No Way Home

by MacDonald, Patricia

  “I thought I’d put these on the grave,” she said.

  She could see him swallowing, gazing away from her. He cleared his throat and smoothed his mustache in a nervous gesture. “Well,” he said in a hoarse voice, “I’ll get out of your way.”

  “It’s all right,” she said. She walked over to the grave and crouched down beside it. She set the jar down and took the trowel from under her arm. “They’re from the garden.”

  “Well, they’re beautiful.”

  Lillie poked the trowel into the earth. The red soil was already getting a hard winter crust on it. After a moment, Jordan knelt down beside her.

  “Would you mind if I did that?” he said.

  Lillie looked at him for a moment. Then she handed him the trowel, leaned back, and held the flowers steady on her lap as he dug. She watched his hands work, and they seemed more familiar to her than his face. When he reached for the jar and their fingers touched, she felt a shock, as if she had not realized that the hands were flesh. It was as though she had been seeing them in her memory.

  Jordan planted the jar in the hole he had dug and then patted the earth around it. He sat back and looked at the flowers and the cross. Then he bowed his head. Lillie did the same.

  She had wanted to be here alone, to speak to her daughter in her heart. She knew Jordan’s presence should seem a terrible intrusion, but it did not. She said her prayers, and her heart spoke freely. In spite of all that had happened, she felt oddly comforted that they should be there together, Michele’s mother and father.

  When Jordan reached his hand out to help her to her feet, she did not spurn it. The bitterness was not there. He has his own tears, his own pain, she thought. She let him help her up. The silence between them was awkward but not rancorous. He was looking at her in a strange way, and she suddenly wondered if perhaps her sweater might look too gay, too colorful to him, for he was dressed in the sober tones of mourning.

  “I guess I should be wearing black,” Lillie said, “but I wore this sweater because she gave it to me.”

  Jordan’s grave expression turned to surprise, and then he smiled and his eyes filled up with tears. Lillie was reminded of a rainbow that appears while it’s still showering. “She had your number pretty well,” he said.

  Lillie started to speak and then stopped. She might not feel bitter, but she still did not want to talk to him about Michele. She turned her back on the grave and started walking toward the car. “Do you need a ride?” she asked. “I didn’t see another car here.”

  “I walked over from my mother’s,” he said. “I guess I was coming to say good-bye.”

  “You going back?” she asked politely.

  “This afternoon.”

  “Oh.”

  They walked sideways down the hill, through the gate, and back to where her car was parked. A hoary brown chicken-turtle was making its way slowly across the country road on crooked feet. Jordan walked over to it, lifted it up, and placed it on the other side as it paddled the air in alarm. Then he came back to where Lillie was leaning against the car.

  “Life goes on, I guess,” said Lillie.

  Jordan frowned. “So they say.”

  “That’s what everyone keeps telling me,” she said. “I guess I’ve been a little deranged since this happened.”

  Jordan nodded. “Have you gotten any response to that ad you put in the paper? Did anyone call?”

  “One crackpot. That’s all.”

  “I was thinking of stopping by to see the sheriff before I left. Although he and I never did have much use for one another.”

  Lillie sighed. “I think you’d be wasting your time. All they know now is who didn’t do it. Namely, Ronnie Lee Partin. I’ve been trying to…well, I can’t. I can’t keep thinking about it. It’s out of my hands. Maybe I’m just focusing on the murder so that I won’t have to think about the fact that Michele is gone. I’ve got to accept the fact that nothing, nothing is going to bring her back. Everyone’s been telling me that and they’re right.”

  Jordan shoved his hands in his pockets and let a deep breath out slowly. His dark brows formed a heavy line low over his eyes. “Lillie, I know that’s true. But I still want the bastard caught and locked up and throw away the goddamn key.”

  Lillie looked up at him and their eyes met like two vigilantes acknowledging one another. Then Lillie shook her head. “I believe I’ve been flirting with a nervous breakdown. And I can’t afford to fall apart. I still have a family to think of.”

