Juicy Secrets Forbidden Tales of Lesbian Love

For a brief description of what takes place in each of the previous chapters, visit this page.

For a list of the characters from the story you are now reading, visit this page. 

For a list of the characters from the previous two stories that you will encounter here as well, visit this page.

And now, dear readers, we make our way into the next installment. Read on…

by Rachael Yukey

Feel my pain
My words are in vain
I believe it’s the end of innocence 
Symphony X, 2011

Nettie settled into her Kia, her thoughts in an uproar. Through the windshield she could see Melissa Brentshaw disappear into a Beamer SUV parked half a block ahead. It crossed her mind that the poised, career-conscious woman must be rattled indeed to take a chance on driving after the three strong drinks she’d just consumed.

Suddenly Nettie’s hands began to shake. She gripped the steering wheel, knuckles whitening, heart racing. Taking a few slow, deep breaths to steady herself, she reached for her phone, fumbling for the number she wanted.

Uncharacteristically, it took Bridgett four rings to pick up. She was usually on the line before the first ring was done. “Hello, Nettie. How did the interview go?”

“It was… Jesus. How fast can you get Miller conferenced in, Bridgett?”

“Ummm…” A moment’s pause. “Actually, Nettie, she’s here with me now. I’ll put you on speaker.”

“Hi, Nettie,” said Miller’s voice, in unusually honeyed tones. A much-needed surge of amusement did wonders for Nettie’s jangled nerves.

“Hello, Tisha,” she replied, unconsciously referring to the FBI agent by her nickname, something she’d never done before. “Listen, both of you—we’ve been on the wrong track the whole time. I’m pretty damn sure that Jacob Brentshaw wasn’t the killer at all.”

“Maybe you’d better explain that, Nettie.” Miller’s voice had gone cool and professional.

“Okay—this is gonna sound weird and maybe irrelevant, but stay with me for a minute. I had a dream last night. One of those dreams that I think might be memories trying to surface. In the dream, Anna and I were in that trailer, and we could hear the guy we called Creepface talking to a woman on the other side of a wall from us. In the dream, she called him David. Not Jacob,  David. I didn’t think much of it at the time; thought it was either a warped memory or maybe just plain fiction. Anyway—”

“I’m sorry, Nettie,” said Bridgett, “but you’re right. It doesn’t seem relevant.”

“Bridgett, please. Hear me out. I just left my meeting with Melissa Brentshaw. Turns out she wasn’t aware of a lot of details regarding her brother’s conviction. She says she didn’t want to know, and I believe her. Anyway, shit went next-level when I asked her if she knew why Jacob cut all the hair off his victims. She didn’t fucking know about it. Whoever interviewed her fifteen years ago really half-assed the job.”

“That’s not entirely fair,” Latisha put in. “Melissa was a minor, and her mom only allowed the interview on the condition that she not be told anything that might upset her. You have to approach kids with—well—kid gloves, and you’re kind of at the mercy of the parents.”

Nettie rested her head against the back of the seat, mulling this over. “That actually makes all the sense in the world, in light of the story I just heard. I’m betting her mom didn’t want you to hear what Melissa might make of it.”

“Are you implicating her mother?” Latisha wanted to know.

“I don’t have a solid basis for that,” said Nettie. “Still—okay, here’s the story Melissa told me. After she got a few drinks in her; finding out about the hair really shook her up. See, it turns out that back in those days her older sister Shannon was hanging out with an older married guy, and probably having sexwith him. I have a name: David Cesaneus.” She spelled it.

“Shannon would still have been a minor when it first started,” Nettie went on. “The dude’s wife died when his twin daughters were two years old or so. Shannon kept spending time with him, and Melissa thinks she turned into a sort of surrogate mom. She also thinks those girls were being abused.

“Anyway, the girls died in a fire when they were ten. All the hair was burned off of their heads, and right before the burial service, Shannon cut all the hair off the heads of Melissa’s dolls. Then she tried to force her way into the funeral home and put the hair on the dead twins.”

“Holy shit,” said Bridgett.

