“You should get caller ID,” I said back. “Then you wouldn’t have to sound so deliberately weary when you answered. It’s only me.”
“Fever,” he whined, “I’m really tired, and unless you have—”
“He’s in my kitchen.”
Skidmore was momentarily struck dumb, so I continued.
“The man responsible for the dead body you found Tuesday morning,” I said deliberately, staring at the killer, “is right here in my kitchen. Would you like to come over and have a talk with him? Maybe take him back to the jailhouse with you?”
“How the hell did you find him?”
“Well,” I began, “sort of … Hovis told me where he might be. Then Red Jackson—”
“Wait. Doesn’t matter. This man you have in your kitchen—”
“Andrews is here, too, and I have a gun.”
“You have a what?”
“I know.” I smiled. “Isn’t it amazing?”
“Do not shoot anything with that … where did you get a gun?”
“I’m pretty sure it’s the murder weapon.” I winced. “Which now has my fingerprints all over it. But this person, the one in my kitchen? It’s his. Or he stole it from Hovis, I mean—probably.”
“I’m trying to get—”
“The man had it, he pulled it on Andrews, Andrews knocked it my way, and I picked it up.”
“All this happened in your kitchen?”
“No,” I drawled, “it happened in Barrel Cave close to the cemetery. Hey, did you know it was called Barrel Cave—”
“Red let you go into his cave?”
“No,” I said again, “we sort of snuck in—look, do you want to come up here and arrest the murderer so we can let Hovis go home, or not?”
“I’ll be right up. By the way, the dead man? He was a Jackson.”
“I sort of had that in mind.” I nodded. “Which means this person here is probably—”
“All we know is that the fingerprints of the dead man belong to Son Jackson.” Skidmore was ready to get off the phone. “His prints are on file because he’s a deserter from the army—very recently. I’ll be up there in fifteen minutes. Try not to let him get away again—but don’t shoot him, either.”
“You think you’re funny, but you’re not.” I hung up.
I stared at the stranger in my kitchen. “So you did kill your brother. I mean, in this time or this reality or however you would look at it.”
“What did Skidmore say?” Andrews still had a bit of adrenal concentration, ready to tackle the man if he even twitched in the wrong direction.
“The dead man is Son Jackson,” I announced.
“So this guy’s a Jackson, too.” Andrews narrowed his eyelids.
“Great work,” he sneered back at Andrews, “I’ve only been telling you that for the past half hour.”
“So what’s with the Halloween costume you’re wearing, chum?” Andrews snapped back.
“One man in his time plays many parts.” The man smiled serenely.
“Why does that sound familiar?” I asked Andrews.
“It’s from As You Like It. Act two, scene seven, to be specific. ‘All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players. They have their exits and their entrances; and—’”
“‘One man in his time plays many parts.’” I nodded. “Now I remember.”
Andrews kicked the man’s chair. “‘What seest thou else in the dark backward and abysm of time?’”
“That’s from The Tempest, I think,” the man answered. “Not sure where.”
“Act one, scene two,” Andrews said slowly. “But you didn’t answer the question.”
“What do I see in the abyss of time?” He closed his eyes. “I see a nearly infinite line of men, all killing each other for reasons that Time forgets.”
“What’s that from?” I asked.
“That, my fellow travelers,” the man said, eyes still closed, “is from the bottom of my soul.”
With that his head drifted toward the table, and he was fast asleep and snoring before Andrews or I could say another word.
Twenty-three
Skidmore arrived about ten minutes later. The anonymous Jackson was still asleep. Andrews had barely blinked since the man had gone to sleep. It seemed to me that Skidmore could sense the atmosphere in my kitchen almost from the second he walked in.
He asked again how we came to have the man in our possession, and we told him the tale. I omitted Red’s business confessions, but the rest was accurate. Skid sat down at the table and indicated that Andrews and I should do the same. We just sat there for a while, staring at the sleeping man. I’m not certain what we were thinking, any of us.
But when the man sat up with a start, all three of us jumped. “I’m still here?” He looked around the room as if it were unfamiliar to him.
