Dusk descended over the flat expanse of the delta, the fading sun, red and boiling, sinking beneath the horizon when Adam dropped Hick off at home. Maggie was taking the last of the diapers off the clothesline and Hick’s heart swelled when he saw her. It had been a long day and the thought of the sadness that seemed to lurk behind every door overwhelmed him. He stood and watched her. She was thinner now and her hair was no longer fashionably curled, but the beauty and dignity was still there. She was faded and tired and lovely. Impulsively, he crept up behind her, caught her in a hug and kissed her.
“Welcome home, stranger.”
“Jimmy feeling any better?” He picked up the laundry basket.
“Seems to be. But he keeps sucking his thumb. I reckon we’ll have to break him of that.”
“Just let him be.” He put his arm around her waist and walked toward the house. “He’ll be fine. Just let him be.”
19
The moon cast bright patches of light on the quilt as Hick lay beside Maggie, unable to sleep. Adrenaline shot through his veins like lightning, his hands shook, and he tossed and turned causing the covers to get caught in his legs. He thrashed to get loose and Maggie mumbled. Sighing, Hick realized that sleep, again, would not come. He crept from bed and made his way to the kitchen, careful not to wake Mourning Delaney who was curled up on the sofa in the front room. He lit a candle and then a cigarette and noted, without surprise, that Eben and Jed had not returned. It was three o’clock and far too early to go the station. His eyes fell upon the Catholic preacher’s folder which held the sad ending of Abner Delaney’s life. Sitting at the kitchen table, Hick opened it. If sleep wouldn’t find him, he would make use of the time.
He propped the picture of Abner Delaney on a coffee cup. “Abner, if there’s something you want to tell me, now’s the time,” he whispered. The flame on the candle flickered wildly and made a chill creep down Hick’s spine and he inwardly laughed at himself. Father Grant’s large scrawl covered page after page. Much of it did not connect with Abner, per se, but to the general conditions of the prison. In spite of the carnage around him, the brutality, the torture, the rape, the inhumane working conditions, the separation from his family, and the isolation from any semblance of kindness, Abner Delaney retained his humanity. It was clear that Father Grant respected Abner, and his writing showed the frustration of being unable to help.
On one page Grant wrote, “I am certain that within this man lies no predilection for violence. He has endured humiliations from both guard and inmate and has not lifted a hand nor raised his voice.”
Hick thought of Abner Delaney’s baseless arrest and prosecution. Wash’s words came back to him. He had said, Michaels was all about keepin’ the peace and Hick was more interested in justice. Hick wondered if it was possible have one without the other.
“That’s my pa, ain’t it?” a voice said in Hick’s ear causing him to jump and drop his cigarette. He quickly picked it up and turned to see Mourning Delaney beside him, her eyes fixed on the snapshot of Abner Delaney in his prison uniform.
“You ain’t never seen him before?”
“No, Sheriff,” Mourning answered. “Ma and Pa never owned a camera.”
Hick looked at the photo. Mourning’s only sight of her father was in prison garb.
“What you reading?”
“These here are notes that preacher who worked at the prison wrote about your pa. He thought pretty highly of him.”
Mourning pulled a chair out and sat beside Hick. She picked up the photo and her thumb traced the outline of Abner’s face. “What’d he say?”
“This note says, ‘Today I, again, met with Abner Delaney. He regularly sends letters home to his wife who is expecting a child at any moment’.” Here, Hick paused and told Mourning, “He’s talking about you. Your pa worried over you before you were even born.” He continued reading, “‘Abner is a perfect example of the injustice within our judicial system. Because of poverty he was falsely accused of a crime, and because of poverty he was unable to afford legal representation. In spite of this, he bears no malice toward anyone.’” Hick put the paper down and turned toward Mourning. “That preacher believed your pa.”
“My ma never stopped missing him,” she said. “She hardly talked about him, though. I reckon it pained her too much.”
