Jeremiah was about to leave Peter to his typing and walk to the Bentley alone, but upon that second ringing of the bell, Peter’s bedroom door opened and he emerged with his typewriter, carrying it like it was attached to his belly. He led the way across the town square toward the hotel. Jeremiah followed, lagging behind a little as people filed by him, answering Orion’s summons.
Not Deacon Sipes, though. He leaned against a darkened streetlamp, arms folded, eyeing Jeremiah as he approached.
Jeremiah had gotten close enough to Deacon the other night inside the repair shop to get that feeling he’d always gotten when someone bad was near. And that in turn had rekindled the memory that had startled him at Deacon’s shop—the memory of brushing by Deacon years ago, before he’d gone in to do his bit in the big house. In that instant he’d gotten a brief glimpse of something, the way he sometimes did. He’d seen Deacon with crazed eyes and his hands around another man’s neck.
Right now all Jeremiah got was the bad feeling. The rest was radio static. But he still had the memory, and he doubted Deacon had changed.
“You’ve killed a man,” he blurted before he could think it through.
A strange, panicked look crossed Deacon’s face. He covered it up fast with a sneer, but he couldn’t mask the guilty quiver in his voice. “Says who?”
“Says me.”
“What, the one that killed many? The one now preachin’ fancy. So what if I have?”
“Then maybe I should do something about that.”
“What if I say it was self-defense? Or what if you’re wrong?”
Jeremiah shrugged, then spat to the dust. Peter had stopped outside the hotel. Jeremiah told the boy to go on into the Bentley and secure them a table. Once the boy cleared away, Jeremiah reached into his pocket and pulled out a quarter. He ran it in between his knuckles like a magician would, warming up for a show.
Deacon eyed it. “Go on, Coin-Flip Killer. I ain’t scared. Flip it.”
“You are scared, Deacon. ’Cause you don’t know.”
“Don’t know what?”
Jeremiah looked deep into Deacon’s eyes. “What does evil look like on the inside?”
“What kind of a question is that?”
“The kind I’m asking.”
“Flip the coin.”
Jeremiah held the coin in his palm, stared at it for a beat, and then stuck it back into his trouser pocket. “Not today.”
The Bentley’s church bell rang for the fourth time, and he followed it.
Inside the Bentley Hotel, Ellen rubbed her tired eyes, then James’s back as he slept against her shoulder. She leaned toward Wilmington. “What’s this about?”
Wilmington shrugged.
Josiah was sitting next to his father. “I suppose Orion’s got something to say.”
It was well after midnight by now, and after digging out from the duster, everyone was exhausted. Only in an emergency would Orion ring that bell this late at night. Ellen struggled to keep her eyes open. She caught a glimpse of Jeremiah and Peter across the room, sitting at their own table.
Once the room was full, Orion stood. “I’d like to thank everyone for coming. I know it’s late, and we’re all tired. But I’d like to invite the newest guest of my hotel up here for a few important words.”
No one clapped. Tired eyes followed Rose Buchanan as she made her way to the front of the room with a bundle of papers in her hands. Her dress didn’t look so new anymore, and she’d begun to take on the look of the town. Rose cleared her throat and glanced at Ellen and her table as if what she was about to say was in large part for the Goodbyes.
“I won’t talk any longer than I need to,” said Rose. “But as I said in this very room days ago, I came to Nowhere with a purpose in mind, and that purpose was to complete an article I was writing on Jeremiah Goodbye, the so-called Coin-Flip Killer. An article pleading a case for his innocence, just seeing what dust a woman could stir up in a profession dominated by men.”
Ellen smiled despite her fatigue. The woman was growing on her.
Jeremiah looked uncomfortable in his seat across the room. He and Rose exchanged a glance, and Rose went on. “I was sidetracked by the somewhat unbelievable goings-on in this town of late, which has pushed me toward another story altogether. I’d be naïve now to think that these two stories aren’t somehow related, and my parents didn’t raise me to be naïve. But the reason I wanted to speak tonight has to do with the truth, and I see it as my responsibility to bring it to light, especially because Jeremiah himself would probably never do so.”
