A coupla FBI folks showed us a small suitcase with $20,000 in it and explained how the handover would go. I thought it must be play money, but they assured me it was the real thing. They didn’t plan on Marshall getting his hands on it before some ninja FBI men and women hiding in the woods grabbed him.
It all felt too unreal for both me and Fiona, like a bad TV movie. But we paid attention and were grateful for the support. Of course this time there was no question that I’d come along—I had to be the frontman who delivered the money. Fiona said she didn’t know if her legs would carry her. Stoltz kindly suggested she come along, but remain in the truck; he seemed to understand she could never stay at home alone, either.
For the rest of the day, neither one of us had anything to occupy our minds. I couldn’t work in my shop. For sure I would’ve cut off a finger. Shiloh was out there working hard to help us keep our deadlines. And I knew he was visualizing a good outcome for us.
I scrambled us some eggs and made toast from a whole wheat loaf a neighbor’d brought over. That was all we could keep down, that plus more tea.
When Curtis arrived, he said all the right things and explained he’d be heading up the FBI team that would be going out to the site well before nine o’clock. He promised they knew how to do this so Marshall wouldn’t see them.
Fiona and I prayed. I didn’t know what to say other than how much I loved both the boys, and I asked Jesus to help them have the opportunity to live full lives. I offered mine in exchange, but I knew he didn’t work thataway.
Like a coupla robots, we walked out to the truck about eight-thirty, carrying that suitcase that meant life to our boys. I drove, though to this day, I don’t remember a thing about getting there. Fiona was good about reading the directions while holding a flashlight. When we pulled up just before nine o’clock, no one was in sight. I was glad about the FBI not sticking out.
After a warm day for that late in the fall, the evening had turned cold. I wanted to have the truck going so we could have some heat, but I was afraid we wouldn’t hear the boys.
Fiona’s teeth were chattering when she spoke. “This wait is killing me, Rabbit. I know we can’t hurry things up, but I’m fixing to start screaming like a banshee.”
I knew she meant it, but what could I say to soothe her? I wanted to start hollering too.
After that, we didn’t say anything for the longest time. I jumped in my seat when she spoke again. “Those boys mean the world to me. And to you, I know.” She squeezed my hand, and something passed between us like I hadn’t felt before. “I swear if they come home to us, I will never again waste a precious moment wishing for more. Two fine boys are more love than most people get to have, and I’ll be grateful for what I have.”
I hugged her hard and fought back my own fears. I tried to picture our life together, happy on the farm with two young’uns running round making noise and mess and everything wonderful about being that young.
I looked at my watch; it was only ten after nine. It felt like we’d been waiting an hour.
“Do you think he’s playing a trick on us, Rabbit?” Fiona said, sounding like the life was draining outta her. I felt about the same, but I was trying to hold it inside for her sake. I wrapped my arms round her while she let out another wave of misery.
When my watch read twenty-five after nine, I said, “Shug, I can’t sit here and wait. I don’t want to screw anything up, but I’ve got to get outta this truck.” We were in this together, and I couldn’t just go running off without her agreeing.
“Go out there and find that bastard,” she said, still crying her eyes out. “I’ll stay in the truck with the suitcase.”
The truck door made an awful cry in the silent night. Then I shouted, “Marshall! Marshall White! We’re here for the boys.”
Just an old hoot owl answered my plea. I walked round in circles, straining my eyes to see in the dark. Nothing. That bastard had played a trick on us. Was there no end to his evil?
I feared the worst for our boys and started crying. Then out of nowhere came the unmistakable sound of a harmonica blasting a string of off-key notes. A song of desperation.
In a flash, FBI agents rushed forward and called out to one anothern in an area off to the left. I ran toward them, and in the dark I almost tripped over a root. The near-fall hurtled me forward in a low crouch, my arms out to regain my balance, so when Conor and Vern came running outta the woods, they thought I was opening my arms to them, down at their level, in order to grab them and love them and take them to safety. And I was.
Fiona was right behind me, and next thing I knew we were all in a huddle, hugging and crying and carrying on. We heard the FBI shouting, and for oncet, I was happy not to be in the middle of things. Though I wasn’t happy to learn Marshall had slipped away again.
Chapter 66: Abit
The next day, I saw our neighbor walking up the drive leading a big German shepherd. He’d heard about what we were going through, and since it was well-known Mollie wasn’t much of a watchdog, he wondered if we’d like to keep Layla until Marshall was caught. I was about to come to Mollie’s defense, but then I knew he was right.
Fiona and I were both grateful for the kindness, though I wasn’t sure how Mollie would take to a new dog in her house. I should’ve known. She gave Layla a play bow, and that was all it took for her to have a new friend. They slept together in the living room, keeping watch over us for three nights. I slept better than I had in weeks, knowing Layla would light into Marshall if he came near us.
The FBI finally caught him. Not in Winston-Salem, but sneaking round Fort Thomas, Kentucky, just below Cincinnati. Come to find out he’d had enough sense to skip “Poor Ellen Smith” since he knew we were on to him. He’d moved on to “Pearl Bryan,” the next murder ballad on the list in Traditional Tales of True Crime Ballads in the Southern Appalachians. Wallis and I were both proud of our detective work. We knew the FBI had to have referred to that same list in order to widen their search.
