by C. J. Lyons
TK grinned and bounced on her toes, that feeling of anticipation that she’d first felt when she arrived in Greer returning. “Yep. Want to help me nail that smug sonofabitch?”
“I want the truth,” he admonished her, reminding her once again that he was old enough to be her father. “I want Marcia Madsen’s killer. I want justice for the people we found in that car.”
“So do I,” she assured him. “But if it means pissing off Greer, I’m happy to take that as a bonus for a job well done.”
“Okay, then. Just so we’re clear. Guess we should go find Franklin, see what he has to say for himself.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
As Lucy drove them over the mountains, Maybelle told her version of the events leading up to her parents’ deaths.
“We were at the courthouse window, watching the mob. Officer Thomson came out to stop them and they shot him. Then my father tried to help, but… Winnie tried to hide it from me, but I still saw, saw what they did…” Her voice trailed off.
“Winnie.” The name was a sigh. “She was my hero. All my life I wanted to be as strong as she was that day. Somehow I can hang on to her memory as a real person more than my parents, not sure why. They were heroes as well, just like Officer Thomson and Henry Rawling. Makes you wonder when so many good people can die for no good reason. Makes you doubt. Question God’s plan.”
Lucy tried to steer Maybelle back to her story. “How did you escape?”
“Winnie got me out, knew all the back ways through yards and gardens and fields to get us to the Rawlings’ house. Said we had to warn them, get them out of town before the men came for them. When we got there, it was just Henry’s mom and aunt, so we packed up anything they could carry and waited for his father to get home with the truck. Never been so scared or have time move so slow—and yet it all went so fast, like my parents were being rushed away from me before I could even finish crying.”
“You must have been terrified, all these strangers taking you away from your parents.”
Maybelle nodded, her gaze caught in distant memories. “I guess I was in shock. I remember thinking that maybe I hadn’t really woken up in the car, that I was still asleep and this was just a dream brought on by sneaking too much pie. I kept waiting to wake up, but things just kept getting worse and worse, and there was nothing I could do except pray. That’s my first memory from when I was just a baby, my momma and me praying for Daddy to come home from the war safe and sound. So that’s what I did.”
“And you escaped with the Rawlings?”
“Wasn’t quite so easy. Henry’s father was the only black preacher, and their house and little church were beside the black graveyard. New Canaan, that was how they always called it—for the longest time I thought that was the name of the town, could never figure out why they said it with such reverence after everything that happened there. But it wasn’t the real name of the town, it was their name for the congregation.”
“The Rawlings never told you about Greer?”
She shook her head. “When I was little, there were only so many secrets I could safely carry, like my new name. And it was too painful for them to talk about. By the time I got older, they were gone. They were always worried that the white men from Pennsylvania would find them, hunt them down, kill them in their sleep. But it was nothing like that. Just a rainy road on a dark night, driving the church bus, went off a bridge. Six people died, the rest of them—my friends, the entire youth choir—ended up in the hospital. I should’ve been with them, but I was being a bratty, sulky teenager and when I didn’t get picked for the solo, I had a hissy fit and stayed home. One rainy night, and everyone who could have given me any answers was gone.”
They drove in silence until Lucy began to maneuver down the switchbacks leading off the mountain. As they came to a small cleared plateau with a modern-day glass and timber log cabin perched at the top, taking advantage of the view over the valley and river below, Maybelle gasped. “Is that it? That little place hugging the river?”
“That’s Greer,” Lucy confirmed. “The college takes up most of that green space between the river and the mountains. The quarry where we found the car is on the other side of town—”
“There, I see the sun hitting water. That must be it, right?” She sat forward, sounding like a little girl despite the solemn nature of their journey. “Everything looks so different from how I remember it. Not that I saw very much, and it was a long time ago.”
They rounded a bend, giving them a different view of the town. “That dome, is that the courthouse?” This time her voice was laced with anxiety.
“Yes.” Lucy eased off the gas. “You don’t have to do this. If you’d rather—”
“No.” Her voice was firm. “I’ve waited all my life to see this place. But I think we should find Winnie first.”
“Find Winnie? You mean she’s still alive, here in Greer, after all these years?”
Maybelle shook her head. “No. I mean find her grave. I saw her get killed. Saw where he buried her body.”
“What happened? Was it her father, did he finally catch up with her?” Lucy was surprised by how invested she’d become in the fate of the brave little girl who’d saved Maybelle. To learn that after everything, Winnie had died as well that night…it felt as visceral as if she’d known her in person.
“Not her father. A boy. He came to Henry’s house. Winnie said he was there for her, made us run out the back while she stalled him. We hid in the woods, covered in mud and leaves, huddled behind a log, nowhere else to go until Henry’s father came with the truck.”
She stared out the window at the brilliant July morning, shook her head as if shrugging away the years and pain. “We could hear them yelling. The boy must have hit her or something, because she came running around the side of the house, heading away from us, through the graveyard. He came running after, caught up with her. She had a knife—guess she took it from the kitchen—and cut him across the arm.”
