Wednesday's Child

by Gayle Wilson

  It was the reprieve Jeb hadn’t dared to hope for. And given McKey’s own assessment, one he wasn’t sure he deserved.

  “So…what if another six months doesn’t make a difference? I don’t want you going out on a limb for me and putting your reputation on the line. Not if you think—”

  “I appreciate the concern, but in all honesty, Jeb, I don’t think my standing is that precarious,” McKey said with a grin. “If it is, I should probably pack up and retire to the islands.”

  “I don’t know what to say.” He didn’t. What McKey was offering to do for him was beyond any expectation of friendship. “Nothing except thank you, of course.”

  Jeb rose to put out his hand. Although he was by no means a small man, his fingers were dwarfed by McKey’s, which closed around his, squeezing encouragingly.

  “We’ve both got a lot of time and effort invested here. I’m not ready to call it a day either. Let me get you that extension, and then we’ll concentrate on proving those bastards wrong. Which is, by the way, one of my favorite things in the entire world. Proving to somebody that what they’re sayin’ can’t be done really can be.”

  Jeb nodded, his throat tight with emotion. He owed so much to this man who’d been with him every step of the way.

  “I won’t let you down.”

  “I know you won’t. If I hadn’t believed that, I wouldn’t have made the offer. I’m going to get together with Ross and see what kind of changes we need to make in your program. We’ve got a lot to do and, even with that extension, a very short amount of time to do it. You go on home now and get ready to work harder than you’ve ever worked in your life.”

  “You can count on that.”

  “Believe me, I already am,” McKey said with a laugh.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  AFTER FOUR DAYS in Atlanta, she had been more than ready to return to Linton. Charlotte and the baby were home and both doing well. Her sister had finally decided the temporary nanny was competent, easing Susan’s guilt over deserting her so soon.

  She would probably have left tomorrow morning in any case, but the courtesy call from the Mississippi state lab, telling her the DNA testing was complete, had given her more than enough reason to start back today. Frustratingly, they had refused to release the results to her on the grounds that, as a state laboratory, they couldn’t provide those to private individuals, but only to the official who had originally requested the test.

  She had assumed that would be the coroner of Randolph County, but when she reached his office, he explained that he’d put Wayne Adams’s name on the form, since the sheriff had initiated the contact. So far, Adams hadn’t returned her call.

  Although she was now only a few miles from the Linton-Pascagoula exit, she opened her cell and hit re-dial. Whoever answered at the sheriff’s department wasn’t the same person she’d talked to before.

  “Sheriff Adams, please.”

  “He’s gone home for the day. Can I help you?”

  “I’m trying to locate a fax that was sent to your office this afternoon. It was from the state forensics lab, and although it contained information that was intended for me, it was sent in care of Sheriff Adams.”

  “And you say it came this afternoon?” Paper rustled in the background.

  “That’s right.” Several hours ago, she thought, glancing at her watch.

  “Well, it’s not here, ma’am,” the deputy said. Apparently he’d been checking the fax machine itself. “Of course, the sheriff may have it in his office.”

  “Could you look, please?”

  She waited while he put her on hold. After less than a minute, he returned.

  “Ma’am? Sorry, but the sheriff’s office is locked.”

  “And no one there has a key? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “I’m saying that the sheriff’s office is locked. I don’t have authorization to open it and give you whatever information is in that fax. Even if I managed to locate it.”

  “You do understand that it contains material that was intended for me.”

  “Yes, ma’am, you told me. But since it was sent to the sheriff, seems like it would be up to him to pass it on to you.”

  Everybody has rules and regulations, she had told herself. And she supposed everyone also had a chain of command. The deputy, who sounded very young, probably didn’t have the authority to do what she was asking of him.

  Knowing that didn’t keep her from wanting him to. It did, however, allow her to control her anger at the bureaucratic runaround she seemed to be getting this afternoon.

  “That’s the lab’s procedure,” she said. “They always send it to the investigative agency.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Well, this is our procedure. Sorry, but you’re gonna have to talk to the sheriff.”

  “Could I have his number, please?” She used her shoulder to hold the cell against her ear as she rummaged in her purse for a pen and something to write on, left hand on the wheel.

  “You mean his home phone number? Sorry, ma’am, I’m not allowed to give out that information.”

  “Then how can I call him?” Her frustration came through in the tone of that question. By this time, she didn’t care.

  “If you give me a number where you can be reached, I can call him and ask him to return your call.”

  “I did that. Hours ago. And I haven’t heard from him.”

  “Well, then, there’s not much else I can do. The sheriff’s office hours are from nine to five. He’ll be in tomorrow morning. You can ask him about that fax then.”

  For a few seconds she considered trying to explain exactly what the fax contained. Judging by the enjoyment the deputy seemed to be taking in turning down her requests, she decided that would be another exercise in futility.

  “Thank you,” she said instead.

  She closed her phone with a snap, tossing it onto the seat beside her. She took a deep breath, fighting to control her fury. After a moment she picked the cell up again, punching in the number of the Bedford house.

  As she listened to the slow rings, she repeated mentally, like a litany, “Pick up. Pick up. Pick up.” Given the way her day had gone, she was almost surprised when Lorena answered.