Not surprisingly, in the end Stoltz took most of the credit, giving a nod to Curtis and the FBI team. Wallis didn’t care, and after I got a mess of stove wood split the day I’d heard about Stoltz’s preening, I didn’t care either. I chose to see it as payback for all the help they’d given us in getting our boys back.
Curtis stopped by before heading home (even though our farm was in the other direction). He wanted to thank me for my help in getting him a promotion. My heart sank; I figured I was losing my friend. But it turned out he’d still be working outta Charlotte. We talked about a dinner at the house sometime soon, this time with Fiona and the boys.
Oncet Marshall was behind bars, we asked the boys more about what had happened. (Fiona’d been too superstitious to talk about it while Marshall was on the run.) Marshall had found them playing in the creek and said they were going on a camping trip together. They lived in a tent for a few days, and both boys said they thought it was fun. At first. We didn’t want to upset Vern any more than he already was, so we left it at that.
Later, Conor came into our bedroom while Vern was in the bathroom and told us he’d felt scared and sad, having just come home from Ireland and already missing me and Mollie. I wanted to know where he’d gotten a pair of shoes to wear, and he showed me the blisters from wearing a spare pair of Vern’s.
While we were talking, I could tell reliving those days was upsetting Conor all over again. His mama soothed him as we talked more and came up with a plan to go back to Lake Meacham. He settled down and even laughed at one of my stupid jokes. Then he pulled out his harmonica and played a funny little tune he’d taught himself.
Chapter 67: Della
I got a call from Abit while I was up in D.C. He filled me in on the kidnapping and the eventual capture of Marshall White. I couldn’t even imagine the terror they’d been living through.
Alex and I both wanted to be with them, so we packed up in record time (though Rascal liked Alex’s backyard so much, I had a little trouble getting him
into the Jeep). We drove down together; Alex planned to take the train back to D.C. in a week or two.
We were almost down to Roanoke when I looked over at Alex as he drove. The way the sun hit the side of his face, I could see how lined it had become, especially around his eyes and mouth. And how the skin now sagged under his neck. I watched him a while longer, and it felt as though I came to know each of the sorrows that had etched the wrinkles and creases—and I knew I was the cause of many of them. He looked so very vulnerable, as we all ultimately are.
I felt something come over me, like a soft blanket pulled up on a cold night. In that moment, I knew I wanted to spend every minute I could with him and stop wasting time on old grudges and lies.
He caught me looking. “What?”
“Oh, nothing. Just thinking about our lives together.”
“And that’s nothing?” I punched his shoulder in that way that means cut it out. “Okay, but I’ve been thinking about our lives together too,” he said. “You know when I went off while staying at your apartment?” I nodded. “I was checking out a job offer in Chapel Hill. I didn’t want to tell you about it in case I wasn’t offered the job. But I was. For a new magazine.”
“Tough time for magazine start-ups.”
“Yeah, but this one seems different. And there’s good backing. A couple of rich guys from the tech world want to make their mark in a different way. They’re tired of too much distilled, dumbed-down crap that masquerades as news. I have high hopes for it.”
“What will you write about?”
“I’ll be managing editor. I’m bone weary of running all over the place to get the story. That’s a younger person’s game. And Chapel Hill cuts our commute from seven hours to three. I don’t even have to work there all the time—just go over for editorial meetings and the like.”
I was quiet, thinking about the wonder of coincidence.
“I thought you’d be more excited,” he said.
“I am.”
“You don’t sound it.”
“I’m just stunned that I was thinking about wanting to spend more time together, and then you tell me you’ve made that possible.”
We rode for miles without saying more. He was first to break the silence. “Have you ever thought of getting married again?
“I’ve said this before, but to refresh your memory, I’ve never felt not married to you, even after the divorce.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“Do you think about getting married again?”
“Every day.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean every day,” he said. “You have no idea how much shame I carry for that time in my life.”
“Well, don’t. I’ve put all that behind me. Us. I realized I’ve been carrying a lot of baggage too. Do you think it’s time to stop that?”
“Yes, I do.” He paused, taking a sip of what had to be cold coffee. “But you still haven’t answered my question.”
“I think we should spend as much time together as we can, but not rush into anything—for now—other than getting rid of the baggage. Is that good?”
“Yeah, that’s good.”
“Good.”
Once we were back in town, I checked on the store, Abit, and Jessie, in that order. The store first only because it was there when we drove into Laurel Falls. I wasn’t surprised Mary Lou had done her usual terrific job.
Then we headed out to see Abit and his family. I had to witness with my own eyes that all was well. They seemed to be returning to something close to normal. Conor even played an original tune for us on his harmonica. When I told Abit his ear looked like one of Rascal’s, he laughed. That’s when I knew he’d be okay.
On the way back, I dropped Alex and Rascal at home before stopping by the Mountain Weakly. Jessie was busy finishing up the Marshall White series, but she made time for a coffee at a café next door. The responsibility of writing the series seemed to have awakened a journalistic spark in her. I couldn’t imagine her going back to school board meetings, and I told her so. I was surprised when she agreed.