“Sometimes things hurt so bad you can never bring yourself to talk about ’em,” Hick said. “It’s like if you talk about it, all that pain will come back and wash you away.” He thought of Matt Pringle standing in the sunshine weeping. He thought of Tobe cracking open another beer. He thought of himself on his knees in this very kitchen, holding on to Mag for dear life. “Sometimes the best thing a body can do is to try and forget it ever happened.”
Mourning put the photo back on the table. “That don’t seem right. I reckon it will always hurt to think on my pa … and Mama and Job, but I don’t want to forget them. It ain’t wrong to be sad. It’s just the way it is.”
“That’s true. But sometimes things hurt so bad you’re afraid they’ll tear you in two.”
Mourning fixed her eyes on Hick. “But they won’t.” She stood and went back to the couch.
The sound of the faucet running jerked Hick awake. Sunlight streamed in the window over the sink as Maggie filled the percolator with water. Hick’s neck ached from sleeping slumped over the kitchen table and he felt disoriented.
“What time is it?” His voice was groggy, thick with sleep.
“Six-thirty,” Maggie answered in a whisper. She put the coffee pot on the stove and lit the burner. Sitting across from him she asked, “Did you get any sleep at all?”
“A little.” Hick rubbed the back of his neck.
Maggie smiled at him, reached out and touched his hand. “Did you notice?”
“Notice what?”
“Jimmy. He slept through the night.”
Hick sat up straight. “Is he okay?”
Maggie laughed. “He’s fine. Of course I checked to make sure he’s still breathing. He’s peaceful and snoring. His nose doesn’t sound so stopped up today.”
“You finally got a good night’s rest.”
“I had another boy up so I was a bit anxious. But I got a sight more than I’m used to getting and that’s a fact.”
Jimmy stirred and Maggie hurried to his crib and scooped him up. As Hick watched Maggie with the baby he understood Abner Delaney’s predicament. Would he go to prison to keep Maggie out? To keep her safe? Of course. Without hesitation. To Hick, Maggie was a semblance of sanity in a crazy world. She had stood by him through all those dark days when he tried to push her away, through all the criticism and insinuations about his professional competence. She had been his childhood crush, his high school sweetheart, and the love of his life. He never told her what she meant to him. It was hard to put into words. But he trusted that somewhere inside she knew it.
“It’s funny,” he said as he rose from the table and pulled two coffee cups from the cupboard.
“What?”
“When I came home from the war the paper called me a hero. All us guys who came back, we were all heroes. They threw ticker-tape parades and told us we were special, but really all we done was live. We survived and that made us heroes.” He glanced at Abner’s picture. “I reckon all I saw over there and all I’ve seen since I came back has changed my notions of what a hero is.”
“How?” Maggie asked looking up from Jimmy’s face, her fingertips absently caressing the outline of the baby’s chin.
“I reckon anyone who does their best, lives a good life, and doesn’t hurt anyone is a hero.” Hick poured two cups of coffee and sat one on the table in front of his wife. “You may be surprised to hear this Magdalene Benson, but you are a hero to me.”
Her eyes widened. “Me?”
“You.” He took a drink of his coffee and kissed the top of Maggie’s head. “I need to get ready for work.”
When he returned, Mourning was awake holding Jimmy while Maggie sto
od at the stove cooking breakfast. She explained to the young girl that the letters O-A-T-M-E-A-L spelled oatmeal. Stopping in the doorway, he thought of all the nights Maggie spent alone at the house because of his crazy work schedule and how companionable the scene before him looked.
“I’m off,” he announced picking up his hat and pausing to kiss his wife good-bye.
“What about breakfast?” Maggie asked.
“I’ll grab something at the diner.” Stopping at the door, he told her, “Don’t forget to keep the place locked.” He stepped out onto the porch and paused. The humidity was already oppressive and the air stifling. The bright sunshine glinted off the windshield as he stopped in front of his car to light a cigarette. Even with the windows down, by the time he got to the station he was soaked with sweat.
“Gonna be a hot one,” Adam remarked as Hick walked inside and hung up his hat.
“It’s already a hot one.”
