The statement was so complete that Lindsay’s couldn’t help but feel that it might be a sort of deathbed confession. Keith had even asked if he could be given the death penalty as his punishment. It went on—blow by painful blow—until Keith finally lost consciousness.
As everyone dispersed, Vickers took Lindsay by the elbow, walked her into an empty room and shut the door behind them. “Fleet wanted you to stay here until he could ‘debrief’ you,” Vickers began, “but we all think you should go home and get some rest. You’ve been through more than enough for one day.”
“Aren’t you afraid of going against Fleet?” Lindsay asked.
“Naw. He’ll be going home soon now that the Young murder is winding down. Everything will be back to normal in a couple of weeks.”
“What about Silas Richards? I don’t suppose he’s going to forget about getting wrongly arrested anytime soon,” Lindsay said. A pang of guilt swept over her as she recollected her own sizeable role in that fiasco.
“I can’t believe Satterwhite didn’t tell you! Good old Warren fixed that one up. Silas was threatening to sue, of course, almost from the moment he stepped out of the county lock-up. But Warren had an ace in the hole. Turns out some little old biddy has some kind of family claim on the land out at the Richards’ Homestead. Going back to slave times. Warren got the old gal to pay Silas a call. She promised to give up any legal rights to the land as long as he agreed not to sue anybody about him getting arrested. And, she even got Silas to agree to set aside part of the land for historic preservation and to fund a museum dedicated to her husband’s great, great granddaddy!” Vickers voice dropped low and his tone became conspiratorial. “Just between you and me,” he added, “Satterwhite might also have mentioned that he knew that the Richards family comes from a long line of Yankee carpetbaggers. And that, if Silas wanted to keep that proud and noble lineage under wraps, it might do him good to forget this business about that little mistake with the arrest. Tell me that ain’t a fine bit of police work!” Vickers slapped his knee and laughed uproariously.
“Well,” Vickers said, wiping tears from his cheeks, “I’d better get you home before this storm gets any worse. I reckon we’re gonna need a boat ‘stead of a car if we wait much longer.”
Chapter 53
The streetlights were out all over town, and Lindsay again had to rely on Vickers’s adept driving and the sturdiness of a New Albany Police Department Chevy Suburban to conduct her safely through the storm-ravaged landscape. Tornados warnings and watches were blaring from the radio. They didn’t see any twisters, but they had a few near misses from airborne debris sailing past them. At last, they pulled up in front of Jonah’s house, which was dark, except for a faint glow of candlelight coming from deep inside. Lindsay opened her car door to take her leave when Vickers suddenly said, “Hey, I’ve been to this house before. Years and years ago. Yeah, I’m sure it was this place. I’d just started on the force in fact, maybe two months before. We got a tipoff that there was a couple of kids in there growing a forest full of cannabis—a guy and a girl who couldn’t have been more than twenty. They had sheets and blankets hung over all the windows and every room was full of plants. Plants in the kitchen cabinets, plants in the bathtub, everywhere. It would have been funny, almost, except that they had a little daughter in there. Matter of fact, the only place they didn’t have marijuana was in the little girl’s room.”
Lindsay pulled her car door closed again and listened intently as Vickers continued the story. Hearing the story was like discovering a photo album that chronicled a familiar event, but from an entirely new camera angle. “Yeah, the kid was maybe four or five. She cried like the dickens when we took her mommy and daddy away in handcuffs. And the parents cried, too, especially the father. He had to be dragged away. And I mean literally dragged. The man was clawing at the earth trying not to be parted from that little girl. Kept telling her that everything would be all right, and he’d come back for her. She ended up going to live with some relative or another down east. I’ve sometimes wondered what became of her. Probably a druggie like her folks. I doubt she ever had much chance.” Vickers sighed and said, “Anyway, I didn’t mean to trouble you with a miserable story like that! I guess this is what happens to us men with they get old. I’m going all soft and sentimental. Look, I’ve even got you crying now.”
