“‘Maybe I will,”” I’d always tell her.
“‘You don’t wait on that, now you hear me. Walker, he always say, that the best time to start driving is when you is young.
“Then I did get married, Harry, and divorced all in a short few years, no children.”
“So you came back,” said Harry, “Peggy called you.”
Billy nodded. “I couldn’t stay away. Did you have a time in your life that you did something and then wished forever after that you had done it differently?”
“Yes.” Harry thought back to his career, to the event which had cost him his job in New York. He wasn’t sure, though, that he would have done it differently.
“Did you ever do that to a friend?” Billy asked.
“No.”
“Off the record, Harry?” Billy smiled.
Harry nodded.
“I did that to Walker,” he said. “It was a year after the fire. I was home for the summer from prep school. Later I’d go to a camp where I would do sports training for school.”
Billy’s face was void of happiness. He went on.
“My father had this small office at the bank. I was still in my traveling clothes from school, my blue blazer with the emblem on the pocket, tie pulled open on my button down shirt collar, and my chino pants all wrinkled from the ride, some beer bought underage and a spray of vomit spilled on them from the party with the other guys going home on the train the night before, walking across the marble floored lobby, white socks hanging out of my loafers which carelessly slapped the stone.”
Billy remembered that his father had said the marble in this bank was the finest in any bank in Maryland. As he raised his eyes he saw the motto of the bank, placed there after the great fire and used for most of the last thirty years until the bank was sold.
“WE SURVIVED THE RIVER SUNDAY FIRE.”
“I remember seeing Catch’s mother in there too. She was bitter. As she went by, she looked at me, directly, giving me such a stare of hatred, I winced slightly.
“‘Hello, Missus Kirby,’ I’d say, but she didn’t like me because I’d been Walker’s friend. Catch told me then that she was telling him all the time that I was a bad boy and that my dad had sent me away because of Walker.
“I went through an archway into the back of the bank. Here on the walls were the paintings of the past presidents of the bank. Each was resplendent in the costume of his age. The Terment family member who had taken over after the Civil War was there in his Confederate uniform. That painting had been taken down and stored during the Federal occupation of River Sunday during the War and then during the post war period when the man was bank president, was not allowed to be shown. It was kept in his office in the back. Later in 1915 when the statue to the local Confederate dead was dedicated at the courthouse, this painting was again hung on the plaster.
“Even though my father’s office was small, it had the best view. He looked out on the south harbor. As I walked in that day, ahead of me was my father’s door, still painted off white against the old plaster walls. On either side of the door were black and white framed photographs of my father’s board members, one of them a Terment family cousin. The rough surface of the old pressed metal door handle felt familiar in my hand.
“His desk had a bullet hole in it from a robbery back in 1890. The bullet was still in the wood. We could see some of it. A little gray bit of metal against the brown fibers. Years ago, I bought that old desk. I have it in my office in New York.”
“That day, Father was in his office and I stood outside the door and heard him talking to Mister Terment and Jake Terment who were there in his office. He was listening and then talking as they discussed the town fire. It was about fire insurance they collected and the luck that they had that the colored man, as they called Walker, was being blamed.
“I thought then almost instantly that I could turn them in. I heard my father say, ‘Some black duck, haha.’
“Then, I was inside, saying with them, ‘Yeah, some black duck.’
“To this day, Harry, I have never forgiven myself for that moment, that cowardice and forsaking of the best friend I ever had. By laughing with his enemies, I had become one of them.”
Harry said, “Look, I know we’re off the record here, but you might want to see this.” He showed him the note from Peterson.
Billy read it. “I knew my father was involved in something, but I never found out what it was. This was probably repayment of some debt. Henry Terment might have borrowed from these people, from the bank.” He handed the paper back to Harry.
Billy looked out over the cornfield. “Walker didn’t know that I had laughed with them. He had no way of knowing. Saying it to myself though was just like saying it to him.”
“You took a lot of risk, coming back, getting involved with this,” observed Harry.
“I came back because nothing in my life makes up for what I did to Walker in that instant. It’s like I killed him myself. I’d be surprised even more if anyone could prove he killed those old women on purpose. That doesn’t matter. I did this murder to him all by myself. I’m guiltier than he ever was, regardless of what he did. We all are. All of us who let him down but I blame myself most because he always looked at me to lead, to be in charge of Walker’s Patrol.”
He looked at Harry. “What would you do?”
“Don’t look at me like I’m some kind of saint,” said Harry. “I’m no better than you. I don’t know what to do. The man’s dead. Apologizing to a ghost, to a memory. Impossible.”
Harry added, “Talk to Charleston. You’re being a witness to some kind of crime going on in this town back in those days might speed along his case to get that money back.”
“I will,” he said.
Annie was just closing up the office when he got back to River Sunday.
She looked at him. “You’re beat.”
“I’m overwhelmed by how evil people can be,” he said as he slumped at his desk. “I’m beginning to think that Blue might have some truth in his ranting.”
She came over and put her arm around his shoulders. “Come on. Let’s get some food.”