“We heard from the bank in Memphis,” Adam said.
“The five thousand dollars was from a trust fund made out to Millicent Harris. It seems that Gladys Kestrel was an assumed name she chose because she never wanted the father of her son to find her. The baby’s father opened the bank account in 1920 and put the ten thousand in it for Gladys—or Millicent, but it appears she wanted nothing to do with him. She never touched the money, not even during the depression, and I’m sure she could have used it. Apparently the man recently died. He was pretty well off from what I can gather. When she got the second deposit and learned the baby’s father was dead, Gladys contacted the home in Memphis to try and find out where her son might be. My guess is she wanted him to have that money. Records are sealed up pretty tight. It don’t look like her boy will ever get it.”
“So what happens to it?”
Adam shrugged. “Gladys didn’t leave a will and she has no heirs. I reckon the state will end up with it.”
Hick sighed. “Damn. That was a pretty good lead … gone, like all the rest.”
“You eat yet?”
“No,” Hick answered. “Just coffee. Ain’t got much of an appetite these days.”
Adam grabbed his hat and turned to Wash who had been dozing at his desk. “Wash, you want to grab something to eat?”
The older man shook his head. “Nah, I’m good. The missus fixed me a huge breakfast today. I don’t even reckon I got room for coffee.”
Adam nodded and told Hick, “We can talk at breakfast and see if we’re able to make any sense of all this.”
The door clanged as the two men walked into the diner. The atmosphere had changed markedly. Rather than hostile stares, eyes turned downward in shame as the story of Job Delaney’s killing had filled the paper and the ears of the town gossips. It was as if Cherokee Crossing had realized its collective shame in judging too quickly.
Shirley Daniels approached and took their order. After gulping some coffee, Adam asked, “So where are we?”
“We’re in the yard chasing our tails like a couple of hound dogs,” Hick said.
“I was afraid of that.”
“Our suspects are dropping like flies. George Shelley, The Delaneys, Ronnie Pringle, and now the money trail has dried up. Hell, at this point I’m lost. What we need is a break.”
“You hear anything about Wheeler and Job yet?”
“It’ll be a few days,” Hick said. “They’ll make a show of it, like they’re seriously considering the case, but Wheeler’s got about a snowball’s chance in Hell of being charged with anything.”
“That’s what I figured.” Shirley returned with Adam’s breakfast, and he attacked the fried eggs in front of him like a man without a care.
“Doesn’t it ever get to you?” Hick said. His brother-in-law was not a passionate person, unless it pertained to his family and then Hick pitied anyone who ever thought of hurting one of them. He recognized within Adam Kinion a sleeping volcano that would erupt in rage if anything happened to someone he loved.
Adam took a drink of coffee and looked Hick in the eye. “Listen, Hick, if you let every injustice of the world eat at you, you will spend your life angry at everyone. There’s all kinds of folks in this world. Good ones, bad ones, ignorant and wise, but we have to live and somehow get along with all of ’em. All I can do is work to see that right is done when I’m able. When I’m not, it’s my job to understand what went wrong and do my damndest to see it don’t happen again. We both know life ain’t gonna be fair.”
“Yeah.” Hick lit a cigarette. “I thought that if Wheeler was punished for what he did to Job, it would make me happy, but it won’t. Job’s not coming back and Wheeler will live with that every single day of his life. There’s really no joy in seeing anyone suffer, no matter how big a bastard they are.”
“You know, it wouldn’t hurt to go back to Wheeler’s and go through Susie’s room. We might find something.”
“Good idea, Deputy Kinion. Finish up that feast and let’s head over there. We might just find our break.”
20
Mrs. Wheeler appeared haggard and tired, and yet there was a new-found strength in her face. “Have you come to take Ted?” she asked with an edge of steel in her voice. “He’s in bed. He’s not well.”
“No, ma’am. We wanted to talk to you. Have you ever found anything odd or out of place in Susie’s room? “
“What do you mean?”
“Any notes or papers? Did she have a diary, perhaps? We’re looking for anything that might help us.”
