Maggie brushed hair from her damp forehead. “I wish you didn’t have to go anywhere near that man.”
“The preacher works at a Negro church,” Hick said. “Brewster wouldn’t be seen on that side of town unless he was fixin’ to arrest someone.” He grabbed the thermos and forced a smile. “Don’t worry. I’ve got no business with him.”
Her eyes held his. They seemed to be questioning him, trying to figure out if he was okay. She sighed and glanced out the window. “You best be going. I think it’s gonna rain.”
There was a sadness mingled with resignation in her voice that caused Hick’s heart to expand. He pulled her close and inhaled the scent of her hair. “I’ll be back tonight. It ain’t much more than an hour away.”
“I’ll keep your dinner warm.”
Hick looked into her face and cupped her chin. “You’re not afraid of being alone, are you?”
Maggie brushed that aside. “Of course not … I’m—”
“Because if you are,” Hick interrupted, “you could stay at your mother’s, or my mother’s.”
“I’m not afraid,” Maggie said with a note of finality in her voice. “And I won’t be alone. Your mother and Mrs. Shelley are coming over to see the baby tonight. I’m not worried for me. It’s everything about this. It’s Gladys and Brewster and that prison. Promise me you won’t go to that place. I’ve heard awful things about it.”
Hick pushed a hair back from Maggie’s face and looked into her eyes. “I promise I won’t go to the prison. I’ve got no call to go there, and I agree with you. I wouldn’t send my dog there. And if this Catholic preacher can tell me something, anything, to keep me from sending Eben and Jed there, it’ll be worth the trip.”
Maggie managed a weak smile. “You’re right. If you can spare Miss Delaney that pain, then I suppose you need to go.”
Hick kissed the baby’s forehead. “I’ll be back later.”
She nodded.
He paused at the doorway. “I want you to keep this door locked.”
“You can’t be serious,” Maggie said. “I’ve never locked a door in my life and it’s so hot—”
“I know it’s hot,” Hick snapped with an irritated edge to his voice. He closed his eyes and sighed. “Someone killed Gladys Kestrel, and I have no idea who or why anyone on earth would do such a thing. Until I figure it out, I want you to keep the door locked all day, every day. Especially when I’m gone. Okay?”
She nodded. “I will, Hickory.”
“Thank you.” He started to pull the door closed behind him, but she caught it.
“You be careful. Promise me.”
“I promise.”
He paused at the car and pulled a Camel from the pack, tapping the cigarette on the back of his hand. He was unreasonably agitated as he forced a smile and waved at Maggie.
He climbed into the car and pushed in the lighter, then jumped at the sound of it popping out. He lit the cigarette and took a deep draw. The smoke in his lungs calmed his nerves. Then, he turned the key and waited until the door was firmly closed behind Maggie. Coaxing the car into reverse, he headed south.
A storm rolled in before Hick had been on the road a half hour. Big, loud drops slapped at his windshield and soon gave way to sheets of water cascading from the roof only to be interrupted by the wipers. Thunder rumbled and water pooled in low places on the road. The ditches were already full with days and days of rain and the muddy water sat, stagnant, swelling the mosquito population.
The rain had not let up by the time he arrived at Our Lady of Sorrows Church, on the outskirts of Broken Creek. It was a small building with a muddy parking lot and behind the church were train tracks and a large cotton gin. On the other side of the dirt road lay a cotton field that stretched out to a distant break of trees. He parked, put his jacket over his head, and ran through the rain to the church. Inside, he closed the door against the wind and shook his jacket out.
“Good afternoon, sir. May I help you?”
Hick turned to see a young black woman in a starched, white blouse eyeing his uniform with barely concealed suspicion. She clutched a shiny patent leather purse, evidently preparing to leave for the day.
Hick removed his hat. “Hello, ma’am. Is the preacher at home?”
She suppressed a small smile. “Father Grant is in his office.” Glancing again at Hick’s uniform she asked, “Do you have an appointment?”
“No, ma’am,” Hick answered.
“I’ll tell him you’re here.”
