by Darrell Case
"Jack, you ought to look up this Lonnie Greggs. Did you know he stayed at the church a couple of nights before he got picked up for drinking; that's why he was in jail. Then three days after Denny Brown died, the judge let him go. And if you think Denny hung himself, I got some swamp land I want to sell you."
"What do you mean?" Jack asked.
"Greggs' mom kicked him out because of his drinking; told him he could come back when he quit. Now Jack, you know I never said too much about your late son-in-law, (Actually, over the years, Eric had had quite a bit to say about Jim) but if you ask me, he made a mistake letting Lonnie stay at the church and that mistake cost him and Kristy their lives.
"You know Lonnie used to work for me," Eric continued without pausing for breath. "I had to fire him; he came in drunk one morning and started a fight with one of the guys."
"Where is he living now?" Jack asked.
"With his mom on Pickering Street in Bloomfield. Bob Curry says he can't find him, but I don't think he's looking too hard. I got her address around here somewhere," he said. Going to a small desk in the corner, he searched through a stack of papers piled high on its surface.
"Ah, here it is!" he said a few minutes later. "You going over to see his mom?"
"Yeah, I think I will. I gotta get home right now but I might just run over there tomorrow."
"You be careful; this Lonnie Greggs, he's dangerous."
With the approach of autumn, Ruth took the opportunity to teach Emily about baking.
"Are they done yet?" Emily asked, her face inches from the window in the oven door.
"No honey, cookies take time to bake."
"Gram, will they be done before Gramps gets back from town?"
"I believe they will," Ruth said, brushing a wisp of hair out of Emily's red face.
Pushing a chair up to the stove, Ruth said, "Sit here sweetie, I'm afraid you're going to burn yourself."
Ten minutes later, Jack opened the door, letting in a gust of cold air.
"Weather's turning cold; must have dropped ten degrees in the last hour."
"Here, Gramps! Here, Gramps! I baked them myself," Emily said, dancing around Jack's feet, holding out a plate of steaming chocolate chip cookies. "Gram showed me how," she said, glancing at Ruth.
"Mmm, mmm," Jack said, biting into one. "Best cookies I ever ate. You deserve a reward for this." Hugging the little girl to him, he kissed the top of her head.
"I love you, Gramps. You're the best Gramps ever," Emily said, smiling.
Chapter 6
With the onset of winter each year, Jack would spend days winterizing the house, barn and outbuildings. It was a task he looked forward to and enjoyed.
When he and Ruth bought the farm in 1931, the barn was in such bad shape it would sway in the wind. The house was little better. Many times that first winter, Jack and Ruth awoke to find snow in their bed. They stuffed rags and newspapers in cracks in the walls and around window. Their efforts were of no avail; the snow still sifted in.
Five years later, Jack started building a new house. He had replaced the barn after it collapsed during a small tornado. Determined to build a comfortable home for his family, Jack designed and redesigned the house several times until he finally settled on a two-story frame farmhouse common to the area. The inside was anything but ordinary. Most farmers were still feeling the effects of the depression; if they built at all, they chose a simple pattern. Scrimping and saving all they could, Jack and Ruth built a house strong enough to withstand the cold winds of winter, and yet a showplace to those who would visit them. Working day and night, Jack fashioned a large kitchen, dining room, living room, and entry hall downstairs. Three bedrooms and a good-sized bathroom made up the second floor. The hardwood floors throughout the house took months of sanding .When they applied the varnish, Ruth cried at their beauty.
"One thing I want is a big front porch," Jack said. "I want to sit there and look over our land."
By the time the house was finished, Jack realized his dream. Ruth had a screened-in back porch for eating during the summer. Jack built the front porch he wanted and bought the hundred acres across the road. The purchase brought Jack and Ruth's acreage up to 500, making it one of the largest farms in Sullivan County.
Today, thoughts of putting up storm windows were the farthest thing from Jack's mind.
"Ruth, I'll be gone most of the day. I'll be home in time to do the chores," Jack stated without further explanation.