  “Hello.”

  “Lorena, it’s Susan. Is Jeb there?”

  “Susan? How are you, dear?”

  “I’m fine, thank you. I really need to talk to Jeb right now. Is he there?”

  “He’s gone into Pascagoula. It’s not his usual appointment, but they called him yesterday and asked him to come in. Something about trying a new therapy.”

  Jeb had told her about McKey’s offer when she talked to him two nights ago. She had called to tell him that the address Ed Caffrey had provided for his son had proved to be a dead end. And, she admitted, to hear his voice again. Of course, he hadn’t mentioned the extra session since he hadn’t known about it then.

  “What time do you expect him back?”

  “Same as usual, I imagine. Six or thereabouts. Is something wrong, dear?”

  Susan glanced down at her watch. It was almost five-forty.

  “Not really. I just wanted to ask him—”

  The sudden thought put an end to that half-formed sentence. If there was anyone in Linton who could give her directions to the sheriff’s house, it was the woman she was talking to.

  “Ask him what, dear? You need to speak up. I can barely hear you. You must be on your cell phone.”

  “Yes, I am. Sorry. Could you tell me where Sheriff Adams lives?”

  “Wayne? You want to know how to get to his house?”

  “He’s already left the office for the day, and I really need to talk to him. Do you know his address?”

  “Not his address, but I can get you there. You got a pencil and paper?”

  Susan balanced the phone between her ear and her shoulder, again searching her bag. When she had her pen in hand, the back of a receipt spread out on the seat beside her, she spoke into the phone again. “Okay, Lorena. I’
m ready when you are.”

  THE NAME WAYNE ADAMS was neatly lettered on the side of the mailbox. The end of the Johnson County Star, rolled and enclosed in a plastic bag, extended slightly from the delivery box beside it. And there was no cruiser parked in the driveway.

  The house was the same white clapboard as dozens of others she’d passed on the narrow road Lorena had directed her to. The tiny front porch contained only a solitary white pine rocker that looked as if it had never been occupied. Petunias, left over from the summer and clinging to life, drooped sadly over the sides of a couple of hanging baskets.

  She turned into the dirt drive, bending her head to examine the house through the windshield as she approached. She couldn’t see lights inside, despite the fact that the front door was open.

  As she pulled the Toyota up a few feet from the porch, she realized that what she was seeing was a glass storm door. Beyond it, the unlit entry hall was dimly visible. Maybe Adams would hear her car and come out, so she wouldn’t have to go knock on his door.

  She took a breath, feeling her anxiety build. She hadn’t expected to hear from the test this soon, so she hadn’t had time to prepare herself. That wasn’t Emma. I would have known. I would have felt something.

  Banishing the unwanted fear that she could be wrong, she turned her head, looking at the front door again. Nothing had changed. Either her first impression—that the sheriff wasn’t here—had been right, or he hadn’t heard her car.

  She wondered if he had brought the fax home with him. Maybe even now he was inside, looking for the business card she’d given him. Or maybe he was dialing Lorena’s number.

  Or maybe he’d already done that, she realized. She picked up her cell and hit redial, once more waiting through the seemingly endless rings.

  “Hello?”

  “Lorena, it’s Susan again. Did someone call for me this afternoon?”

  “Jeb, you mean?”

  “No, someone else. Anyone else.”

  “I don’t think so. If they did, I didn’t hear the phone. ’Course, I was pruning the roses most of the afternoon. We won’t get many more days like this.”

  “And there were no messages on the machine when you came inside?”

  “I didn’t think to look. Let me see.” The slow seconds ticked by as the old woman checked the machine.

  “No, dear, no messages.”

  “Okay. Thanks. That’s all I wanted to know.”

  “Will you be home in time for dinner? I can keep it warm on the back of the stove if you won’t.”

  “Why don’t you do that. I shouldn’t be too late.”

  “All right. I will. You take care now. And be careful driving home.”

  The caution made Susan remember the night of the rainstorm when she’d been forced off the road. She glanced again at her watch. Almost six. And almost dark.

  She raised her eyes, focusing on the front of the house. Her fingers closed around the handle of the door. She hesitated only a second or two before she opened it, stepping out into the deepening twilight.

  She walked over to the low steps and then up onto the narrow porch. Through the glass of the storm door she could see into the hall.

  She hadn’t even thought, until this minute, to wonder if the sheriff was married. Something about the entryway, empty of ornamentation or furniture except for a tall gun cabinet, seemed to indicate this was strictly a man’s domain.

  She reached out to push the bell and heard a distant buzz. She waited, but there was no response.

  Just as when she’d been trying to get someone to the door at Lorena’s the evening she’d arrived in Linton, she put her forehead against her cupped hand and peered into the dark interior. Despite the sound of the bell, nothing had changed. No lights had come on in the back of the house.

  She glanced out at the narrow two-lane, devoid of traffic. Daylight was fading as the sun sank below the pines on the western side of the house. With the approaching darkness, a hint of apprehension, much like the kind she’d felt before she’d entered the playground that night, shivered through her body.

