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             The old '78 Mustang sputtered and died as Sammie pulled into the farmyard just outside Noonday, Texas. She sighed and turned off the ignition. Probably the EGR valve was clogged again. She would fix it after her visit. It might make her dirty if she did it now, and that wouldn't be professional. Good thing she'd worked with her father on old cars when she was young. That knowledge had come in handy lots of times since.

             She grabbed her briefcase and purse. As she stepped out of the car, she looked around. The front yard boasted three dogwood trees and several beautiful azaleas which might have won the owners an Azalea Trail award if they lived in Tyler. But the place was about three miles out of Noonday, and it was so quiet, Sammie stopped for a moment to just listen. Nothing disturbed the peace.

             The house was a typical old farmhouse with peeling white paint. A curtain fluttered out of one of the open front windows. A cat slithered down the front porch steps where an old rocker sat becalmed next to a wicker table and chair. Beyond the house a tumble of burnt boards sprawled on the ground. Must have been the barn —  her reason for being here.

             Sammie climbed the stairs and pushed the doorbell. She didn't hear anything through the screen door, so she knocked.

             A woman finally came, wiping her hands on her apron. She didn't open the door. "Yes?"

             Sammie smiled. It wasn't a huge smile, or a tiny smile. She had practiced in front of a mirror and come up with a smile that was not quite ingratiating, but friendly and non-threatening. She had found out certain smiles could be threatening.

             "Hi. I'm Sammie James. From Millford Insurance Company up in Tyler. I've come about your claim for the barn."

             "Oh. We weren't expecting you."

             Sammie knew that. The arson expert considered the blaze questionable, so Sammie was assigned to talk to the owners. She'd earned a reputation at the company as an investigator who could ferret out the truth. Her younger-that-she-really-was looks and practiced smile helped. She wore a white shirt under a gray suit with a skirt that just covered her knees. Two-inch stacked heels on her black Naturalizers looked professional but were also practical for walking around in sometimes-perilous conditions.

             "Who is it, Martha?" a voice boomed from somewhere inside.

             "A woman from the insurance company," Martha said over her shoulder. Then she opened the door.

             Sammie noted the woman was of above average height, thin, with gray hair and eyes. A pretty face, which had never been beautiful, but evenly proportioned. All only slightly marred by age and a fading yellow bruise on her cheek. That was interesting, Sammie thought. One always thought about abuse nowadays when a woman had any bruising on the face. Martha's lips were thin, and her nose might have been broken at some time--it leaned just a tad to the left but didn't detract from the prettiness. Old abuse, Sammie wondered? Martha's only jewelry was a thin gold wedding band. She had on a yellow cotton print dress with a full, rather long skirt, and a thick apron.

             As Sammie stepped inside, a huge man loomed out of the shadows.

             "This way," said the woman, leading Sammie into a front room decorated with old Victorian furniture. The couch looked to be on its last legs, and the coffee table tilted at an alarming angle. Framed sepia pictures covered the walls and graced the tables, along with a collection of cat figurines.

             "Damn it, Martha, don't take her in the parlor. Even the cat won't go in there. Bring her into the kitchen. She can have some of that banana bread you made."

             Sammie hated banana bread. But she followed the owners to the kitchen. At least the chairs looked as if they wouldn't fall apart when she sat down.

             An old dog lay sleeping, legs jerking, on the hearth of a huge kitchen fireplace. Something roused him, perhaps the stranger's perfume, and he rose creakingly to his feet as everyone sat down. He came over to sniff Sammie, and she patted him absently.

             "I'm William McGuire," the big man said as he worked his way into a chair. Sammie looked him over. He had a full head of hair and a beard and mustache shot through with gray, faded blue eyes which were close together over a thin nose, and almost non-existence mouth. She saw he was a bit overweight, but it was his height that made him so imposing. Must be six-six or so, she thought.

             She held out her hand. "I'm Sammie James. How are you?" She gave him her faintest smile, and removed her hand as quickly as was polite from his huge one.

