by John Farris
"So you and Nancy were here alone."
"Yes. I had more than enough to occupy my time. With Boss gone, everyone at Dasharoons was demoralized. There was talk the plantation would be broken up and sold piecemeal. That kind of talk had to be stopped right away. Champ couldn't be here but he approved of my taking over, for the duration. We have excellent foremen, but someone has to have the final word, often a dozen times a day. I'd learned a thing or two from Boss. Make up your mind quickly, and stick to your guns. I can't tell you how scared I was, the first few weeks."
Outside a dog bayed deeply and Nhora lifted her head, listening with great concentration. But the dog soon stopped.
"And Nancy?" Jackson asked.
"She brooded. I guess the word is—languished. She began sleeping long hours, then days at a time."
Jackson loosened the knot of his tie and dabbed at the perspiration on his throat with a handkerchief. He looked at his food without interest, and drank the rest of the now-tepid wine in his glass.
"Are you too warm?" Nhora said absently.
"It does seem—"
"If you've finished your supper, why don't we go outside? It might be cooler on the lawn."
A heavyset Negro man leaned against a pillar of the veranda by the steps, smoking a corncob pipe. He slowly removed his straw hat at Nhora's approach, gold winking around the stem of the pipe. There was a bulge on one hip that had to be a gun, and a formidable one.
"Even', Miss Nhora."
"Good evening, Bull Pete. This is Dr. Holley."
"How do you do, doctor? How's our man Champ tonight?"
"Improving slowly; don't worry."
Bull Pete shook his head several times. It was an old, hard, wearing-down head, like a stone in a Mayan jungle, stony solitude about the fiat eyes, the nose pebbled by lupus.
"Yas, sub! That the best news we could have around here. All that man been through. Sure is good to have him home. Good to have you here too, doctor, hope you likes it at Dasharoons."
Nhora was on the top step, scanning the lawn. Torches were still burning here and there along the drive. Strong lights had been turned on in the trees, cutting the mild ground haze. The lush grass looked pale but fiery beneath the haze, like a carpet of phosphorous.
"Bull Pete, what was the dog?"
"Runned across a fox track, mos' likely."
Jackson saw other Negroes, some with hounds, walking leisurely under the trees and along the drive. Each man had a rifle with him.
"Expecting Early Boy tonight?"
Nhora turned her head. "I'm never expecting him. That's the trouble."
"Aww," Bull Pete said in disgust, "that Early Boy thinks he's slick. But we'll get him."
"Haven't had much luck so far," she said with a disconsolate air, and walked down the steps to the lawn. Ginkgo trees tinkled as a breeze stirred from the northwest. They followed a path toward the willow-enclosed pond.
Jackson brushed a buzzing mosquito away from his ear, and another, then reconciled himself to the occasional bite. Nhora, who was bare-armed, seemed unaffected. "I'm sorry. We've sprayed all summer, there can't be many left around here."
"Mosquitoes don't bother you?"
"They never bite. I can walk through a swarm of them and not be touched. I don't know why. Some people say I have a very thick skin," she added, with a glint of vexed humor.
"What does Early Boy want around here?" Jackson asked.
"I don't know. If he's such a good thief, he could have looted the office safe. We keep a good bit of cash on hand for day-to-day business, as much as five thousand dollars. No, it isn't money. He seems to take some sort of morbid pleasure from—hanging around. He was fascinated with Nancy."
"He's been in the house?"
"Weeks ago. I got the shock of my life when I walked into Nancy's room late one night. She was, in one of her sleeping spells; we tried not to leave her alone for more than a few minutes at a time. He was standing at the side of the bed, just looking down at her. He was wild with anger, as if he wanted to kill her. But why? Poor Nancy, she never hurt anyone."
"He may have been looking at her, and thinking of someone else."
Nhora wasn't listening. "I just panicked, I almost brought the roof down screaming. He looked at me then and actually smiled. It's a twisted sort of smile that goes up one side of his face. Hideous. Just like the first time I saw him, standing in the rain in Virginia, keeping his demented deathwatch."
"When was that?"
