by J. D. Horn
It couldn’t be Bayard. He’d passed out in the bar, and they had left him where he lay. If by some slim chance he had awakened, he would have started in on another bottle and carried on until the situation had been rectified. He wouldn’t have come for a visit.
She wished for the instant and painful death of whoever was at her door, then for a blissful moment, the noise stopped. Her chest rose and fell in a sigh, but that exact moment was when the rapping started again, this time on her bedroom window. Her eyes worked open. She pushed herself into a sitting position and swung her legs off the bed. Through the crack in the curtains, she could see an eye watching her. She put her hands to her head, trying to apply enough pressure to keep it from exploding. Then the bastard knocked against the glass again.
“Some of us work nights, you know,” she snapped, pushing the words out with a dry and leaden tongue. She stood and, remembering her nakedness, pulled the sheet from the bed and draped it around her body, leaving Frank fully exposed. The sight of his masculine young frame usually stoked a fire in her. He took her with such desire that she felt young and beautiful. Under better circumstances, that fact alone would make her willing to live for him, to die for him. This morning she’d gladly kick his ass to the curb for five more minutes of shut-eye.
Whether it was her voice or the loss of the sheet, she didn’t know, but Frank finally stirred. “What the hell?” was all he managed before another loud rap landed on the glass.
“You break that pane,” she snarled as she stumbled toward the window, her feet getting tangled in her train, “and I will cut your pecker clean off with the smallest shard of it.” She made it to the window and tore the curtain open, regretting it when the light flooded her eyes. For a moment she thought she’d vomit, but she closed her eyes tight and took a deep breath before pushing the window up.
She retreated into the cool shade of the room before slowly reopening her eyes. She recognized the man’s hat before she placed his face. It was McAvoy, the old doctor. “What the hell do you want?” she asked as she took a few steps back and sat on the foot of the bed. Her wish for the doctor’s death hadn’t worked, but the thudding in her head made her consider praying for her own.
Beside her, her prince had drifted back into the land of nod. She reached over and shook his leg until he groaned and peeled open a single eye.
“What?” His one eye held enough anger for two. Nola pointed at McAvoy, who was now leaning in through the opening.
“I have been looking over half the county for you.” McAvoy leaned in more.
“Ya found me. Now go the hell away.”
“Frank, get up,” the old man commanded. “You need to worry a little less about dipping your wick in that one”—he gestured to Nola dismissively—“and more about your duties. The Judge needs you.”
“The Judge should learn how to goddamn wait until a reasonable hour,” Nola said and pushed herself back on the mattress, collapsing against her pillow and throwing her arm over her face to block the light.
“Shut up,” Frank told her. She’d have given him an evil look, but it would have required both moving her arm and opening her eyelids. Even one of those things would have entailed more effort than she wanted to consider. “What’s he need?” Frank asked.
“He needs protection is what he needs,” the old man called out with enough urgency to prompt Nola to move and open her eyes. “He’s in a bad way. I think someone is trying to kill him.”
Frank swung from dead-to-the-world to alert in a heartbeat. “Let me find my pants,” he said, swinging himself into a standing position.
Even with the pain that threatened to pop her eyes clean from her head, Nola took in the sight of him as he stomped around the side of the bed looking for his trousers. It was a shame, she thought, when he lifted them from the floor and pushed in a leg. Frank lost most of his charm once his pants were on.
THIRTY-FIVE
McAvoy waited only long enough to make sure Frank was up, and headed out to pick up Bayard. He wanted to stop and check on Ovid before heading to Tupelo. He would need to take a sample of his blood for typing as well, although he worried his godson hardly had any left to spare. He’d tried to convince that Ford girl he knew what he was doing, but the truth was that he had no idea what was ailing Ovid. She was right; the Judge belonged in a hospital, but a public declaration of weakness would be akin to signing the man’s death certificate anyway.