Jeremiah’s head lowered. Ellen had a notion to comfort him but stayed put.
“As you know, Jeremiah went to prison because four men were found buried inside Nowhere’s grain silo,” said Rose. “He never denied putting them there. I’ve grown close enough to Jeremiah over the past week for him to explain exactly why he did this, and without breaking what was told to me in confidence, I can say it all stems from the nightmares that have plagued him since birth. He was always a man with a tortured mind searching for answers.”
She took a deep breath and focused on the pages in her grip. “I want to tell you about those four men the law found in that silo: Jarvis Kingsley, age forty-seven; Brent Bagwell, thirty-three; Toots Moran, fifty-eight; and Linus Carlbridge, twenty-nine. It is true that Jeremiah came into contact with all four of these men. He had confrontations with all four as well, on four separate occasions, all within a four-week span. It is also true that he did what he’s become known for—he flipped the coin on all four of them. All four came up heads. And all four died after that. But he didn’t kill them. He didn’t shoot them as he’d threatened.”
She looked at Jeremiah. “And why not?”
Jeremiah eyed the crowd, hesitant, but spoke anyway. “Because I knew they’d die on their own.”
Shocked murmurs ran through the crowd inside the Bentley. Rose raised her hands to quiet them. “The day after you flipped the coin on Jarvis Kingsley, he had a massive heart attack while milking one of his cows. And Brent Bagwell, on the night of your confrontation with him inside the Butcher’s Block Saloon in Liberal, became intoxicated, drove off the road and into a ravine, and drowned. Who pulled him from the water?” She nodded toward Jeremiah. “Jeremiah Goodbye. He’d followed him. And he’d also been spying on Jarvis Kingsley the day he had his heart attack. He was the first to get to him when he stumbled off the milking stool and lay shaking in the dirt. I’ve found witnesses willing to testify to the way these men died.”
She held up a finger. “Toots Moran. The night after he and Jeremiah scuffled inside the Watering Hole outside Boise City, Toots was fixing a leak in his roof. The boards were rotten beneath the shingles, and the roof collapsed. He broke his neck and died. Jeremiah saw it happen from the surrounding field and then went in to help. And again, there were witnesses.”
Ellen found herself shaking by this point, and Josiah’s eyes were wet. He wiped at them with hands that shook. Wilmington had gone pale. Ellen gripped his hand as Rose went on.
“And lastly, Mr. Linus Carlbridge. Jeremiah got into a heated argument with this man inside the Foxtrot Saloon in Guymon. They fought. Jeremiah flipped the coin on Mr. Carlbridge’s chest as he lay on the ground wiping blood from his nose. It was heads, and Jeremiah moved on. The next morning Mr. Carlbridge was out feeding his horse. Something spooked it, and up the hind legs went, delivering a blow to the head that killed Mr. Carlbridge instantly. Jeremiah saw it from a line of trees.”
Sheriff McKinney stood from his table and faced Jeremiah. “If all this is true, Jeremiah, why’d you bring those bodies back here?”
Jeremiah looked at Rose and then answered. “I don’t know. I was drinking heavily at the time, Sheriff. My mind wasn’t my own, and I wasn’t thinking clearly. I didn’t kill those men, but I knew I wasn’t innocent. And witnesses had seen me scuffle with them. And threaten their lives.”
Josiah spoke through a cracked voice. “But those were accidents
, Jeremiah. Anybody would’ve seen that. You shouldn’t have brought them back here and done what you did to them.”
“I know.” Jeremiah’s voice trembled. “Like I said, I wasn’t thinking clearly. And I felt responsible, because I had flipped the coin.” He clenched his jaw. “Those were bad men, Josiah. When I brushed by them, I . . .”
“You what?”
“I saw into their souls. I got glimpses of the bad things they’d done. It was—I don’t know why, but I’ve always been able to do that. To see and feel . . .”