"The night after Clipper went crazy. Champ and I were having supper in General Bucknam's home. I looked up and there was this face at the window. Rain dripping down. No telling how long he'd been standing there, watching, feasting on us."
Jackson heard a train whistle, and turned his head to follow the progress of the distant locomotive. He felt a lingering chill across the nape of his neck, as though he'd walked through a web on the lawn and part of it was still clinging to him.
"Just one of the family," he said.
"What do you mean?"
"There couldn't be a better explanation for all the attention you've received. Beau Bradwin has finally come home."
Nhora faltered and looked stunned. "Oh, no, no, I can't believe that! Early Boy Hodges is—he's—"
"A wanted criminal."
"I mean he's insane! He must be if you saw him, just once—"
"Fortunately all I know of Early Boy is what I've read in the newspaper. But that was some time ago. As I recall, he's never been in custody. Nor very much photographed. There is one famous photo of him, nervy and grinning, posing inside a bank with his Tommy gun and a group of very unhappy-looking bank officials—"
"I've seen it. That was how I identified him, after he told me who he was."
"He wanted you to know?"
"Yes, he boasted about what a notorious character he was. Urged me to get in touch with the FBI."
"Did you?"
"Two agents came down from Memphis, but of course there was no sign of him for the next two weeks. The FBI gave me the impression that they would be happy to take him off the sheriff's hands once he was apprehended, but they really had more important things to do. I was told to call if he showed up again. They went back to Memphis. An hour later I was getting ready for bed. I opened the balcony doors, just a little. I smelled cigarette smoke. He was out there in the dark, enjoying himself. He must have climbed up there, but it's not an easy climb. I couldn't see him well, but he could see me perfectly. I was just—rooted with fright, but shaking. Have you ever had such a chill you thought your bones were going to break? Couldn't speak, couldn't run. Early Boy laughed. 'The FBI,' he said. 'What a bunch of jerks.' Then he told me he'd be seeing me."
"You didn't call the FBI again?"
"I don't need them anyway," Nhora said determinedly. "There are plenty of men here. Men who can shoot well."
A Negro youth with a rangy red hound on a leash passed by and Nhora murmured a greeting, paused to rub the dog behind the ears.
"Perhaps you shouldn't kill him. Not until you're certain of who it is you're dealing with."
"But if it's Beau, then why—this is his home, why should he have to hide and prowl at night and terrify us?"
"He was Beau, twenty years ago. Now he's someone else, but something of Beau must have survived intact all these years—feelings, longings, loyalties. A sense of loss. How old was Beau when he had his falling-out with Boss?"
"Oh—seventeen, I think."
"Then there'll be photos of Beau when he was a young man."
Nhora shook her head. "I've never seen any. Boss destroyed them."
"Somewhere an aunt or uncle has an old snapshot tucked away. Hackaliah, Aunt Clary Gene—there must be others nearly as old at Dasharoons. They should remember Beau very well. Early Boy bears scars, doesn't he? He can't be all that pleasant to look at, but if they saw him—"
"They haven't seen him, as far as I know. I've seen him; Tyrone has had a few glimpses."
"He could purposel
y be avoiding them," Jackson said. "Which brings us back. to Champ."
They had stopped near the shore of the pond. There was a small dock, and some rowboats sitting perfectly still in the water. Something flickered down magically from the high willows and struck at the surface, leaving oiled rings. Nhora drew back with an expression of distaste. Bats. Jackson wasn't quite touching her, but he thought he could feel the tremor that went through her body.
"Early Boy. Beau. Well—I suppose it makes as much sense as everything else that's happened to us. What about Champ?"
"How much was he told about Nancy's illness when he was overseas?"
"Very little. We knew so little ourselves, I didn't want to alarm him. And Nancy was writing regularly, during her good spells. He wouldn't have known what to believe."
"Did you call him at the hospital in San Francisco when Nancy disappeared?"
