Red Clocks(45)

Nobody knows why the dead man’s fingers—poisonous to ships’ hulls and oysters and fishermen’s paychecks—have come back to Newville. Nobody knows, so they’ve decided that it’s the mender’s fault. She hexed the seaweed. Called it to shore with her special weed-hexing whistle. And her reason? What reason, bitches?

Some things are true; some are not.

That Lola fell down the stairs, hard.

That she fell down so hard her brain swelled up.

That she fell down because she drank a “potion.”

That the “potion” she drank before falling down was directly responsible for the falling down.

That the providing of the “potion” counts as medical malpractice.

That the newspaper headline says POTION COMMOTION.

That the oil she gave Lola was for calming her scar.

That the oil was topical, not meant to be swallowed.

That, even if swallowed, elderflower, lemon, lavender, and fenugreek don’t make people fall down.

That nobody will believe forest weirdo over school principal.

“Percival!”—a guard through the screen box. “Get dressed. Your lawyer’s here.”

The lawyer wears a suit, like last time. As if to make himself more real. As if, in a suit, he will appear forceful and real and not the plump weird trembler he is. Among humans, the mender prefers the weird and the trembling, so she likes him.

From his briefcase he produces two boxes of licorice nibs. “As requested.”

The mender breaks one open. Crams her mouth thick with the black taste, holds the box out to him.

“Mmh. I don’t eat those.” He pulls out a bottle of hand sanitizer and squirts a palmful. “So your friend Cotter’s been checking on the animals and says everyone is fine.”

“Did he make sure the goats aren’t going up to the trail?”

The lawyer nods. Scratches the back of his neck. “So I’m afraid I have some tough news.”

Mattie Matilda?

Went to a term house—died?

“The prosecutor’s office has appended a charge,” says the lawyer.

“Appended?”

“Added. They’re bringing a new charge against you.”

“What charge?”

“Conspiracy to commit murder.”

Silver cold burn in her belly.

“Because fertilized eggs are now classified as persons,” he says, “intentionally destroying an embryo or fetus constitutes second-degree murder. Or, if you’re in Oregon, ‘murder’ rather than ‘aggravated murder.’”

“What did the music teacher tell you?”

“Who?”

“The—”

“Stop talking,” he barks.

She looks at him sidelong.

“Ms. Percival, it is much better if you don’t tell me whatever you were about to tell me. Understood? The charge is being added by Dolores Fivey’s attorney. Mrs. Fivey claims you consented to terminate a pregnancy of hers. Any truth to that?”

“No.”

“All right, good.” He fusses in his briefcase for a notepad and pen. “Did she ever mention being pregnant? Or that she was seeking an abortion?”

That clock never had a kernel in it.

“Lola’s lying,” says the mender.

“Why would she lie?”

“Get a doctor to look at her. Womb’s been silent.”

The lawyer looks up from his pad. “Not a talkative womb?”

He is helping her when she has no money to pay him, so she fakes a laugh. “She was never pregnant.”

“Well, she can testify that she believed she was.” He reaches under his suit sleeve to rub a forearm, then applies more hand sanitizer. “Per our last conversation, I haven’t been able to find any evidence that implicates Mr. Fivey in domestic violence. No hospital records, no police reports, no concerned friends or doctors. Zero.”

“But he snapped her finger bone,” she says, “and burned her arm and punched her in the jaw.”

“Without any corroborating evidence, we can’t present this information in court.”

I am descended from a pirate. From a pirate. I am—

“Ms. Percival, I want you to understand that conspiracy to commit murder carries a mandatory minimum prison term of ninety months.”

Seven years, six months.

“And that’s the minimum. They could add more at sentencing.”

“But I didn’t,” she says.

“I believe you,” says the lawyer. “And I’m going to make the jury believe you. But we need to go over every single detail of your acquaintance with Mrs. Fivey.”

He wants to know what Lola paid for the scar treatments. If the prosecution can prove that money or goods changed hands, then the jury might plausibly leap to believing that the money or goods were prepayment for a termination. By accepting the compensation, the mender conspired to commit murder.

“This is the narrative they’ll build for the jury,” says the lawyer. “We need to hack away at it. Anything that can throw this narrative into doubt, we’ll use.”

“I can’t remember,” says the mender. Telling about the sex would make it worse. The world’s oldest method of payment.