“There’s more,” said Nettie. “Melissa said two other things that I think are important. First off, the family believes David Cesaneus is an illegitimate cousin. Melissa says there’s a big family resemblance to back it up. That means we might just have a male family member only a few years older than Jacob Brentshaw, who also resembles him a bit. We need to get a picture.”

“I’m already running a records search,” said Latisha. “What was the other thing?”

“She also told me that within a few weeks of the Brentshaw arrest, Cesaneus moved out of the area. She doesn’t know where to.”

“So what you’re saying,” Bridgett said slowly, “is that maybe Jacob Brentshaw wasn’t the actual perp. That maybe this guy David, and Shannon Brentshaw, are the guilty parties. But it still doesn’t fit the facts, Nettie. Jacob was there. He offered no defense at his trial. He was convicted.”

“Christ, Bridgett, I know that,” said Nettie. “But that doesn’t mean I’m wrong. Just that we’re missing a piece of the puzzle. Or maybe a few pieces. I don’t know, I—”

“Got something,” Latisha interjected. Her voice was drawn, tense. “Couple things. First off, Melissa’s story checks out. David Cesaneus lived in a rural residence just a couple of miles from the Brentshaw farm. He worked for a dairy farmer, and free lodging in an old house on the property was part of the compensation package. He lived there with his wife and two daughters. The wife died in a boating accident in 1992, with four different intoxicants in her system. The little girls died eight years later when the house caught fire. After that he took up residence in Le Croix, Iowa, and seems to have mostly sustained himself through picking up odd jobs, right up until the Brentshaw arrest.”

“So where did he end up?” Nettie’s words came out in a rush.

“This is where it gets interesting. He crossed the border into Mexico just a couple of weeks after Brentshaw was arrested. He used his passport, so we have a record of the crossing. From there? Seems to have moved around South and Central America quite a bit over the next decade and a half. Uses his American credentials to take up residence in Venezuela for a bit. Gets arrested on a drug charge in Argentina; spends a year in the clink, then gets deported. Probably ended up back in Mexico. Who knows? Records can be spotty in that part of the world.

“And then,” she went on, “about six months ago, he comes home. He’s currently living in an apartment in Le Croix, Iowa. He doesn’t appear to be employed.”

“Holy hell,” murmured Nettie. “We’re onto something here.”

“That’s not all,” said Miller. “I have a smoking gun. Let me pull it back up—”

Nettie heard a sharp intake of breath from the other end of the line. “Fuck me raw,” said Bridgett.

“Yeah,” Miller agreed.

“What the fuck are you two on about?” Nettie demanded to know.

“I’m going to text you a picture, the most recent one I could find,” said Miller. “I want you sitting down first. Are you sitting down?”

“I’m sitting, for chrissakes,” said Nettie, fuming.

“Okay,” said Latisha. “Here it comes.”

A moment later, Nettie’s phone chimed. She stabbed at the notification box, bringing the text up. Her jaw fell open as the image appeared on her screen. The man in the picture was seated at what looked like an outdoor cafe, the chairs and tables rickety, the surrounding faces mostly Latin American. He was wearing an easy grin.

“Ho—holy fucking hell,” Nettie got out through suddenly dry lips. “That’s a match for the Heather and Gina Dulcey sketch. It’s him.”

“No question,” Bridgett agreed.

“Is it enough?” Nettie wanted to know. “Tell me it’s enough. If you can bring him in, and Shannon too, maybe we can piece together the stuff that’s still missing. Like what Jacob’s involvement really was.”

“I’d have a fifty-fifty shot of getting a warrant as we stand right now,” said Latisha. “But we can improve those odds. Nettie, how fast can you get to the trailer park in Forbes?”

Nettie caught on at once, and immediately summoned up Google Maps. “You want me to show Heather and Gina that picture. It’ll take—” she squirmed in her seat, the five additional seconds it took for the route to appear seeming an eternity— ”Christ. About seven hours, assuming I don’t even stop to pee. Can’t you send somebody? Even if they have to come from the metro, that’s four hours instead of probably eight.”

“Calm down, Nettie,” said Latisha. “There are two problems with that. First, this is an unsanctioned investigation, and I’d have to pull some stunts to justify throwing official resources at it. Second, April Dulcey isn’t letting any of my agents near her girls. You’re the last person she let in, probably because you’re the one who rescued them. It has to be you.”