She left the room and Hick stood in the entryway. It was small and shabby but otherwise impeccably clean and organized. The walls were adorned with religious pictures, mainly cheap prints in cheaper frames. The patchwork rug was frayed at the ends and thin spots testified to years of wear. And the room smelled musty, like the roof might be leaking. After a moment, the secretary opened the door and beckoned Hick forward.
“Here’s the lawman come to see you, Father,” she said. As Hick entered, she smiled, nodded, and left the room.
Father Jefferson Davis Grant, sat in a worn leather desk chair, and regarded Hick a moment. The expression on his face wasn’t unfriendly, but there was a reserve, a resignation, and a bitterness that Hick could not account for.
“Won’t you have a seat,” he said in a deep, resonant voice.
Hick sat down and glanced around the room. On a credenza behind the priest sat a covered typewriter and on top of the cover rested a mound of paper. Above all this hung a cross-stitched sampler that read, What is man that Thou art mindful of him. To the right of the typewriter sat a bottle of brandy and a half-empty glass. There were files everywhere, their contents spilling out every which way and Hick was amused to note that this room was as disordered as the other was neat.
Hick expected a bookish, small man, but Father Grant was neither. He was tall with a heavy brow, thick beard, and an expression hovering somewhere between distrust and disillusion.
“What can I do for you?” he asked in a tired voice.
Hick hesitated and then answered, feeling foolish. “I don’t rightly know if there’s anything you can do for me.”
The priest looked surprised. “Care to explain?” he said with a slight softening of attitude.
“You were chaplain at the Pinewood Prison Farm about fourteen years back, right?”
Grant’s mouth smirked with disgust, as if he had eaten something sour. “I was.”
“And I reckon the prisoners came to you with their problems … or confessions.”
“Some did.”
Hick leaned forward. “I don’t exactly know how to put this so I’m just going to say it. About thirteen years ago a man named Abner Delaney was executed at the prison for the murder of a young woman in Cherokee Crossing. Two days ago his boys came across the body of a murdered woman in a drainage ditch and called police. I don’t know how, but the murder of this woman may be connected with the murder of the girl Abner Delaney was executed for killing.”
The priest reached toward the credenza and drained the glass sitting on it. “And what has any of this to do with me?”
Hick felt himself growing frustrated because he couldn’t think of anything. He knew he was grasping at straws, but straws were all he had. He shook his head. “I don’t know. I really don’t know. Abner’s daughter handed me a stack of letters sent to her mother from the prison. They were written by you.”
Father Grant turned toward Hick and asked, “And what did the letters contain?”
“Most of them contained what you would expect. Wishes for his family’s welfare, lies about how decent he was being treated at the jail. But there was one in particular that caught my attention.” Hick reached into his pocket and passed the note to Father Grant.
The priest read the letter and frowned. “And did she? Did Mrs. Delaney go to the prison?”
“Mrs. Delaney can’t read. She never knew she was needed.”
Father Grant’s gaze rested on the note. Hick had trouble placing his age beca
use his hair was still thick and dark but his face looked strained and old as if he’d seen more than he wanted to remember. The priest sighed. “I’m still unclear on how I can help you.”
Hick turned his hands over, his empty palms emphasizing his lack of answers. “I was hoping the note might jolt your memory. Make you think of something that seemed out of place with Abner, something that didn’t quite add up.”
Father Grant stared at the letter in his hand. Shaking his head, he told Hick, “I wrote so many of these. Few of the men at that prison could read or write.” He stared at it, contemplating the words.
Hick leaned forward. “I know it seems crazy to drive all the way out here, but if them boys is innocent I’ll do anything to keep them out of that prison farm. I know what goes on there.”
The last bit of reserve seemed to flow out of the priest. His eyes narrowed and the corners of his mouth turned down. “You know what goes on there. The whole world knows what goes on there and not one person raises a finger to stop it.” He motioned toward the mounds of papers. “These papers are notes I took while I served there. Notes on the treatment of the prisoners, notes on the prisoners themselves, how many were poor, illiterate, Negro. They all say they’re innocent, but some truly were.” He paused and whispered as if he was alone with his thoughts. “Some truly were.”
