“Then maybe she got the time mixed up,” he said. “She’s a credible witness. No reason to lie. She’s from a good family. Got a good job at the phone company. Why would she—”
“Her name wouldn’t happen to be Betty Blackmon, would it?” I said.
“Yeah, why?”
“No nigger’s gonna put his dirty hands on me,” Betty Blackmon was saying to Folsom. “He needs to be strung up. What kind of town has this become?”
Folsom, Howell, and Dixon were in an interview room with Betty Blackmon. I was observing from behind the two-way glass.
“What time did the attack happen?” Folsom asked.
“A little after eleven last night.”
“Where?”
“He broke into my home and . . .”
Her lip started to quiver and she began to cry.
“It was so awful.”
“How do you know it was Mr. Jones?”
“Mister? That’s rich. You’re callin’ a nigger rapist mister? Because of his eye. His missing eye. I had to look at that horrible thing while he . . .”
“Miss Blackmon,” Folsom said. “This is one of my top men, Detective Howell.”
“How do you do?” she said.
“Mr. Jones was with him during the time you say the attack happened last night.”
“Then I was wrong about the time,” she said. “Or the night. Maybe it was the night before.”
“Was it?” Dixon said. “Could it have been the night before?”
“Yeah. That’s it. It was the night before.”
“Miss Blackmon,” Folsom said. “Let me tell you something. What you’re doing is far more dangerous than you realize. In another department, another accused, you could have very easily gotten an innocent man killed—maybe even without a trial. That’s murder.”
“He’s a nigger,” she said.
“If you ever try anything like this again, I’ll arrest you. Do you understand?”
“Then get ready to arrest me,” she said. “That nigger took everything from me. Everything. And I will get him back.”
“Arrest,” Folsom said.
“Gladly,” Howell said.
“For what?”
“Perverting the course of justice,” he said. “Lying to a police officer. Attempted murder. Wasting my time. And generally being a sick little sister.”
Most of it wasn’t real. None of it would stick. But she’d spend a night or two in jail and be given an opportunity to reflect and reconsider and actually alter the course of her life—an opportunity she would no doubt not take.
Chapter Forty-one
When I thought about what could have so easily happened to Clip, I experienced equal parts anger and anxiety.
Life could be so precarious and capricious—for some far more than others.
For most of the drive back to the office, Clip had been quiet.
“You okay?” I asked.
He nodded.
“What is it?” I said.
He shrugged. “Just thinkin’.”
“I’m trying not to think of what could’ve happened,” I said. “Of what a woman like that could’ve done. She could’ve so easily gotten you killed.”
“I’d be dead already if it weren’t for you,” he said.
“The reverse of that is also true,” I said. “But . . . I just can’t believe we live in a world where it takes so little to . . .”
“What? String up a nigger? Usually take far less than that. And most Negroes don’t have a Jimmy Riley to rush down to headquarters—or could do anything if they did.”
“A woman like that does so much damage,” I said.
“Need to be put down,” he said. “Her and Dixon both. He not gonna stop ’til he make me do it. Not sure about her.”
I thought about what she had said, about her getting Clip back for the perceived injury she believed he had inflicted.
He let out a harsh, humorless laugh. “Felt so good solving that case, exposing that bitch and her twisted little scheme. So fuckin’ full of myself. Negro Holmes. Shee-it.”
He shook his head and went somewhere I couldn’t go.
“World not ready for no Negro private eye,” he said. “Thanks for the opportunity just the same. You never gonna know what it meant to me that you . . . did what you did.”
I tried to talk him out of it, but it was no good.
“Please just take a little time to think about it, okay?” I said.
He shook his head.
“I need you,” I said. “Really can’t do any of this without you.”
He shook his head. “Just can’t. Not anymore.”
“But—”
“Know how to survive in my world,” he said. “Not in this one. Too exposed, too . . . Not gonna make myself such a big target. Not for motherfuckers like them.”
When we pulled up and parked, he said, “Tell Miki I’a be by for her after work.”
Inside the office, I found Ernie and Orca waiting for me.
“Hiya, Jimmy,” Orson said. “How’s tricks?”
“I need to talk to you,” Ernie said.
“Okay,” I said. “Give me just a minute. Y’all wait in my office, will you?”
They agreed to and went in, leaving Miki and me alone in the reception area.
“Where is Clip?” she asked. “What going on?”
“He’s okay,” I said. “We straightened everything out. He’s not in jail any—”
She dropped the files she was holding onto her desk and hugged me hard and long.
“Thank you so much, Jimmy-san. You real hero to Miki Matsumoto. Again.”
She held on for a few moments more, then after one more tight squeeze, released me.
“Where Clip now?”
“It really got to him,” I said.
She nodded. “He okay you say.”
“Something about the way this went down after the way you guys solved the case . . . He just . . . He says he’s done. Not coming back. I’m hoping he’ll change his mind. You can talk to him about it this evening. He said he’d be by to pick you up after work.”