“She wouldn’t have let me in, if Gina and Heather hadn’t seen me first.”

“So make sure they know you’re there. Use your wits. But get access to those girls, and wave that picture under their noses. I have a few more I’ll send you, too. If they can positively ID him based on a photo, we’ll get our warrant, and I should be able to squeak by any questions about where my info came from.”

Nettie sighed. “That seems like an awful time lag, especially considering that realistically, I’ll get there so late that I’d have to visit tomorrow morning.”

“It can’t be helped,” said Bridgett, “and anyway, Nettie, they’ve just been sitting around not causing any trouble ever since we got the Dulcey girls out from under them. That’s like six weeks now. Another twenty-four hours shouldn’t make a difference.”

“Melissa Brentshaw is a bit of a wild card, though,” Latisha put in. “Do you have any reason to believe she might alert her family?”

“No,” said Nettie. “I guess we can’t rule it out, but you weren’t there when she found out about the hair. I thought she was going to pass out. If anything, I’m thinking we might have to set up some kind of protection for her. If her people find out she’s been talking to us—”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” said Latisha. “For now, why don’t you get started on the drive to Forbes? No need to rush; like you said, you won’t be talking to them until tomorrow. Head directly to Virginia, and I’ll set up a reservation in the same hotel you stayed at before. Then you can visit the trailer park first thing in the morning.”

Nettie let out a heavy sigh, knowing this was the best she was likely to get. Keying the ignition, she pulled the seatbelt around her waist. “All right, then,” she said. “I’m out of here. Get your people ready to roll, Tisha, because we’re on the right track. You know it and I know it.” She killed the connection, tossed her phone into the passenger’s seat, then savagely shoved the gearshift into drive.

***

The late-model Toyota SUV glided to a halt in front of the old farmhouse, lights winking out as the driver killed the engine. A solidly built man sporting a mullet and goatee stepped out, stretching his limbs as he looked around the place. He fixed his gaze on the living room window, mouth widening into a grin at the blonde-haired, pixie-faced beauty holding a curtain aside and watching him from within.

Giving the man a radiant smile of her own, Mallory let the curtain fall back into place, and was out the front door mere seconds later, making her way gracefully across the front porch and down the steps.

Roger Keeting met Mallory at the bottom, sweeping her into a warm hug. She threw both arms around him, resting her head against his broad chest. Taking a step back, she held him at arms length, giving her old friend and bandmate a head-to-toe once-over.

“You’re looking great, Roger!”

Roger smiled. “So are you, but you’ve got one up on me. You didn’t have to lose eighty pounds to look amazing.”

Mallory laughed. “You did it, though. That’s something to be proud of. Me—” she twirled a lock of hair dramatically—”it’s not as special when beauty just comes naturally.” They both laughed. “Seriously, though, Roger—well done. Would you rather come inside, or pull up a lawn chair?”

Roger glanced in the direction she was indicating, where a handful of weathered but sturdy chairs were arranged around a firepit. “Mind sitting outside?” he said. “It’s nice out, and I’ve been cooped up in that damn car all morning.”

“Of course I don’t mind, silly. Make yourself at home. Need something to drink, or a bite?”

“Naw, I’m good.” Roger made a show of offering his elbow in courtly southern gentleman fashion. Giggling, Mallory took him up on it, and they sauntered across the lawn to the chairs.

“Where’s Julie?” Roger wanted to know as he took his seat.

Mallory waved a hand in the direction of the machine shed. “She’s got her Jesus hat on. Says she’s going to raise antique tractors from the dead.”

Roger guffawed. “Sounds like a totally Julie thing to do. I’ll have to check it out before I leave.”

“Let me give her a call real quick. She was gonna come in and get washed up before you got here, but you’re a bit ahead of schedule.”

Roger held up a hand. “Let her be—I’ll go out there and say hi in a few minutes.” He looked at her sidelong. “How’ve you been, Mal?”

“Good. It’s really nice, being home for a bit. How about you, Roger?”

“Couldn’t be better. Looking forward to being home for a bit.”

Mallory pursed her lips. “Until you called me this morning, I was under the impression you weren’t gonna be here till next week.”