He followed the road from Nola’s house until he reached the T it formed with Chamberlain Road, then turned north toward Conroy proper. The sun cut through the passenger-side window of his car, nearly blinding him. As he held up an arm to shield his eyes, he caught sight of an approaching red pickup truck in the rearview mirror. The red Ford was traveling much faster than what was safe for the road. McAvoy considered pulling over and letting it by, but the driver pulled into the oncoming lane with an obvious intent to pass. There were no vehicles heading toward them, so McAvoy decided to let off the gas and let the fool by him. Rather than pulling forward, the truck sidled up next to his car, slowing to match his exact speed. His peripheral vision pinpointed a younger man sitting in the passenger’s side of the truck, and a flash of recognition caused him to look away from the road and glance at the other vehicle. It was Wayne Sleiger, and since you hardly ever saw the one boy without the other being nearby, he reckoned that meant Walter was the crazy driver.
The two vehicles traveled on parallel paths for a few moments, then Walter finally sped up and pulled ahead. McAvoy shook his head, wondering at the foolhardiness of the young. He let go of the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding as the red truck returned to the lane and carried on until it was within forgetting distance. His mind had returned to attending to the Judge’s needs when the pickup suddenly spun around and headed directly at him. In response, he hit the brake and turned the wheel, causing his car to slide off the road. His chest banged painfully into the steering wheel, and he winced. The pain told him he’d probably cracked a rib or two. He reached the gearshift and set the car to park, adrenaline forcing him to take heavy breaths in spite of the pain it caused.
Goddamn those fool boys, he thought as he tilted his neck back to look for their truck. The Sleiger boys had left their vehicle, he saw, and were walking toward him. In spite of the pain, he was struck by the strangeness of their dress. Though it was just about as thick and humid as it got in Conroy, both were wearing long sleeves, scarves, and gloves. Hats—battered, wide-rimmed ones like you’d see on a scarecrow—shaded their faces. They moved quickly toward him, and he was about to give them holy hell when Wayne opened his door without a word and pulled him out from behind the wheel. Walter popped open the trunk, then the brothers hoisted McAvoy up and dropped him inside. He got a brief look at their faces, pale and pitiless, before the lid slammed shut on him. He banged his fists against the metal above his head, only to hear a vehicle, which had to be their truck, peel out. For a moment he wondered if they were through with him, if they intended to leave him trapped in his own car on the side of the road. Then a sudden movement flung him back. The car lurched forward, the screech of rubber shredding against the blacktop announcing its departure.
THIRTY-SIX
Corinne trod into the kitchen, instantly slowing her steps as she took in the sight of the Judge’s maid, Lucille, asleep with her head resting on her folded arms at the table. Corinne hated waking her; she knew the poor woman had weathered one hell of a night.
She could make her way back upstairs, let Lucille rest, and worry about McAvoy’s more regimented schedule of shifts watching over the Judge going forward. She was about to spin on her heels and do just that when a lark smashed into the window, bloodying the pane and startling Lucille awake. The maid jumped, but she composed herself as soon as her eyes met Corinne’s.
“I’m sorry,” Corinne felt compelled to say, even though she knew she had nothing to do with the lark’s fate. Lucille looked from her to the stain on the window. “It was a bird.”
The poor lark had undoubtedly flown its life to an early end. As a girl, it would have brought Corinne to tears, but she had spent too many days watching innocent humans suffer to mind the fall of every sparrow. That tally would have to be kept by God himself. She returned her focus to Lucille. “I’m sorry it woke you.”
“How’s the Judge?” Lucille asked, looking up at her with swollen, red eyes. So, she had not been sleeping after all. She had been crying. At first Corinne took the tears as a sign of Lucille’s devotion to her employer, but then she realized something. The Judge’s maid and the woman she’d seen in the colored waiting room at the train station were one and the same. It was possible that Lucille’s distress could be related to the Judge’s well-being, but something about the uncaring flatness of the woman’s voice as she posed her question told Corinne it was unlikely. Something had been bothering her even before the Judge’s condition had taken a turn for the worse.