  Immediately she regretted saying it. He hunched his shoulders in a way that said, more clearly than words, that he was completely alone. It’s his own doing, she reminded herself.

  Jordan looked out at their surroundings. “You know,” he said, “I remember walking out here when I was a boy. The town cemetery. It was just a spooky place to run by on Halloween.”

  Lillie nodded and said nothing.

  “You can go far away from here but there’s nowhere else quite like it. It’s in your heart, this country. I meet people all the time who have no feeling for their home, for the place they grew up. They really don’t have a place that calls to them. Somehow, when I had Michele, I always felt that a part of me was still here. Still belonged.”

  Lillie looked out at the peaceful fields. “I don’t know,” she said. “I’ve never really been anywhere else.” Then she scuffed one shoe along the road. A wild aster twisted in the laces. “Well, that’s not true. I’ve been in the airports and the hospitals of a couple of big cities in fact.”

  Jordan looked at her, as if expecting anger, but there was only a faraway look of memory in her eyes.

  “Well,” she said briskly, “we’d better be getting back. What time is your flight?”

  “Four o’clock. Out of Nashville,” he said. He came and opened the car door for her. Then he went around and got into the passenger’s seat.

  Lillie looked back at the gates of the shaded cemetery. “She always looked forward to going up to New York to see you. She was so proud of that. That you were on TV. She loved that.”

  “I loved her,” he said quietly.

  Lillie turned on the engine of the car. She did not look at his face.

  The Reverend Ephraim Davis stood on the steps of the town hall and breathed in deeply of the clear air. He felt light of heart and peaceful of mind as only a man can feel when he has done the hard thing, but the right thing, and he knows it. He had spent two sleepless nights after talking to that young boy, the dead girl’s brother, on the telephone. His conscience told him to go to the sheriff and his instincts for survival told him to get in his car and head right back home to Memphis.

  His sermon went unwritten, his Felton parishioners unvisited, while he pondered the problem. Perhaps he knew all along what he was going to do. He was a man who had dedicated his life to doing the right thing, and so he had thrown up his breakfast and then, with a fearful, prayerful heart,, come to see the sheriff.

  Now he felt buoyant, relieved, and even rewarded. It had been easy, in fact. The sheriff had been interested and polite. He was clearly a former military man, and the Reverend Davis, like many of his generation, had a lot of respect for soldiers. This was not some pot-bellied redneck sheriff. No, this was a gentleman who called him sir, asked him a couple of questions, and thanked him with a handshake for coming forward with his information. Now, he felt, he could go back to doing the Lord’s business with a clear conscience. He had done his duty as a citizen and a man of God. He virtually skipped down the steps toward his car. He was hungry, and he was partial to the barbecue at Otis’s Pit Stop, but this time he thought he would pass it up. He wanted to get back to the church and the work he’d been called here to do. As he walked off the last step he passed a rugged, handsome-looking white man in a dark-gray jacket.

  “You look cheerful today, Reverend,” the young man said as they avoided colliding on the step.

  “Well, it’s a fine day, son,” said the Reverend Davis.

  Jordan watched t
he minister go down the steps and get into a two-tone green Ford that struck him as somehow familiar. Jordan wished he felt half as cheerful as the old reverend. He opened the door to the town hall and ran into Francis Dunham, the dispatcher, who directed him to the sheriff’s office. “He’s not there, though,” Francis said. “He’s going out to a meeting.”

  “Has he left yet?” Jordan asked.

  “I think he’s in the men’s room,” Francis said brusquely.

  Jordan hesitated a moment, and then walked down the corridor to the men’s lavatory and pushed the door open. He swung the inner door back and walked inside. Royce Ansley was zippering up at the urinal. His hat hung on a hook outside a stall.

  “Sheriff,” said Jordan. “Can I bother you a minute?” His voice echoed loudly off the tiles.

  “Can it wait?” Royce asked, walking to the sink.

  “No, not really,” Jordan replied. “I’m heading back to New York this afternoon and I wanted to speak to you before I left. Francis said you were on your way out to a meeting.”