“Okay, then I’ll ask one more time. Would you like to cover the real estate scandal? I’ve got excellent contacts for you and the promise of an exclusive, at least from the local angle.”
This time Jessie jumped at the opportunity. Now that the hard work is done, she wants it, I thought to myself. But that was okay. Time to pass the baton.
“Don’t you want to share the byline?” Jessie asked as she tucked into the apple cobbler we were sharing.
“No, I don’t. But I’ll tell you what I do want?”
“Anything.”
“Next time I’m in D.C., I want you to take me to lunch, somewhere very fancy.”
“When and how’s that going to happen?”
“Oh, you know, when the Washington Post snags the hottest new reporter covering an explosive bank-fraud story.”
Chapter 68: Abit
Jessie Walsh at the newspaper wrote some articles about Marshall and the murders. I couldn’t imagine how she stood being in the jail with him, but I guess the guards helped her feel safe enough.
She started with where he’d grown up. I wasn’t surprised to read that was Chattanooga, where at 15 he’d already turned into a troublemaker. More than likely he was born not quite right in the head, but I knew something else was at play. I never doubted he was also a victim of that passed-down rage Curtis mentioned, from generations of hardship and heartache and just plain meanness.
When his family threw him out, he moved round for a while. Then eight year ago, he settled back near them, about the same time he took up with Vern’s mama. When he started acting crazy again, the courts made him get medical help, but Marshall hated the pills they put him on. He said they made his music suffer, and he went offa them. That’s when he first felt what he called “an itch that needed scratching,” a wicked understatement if there ever was one.
He told Jessie something just came over him when the first girl told him she was a “Knoxville girl.” A few months later, when the second girl said her name was Barbara Allen, he heard a voice saying she needed to live up to her name and die. While they didn’t catch him for those murders back then, he did get arrested for a robbery and spent four year in prison.
After he got out, he settled down again with Vern’s mother. But like the last time, the drugs that kept him halfway sane messed with his music, so he stopped. That’s when Vern’s mama ran off—and the itch came back.
When I finished reading the last article, I just sat in my chair a while, thinking how many forks in the road life throws your way—and how easy it was to choose the wrong one. And yet, somehow, Marshall had tapped into enough goodness not to abandon Vern when his mama ran off.
In the interviews, Marshall mentioned his music a lot, talking about how important it was, which reminded me how pissed off I got when Fiona kept saying how much Marshall put into his music. Now I could see that for the truth. But it wasn’t until Airhorn came by our place to bring us up to date that I understood why Marshall’d latched on to the murder ballads so hard—and why he didn’t want our band to play them.
“He’s crazy as a June bug now,” Airhorn told us, “performing in his cell to what he thinks is a big audience. The shrinks think Marshall is compelled to kill because he’s actually living inside those stories. He has to kill because it’s in the script he’s living.” He shook his head and added, “He’s writing his own murder ballad, calling it ‘Murder Ballad Blues.’ The guards told me he hasn’t finished it yet, just keeps singing a few lines over and over, driving them crazy.”
“Have you heard Marshall singing it?” I asked. When he nodded, I asked if he could sing it for us. I’d heard Airhorn sing and play guitar in the copper band, The Rolling Stops, and I knew he had a good voice. He rifled through a file he’d brought and found a report that included the lyrics. After pausing for a moment, likely to get the tune right in his head, he cleared his throat an
d sang in a strong tenor:
Please don’t let me linger in a place nobody
comes to.
There’s no one left to visit or lay flowers on
my grave.
I’ve done a lot of bad things that kept true love away.
I doubt even Jesus thinks my life is worth a save.
Each girl I knew was special, pretty as you please.
They sashayed and pranced and flirted with such ease.
The man was full of bluster, quick temper and booze.
We lived and died together in the murder ballad blues.
When he finished singing, Airhorn looked a little sick. Then he brought up something else. “You know that numerology thing? He’s really into it. I don’t know much about it, but he’s thrilled his cell number is eleven because according to him that’s his master number. Something to do with faith. I hate to think what he has faith in.”
I knew what: killing. That’s what Jessie Walsh wrote, that he had a killer mindset. Not just that he saw his victims as characters in the ballads, but that the more recent ones deserved to die because they’d judged him. He’d told her his victim over in Randolph County criticized his music playing. That was a stupid thing to do. Not only was she wrong, but if she hadn’t said that, she might’ve still been alive.
But I knew it wasn’t fair to lay 20/20 hindsight on that poor dead girl. If we got killed for saying stupid things, I’d never have seen my tenth birthday.
Chapter 69: Abit
The house seemed awful quiet. Della and Alex had taken Conor and Vern off to Mystery Mountain, the way Alex had done with me all those year ago. Fiona, Mollie, and Rascal were upstairs, getting ready for our big day.
When the boys came home, all happy and wore out, they fell asleep on the porch swing I’d just put up—something Conor had been asking for, and I couldn’t recall why I hadn’t done it sooner. Alex and Della sat on the porch watching over the boys, taking it easy in a coupla rockers I’d made.
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