by David Stout
“You weren’t. Pulled you over ’cause your right brake light didn’t light up when you slowed down for that work crew back there. Ask a gas station to check the fuse. Have a good day.”
Immensely relieved, Willop drew in a huge gulp of air and let it out slowly.
He came to the I-95 interchange. I could stay on I-26, he thought, and go all the way to Charleston and the ocean. Supposed to be a pretty city, Charleston.
He turned onto I-95 and started north. Before long he came to Lake Marion. He drove slowly over the bridge, savoring one of the loveliest sights he had ever seen. A wide swath of water lay blue in the sunlight. The shore was a gold-orange where the evergreens didn’t quite meet the water. In scattered boats, fishermen slumped in lazy pleasure. For a moment, he wished he was one of them.
He turned onto a two-lane that ran almost parallel to I-95. The signs advertised pecans, peach wine, and fireworks. Before he knew it, he was in Manning. Must be where all the action is, he thought, amused. But he found the smallness, the lack of traffic, the nonaggressiveness of the drivers compared to those around New York and New Jersey oddly disturbing—the inside-out of what someone from here feels when he goes to New York, Willop thought.
Willop spotted a motel that looked, at least from the outside, inexpensive but clean. A shy, pretty woman who looked to be Asian checked him in and gave him his key. Did she study my face the way I studied hers? he wondered.
Willop was pleased to find that the room had a cable hookup to the television set, a sink with glasses wrapped in paper, and a toilet with a strip of paper over the bowl. Almost as much class as you’ll find in Yankeeland, he thought, rebuking himself for his snobbishness.
It was too early for him to call Moira, though he wanted to hear her voice. He unpacked, standing the bottle of Scotch next to the sink. Smoke in the nostrils, fire in the stomach—next best thing to human warmth … But he had to make it last.
He lay down on the bed, shook off his shoes, felt his legs loosen. He would not let himself fall asleep.
Willop thought back to the feelings he had had driving over the bridge across Lake Marion and seeing the fishermen. It was a yearning (there was no use lying to himself about it) to belong. Belong here? In South Carolina?
Well, wait a goddamn minute. They had newspapers in Columbia and Charleston, and you didn’t have to be a white Protestant to get a job. Not anymore. Then Willop recalled (he would never forget) the stories he had overheard in his early childhood, tales of lynchings and burnings and castrations—many of them true, he had come to realize. Other kids get scared by Hansel and Gretel and witches being stuck into ovens, Willop thought. Me, I get the real thing.…
He shuddered at the memories. And they caused him to remember something else—a sign he had seen back there, between the signs for fireworks and pecans.
Willop put on his shoes, locked the room, got in the car, and drove back down the uncrowded road.
The gun shop had a tacky sign and a wood exterior that badly needed paint. The man in charge was balding and white, middle-aged, with a paunch covered by a dirty T-shirt. He scarcely glanced at the identification Willop offered him, nodded blankly and without apparent interest as Willop selected a cheap, short-barreled .32-caliber revolver. Along with it he bought a box of cartridges and a small cleaning kit. If his days in the Army had taught him anything, it was that if he ever aimed at somebody and pulled the trigger, he wanted the weapon to fire.
He paid cash and drove back toward the motel, realizing on the way that he was getting hungry. He stopped at a fast-food place and bought a cheeseburger, french fries, and milk to go.
Back in his room, he spread his meal on the table and ate—ravenously. His hunger satisfied, Willop found himself with time on his hands: It was late afternoon. The workday in Clarendon County, South Carolina, was without a doubt drawing to a close.
No, Willop thought. I should do something; at least break the ice.
He looked up the number and dialed.
“Sheriff’s office. Dispatcher Bestwick speaking.”
Young black woman, Willop realized at once. “Good afternoon. Is Sheriff Bryant Fischer in, please?” Willop had found out the name before flying south.
“Sheriff Fischer is gone for the day, sir. Can anyone else help you?”