Whispers spread across the room at that—people looking at each other with varying levels of shock and disbelief. Rose silenced them and read again from her paper. “Jarvis Kingsley.” She swallowed hard. “He was a secret Klansman. Even his wife didn’t know. He’d killed more men than I can count on all my fingers and toes—and all because of the color of their skin. And Brent Bagwell—I investigated him just as I investigated all of them. I talked to too many of his victims not to believe what I’d heard. Female victims. Jeremiah sensed it right when he brushed up against him that night, and what’s done is done.” Rose’s voice grew stronger, her words gaining steam. “Toots Moran was a gangster of the most sordid kind, hiding out on the plains because of murders he’d committed during Prohibition. Well, he’ll never kill again. And Linus Carlbridge—if he robbed one bank, he robbed two dozen, under at least five different names, stealing money from hardworking folks like you and not caring how much blood was shed in his wake.”
Wilmington buried his face in his hands and cried. Ellen rubbed his back. Her heart thumped faster than a wave of jackrabbits during a summer drive.
“Thank you for listening,” said Rose. “This man was not responsible for the deaths of those men. And he shouldn’t be strapped with that burden any longer.” She returned to her table.
The room stayed quiet.
Ellen stood and faced Jeremiah across the room. “If this is all true, why didn’t you fight harder at the trial?”
“Because I knew what the power of that coin had done to me. I didn’t think I had the right, Ellen, no matter what those men had done.”
“What right, Jeremiah?”
“The right to play God.”
TWENTY-SIX
Ellen.”
She opened heavy eyelids.
Wilmington sat at her bedside, leaning close enough that she could smell coffee on his breath. Morning sunlight cut across the bed, highlighting her father-in-law’s freshly shaved face.
“Morning, sunshine.”
She leaned up on her elbows and rested against the headboard. “Morning, Wilmington. Where’s James?”
“Josiah’s got him. Look, I’ve got something I need to say.” Wilmington cleared his throat. “It’s about what Orion said the other night. About your mother and me.”
Ellen sat up taller. “Queer topic to wake up to first thing in the morning, Wilmington. I don’t know if I want to know.”
“Your mother was a beautiful woman, Ellen.”
“Stop.” She clamped her hands over her ears like a child.
“And although it may be true that she at one time had feelings for me, she never strayed from your father.” He grabbed her hand and held it on the bed. “And I never strayed from the memory of my Amanda. I’ve only ever loved one woman, Ellen.”
Ellen looked deep into Wilmington’s eyes and feared she saw what had brought this sudden conversation about. She wondered if that bullet was fixing to move, if he could feel it in there starting to rustle and twist. She brought her other hand around and held his. “I drove a wedge between your sons long ago, and for that I am sorry.”
He grinned. “Never seen a divide that couldn’t eventually be bridged, Ellen. There’s things about Jeremiah that happened long ago that you don’t know about. Things I swore I’d take to my grave and still plan to.”
“Tell me.”
“Just know that you didn’t cause Jeremiah to take the turn he did. He’s been battling it from the start.” He stood from the chair and kissed her forehead. “You’re my daughter, Ellen. I couldn’t ask for a better one. Nor would I.” He gave her hand a gentle tug. “Come on. There’s something outside you need to see.”
She sat up, feeling something was different, but unable to put her finger on it. She thought she heard voices outside and something tapping on the roof that had a flatter, less abrasive sound than dust. She slid her feet from the sheets and stood hand in hand with Wilmington. “The reporter, Rose? Wilmington, the way you embraced her when she arrived into town. It was as if you knew her . . .”
“No more questions on this fine morning, Ellen.”
“What’s so fine about it?”
“You’ll see in a minute.”
“More letters?”
“I suppose that’s part of it.”
She allowed him to lead her outside to the porch, each of them reveling in the childishness of it. She even closed her eyes briefly, recognizing the feeling as similar to when her own father walked her outside as a child to show her the fully finished castle he’d built for her overlooking the coastline.
A warm breeze coated her face with moisture as she crossed the threshold. The air was thick with it. She inhaled a scent both foreign and familiar—something almost forgotten. Then she opened her eyes, and what she saw falling down all across Nowhere made her heart skip.