  In a few minutes, it would be fully dark. And again she would be alone. And vulnerable.

  She hated the thought of waiting overnight to find out what the lab had discovered. And the deputy had assured her the sheriff had gone home.

  Or out to supper. To a movie. Almost anywhere. She ignored those caveats, punching the bell again and then tapping on the glass door. It reverberated in the frame. Surely in a house the size of this one, those noises would have been heard by anyone inside.

  Admitting defeat, she crossed the porch and walked back to her car. She got in and turned the key in the ignition. As she guided the Toyota around the other side of the circular driveway, she looked down the side of the house.

  Sticking out from the back corner was the rear end of a county patrol car, distinctive because of the emergency number stenciled on the trunk. She pressed down hard on the brakes, stopping the Camry again.

  She got out of the car, leaving her keys, and walked along the grass-centered tracks that led toward the back of the house. The vehicle she’d seen was definitely a cruiser. And just as obviously it belonged to the sheriff.

  Either Adams was avoiding her or he wasn’t inside. She surveyed the backyard. An old-fashioned detached garage sat directly behind the house. In the gathering darkness, a crack of light shone between the center of its double wooden doors.

  Without giving herself time to think, she walked toward it, her footsteps crunching along the mix of crushed stones and dirt in the driveway. As she neared the garage, she could hear the faint strains of country music spilling out into the night.

  She reached up to knock on one of the doors, but for some reason her hand hesitated in the act. She listened, and then put her ear against the rough planks from which it had been fashioned. There was no sound, other than the soft, soulful rendition of a Hank Williams classic.

  “Sheriff Adams?”

  She waited in the fading light, night literally closing in around her as she listened to the words of the song, their drawn-out, mournful message adding to her sense of desolation. “I’m so lonesome I could die.”

  She raised her hand again, but her knuckles made little noise against the heavy door. It moved, however, rocking back and forth slightly under her puny knocks.

  The padlock that was normally used to secure the two doors had been inserted, open, into the hasp on one of them. Not locked.

  If the sheriff was inside listening to country music, then he could damn well take time to go with her down to the office and get her fax. Her fax, damn it.

  She grasped the hasp and pulled. The wooden door creaked, protesting, but it moved, creating a narrow opening.

  She listened again, but still heard nothing but the music. She slipped through the space, pausing as soon as she was inside the garage, its air redolent of old grease and gasoline.

  “Sheriff Adams?” As she waited for an answer, her eyes surveyed her surroundings.

  The light that had shone through the crack came from a single bulb on an insulated cord that had been looped over one of the rafters. It illuminated the side of the building in which she was standing, but the other half was cast into shadow by a tall, antique pickup that took up most of the center portion of the interior.

  Its front bumper rested almost flat on the dirt floor, the cab and bed slanting upward. Oil had seeped from underneath the engine to pool in a dark puddle just inside the double doors.

  The wall illuminated by the lightbulb was lined with counters, disappearing into the dimness at the back. They were cluttered with tools, paint cans, and what appeared to be used auto parts. Above them, almost every inch of the unfinished wall was covered with pinup calendars, most yellow with age. There were more tools, haphazardly hung from ten-penny nails. The music came from a battered transistor radio, which sat on one of the workbenches, propped upright against an exposed stud.

  “Sheriff Adams?” Her voice seemed t
o echo in the enclosed space. Again there was no answer.

  She released the breath she’d been holding as she waited. Apparently, despite the cruiser outside and the radio, Adams really wasn’t at home.

  Maybe he’d come back to get his personal car or change clothes and had then gone out to eat. There didn’t seem to be much point in wasting any more time—

  A sudden creak from the side of the garage shrouded in shadows interrupted that decision. It hadn’t sounded like the noise the door made when she’d pushed it open. Just as it had that night on the playground, the hair on the back of her neck began to lift.

  Not daring to breathe, she waited for the noise to be repeated. After a small eternity, it was. Or at least something very close to what she’d heard before came from the area on the other side of the truck.

  Her eyes made another quick survey of the counters, searching for a flashlight. She didn’t find one.

  Keeping her back to the door, she took a single step to her left, trying to see over the high hood of the ancient vehicle. Then she took another, careful to avoid the dark puddle that seeped from under the bumper.

  Just as she reached the headlight on the far side of the truck, the noise she’d heard was repeated. This time she recognized it. Metal creaking against metal. It sounded as if the truck were settling, which made no sense unless—

  She leaned to her left, straining to make out the shape on the floor, almost hidden by the shadows. For a heartbeat, none of what she was seeing made sense, and then, in a sickening burst of comprehension, it all did. The man’s long, uniform-clad legs extending from beneath the wheel well. The long metal handle of the jack that was supposed to hold up the front end of the truck so its engine could be worked on.

  That was supposed to hold it up…And was not.

  Retching, she backed away, bumping into the door behind her. It moved, creaking loudly. Her shoe slipped in the dark pool of what she had thought was oil and now, in a rush of horror, recognized was blood.

  With that, blind panic took control. She turned, pushing against the door she’d just come through. She burst out of it, running at full tilt by the time she had taken a step or two.