Barrett had followed Heath all the way from Stockton and had assisted to the nauseating scene of his reunion with the old black woman he called Hannah.
Hiding in the shadows among the ruins of old buildings, he had followed Heath to a poorly cared for cemetery and watched him pray on a grave. The grave of the lost woman who had been his mother.
Barrett had silently witnessed what had happened with the man called "Simmons" and the one called "Phelps". It had been real fun. Eventually, he had seen Hannah shoot Simmons. Hell, the old lady had guts!
Heath had run away who knows where, like the coward he was. Now, it was just he and the woman, and she certainly wasn't much of a threat. She was silently crying, her hands clasped in pray, kneeled by the man she had shot.
Hannah was already unconscious when she hit the ground. Barrett's gun butt had opened a wound on the back of her head. That was the day of the skull knocks. Barrett laughed coarsely. He used the tip of his boot to check on the man lying there nearby. He was dead, the woman had shot in a short distance and the bullet had gone right through his heart. The miserable man was lying in the dirt with his mouth open and a forever lasting look of incredulity in his eyes, still holding the branch he had used on the bastard held firmly in his hand.
Heath's gun lied abandoned not far from there, right on the grave. "Leah Thomson", the tombstone said. She had died at 42. Barrett picked up the gun and studied it for a while. The carving of a golden eagle, its wings proudly spread, stood out on the handle. It was a fine weapon, not one that should belong to trash like Heath so-called Barkley. Barrett stuck it in his belt. Whistling, he dragged the corpse beneath the nearby bushes. Barrett made a quick work erasing any traces on the dusty ground.
Once cheerfully completed his grim task, Barrett came back for the woman and dragged her inside the cabin.
Standing in the door jamb, he took a look around. The bastard was nowhere to be seen.
Barrett was more than sure he would come back, he was that kind of man. And, Barrett could be patient if need be. He had already demonstrated that.
The first day he had laid his eyes on the commander of the prison camp, Matt Bentell, Heath had thought he was watching his uncle. The resemblance between the two was uncanny. They could have been twins separated at birth. Since that moment, Matt Simmons and Matt Bentell, in Heath's mind, had become one.
Sitting still on the ground, Heath was in a sort of stupor. What had happened? He tried hard, but the last thing he could remember was that he was aiming at his uncle. Like a dried leaf tore off by a fierce gust of wind, he had been violently pulled away from his present reality and tossed in the darkness of a past he held hidden deep inside, trying to never let it resurface.
He was a child again, unarmed before his abusing uncle.
He was a boy again, a prisoner unarmed before his tormenter.
He felt the humiliation, the pain of the beating, the fierce burning of the whip ripping his skin open.
Heath was frightened. If he let it happen, if he succumbed to the visions of his past, he would be lost. He collected all his strength and fought, fought with all his might against his darkest memories. He had to think about the man he had become. He had to think about the ones he loved. He had to think hard, and remember what had happened in the last hours, that was all the past that mattered.
His hand went to his empty holster. Where was his gun? Jarrod had given it to him as a gift for his birthday. His brother had had it made special for him in San Francisco. The image of Jarrod's intense, deep blue eye brought a little, sad smile on his lips. Those eyes said so much about the man his brother was. A fine, smart, compassionate man. They don't come any better.
Jarrod… Nick. Mother, Audra, Gene. Nick. Oh, Nick, where are you? You must forgive me for what I've done. The pain of the separation resurfaced fiercely from deep inside. But, that was exactly what he needed now. He now knew who he was. He had left them all behind. He hadn't even given an explanation. They didn't deserve that.
He had come back here to Strawberry, to visit his mother's grave. He had come to try to unravel the key to the mystery of Aunt Rachel's death. He had come to see Hannah.
Hannah… Hannah! She was there; he had left her alone to face Simmons!
My God, was the power his uncle had over him so overwhelming? Nauseated by himself and his own weakness, Heath had to quickly turn his head and painfully threw up. He was panting, sweating. He felt like crying for the way he had let his uncle crush him like a bug under his foot. For the feeling of helplessness. For the rage that was rapidly growing inside him.
But that wasn't the time for self-pity. He had to go back immediately. Hannah needed him.
Martha Simmons was restless. From the hotel windows, she and Matt had seen Heath pass along the main street that day. She had told her husband that that was the occasion they were waiting for. It was the time that the little bastard paid them back for all they had done for him and his indecent mother.
Phelps' dead body was blindly watching her from the corner where he had fallen when she had shot him, right between the eyes. Another good-for-nothing. Even dead, he wasn't able to do anything right. He had spattered her walls with his blood and some other disgusting stuff, brain material she guessed. She had been cleaning all day, by God!
He had been there to tell her what had happened. When he had asked her for the umpteenth time to go away with him, she had got rid of him for good. What kind of life had he in mind for her? She wasn't going to exchange one failure for another. Phelps had come in handy with what had happened with Rachel, and they had spent some time together when her husband was too drunk to do what a lady needs. But, now he was becoming annoying, with his harassing requests and his fear of being found guilty for the death of that old crank. She didn't need him anymore. Not now that the bastard had come back and they'd find a way to use him and his newly found wealthy family.
According to with what Phelps had told her, Matt was holding the knife by the handle with the bastard. She just hoped he did what she had told him to do, for a change, and take his nephew to the hotel. They'd let the Barkleys know they had their precious bastard, and make them believe they'd release him for a fair price. Then, and just then, she could start thinking about a new life.
But it had been hours, the sun had set and Matt hadn't come back.
She had paced back and forth from the foyer to the kitchen several times, growing increasingly agitated, muttering to herself, shaking her head, locks of hair falling from her bun and waving wildly on her face.
Now, she had had enough. She took Matt's rifle from where she had left it, leaning against a wall, and shouldered it.
Heath stumbled in his uncle's body and almost fell. He knew immediately he was dead, his open eyes glassy and void, his lips slightly open, a rivulet of dried blood running from the corner of his mouth to his chin. He crouched anyway, and touched his throat finding no pulse. He was still warm. Heath compassionately closed his uncle's eyelids with his hand. He would never see that hateful gaze again.
Heath quickly stood: it wasn't time for speculations; he had to find Hannah and see what had happened to her. He approached the green cabin where he had spent his childhood. No audible sounds were coming from the inside. Trying to be as quiet as possible, he climbed the porch steps, walked around the cabin toward the farthest window and stood flat with his back against the wooden wall. He retrieved his knife from his inner vest pocket and flipped it open.
That was the moment he saw Martha Simmons come. He didn't move while she walked toward the front door. She was screaming, calling his name loudly, calling his uncle's name loudly.
She was furious, and she had a rifle.