“I should really talk to him.…”
“I do expect him in tomorrow morning.”
“Okay, I’ll call then. Thanks a lot.”
That done, Willop took out the revolver and cleaning kit. He flicked the cylinder open, into the loading position, then back to the firing position and pulled the trigger. Action a little sluggish. Using the tiny oil can, he lubricated the weapon carefully, wiping the excess oil along the barrel and on the outside of the cylinder, being careful not to get any on the handle. He worked the cylinder and tried the trigger again. Much better.
The weapon had been the Mayor’s idea. He had called as Willop was packing.
“Come by my office in a half-hour,” Springs had said, hanging up before Willop could say anything.
Willop had found the Mayor in his shirt-sleeves, head down and frowning as he sat at his huge oak desk.
“Hear you’re taking a trip,” Springs said without looking up.
“How …?”
“I’m the Mayor, man. Business or pleasure?”
“Well, not pleasure. Sort of, uh, freelance …”
“Freelance what?”
“It’s an old case. Looking into an old case …”
“A criminal case.”
God, Springs had a sixth sense. Maybe that’s why he’s lasted this long.…
“Uh, yeah,” Willop said. “Doing research, sort of …”
“Sure. Strictly academic.” Springs’s unerring bullshit detector had effortlessly sniffed out the evasion. Willop was grateful to him for not digging deeper.
The Mayor leaned back in his chair. “The police commissioner and I have both reviewed your application—”
“What?”
“—and find it perfectly in order, as do the prosecutor’s office and court officials. So here are your credentials.”
“Credentials?”
“Showing that you are a special deputy. They probably won’t hurt, and they may help. For one thing, you’ll have no trouble carrying a weapon.…”
“Oh, Jesus.”
“Jesus won’t help down here,” Springs said. Leaning forward, his eyes flint-bright, he almost whispered, “South’s changed some since my daddy’s day and … whatever. Still the South, and you’re still …”
“Yeah,” Willop said quietly.
“You might not need the papers, much less a gun. Just don’t forget where you’re going. If this was twenty, twenty-five years ago, man, you could be in deep, deep shit.”
“I guess I owe you.”
“No, man, you don’t,” Springs said, sounding almost angry. “If you think there’s strings on these papers, I’ll rip them up right now.”
“No strings.” Willop was moved. “Anything else?”
“Some advice, my man. If it ever comes down to it and it’s you or somebody else gonna die, better to be tried by twelve than carried by six.”
Willop took off his shoes, turned on the television, and lay on the bed, his head propped on the pillow. A white man, a white woman, and a black man smiled out from the screen. Their clothes seemed to have gone out of fashion, at least by northern standards, Willop thought.
“Fuckin’ double-knit hicks,” he said to the screen.
Shit, Willop. You ain’t no dresser yourself.
The black announcer was doing the weather. He fumbled his words about the possible approach of a high-pressure mass and grinned with all his teeth as he corrected himself.
“Say what?” Willop said. “Man, you is an affirmative-action disgrace, that’s what you is.…”
He picked up the revolver and drew a bead on the white announcer’s forehead, then on each breast of the woman. Finally, he aimed b
etween the black man’s eyes.
Suddenly, he felt not just silly but ashamed. He was glad for the announcers’ indomitable cheerfulness.
“Just kidding,” he said to the screen.
He got off the bed, opened the dresser drawer to stow the revolver, and stood there. He was undecided, but only for a moment. As long as I bought the goddamn thing, might as well play for keeps, he thought. Willop opened the box of cartridges and slipped six rounds into the cylinder. Then he flicked the cylinder closed, hid the revolver behind his T-shirts, and opened the bottle of Scotch.
Willop woke himself up snoring and for an instant did not know where he was. There was still a little Scotch in his glass, but the ice cubes were long gone. A little after midnight. He went to the sink and splashed cold water on his face and thought he should go back to sleep. He checked the lock, flipped the door chain into place, and pushed the curtain aside to look out.
