Fatal Flaw

by William Lashner

  “Not the ones still around, they didn’t. It was worrying about the ones that warn’t.”

  “I’ve come to talk about Jesse.”

  “He’s one of the ones that warn’t.”

  “I know he is, Mr. Sterrett. I’m trying to find out why.”

  “Hell, I can tell you why.”

  “I was hoping you could.”

  “You a connoisseur of fine wine, boy?”

  “Not really,” I said.

  “That’s handy, ’cause I ain’t got none. But I got some corn liquor that I save for special occasions and, you being a lawyer and my dogs being hungry, I’m guessing this qualifies.”

  “Is it any good?”

  “Course it ain’t no good, but it works.”

  “It will pin our ears back, is that it?”

  “Like six-inch nails.”

  “That would be just wonderful. Especially for my friend here,” I gestured at Skink, “who could use a little cosmetic surgery. But I was wondering if you might help him out a bit. My friend is afraid of dogs.”

  “Afraid of these old hounds? Tell your friend Fire and Brimstone here wouldn’t hurt a soul. All you need do is rub they bellies and they’ll be your slaves for life.”

  THE HOUSE was just a ways up the path, perched on the hill as if it was getting ready to jump off and fly. Or maybe jump off and not fly. Its walls listed, its paint peeled, its porch sagged low in the middle. Weeds sprouted tall around it, and to the side sat a pile of old metal, twisted fencing, rusted buckets, a refrigerator with its door still dangerously on. We sat out on the wreck of a porch, avoiding the patches where the wood had collapsed through. We each held a glass jar of the corn liquor, a clear, toxic brew that burned all the way down the throat and then set fire to the stomach. I liked it, actually, and was afraid of it all at the same time. Sterrett sat on a big old setting chair, the jug resting by his side, I sat on a crate, Skink sat stiffly on a rocking chair, the dogs curled at his feet, as if Skink’s discomfort was for them like an old familiar blanket. And the view from the porch, well, the view from the porch was astounding.

  It flew down into the valley, capturing a swath of green pasture and the tiny sway of cattle before it picked up the flow of the river, with its white froth pouring around jutting rocks. A hawk soared beneath us on patrol, gliding between the sheer cliff faces of the mountains rising on either side. We sat and sipped and listened to the silence, which wasn’t actually a silence at all but a riot of insectile rattles and bird twitters, the scurrying footfalls of rodents, the strange, forbidding rustle of the undergrowth.

  “You could sell this view,” I said.

  “Yep,” said Mr. Sterrett, “but why would I?”

  “The dogs seem to like you, Phil,” I said.

  “My luck,” he said.

  “What was it that bulldog did to you anyway?” I said.

  He scowled and didn’t answer.

  Sterrett said, “I heard tell once they get a bite on you—”

  “I hear that one more time,” interrupted Skink, “I’m going to burst a vessel.”

  “Skink apparently had himself some sort of childhood calamity,” I said.

  Sterrett looked at me, then at Skink, then back at me. “I know some about them childhood calamities.” He raised his jar slightly. “You want more?”

  I took a sip from my jar, felt the liquor roil down my throat and ignite the eggs and grits and grease of my breakfast, and shook my head no. Skink glanced at the dogs, drained his jar, and held it out for more. Sterrett hoisted the jug and poured.

  “I understand that Jesse was a ballplayer,” I said.

  “Yep.”

  “Any good?”

  “Damn good.”

  “Did you ever play?”

  “Some, but not as good as him.”

  “It must have been hard, when he died.”

  “He didn’t die.”

  I glanced at Skink.”No?”

  “He was kilt. Simple as that.”

  “The police chief and the coroner ruled it an accident.”

  “Yes they did.”

  “But you don’t believe them.”

  “No I don’t.”

  “Why’s that, Mr. Sterrett? What makes you think they were mistaken?”

  “Warn’t no mistake.”

