Unspeakable

by Sandra Brown

  Connie the teller shot him straight through the heart.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Ezzy watered the leafy plant in the living room window. He had given up on the African violets. They were goners. As for the living room plant, he didn’t have the faintest idea what it was called or whether or not it needed watering. Maybe he had already overwatered it. But when Cora came back, she might take the African violet decimation better if at least one of her plants had survived.

  Ezzy always thought in terms of “when she came back.” Not “if she came back.” He hadn’t allowed himself to think that she wouldn’t.

  He hadn’t allowed himself to get too depressed over yesterday’s wasted trip to see Parker Gee, either. His visit to the dying man had used up a day; that had been the extent of its value to him.

  Well, that and the decision it had forced him to make: He was dropping the McCorkle case.

  It was over for him. He was calling it quits. For the last twenty-two years he had been chasing his tail. He was tired. Through. Finished. He wanted his life back. He wanted his wife back. It was over. Forget about it.

  This morning he had awakened with renewed resolve to expunge it from his consciousness. Of course, he didn’t delude himself that this was going to be an easy withdrawal. Breaking a twenty-two-year-old habit was no small feat. Keeping busy at something else would be key. So he had moved from room to room trying to remember the million and one projects on Cora’s “honey do” list that he had never gotten around to doing.

  Thus far he had repaired the cord on the floor lamp in the den. He had oiled the hinges on the back door. He had replaced the casters beneath the legs of the sofa and had determined that no way in hell did he know how to stop the ceiling fan in the bedroom from wobbling. He scheduled an electrician to fix that.

  Problem was, Cora ran a tight ship, so Ezzy quickly ran out of projects.

  After watering the unidentified plant, boredom set in with a vengeance. Was he hungry? Maybe. Should he go to the Busy Bee for lunch? The same crowd would be there. Same nosy questions. He wasn’t in the mood.

  So he heated up a can of Wolf brand chili and carried a bowl of it and some crackers into the den. He turned on the TV set just for the background noise, finding comfort in any human voice. Way behind on his reading, he picked up a three-month-old edition of Reader’s Digest and scanned the index looking for something to spark his interest.

  He was well into the account of a man being swallowed by a whale like the Sunday school story of Jonah when the local noon news came on. The lead story was of a bank holdup that had left two policemen, a bank guard, and a customer dead. The thieves had escaped with an undisclosed amount of money. Although the community was small, it was a rich bank because of the nearby industry—a tire factory.

  Security cameras helped identify the robbers as prison escapees Myron Hutts and Carl Herbold, along with Herbold’s brother Cecil, a parolee who lived and worked in the town.

  Astonishingly, bank employee Connie Skaggs had also participated in the robbery. The thirty-two-year-old childless divorcee, described by a co-worker as “just a regular person,” was captured on videotape fatally shooting one of the policemen.

  “We’re confident of catching these killers and bringing them to justice,” said the emotional chief of police, who had lost half his force when two of his four officers tried to thwart the robbers. “You don’t go shootin’ cops in this town and get away with it.”

  The Herbolds and their accomplices were to be considered armed and extremely dangerous. Ezzy’s chili cooled as he listened to the report about the net that law enforcement agencies had thrown over Arkansas, the northwestern corner of Louisiana, and northeast Texas.

  The reporter on the scene then returned control of the broadcast to the anchorman, who introduced a psychologist. Dr. Something-or-Other launched into a monotonal lecture on the traumatic toll such a violent event takes on witnesses and the families of victims.

  Ezzy muted the sound. Mechanically spooning the tepid chili into his mouth, he stared at the silent television screen. The psychologist’s segment was followed by a diaper commercial. That preceded one featuring a woman showing off her daisy-fresh toilet to an envious neighbor.

  Like an old firewagon horse, Ezzy was charged and ready to run. His earlier resolve was as dim a memory as the necktie he got last Father’s Day. Minutes ago, his spirit had had the wherewithal of a couch potato. Now it felt energized, eager, pumped.