“Well, I wasn’t planning to,” he said. “But something’s come up. Something I need to talk to everyone about, but me and Jamie wanted to run it by you first.”

Malllory’s eyebrows lifted. “You and Jamie?”

Ralph blew out his breath. “Do you remember when we had people from EMI and Warner Brothers looking at Devil’s Warehouse, thinking of picking it up and releasing it internationally?”

Mallory felt a smile tug at the corners of her mouth as she thought back to their third and final album, that fleeting but glorious moment when 80 Proof seemed on the cusp of being picked up by one of the biggies, and from there boarding a rocket train to the stars. Two major labels had taken an interest in signing them, but both ultimately passed them over.

“Yeah, I do. Good times while they lasted.”

“Remember what that A&R guy from EMI said to us?”

Mallory nodded. “No clear direction. We were too eclectic for them.”

“Correct. They thought we had great songs, but that we needed to pick a lane. Which would have been a solvable problem, if they’d been willing to let us record a new album. But they wanted something they could just drop on the shelves, without sinking a lot of dinero into it.”

“I was there, remember?”

Ralph chuckled. “I know. Anyhow, we might also have tanked the deal with our attitude. We thought the corporate suits were being totally douchey about the whole variety-rock vibe, and maybe that showed through a little bit. But you know—I’ve had occasion recently to re-evaluate our stance on that issue.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I’m part of a weekly live Youtube show that talks about all things hard rock—I’m pretty sure I sent you the link at one point. Have you checked it out?”

Mallory gave him a rueful smile. “I skimmed through one or two. You’re a charismatic speaker, Roger, and it was kind of fun, but you know—not my scene. I just couldn’t get into a discussion of the minutiae of Uriah Heep’s eighty-seven zillion album discography, and the relative merits of each record. I thought you were great at it, though.”

Ralph laughed out loud. “That’s twenty-four albums, missy, with another on the way next year. And I’ll defend Abominog as their finest release until my dying breath. But that’s neither here nor there.” He shifted in his chair.

“Anyway, the YouTube thing is mostly for a laugh, but we have a huge following, and we’re starting to make some decent money from it. Jamie’s been a guest half a dozen times or so, and might become a permanent contributor. She already would be, if her schedule wasn’t so hectic. But anyway, just by pure chance, she had a guest spot on a show that we called ‘What The Hell Is The Point Of This Band’? Basically we were looking at bands that are so eclectic you can’t really put a finger on what they are, and it’s almost impossible for them to find an audience, at least on a larger than regional scale. And I’ll be goddamned if Tim Sheldon didn’t show up with a copy of Devil’s Warehouse. He picked it up in the bargain bin at one of the Twin Cities outlets that used to carry our stuff, and he had no idea I’d been in the band.”

Mallory burst out laughing. “That’s—wow. Maybe your friend kind of beat up on us, but I’ll bet that made for some hilarious moments.”

“You bet your ass it did. They couldn’t have pried my jaw off the floor with a crane. Jamie was in about the same state. Tim was pretty gracious about it; once we told him that was our old band, he offered to put it aside and do one of his honorable mentions. But we said no, no, go ahead. He proceeded to savage us, and be highly complimentary at the same time. He praised our musicianship, the arrangements, and he loved Julie’s production job—but he also said we did almost all of our best writing within a certain space, and we didn’t stay in that space long enough to do us any good. He was cool and funny about it, so we all had a good laugh.”

Mallory’s eyes grew distant. “Pretty much what the A&R people said. And hey, maybe they weren’t wrong. Doesn’t matter much now, I guess.”

“What if it could be made to matter again?”

Mallory sat up straight in her chair. “What are you saying, Roger?”

“Okay, look. After that show, I went back and listened to our old albums. I mean, right then, just locked myself in my office and played all three of ‘em straight through. Here’s the facts: the quality of the songwriting varies a lot more than I thought at the time. And you know what? The best shit happens when we’re writing in a heavy rock vein, with little progressive twists. The folksy stuff and the southern-fried stuff all sounds like poor imitations of Lynyrd Skynyrd or the Flying Burrito Brothers.”