"No. There'd been other occasions, I thought we'd find her in a day or two. Sometimes she came home by herself. Not very clean. Not caring, either. Exhausted, like an animal that's been run half to death. It made me sick to think about the men she'd been with—"
Nhora looked swiftly at Jackson, eyes darkening, as if the emotional price of trafficking in family secrets was coming too high for her. Jackson ignored both the look and the implied lack of trust in him. Nancy Bradwin was dead, but Champ was alive—precariously so, and possibly in danger from a living ghost. He recalled vividly his first meeting with Early Boy Hodges, a busy three hours. He'd cut away the stiff, bloody gauze mask with which Early Boy had sealed the lower half of his gun-shot face. Early Boy's eyes, sunken and crazed from the agony of facial neuralgia, were fixed on Jackson, they never wavered while he worked. There were shattered teeth to be pulled; then he made a deft incision and severed a tiny nerve to end the pain forever. Early Boy was left with a palsied mouth, a memorable grin. Despite the dogs and gunmen patrolling this part of Dasharoons, he wondered if Early Boy was watching him now, and remembering.
"Did Nancy know Champ was back in the States?"
"Of course. We tried to put a call through to him at Letterman as soon as he arrived, but there was some problem with his throat, he'd just had corrective surgery and couldn't speak at all. So we made plans to fly to San Francisco. It'll be two weeks this Thursday."
"Nancy was all right then?"
"Perfectly all right, very concerned about Champ, but so excited. Her mood was so good I couldn't help thinking—all the trouble was behind us. I'd been fooled before. But this time when she slipped, it was heartbreaking."
"'Slipped'?"
"I don't know just how to— Imagine a pretty girl, in a pretty dress, in a backyard swing. Not going very fast or very high. Balmy skies and flowers and peace. Content to sway gently back and forth. That was Nancy when she was—right. Now imagine the scene darkening, like a bad dream. Nancy suddenly flying higher and higher, as if she's being pushed. Kicking her feet and struggling, frightened, but still trying to appear calm, to maintain her balance, smile, and graciously reassure you. Then falling, taking a very long time to fall out of that swing to the ground. Getting up. But the dream is really ugly now, sullen and dark, because it's not Nancy in the dirty, torn dress. The eyes are coarse, wild, and blue, full of contempt for everyone. Her manners are street manners, shack-sassy. Her morals would be shocking in a crib."
"When did she disappear for the last time?"
"Eight days ago. The longest stretch so far. And—" Nhora paused, her throat tightening; she had to massage it to force the words out. "She was found dead yesterday morning in a sleazy mountain motel room, about sixty miles the other side of Little Rock."
"Who identified her?"
"Everett John Wilkes. He's the family lawyer, one of them."
"You didn't go?"
"I—I couldn't. I suppose—I'd been expecting this for a long time, whenever she wandered off. But when I heard the news the shock was so great I took to my bed. As they say."
She had made a rather fast recovery, Jackson thought. Within twenty-four hours she'd gone riding in pursuit of the elusive Early Boy Hodges, who wasn't there and couldn't have been there, unless he'd found a way to beat the train to Dasharoons. But if he intended coming back here, why go to the trouble to deceive me? Thinking about the curious ways of Early Boy Hodges was enough to give Jackson a headache, the equal of the headache he'd had after drinking doctored whiskey aboard the train. And he was already troubled enough by the circumstances of Nancy Bradwin's death.
"How did she die? A woman alone in a motel room, a young woman with a history of picking up men? Wasn't there a proper inquest?"
"The sheriff of Kezar County is an old friend of the family's. A local doctor examined her and said she died of heart failure. He signed the death certificate. Everyone was anxious to cooperate, to get her home as quickly as possible. Evvy made the arrangements, and the coffin was put on the train last night." She smiled bitterly. "He could have come with her, instead of stopping in Little Rock to drink with his cronies at the capital. How do you suppose that heavy coffin—"
"A freak accident," Jackson suggested. "The door wasn't securely closed and it jolted open in transit."
"We can be thankful Champ didn't see her. What a gruesome coincidence, both of them on the same train coming home."
"Could it have been planned that way?"
Nhora stared at him, distressed and a shade less friendly than she'd been up to now. "Of course not! As soon as I knew Champ was coming, I had the private car thoroughly cleaned and refurbished and sent on the way. At the time I was still hoping to hear from Nancy, I just couldn't go myself."
"The car was handsomely stocked. Cold wine and a warm meal. But no one was waiting for us when we reached Bonefort. I found that somewhat odd."