  He had been the first lawman to tussle with the Herbold brothers. He had been the first peace officer to jail them. Now they had committed a violent crime in a neighboring state and were on the lam.

  Carl and Cecil had been mean boys. Psychologists would probably attribute their meanness to being without a father during their formative years, to their weak and passive mother, to their harsh stepfather who had tried to discipline them but hadn’t loved them. Was it any wonder they’d been ornery youngsters?

  But they were men now. Accountable. Now they were being mean because they liked it. After this morning’s holdup and murder, they had nothing to lose. Men who were going for broke were the most dangerous. The Herbolds needed to be caught before they hurt someone else.

  Suddenly Ezzy was on his feet. He carried his chili bowl into the kitchen and splashed cold water over it. The water instantly congealed the chili grease into an orange wax, but Ezzy left it in the sink that way.

  Grabbing his hat, he was out the door and into his car in seconds, moving with more vigor and sense of purpose than he had since it was suggested that he retire.

  * * *

  The central room at the sheriff’s department was empty save for one officer manning the telephone. He broke a smile when he saw Ezzy. “Hey, Ezzy. What brings you ’round?”

  “Hey, Souder. How’s it going?”

  “You liking retirement?”

  “It’s okay.”

  “Take some gettin’ used to, I guess.”

  “I guess. Is your new boss in?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” the officer replied. “Just came back from lunch over to the café. Brought back a piece of Lucy’s coconut cream pie.”

  “Think he’ll mind if I pop my head in?”

  “You know where the door’s at.”

  Ezzy knocked politely. Sheriff Ronald Foster looked up from his slice of pie, licked meringue from the corner of his mouth, and motioned Ezzy in. He was a spit-and-polish graduate of Texas A&M. He had won the election for sheriff by a wide margin because he was built like a wrestler and had a strong, confidence-inspiring demeanor. He was a solid family man with a pretty wife and three children; he was a deacon in the Baptist church. Sharp blue eyes telegraphed both “I love Jesus” and “Don’t fuck with me.” He had a Marine haircut and, if Ezzy was right, he fancied himself to be a lot tougher than he was.

  If he was irritated by Ezzy’s unannounced visit, he was too polite to show it. His handshake was firm, dry, and hearty. “Sit down, Ezzy. Sit down. Want some of this pie?”

  “No thanks. Looks good, though.”

  “I’ve never known Lucy to make a bad one.”

  Taking the offered seat, Ezzy asked how he was liking the job, and Foster replied, “Can’t complain.” And when he asked Ezzy about retirement, Ezzy lied and said the same.

  “I’m sure you heard about the bank robbery up in Claredon, Arkansas, this morning,” Ezzy began.

  “The wires have been humming. Big manhunt is underway, even down this far.”

  “That’s why I’m here, Ron. I thought maybe you could use an extra deputy.”

  The young man, who was occupying the chair Ezzy still considered his, fixed an unblinking stare on him. “What for?”

  This was the tricky part: pleading his case without suggesting that Sheriff Foster wasn’t up to the job. “Just in case those boys come down this way again.”

  “So you heard about yesterday?”

  Yesterday? Yesterday? What about yesterday? “Yeah,” Ezzy said, faking i
t. “Over at the Busy Bee. The boys over there were talking about it this morning.”

  The new sheriff shook his crew-cut head. “Still can’t figure why Cecil would show up here. My guess is that he just wanted to throw everybody off track. He and Carl must have been planning this robbery for months, if not years. It was too well organized. I reckon Cecil thought a good diversion would be to come down here to see his stepdaddy.”

  “Nobody ever accused those boys of being stupid.” Cecil was here yesterday to see Delray? As soon as he left here, he was going to call on Delray, see if he could get any more information out of him. The sheriff’s next statement dashed that plan.

  “Cecil went to the house first, then created quite a scene at the hospital. Got everybody all bent out of shape.”

  Ezzy nodded, although he had no idea what he was agreeing with. “That’s what I heard.”

