by Amy Brashear
I look up.
“Landry!”
He hugs me.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, burying my face in his neck.
“I had to be here—for you,” he murmurs.
He tells me he wanted to surprise me. I kiss him on the cheek. I needed a surprise.
“Nice cardigan,” I say, tracing the L on the pocket with my fingers.
“A very pretty girl gave it to me,” he says with a smirk.
“Should I be jealous?”
Before he can crack another joke, the jury enters the room. A hush falls over the crowd. Landry takes my hand. My heart is thumping, but the twelve men seem calm. Relieved, maybe.
Judge Tate asks the foreman if a verdict has been reached; the man stands and says that it has. Dad grabs Perry’s arm and helps him to his feet. Landry squeezes my fingers.
Judge Tate reads the verdict to himself and then has the foreman read it out loud in the courtroom. I close my eyes as he starts to read.
Guilty on all counts.
His last words are, “We, the jury, recommend death.”
It’s over.
I open my eyes to see Dick Hickock and Perry Smith escorted out of the courtroom and back to their cells. It’s how I want it to end. But Nancy doesn’t come running through the doors. She never will.
People are leaving, moving on with their conversations; their thoughts are no longer with Dick and Perry. Truman Capote is there, and Miss Lee, and the tall man, Mr. Avedon. They’ll leave town in a few days, no doubt, back to New York, and not a moment too soon. Life will go on. Life will be back.
Landry stands, takes my hand, and helps me up. We hug again. I tug on his cardigan. I want to hold him forever.
“Come on, it’s time to go,” he says, taking my hand and leading me down the row.
We wait for the aisle to clear. I see Mr. Hickock walking by. He looks at me, shaking. “I knew it all the time.” His voice trembles.
Mrs. Hickock, dressed in funeral black, follows closely behind.
“Landry,” she says, taking his hand to shake.
He takes it but she pulls away quickly, breaking into tears. She wipes her eyes with a handkerchief.
“I knew it. I knew it. I knew it,” Mr. Hickock repeats. He stumbles. We all move to catch him before he falls.
“Be good, son,” Mrs. Hickock says to Landry. Weeping, she leads her husband away.
CHAPTER FIFTY-six
Mr. Davis sits in his truck, waiting for Landry and me to say our good-byes. I don’t want him to go. “Why don’t you just stay? I could really use a friendly face at school.”
“Dad says we might move back this summer,” he says.
“This summer?” I say.
“I’ll make sure of it,” he says, but I don’t believe him. I know he’ll try, though. Landry doesn’t lie to me.
I sigh. It took forty-six days to find them, three days for them to confess, seventy-six days to build a defense, seven days to find them guilty, and they have forty-six days left on this earth—execution date: May 13, 1960. But Dad’s talking appeal and Judge Tate is hearing motions for a new trial in ten days.
“I’ll miss you,” I tell Landry.
He smiles, brushes the hair out of my face, and kisses my lips. Not long after, Dad comes down the courthouse steps.
The first things we see when we get home are Mom’s suitcases. Before I know it, she’s sweeping me into an embrace. I sniff her. She doesn’t smell like gin. I smile in relief.
“I’m sorry, dear,” Mom says, stepping away and hugging Dad. “Oh—you know what I mean.”
“I thought you were coming home tomorrow,” Dad says, taking off his coat.
“It was time I faced the music. I caught an earlier flight and rented a car.” She smiles at me. “It’s good to be home.”
Sitting on the couch, I stretch my legs and kick off my shoes and yawn. Dad grabs a glass from the tray on the bar cart and pours himself some scotch, then sits in the rose-colored wingback chair, taking sip after sip. Mom leans against the television set. She’s not having a drink. There’s plenty to say, but no one says a word.
Later Mom informs us that we’re going to the country club for dinner. She’s ready to be visible again. And she’s got a whole new wardrobe from Bergdorf’s.
“I’ll pick up Asher at basketball practice,” she says, grabbing her gloves and purse, “and meet you there.”
I wash my face and brush my hair. Dad changes clothes into something more comfortable. That suit won’t be worn again. Bad memories. He has a few. He grabs the keys to the Porsche and we head outside.
The wind pushes through my fingers and blows my hair all over the place. There’s a chill in the air and the sun’s almost beyond the horizon. This day is almost over. The nightmare is almost forgotten.
We pass the road where you turn to go to the Clutter farmhouse. I almost say, I wonder if Nancy needs help on her math homework, but catch myself before I do. We drive by and keep driving until I can no longer see the house in the rearview mirror.
Acknowledgments
I’d like to thank my agent, John Cusick. I’m so happy you dug my query out of the slush pile and saw the potential of No Saints in Kansas back in 2013. You made my dream of having a published book possible.
Thank you so much to editor extraordinaire, Dan Ehrenhaft. You have guided No Saints in Kansas into the novel it is today. Honestly, not a day goes by that I don’t stop and think how lucky I am to work with you.
And thanks to Bronwen Hruska, Janine Agro, Rachel Kowal, and everyone at Soho for championing No Saints in Kansas.
And to Juliet Grames and Paul Oliver for making my first ever book event and signing so memorable. Thank you so much for the tasty food (the Peruvian restaurant was very good) and awesome company.
Thank you to the Kick-Butt KidLit group. To Casey, Jenni, Katherine, Mary, Julie, Lauren, Anita, Kendra, Kara, and Diane—y’all have been the greatest writer friends on this incredible journey.
To my family. Thank you for always being there and letting me follow my writing dream. Thank you Mom, Dad, and my brother, Alex. I love you all.
To Truman Capote—without you, there wouldn’t be No Saints in Kansas. By writing In Cold Blood you helped people remember a loving family that meant everything to the community of Holcomb, Kansas.
And thank you for reading my debut novel, No Saints in Kansas.
Go Hogs!!!