Ike’s gaze traveled to the school. “I’ve been bringing my boy here of a morning because his car’s been broke down.” He looked into Hick’s face and added, with meaning, “It’s been broke down for over two weeks.”
“I see.”
Ike’s face crumpled and his lips trembled. His eyes glistened with tears and he turned a knowing gaze on Hick. “He’s seventeen years old.” There was a wild, helpless plea in his eyes. “Will they try him as an adult?”
Hick shrugged. “I don’t know. But if he doesn’t turn himself in he’ll spend his whole life wishing he’d done the right thing when he had the chance. I’m talking from experience. There are some mistakes we make that can’t ever be made right, but you’re one of the lucky ones. You can, at least, not make things worse for your boy. He killed a man and he will live with that forever. Don’t let him live with the guilt of running away from it and having to hide it for the rest of his life. Don’t let him live with the guilt of having another boy accused for something he didn’t do.”
Ike ran his hand over his eyes. “When Brewster showed up at the house in the middle of the night with Billy all bandaged up and bleeding, he made it seem so simple. Keep my mouth shut, let him take care of things.” He shook his head. “But it’s not simple, is it? It’s not easy to sit by and watch another man’s son take responsibility for what your son did.”
At that moment the door to the school opened and Billy Davis came walking down the steps, wearing his letterman’s jacket. He seemed surprised to see Hick, but turned to his father. The boy’s face was strained, there were dark circles beneath his eyes and tears pooled in them. “Dad?”
Ike Davis put his hand on his son’s shoulder and looked into his face. “What is it, son?”
Billy shook his head. “I can’t do this. If we hurry we can stop the hearing.”
Ike Davis covered his face with his hand and began to sob, but when he removed the hand, his face shone with a mixture of misery and pride. “Yes, Billy. You’re right.” He turned to Hick. “If you’ll excuse us.”
Hick nodded and watched father and son walk toward Ike’s car. Billy paused beside it and winced as he removed the letterman jacket. Beneath it, his shoulder and arm were bandaged tight. He looked at the jacket for a moment, the last vestige of his childhood, and then climbed beside his father. Hick stood there in the parking lot until the car was out of sight.
When he returned to the courthouse, Hick was surprised to find Wayne Murphy and another man outside with a group of photographers. Murphy grabbed his arm and said, “I came here for the rally but I hear they found the guy that killed the vagrant. It wasn’t the little colored boy after all.”
“No,” Hick said. “It wasn’t.”
“Son of the president of the school board. That’ll go over the fold for sure.”
Hick frowned. “Don’t you ever get tired of making a living off of everyone else’s misery?”
Wayne shrugged. “There’s worse ways to make a living. And that vagrant, I understand he’s been identified?”
Hick nodded. “His name is Claud Hayes and he’s from Carroll County. I reckon by now Deputy Adkins has contacted the family.”
Murphy was writing. “Hayes. Wonder what he was doing in this neck of the woods?”
“Probably looking for work,” Hick said. “I’m sure his wife can tell us something once she knows.”
Murphy was writing and looked up. “You got anything else for me?”
“Not yet,” Hick said. “But stick around. There could be something big happening here tonight. Bigger than the rally.”
“Thanks for the tip,” Wayne said, tapping his pencil on his notebook. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Well I am,” Hick said. “I’m getting home to my family as soon as I say my good-byes. Good luck tonight. I hope you find something worth printing.”
“I plan on it,” Murphy answered, smiling wide enough to show off his gold tooth.
Hick walked into the courthouse and was greeted by a smiling Carol Quinn and a satisfied-looking Arthur Vance.
“It was the school board president’s kid all along,” Carol said with a shake of her head. “How’d you figure it out?”
“I just started thinking about what people will do for their kids, and it all made sense. It was the only explanation for the sudden change in Davis’s stance on desegregation.”
“A dislocated shoulder,” Carol said as they walked into the courtroom where Ike and Billy Davis were in close conversation with Judge Watson and Royal Adkins. “An injury that was easy to hide.”
“What will happen to him?” Hick asked.
“If Ike Davis will agree to testify against Sheriff Brewster,” Carol said, “they’ll charge his son as a minor. It won’t be easy on him, but it could be a whole lot worse.”
Hick glanced around the courtroom. “Where’s Thad?”
“All charges were dropped in light of Davis’ confession. The whole family marched out the front door, past that damned throng of reporters, and are probably at home celebrating right now.”
Hick nodded as an immense swell of satisfaction washed over him. He had played a small role in making sure Thad Burton, an innocent child, had been released. But the satisfaction was bittersweet with the knowledge that Billy Davis, a boy who only wanted to “fit in” would be facing a year or two at the prison camp, and a permanently sullied reputation. Hick knew, better than most, that some mistakes never leave you.