Moonlight shining off the few cars. And stars everywhere. Got to see, he thought.
He stepped into his shoes, not bothering to tie them, and went outside. The sky was blue-black with moon and stars. Never did see any sermons in stones, Willop thought, but anyone can see sermons in stars.…
His mother had loved the stars. Ever since she had told him, when he was too young to begin to comprehend, that it took light from the stars years and years and years to come to Earth—more years than a man could live, many, many more—Willop had been fascinated.
He wondered if Linus, his child uncle, had ever lain on the ground some nights, looking up at the stars, seeing them as he, Willop, was seeing them now. Four decades was only a moment, measured against star time. Somewhere, the stars and moon were shining on his grave, wherever that was. Perhaps on his last night on Earth (only a moment ago!), before he was killed and sent to the colored section of Heaven, Linus had looked out at the stars.
No. More than likely the cell walls were too high for him to look out.
Yes, Willop thought. I owe Linus something.
And would finding the truth, whatever it was, make Willop happy, not to mention his mother and Linus, wherever they were?
The night, so full of stars, was empty of answers.
20
Willop showered quickly and, in the tiny dining room next to the motel office, downed a hurried breakfast of coffee, toast, and grits. Back in his room, he spread a dozen or so sheets of paper out on the bed. Some were copies of long-ago clippings from the Columbia and Charleston newspapers, others were his own pencil-scrawled notes of names and numbers gleaned from the telephone work he’d done back home.
Where to begin? Almost anywhere, he thought. Any detective work at all was probably more than had ever been done in Linus Bragg’s case. Since he didn’t have a time machine, Willop could never know exactly what had gone on back then, but he was willing to bet the “investigation” had consisted of telling a helpless black boy what he should say.
So do better if you can, he goaded himself.
The first call is always the hardest, he knew. But as soon as he made it, he was startled at how trusting the people were compared to those around New York. He felt almost guilty, it was so easy. Well, at least getting the names of the people still alive was easy. Or getting some of the names. Some had moved away and were God only knew where, and others had long since died.
But Willop was surprised at how many names of people living right around Manning and Alcolu he was able to uncover after only an hour or so. His technique was simple, almost ingenuous. He would mumble a phony name, then something about an Army buddy or old classmate or a combination, and that was that. He had names.
Of course, there was no way of telling yet how many still had most of their marbles left, Willop thought. Come to think of it, how could he be sure they hadn’t all heard he was coming and were stringing him along.…
No. Start thinking that way, Willop thought, and you’ll be sure of nothing. Which, come to think of it …
Maybe he should just cut the bullshit and start using his real name and tell the goddamn truth about exactly who he was and why he was there.
Oh, no. That was fine for Columbia, for someone like Jim Baker (come to think of it, why had he been so sure about Baker?), but this was smack in the middle of South Carolina, hard by a dirty little swamp.
Finally, Willop had no more excuses: He was ready to make the call that made him nervous.
“Clarendon County sheriff’s office. Dispatcher Bestwick speaking.”
“Is Sheriff Fischer in, please?”
“I’m sorry, he’s out of the office right now. Can someone else help you?”
Shit. “Well, maybe. I wanted to look at some old files, if that’s possible.…”
“What agency are you with, sir?”
“I’m not. I mean, I’m doing some private research, sort of.…”
“Hold on, please.”
Willop could hear a radio crackling in the background and the dispatcher talking into the radio. Then he heard the dispatcher talking, in slightly anxious and hushed tones, to someone nearby—asking some authority figure what she should do, Willop was certain.
“Yes, can I help you?” Willop was startled by the loud booming male voice, full of command presence.
“Hello. I was wondering if you might be able to help me on some research.…”
“Well, who are you?”
This guy talks so loud, he doesn’t need a phone, Willop thought. “My name is Willop. I—”
“Who are you with, Mr. Willop?”
“I’m here on my own. Some private research.”