“He’s expecting to go back to his original time any moment now,” Andrews explained, each syllable dripping derision.
“Sheriff?” The man squinted at Skidmore.
“That’s right.” Skid folded his hands in front of him, at least an imitation of patience. “Would you prefer to talk to me here and now, or would you rather talk to me in jail?”
“It’s a nice kitchen,” the man began.
“Let’s start with your name.” Skidmore’s face was carved in solid granite.
“Yes.” He lowered his head in a manner that could only be described as sheepish. “I suppose it’s about time I confessed that, at least.”
“Now we’re talking,” Andrews mumbled, still tense.
“My name is Jericho Jackson, and I killed my brother, Jacob.” The man let go a heart-wrenching, groaning breath. “God, it feels good to say that out loud—at last. I killed Jacob Jackson.”
It took me a moment, but I remembered. “In a brothel in Chicago.”
“In Madam Briscoe’s House in Chicago,” the man confirmed, “after the Civil War.”
“He was dancing the Tango with a woman who worked there.” I looked at Skidmore. “It’s all on the tape that Melissa’s been listening to.”
“And finding useless,” Skid said tersely.
“If you look upon this world in a map,” the man went on, seemingly oblivious to our conversation, “you find two hemispheres, two half worlds. If you crush heaven into a map, you may find two hemispheres, too, two half heavens; half will be joy, and half will be glory.”
“That’s John Donne,” Andrews whispered, more than a touch of awe invading his voice. “One of Donne’s sermons.”
“Who?” Skid asked, irritated.
“John Donne,” I said quickly, “metaphysical poet, contemporary of Shakespeare, roughly.”
“My brother had no glory, and so tried to lose himself in degenerated joy; spent most of his last days in a house of ill repute. He drowned himself in perfume, spirits, and a newly invented erotic dance. His favorite companion there was a woman called La Gauchina, because she claimed to be the daughter of a gaucho from the pampas of Argentina. She had come to America with seven Yankee dollars, a small guitar that her father had given her, and the knowledge of a brand-new dance named the Tango. The dance was invented in the outskirts of proper society in Buenos Aires—in brothels. It was a way for men to have sexual stimulation with their clothes on, set to music, while they waited for the actual acts of sex with prostitutes. The Tango was abstract copulation accompanied by violin, flute, and guitar. La Gauchina taught the dance in this manner. She would grab a man by the waist and thrust her pelvis toward his, drawing him as close to her body as anatomically possible. All the men loved her, but none so much as my brother, Jacob Jackson. On the evening of January the twenty-sixth, Jacob and this woman made love with such a fury that, despite the fact that my brother was much older and very drunk, they conceived a son. They didn’t know they’d conceived a son; they only knew they were exhausted. Instead of going another round, they just wanted to dance. So they danced the Tango.”
“Stop talking about the
Tango!” Skidmore seemed on the verge of hitting the man.
“I rubbed my brother’s name out of the family Bible.” It was clear the man was growing more and more agitated as he talked. “No relative was ever allowed to speak his name. It was my intention that there be no trace of the fact that there had ever been a Jacob Jackson in the family. I took money from a secret hiding place in my bedroom here in Georgia, walked to the Pine City train station, and purchased a round-trip train ticket to Chicago. I took seven Yankee dollars, a small pistol that my father had given me—which Dr. Devilin now has in his pocket—and a certain wicked plan.”
“Wait,” Skidmore interrupted. “How did you know where he was?”
“Letters,” Andrews answered, amazed at the connection. “Jacob sent letters to the Jackson family in Blue Mountain. Simple read one of them to us.”
“Some were returned unopened,” I added, “and some are in the Jackson house to this day.”
Skid looked as if he might ask us for more information, but our guest was anxious to continue his story.
