Secret Undertaking

by Mark de Castrique

  Parade day dawned clear and cool. The temperature was predicted to rise, but the low humidity promised a hint of the approaching autumn. The organizational site for gathering marching bands, convertibles bearing local dignitaries, and floats was the Gainesboro High School parking lot and athletic field at the north end of town. Each unit had been assigned a number, and volunteers guided bands and vehicles into their proper positions. I saw Mayor Sammy Whitlock arguing with a parade official that his Mustang convertible should be right behind Tommy Lee’s patrol car. His Honor, looking like a bowling bowl wrapped in a seersucker suit, was hopping up and down proclaiming he was the leader of the town and should therefore be the leader of the parade. Mayor Whitlock would be the kind of leader to take the whole parade down a dead-end street. The poor official, seeing me in uniform, waved me to come over. I mouthed “off-duty” and for the first time felt glad to be on a float rather than in the thick of traffic and crowd control.

  I saw Tommy Lee standing by his car, talking to our Grand Marshall, North Carolina Commissioner of Agriculture Graham James. Mayor Whitlock, as usual, had tried to get Angelina Jolie, but her manager had again sent her regrets. We all suspected Whitlock just liked getting letters that he thought had been personally dictated by Angelina.

  The parade participants had been cordoned off into designated areas: floats in one section of the parking lot, cars in another, and the marching bands on the grassy edge of the football field. The air was filled with the sound of brass instruments tuning and snare drums rolling in short bursts. Schools from Laurel and surrounding counties eyed one another suspiciously because the judging stand would name one of them Best of Parade, or as we locals called it, “Pick of the Crop.”

  The parade would undergo final formation as it began its route. It would be like shuffling three decks of cards together, each merging into its proper slot. The float for the Jaycees and Sheriff’s Department was last. Archie took that as a compliment, like Santa Claus coming at the end of the Christmas Parade. Anything that followed would be anticlimactic.

  I found him already on the float. He wore a black-and-white-striped prison uniform he’d ordered from an online costume store and he had loosely wrapped an iron chain around his ankles. I was supposed to handcuff him when the parade got underway.

  He sat on a stool inside a fake jail cell constructed of cardboard tubing spray-painted black.

  Surrounding the float were kids ages eight to fourteen who had been selected to ride. Adults tried to herd them into organized groups according to whether they wore a Girls Club or Boys Club tee-shirt.

  The sides of the float were decorated in red and white crepe paper with gold letters spelling Gainesboro Jaycees and Laurel County Sheriff’s Department.

  I had to admit the whole design was impressive and if Archie raised the ten thousand dollars, I’d do the unthinkable—congratulate him on a good idea.

  A small stepladder had been set up at the rear and I climbed it to join Archie.

  “Oh, good, you wore your gun.” He stood and pumped my hand like I was a dry well.

  “Always, when I’m arresting a dangerous criminal.”

  He laughed and spread his arms. “What do you think?”

  “Looks good.” I saw bowls of wrapped candy sitting on the cell’s floor. “You throwing that to the crowd?”

  “Yeah.” He bent down and retrieved one of the small packets. “Apple-flavored taffy. Try one.”

  I took the candy and read Donovan Insurance and Investments: Don’t delay—Call today! “You couldn’t get these with your picture?”

  His expression grew serious. “I wanted to, but Gloria said I’d wind up in trash cans up and down Main Street. Not a good advertising environment.”

  Gloria was Archie’s wife and always exhibited good judgment. But she’d married Archie. Ah, there was no explanation for the affairs of the heart.

  “And I’ve been working on a routine with the kids,” he added.

  “What’s that?”

  “You have to wait and see.”

  We heard clicks of a camera shutter and turned to see Melissa Bigham of the Gainesboro Vista firing off a series of shots.

  “Wait, Melissa,” Archie shouted. “Get one of Barry putting the cuffs on me.”

  Melissa was the star reporter and photographer for our local paper. Only a few years younger than me, she’d received offers from much larger markets, but her love of the mountains trumped big-city bylines and bigger salaries. Her short blond hair, small stature, and cute looks caused politicians and corporate executives to underestimate her. They did so at their own peril.