She stepped back from the doorway and let Hick and Adam into the house. Glancing upstairs, she said, “Sheriff, that room stays shut. I go in there once a year on the anniversary of the day …” Her eyes filled with tears. “You know, Ted and I couldn’t have children. We’d tried and tried and went to doctors, but they all said the same thing. And then, one day, like a miracle, I was pregnant. When Susie was born it was like God had given us one of his special angels. She was always happy, always laughing. She was the light of our lives.”
She wiped her eyes on her apron. “She fell in love with Ronnie Pringle when they were in the fourth grade. I always thought Ronnie looked at Susie more as a little sister than a steady girl, but they were best friends and that I know. They told each other everything. That’s why I can’t understand that Susie was pregnant … I just can’t. Ronnie would never do her like that and if Susie was in a bind, he would have done whatever it took to help her.”
Hick’s stomach tightened and a feeling of deep anger toward George Shelley filled him. George knew better and took advantage of Susie’s innocence. He closed his eyes feeling the deep resentment boil within him and then took a deep breath, forcing himself to focus on the task at hand. “Ma’am, would you mind if we took a look in her room? There may be a clue or something in there that might help us out. Do you need to ask Reverend Wheeler?”
She smiled and shook her head. “Sheriff, take all the time you need.”
The door creaked as it swung open. The air was hot and still, the windows were shut, but the closed curtains couldn’t stop the sun’s rays from illuminating the room. The twin bed was covered with a white, lace coverlet and a Bible sat on the nightstand beside a reading lamp. A Bakelite powder box, brush, comb, and mirror sat on the dresser beside a framed picture of Ronnie Pringle. Hick picked up the photo. Ronnie was wearing a bow tie and three-piece suit. In spite of the Depression, he looked well-dressed and well-fed. His hair was perfectly combed back and his smile was light-hearted, belying the turmoil inside. He had inscribed the words, “To My Susie, With Love, Ronnie,” on the face of the photo. Matt Pringle’s description of Ronnie’s heartbreak and the photo in Hick’s hand did not corroborate George Shelley’s assertion that Ronnie would be “glad to be rid of her.”
Hick opened the powder box and stared. “I think I found Ronnie’s missing cuff link.”
“Yeah? Well come see what I found,” Adam said in a tight voice. Hick crossed the room to where Adam was seated on the bed. He held up a piece of paper that was i
n the pages of Susie’s Bible.
“What is it?”
“It’s an address … to a house in Pocahontas.”
“You’re kidding.”
Adam slammed the Bible shut. “He knew. She was writing him. That son of a bitch knew all along.”
“You don’t know that, Adam.” A phone rang downstairs and they heard Mrs. Wheeler pick it up.
“Who else would Susie Wheeler have known in Pocahontas? She was writing to George Shelley. That bastard lied to us.”
“Now hold on—” Hick began when Mrs. Wheeler tapped on the door.
“Sheriff,” she said coming into the room. “That was Deputy Metcalfe. He says you need to get over to Miss Audie’s right away. She’s got something to show you.”
Miss Audie was waiting for them on the front porch when they pulled up in front of the house. She was wearing the house dress she always seemed to wear and in her hand she held a paper which she waved the minute they stepped out of the car.
“It’s right here,” she told them. “Big as life. I never made this phone call. I can’t for the life of me think of who might have made a phone call like this from my house.”
Hick and Adam joined Miss Audie on the porch and she thrust the telephone bill at them. The Southwestern Telephone and Telegraph bill had the normal $2.00 charge for local service, but there was an additional trunk and toll service charge that was unusual. Turning it over to read the explanation Adam observed the date. “This was placed on May 30, the day before Gladys died.” He knitted his brow. “Person to person. She wanted to speak to someone in particular.”
“We need to call the operator,” Hick said, “and see if they have a record or if anyone might remember.”
Adam nodded and Miss Audie shook her head. “I didn’t know that Gladys knew a soul outside of Cherokee Crossing. Who do you think she might have been calling?”
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