Chapter 11: The Visitor
The knock came on Thursday morning, just after Maggie had finished her toast.
She stood at the kitchen window with her second cup of coffee, watching the light come up over the fields, when Biscuit lifted his head from his rug and growled. The sound was low and serious, nothing like his bark at squirrels. Maggie set her cup down. A pickup truck she did not recognize sat in her gravel drive, dust still settling around its tires. A man stood beside it, tall and heavy-shouldered, in a work shirt and low cap.
Her heart thumped hard. She had lived alone in this farmhouse for nine years, and no stranger had ever made her afraid. But she knew this man, or at least his kind. She had seen him at the Beckett place the day she found the riders, standing by the barn with a wrench in his hand. Lyle. That was the name the sheriff had used. Lyle, one of Roy Beckett's men.
Maggie took a slow breath and reminded herself of the plan. The sheriff had told her to live her ordinary life, to be the same woman she had always been. Do not run. Do not hide. Do not show fear. She smoothed her apron and went to the door with Biscuit at her heels.
"Good morning," she said, opening the screen door just wide enough to talk through. "Can I help you?"
Lyle took off his cap and tried to smile. It was a smile that never reached his eyes. "Morning, ma'am. Sorry to bother you so early. I'm looking for a dog. A brown hound, wandered off from our place down the road. Seen him around here?"
Maggie glanced at Biscuit, who was pressed against her leg, his hackles up. "Afraid not," she said. "Only dog I have is this one, and he hasn't left the yard. What does your dog look like? I'll keep an eye out."
"Big fella, brown, white patch on his chest." Lyle's gaze drifted past her, into the house, taking in the hallway, the kitchen doorway, the coat hooks by the door. "You live here alone, ma'am?"
"Just me and Biscuit," Maggie said, letting a little tremor into her voice, the way an old woman might when talking to a stranger. "My husband passed years ago. The neighbors check on me, though. The Hendersons next door are real good about that."
That was true, and it was also a warning dressed up as small talk. Lyle nodded, but his eyes kept moving. He was looking for something. Maggie knew exactly what. He wanted to know whether she had been near the barn, whether she had seen anything, whether she had talked to anyone.
"Nice place you got," he said. "Quiet out here."
"It is," Maggie said. "I like it that way. At seventy-six, I have earned my quiet. Would you like a glass of water? It's a warm morning."
She said it the way she had said it a hundred times to salesmen and census takers, warm and a little fussing, and she watched him decide. Men like Lyle expected fear or foolishness from old women. She gave him neither, just ordinary kindness, and it seemed to throw him off balance. He shook his head.
"No, thank you, ma'am. I should get going. If you see that dog, let us know."
"Where would I find you?" Maggie asked, all innocence. "I don't think I caught your name."
He hesitated a fraction too long. "Lyle. I'm out at the Beckett place, down the road."
"Well, Lyle, I'll watch for your dog," Maggie said. "And you watch for mine. Biscuit is a terrible wanderer when the gate's left open."
She smiled, and Biscuit growled again, and Lyle put his cap back on and walked to his truck. Maggie watched him drive away, dust rolling behind him, until the truck turned onto the highway and disappeared. Then she closed the door, leaned her back against it, and let out a long, shaky breath. Her hands were trembling. She sat down at the kitchen table and folded them together until they stopped.
"You did good, Biscuit," she whispered. The dog rested his chin on her knee.
She picked up the telephone and called Sheriff Benson. He answered on the second ring.
"That was fast," he said.
"One of Beckett's men just came by," Maggie told him. "Looking for a lost dog that doesn't exist. He was checking on me, Carl. He wanted to know if I'd seen anything."
"Did you give him anything?"
"Not a thing," Maggie said. "I gave him a glass of water he didn't take and a story about the Hendersons checking on me. He'll be back, though. Men like that don't stop at one visit."
"I know," the sheriff said. "Maggie, keep your doors locked today. Don't go near the barn. Don't go anywhere near the Beckett place. The plan is still on for Saturday, and I don't want anything to change that."
"I won't," she promised. "But Carl, if they come back, if they try to scare me—"
"They won't," he said firmly. "Starting right now, one of my deputies will be parked at the end of your road, and he won't be subtle about it. You just keep living your life, Maggie. Two more days."
After she hung up, Maggie stood at the window again and watched the road. The fields were green, the sky was wide, and somewhere down that road, four men were still chained in a barn, waiting for her promise. She thought about the way Lyle's eyes had moved through her house, and a cold anger settled in her chest. She had taught school for forty years and faced down bullies in classrooms, school board meetings, and her own kitchen. She was not going to be frightened in her own home.
She made another cup of coffee, fed Biscuit, and went out to her garden. If Lyle came back, he would find an old woman pulling weeds, humming to herself, minding her own business. Behind that ordinary picture, he would find nothing at all. Maggie Holloway had kept bigger secrets than this in her life. She could keep this one for two more days.