  “With Delray in critical condition, that’s all that deaf lady needed.”

  “Damn shame, all right.” Although Ezzy was tucking away the shocking information Foster was inadvertently giving him, in the back of his mind he was thinking, Since when have I become such an adroit liar?

  “Well, anyway, he’s Arkansas’ problem now. Cecil’s got more on his mind than Blewer and the people in it. I’ve certainly had no indication that he and Carl are headed this way.”

  “You had no advance warning that Cecil was coming yesterday, either.”

  “The FBI is in constant contact with this office, Ezzy. First sign of trouble, we’ll be up to our armpits in federal agents.”

  “All the more reason to swear in as many local boys as possible.”

  “But there’s been no sign—”

  “There’s no telling what those crazy sons of bitches might do.” Seeing that Foster was becoming impatient and hearing the desperation in his own voice, he forced a little laugh and shrugged with faked nonchalance. “It wouldn’t hurt, would it, to have an extra pair of eyes watching out for them?”

  “No, it wouldn’t hurt. I just don’t think it’s necessary.” Foster smiled, and it was as phony as Ezzy’s laugh had been. “You know better than anyone how strained this office’s budget is.”

  “You wouldn’t have to pay me.” Jesus, please don’t force me to beg to this pup. Although he figured that since he’d taken to lying so well, Jesus might turn a deaf ear to his prayer.

  To appear less eager, he leaned back in his chair, propped his foot on his knee, and hung his hat on the toe of his boot. “It was just an idea, you understand. Wanted you to know I was available if the need for an extra man arises.”

  The young sheriff stood and rounded the desk, indicating to Ezzy that the visit was concluded. He was being dismissed, just as he had been by the prosecutor in Arkadelphia all those years ago. The world belonged to younger, stronger men.

  “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your offer, Ezzy. But I wouldn’t dream of calling you back into public service. You’ve earned your retirement. Every hour of rest and relaxation you can get, you should take and enjoy.

  “Besides,” he said with a chuckle, “Miss Cora would never speak to me again if I drafted you into active duty.” He slapped Ezzy on the shoulder as a means of propelling him through the door he pulled open. “Good to see you. Thanks for stopping by.”

  The door was soundly closed behind Ezzy’s back. He glanced at the dispatcher, who quickly averted his eyes to the paperwork on his desk. He was embarrassed for the old man who just didn’t know when to hang it up.

  With what dignity he could muster, Ezzy put on his hat. “See ya, Souder.”

  “Yeah, see ya, Ezzy. Take care now.”

  Ezzy trudged down the sidewalk, wishing he could wind back the clock and rethink his decision to come here and ask for a job.

  Sure, sure, it would have been rejuvenating to be in on a tri-state manhunt. Being back with the guys on a stakeout, bullshitting about nothing to stave off boredom and the jitters, drinking bad coffee—it had been an appealing pipe dream.

  But it wasn’t just the return to that camaraderie that had jump-started him. It went much deeper than that. In the back of his mind, he had thought that maybe if he helped to apprehend the Herbolds now, even if his contribution was small and inconsequential, it might assuage his conscience for not getting them the first time.

  He should have known better. Life didn’t work like that. If you failed to catch a pop fly that lost your team the World Series, no matter what else you did in your career, that screwup was what you were best known for.

  By going to Foster all he had succeeded in doing was humiliating himself. He didn’t blame Foster for not embracing the idea. It wasn’t a very practical one. The acting sheriff had been courteous. He had phrased it in the politest terms possible, but in essence what he said was “Nobody needs you, Ezzy.”

  Sadly, he was right.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  “Six Flags has this roller coaster that makes you go upside down. Twice! Mom thinks I might be too little to ride it, but I’m not, am I, Jack?”

  “There’ll probably be a sign that tells how tall you have to be.”

  “I think I’m tall enough.”

  “You’ll have a great time.”

  “Can you come, too, Jack?”

  “No, I won’t be there. Want to take along your dinosaur book for the time you’re not at Six Flags?”