Lindsay thanked Vickers for the ride and hurried up the driveway to the side door of the house, her tears mingling with the rain. She peered through the glass into the kitchen. Jonah was sitting alone, studying his Bible at the table. She tried the door, but found it locked. She tapped hard on the glass, so her knock could be heard above the din of the storm. Jonah looked up in alarm, but his face softened when he saw Lindsay. He opened the door and folded her into his arms. For once, she did not stiffen at his embrace. “How did you get here? Are you okay?” Jonah led Lindsay inside and settled her in one of the kitchen chairs. An odd array of candles glowed in the center of the table—everything from tea lights to a chunky, glass-potted candle with the words “No. #1 Preacher” inscribed on the side with a silver marker.
Lindsay’s brain formed her familiar, deflective anthem, “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you later.” But instead of uttering those words and moving on to another topic, she found herself spilling the events and emotions of the previous weeks. Her story took nearly an hour, and Jonah listened quietly, without interrupting. When she finally finished, she braced herself for the inevitable onslaught of chastisements, solutions, and I-told-you-so’s. Instead, Jonah patted her on her hand and poured her a glass of tepid sweet tea. They were like actors, accustomed to being typecast, now suddenly thrown into fresh roles. They sipped their tea in silence, their faces reflecting the warm orangey yellow of the glowing candles.
A booming knock on the front door shattered the calm. Lindsay had almost forgotten all about Sarabelle and Swoopes. She hadn’t even asked Jonah whether or not they had come. The anxious look that suddenly broke across his face told her that they had not. Lindsay and Jonah crept toward the front door. They stepped cautiously, needlessly careful of making noise; the crash of the wind drowned out their footsteps anyway. Jonah straightened his spine and opened the door, ready to face whatever the storm had washed up on his doorstep. He and Lindsay let out simultaneous gasps of surprise. Soaked to the skin, alone, stood Sarabelle. Lindsay scanned the surrounding street, but there was no sign of anyone else—just this rain-drowned woman, her eye makeup running down her cheeks in black rivulets, her white-blonde hair as limp as seaweed clinging to the shore. Lindsay had never seen Sarabelle looking anything other than immaculate. Now, harshly illuminated by a flash of lighting, she looked inconsequential and very, very old.
“Well, can I come in, or what?” Sarabelle demanded petulantly, forcing her way between them as she spoke. “I done walked here all the way from the Motel 6 over by Stuckey’s. This damn wind almost blowed me outta my shoes.”
“You walked here? In this weather?” Jonah asked, aghast.
“I had to, didn’t I? That friend of your daughter’s had our truck impounded.” Sarabelle had removed the zip-front hooded sweatshirt that she’d been wearing and was ringing it out on the carpet.
“What friend of mine?” Lindsay asked, genuinely confused.
“As if you didn’t know, Little Miss Goody Two Shoes. I can’t believe that you would sic that bean-pole policeman on your own mother. And a’ orange-haired, bean-pole policeman at that. You know that the only thing I hate more than policemen is carrot tops.” Sarabelle removed her shoes, tipping a small stream of water out of each one. “Busted into our motel room this afternoon and cuffed Leander. Told me that I had ten seconds to decide if I wanted to end up in the back of a patrol car or be on my way. Said I better get well clear of North Carolina if I knew what was good for me! Can you believe that? What kind of man sends a woman out into weather like this? That carrot-top son of a bitch didn’t call me a cab or nothing.” She flopped down on the sofa and crossed
her arms. “He’s lucky I don’t march right over to that police station right this second and demand his badge.”
The vitriol of Sarabelle’s monologue had been entirely directed at Lindsay. She now peeled the stray strands of her hair off her face and turned to Jonah, mustering her best damsel-in-distress expression. When she spoke, her voice seemed to sidle up beside him. “Sugar, can you get me a cup of coffee? Momma Bear’s a little worn out from all this excitement.”