“I arrived in the Windy City on the late afternoon of January twenty-sixth,” he said, his words clipped and tight, his eyes staring into space. “I found the rooming house where my brother was staying. I banged on the door. Neighbors came into the hall. A bald man in his underwear growled at me. He said, ‘He’s not in, for Christ’s sake. Can’t you see that?’ This man’s undershirt had tomato sauce on it. I exploded. ‘Then where is he, you Yankee son of a bitch?” And I drew my pistol to emphasize the question. The bald man barely acknowledged the gun. ‘He’s at the whorehouse. Jesus,’ he said, then wandered back into his own room, mumbling. Others in the hall seemed more impressed with the gun. They scattered when I turned to them. ‘What whorehouse?’ I demanded to know. Then the bald man returned to the hallway with the biggest rifle I had ever seen and pointed it right at my pants. ‘Out the front door,’ he said calmly, ‘take a left, two blocks down on the right. Can’t miss it. Now get the hell out of here before I blow all your privates to kingdom come.’ I was not afraid. I thought I might die that night anyway. I just nodded and left. The bald man went back to his spaghetti, I guess. I turned left out the front door of the rooming house, walked two blocks, saw the house that was obviously made for sin, and wandered in the front door. I wasn’t sure I’d recognize him after all the time we’d been apart. Underneath a nude portrait of an anonymous woman, I saw a familiar-seeming face. Beside him was a woman pulling on his elbow. She was laughing. The two got to their feet just as the Tango music started. They crushed together, laughing and stumbling, and began a sad and funny parody of the dance. I stepped up close beside them. Anyone would have thought I was about to cut in. I tapped Jacob on the back; he turned around, unable to focus his eyes because of the enormous amount of whiskey he’d consumed. There is no way to tell if he recognized his brother or not. He had not seen me in years, and war changes a man’s appearance. I said, ‘Let us go out to the field.’ Then the gun exploded, blood erupted, and Jericho Jackson lay dead on the brothel floor. I tried my best to spit on him as other men in the brothel laid hands on me, pulled me away from the body.”
“I’ve heard enough.” Skidmore stood up.
“He was a turncoat and a deserter,” the man insisted, near hysteria, “and I’m glad I killed him.”
“You have the right to remain silent,” Skidmore began in a ludicrous parody of bad police drama.
I tuned out the rest of Skidmore’s speech in favor of studying the man’s face. It was a mask—a theatrical mask, I thought. In his time a man plays many parts—and this man had assumed yet another role.
Twenty-four
Deputy Mathews was still at the sheriff’s office when we all pulled up in front of it. Andrews and I were not capable of letting the matter go, so we’d followed Skid’s squad car.
The lights were on, and we could see Melissa clearly though the big storefront window listening intently to the tape I had given her, this time without headphones. The rest of the street was dark. At eight in the evening Miss Etta would be getting into bed, and most of the rest of the store owners would have finished dinner, put another log on the fire, and been settled in for the night.
I thought Skidmore was a little rough with his prisoner as he grabbed him out of the back of the police car. I found I was eager to get Hovis Daniels out of jail almost as much as I was curious to see what the strange man in the Confederate uniform would say next. Andrews was interested in that as well, but the prospect of another moment with Deputy Mathews was surely the icing on that particular cake, so before we got out of my truck I took a hold of the good doctor’s arm.
“Look,” I told him, my eyes glancing involuntarily in the deputy’s direction, “Melissa Mathews is very uncomfortable with your flirtations. I meant to talk to you about it earlier.”
“My flirtations are hardly any of your—”
“She asked me to speak with you. She wants you to stop it, and I do, too.”
“She asked you to get me to stop—”
“You have no idea what her situation is,” I said firmly. “And neither do I. Skidmore has hinted that something strange happened to her when she was younger that’s made her uncomfortable around most men. You make her nervous in all the wrong ways. I’m telling you this as a friend. Find someone else to—”
“Who the hell else can I—”
“Are you two coming inside?” Skidmore’s voice was a razor on slate.
The sound of his voice prompted Andrews and me to jump out of the truck instantly. Skidmore was in the doorway holding on to his prisoner, and we followed him into the bright fluorescent room.