Everything about her countenance dropped, her face a heartrending mask of sadness and confusion.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“I’ve got the best lead so far,” I said. “I found the location scout and casting director Joan may have met. We’re meeting with them this afternoon.”
“That’s great,” Ernie said, but there was something in the way he said it that let me know he really didn’t believe it was.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Huh? Nothin’. It’s good news.”
“So why don’t you sound like it is?”
He shrugged.
“What did you want to talk to me about?” I asked.
He cut his eyes over at Orca.
“Hey big fella, would you mind checkin’ on Miki. She’s upset about something that happened this morning. Mind talkin’ to her a few minutes?”
“No, I don’t mind,” he said, pushing his enormous frame up from the chair I was sure was going to break. “But if you guys wanna talk without me, just say so. You ain’t gotta make up shit for me to do.”
“She really is upset and needs comforting,” I said.
“She told us what happened to Clip,” Ernie said.
“He’s out, but says he’s not coming back to work here.”
Orca lumbered out of the room and closed the door.
The moment he did, Ernie said, “Orson’s grandmother confided in me,” he said. “She lied. He wasn’t with her when the second woman was killed. He doesn’t have an alibi for either murder, Jimmy. I think he killed those prostitutes. I’ve seen enough just watching him over the past few days . . . He’s far worse than I realized.”
“You really think he could’ve—”
“I do. And I’ll tell you something else. The girl at the USO—what was her name? Linda Sue. He had already met with her. She had already told him about the movie
guys and Joan bein’ discovered by them. What if . . . What if he already found her and killed her too? It would explain why he’s blocking out so much, why he can’t remember, why he supposedly couldn’t find her, and why we can’t now. He killed her and buried the body.”
“God, I hope not,” I said. “But either way. Let’s go find out.”
Chapter Forty-two
Ernie was on edge.
I was filled with a deep sense of dread.
Orca seemed oblivious to both.
“The Three Musketeers riding together again,” he said from the backseat. “This is going to be a blast, ain’t it fellas?”
We were heading toward Wewahitchka on Highway 22, the afternoon sun behind us slanting in the back window, reflecting off all the mirrors and shiny surfaces.
Working mostly between Carrabelle and Panama City Beach, Sid Bowen and Len Hammond, the two men working on the pre-production of Victory is Ours had set up their headquarters in a rented fish camp on the Apalachicola River.
I was driving, Ernie fidgeting in the passenger seat beside me, dark energy emanating off him like heat shimmering off an asphalt highway at midday.
He had missed a small patch on his left cheek while shaving and he absently but continually worried at the whiskers with a thumbnail.
Suddenly, Ernie spun around in the seat and engaged Orson. “Remembered anything else yet?” he asked.
“About what?”
“About what? Are you kidding? Can you believe this guy? About what. The two girls that got killed. Anybody else you talked to about Joan. Anything at all.”
“No, Ernie, not so far.”
“Are you trying?” he said. “I don’t think you’re trying.”
“I am.”
“And you can’t come up with anything?”
“Not so far.”
“Are you blocking something bad out?” Ernie said. “Is that it?”
“I don’t know. I . . . I’m . . . just not sure.”
Ernie shook his head.
The rural highway was empty and straight and shimmering, the woods on either side thick, vibrant, and sun-kissed.
“Easy,” I said.
“Are you mad at me, Ernie?” Orca asked.
“You don’t remember Linda Sue telling you all the stuff about Joan before?”
“I don’t. I mean . . . I kinda do now. But I didn’t. Is that why you’re mad?”
“Did you find out where Joan went?” Ernie said.
“I don’t know. I just . . .”
He began to hit his head with his fists.
“Hey,” I said. “Orson. Look at me. Stop that. It’s okay. Ernie’s just anxious to find Joan. You understand.”
Ernie turned back around in the seat and Orca seem to settle down a little.
I would’ve had a bad feeling no matter where we were headed, but returning to the place where Ray and I had shot each other only added to the visceral sense of foreboding I felt.
As we neared the small town, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were driving toward a fate far worse than any of us could imagine.
Was Joan dead? Was that it? Or was it worse? Did her disappearance involve betrayal? Torture like Miki’s had?
When we turned onto the twisting, turning, treacherous Lake Grove Road, the road that wound its way to dead end into the Apalachicola River at the landing simply known as the End of the Road, I relived the fateful night I had come here to confront Ray Parker. It had only been a few short months, but seemed like a couple of lifetimes ago, and I was filled with an even deeper, more profound sense of dread.
My pulse quickened as we turned off the paved street onto the dirt road that would lead us to our meeting. But what exactly were we meeting with?
We had to pass Ray’s old fish camp on the Dead Lakes to get to the one Sid and Len were renting. There was no other way. If there had been I would’ve taken it—even if it meant driving a hundred miles out of the way.
As we passed his place, I tried not to look. I really did, but something drew my eyes to it, a force beyond my control.
There in the yard, Ray was standing up, dusting himself off, placing his hat on his head and his gun in its holster, seeming oblivious to the bleeding bullet hole in his heart.
Had I died there too that night? Is that why I kept seeing him? Were the scars on my body actually open wounds—wounds I refused to see for what they were?