  “Yeah, cool.”

  Jack placed the book in the suitcase on top of the folded shorts and T-shirts. He ran down the list of essentials that Marjorie Baker had given him over the telephone. “That’s everything. We won’t latch it, though, until your mom gets here. She might want to add something at the last minute.”

  The interpreter had called on Anna’s behalf with the good news that Delray was being transported to Dallas by helicopter that night. Anna and David would go by car in the morning. By the time they arrived, Delray would be awaiting bypass surgery. Marjorie had graciously offered to accompany Anna to facilitate her communication with medical personnel and baby-sit David when necessary.

  For David, it would be a grand adventure. In exchange for minding well and not whining when he was at the hospital, he had been promised a trip to the theme park in neighboring Arlington. Well acquainted with its attractions through television and print advertising, he hadn’t stopped talking about it. Throughout the afternoon, during dinner and bath time, he had chattered nonstop.

  Jack’s opinion of mothers had gone up several notches. The good, loving, patient ones who did this day after day deserved sainthood. He was tired, and not a little concerned because Anna was driving home alone after dark. He suggested to David that he go to bed early. “That way, you’ll be rested up for your trip.”

  “But I’m not tired, Jack,” the boy protested. “And I don’t have to go to bed till the little hand’s on the eight.”

  Jack was beat. He longed to lie down and stretch out. The hours he’d spent following Cecil Herbold yesterday had taken their toll on him. Today he’d stayed busy catching up on the chores he had let slide yesterday, while also tending to David, which he had discovered was a full-time job.

  But the little hand wasn’t on the eight yet. “Okay then, how about a game of Old Maid?”

  They played at the kitchen table while eating chocolate sundaes. David won three games straight. Jack couldn’t keep his mind on the game for worrying about Anna. The Herbold brothers had outdone themselves today in a small town in Arkansas. Cecil’s long round-trip to Blewer the day before hadn’t left him too tired to participate in a bank robbery that had left four innocent people dead.

  Despite the extensive and well-organized manhunt, he and his brother remained at large. Cecil knew that Delray was in the hospital and that his daughter-in-law and grandson were at the ranch alone except for the hired hand. Jack couldn’t think of a good reason why they would risk recapture by coming here. But it hadn’t made sense for Cecil to appear yesterday, either. He didn’t like it.

  “How come they
didn’t use metal?”

  “Who?”

  “Are you listening, Jack?”

  “Sure I’m listening. I was just trying to figure how I can get you to draw the Old Maid.”

  “I play good.”

  “You sure do.”

  “When the Indians made knives like yours, how come they didn’t use metal?”

  “Because they didn’t have it. They used materials they had, like stone and obsidian.”

  “What’s obsindium?”

  “Obsidian. Volcanic glass.”

  “Glass from a volcano? Cool!”

  “Hmm.”

  “How does a volcano make glass, Jack?”

  And if Cecil or Carl came here, what would he do? What could he do without creating a shitstorm for himself?

  “Jack?”

  “Uh, I don’t know, David.”

  “I thought you knew everything.”

  “No. Not near everything.”

  David won that game and they shuffled the deck. David dealt. “You know the other day when I had to pee and you said it was okay if I peed outside, only not to make a habit of it?”

  “Hmm.”

  “And we both peed?”

  “Hmm.”

  “My mom said—”

  “You told your mom?”

  “Sure.”

  “Great,” Jack said under his breath.

  “Mom said the same as you. It was okay in a ’mergency, but not if there was a lady around.”

  “Good advice. Listen to your mother.” He had the Old Maid again.

  “And I asked her if my penis would ever get as big as yours.”

  Jack’s head came up. “What?”

  “She said it would but I had to grow up first.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You know, Jack.” David rolled his eyes. “Your penis.”

  “No,” Jack said, holding his hand for silence. “I heard something.”

  “That’s Mom’s car.”

  Man and boy scrambled through the utility room and out the back door. David was in a rush because he thought it was his mother. Jack hurried because he feared it wasn’t.