Mallory gave him a smile. “Oh, Roger, I figured that out a long time ago. It’s a combination of the way Jamie writes guitar parts and Ralph’s vocal style, I think. Occasionally we struck gold with a pretty good ballad or something like that, but we were at our best as a prog-tinged heavy band. That isn’t even my favorite stuff to listen to, but it’s the space where we really sounded like us.”

“It wasn’t just Jamie and Ralph,” countered Roger. “You were a big part of it, actually. You really stood out when Jamie was laying down something crunchy and cool, and left you free to add these soaring compound harmonies, or put on a Hammond organ synth patch and make the walls rumble. Or the way you’d stick little twists and turns into the arrangements. That music lends itself to complexity, and you’re in your zone with that sort of thing. Then there’s Katie—she may be listening to the latest Lady Gaga bullshit, but it ain’t the way she plays drums, or how she writes lyrics.”

“You have a point about Katie. Her words always blew me away.”

“For sure—but when she tries to write a love song or something like that, it’s terrible. You can’t market her lyrics to a pop audience; they’re never going to get into something like ‘The Devil’s Own’, or ‘Beggars of Babylon’.”

“It seems to me,” said Mallory, “that you’re not giving credit to one very important element. Good old in-the-pocket Roger, taking our flights of fantasy and sewing them together into arrangements that made sense.” Roger spread his hands modestly.

She took a deep breath. “Roger, are you talking about giving this another try? Because I have to tell you—I can’t see myself diving back into the clubs and trying to shop around some indie record nobody cares about. It was great fun when I was a kid, and I wouldn’t trade the experience for anything… but at our age? It doesn’t make sense.”

Roger shook his head. “No, no—that’s not what I’m talking about at all. Hear me out. After we did that YouTube show, Jamie kind of did that same thing I did, but right now she’s on the road doing a Cathy Harrison tour. Cathy came into the room when Jamie was listening to it, wanted to know what it was, and ended up checking out our entire last album. She agrees with everything that was said, but she thought the best stuff was amazing, and wants to help us out.”

Mallory realized her mouth was hanging open. “Are you serious right now?”

“As a fucking heart attack.”

“I dunno, Roger—Cathy’s on Geffen, right? Getting inked by a label like that was a stretch even then… but in 2022? I don’t see it. Rock of any description is simply not a mainstream commodity anymore.”

Roger nodded. “I agree. And I guess Cathy does too, because she’s not talking about trying to hook us up with Geffen or anything like that. She knows an A&R lady for Nuclear Blast, which is one of the biggest hard rock labels in the world these days. This chick says she’d be willing to come out for the show in Dickson in a few weeks. Maybe even a few days early, talk with us and listen to a rehearsal. What do you think?”

Mallory sat back in her chair, rocked to her core. Was this another shot at the ring? If it was, did she even want it? And if she did, was it something she could reasonably pursue? She knew she wouldn’t arrive at the answer to any of these questions in the next five minutes.

“You haven’t talked to Katie or Ralph yet?”

Roger shook his head. “Jamie and I agreed we should talk to you first. I’m a hundred percent sure Ralph would be up for it, and about ninety percent sure we could get Katie. You’re the wild card, and I don’t want to get Ralph and Katie all worked up over it if it’s a no-go.”

“I—” Mallory thought fast. “I mean, it’s not entirely out of the question, but I’d have to know what it entails. There’d be—conditions, I guess. I could walk away from teaching and not look back, but I’d need room to continue my work as a pianist and composer. And speaking of wild cards, here’s one you don’t know about, Roger. I’m pregnant.”

Roger opened his mouth, closed it again. “Oh,” is all he managed to come up with.

Mallory grinned. “Didn’t see that one coming, did you? And I don’t know how much of a showstopper that would be—a lot would depend on what the first year’s schedule looks like, and obviously the money would have to immediately be a number higher than zero.” Her smile faded. “But listen, Roger—if this is something the rest of you really want, and it turns out I can’t participate, don’t let that stop you. Replace me, and go with God.”