Corinne’s intuition warned her not to bring up their previous encounter. “He’s still resting,” she said, then reflected on the large dose of tranquilizers Dr. McAvoy had administered before taking off. “I suspect he may be sleeping for quite some time.” Lucille gazed at her for several moments more without so much as a blink. “I’m sure Dr. McAvoy will be along soon,” she said, trying to fill the silence. “He said to expect him first thing.” Corinne stole a glance at her wristwatch. “I’m surprised he isn’t already here.”
At the sound of the doctor’s name, Lucille stirred from her stupor. “Can I fix you something to eat?” Lucille’s face showed her exhaustion; she seemed to be far too young of a woman for the purplish bags forming beneath her eyes.
Corinne felt guilty for asking the weary woman to wait on her. “Maybe a little coffee? But only if you’ll join me.”
Surprise animated Lucille’s face. Her forehead bunched up and her eyes widened. “Oh, no, ma’am. I don’t know about where you come from, but that isn’t how things are done around here.” She paused. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean no disrespect, but I believe you will find things will go a lot easier for you in this town if you do as those around you do. Folk my color don’t ‘join’ folk your color for anything.”
“But that’s ridiculous, Lucille, you must know that . . .”
“What I know, ma’am,” Lucille said, standing, “is that when colored folk start thinking of themselves as a white person’s friend, things tend not to end so well for the colored.” Her head leaned a bit to the side. “Don’t think I don’t appreciate your kindness, but there are lines that are better left uncrossed. The longer you live around these parts, the easier it will be for you to see that.” She pushed back her chair and stood. “You need to eat, too. You like eggs? I’ll make you some eggs.”
“What I’d really like is for you to explain to me what’s going on here.”
“Ma’am?”
“To start with, why am I here nursing a man who should be in the hospital? Why is Dr. McAvoy afraid to get the Judge the care he needs?”
“That isn’t for me to say.”
“Okay, then tell me about her . . . about Ruby.”
“No, I’m sorry,” Lucille responded, shaking her head, holding her chin high as she gazed at Corinne with something akin to panic in her eyes.
Corinne had no intention of taking “no” for an answer. “Please.” She crossed over to Lucille, holding her hands raised as if in prayerful supplication. “I know she was special to my fiancé. I suspect very special. I found her photo at the Dunnes’ home. And last night your employer called out her name. Please,” Corinne repeated, forcing a smile to her lips. “People around here don’t seem to like questions, and I fear you may be my only hope of getting a straight answer. Does the doctor’s reticence about the Judge’s proper care have anything to do with Ruby?”
Lucille held her hands up and shook her head. “I’m sorry, Miss, but this here is one of those lines best not crossed.”
“Elijah and Ruby, they were lovers, weren’t they?” Corinne pressed.
“That is a question best asked Elijah himself.”
“Please, I need to know who she was to him. I need to know what happened to her.” Corrine tried to take Lucille’s hand, but the other woman stepped back. “I’ve even been dreaming of her . . .”
“You saw her?” Lucille’s eyebrows raised, and she wrapped her arms around herself as if she’d caught a sudden draft.
“Well, yes. It had to be a dream, though. She’s gone, isn’t she?”
Lucille tilted her head forward, leaning in like she planned to share an intimacy. “There’s gone, and then there’s gone.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“I got no more to say. I could lose my job . . .”
“But it’s more than that, isn’t it?”
“You want to learn about Ruby? Well, it’s like I said, you need to ask your Elijah. I don’t mean no disrespect, but if you don’t trust each other enough to talk about your pasts, you ain’t got no business marrying each other anyway.” She paused. “I don’t understand you, Miss. Me, I don’t got a lot of options, but a woman like you could go just about anywhere in this wide world. You willing to settle in Conroy, that must mean you love Elijah. And if you love him, you owe it to yourself to get the answers you needin’.” She took her apron from the chair where she’d laid it and tied it around her waist. “I’ll make those eggs now, then I’ll go sit with the Judge while you rest up a bit.” But before Lucille could follow through on her offer, the doorbell rang.
“It’s probably the doctor,” Corinne said. “Shall I get it?”
