Page 26 of The Forest of Lost Souls

“Legions,” says the seer.

“Well, but will you take this as payment?”

“I always accept whatever currency seekers bring to me. By their payment I know them entirely. Once I know them, I can tell them what they have come to hear, although they might be surprised to hear it. In this case, however, in order to know you, to fully know you, I must read the book to consider your assessment of the author’s intent.”

Disappointed, Vida says, “How long will that take—a week, two weeks?”

“I’m not a slow reader, dear. Return at nine tomorrow morning. Now, as a reward for your patience, I will tell you something you don’t know.”

Vida sits up straighter in her chair. “Something to come?”

“No. Something of the past that prevented something that might have come to pass. You know that the man who shot your father five years ago was hit by your father’s return fire. Both died. No one told you that the man your father shot did bad things to little girls. They felt you were too young to understand. What your father didn’t know—couldn’t know—is that if the man he killed had lived, one of the girls that monster would have later assaulted was you. Your father died not only for all the childrenwho would have been victims—he died as well for you, whom he loved with all his heart.”

Shaking with emotion, with sorrow and fear and wonder, and with confusion, Vida pushes her chair back from the table and gets to her feet. “How? How can you know?”

“Past, present, and future are one. To know what’s coming is to know what has been. It’s important that you know what your father’s sacrifice prevented, as you will see on your next visit.”

Vida turns from the table and finds herself on the far side of the county road, on the dirt lane leading home.

30

THE SERPENT’S COURTSHIP

Thursday morning, the day after Nash Deacon left his toothbrush and roses and a photo of Belden Bead, Vida removes the two-by-fours that brace the front and back doors. She undoes the four steel-strap brackets and drops them in a Ziploc bag with the eight screws. She fills the holes. Tomorrow, she’ll sand the fill and shellac it to match the wood. On further consideration, she has decided that barricades aren’t the way to deal with him.

At eleven o’clock, when she departs on a task that will give her an option she hopes not to use, she locks the deadbolts against all intruders other than the deputy who calls himself her suitor.

She has a busy day.

As six o’clock approaches, the kitchen table is set for dinner. No flowers. No candles. No tablecloth. Two plain white plates on the red Formica. Beside each plate is a paper napkin on which lies only a dinner knife, no fork or spoon.

He wants to mock and diminish her, as well as unnerve her, with a charade of romance. If she understands Nash Deacon—and she does—he’ll bring a bottle of wine. Beside the plates, she has placed not glass stemware, but instead disposable plastic picnic cups.

Her two dresses remain on hangers. She wears hiking shoes, a pair of roomy Levi’s that are comfortable when she works the placer mine, and an untucked plaid-flannel shirt.

A few minutes before six o’clock, the mountain quiet is broken by the rumble of the Pontiac Trans Am’s powerful engine. It draws nearer, so near that the sound vibrates the kitchen window glass. A sudden silence lasts until a car door slams shut.

She has left the front door open. She will not go forward to greet him.

He hesitates on the porch. Then the door closes behind him and footfalls sound in the hall. Whatever he imagines she did to Belden Bead, Deacon seems unafraid of her. Of course he has disarmed her.

When he appears in the open archway, he’s wearing dressier boots than before, pressed jeans instead of uniform khakis, a blue-and-black-checkered shirt, and a different cowboy hat than the one he wore previously, black and of a better quality. He’s carrying a bottle of wine in one hand and a small gift-wrapped box in the other.

He’s had time to think about the role he wants to play, and he is more relaxed than on his first visit. When he sees how she is dressed, he grins broadly and shakes his head. “You’re a piece of work, sweet thing. This is just about what I expected.”

Vida says nothing.

Entering the kitchen, he surveys the table setting and shakes his head again. He puts down the wine—her favorite cabernet—and the little gift box. He takes off his hat and drops it on one of the spare chairs.

“Most men,” he says, “comin’ around for a dinner date, they would be mighty offended by the implied insult of all this here.”

“And if they were smart, they’d leave.”

“Most would, I suspect. But I’m a different breed from them. I always have enjoyed women who present a challenge.”

“This isn’t a date,” she says.

“You’re mistaken there, sweet thing. I’m sure you remember how I paid my respects the other day and stated my intentions as would any honorable man.”

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