             "Fine. Sammie? What kind of a name is that for a girl?"

             "Short for Samantha."

             "Oh." He gave her a disapproving look. "What's this all about? We've already talked to someone from your company about the fire. Thought we were all set to get a check."

             "This is just a follow-up. We have a few more questions to ask."

             He shook his head in disgust and put some cream and sugar in his already-poured coffee.

             Martha brought over a cup and saucer for Sammie with the coffee pot in her other hand. She poured and indicated the cream and sugar. She looked nervous--her hand trembled a bit, and she frowned.

             "Have some of this bread," William said, cutting a slice. "Bring her a plate, Martha. She just made it, so it's still warm."

             "Oh, no," Martha said. "I just remembered, I forgot to put enough sugar in it. It won't taste right at all, William. Let me get something else."

             "Looks fine to me," William said. "You're getting old and forget what you did and didn't do. Bring that other plate."

             Martha had turned pale, but she brought over another plate and sat down.

             Sammie nodded, knowing it would be impolite to refuse but wondering more and more about what was going on in this household.

             William broke off a piece of bread and held it over his plate. The dog looked up at him with adoring eyes, but William shook his head. "You know you don't get food from the table," he said gruffly.

             Sammie picked up her pen and said, "Tell me about the fire."

             "Happened in the middle of the night. We woke to old Buddy here barking, and then smelled the smoke. I ran out with the hose, and Martha called 911. But it was too late by the time they arrived. Those timbers were real old, and they went up like matchsticks."

             "What do you think caused the fire?" Sammie asked. His description sounded too pat, probably rehearsed, she decided.

             "Well, we had a huge thunderstorm that night. Must have been lightning."

             "You had a lightning rod, though, right? Having one lowered your insurance rates."

             "Yeah. But they don't always work."

             Sammie glanced at Martha. She just sat there, staring at her plate.

             Then Martha stood up and picked up the coffee pot again. When her back was turned, William winked at Sammie and gave old Buddy the piece of bread he'd been holding all this while.

             It wasn't hard for Sammie to put the pieces of the relationship dynamics together. After all, she'd been a battered wife herself. A drunken drive down a twisting road had killed Roger a couple of years ago. She'd vowed to turn her life around, and she had. But Martha was much older than Sammie. Was it too late for her?

             Suddenly, Buddy started convulsing at her feet. White foam flew out of his mouth, and within a few moments he lay so still there was no question the old guy had left them.

             "Buddy!" William's voice cut into her thoughts. He kneeled next to the dog, pulled him close and began to rock.

             I have to get out of here, Sammie thought, remembering the banana bread Buddy had just eaten.

             She gathered up her stuff. "This is a bad time for me to be here," she said, trying to keep her voice calm. "I'll come back another day." With a whole team of investigators, she thought. I swear that dog was murdered.

             "Run," William said. He looked up at her with shocked eyes. "She meant to kill me!"

             As she turned away, she heard an odd noise, a clang. Startled she looked back at William and saw him leaning to one side and slowly slipping down onto the floor. Martha stood with an iron skillet in her hand, her eyes wide, her mouth slightly open.

             "No," Sammie said. Grasping her briefcase more firmly in her hand, she ran toward the front door.

             "Wait!" Martha shouted behind her.

             As she reached for the screen door handle, she remembered her car had died. She glanced back over her shoulder and saw Martha behind her, a meat cleaver in her hand.

             A horrible thought flitted through her mind. Suddenly Martha didn't seem the meek, battered wife Sammie had assumed her to be. She remembered William slipping Buddy the banana bread when Martha couldn't see him. Sammie's late, unlamented husband would have given the dog the treat openly, defiantly, gleefully, especially if it bothered his wife.

             Sammie reached for the screen door handle and twisted. It came off in her hand. She turned back to find Martha within a few feet of her. Sammie raised the briefcase to her chest, hoping to deflect a blow if one came.

             "Wait," Martha said. "We need to talk."

             "Talk?" Sammie asked.