  Melissa lowered her camera. “All right, but then I’ve got to split. Mayor Whitlock is going to blow a gasket if I don’t take a picture of him with the Commissioner of Agriculture.”

  I snapped one of the metal cuffs on Archie’s wrist and then held the other poised above his free hand. The camera whirred.

  “Got it.” Melissa turned to go and then stopped. “Archie, how much money have you raised in advance?”

  “Five hundred dollars. Only nine thousand, five hundred more to go.”

  Melissa winked at me. “So, you’re confident you’ll be out by Christmas?”

  “Oh, with the friends I’ve got in this town, I’ll be out by this time tomorrow.”

  I wondered if Tommy Lee would allow a Christmas tree in a jail cell.

  Thirty minutes later, the parade got underway. As the last float, we were thirty minutes after that. The day had warmed, the children grew cranky and Archie and I were sweating through our clothes. But, a rousing cheer erupted when the tractor pulled us forward, and as we turned onto Main Street, Archie yelled, “Okay, kids, just like we practiced.”

  The left side of the float shouted, “Free!” The right side followed with “Archie!” The chant continued unabated. It was going to be a long parade route.

  Archie turned to me and grinned. “Great, huh?”

  “Yeah. Just great.”

  My prisoner bent to one of the candy bowls. “Barry, I can’t throw the taffy in these handcuffs.”

  “You should have thought of that.”

  He lifted the bowl with his bound hands. “I’ll hold and you toss. We can’t disappoint the spectators.”

  So, I lobbed candy while “Free Archie” rang around me. We had traveled only three or four blocks when the float halted.

  “What’s the problem?” Archie asked.

  “Maybe a band is performing at the judges’ viewing stand.”

  “You think every band will do that?”

  I shrugged. “They’re not supposed to stop for more than a minute or two, but some of these band directors love to showcase their performance.”

  If a band was showing off, it was certainly taking its time. Ten minutes passed. The kids stopped chanting; I stopped throwing candy. Then I heard the wail of several sirens coming down Church Street, the road parallel to Main. I looked beyond the float in front of us and saw Deputy Reece Hutchins running between the parade and the spectators. Reece wasn’t in the best of shape, and his red face told me he was winded.

  “Something’s wrong,” I told Archie. I hurried to the front of the float and jumped to the tongue connecting it to the tractor. A second jump landed me on the pavement as Reece arrived.

  “Barry,” he gasped, “someone attacked the Commissioner of Agriculture.” He gulped for air. “At Fourth and Main. Tommy Lee sent me—”

  I bolted before Reece finished the sentence. As I ran down the street, I heard people call my name and ask what was happening. I ignored them because I had no idea. Who would want to attack the Commissioner of Agriculture? Why?

  I neared the intersection and saw where police cars and an ambulance had arrived by the cross street. An EMT tended to Commissioner James, who had slipped off the back of the convertible and sat half in and half out of th
e rear seat. Tommy Lee stood with another EMT by the curb. The crowd had been pushed back. Two men lay on the pavement, one facedown and the other face-up. The man face-up was covered in blood. The man face-up was Uncle Wayne.

  Chapter Four

  Tommy Lee intercepted me as I ran toward my uncle. “He’s alive, Barry.” He glanced at the commissioner being treated in the convertible. “Wayne’s the medics’ priority. He’s going to the hospital first and a second ambulance is en route for Commissioner James. He has a minor shoulder wound.”

  I pushed by the sheriff. “I need to see him.”

  My uncle’s eyes were closed, but I saw his chest rise and fall with ragged breaths. His white shirt was soaked with blood, but I didn’t see the source of the bleeding. I recognized the EMT. He was adjusting an inflatable neck brace. He must have determined there was some potential head or neck injury that required stabilization before Uncle Wayne could be moved.

  “Is he conscious, Jake?” I asked.

  The man looked up and shook his head. “But his pulse is strong. That’s a good sign, Barry.”