She held up her right forearm and gestured. “But he picked up a rock, hit her on the head, and down she went. That didn’t stop him. He kept swearing and yelling at her, saying she was a tease and a whore and all sorts of names, all the time he kept bashing her with that rock, over and over. Until he just kind of collapsed. Sat right down on the ground, cradling her bloody body and cried.”
Another pause. “But then he stopped crying. Stood up, fast, like he’d heard something that scared him—maybe it was me, I was sobbing but Henry’s aunt had her fist in my mouth. I bit her so hard I drew blood, but she never let me go. Never made a sound, either, not her or Henry’s mother. There was an open grave nearby, freshly dug, ready to go. The boy, he just kicked Winnie’s body, rolling it into that hole in the ground, tossed the knife and rock in after her. Then he shoved some dirt on top of her and he walked away. Like nothing happened.”
“You think you can find that grave?”
“I know I can,” she said with certainty. “I saw the marker on the grave right beside her. I’ve been reading since I was three—my momma taught me—and it was an easy name to remember. Abe Brown. I remember because of President Lincoln. And Brown was the name my parents were talking about before we stopped. In the car, there was a news report. My father told me that because of this Brown, I could grow up to be anything I wanted.”
“1954,” Lucy mused. “Brown versus the Board of Education?”
Maybelle nodded. “May 17th, the day that changed everything.”
“This boy who attacked Winnie, did she ever say his name?”
“Yes. She called him Philip. Said his father was mayor. Said he was the one who beat up Henry and started the whole thing.”
Grayson lurched forward so fast that Lucy almost hit the brakes, thinking he’d seen a deer in the road or something equally dangerous.
“No,” he said. “That’s wrong. It couldn’t be him.”
“What is it, Grayson?”
“My grandfather. His name is Philip, and his f
ather was mayor back then. But, I’m sure you’re mistaken. It couldn’t have been my grandfather who did that to your friend. I mean, he was a judge. He spent his whole life upholding the law.”
“Winnie said Philip. The mayor’s son.” Maybelle was firm, refusing to compromise.
“I’ll take you by his place, you can meet him for yourself. See that it wasn’t him.”
“Grayson,” Lucy said, “it was sixty years ago. Maybelle was four years old. How can she possibly recognize him in the man he is now?”
“I’d know him,” Maybelle insisted, not flustered at all by Grayson’s protests. “If I saw a picture of him from back then. That face. It haunts my dreams every night.”
Grayson frowned, unwilling to concede. In the rearview mirror, Lucy could see him swiping through his phone, undoubtedly searching for photos that would help his case.
“You’re wrong,” he said, sounding more than a little petulant in his defense of his family name. Not that she totally blamed him—after all, Maybelle had just accused his grandfather of murder. “We’ll find a picture. You can see what the judge looked like back then, see for yourself it wasn’t him.” He leaned toward Lucy. “Take us to my grandfather’s house.”
“No,” Maybelle said. “I’d like to go to the quarry where my parents were left, and then I want to visit Winnie’s grave. Pray over them both. After that, I’ll go anywhere you want, tell my story to anyone you want. No more hiding the truth.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
While Karlan drove them to Franklin’s home, once again using the dilapidated patrol car he’d had yesterday, TK called Lucy to update her. Her call went straight to voice mail, which she hoped meant Lucy was too busy gaining valuable insights from their new witness to answer her phone. She left a message letting Lucy know what the mayor was up to as well as a warning that Grayson was feeding his father information.
Next, she tried David. He sounded a bit groggy but insisted that he hadn’t been sleeping and that he wasn’t in pain. “Can’t sleep. I forgot how some of these pain meds make me itch all over, and scratching only makes it worse.”
“Tell the doctors. Ask them to change to something different.”
“Haven’t seen them. Besides, it’s better if I tough it out, get off the meds as soon as possible.”
Typical. He’d complain to her but wouldn’t take the necessary steps to solve the problem if it made him lose face. As if a total stranger cared how high his pain threshold was. Was there anything more stubborn than male pride?
“David. You’ve just been blown up. Literally. For the second time in your life. Take the damn meds and give your body time to heal.”
“I’m fine,” he insisted. “How’s the case going?”
She quickly filled him in on her and Karlan’s frustrating side of the investigation and what little she knew about Lucy’s progress. “We’re on our way to interview Franklin, see if he or his buddies saw anyone near the warehouse.”
“We were all headed in that direction, so I guess it’s possible.” His tone didn’t sound very hopeful. “But with all those people in and around the square uploading photos and videos, why don’t you crowdsource your search?”
“Ask for random tips? I don’t think the mayor would approve,” which, honestly made the idea more appealing, “and we don’t want to set off any vigilantes like what happened with the Boston bombing.”
“Right. What if Wash and I combed through the videos posted online? We know where we’re looking and when, should be able to narrow things down. I’ll bet he could even create some kind of algorithm.”
“Actually, that would be helpful.” And it would keep David’s mind off the pain and the itching and most of all, the boredom that came from lying in a hospital bed. “I’d really appreciate it.”
“Good. Because if we find anything, I’ll absolutely be expecting a reward.”
“Like what? An exclusive story?”