  Royce turned on the faucet, rolled back his sleeves, and dispensed a little liquid soap into his palm. “That’s right.”

  Jordan could read the sheriff’s dislike for him in his eyes as he squinted into the mirror above the sink. He pretended not to notice and went on.

  “I’ve been concerned about the investigation. I know you have the whole county to think of, and I was wondering if it might not help to hire a private detective. Someone who could devote full time to the case. We don’t want to let the trail get too cold here.”

  Royce lathered his hands carefully and then rinsed them. He turned to Jordan as he shook them off, and droplets of water splashed on his jacket. “Didn’t you play a detective on a TV show one time?” Royce asked.

  Jordan’s face hardened as he returned the sheriff’s gaze. “Yeah, I did. What has that got to do with anything?”

  “Isn’t that what they say on TV? Don’t let the trail get cold?”

  Before Jordan could answer, Royce pushed the disk on the hot-air dryer and began to rub his hands together beneath it. The dryer’s roar made it impossible for Jordan to be heard. He waited until the dryer was finished and the sheriff began to roll down his sleeves.

  “Look, Sheriff,” Jordan said, “I’m not trying to step on your toes, but I want some results. It was my daughter who was killed.”

  Royce walked over and picked up his hat and jacket. His gray eyes peered off into the distance. “You know, Mr. Hill, I remember the day that child was born. Lillie went into labor, and she called me to come get her and take her to the hospital. Had you left for good by then, or were you just getting ready to leave them?”

  “I was there,” Jordan said coldly.

  “Oh, that’s right. You didn’t leave until after you found out all that was wrong with the baby.”

  The door to the men’s room swung open and the deputy, Wallace Reynolds, came in. He looked at the two men who were glaring at one another and then he greeted the sheriff. “Do you need me to come along on this, Sheriff?” he asked.

  “No, you look after things here, Wallace.”

  “Okay, I will. I’ve just got to take a quick piss.”

  “I’ll see you outside,” said Royce. He pushed through the inner door and Jordan followed him outside.

  “I don’t care what you think about me, Royce,” Jordan said. “But you better get the guy who killed my daughter.”

  “That’s all I want,” Royce said evenly.

  “And I want to be kept informed,” said Jordan.

  “Feel free to call anytime,” the sheriff said blandly. “Someone will fill you in. Right now I have nothing to tell you.”

  Jordan saw the futility of saying anything more. This man saw him as an outcast, almost as undesirable a being as the killer they sought. This was a town where people did not forgive and forget. He had once fled the responsibilities of a sick child and a young wife to chase a dream. Now all doors were closed to him here. No explanation would ever open them again. He could understand it in a way. It was too much to expect. He had once left his daughter’s fate in the hands of others, and it was too late to want it back. Now he had no choice but to trust it to them. Jordan turned and left. He and the sheriff did not bother to say good-bye.

  Chapter 11

  IN THE WEEKS THAT FOLLOWED JORDAN’S DEPARTURE, life resumed something like its normal shape. Pink tried to sell off a corner of a large farm to a guy who wanted to start a rental operation for four-wheelers, but the seller backed out at the last minute. Lillie volunteered a lot at the hospital, and she and Brenda and Loretta had a full calendar of luncheons and dinners that required the services of Home Cookin’. There were no more calls about the ad in the paper. Royce came by occasionally to report that he was questioning one person or another, or to show them lab reports on minutiae collected at the crime scene. The murder weapon was not recovered, although the lab determined that it had been made of wood. Only Grayson had any positive news to report. He won the school election handily and quarterbacked the Cress County Cougars to a winning game. Lillie tried to be excited for him, but it was difficult to feel enthusiasm. She was glad that her son’s life seemed to be going forward. Often she felt as if her own was just going on.

  On a Monday afternoon in late October, a pounding on the front door woke Lillie out of a sound sleep. The digital alarm clock read four-thirty, and Lillie could hardly believe that she had been asleep for over an hour. During the day she tried hard to keep a good attitude, but when it became too difficult, sleep was her escape hatch. The only drawback to the oblivion of sleep was that she awoke with a familiar, fearful feeling of emptiness and loss.