“What did ya’ll do with Brewster?” Hick asked.
“He’s in the same holding cell where he kept Thad last night,” Carol said. “Uncle Arthur told him what we had on him and Brewster sort of crumbled. He started with Sutton and then the kid and by the time he mentioned the name of Hoyt Smith, the fat bastard had to sit down. Can’t say I feel sorry for him, though I wish I could.” Carol paused and studied Hick for a moment. “Uncle Arthur’s pretty impressed with you. Told me it’s not easy to find someone with as much integrity and intuition as you seem to have.”
They both turned toward Arthur Vance. Word of Billy’s arrest had spread and Arthur was observing the crowd forming in front of the courthouse. “He’s letting Brewster sweat it out for a bit before questioning him about Senator Richardson,” Carol added. “He told him that he needs to think long and hard about how much punishment he’s willing to take for someone else. Then, he reminded him of how hard prison is for cops, especially dirty ones. You can bet Brewster is walking the floors right now.”
And then Carol jumped as the crack of a gunshot echoed off the stone walls of the courthouse, reverbrating from wall to floor to ceiling. Hick took off running with Carol’s heels clacking distantly behind him. Hick ran to the back of the courthouse, toward the holding cells, and almost collided with Royal as he came running from the opposite direction.
“That came from the holding cell,” Royal exclaimed.
Hearing footsteps, they rounded the corner and looked into the cell and stopped short. Sheriff Earl Brewster was staring vacantly up at the ceiling, a bullet hole in the middle of his forehead, and a gun on the floor besides him. Hick looked around frantically and saw that the back door of the courthouse was swinging to and fro. He ran to look outside—but no one was there.
Voices shouted, people came running, and chaos ensued as Royal tried to keep the crowd at bay. Dozens of onlookers and journalists crowded into the narrow hallway and Royal pushed them back and began to close a large metal door. Just before it shut, Hick caught the shocked expression on Carol’s face and the dark scowl on Arthur Vance’s. There would be no information to indict Senator John Wesley Richardson, after all. Royal pushed everyone back and the door closed, leaving the clamor in the lobby of the courthouse. Hick and Royal faced one another, and Hick noticed how old and tired Royal suddenly appeared. Hick drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. The two lawmen stood side by side and looked down at Arthur Vance’s key witness, dead on the floor, in a pool of blood.
28
&nbs
p; It was a stark, meaningless reminder. A life reduced to engraved letters and numbers. Gone But Not Forgotten. Cold stone and loosened dirt, a cipher of numbers 1926 - 1954. He knew granite would never succeed in capturing her … the laugh he would do anything to produce, the light in dark eyes that once shone so bright, the smile that lightened his darkest mood. The way she moved. The way she touched him. The way a single look could drive him wild. Maggie had been his everything, and now nothing remained but those damned engraved numbers and letters.
Heedless of the stiff burrs digging into his knees, Hick sank to the ground and let the grief engulf him. He embraced the pain, held it so close it seared through his skin, burning and boiling until it seemed his very blood vessels would explode from the heat. Would to God he could weep, tear his hair, rend his garments, anything to release the pressure living within the very marrow of his bones. But his eyes were dry, the grief too intense to be relieved by mere tears. He’d listened, even if at a distance, to the preacher’s sermon and to the people console him, and had heard, in their prayers and expressions of sympathy, their unspoken expectations. So no, he would not weep. He would not tear out his hair, wear sackcloth, or rend his clothes. Instead, Hick Blackburn would shoulder his burden and soldier on.
But then, out of his very core, the scream erupted and he was like some wild thing in the throes of a predator’s claws. He screamed, again and again and again and collapsed onto the mound of dirt that covered the girl next door.
He would never forget driving home after a long, hard day at the courthouse in Broken Creek. He would never forget standing silently by and listening to the ridiculous notion that Sheriff Earl Brewster had taken his own life. Although Arthur Vance, Royal Adkins, and Hick had all repeatedly and vehemently argued that his death was not suicide, that the gun in the cell appeared to be tossed there, and that it was evident someone had run from the courthouse leaving the back door swinging open and closed in the storm.
But the coroner’s mind was made up and nothing more would be done. Donald Brewster did not want an investigation and he refused to budge. He understood that prying into the affairs of Earl Brewster would damage his brother’s reputation, not to mention his own, and he was prepared to protect both at all costs. Finally, Arthur Vance concluded that the list of those who would benefit from Earl Brewster’s death was too lengthy and that finding the killer would be next to impossible. So Hick headed for the Broken Creek squad car Royal had loaned him for the drive home. He’d been in a hurry to get back to Maggie and the boys and felt no inclination to argue the point any longer. He was rushing to his car when Carol had called after him.
“Hillbilly!”
He turned and she smiled. “You were going to leave without saying good-bye?”