“No, I was thinking more along the lines of a naughty-nurse costume…”
She hung up. Karlan slanted her a look, and she knew her blush gave her away. “I take it the boyfriend is feeling better?”
“It’s the pain meds, makes him goofy. But he did have a good idea.” She told him about David and Wash searching the online media for leads.
“Why the hell not?” he said as he pulled the cruiser to the curb. Up ahead, a block away from where she’d first encountered Franklin yesterday morning, there he was, sitting on a stoop with two of his friends. One of the linebackers and Skinny Kid.
As she and Karlan left the car and walked toward them, the boys glanced up and fell silent. They all seemed strangely subdued compared to her encounters with them yesterday. That’s when she noticed that the linebacker had his arm in a sling and Skinny Kid’s scalp bristled with staples.
“You guys okay?” Karlan asked as they drew near.
“What do you care?” Franklin asked in a bitter tone, as always speaking for all of them. His eye was bruised and swollen and his lip had a crusty scab where it had been split.
“What happened?” TK nodded to their assortment of injuries.
“What do you think? Got caught in that stampede when the fireworks blew. Not that the police cared. More concerned with herding us than protecting us. Like we were cattle, animals.”
Karlan frowned. “Are you saying a cop did this to you? Assaulted you?”
At first TK thought Franklin was going to say yes—he straightened, his chin held high in defiance. But then his shoulders slumped. “Nah. But they pushed us all back from the fire and that sent us right into the path of a bunch of Nazi thugs.”
“Anyone you’d recognize? Want me to file a report?”
Franklin stared at Karlan as if he was from Mars. “Our business, we’ll deal with it. Don’t need you to get involved.”
“And I don’t need you headed back to prison for taking the law into your own hands,” Karlan said in a stern tone. Stern, but caring, almost fatherly. “This time it won’t be juvie, you know that.”
Franklin glanced at the other two boys. They stood, gave him a nod, and sauntered off, skirting past TK and Karlan as if they weren’t even there.
“Can’t tell you who did it because we couldn’t see past their boots and fists. It was crazy mad out there, folks running away from the fire, toward the fire, pounding on each other, running over each other. Never seen anything like it—and I never want to again. We were animals. All of us. Never mind color, we were all just scared and seeing blood.”
Karlan considered that. “You and your friends, always out on the street, nothing better to do. You know they’re going to need people to help put the town square back together. You guys could sign up, make a few bucks, show folks that this town never quits fighting no matter how bad things get.”
“No one will hire me, not with my record.”
“Let me take care of that. Come see me after the Fourth, bring your crew.”
Franklin nodded as if sealing a solemn vow. Then he tilted his head to TK. “You look a little banged up yourself—were you caught in the riot?”
“No. I was inside the government center when the fireworks blew.”
His eyes widened as he pursed his lips in appreciation. “You were right there, eye of the storm? Damn girl, you’re made of steel, some kind of Wonder Woman.”
“I got lucky, had some good cover to hide under. My friend is in the hospital and Dr. Madsen was killed.”
“Yeah, I heard they was still pulling body parts out.”
“That’s why we’re here,” Karlan said. “We were wondering if you or your friends saw anyone near the government center or warehouse before the explosion?”
“You think we did it?” He didn’t seem upset by the implied accusation, rather seemed a bit proud. “Like we built us an IED, timed it to blow up the fireworks?”
“Not you, but someone. Probably close to the same time you and your friends were walking that way.”
He frowned. “We w
alked around the barricades, scoping the crowd, you know? Passed the alley behind the police station but didn’t go down it.”
“So you didn’t see anyone?”
“Just the mayor. Strutting around like he’s king of China—damn fool didn’t even seem to care about the people yelling and screaming for justice, other side of the courthouse. Like that Italian dude, fiddling while Rome burned.”
Karlan leaned back as if this information wasn’t anything important. “Don’t suppose you noticed what time it was that you saw Mayor Greer?”
Franklin slid his phone out, thumbed through the screens. “Was gonna post a GIF, show folks just how stupid he is, so I snapped a few pix.” He held the phone up to Karlan and TK. “Time stamp is right there.”
So it was. 7:07. The mayor was leaving the warehouse, brushing his hands together, a grin sparking his teeth against the light of the streetlamp. The next photo caught him mid-stride, making it seem as if he was capering. And that’s when TK noticed his hands—he wore gloves.
“Who wears leather gloves in July?” TK muttered to Karlan.
He nodded, thumbing through the photos, his smile quickly masked. “It’s a start.”
She barely heard Karlan’s negotiations with Franklin over the phone with its evidence. All she could think of was David, his face twisted in pain, and Marcia Madsen’s torn and battered body.
She expected politicians to be liars, thieves, and crooks—part of the job description, even if they weren’t connected to the mob. But murder? Just to cover up evidence of a scandal from six decades ago?
Or had Mayor Greer done it to protect his family name? That made more sense to her; not an excuse, but she could somehow wrap her mind around the idea of saving your family even if it meant extreme measures. Still boiled down to stubborn pride taking precedent over actual people and lives.
No matter why he’d done it, if JR Greer was behind Madsen’s death, she was going to nail him. Dig a hole and bury him and his political aspirations so deep they’d never be seen again.