Rain.
A soft gentle rain.
Not one of the sudden downpours that would flash-flood entire houses away because the ground was packed so hard, but a misty soaker that held down all that dust and trickled down rooftops and dripped into recently cleared gutters and downspouts.
She covered her mouth with the hand that wasn’t clutching Wilmington’s. The rain wasn’t the only thing that had come overnight. The red roses that had been eaten by the grasshoppers had all returned, and then some. Hundreds of red roses, all sturdy-stemmed and strong, stuck up from the wet dust all over Nowhere. Some sprouted in bushlike clusters, like roses were supposed to grow, and some bloomed on climbing vines. On all of them, red petals glistened as if they’d recently been watered. Perky red roses drank in that rain, petals open like mouths to take it all in.
Ellen looked at Wilmington. “When did it start?”
“About ten minutes ago. We were all out looking at the roses, and then it clouded up beautifully. Then Moses came out.”
He nodded across the street at Moses Yearling, who sat on the porch of the Bentley Hotel, crying and clutching one of his TNT rockets like it was a baby.
“As soon as it clouded,” Wilmington continued, “Moses hurried in and got one of his rockets. He fired it right into the belly of those gray clouds, and a minute later the rain started. Pretty good timing—even though I doubt the rocket really had anything to do with the rain. Ain’t no such thing as a cloud-buster.”
As a teen, when the rain would come, Ellen would hunt for an umbrella or hurry to shelter. But now she couldn’t wait to stand outside in it, to let it soak her hair and dress, to revel in the chill it put on her skin.
Apparently the whole town felt the same. It looked like all of Nowhere was outside—standing, walking, some staring downward at the hundreds of red roses, others with their necks craned upward toward the pregnant sky. She waved at Josiah, who stood in the yard holding James. They waved back and smiled, both of them soaked to the skin, a big smear of mud on her baby’s face. Had he ever even seen rain?
Wilmington led Ellen down the porch steps and then finally let go of her hand as she gazed around in wonder. The roses were everywhere. In places they grew so thick they looked like private rose gardens, but mostly they’d popped up as singles, anywhere and everywhere, one making no more possible sense than the next. But she did have a feeling that the kindness instigated by those letters had something to do with it. Kindness had brought about that beauty.
Kindness had made roses bloom from dust.
The Bentley Hotel—where the entire town had gathered last night in what
turned out to be a clear session of healing by truth—was completely surrounded by roses. One had even sprung up from the angled gutter on the hotel’s façade, another from an old flowerpot resting on a windowsill. Next to that window, two roses had sprouted from the dust-clogged engine of Orion’s rusted tractor.
Josiah and James held their hands up toward the sky and laughed as they tried to catch rain. Most of the schoolkids ran the streets, playfully dodging the roses while at the same time trying to get hit by as many raindrops as they could. Orion watched from his hotel porch, smiling with a cigar nub angled in his mouth, his thumbs hooked under his suspenders.
Sheriff McKinney stood next to his mailbox reading his latest letter, as did Sister Moffitt down the road.
Jeremiah was out with Peter, staring skyward in disbelief.
Richard Klamp was overcome with emotion, down on his knees in the dirt and mud, trying to get hold of himself. Windmill held a bucket in two hands, catching rain to save for later. Ned Blythe had retrieved his wheelbarrow from the food store and was using that to gather the fresh rainfall. Phillip Jansen walked the street with an empty mailbag over each shoulder.
Mr. Mulraney walked his two skinny cows down the road, and the two animals looked to be drinking straight from the air. Leland Cantain stood on the porch of his opera house the way he used to do years before, when lines of people would funnel into his theater to watch his shows. Father Steven grabbed Sister Moffitt’s hand and the two of them danced innocently right in the middle of the road, dodging roses as they sidestepped and shuffled. Toothache held a coffee mug up to the sky, collecting raindrops and drinking and then doing it all over again. Nicholas Draper had walked his blind mother outside, and she smiled as her face soaked in the rain. The Rochester family stood clustered in the middle of the road, one just as wet and amused as the next.
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