  The rattle of a wheeled gurney signaled a third medic had arrived. I turned to see Lila Black, another EMT I knew, lowering the transport device till it was only six inches above the pavement.

  “All right,” Jake said. “Barry, if you and the sheriff want to help, let’s keep him as level as possible. We’ll lift on the count of three.”

  Jake took position at my uncle’s head, Lila at his feet, and Tommy Lee and I on either side. Wayne groaned as we slid him onto the gurney.

  “You want to ride?” Jake asked me.

  “If there’s room. I don’t want to hamper whatever you need to do.”

  “Fortunately, we’re only going a few blocks.”

  “Okay, then.”

  They ratcheted the gurney up to waist-height and I followed as they rolled Uncle Wayne to the rear of the ambulance.

  “Barry! Barry!” Archie came running up, his hands still cuffed in front of him. His face drained of color when he saw Wayne. “Is he—?”

  “He’s unconscious. I’m going with him.”

  “Do you want me to get your mom?”

  Archie’s clear thinking surprised me.

  “Yes. Try not to alarm her.” I unlocked the handcuffs. “Just tell her Wayne’s been hurt and that I asked you to bring her to the hospital. Tell her we don’t know any more than that, because we don’t.” I climbed into the ambulance and Jake joined me. The doors shut and the siren wailed as the vehicle shot forward, a parade of one.

  Jake and I sat on jump seats on either side of the gurney. I studied Uncle Wayne but saw no signs of additional bleeding. The medics must have staunched the flow. I remembered the third person, lying facedown near my uncle. No EMT tended to him. The deputy part of my brain told me he was dead. I wondered who he was and what had happened.

  “Sounds like your uncle’s a hero,” Jake said.

  “What?”

  “I heard some of the people in the crowd talking to the sheriff. Toby McKay evidently charged the front of Commissioner James’ car, firing a pistol. One bullet struck James’ shoulder. Your uncle jumped from the curb and grabbed the gun. He and McKay struggled for it. It went off.”

  “Where was my uncle hit?”

  “He wasn’t.” Jake waved his hand over Uncle Wayne’s blood-soaked shirt. “The bullet must have hit McKay’s aorta. This is his blood. Witnesses said they both fell and your uncle’s head hit the pavement. I don’t know if he has a fractured skull, a concussion, or both. That’s why he’s our priority.”

  Less than five minutes later, we pulled up to the door of the Emergency Room. A trauma team was there to meet us. The gurney was unloaded and whisked away. I suddenly stood alone on the sidewalk. My phone vibrated and I saw a text message from my wife:

  Got the call. On my way to the hospital.

  At first I wasn’t sure who had called her. Then I remembered she was on-call for the clinic. She was coming to operate on either the commissioner or my uncle.

  Now there was nothing for me to do but settle into the waiting room and trust the medical team to do their best. And hope God wasn’t ready to face Uncle Wayne.

  Ten minutes later, Commissioner Graham James was brought by a second ambulance. Mayor Whitlock waddled alongside the gurney, moaning like he was the one who had been shot. A security guard stopped him as James continued down a corridor. Whitlock looked bewildered, uncertain what to do next. He didn’t see me, but looked back through the sliding glass doors of the Emergency Room entrance. He grabbed the lapels of his seersucker suit and tried to pull the coat flat across the curve of his torso. He stepped forward, wringing his hands in a great show of consternation.

  Melissa Bigham hurried up to him. I watched their animated conversation and was tempted to join them, but I couldn’t endure the mayor’s histrionics. After a few minutes, Melissa turned away and went to the admissions desk. The mayor took a deep breath and left.

  Melissa asked the woman at the desk a few questions. The woman pointed at me, evidently telling her I’d arrived with the EMTs. Melissa spun around, gave a slow shake of her head, and walked over to me. I stood. She kept walking, opening her arms to give me a comforting hug.

  “I’m so sorry, Barry. Any update?”

  “Not so far. He wasn’t shot. It’s a head injury from falling.” I gestured for her to sit and then took the chair beside her. “But I don’t know what happened, other than somebody named Toby McKay attacked the commissioner.”