"Tyrone volunteered to go along and see that Champ had everything he needed. But as soon as I heard about Nancy, I wired the Bonefort station. Tyrone hired a local Negro to cook and stand watch and came home right away. I suppose the other man got tired of waiting and left before you arrived."
"You felt that you needed Tyrone here?"
Nhora's eyes narrowed; she didn't answer right away. The insinuation became more obvious with each passing second. "I depend on Tyrone," she said. "He's my friend—and he was Nancy's friend, too."
"I see. Do you happen to know if Nancy's body was embalmed before it left Kezar County?"
Apparently she was still thinking about Tyrone; Nhora needed time to focus on his question. "I—she must have been. Isn't there a law?"
"There are always laws. And ways to avoid them, when one is anxious to please, as you say the sheriff was in Kezar County. Assuming Nancy was properly embalmed, it still isn't too late to discover the true cause of her death."
"What do you mean? The doctor said—"
"'Heart failure is too convenient a diagnosis, when someone of Nancy's age is involved."
"Well then—she—I don't understand. What do you think happened to—"
"Forgive me, it's almost a certainty Nancy Bradwin was murdered."
A car had turned off the road into the drive and Nhora's face was blanched by the powerful headlights. She made no move to shield her eyes, and something about the pained nakedness of her face in this glare caused his heart to pound unexpectedly. The car was stopped by a Dasharoons guard. Jackson heard a sleepy-sounding bass voice that carried well across the expanse of lawn.
Nhora winced, and began moving toward the lights and the voice as if she were lured. Then she stopped and swung around, rediscovering Jackson.
"Nancy?" Nhora said harshly. "Who would want to kill Nancy?"
"Someone as disturbed as she. Someone like Early Boy Hodges."
Nhora planted her fists on her lips as if to deny his intuition, but she quickly dropped the pose. "There just couldn't be any reason for him to—"
"His reasons may defy logical analysis. Judging from his actions, I agree with your conclusion that he isn't sane."
"All I have to do is think
about him and I start shuddering."
"You didn't alert Champ in San Francisco when Nancy disappeared. Who else might have called with the news, the lawyer?"
"Evvy Wilkes? Not without asking me."
"Then it could have been Early Boy—but I think it was Nancy herself. This time she may have run away out of fear."
"Nhora! Tell your nigger to get away from my car before I run him over!" The voice was now sounding a little drunken.
Nhora glanced at the waiting car, a Cadillac. "Oh, God," she said, "why tonight? I guess I'd better go talk to him, but he's not coming in the house and upsetting everyone. Would you come with me, Dr. Holley?"
"Jackson, please."
"Jackson," Nhora set such a pace across the lawn that he had to concentrate to keep up. "You must enjoy reading detective stories," she said with a thin smile.
"Nhora!"
"All right, I'm coming!"
"I am a detective of sorts, all physicians are. When I was a boy I was fascinated by the exploits of Dr. Bell."
"Who?"
"Dr. Joseph Bell of Scotland, the model for Sherlock Holmes. Dr. Bell had an incomparable ability to observe and make deductions from the minutiae that are invisible to the untrained eye, sounds that the bored ear never hears. It isn't random curiosity when I propose that an autopsy be performed to determine just how Nancy died. It should be done without delay. When is the funeral?"
"Day after tomorrow, at ten in the morning. Just the immediate family."
"Good, there's time. Who is the local coroner?"
"Coroner? I have no idea. Evvy will know."
"Nhora! What's keepin' you, Nhora?" His tone was bellicose, but there was a hint of rude playfulness, as if he enjoyed baiting her. Nhora was still smiling, without pleasure.
"But I don't think Evvy will be of much help to you tonight," she said as they reached the car. A chauffeur was behind the wheel. He smiled uneasily at Nhora, as if afraid she might blame him for his employer's excess of bile. The Negro men Jackson had seen so far were either too young for military service or defense plants, or, like the chauffeur, verging on the ancient. Leaving aside the question of their marksmanship and the stalking quality of their hounds, it wasn't much of a rear guard to defend against the likes of Early Boy Hodges, who obviously had the run of the place when he felt like it.