Ruth didn't question him, having gotten used to his long absences. Sometimes he would walk down by the pond and into the woods or to the cemetery behind the church. "Okay dear," was all she said.
Clearing the table of the breakfast dishes, she watched Jack climb into the truck. Backing onto the road, he drove south away from the church. Filling the sink, Ruth's tears mixed with the dishwater. The emptiness in her life felt almost unbearable.
How she missed Kristie. Most days when she was not too busy, Kristie would walk down to the farm. She and Ruth would sit on the porch drinking coffee and talking while Emily played.
Jack was becoming less and less talkative. He had insisted she learn how to use the shotgun. When she protested, he became angry. Finally, she gave in but the sound of the explosion hurt her ears, her shoulder, and frightened the cattle. Ruth handed it back to Jack and refused to touch the shotgun again.
Still each time he left, he checked the gun to make sure it was loaded, put it in the hall closet and warned Emily to stay away from it.
Entering Bloomfield on Rt. 54, Jack had little problem finding Pickering Street. Big two- and three-story homes lined each side of the street. The manicured lawns showed careful work by the owners.
Number 3465 was probably a disappointment to the neighborhood. A two-story colonial-style house with fading paint and a ragged lawn and an equally faded 'For Sale' sign swung beneath a 'Room For Rent' sign suspended from the porch.
Leaning on the bell, Jack heard movement inside. The door swung open and a small gray-haired woman with paper-thin skin and hollow eyes stood before him. A flicker of disappointment touched her face before she recovered and smiled at Jack.
"Come with me," she said, turning and hurrying up a massive staircase.
Not knowing what else to do, Jack followed her. At the end of a long hallway, she opened a door on a small but nicely decorated room. Beside an old-fashioned single bed, a small couch was jammed against one wall along with a dresser, nightstand, and chest of drawers on the other three walls.
"I'm sorry. I know it's kind of small for a man of your size, but it's the only one I have left. It rents for $15 a week, but that includes meals. For an extra three dollars, I include maid service." She paused and looked at Jack expectantly.
"I'm afraid you misunderstood, ma'am. My name is Jack Johnson. I wanted to speak to you about your son."
"Oh dear, I thought you were Mr. Paxton. Have you seen Lonnie? Do you know where he is?" she asked hopefully.
"No. I was hoping you could tell me where I could find him."
For the next half-hour, Jack learned the sad tale of Lonnie Greggs. Owning a shoe store, Lonnie's father had worked long and hard. The moments he spent with his son were few and far between. When Lonnie was twelve, the store had grown to the point where Orville Greggs could hire a manager.
"Now Lonnie and I can spend some time together," he had said jubilantly. He planned fishing and camping trips and other outings. However, by this time Lonnie was no longer interested in being with his father.
"You know how kids are when they get to be that age," she said. "They'd rather be with their friends. Only problem was Lonnie's friends were the proverbial wrong crowd. His father was incensed, and whenever they were together they would argue."
Orville couldn't understand why his own son had rejected him and now with time on his hands, he spent it in the bars. Sadly, the only time they could get along was after Lonnie turned eighteen and they began drinking together. "It seemed like they were always at
that dirty little bar on Main St," Mrs. Greggs commented, staring out the window. "That's what they were doing the night Orville died. Only this time they had a terrible fight."
"What were they arguing about?" Jack prompted her.
"What?" she asked, looking at Jack as if she had forgotten he was there.
"What were they arguing about?" Jack repeated.
"Lonnie was driving and hit a mailbox on the way home. They were at the top of the stairs still arguing when Orville tripped and fell all the way to the bottom. He lingered in the hospital for two days, then died without regaining consciousness. Lonnie has never forgiven himself. I tried to tell him it was an accident, but he wouldn't listen to me. He still blames himself. I thought he was making progress; then that poor boy killed himself and it set Lonnie off again."
The doorbell interrupted her. "Excuse me please," she said, hurrying out of the room.