He let her lead him to the small car she drove. She pulled in front of the Chesapeake Hotel and they went inside to the small restaurant connected to the lobby.
For a few minutes they didn’t talk.
“You know,” he finally said, twirling the stirrer in his cocktail, “the difference here is that I can’t leave this behind.”
“What do you mean?”
“In New York I’d cover a story, get excited about the horror, the unfairness, then send it in and be done with it.” He looked at her.
She put her hand on his.
They didn’t talk, just looked in each other’s eyes. “I could fix us dinner at my place,” she said, her voice cracking slightly.
“I’d like that,” he said.
Later that night, he got up from the tousled bed and stood by the window. Outside were swings in a distant playground, the moonlight blinking on the worn bars. He wondered about children, what kind he might have someday. He wondered if they would be as tough as WeeJay. He felt Annie’s naked body next to his own, and he put his left arm around her bare shoulders.
“You don’t know much about me,” he said.
“I know about all that matters.”
“You don’t know about Africa,” he said.
“I called your friend in New York. He told me what happened.”
She paused, then went on, “I know that you were assigned to get a story about a civil war and while you were doing it, you stood up during the shooting and moved your people out of danger. That’s when you got shot by one of the rebels you were sent to cover. New York was angry that you refused to send in the story and fired you. They thought you were a coward, that you wouldn’t go after a dangerous story any more.”
“Did he tell you why I left the story?” he asked.
“He said he didn’t know,” she whispered
.
“You would have gone after the story,” Harry said.
“No,” she said, “I would have hoped I had the guts you did to save all those people and say the hell with the story.” She put herself in front of him. Her breasts touched his chest.
“Thank you,” he said.
“That’s what people do when they are able to love,” she said.
“Love?” Harry said.
She whispered, “I’ve been in love with you since the first day you walked into the office in that wool suit on a hot April day.”
“I didn’t know,” said Harry.
“It was fun loving you without your knowing,” she murmured.
“Now?” he asked.
“Now, I’m glad that you finally know how I feel.”
Harry bent down and kissed her again.
Then he straightened up and looked at her. “I want you to know why I didn’t cover that story, why I quit the assignment.”
She held his hand as he talked slowly. “We were sent out to this village to cover the rebels fighting against the government forces. When we got there, the action had stopped. No one was shooting. I began to interview and photograph some of the rebel soldiers, just young boys.”
He looked at her, tears forming in his eyes. “The government soldiers began to fire again but the bullets were going in the wrong direction, towards a place where the rebels were not located. I breathed a sigh of relief. Then one of the leaders of the rebels, a big man with a scarf covering most of his face and head, many years older than his troops, came over and ordered the soldiers to begin firing at the government troops. The battle began and the young boys were being shot to pieces. The leader came up to two of them and forced them into the line of fire and yelled at me, “You reporter, you take these pictures, tell how we suffer and how we die, tell the world. Get to work, that is why you are here, newsman.”
He put his arm around her and pulled her body towards his. “That was more than I could take, Annie. All of a sudden, maybe I had known this before, but it had never been so clear to me, all of a sudden I realized that I wasn’t a reporter, that I wasn’t telling the truth, but instead I was just another weapon for these fanatics and I happened to be on this side of the fight. I could just as easily have been on the other side. All I was there for was to promote this guy’s cause and the longer I was there the more people would get killed. I couldn’t do it anymore.”
“So the rebel leader shot you,” said Annie.
Harry nodded.
“I think you did the right thing,” she said.
“Doing the right thing cost a lot of money,” said Harry. “The evening news lost a feature story that a lot of money had been paid to get.”
“They fired you for that?” she said.
“Money talks,” Harry replied.
She put her face on his breast and stood next to him, breathing slowly.
“Tell me something, now that you know all about me,” he said.
“What?” she murmured.
“Why did you come to River Sunday, Annie?”
“The job. I wanted to be an editor.”
“You have talent. You could have been an editor in Baltimore.”
She looked up at him. “Why is this important?”
He noticed the sharpness in her voice. “It’s not important. It’s just a question in my mind, that’s all.”
She nodded, “I’m sorry.”
“Is this something you don’t like to talk about?” he asked.
“Sometime I’ll tell you,” she said, smiling at him and leading him back to the bed.
Chapter 16
Thursday, August 5, 2PM
Harry looked at the calendar on his desk and noted that only two days remained until the Kirby Regatta would begin. He’d sent Annie out to make sure the printer would finish the paper for distribution on Saturday morning when the first heats were run. His cell phone rang.
Marty Sol said, “Cheeks got another call from that ranger. He claims he found a sign of someone alive up in the far reach of the Wilderness. He just left in a hurry to drive up there and look around again.”
Harry thanked Marty and hung up, apprehensive about the sheriff’s activity. He worried what the sheriff might do if he did find Walker alive. Would he bring him in alive? He thought for a moment, called Charleston and explained.
“You think Walker might be there, Harry?” Charleston asked.