  Sterrett took a sip from his jar and then rose without speaking and walked slowly off the porch and to the rear of the shack. I stood to follow, but one of the dogs, Fire or Brimstone, I didn’t know which was which, raised his neck and growled, and I sat right down again. We waited a few moments and a few moments more. Skink looked down at the dogs and reached a hand slowly to touch the fur on the black dog’s back. The dog picked up his head, Skink jerked his hand away. Sterrett came back around the side of the house, made his slow way up the steps and into his chair.

  “So you think it was a conspiracy, is that it?” I said, starting right again where we had left off.

  “Let’s just say they was all in the game.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The card game. High-stakes poker, every other Thursday at the Chevy dealership. Chief Edmonds, Doc Robinson, Gus Pritchett, Larry Cutlip, and whatever other fool they could get to join ’em. Word was sometimes even Reverend Henson sat in, throwing away his paycheck.”

  “Pritchett?”

  “That’s right. He owned the dealership, the five and dime, the Quick Mart, and most of the rest of the county, not excluding the judge.”

  “Let me guess. He’s Grady Pritchett’s father.”

  “Was. Dead now.”

  “So was he a winner or a loser in the game?”

  “He was rich enough it didn’t much matter. What mattered was that Doc Robinson was a drunk and Edmonds never saw a straight he wouldn’t draw inside to, and the two of them was in so damn deep they couldn’t see the stars ’cause they pants was pulled too high.”

  “They owed money to Cutlip, the gambler?”

  “That’s right. And the thing about old Larry was, he was a hard man.”

  “A man you didn’t want to stiff.”

  Sterrett shook his head. “And right after my boy’s death, Cutlip falls into money and busts out to them bright lights in Vegas, and them boys, they rule it all an accident.”

  Skink’s hand was now halted in the air just above the black dog’s back. He took another sip and then reached down, tentatively scratching the fur. “Who were they protecting?” he asked.

  “That’s the question, isn’t it?”

  “You said you knew who killed your son,” I said.

  “Never said such a thing. Don’t know for sure.”

  “But you have suspicions.”

  “I might, yes.”

  “You think it was Grady Pritchett?”

  “Ain’t right to start spouting off without knowing for sure.”

  “But you think it was Grady and that his father bought off the chief and the coroner by paying their debts to Cutlip.”

  “Never said such a thing. Don’t know nothing for sure. This man you’re representing, did he really kill Hailey?”

  “No,” I said. “I don’t think so.”

  “What do you think about it?” said Sterrett, talking now to Skink.

  “Oh, I think he did it, all right,” said Skink, bending over to scratch the underside of the black dog’s neck. “I think he killed her dead, and now his lawyer is trying to wiggle his arse free.”

  I stared hard for a moment at Skink, hurt, as if betrayed.

  “Well, he asked,” said Skink.

  “See there,” said Sterrett, turning back to me. “A man never does know for sure. If I knew for sure, I’d a done something about it by now. But I can tell you this, it warn’t no accident.”

  I didn’t say anything, hoping he would interject himself into the uncomfortable silence, but he didn’t. He stayed quiet, as if the silence wasn’t uncomfortable to him, and we listened to nature settle into the afternoon as the corn liquor settled into
our blood. We sat there for a long time in the quiet. The brown dog scooted around Skink’s legs and whined quietly until Skink scratched his neck, too.

  “You know where Grady Pritchett is now?” I asked finally.

  “He owns a car lot out in Lewis County. Left to him by his daddy in the will.”

  “How’s it doing?”

  “Not so good, I hear,” he said with a slight smile.

  “You know what kind of car he drives?”

  “Black Chevy pickup, front right wheel well all beat to hell.”

  “I bet, Mr. Sterrett, you know the license plate, too?”

  “I won’t deny it. No telling what things you might learn through the years that turn doubts into certainties.”

  “You know, maybe I’m crazed, but I could have sworn you told me you knew who did it?”

  “No, I did not,” he said, sitting back.

  The black dog raised his head, let out a contented moan, and turned over to let Skink scratch his belly. The brown dog followed suit and Skink subdued them both with soft rubs. “He didn’t say he knew who killed his son,” said Skink. “He said he knew why.”