  Melissa eyed the waiting room. The only other occupants were a Hispanic family consisting of a young mother, an older woman I assumed was the grandmother, and a toddler cradled in the mother’s lap. The child looked like he was running a fever.

  Melissa leaned closer and spoke in a whisper. “I interviewed several people who were right there when it happened. McKay jumped from the curb about twenty yards in front of the commissioner’s convertible. He shouted as he ran. Most people heard, ‘You ruint me, you son of a bitch. You ruint me.’ Then he fired a shot. While everyone else stood paralyzed with fear, your uncle ran out and intercepted him. During the struggle, the gun went off and your uncle fell backwards. Both men lay in the street and neither moved. Tommy Lee was only one car ahead and was the first authority on the scene. He called it in immediately.”

  “What do you know about Toby McKay?”

  “Not much,” she said. “He has a small apple orchard east of town. He lost most of his crop last year from the codling moth outbreak. He’d tried to save money by cutting back on pesticides and it backfired.”

  “Why would he blame Commissioner James for that?”

  Melissa shrugged. “I don’t know. Yet.” She stood. “As soon as I write what happened, I’ll focus on why. I hope you hear good news on your uncle. It sounds like he was a real hero.” She paused and her eyes moistened. “And that’s the way I’ll tell it.”

  She’d been gone only a few minutes when Archie and Mom arrived. Mom started crying when she saw me. Archie looked scared, all of his usual confidence and cockiness submerged by genuine concern.

  Mom and I hugged and I tucked her cheek against my shoulder. “He wasn’t shot. He fell and hit his head. The medic said his pulse was strong.” In three sentences, I’d shared all that I knew.

  “Can we see him?”

  “Not yet. They don’t know the extent of his injuries. Susan’s on her way.”

  I felt Mom relax at the assurance that her daughter-in-law would be here.

  “What can I do?” Archie asked.

  Mom broke away. “Thank you, Archie. I appreciate your bringing me. I’ll be fine now.”

  Archie looked at me. “Barry. Anything? Should I stand guard at the funeral home?”

  I had to smile at the offer, as if our business was vulnerable like an unlocked bank vault. Then I thought again. T
here had been instances of funeral home thefts of embalming fluid that kids used to soak cigarettes or marijuana and create a cheap drug with a high like PCP. And then there was the matter of Toby McKay’s body. Most likely it would go to the hospital for autopsy, but at some point we might become involved. How awkward was that? Taking care of the funeral for the man my uncle killed. Somehow, I didn’t think that would fly for either party.

  “Mom, did you lock up?”

  “Yes. And turned on the answering service.”

  The service would forward calls to my cell phone.

  “Then, we should be covered, Archie.”

  He spread his hands. “So, I should just turn myself in at the jail?”

  For a second, I didn’t understand his question. Then I remembered the float, the Boys and Girls Clubs, and the fundraiser Archie had worked so hard to put together.

  “If you want, but I’m sure there will be no problem if you want to wait a day or two before being locked up.”

  “No. I said I’d go to jail after the parade. I’m going to keep my word. I don’t want to disappoint the kids on the float. They’ve already had one disappointment today.”

  Archie took my mother’s hand. “And your brother’s going to be all right, Mrs. Clayton. I just know it.”

  As he disappeared through the sliding doors, Mom whispered, “He’s always been an odd one, hasn’t he?”

  “He’s always been Archie.”

  We had just sat down when Susan came from the inner corridor, wearing scrubs with the surgical mask dangling from her neck. Her face was grave. So grave that a chill ran through me. I didn’t want to hear what she was about to say.

  “We’re moving him to Mission,” she said.

  Mission was the hospital in Asheville, a much larger facility with many more resources.

  “You’re not going to operate on him?” Mom asked.

  “Connie, we need to keep him in an induced coma. He has a severe concussion and the most imminent danger is swelling of the brain. Mission has the latest equipment and a medical team that handles this kind of situation more frequently. Fortunately, skull damage is minor, but we’ve got to get through the next twenty-four hours.”