Johan walked over to the door and opened it, gesturing for Sarabelle to exit the way she had entered. “Get your own dang coffee. And get it somewhere else.” His voice was as hard as stone.
“Sugar! What has gotten into you?” Sarabelle asked.
“Sense. Now get out of my house.”
Sarabelle voice suddenly turned to acid. “Do you forget who you’re talking to? I have as much right to be in this house as you do. I am your lawfully-wedded wife.”
“Not for long, you’re not. You can expect divorce papers just as soon as I can get down to the lawyer’s office,” Jonah said.
Sarabelle jumped off the couch as if it were on fire. She and Jonah circled each other like boxers in a ring. “If you even try to divorce me,” Sarabelle began, “I am gonna make sure everyone in this town is reminded what kind of a person you really are. I’ll be in the front pew at church every Sunday tellin’ ‘em. You can bet your sweet…”
Lindsay stepped between them and cut Sarabelle off, just as she was beginning to gather steam. Lindsay leaned toward her mother, pointing her index finger right between Sarabelle’s eyes. “If you come within a hundred miles of that church, or my father, or me, I will have you arrested. Or did you forget about my friend the policeman?” Lindsay picked up an afghan that hung on the back of a rocking chair and threw it angrily at Sarabelle. “Make yourself comfortable on the couch. You can stay here until the storm lets up. Then I want you gone.”
“We want you gone.” Jonah put special emphasis on the plural.
Lindsay and Jonah left Sarabelle gaping like a fresh-caught fish. They retired to their bedrooms, whispering their goodnights in the hallway as they had done throughout Lindsay’s childhood. Although the wind howled and raged through the night, Lindsay slept deeply and soundly.
##
When she awoke the next morning, bright rays of sun sliced through the cracks in the window blinds. The storm had passed. Lindsay wandered out into the living room. All that remained of Sarabelle was an indentation in the couch and a rumpled afghan on the floor. She walked to the kitchen, where Jonah was brewing coffee in the ancient coffee maker. “Power came back on,” he said. Lindsay sat down at the table.
“She stole $400 from that empty ice cream tub I keep in the freezer,” Jonah said. “I guess I should change my hiding places every couple of decades, huh?” He handed Lindsay a cup of murky brew that had a thick film of coffee grounds floating on the surface. She took a polite sip, pausing to chew some stray grounds.
“And she stole my Billy Graham Bible.”
“Oh, Dad, no! I’m so sorry.”
“It’s all right. Really.” Jonah sipped philosophically from his cup. He paused for a moment, swishing the coffee around in his mouth. Then he calmly walked over to his coffee maker. He pried off the lid that housed the inner workings. He tipped the machine backwards and dumped the coffee, chunks and all, into the heart of the machine. It sparked, then sizzled, then died. “She didn’t take anything that matters.”
“Well then,” Lindsay said, with a broad smile.
Chapter 54
Jonah gave Lindsay a ride on the back of his motorcycle, out to the road where she had abandoned his Buick. The car looked bright and shiny from the rain. They filled the gas tank from a canister and were able to get it started up on the first try. Lindsay bid goodbye to Jonah, and drove his car to her house. It wasn’t even nine AM, but the slow boil of the Carolina summer day had begun. Sunshine baked the ground, and the rising air was thick and humid. The physical traces of the storm were everywhere: enormous, lake-like puddles, downed branches, and the wind-scattered detritus of suburban life—shingles, garbage cans, lawn ornaments. But the ferocious weather was gone.
Lindsay showered and changed. The normalcy of the routine of cleaning her body soothed her frayed nerves. There was one more thing she wanted to take care of. Lindsay climbed into the Buick and dialed Fleet’s number on her cell phone. She didn’t relish the prospect of talking to him, but at least the idea no longer filled her with dread. “Hello. It’s Lindsay Harding. I wanted to thank you for saving me yesterday.”
“Yes,” Fleet said, matter-of-factly.