As we passed by, Ray tipped his hat toward me and nodded, his knowing expression one of warmth and welcome.
He said something.
Had I just imagined it was All hope abandon ye who enter here?
The whole thing is in your imagination, a voice inside me said.
Is it? another asked.
Through me you pass into the city of woe:
Through me you pass into eternal pain:
Through me among the people lost for aye.
Justice the founder of my fabric mov’d:
To rear me was the task of power divine,
Supremest wisdom, and primeval love.
Before me things create were none, save things
Eternal, and eternal I endure.
All hope abandon ye who enter here.
The day dimmed as the sun ducked behind a bank of clouds, a gray haze invading the cypress trees that were now casting soft craggy shadows on the floor of the swamp.
Haunted.
This mysterious place was haunted for me—and always would be.
Chapter Forty-three
Sid Bowen and Len Hammond were so hospitable, so likable, so seemingly genuinely innocuous, that I soon abandoned most of my dread, allowing it to dissipate and drift downstream, winding its way with the river toward the Apalachicola Bay.
They welcomed us into their rented, rustic cabin built in cypress trees up over the river at the end of a long wooden walkway, as if we had been invited guests.
Not only were they gentle and peaceful people, but they were older men, artists, not the sort you’d expect to do harm to a young girl. They seemed anxious to help us find out what happened to Joan.
Sid nodded the moment Ernie showed him the photograph. “That’s her,” he said. “She was here about . . . what . . . a week and a half ago.”
“Just like we told him,” Len said, nodding toward Orson.
“Him?” Ernie said.
They both nodded and the dread crept back into me. Heavier this time. And darker.
“I was here?” Orson asked.
“You don’t remember?” Sid said.
“You did seem quite agitated,” Len added. “You were in the war, right?”
“Our picture is partially about that,” Sid said.
“About what?” Ernie said.
“The thousand yard stare,” he said. “Shell shock. The impact of combat.”
“When was this?” Ernie said. “When was he here?”
“Had to be . . . You know I’m not sure. Not long after she was.”
“Oh really.”
“Let’s get back to Joan,” I said. “Tell us about—”
“We saw her in Panama City and thought she was perfect for a part in the picture,” Len said. “We just mentioned it to her and she was off to the races. It’s way early in the process, but she insisted on meeting with us, wanted to talk about every aspect of the project, wanted to meet the director.”
“We never expected her to show up out here, but she did,” Sid said.
“Really surprised us.”
“Asked if we could film her and show the footage to the director,” Sid said.
“Did you?” I asked.
“We did. There was no telling that girl no, nosiree.”
“Can we see the footage?” I said.
“Sure,” Len said. “Take me a minute to set up the projector, but if you’re willing to wait.”
“We’ll wait,” Ernie said.
While Len set it all up, Sid continued to talk. “She was such a sweet girl. Said it had been a lifelong dream
of hers to act. Said this opportunity was destiny and she wasn’t about to let it pass her by. Said her fiancé was going to be so surprised and proud of her.”
Ernie’s lip quivered and he blinked back tears.
Even on the makeshift screen and small, poor, projection system, Joan looked like she belonged in pictures. The camera loved her, and either imbued her with an—or more likely captured her on—inmate elegance and luminosity.
“She’s so beautiful,” Orson said, his voice filled with an airy wonder and a childlike innocence.
The test shots were simple. Just Joan walking toward, then away from, then back toward the camera. Turning. Spinning. Posing.
No makeup. No lights. No sound. Just Joan.
“Did you develop this here or send it off?” I asked.
“Here.”
“Did you send it to the director?”
He shook his head. “Not yet. Like I said it’s a bit premature. I do plan on showing it to him though. Or I did.”
“You remembering anything?” Ernie said to Orson.
Orson looked around the room, rubbing his head, a frightened expression on his face. He shook his head. “Sorry, Ernie. I really am.”
“She was so happy when she left here,” Sid said. “I remember because it was raining and overcast and her mood was so sunny. So hopeful. Such good energy. I hope she’s okay and that you find her soon.”
Chapter Forty-four
“So we know she came here,” I said.
“And Orca did too,” Ernie said.
We were back in the car, driving around the curves of the twisting and turning Lake Grove Road.
“This is the biggest lead we’ve had since we started looking,” I said.
“No,” Ernie said. “One of us has had it the whole time.”
He had his eyepatch off and the still-seeping wound was blood-red and angry, matching his mood. The white tip of the bandage on his hand was turning crimson too.
Orca was silent in the backseat. He wasn’t saying anything, but he was reacting to every veiled accusation being made by Ernie. Sweat popping out on his face and forehead. Heavy sighs. Deepening scowl. Narrowing, angry eyes. Pursing lips. Clenching fists. Veins bulging out of his neck.
Trying to figure out our next move and to get Ernie to ease up on Orca, I said, “If Sid and Len didn’t have anything to do with her disappearance, and I really don’t think they did, then we have to find out where she went after she left the camp.”
The Big Blast Page 13