  “Just a minute,” she mumbled, and then called out louder, “I’m coming.”

  She stumbled down the hallway toward the front door, running her hands through her hair to push it back from her face and pinching her cheeks awake. She opened the door and looked out. At first she did not see anyone there. Then she noticed that Allene Starnes was seated on one of the porch rockers, wiping her eyes with both hands. Lillie walked out on the porch and shivered in the chilly October afternoon. She sat down on the rocker beside the girl.

  “Allene?”

  The girl looked up at Lillie with red, puffy eyes. “Hello, Miz Burdette.”

  “What’s the matter, honey?” Lillie yawned and shook her head. “Excuse me.” She drew her sweater tightly over her chest.

  “I didn’t mean to wake you,” the girl said sorrowfully.

  “That’s all right,” said Lillie. “I’ve got no business sleeping at this hour.”

  “Is Grayson home?” Allene asked.

  “No. I don’t think so. Maybe he came in while I was asleep.” Lillie got up and opened the front door. “Grayson,” she called sharply into the house. There was silence from inside.

  “Do you know where he is?” Allene asked.

  Lillie frowned. “He said this morning that he was meeting someone after school. I just assumed it was you.”

  “It was supposed to be me,” Allene said. “He was supposed to meet me by my locker. Right after school.”

  “And he didn’t show up?” Lillie asked, her voice rising.

  Allene started to weep and shook her head. Tears flew off her face like rain off a wet umbrella.

  Lillie’s palms suddenly felt sweaty. There’s some simple explanation, she told herself. He’s practically a grown man. He can take care of himself. But no rationalization quelled the fear that suddenly gripped her. “I don’t know,” she said agitatedly. “Maybe he had to go somewhere with Russell or one of the other boys. He’ll probably show up any minute.”

  “I knew it.” Allene sobbed. “I knew it. He was planning this.”

  “Allene, what is it?” Lillie demanded.

  “Everything,” Allene wailed. “I’ve gotta go.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Lillie. “Wait. If you know where he is, please tell me. I’m worried about him. If he said he was g
oing to meet you…”

  “I guess he changed his mind,” Allene said in a small, hard voice.

  “But where could he be?” Lillie cried.

  “I have a hunch,” Allene said bitterly.

  And suddenly Lillie understood that there might be another girl involved. “When he gets home I’ll tell him to call you,” she said gently.

  “Never mind,” said Allene. “It’ll be too late.” Allene ran down the porch steps, got on her bicycle, and headed back down the road in the direction of town. Lillie watched her go. On the one hand she pitied her and hoped she would not end up broken-hearted. On the other hand she prayed that Allene was right, and he was safely keeping company with another girl. Allene’s coppery hair looked like a little flame in the mottled brown of the autumn landscape. Love is so painful when you are young, she thought. Your heart is so vulnerable. The ringing of the phone interrupted her thoughts and her heart leapt. Maybe it was Grayson. She closed the front door and went in and took the call. The sound of the voice on the other end gave her a start. “Jordan?” she asked.

  “How are you doing, Lillie?”

  Lillie looked out the window and down the road, hoping to see her son coming. “I’m getting by,” she said. There was a silence from Jordan’s end. “Look, Jordan, I can’t tie up the phone.”

  “Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to bother you.” His voice was deep and he had the actor’s ability to sound rich and confident, but Lillie could hear the worry and the distracted edge in his tone.

  “Where are you?” she asked, more kindly. “Are you in New York?”

  “Yeah. Back at work and all. I was wondering if there was any news yet. I didn’t want to bug you but it’s frustrating, not knowing what’s going on.”

  “Believe me,” she said, “you know as much as we do. I said to Pink, I think the sheriff is as discouraged as we are. But there doesn’t seem to be much we can do about it.”

  “I guess not,” he said.

  Lillie heard someone coming down the hall and she turned around, hoping to see Grayson. It was Pink.

  “By the way,” she said to Jordan, “your mother came by to see me.”