“I’m kind of anxious to get home.”
She nodded. “I remember. The girl next door. You’re one of the lucky ones.”
He laughed. “Yes, I am.”
“I hear Uncle Arthur offered you a job with the Justice Department. Will you take it?”
The idea was exciting, breathtaking even, but he only said, “I don’t know. I’ll need to talk it over with my wife.”
At that moment, the sun was still shining and all things were possible. A new baby on the way. A new job on the horizon. It wasn’t until he was almost back to Cherokee Crossing and he spied Adam’s squad car speeding, with lights flashing and siren blaring, toward Broken Creek that the horrible feeling grabbed hold.
Adam careened to a stop and ran to Hick’s car, his face flushed.
“What is it?” But Hick already knew.
“Maggie. It’s Maggie.”
Hick couldn’t recall the funeral. He had tried in the ensuing days, but it was as if it never really happened. He knew there had been a service at church. There must have been a burial because here he was in front of a damnable piece of granite that bore witness that his heart had been torn from his body and lay somewhere beneath him. His boys and Mourning were with his sister, and Hick couldn’t bring himself to sleep in the house. He had stayed at the station and spoken to no one.
He stretched himself over the earth and whispered, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” digging his fingers into the sandy dirt and longing to touch her, to feel her breath on his cheek, hear her whisper, “I love you, Hickory.” This time he’d say it back. This time he’d find the words.
How long he had lain on the damp ground, he didn’t know, but he felt someone else’s presence and turned his bleary eyes to see Jake, whose own face was mottled with grief. With great difficulty, Jake knelt beside Hick, his arm on the younger man’s shoulder as if willing it to be a conduit for at least some of Hick’s pain to transfer to him. Hick had no idea what day it was, how long he had been at the cemetery, or how long Jake had been watching. He only knew that he wanted, more than anything, to be beside his love, where the pain that threatened to tear him apart, could no longer torment him.
“I was gone,” Hick finally managed to say in a hoarse, cracked whisper. “I wasn’t even there.”
“There was nothing you could have done.”
“I should have been there.”
“To what purpose? To see her die? This is pointless, Hick. You can’t punish yourself. Even if you were there, she wouldn’t have known. It was a massive stroke. Mourning said she had a headache and went to lie down. She died in her sleep.”
“I can’t do this,” Hick whispered.
“You have to do this. Your boys need you.”
Hick closed his eyes and saw the faces of his sons, tear-stained and bewildered.
“When’s the last time you slept?” Jake asked.
“I don’t know. I can’t go back into that house. I can’t. She’s everywhere.”
“Come home with me,” Jake said, struggling to his feet and holding out his hand. “Stay with me for a while. That new deputy, Royal, can help Adam. You need some time.” Jake squeezed Hick’s shoulder. “Please come with me and let me help you.”
Hick hesitated. Maggie was here, he didn’t want to go.
“Please,” Jake said. “She’s not here anymore. She never was.”
A tear rolled down Hick’s face. And then another. He hadn’t realized he was crying until the warm splash landed on the dirt. He sat up and the world reeled around him. Unable to recall when he last ate or slept, Hick rose to his feet, and his knees trembled.
Jake took his hand and Hick looked down into his old friend’s saddened face. He let Jake, his father’s oldest friend and his own trusted confidant, lead him by the hand like he was a little boy. He paused at Jake’s car and turned back to the cemetery. Maggie’s grave was very near his father’s. It read Magdalene Benson Blackburn and Child. A life, two lives really, reduced to meaningless letters and numbers.
Gone But Not Forgotten.
Never forgotten.
Acknowledgments
Thank you to all who have come to know and care about Hick Blackburn and for challenging me with “what’s next?” A great deal of thanks is owed to Mr. Bill Hopkins for his advice and insight into the legal system. Thank you to my writer’s group: Paula Bircher, Deborah Weltman, and Tom Boyd for your encouragement and for traveling with me on this journey. I am grateful to Bob Dilg and Steve Graham for their criticism and encouragement and to Ronni Graham, Katherine Ising, and Debbie Pilla for your support. Thank you to all who have been with me from the start, urging me on, and inspiring me to not give up. And, lastly, thank you to Kristina Blank Makansi, Donna Essner, and Lisa Miller for your unwavering support and belief in Hick and Cherokee Crossing.
About the Author
Cynthia A. Graham is the winner of several writing awards, including a Gold IPPY, two Midwest Book Awards, and was named a finalist for the Oklahoma Book Award. Her short stories have appeared in both university and national literary publications. She attained a B.A. in English from the Pierre Laclede Honors College at the University of Missouri in St. Louis. Cynthia is a member of the Historical Novel Society,
the St. Louis Writers’ Guild, the Missouri Writers’ Guild, and Sisters in Crime.
Between the Lies Page 19