The Law of Moses(73)

Moses



“WE’RE GOING TO HAVE TO SAND IT DOWN OR SOMETHING.”

Tag and I stood looking at the face that peered out of the white wall, a face that hadn’t been there the day before. I was guessing, from what Lisa Kendrick had said as she’d rushed off, that the face belonged to Sylvie Kendrick.

“There’s just something off in this house, Moses.”

“It’s not the house, Tag. It’s me.”

Tag shot me a look and shook his head.

“You seeing things that other people can’t doesn’t make you the problem, Mo. It just means there are fewer secrets. And that can be dangerous.”

I walked toward the wall and pressed my hand over the face, the way the girl had done the night before. She’d touched the wall, demanding that I see her.

“I think we need to get out of here, Moses. We need to sand that down, slap another coat of paint on that wall, and we need to go. I have a bad feeling about all of this,” Tag insisted.

I shook my head. “I can’t go yet, Tag. I turned away from the wall and faced my friend.

“Yesterday you wanted to leave. You were lined out, ready to go,” Tag argued.

“That girl knew her. Lisa, the girl who cleaned. She saw this face, she recognized it. And it freaked her out. She said it was her cousin. But she disappeared eight years ago. What does that have to do with me? What does that have to do with anything? I’m sure I saw her last night because of the connection with Lisa. That’s how it works.”

“But you painted her before last night,” Tag argued.

“And I painted Molly before I met you,” I responded, my eyes returning to the wall.

Tag waited for me to say more, and when I didn’t, he sighed. “Molly and that girl,” he pointed to the wall, “and now another one. Three dead girls in ten years isn’t all that remarkable. Even in Utah. And you and I know it doesn’t have a damn thing to do with you. You’re just the unlucky son-of-a-bitch that sees dead people. But people here have already decided you had something to do with it. I heard those guys last night, and you saw that girl take off out of here like you were Jack the Ripper. You don’t need that shit in your life, Mo. You don’t deserve it, and you don’t need it,” he repeated.

“But I need Georgia.” There. I said it. I’d known it since she’d shown up the night before with a photo album clutched to her chest. She’d opened the door just a crack and she’d stuck an olive branch through.

Tag couldn’t have looked more surprised if I’d slapped him across the face with that olive branch. I felt like the wind had been knocked out of me too, and I found myself gasping for breath.

“It looks like the stick-figure kick to the head knocked some sense into you.” Tag whistled. “Just seven years too late.”

“I can’t run this time, Tag. I’ve got to see it through. Whatever that means. Maybe I just end up making peace with my skeletons. Making peace with Georgia. Getting to know my son in the only way I have left.” I couldn’t think about Eli without feeling like I was caught in a downpour. But water had always been my friend, and I decided maybe it was time to let it rain.

“I can’t stay, Mo. I’d like to stay, but I have a feeling if I hang around here too long with you, I’m going to be a liability. There’s something about this place that isn’t agreeing with me.”

“I understand. And I don’t expect you to. I may be here for a while. The house could use more than just a little paint and some new carpet. It’s been empty a long time. The bathroom is ancient, it needs a new roof, the yard looks like crap. So I’m going to fix it up. And then I’m giving it to Georgia. Maternity expenses, four years of child support, funeral costs, pain and suffering. Hell, the house probably isn’t enough.”

“Salt Lake is two hours away, less than that the way I drive. You’ll call if you need me, won’t you?”

I nodded.

“I know you, Mo. You won’t call.” Tag shot a hand through his mop and sighed.

“I’ll call,” I promised, but knew in my heart Tag was probably right. It was hard to need.

“You want my advice?” Tag asked.

“No,” I answered. He just rolled his eyes.

“Good. Here it is. Don’t go slow, Mo. Don’t go easy. Go hard and go fast. Women like Georgia are used to holding the reins. But you broke her, Mo. And then you left her. I know you had your reasons. You know I get it. But she won’t let you break her again. So you have to take her. Don’t wait for her to say please. ‘Cause it won’t happen.”

“We’re not talking about a horse, Tag.”

“The hell we aren’t. That’s her language, Mo. So you better learn it.”





Moses




GEORGIA CAME BACK AGAIN that night, knocking on the door, carrying another offering, only this time it wasn’t the photo album. I tried not to be disappointed. I wanted more, but when I’d arrived home that afternoon the book was no longer on the kitchen counter, and I had no doubt that Georgia had come and taken it away.

She shoved a pan of brownies in my chest and said in a rush, “I took the photo album.”

I nodded, the brownies in my hands. “I saw.”