“Private research … Well, you’ll have to talk to Sheriff Fischer about access to his case files. I wouldn’t presume to tell him how to handle a request like yours. He should be in this afternoon.”
“Guess I’ll have to call back. I gather you have some authority in the sheriff’s office.”
“I’m with the state police. but a request like yours, that has to go to the sheriff himself. No exceptions.”
Willop found the voice, and the man behind it, authoritarian, totally in control, condescending, impatient, and all those things at once.
“May I ask who you are?” Willop said.
“Yes, you may. My name is Captain Stoker.”
Oh, Jesus. Gotta be the sheriff’s son. Born to the law and totally sure of himself. Willop did not want to deal with him yet. “Thanks for your help, Captain. I’ll try the sheriff later.”
“You do that.”
Click.
Willop worked for a while on steadying his nerves, then opened the dresser drawer and took out the revolver. You never know, he thought.
It was time to take a ride.
Willop drove slowly, soon coming to a combination service station and general store. The car light; got to fix it.
“Give it as much unleaded as it’ll hold,” Willop told the attendant. “And fix the fuse on the right rear light, okay?”
“I only pump gas.”
The belligerence in the old man’s voice was startling. The man was thin and old, a turkey wattle for a neck, sunken cheeks, thin white hair.
“That’s okay, Dad. I got it.” A younger man, blond and smiling, had appeared. With a gentle hand on the shoulder, he dismissed the old man and steered him back toward the door.
“That’s my dad,” the younger man said, explaining but not apologizing. “He ran this place for years. Just starting to slow down a bit now. Fill it up and check the fuse?”
“Please,” Willop said. He gave the man the keys, and the man flipped open the trunk. Within a minute, he slammed it shut again.
“It was burned out. Fine now. Five dollars for the gas and a buck for the fuse.”
“Keep the change,” Willop said, handing him seven. “And can you point me to the old Tyler sawmill?”
“Damn, I didn’t think you were from around here. Only people call it that is people from around here.”
“Well, years ago I was in the area for a while.” Watch
it, Willop told himself. Jesus, was he paranoid, or was that old man, now standing over by the corner, giving him a knowing look.…
The younger man gave Willop directions that sounded plain enough and thanked him for his business in a way that sounded friendly enough. Still, Willop was on edge. He figured he would be as long as he was in South Carolina.
Willop had driven only a few minutes when he began to think he was lost. The swamp on his left bothered him. Could be, but …
He spotted a long table under a green and yellow awning by the side of the road. A tired-faced woman, brown hair yielding to gray and the gray turning to wisp, sat in a chair next to the table. Her squinty eyes were small behind thick glasses. Next to the table was a large white sign lettered sloppily in red.
STRIPED BASS FESTIVAL, the sign said. BUY PECANS, CHOCOLATES, PEACH WINE AND GET CHANCES ON BIGGEST AND MOST FISH.
Guess I don’t have to be too afraid of her, Willop thought, stopping the car.
“I gotta know,” he said, sounding as friendly as he could. “What’s the Striped Bass Festival?”
“You ain’t from around here, obviously.”
“Not exactly.”
The old woman straightened slightly, adopting a posture for a stranger. “Every spring, people come from all over for the festival. Next month, it is. Best fishing for a hundred miles.”
“I see.”
The woman stared directly at Willop, as intently and unselfconsciously as an ostrich. Can’t decide who I am, what I am, he thought. He guessed she was in her sixties and had lived nearby all her life. Strange …
“You can buy chances for a dollar apiece,” the woman said. “Bet on the biggest fish that’ll be caught. Case there’s a tie, pick the hour and minute and day it’ll be caught. Win a twenty-four-inch color TV.”
“Got a TV already,” Willop said.
“All the proceeds go to the Alcolu Volunteer Fire Department. That’s who this stand benefits. I keep some from the pecans, chocolates, and peach wine and give a percent to the firemen. Striped bass chances, they’re all sold for the fire department.”
“Tell you what. Just give me a box of pecans. Help out the firemen …”