Lucille shook her head, a wary expression on her face. “No, ma’am. I’ll see to it.” The bell sounded again. A short, impatient ringing. “You wait here. If it’s Dr. McAvoy, I’ll bring him back through to you.” Corinne’s eyes followed Lucille as she made her way from the kitchen.
THIRTY-SEVEN
The lace curtain covering the door’s window did little to prevent a ray of sunshine from piercing the dusky hall. Rather than the light pushing away the dark, the shadows seemed poised to attack the slim ray of brightness. Lucille had walked the length of the hall hundreds, maybe even thousands of times during her employment at the Lowell house. Still, despite the familiarity of the setting, and the light that bisected the center of the hall, Lucille was spooked by the thought of traversing it.
The bell rang a third time. This time it was only a quick buzz, but it was followed by the pounding of a fist against the door. Lucille was embarrassed by her own timidity, but she still scurried past the shadows on her way to the door. Through the lace-filtered glass Lucille recognized two of the Judge’s men, Frank Mason and Bayard Bloom. As hard as Lucille tried to remain ignorant of the Judge’s dealings, she knew these men acted as his muscle. Suddenly the shadows she had skirted seemed benevolent in comparison to what awaited her on the house’s threshold. Still, she was glad it had been Frank knocking rather than Bayard. Frank could kill a man, slicing him open without a single pang of conscience, but Bayard Bloom was nearly legendary in the entire tristate area for his savagery. Sure, Frank would take your life, but he’d do it quickly. The experiences endured by Bayard’s victims formed a canon of cautionary tales for any who’d consider double-crossing the Judge. Lucille braced herself, wondering what could have sent these two lowlifes to the Judge’s door this early.
Frank leaned in toward the glass, seemingly intent on scanning the hall for signs of life. The brim of his fedora tapped against the pane, and he leaned back upon catching sight of her. A few steps behind him, and off to his side, lumpy, balding redheaded Bloom rocked with impatience like an angry child. Lucille opened the door, but offered no passage wider than her own body could block.
Frank was a tall, lean man. He might have been handsome, perhaps even devastatingly so, if not for the cutthroat look of his deep-set and narrow dark eyes. At the sight of Lucille, he removed his hat, revealing the straight black locks he kept slicked back. The rose scent of his h
air oil wafted in on the warm air.
“Yessir?” Lucille slurred the words into one, letting herself slip into the role of the servile and respectful dark-skinned woman who readily acknowledged these white men’s innate superiority. Let no one ever say she didn’t know what was expected of her.
Frank leaned in and angled his face in toward the opening. “Doctor McAvoy sent us. Said the Judge might need a little looking after,” he said, and then pulled his thin lips into a tight smile.
Lucille’s shoulders collapsed under the weight of resignation. If McAvoy wanted these wild dogs here, she didn’t have any choice but to welcome them. “Please come in,” she said and stepped aside.
Frank crossed the threshold and held out his hat to her. She nodded and took it from him, placing it with exaggerated care over a hook on the coat stand. She turned back to see that Frank had stopped cold in his tracks, and was sniffing the air like a hound trying to track a scent.
“You baking?” he asked, his forehead bunching up, his eyes narrowing.
“No, sir,” she replied, “but I’d be glad to fix something for you if you’d like. I was about to cook some breakfast for the Judge’s nurse . . .”
“No,” he said and pushed past her, drawing near the foot of the stairs. “You don’t smell that? Kind of like cinnamon, but not?” He craned his neck and looked up the stairs. His hand moved beneath his jacket, allowing Lucille a glimpse of his holster.
She took a few paces toward him, drawing in a deep breath. She did catch a faint whiff of something, now that she was looking for it. She struggled to place it. No, not cinnamon. More like a flower. Dianthus? Maybe. No, not really. But what lay beneath the spice was the undeniable scent of decay. How had she not noticed it before? “No, sir,” she lied. “I don’t smell nothing unusual.” Something about the odor frightened Frank, and realizing that scared Lucille out of her wits.