Roger shook his head vehemently. “Uh-uh, no way. Jamie and I both agreed it has to be all of us or none, at least to take this initial shot. Maybe if it works out and we have to replace someone five years down the road, it’ll be a different situation—I mean, you mentioned Uriah Heep earlier. The only original member is Mick Box, and they’re making some of the best music of their career. But right now, the interest in 80 Proof is based on the way the five of us write music together, and we need that to get launched. And we especially need you and Jamie working together again. Almost all of our best songs started with ideas you two brought in.”

Mallory turned her eyes to the heavens. “Think the magic will still be there?”

Roger shrugged. “I’m willing to gamble quite a bit on it, actually. Assuming Nuclear Blast decides to take us on, if there’s any shortfall between what we need to get rolling and what they’ll advance us, I can underwrite by selling off a couple of companies I control. And I will.”

“You’re really serious, aren’t you?”

“This is my dream, Mallory. I’m one hell of a businessman, and I’ve done well for myself managing companies, but what I really want to do is play rock n’ roll. I’ll take a lifestyle hit to do it, but I realize not all of you will, or can. I’ll go the extra mile to make sure no one has to.”

Mallory nodded. “How soon does this A&R lady need to know whether there’s something to come and check out?”

“Ideally she’d like to come down the week before, while we’re rehearsing. That only leaves two weeks. Sooner is better.”

“Okay. Let me think a little, and talk to Julie. I’ll have an answer by this time tomorrow.”

“Great! If you say yes, Jamie is going to fly out as soon as the Harrison tour wraps up, which is next week. That way, the two of you can maybe do a little writing. Find out if that magic is still there. I’m betting it is.”

Roger stood up, stretching his arms above his head. “Wanna wander over to your dad’s old shop? I’m dying to see Julie, and I kinda want to get a load of this resurrected tractor.”

***

Heather Dulcey’s face had turned a ghastly pallor. “That’s him, all right.”

Gina Dulcey only nodded. She was nestled in Nettie’s lap, trembling uncontrollably.

Nettie stroked Gina’s hair. “Is that a yes, Gina? I’m sorry, but I need to hear you say it. We want to arrest him, and we have to make sure our ducks are in a row.”

“Y-yeah,” the child got out in a whisper. Tears spilled onto her cheeks. “It’s him. He—my tummy—the stick—” Nettie drew her close. Gina buried her face in Nettie’s shirt and sobbed.

Nettie smoothed Heather’s hair with her free hand. The girl was pale and silent, unshed tears in her eyes. “You’re sure, Heather?”

“A hundred percent. Who is this guy, anyway?”

Nettie shook her head. “The less you know right now, the safer both of you are. But I promise you this: I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure this twisted bastard never comes near either of you ever again.”

“I hope you fucking kill him.” Heather’s voice was ice-cold.

“I’ll settle for behind bars,” Nettie replied, not exactly disagreeing. “But if that’s going to happen, I have to get in touch with some people that can take action, now that we have your confirmation that this is the man we’re looking for. And that means I have to go.”

Heather nodded. Now the tears came, streaks of moisture coating her cheeks, but her eyes never left Nettie’s. “Will we see you again? After it’s over?”

“Is that what you want?”

Gina lifted her tear-streaked face from Nettie’s breast. “I want you to come back. Please come back, Nettie.”

Heather was nodding. “I—I want that, too.”

“Then I will. I’ll come back when there’s time to spend, and maybe we’ll go out and do something together, if your mom will allow it.” Nettie had her doubts about that; April Dulcey had been even less pleased to see her the second time around. She hugged both girls fiercely, then lifted Gina from her lap and set her on the cushion beside her. She slowly got to her feet.

“Go get him, Nettie,” said Heather, her hands clenched into fists. “Make sure he can never do anything like this to anybody ever again.”

***

“Both Dulcey girls verbally confirmed it, Tisha,” Nettie was saying. She swung her car out onto Highway 7, accelerating smoothly as she merged into the southbound lane. “The man in the picture was their captor. They’re both a hundred percent certain. We’ve got him.”

“Excellent,” said Agent Miller. “I’ve got warrant requests for David Cesaneus and Shannon Brentshaw ready to go and am sending them… now.”

Nettie blew out her breath. “Thank Christ.”