  I turned from Skink’s seduction of the dogs to look back at the old man. “That’s right, isn’t it?”

  Sterrett rubbed his thumb along the edge of the jar.

  “So tell me, Mr. Sterrett, why did your son die?”

  He waited a moment, took a drink, let the alcohol settle. Maybe he had taken too much of the liquor, because as he sat there and thought, his jaw began to quiver.

  “I loved my boy,” he said. “But it’s not always an easy thing to show. And when you’re working too damn hard and fighting to feed and clothe a family, sometimes you figure the showing can wait. When he was young, Jesse had a friend he could go to, but then they got confused about things and the friend died, and Jesse, I think Jesse was never the same. I tried, I did. But I knew things then maybe I shouldn’t have known and wasn’t under as much control as I might have been. How do you show a boy that you love him still when every look out of his eyes is full of sorrow and every word out of your mouth comes out in anger? I didn’t know the answer, and I live with it every day of my life. It weighs me down like it weighed down my Sarah until she just let go. I thought I was showing what I felt by arguing with him. I thought he could tell from the volume how much I cared. But volume ain’t enough. Listening maybe might have been better. That’s why he died. ’Cause I didn’t know how to show him that I loved him.”

  “You blame yourself,” I said.

  “What you don’t find at home, you look elsewhere for. And generally you find it in the worst places possible. And that’s what he done. He found hisself a girl that had nothing in her but pain and hurt and the seeds of destruction. You could almost tell it just by looking at her, that might have been the attraction, for all I know. But that’s where he went looking for what he wasn’t finding at home.”

  “You’re talking about Hailey Prouix,” I said. “You think she killed him?”

  “Don’t know who it was, I told you. But I know she was at the heart of what happened to him, know it in my bones. I won’t say I’m not sorry she’s dead, but I know where she’s going. And I’ll tell you this: Even the devil he best stay clear of her. Yes, sir. Even the devil.”

  33

  I DROVE unsteadily down the rutted drive that fell from the Sterrett house, weaving more than I meant to and skirting the sheer edge of the ravine as we bounced around the ruts. The two dogs kept us company, running alongside, yelping their good-byes to Skink.

  “You made yourself a couple of friends,” I said.

  “Steeling my nerves to cozy up to a pair of bloodthirsty hounds, I was. Best advice I ever got from my daddy: Muster your courage and face your fears.”

  “Looked to me what you were mustering was that corn liquor?”

  “Nah, I was just being polite. But truth to tell, I could use myself a nap right about now.”

  “We’ve got someone else to see. You know, I can’t get that image out of my mind, Lucifer sliding respectfully out of the way as Hailey exits the elevator at the bottom floor.”

  “That was the liquor talking.”

  “I don’t think so. He truly thinks she was evil.”

  “He’s entitled.”

  “What do you think?”

  “Girl I knew,” said Skink, “was hard as dog’s teeth and twice as sharp, but she wasn’t evil. There was a softness in the middle, is all. There was too much need to her. When something’s soft and needy like that, it ain’t much of a trick to twist it around.”

  “You think she was manipulated?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “By Grady Pritchett and his rich father?”

  “Money has a way, don’t it?”

  “So what do you think of our little murder case now?”

  “You mean the boy in the quarry? The cop says it was an accident. The father says it was murder. Hard to tell, though what you told me of them letters makes it seem the father might be more on the right. Still, I don’t see what this one has to do with the other.”

  “Neither do I. That’s why I think it’s time to go to church.”

  “You reduced to looking for a sign from the Almighty Himself?”

  “Pretty much,” I said.

  THE BUILDING was solid and white with narrow arched windows and a steeple high enough for you to know it was a church but not so high as to look unduly prideful. Beside the door was the symbol of a cross with a red sail attached. PIERCE UNITED METHODIST CHURCH, read the sign out front. REV.THEODORE H.HENSON.SUNDAY SCHOOL 10:00 A.M.WORSHIP SERVICES 11:00A.M. 1 AND 3SUNDAY.WE BLESS HIS NAME, HALLELUJAH.

