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With haste, Terry Marie stood
up, followed by Millie.
"Who are we
marrying?" Mike ask and laughed. "Do I get the name of this paragon of
virtue? Where's he from? What does he do for a living? And if I don't approve of
him can I run him through that old Claymore of Pop's? Pop says that's how the
Donnelley's got her in the first place, as the poster family for Shakespeare's
MacBeth."
A chill swept over her. Millie
gave him a nervous laugh.
"I think we should all
get some shut-eye," their mother said brightly. Mike grew thoughtful.
Millie looked at him, then glanced away. "We all have a long day ahead of
us if Jason's pack of rug-rats is coming. Can you stay, Mike?" At Mike's
smile, something froze in her.
Then he shook his head and sat
the cup on the counter. "Sorry, Mama, but I have to get back to Milhouser.
We're looking for a dangerous criminal that may have come this way."
Millie shivered. "I
should hope not. We get more than our share of deviants as it is, thinking they
can hide in the swamps. Do you have a picture?"
He fished around in his coat
pocket and lay one on the table.
"If you see him, tell Pop
not to be hero. This kid's murdered any number of people." He looked
distinctly unhappy. "We have to take him alive at all costs. Orders,"
he said to the surprised looks on all their faces. All but Millie. She was
relieved and breathing a little hard. "He's supposed to be part of an
underground movement that threatens the very fabric of the United Nations. 'One
world, one government,'" he quoted.
Millie rose. "You take
care, son. Ron'd say the same to you. And you won't listen any more than he
will." Without looking at it she lay the picture upside down on the table.
Picking it up, Terry Marie studied it for a moment. The boy looked familiar,
handsome in a cool sort of way, the hair and chin . . . she gasped. No, not him.
No eye-patch, no scar. But how old was the picture?
Mike glanced at her. He ask,
"Recognize him, Sis?"
"Huh? No. Of course not,
Miky. Mama, I'm awfully tired. Am I to bunk with you?"
Millie nodded. She kissed
Mike, walking with him as far as the edge of the porch.
Benny watched from the stable.
The man was leaving. Good. Benny shot a thankful glance at the Day-Sun.
Two Swords rolled his eyes.
"It's an improvement. I think." In desperate hope, the sword whispered
her agreement.
Benny's teeth showed in a
snarl. He had to get out of here, somehow, some way, even if the roads were
slick as grease.
In the kitchen, Ellen and John
gave Boone an expectant look.
Fingering the bandanna, he
glared at them and went to the den and closed the doors very, very quietly.
"Coming, Honey?"
Ellen said to John.
He gave Ellen a wan smile.
"In a minute, I have a few calls to make. Like a good mother, a reporter's
work never stops, you know that."
Her face grew troubled. She
opened her mouth. A hot red brushed up from his neckline. Struggling for the
right words, John frowned. "Honey, this could be our big break-"
Ellen sighed and continued up
the stairs.
Heart heavy, John took the
phone off its cradle on the wall and began the first of several calls.
Benny moved through brush
sheathed in ice. He stepped on the road and yiked as a boot slipped out from
under him. He tried to stand and crashed down on the ice. Benny crawled off the
road and under the fence, his buttocks feeling like one massive bruise. Man, no
way he dared to take the ride out on that.
Rubbing his bottom, he slipped
back through the woods to the barn. Maybe the joker wasn't an agent. Maybe he
was just a visitor, one of Millie's brood. And maybe he dreamed all this. Yeah,
right. The guy was the tooth fairy and not a cold-blooded killer.
Fifteen minutes later Benny
slipped into the kitchen, the bucket of milk weighing down his arm. He glanced
at John. The man sat quietly smoking his pipe and sipping a mug of coffee. John
stared back and nodded. Benny flushed angrily and moved into the pantry.
First the strainer. He lined
the funnel with a coffee filter and poured the milk through. Clean as a whistle,
no straw, no clots, nada. That old huzzy was a good milker, provided you
entertained her properly. A crooked smile stretched the scars on his face.
Mama's got a squeeze box, daddy plays it all night.
He thought of Sweet-Bottom and
her squeeze box and sweat popped out on his face. Milk topped the funnel and
slopped over.
With a silent curse for his
clumsiness and his blind lust for Sweet-Bottom, he snatched up a few clean rags
and sopped it up. Benny tipped the bucket over the funnel, teeth sunk into his
lower lip, his thoughts studiously doing the times tables.
The last drop of milk hit the
funnel and he gusted a sigh of relief. Now where did Millie keep - Ah, there it
was.
"Yo." He grinned.
"Cream separator. Come to Papa, baby."
He glanced through the open
pantry door at John.
The man's eyes were hooded,
following his movements. Benny ducked to snatch up the separator and his guts
twisted in a sharp pain to grow heavy and cold. He took the separator into the
kitchen and sat it on the counter. There was a stoneware crock, covered with
several layers of gauze in the pantry. Yeah, the milk from last night, left to
sour. He took the crock and began to pour it into the separator. When the top
was full, he turned it on. A thin stream of pure milk hissed from the spout and
into a smaller bucket. From the side spout and into a bowl ran a heavy, lazy
stream of the cream, golden and nearly as thick as butter.
"You're Benny Wya Greylov."
Benny tensed, waiting for the
inevitable questioning. He shrugged it away and kept his eye steady on the milk
he was pouring. No more accidents. Not with the buttermilk.
"What happened at the
Manse, Benny? We heard so little."
Not really expecting an answer
John waited with scant patience.
"Dammit," John
snapped. "Don't you care what happened? Benny, the people have a right to
know what their government is doing behind their backs. The fascists are running
roughshod over us. They'll own the country if we don't stop them."
"Screw the people,"
Benny said in a voice so soft, so quiet, John almost missed the words. Benny's
eye never left the thickening trickle of buttermilk. His words grew hoarse.
"Like they screwed me."
©2003 StoriesByEmail.com
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