“Don’t get too excited. This is going to open a massive can of worms, and we could lose them both on a technicality if we don’t play all our cards exactly right. And there’s still a decent shot that the Shannon Brentshaw warrant will be refused—we’re on shaky ground with that one. We might have to arrest David, and go after her later.”

“I guess I’ll take what I can get. How soon will we hear back on the warrant?”

“Monday morning at the latest. The DA’s office already has a heads-up that the request is coming, and they know it’s for something serious. They won’t drag their feet.”

“Okay. I’m driving home now. Keep me posted, will you?”

“Will do. And Nettie?”

“Yeah?”

“I want you on my team. Or at least our team. You might just have just solved a decades-long murder/kidnapping case.”

Nettie scrunched her lips. “Maybe. The whole Jacob Brentshaw thing still doesn’t make sense to me.”

“Me either. Maybe questioning David or Shannon will clear things up.”

“Yeah—maybe.” As she signed off, Nettie was chewing the inside of her cheek.

***

The enormous garage door set into the front wall of the machine shop abruptly began to roll up. Roger and Mallory, about ten yards from the building, stopped short in surprise.

“It sees us coming,” Ralph commented, “and its gaping jaws of death open with malevolent intent. The beast slavers, preparing to swallow us whole. We better beat feet, Mal.”

Mallory chuckled. “It starts getting warm in there around mid-morning. Julie always cracks the doors open about now, front and back both. Gets the air flowing through the building.”

Sure enough, the widening chasm revealed Julie crossing the shop floor towards her project, oblivious to their presence.

“And there goes tall, dark, and scary, deep into the belly of the beast,” said Roger. Julie whirled at the sound of his voice, a delighted smile lighting up her face. “She’s gone too deep, Mallory,” Roger went on. “You can go in after her if you want. Me, I’ll look after my own hide.”

“Look at you!” said Julie, striding back in their direction. Her faded old jeans were streaked with grime, as were her arms and hands. Her t-shirt was the cleanest-looking thing about her, but only because it was already black. “You got skinny!”

Roger let out a deep, booming laugh. “I’ll never be skinny, Jules. Let’s just say I’m a healthy BMI now and leave it at that.”

Julie stopped an arm’s length away. “Seriously, you look fantastic.” She raised her grubby arms and grinned. “Want a hug?”

Mallory snickered. “Go on, hug her,” she said. “I double-dog dare you.”

Roger took a step back. “Just this once, I’ll pass. Mallory tells me you’re resurrecting the dead.”

“Bet your ass! Come take a look.” Waving her arm in a come-on gesture, Julie led them towards the back corner of the shop.

As they crossed the shop floor, Roger took in the view of the faded green John Deere, looking strangely naked with its hood removed. His head swiveled, eyes fixing on the camera stands. “What the… Are you filming this?”

“Every step of the process!” said Julie. “It was Mallory’s idea. I was bitching about how little practical info you can find on fixing these things, and said there ought to be a YouTube channel. She said I should start one, so I did. I ended up having to rebuild the pony engine, which took a few weeks. I had to wait for parts to come in, and have the crankshaft turned. But that gave me time to edit what I’d filmed. I have a whole series on the pony engine rebuild now—eight videos. And I’ve got, like, five thousand followers already! How fucking cool is that?”

Roger was laughing. “I think it’s the most redneck goddamn thing I ever heard of in my life.”

A grinning Julie aimed a clumsy kick in his direction. “You better knock that off… I’m the messiah up in here. Don’t be throwing shade during a resurrection, you heretic!”

Laughing, Roger made the sign of the cross. “That’s as far as I go. Don’t expect me to kneel before the altar.”

Mallory’s attention was centered on the machine. “You remounted the pony engine.”

Julie nodded enthusiastically. “Yup. I need to turn the cameras back on, then finish reconnecting the last of the linkages. Once I do that I can do a fast test-start just to make sure the pony engine fires off, and after lunch Dad’s gonna bring his pickup over so we can tow this bitch outside. I don’t really want to try starting the big engine in here, not if I don’t know whether I’ll be able to drive it out of the building right away.”

Roger was shaking his head. “And a pony engine is—”

Mallory’s hand shot out, covering his lips with three fingers. “Just don’t even ask.”

On to Chapter Twenty-Seven!