             "You don't understand. He beat me. I couldn't take it any longer. You have to help me."

             At least Martha had stopped far enough away that she couldn't hit Sammie with the cleaver. Sammie hesitated. Her brain screamed at her to get out. But without the car, where could she go? How far would she get?

             "Don't come any closer. Say what you have to say."

             Martha sagged against the wall. "Please don't go to the police. He hurt me so bad sometimes. I didn't know what else to do." Tears streamed down her face, and she began to sob. The cleaver fell to the floor with a thud.

             Sammie stared at the fading yellow bruise on Martha's face. Through her tears, Martha saw Sammie's stare and put her hand to her cheek.

             "You see what he did to me. I couldn't take it anymore. If only you hadn't come today."

             If only.

             "What do you want from me?" Sammie asked.

             "I want you to promise not to go to the police or to tell anyone what you saw here."

             "And you'd believe me?"

             "What choice do I have? I'm not a murderer. I was only protecting myself from William."

             "Self defense," Sammie said. Play along, she told herself. "I understand, Martha. Really. I went through it myself."

             "You did?" Martha stood up straighter and looked at Sammie. "What happened?"

             "He drank. Did William drink?"

             "Yes," Martha said.

             But Sammie didn't believe her. She'd seen no evidence of it, and in a man as old as William, it would have been evident.

             "Well, Roger drank too much one night and made the bad decision to go for a drive. Drove right into a tree."

             "Oh," Martha said. "You got off easy."

             "You could say that," Sammie said.

             "Then you know what I've been through. I was at the end of my rope."

             "Yes," Sammie said. "I do know. And I promise, Martha, not to tell anyone. What will you do now?"

             "Bury him outside with the others," Martha said, then slapped her hand over her mouth.

             Sammie felt dizzy. No, her mind screamed. She had to get out fast. She dropped her briefcase and the door handle, turned to the door, and pushed hard on the screen. She almost fell out, caught herself, flew onto the porch and jumped off. She twisted her ankle a bit, but kept running. Her purse slipped off her shoulder and she pulled the strap over her head. She glanced at the car but decided it would do her no good. She could lock herself in, but Martha could wait her out.

             Run back the way you drove in, she told herself. At least she knew what was down the road. Noonday was about three miles away. Could she run that far? She didn't have any choice.

             She heard a motor start up, then the sound of gravel under tires. She veered out into a field surrounded by the trees of East Texas. The sound of the engine came closer and closer. Sammie headed for the oak, pecan, and Osage Orange forest, wanting to scream, but knowing she should save her breath. There was no one around to hear her.

             She weaved between the trees, glancing frequently over her shoulder and trying to avoid the prickly Osage Orange branches. The engine stopped, and she paused. Footfalls sounded behind her. She began to run again.

             Eventually, she couldn't run any more, and she had no idea where she was. A sycamore tree in front of her offered some handy low branches, and she began to climb.

             When she was as high as she could go, she stopped and looked around.

             Not far away she saw a figure. When it came a bit closer to the tree, she saw it was Martha, and her breath caught in her throat. So close!

             Then her eye caught another figure a few yards behind Martha. She tried to make out who it was, but couldn't. Then the person moved, and Sammie couldn't believe she saw William, but it had to be. They'd left him on the floor in the kitchen. But, she realized, neither of them had checked to see if he died or was even unconscious.

             Martha held the cleaver. William held a rifle or shotgun.

             Stay still. Stay calm, Sammie told herself. Wait and see what happens.

             Martha had paused to catch her breath while William inched closer. Sammie felt an instinctive urge to shout out a warning. She closed her eyes a moment but became dizzy again and quickly opened them.

             Martha had paused a ways from the tree.

             Suddenly, William stood behind Martha, the gun poking into her back. "Drop it," he said.

             Martha flinched but held onto the cleaver.

             "Now!" William said.

             Slowly the cleaver eased out of her hand and dropped to the ground with a dull thud.

             "Turn around and put your hands on your head."

             Martha did so.