“I’ll tell you what I think. I think you and I ought to be along as witnesses if he is found. I’m worried for the old man’s safety,” Harry went on to describe how the sheriff had burned down the shack last time and then had fired his revolver into the darkness.
Charleston didn’t hesitate. The old lawyer said, “I’m ready to go.”
When Harry got to the Wilderness, he found the ranger’s wife already at the dock.
“I didn’t know whether you were coming or not. I thought maybe I better go out there and find out what that fat man is up to.”
Harry nodded. He pointed to the dust coming up the Wilderness entrance lane.
“I asked Charleston Grow to come along too.”
“Can’t have too many witnesses,” she said, climbing into the boat.
They set off into the swamp, the bow of the long utility high in the air as she pushed the engine to its highest revolutions.
Harry told her that he didn’t want to hide their presence from the sheriff. With the high rate of speed at which they were moving, they caught up with the ranger and the sheriff within ten minutes of being on the water. Sheriff Good was driving, standing at the control panel of the ranger’s patrol boat, and the ranger was beside him giving directions.
The sheriff didn’t notice Harry and the others until they were alongside. He looked over with an angry stare, shook his head and speeded up his boat. The bow waves of the two boats sucked down reeds quickly as they moved along the narrow canal waterways of the great wetland.
Harry could see the ranger moving his arm in a sweep of the shoreline. Harry looked behind him. The blue water of the Chesapeake Bay was visible to the west several hundred yards behind them through the marsh reeds.
It was about three o’clock in the afternoon when the ranger finally indicated a mud beach to his right. The sheriff slowed his boat and nosed his boat into the land. The ranger’s wife followed, plowing into the mud shelf alongside the other boat.
They dismounted and, once onshore, the ranger led the way among the reeds of the shoreline for about a hundred feet. Then he stopped, looking puzzled, and stooped to inspect the ground at his feet.
He looked up. “I come in too low. I’ll find it though. It’s my mistake,” he murmured, avoiding the impatient stare of the sheriff. Sweat dripped from under the ranger’s wide brimmed felt hat and down the wrinkled black skin of his forehead.
“I thought you rangers were never lost,” answered the sheriff, his mouth tight in a thin line of anger, his right hand wiping at the sweat running down his face.
The ranger walked back and forth on the beach, looking worried. Then, near a mudflat just above the high tide mark, he stopped again and sank to his knees. He looked closely in front of him, his eyes only a few inches from the ground.
Then he smiled and pointed at marks in the soil. “We’ve had the morning tide in here since I saw this but I knew I was near the right spot,” he said.
At his fingertips, noticeable only at very close range and almost washed away, was a print made by a person walking barefoot. What appeared to be toes of the foot pointed to the water’s edge as if the person had stopped and surveyed the far water of the Bay. Sheriff Good kneeled to look more carefully.
“It’s a man too,” said the ranger. “Tell by the size. Not too heavy a man but a man all the same. Even before, I almost didn’t see them. I came by here counting some of the terns for the Conservation program and was looking for nest areas. That’s the only reason I saw that footprint, Sheriff. If I had come along a little later after another
tide, you can see that they would have been cleaned away pretty good.”
“Lookee here too,” grinned the big man. He held up a piece of oyster shell. “Dried blood on the edge of this one. He sliced his foot on these shells. He isn’t going much farther hurting like that.”
The sheriff looked into the swamp, getting up to a stoop and raising his head to peer over the reeds.
“These prints come out of the reeds here. We’ll run the boat further along the waterway, see what we see,” he said.
“You think it’s Walker?” asked the ranger.
Sheriff Good stared at the swamp and, not answering the ranger’s question, said only, “Let’s get back in your boat, Ranger.”
For the next hour the sheriff watched, standing far to the side of the ranger’s Whaler, his weight tipping the hull down into the water, the engine running at idle with more and more white smoke coming up from its exhaust as it overheated. They worked slowly from hammock to hammock, always heading further into the marsh, looking for any sign that a man might have climbed out of the water and gone onto a mud island. It was tedious work and they finally took a break, drifting the boat while they relaxed in the heat. Harry‘s boat was only a few yards behind the ranger’s craft.
After about a half hour, the sheriff took off his hat and wiped his brow, then spoke, “He’s here, I know it.”
“If I was him,” said the ranger, “I’d try to keep fairly close to the Bay for fishing at night. Then I could work back into the swamp, moving from hammock of land to hammock, eat and lay low. I wouldn’t go too far from the big water though. Just keep back in the swamp reeds for hiding.”
“This man is clever,” said Sheriff Good.
“He knows how to hide all right,” agreed the ranger.
“Folk in Mulberry been helping him,” said the lawman, as he turned to Harry in the nearby boat, “You live here long enough, newspaperman, you’ll learn how people lie right to your face.”
Harry remembered what Senator had said about voters talking to him. He wondered who of the two officials was correct, or if the sheriff was right and the politician misled. He smiled but didn’t say anything.
Powerboat Racer (River Sunday Romance Mysteries Book 3) Page 21