“I don’t reckon you’d recall one man or why it was you seemed to think Abner was innocent or why you thought the investigation was flawed?”
“No I wouldn’t,” Father Grant said reaching behind him and refilling the glass. “That’s why I kept these notes. There were just so many …” His voice trailed off and he closed his eyes. “Someday we may have a governor who gives a damn about these people and when we do, he’ll read about this. About the torture and the suffering. About the cruelty.”
Hick’s shoulders sagged in discouragement. “I don’t reckon it’s an easy task to go through all that and find notes on a specific person. Something that might help me?”
The priest picked up the glass and stared at the liquid. He set it down without taking a drink and ran his hand through his hair. Looking at the stacks and stacks of file folders around him, he replied, “These folders are the last days of the lives of men, men made in the image and likeness of God, but who were treated like brutes. They are their last thoughts, their hopes for their loved ones, their regrets. They aren’t things to be passed around.”
“But if Abner were alive, he’d do anything to save his children, to keep them out of that place. You must know that.”
“That may be true,” Father Grant agreed, “but to find the file on one man, out of the thousands in here”—the priest looked around the room—“that’s nigh on impossible.”
So the trip was made in vain after all. Hick slumped back in his chair and shook his head. Father Grant regarded him silently for a moment and then said, “I’ve been a priest for sixteen years. My first assignment was that prison farm. I used to believe that men were basically good until I went there.” The ice cubes tinkled in his glass as he took a drink and sat it back down with a emphatic thud. “That six years was my trial by fire. It wasn’t so much what I saw as what I didn’t see. I didn’t see any outcry from the public. I didn’t see anyone pretend to care about the suffering that went on behind those bars. I didn’t see any compassion … all I saw was slavery by another name.”
Hick’s eyes fixed on the white collar showing above Grant’s black shirt. “Why were you sent to that prison anyway?”
Father Grant smiled a bitter smile. “Less than two percent of this state is Catholic. You know how many Catholics I met in that prison? Zero. Not one. But those men needed comfort, they needed to know that God was still in heaven, and that He cared even if people here on earth seemed to have forgotten them. There was only one reason a Catholic priest was sent to that prison. Let’s just say the local ministers didn’t want to sully their hands working with poor folks and Negroes.
Hick sighed and rose to leave. “Well, I appreciate you seeing me.”
“You know you’re the first cop to come into this office without a warrant to haul off one of my parishioners?” Father Grant said, rising from his chair for the first time and holding out a hand. “Our local sheriff takes great delight in hauling my people off to jail.”
Hick frowned. “Yes, I’m acquainted with him.”
“It was good of you to drive this far to help those boys. There aren’t many who’d take the time.”
Hick shrugged. “I told their mama I’d do all I could. They’re good boys and all she’s got for support. I don’t know how any of them will make it if they’re arrested.”
The priest towered over him and his dark eyes held a deep sadness. “As long as you treat men like animals, they’re going to act like animals. The Pinewood Prison Farm is the kind of place where good men come out bad and bad men come out worse.” He paused as some emotion seemed to well up in him. “Those boys will be another story in a litany of sad stories. That place is the closest thing to Hell on earth
I can imagine, filled with young boys, grey-haired grandfathers, even lunatics. I could say many of them didn’t belong there, but no one belonged there. Some just seemed to get along better in that environment than others … to prosper, even … like they were born to brutalize.”
A shiver went down Hick’s spine. He shook his head. “Eben and Jed Delaney are good boys. Always out, looking for food … or work. Anything to help their mama and their little sister and brother.” He pursed his lips in anger. “Just damned bad luck, and I don’t know what I can do to help them.”
The priest reached down and picked up a small notebook and a pen. “What did you say the man’s name was?”
“Delaney. Abner Delaney.”
He finished writing and looked up. “You see the mess I have … I’ll do my best, but I can’t make any promises.”