             "Sammie? You can come down now. No one's gonna hurt you."

             Sammie jerked in surprise, and the branch she stood on swayed.

             "It's all right. Come on down. I won't hurt you, and I could use your help."

             "How come you're not dead?" Martha asked.

             "I never ate your food without testing it on poor ole Buddy first. He should have been put out of his misery long ago anyway. I watched my back constantly. Slept with my gun under my pillow. Took every precaution I could. And I have a hard head."

             "What?" Martha gasped.

             "Yeah. You remember Mitch, don't you? Your third, or was it fourth, husband?"

             "Fourth," Martha murmured.

             "He was my half-brother. He wrote me and told me about you hitting him, hurting him. And then when he turned up missing, I decided to check you out. I had my suspicions, but couldn't prove anything. Until now. Even better, I have a witness. Come on down, Sammie."

             Sammie didn't know what to believe. "What about the barn?"

             William laughed, a hollow sound. "I'm pretty sure Martha torched it. We did need the money."

             Martha sank down onto the ground and began to sob. "You're a liar. I never hurt your brother. He used to beat me, just as you did."

             But Sammie didn't believe her. First there was the dead dog. Then there was her statement about burying William with the others.

             "Where's Mitch?" William said. "Tell me where you buried him."

             "I didn't!"

             William stepped closer to her, the gun pointed at her head. Sammie began to climb down the tree. She hoped William wasn't as crazy as his wife and wouldn't do anything foolish.

             "I heard you tell Sammie about the 'others' being buried. Where are they? Tell me!"

             Sammie jumped from the last branch as Martha stood up suddenly and ran at William, trying to butt him with her head. Sammie jumped her from behind, and they fell to the ground, Sammie on top. She looked up to see the gun pointed at both of them.

             "Don't shoot," she said, her voice hoarse.

             "You got her?" William asked.

             Martha felt like a deflated balloon underneath her, and Sammie nodded. William pulled off his belt and handed it to Sammie.

             "Behind her back," William said. "Pull it tight, now."

             Sammie did, and then she and William helped Martha to her feet.

             "Show us," William said.

             It was a long walk back toward the house. "How did she get that bruise on her cheek?" Sammie asked.

             William laughed. "She walked into an open door. I know that's the battered woman's excuse, but it really did happen this time."

             "And what would have happened if I'd started to take a bite of the banana bread?"

             "If Martha hadn't stopped you, I would have. But it would have given me away, so I'm glad you didn't try."

             Sammie nodded. Martha didn't say a word. She seemed exhausted.

             As they arrived in the field, Martha paused. She sighed. "They're all there." She pointed at a spot filled with azaleas.

             "How many?" William asked.

             "Four." She laughed eerily. "They let me bury the first one here — thought he had a heart attack. The other three just disappeared. The sheriff decided I might have something to do with all those disappearances, but he never could prove anything."

             "Why?" Sammie asked. Both she and William stood facing Martha, now. "Why did you kill them?"

             Martha looked at her defiantly. "Men are awful creatures. Father beat my mother every Saturday night. And my first two husbands carried on the tradition, but I put a stop to both of them. The next two weren't so bad, but they got on my nerves after awhile. So I put them out of my misery."

             "And I was going to be next," William said.

             She glared at him. "You began to tell me what to do, just as the others had. Did you hear him when you came into the house?" Martha asked Sammie.

             Sammie thought back to first seeing William. He had told Martha not to put them in the parlor and to give Sammie some banana bread. She nodded at Martha. It wasn't much, maybe, but it indicated controlling behavior.

             "Most men need killing," Martha said.

             It was the most chilling thing Sammie had ever heard, and it echoed in her mind as they made their way back to the old farmhouse. She thought Martha was right. That was why Sammie hadn't married again. She didn't want to find out and have to murder another husband. How many times could she sabotage a car and get away with it? That had been Martha's problem. She hadn't stopped soon enough. She should have learned after the first husband, as Sammie had, what most men need.

Copyright 2005 by Jan Christensen