Lindsay didn’t know what she had expected. Maybe a brief moment of mutual understanding? Maybe a “you’re welcome”? Anyway, nothing more seemed to be forthcoming, so she shifted the focus of the conversation. “Also, I need a favor,” she continued.
“Oh?”
“Yes, I need Warren Satterwhite’s address.”
“I would have thought that you would already know it. Or perhaps he likes to keep his home life with his wife separate from his…activities with you.”
“We don’t have any activities. We are not dating. We are not a real couple and we never have been.”
“I am heartened to hear you say it. I trust you are not thinking of rekindling things with him. Married men make many promises, but in the end, that kind of thing can only bring unhappiness. To use your own words, you can never be a ‘real couple’ in a relationship like that.”
Explanation was futile, so Lindsay said simply, “I’m sure you’re right. I just want to return a few things of his.”
Fleet gave her the address, but before closing the conversation said, “Sergeant Satterwhite told me how much you helped in solving this case.” Lindsay thought for a half-second that he was going to offer his thanks. His voice took on a vinegary edge that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. “If I were you, I would keep any talk like that to yourself. The timely and competent assistance of the FBI solved this case. And this case is now closed. Opening it again might expose all sorts of unsavory details about personal lives, relationships, families, parents… All sorts of things best left buried.”
“I understand completely,” Lindsay said, pressing the ‘End’ button with the sincere hope that this would indeed be the end of her acquaintance with Special Agent Valentine Fleet.
##
Warren lived on the two-lane road that led out of Mount Moriah, past the Richards Homestead, under the expressway, and into the farms and forests beyond. It wasn’t far from Lindsay’s own house, but the journey—through the part of the county that had taken the hardest hit from the previous night’s storm—was treacherous. At least half a dozen tornadoes had spun off from the hurricane, cutting huge swaths of devastation. Branches lay scattered in the road, and in one or two places, whole trees had toppled, blocking the way. When Lindsay tried to bypass them, the ground on the shoulder of the road was so sodden that the wheels of Jonah’s Buick struggled to free themselves from the mire.
When she finally spotted the numbers of Warren’s address hand-lettered on a battered aluminum mailbox, Lindsay exhaled deeply, grateful that her harrowing drive was over. Her sense of relief evaporated almost immediately, however. She pulled onto a dirt track that dead-ended into a cleared patch of ground and surveyed the scene before her. Two-by-fours, pieces of drywall, and other construction materials had been scattered by the winds of the storm. A decaying tobacco barn stood at one end of the clearing. Its wooden siding had, over many years, faded to a soft grey, and the edges of the building seemed to melt and mingle with the trees surrounding it. But it was what stood at the other end of the clearing that made Lindsay’s heart jump. A small trailer home had been bent into a U-shape by an enormous shagbark hickory, which had fallen into the center of the trailer and crushed it.
The massive roots of the tree spread out like a sunburst, hanging just above a 5-foot deep crater in the ground where the tree had formerly been roo
ted. The only sounds were the chirping of birds and a muted creaking, like the hinge on a rusty door. Lindsay ran toward the decimated trailer. Peering inside the cracked windows, she could see the dim outline of what had once been a bedroom. Shafts of light shone through the jagged opening in the roof. Enormous branches crisscrossed the bed—Lindsay saw no movement in the leaf-obscured space beneath. She screamed Warren’s name again and again as she pushed desperately at the window frame, trying to find some way of getting inside.
Her heart pounded so loudly in her ears that it took her several moments to realize that someone was shouting her name in response. She turned around to find Warren emerging from the decrepit tobacco barn. He wore boxers and a t-shirt and his face was puffy with sleep. He ran a hand through is sleep-tousled hair and said again, “I’m right here, Linds.”
Before she had time to think about what she was doing, she ran to him. She jumped up and clung to him, wrapping her arms and legs around him like a child. When she climbed down, the two of them regarded one another with astonishment. Finally, Lindsay spoke, “Why didn’t you answer your phone?”
A Murder in Mount Moriah Page 26