  The Reverend Henson, as one would expect, was on his knees, but not in supplication. We found him outside in the rear of the church, tending to the flowers in the beds alongside the path that led from the church to its well-shaded cemetery farther up the hill. His hands were moving like creatures in the loam, weeding, smoothing, pulling out withered stalks to make room for those still thriving.

  When he heard us coming, he looked up and his face registered dismay for just a moment, as if the harbingers of a doom he had long been expecting had just arrived, before his features lit up in an inviting smile. He was a short, thin man, with nervous hands and pointy features that had aged sourly. He stood up when he heard his name, brushed the dirt from his palms, reached out to shake.

  “You’d be the gentlemen from Philadelphia,” he said in a sharp, high voice.

  “Yes, we are,” I said.

  “Good. I’ve been expecting you. Why don’t you wait inside the church, give me a chance to clean myself a bit before we talk.”

  “Don’t be changing for our benefit, Padre,” said Skink.

  “I was pretty much done here, but if you’d like instead, we could take a walk.”

  “That would be perfect,” I said. We followed him through the path defined by the beds he had just been working in, and I made the introductions.

  “I hope you don’t mind if we take our walk here,” he said as he led us into the quiet of the church’s graveyard.

  The headstones were a mixture of weathered limestone markers, narrow and thin, and newer, thicker memorials, the smoothed granite still shiny. The grass was long and uneven, oaks were scattered among the plots like sentinels standing ramrod straight.

  “When I first joined this congregation a few decades ago, I was intimidated by this place. It wasn’t the fact of death that it so starkly represented as much as the history. I didn’t know these people, didn’t know these families. My parishioners came to me as blank slates that left me feeling inadequate to their needs, and I felt that sense of inadequacy most strongly here, in this place, where the pasts of which I knew nothing were represented by these stones.”

  As he walked, he gestured to the stones and the names upon them: Carpenter, Bright, Skidmore, McKinnon, Perrine. The older had the dates of birth and death carved on them, though the printing on some was so weat
hered as to be unreadable. ROY CUDDY, said one I could just make out. BORN JULY 1907,DIED MARCH 1908. It was impossible not to feel the same history the reverend talked about as we walked alongside him.

  “But now that I have a surer sense of the past, now that I recognize the names and the people buried beneath the earth, I find this to be a place of great comfort. As many as I’ve buried in this dirt, I’ve baptized more, boys and girls with the same surnames as on these stones. You want to learn of the circle of life, Mr. Carl, you don’t need see a Disney movie. Just come and take a walk within any church graveyard in any small town.”

  It was a nice little talk from Reverend Henson, touching and real, but it was clear he had choreographed it for our benefit. Having learned from his poker buddy, Chief Edmonds, that we were in town, he decided to spend the day gardening so that we would find him out back and we could take this very walk and hear this very speech. Because the subtext of what he was saying was as clear as his words themselves. There is history in this town, Mr. Carl, centuries of history that you neither know nor could possibly understand. Be careful what you conclude, be careful how you judge, for in the scheme of all things you know nothing.

  “I was so very sorry to hear about Hailey,” said Reverend Henson. “She had such promise and had overcome so much.”

  “Overcome what?” I asked.

  “The death of her father. He’s buried over there, along with his wife.” He pointed to a headstone in the corner of the yard. “The death of Hailey’s friend Jesse, which I understand you’ve been asking questions about. That’s his stone over there. He’s buried next to his mother, brother, and sister Amy, who was born with serious problems and didn’t make it past the third week, bless her tiny soul. Jesse’s death had a profound effect on Hailey, I can attest, and sent her into a spiritual crisis I’m not sure she ever came out of. And then of course there was the general level of the poverty into which she fell after her father died, which drags down so many of our best and brightest.”

  “Were you close to Hailey?”

  “I don’t think anyone was ever truly close to Hailey. She was very tight within herself, but we talked on occasion, and I tried to help her as much as I could.”