“I wouldn’t ask you to,” Hick answered, “but I appreciate anything you can do.”
The men shook hands and Hick walked out the door, carefully closing it behind him. The secretary had evidently been asked to wait and she told Hick, “The storm ain’t so bad now.”
Hick looked out the window and saw that it was barely raining. The woman had a nameplate on her desk that read ‘Esther Burton’. “Excuse me, Miss Esther, but may I use your phone?”
She looked doubtful. “Ain’t it long distance?”
“I’ll reverse the charges.”
Assured, she handed him the phone and Hick called the office, getting Adam on the phone. “Yeah, I’m still in Broken Creek,” he said. “Any news on the Delaney brothers?”
Esther Burton’s face registered surprise as the receiver slipped from Hick’s hand and landed with a clunk on the desk. Grabbing it back up, he spoke quickly. “What do you mean they weren’t on Smitty’s truck?”
8
“Son of a bitch,” Hick grumbled as he put his coffee cup on the saucer with a bang.
“It seems the habitually inept law enforce-ment of the town of Cherokee Crossing has done it again. As of this printing two murder suspects, Jed and Eben Delaney, are on the lam. Sheriff Hick Blackburn was overheard by this reporter stating that in his ‘learned’ opinion the young miscreants were innocent and flatly refused to bring them in. As their flight from Cherokee Crossing has made their guilt evident it is hoped that Sheriff Blackburn can redeem himself with a quick apprehension before they kill again.”
Hick closed the newspaper. He had slept little and risen early after his unsuccessful trip to Broken Creek. The last thing he wanted to deal with was Wayne Murphy’s nonsense. Maggie looked up from the pile of diapers she was folding.
“What’s wrong?”
“Damned Murphy.”
“Now what?”
Hick handed her the paper and watched the color in her cheeks rise. She handed the paper back and told him, “Nobody believes a word he writes.”
“That may or may not be true, but I hate how he twists everything
to sell his papers.” Wayne Murphy had long been Hick Blackburn’s nemesis. Things had gone from bad to worse when Hick refused to let Murphy accompany him to Claire Thompson’s arrest for the murder of an infant two years earlier, arguably the biggest thing to happen in Cherokee Crossing’s history. Murphy used the paper often to exercise his vindictiveness.
“Wayne Murphy isn’t likely to change, you know that. So no use worrying over him.” Maggie said grabbing another diaper. She folded the last one and stretched. “I best get Jimmy ready for church. You goin’?”
He shook his head. He hadn’t gone in a while but Maggie asked every week nonetheless. “Not this week. Not with everything I’ve got to do.”
“I’ll go by for your mama again,” Maggie told him. “She don’t need to be walkin’ in this heat.”
“Thanks,” Hick replied. He rose from the chair and grabbed his hat. He had a long day of investigating ahead.
“Don’t forget, Tobe and Fay are coming for Sunday dinner,” Maggie called after him.
Hick had forgotten, and he could tell Maggie knew it. Gladys’ murder was hanging heavily on him and he had a lot of do. The idea of entertaining guests was unappealing. When things were bad at work, the tension always spilled over at home.
“I’ll be here,” he promised.
Frustration boiled within him as he drove to work. He was annoyed with himself for, once again, letting Wayne Murphy get under his skin, and he felt ashamed for getting so wrapped up in work that home felt like an inconvenience. To not invite Tobe and Fay when they were in town was really not an option, and yet he was still irrationally angry with Maggie for doing it.
Tobe had been Hick’s best friend in high school and together the two boys had been summoned to war. Though not casualties in body, both men had been scarred and wounded by their experiences in Europe. Tobe found solace in a bottle and had ultimately carved out a shaky personal armistice by only indulging in his lust on the weekends. He and Fay moved to St. Louis where Tobe soberly worked at the Fisher body plant Monday through Friday, and stayed drunk from Friday night to Sunday. It hurt Hick to see his friend reduced to this and he was an unwelcome reminder of the war, a visual demonstration that their public personas belied secret, personal demons.
Behind Every Door Page 6