Melissa looked up, and the prisoner stared at the tape recorder, listening to the voice.
“Hey,” the prisoner said, delighted, “that’s me.”
“This,” Skidmore said to Melissa, holding tightly to the man’s arm, “is our murderer. We’re going to book him almost immediately. Do you think you could call Millroy? I’ve got a mouthful of I-told-you-so and I’m dying to spit it out.”
“How colorful,” Andrews mumbled.
“Gosh.” Melissa turned off the tape recorder.
“And could we get the paperwork to release Hovis?” I insisted. “I’d like to get him out of here as quickly as possible.”
She looked to Skidmore; he nodded once.
“Which one should I do first?” she whispered to Skidmore.
“What?” He was made almost entirely of irritation.
“Booking form for this one, or release form for Hovis?” Her voice was barely audible.
“Well,” Skidmore said, the oil of patience completely absent from his grinding gears, “shouldn’t we release one man from custody before we book another man for the same crime? Wouldn’t that seem to be the proper order of things?”
“Yes, sir,” Melissa said instantly, rolling her chair toward the nearest file cabinet.
“Release Hovis into Dr. Devilin’s custody.” Skidmore leveled a look at me. “As Dr. Devilin will be taking Hovis home right now.”
“Yes.” I responded almost as quickly as Melissa had.
Best for all concerned to stand clear of Skidmore Needle when he was in full sheriff mode—though it was a little difficult to tell why he was so hard-edged that evening.
Andrews, sensing the tension in the room, remained uncharacteristically silent.
“I’m taking this one to the interview room,” Skid mumbled, dragging his prisoner toward a short hallway.
Andrews looked around, quickly found a seat in what passed for a waiting area only a few steps from Melissa’s desk, and sat down.
“I’ll be fine right here,” he said, nodding once in Melissa’s direction.
Before I could determine what, exactly, he had in mind, Melissa was asking me questions and filling out some sort of form. Skidmore vanished into a room down the short hallway. Andrews slumped in his chair.
I surrendered to the moment and did whatever Melissa wanted me
to, including following her to Hovis’s jail cell.
The narrow hallway, covered in thin, cheap wood paneling, was darker than the outer room, and for some reason urged silence. We were almost to the cell before Melissa turned her head toward me a bit.
“Did you have a chance to speak with Dr. Andrews about … you know?” She was clearly embarrassed to ask such a question.
“I did,” I assured her. “There’s no telling how he took it, but at least he’s on notice.”
“Okay.” She didn’t sound certain.
Hovis roused himself from his stupor when he heard us coming. “I’m hungry,” he groaned.
“Hey, Hovis,” Melissa said sweetly, “look who we got here?”
She opened the cell door.
Hovis tried to sit up, and his eyes were unfocused. “Who is it?” His voice rattled.
“It’s Dr. Devilin, see?” She pointed to me as if I were an educational display. “He’s going to take you home.”
“Home?” He reached out his hand. Melissa helped him achieve a seated position. “I can go?”
“Yes.” She patted him on the arm.
“How long I been here?”
“A day,” Melissa answered.
“That’s all?” Hovis squeezed his eyes shut.
“Seems like longer?” She took hold of his arm, trying to steady him.
Hovis finally managed to clear his head enough to piece together a few facts about his situation. He looked me in the eye; his gaze was firm as a hawk’s.
“You done it, then.” He nodded once, lips thinning. “You got me out.”
“Yes.” I was afraid to say more; Hovis seemed on the verge of tears. “I’m obliged” was all he said.
“You’re innocent,” I corrected. “You have no obligation to me.”
Melissa looked at the floor. She knew what an important exchange those few words had been, especially to Hovis. His nature, the predilection of most men and women his age in Blue Mountain, was to take a favor as a death-pledge. That was why it had been so hard for him to ask me for help—why so few people in our town ever asked for anything. I had done him an important favor, and he was already beginning to worry that he would have no way of paying me back. My releasing him from the bonds of reciprocity would not deter his attempting to set things even, but it would remove the pressure and scope of his commitment.
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