarah's not a dull girl, either. Thanks for the coffee."

She leaves and I turn back to the counter. As I sip the last of my coffee, I decide that — good idea or not — I'm going to have to talk to Bill Peppers.

I drive to Bill Peppers' address. He lives in a rundown apartment complex in a low-lying area on the southern edge of Auburn. As I pull in, I see garbage piled high in the dumpster next to the entranceway, and spilling out onto the parking lot.

Music blares from a radio on a table in front of the first apartment, but no one seems to be listening to it.

A small girl whips by me — towed behind a massive brindle pit bull. He turns his boulder head to me and gives me that pit bull smile, the one that seems clownish or killer depending on the context. Luckily, with the small girl on the other end of the leash, jabbering but not upset, the smile seems clownish. The girl has both hands on the leash and she's ineffectually commanding the pit bull to turn around and go the other way. He seems to have an important destination in mind and keeps going in his original direction. I start to help her when she shakes her head, her pigtails wagging, smiling with the chocolate milk stain on her mouth.

"It's okay, mister. He does this. He'll pull me back home once he's tired."

They keep going and I walk down the sidewalk in front of the apartments to the last one in the row, Peppers'. The music keeps playing. I scan the parking lot for Peppers' truck but I don't see it. I knock on his door, Forty-One, and wait. I can hear the TV inside. MTV. I raise an eyebrow. Not what I'd have figured Peppers to watch — but, then again, I'm not sure I know what I figured he'd watch. No one comes to the door and I don't hear any movement inside. I knock again.

A middle-aged woman opens the door next to Peppers'. "He ain't home, mister. He just always leaves the TV on, on one of them Real World shows, as if this hole ain't real enough. He ain't been around a lot lately. Truck's always gone."

I nod. The woman's wearing a shower cap, a green robe, and a yellow nightgown showing beneath it.

"Thanks. Do you know, does he have a wife, a girlfriend?"

She bares her teeth in a hard-to-describe expression, the whites of her eyes showing. "Peppers? Hell, no. No woman in her right mind ever wanna be alone with him. That man's broke."

I'm not sure I understand. "Poor?"

"Hell, no. Not poor. Broke. There are parts in him that are a-spinnin', but they ain't turning no other parts."

I'm not sure how much that explanation helps me but the point's clear. Something's wrong with Bill Peppers. His neighbor's obviously reacted to what Hannah did.

"Huh. Well, could you keep my stopping by to yourself? I'll find him later."

"No skin off my nose. I never speak to him if I can help it. Can't stand them eyes of his. Doan pay to tempt no sociopath."

The sun comes out for the first time as I head back to Opelika.

Despite the office being closed, I decide to stop by. Hearing about Bill Peppers has made me want to double-check things there. The thought of Peppers rummaging through my things, after what I've heard, makes me cringe.

As I shut off the Camry, I hear a horn, the sound of crunching gravel, and feel a hard jolt.

I look behind me to see a black car and the red faces of Morgan Grimes and Father Casey. Morgan is screaming. Father Casey is yelling. The car against mine, I realize, is Father Casey's Crown Victoria.

Father Casey lumbers out of the car, still yelling, and I can hear him now. "Morgan Grimes, you are an offense against theology, against the view that all things work together for good. You are an absurd element in the divine plan, a wrench in God's works."

Morgan tumbles out, glancing at me but clearly more concerned with Father Casey, who is livid above his white collar.

"I'm a man," Morgan protests, "I'm not a wench."

Father Casey looks as though he's summoning divine fire. "Wench! I said wrench, you blot on all that's holy. No one should let you bike, much less drive. You should never be near wheels, period. No spheres. Bolonia should take your Spirograph. — I can't believe I let you talk me into this!"

By this point, I've checked the damage. Other than the slide ruts in the gravel of the lot, and a smudge of white Camry on the bumper of the black Crown Vic, no serious damage has occurred. I wave my hand at Father Casey, hoping to point this out, but he ignores me.

"Morgan Grimes," he growls, one hand in the other fist, "you are a temptation to my faith."

Morgan cowers and slowly moves behind me. Father Casey finally looks at where I waved. I see him trying to calm himself. Morgan peeks out from behind me. "I'm sorry, Father. I didn't expect anyone to be in the lot. The office's closed."

Father Casey glances heavenward. He lowers his head, glaring at Morgan from beneath clenched eyebrows. "That's why we drive with our eyes open, Morgan. 'Bring out the people who are blind, even though they have eyes."

Morgan hides behind me again and squeaks at me. "Is he casting a spell? — Sorry, Father, I just turned fast and it scared me. When I get scared, I shut my eyes." I step out of the way. Morgan's crouched, his eyes closed.

"Jesus," Father Casey says when he sees Morgan in a vertical, fetal position. Father Casey kicks at loose gravel, then he shakes his head at me and climbs into the driver's side of the Crown Vic.

His knees hit the steering wheel and I hear him roar: "Shit!"

He slams the seat backward, then backs the Crown Vic away from us, turning it as he does. When his door is parallel with us, he rolls down his window. "Same time tomorrow, Morgan?"

Morgan shakes his head meekly.

Father Casey rolls up his window, glares at Morgan once more, and drives away.

Morgan looks at me. "I had no idea a priest knew those words."

Morgan and I spend the rest of the day in the office, but we leave the door locked and don't answer the phone. He's planning to take Carina to Wok and Roll this evening. We spend some time puzzling over the items stolen at Briggs and Stratton but get no closer to finding a pattern among them.

I tell him that I believe Bill Peppers broke into the office and we talk about him, about my visit to his apartment complex, about Hannah and the woman. Morgan's hurt when I slip up and tell him that Hannah compared him, in a way, to Bill Peppers. In the midst of his righteous indignation, I ask if he still has the Bikini Diaries. He doesn't answer, and that is an answer.

"You know, Morgan, if you want someone like Carina to like you, you need to burn that book — and you need to make it up to Ellie. Imagine if Carina runs into my sister…"

Morgan gulps. "Damn."

"Exactly. If you want a woman to take you seriously, it's time to start acting like a man..."

Morgan looks at me for a quiet minute then nods, speaks seriously. "...And stop acting like a wrench."

I get my first ride in Sarah's Range Rover as Sarah drives us to Jill's.

It's as nice as I expect, the car, but I admit that I can almost feel Bryce in it, smell his scent mixed with the new car scent. He was there first. I don't like being second to Bryce, but there's nothing I can do about it.

The fact of him remains even if the scent of him fades.

Father Casey and Morgan's comedy routine chased my bad mood away, but it arrived again with Sarah's white Range Rover.

But it's not just about being second to Bryce. I'm also dreading the talk we're supposed to have. I've avoided thinking about it all day, but there's no avoiding it now. I've connived at this dream for days and now it's time to face the morning, the alarm clock.

To make matters worse, Sarah seems to be in a mood herself. She kissed me when she picked me up, but there was something amiss in the kiss, then she looked away and she hasn't quite faced me since. She's driving, so there's that, — but I have a feeling that she spoke too soon when she told me not to worry.

Something's changed, changing.

I feel like Morgan: I'm scared and I want to shut my eyes.

A/N: Next time, the babysitting date. (I work in Well Red, wrote this chapter there.)