In The Forest Of Harm Read Online Free PDF Page A

that rose before them, beckoning and forbidding at the same time.
    â€œAre those our mountains?” asked Joan from the backseat.
    â€œThat’s the beginning of them,” Mary replied. “The Old Men, we call them.”
    â€œGosh, I thought they’d be rocky and topped with snow,” Joan said. “They look hazy. Soft, somehow.”
    Oh, but they’re not
, thought Mary. The same tiny chill she’d felt in the courtroom rippled through her as she scanned the deceptive-looking peaks.
Soft is the last thing
the Old Men are.
    As the road traversed one of the few patches of flat ground, Alex spotted a lopsided billboard that commanded one corner of a small cow pasture.
    â€œHey, Joan.” She glanced in the rearview mirror. “Y’all have anything like that in Brooklyn?”
    The billboard asked, in flaming red letters,
Where Will
You Spend Eternity? Heaven or Hell???
Wavy lines had been drawn around hell to indicate heat and an appropriate Bible verse was lettered underneath in smaller, more sedate script.
    Joan frowned as the weathered sign flew by. “Jeez, I thought Sister Mary Xavier was nuts. Who on earth would put up a billboard about the afterlife?”
    â€œOh, the same folks who drink strychnine and kiss rattlesnakes,” Alex teased. “Didn’t Mary warn you? They eat Catholics for dinner up here. Roast ’em on spits in their backyards.”
    Joan started to object, but Mary turned around and gave her a wink. “Don’t worry, Joan. The worst thing people eat up here is possum. And that’s only when they can catch one.”
    â€œOh, yeah? For a minute you had me worried. You know it’s not too late to catch a flight to La Guardia. If we turned around now, we could be at the airport by three. We could eat calamari at my dad’s restaurant tonight and see
Tosca
tomorrow.”
    â€œYou’re such a wuss, Joan,” said Alex. “You know you’ve always wanted a walking tour of Hillbilly Heaven. Think of what you can tell the folks back home.”
    â€œRight.” Joan fumbled in her purse and pulled out another cigarette. “I spent a thousand dollars to go sleep outdoors with my two crazy friends.” She lit the cigarette and hunched forward. “Hey, Mary, show me again where we’re going. I called my mother this morning and I couldn’t even remember the name of the place.”
    Mary pulled a map from her purse and pointed to a tiny dot on the North Carolina–Tennessee border. “There. Santoah.”
    Joan frowned. “No kidding? I told my mom it was Nanook or Nirvana or something. She’s already started lighting candles to the Blessed Virgin.”
    â€œIt’s in the Nantahala National Forest.” Mary pointed to a pale green blob. “This shaded area here.”
    â€œBut that must be a million acres.” Joan traced the sprawling green outline with her finger. “It goes on over into, uh, Tennessee.”
    â€œRight. It’s the Cherokee National Forest there,” explained Mary. “But it’s the same big stretch of trees.”
    â€œAnd this is where you grew up?”
    Mary nodded. “We lived in Atlanta until my dad was killed in Vietnam, then my mom came back home.” She tried to picture her father, but she had been only four when he died. She remembered the tautness of his cheek against hers, a laundry-starch smell, his voice singing her a lullaby in the dark,
Blacks and bays, dapples and grays, all
the pretty little horses
. . .
    Still looking at the map, Joan took a long drag on her cigarette. “You come back here a lot?”
    â€œNot since my mother died.” Mary’s words fell flat on the sunny air. She closed her eyes and concentrated fiercely on the pungent smell of Joan’s menthol-laced smoke. When she opened them, Joan was scowling.
    â€œI don’t think I’ve ever known what your mother died of, Mary.”
    For