Realizing he'd obtained all the information he could for now, Jack followed her. As he squeezed past her and a man in a dark business suit, no doubt the absent Mr. Paxton, she called out to him. "Mr. Johnson, if you find my son, please tell him I love him and that God loves him too and will forgive him."
As Jack's eyes adjusted to the dim interior of the tavern, he had to agree with Mrs. Greggs. Cigarette butts littered the floor and the one window was grimy with barely any light filtering through the dirty pane.
Behind the bar was a chubby man wearing a grease-spotted apron, his teeth clamped on the stub of a cigar. He eyed Jack suspiciously.
"What'll you have?"
"Information," Jack said, leaning on the bar. "I'm looking for Lonnie Greggs."
"Yah, ain't everybody? I don't know you and I ain't telling you nothin'." He started to turn away.
Jack's hand shot out, grabbing the man by the shirt collar. He pulled him onto the bar until he was lying face down.
"Now you listen to me, you little pip-squeak. I'm gonna find Greggs. And you're gonna tell me where he is or you're gonna to eat that cigar."
"Look mister, all I know is the last time he was in here, he was really scared and was talking about going to Ohio. Dayton, I think. Yeah, Dayton."
Chapter 7
Billy Bob strapped on his new .38. In his excitement, he almost dropped the weapon. He had finally made it; he still couldn't believe it was real. Last week just as he came on duty, Sheriff Curry called him into his office. He felt as though his nerves would snap.
"Shut the door," Bob commanded.
As Billy Bob returned to stand before his desk, Curry was scanning a file folder.
"How long have you been working here?" he asked without looking up.
Swallowing hard, Billy Bob answered, "Three years sir."
"You don't have to 'sir' me, son, I knew your father a long time before you were born. Best law officer Sullivan County ever had. Why, if he hadn't been killed he'd probably be sheriff today."
Yes sir," Billy Bob said. Absent-mindedly, thoughts of his father flooded his mind.
"Sorry, didn't mean to bring up bad memories. Hey," Curry said. Standing up, he stepped around the desk. He slapped the younger man on the back. "Hey, cheer up, this is a happy occasion. Randy Farley called from Elm Grove; you remember Farley."
Billy Bob nodded. Randy Farley, an overweight, jovial man in his mid sixties, was president of the bank and head of the town council in Elm Grove.
"They're looking to hire a town marshal and I recommended you."
"Me?" Billy Bob shouted. "You really mean it? Me?" He grabbed Bob Curry's hand in both of his, pumping it up and down. "I won't let you down, Sheriff."
"Now hold on," Curry said, laughing. "You still have to meet with the town council. But don't you worry," he added quickly as Billy Bob's face fell. "I'm sure that won't be a problem."
But that was a problem. Eric Grey didn't think Billy Bob was 'law enforcement material,' as he put it. They sent him out of the room while they discussed his dream.
"Yes, I agree, his father was a good deputy," Eric said grudgingly, "but I have a feeling-"
"I laid him out myself," Jake Wilson said. "Biggest funeral our home ever handled."
"If he hadn't stopped those two, we could have lost the entire contents of the bank," Randy nodded.
"He wouldn't let me near him 'till the other deputy arrived; just kept laying there on the sidewalk, bleeding to death while he held his gun on them. Time they got here, it was too late," Doc Pritchard said, shaking his head gravely. "Heard the commotion from my office over the bank."
"I understand," Eric exclaimed. "But he's not his father. You forget that he's worked for me."
"Working at a farm supplies store is entirely different from enforcing the law," Jake Wilson said.
"What precisely do you know that we don't? Is he punctual? Is he a responsible employee?" Randy asked, looking Eric in the eye.
"Yes, he was always to work on time, and he worked hard when he was there, but I just have a feeling."
"We can't rely on feelings, Eric; we have to rely on facts. And the facts are he was recommended by Sheriff Curry. And, he's the only one we can afford," Randy Farley said, tapping the table with a ballpoint pen for emphasis.
"You mark my words, you'll be sorry," Eric shouted, pounding the table with his fists, making the bottles of soft drinks jump.
"Gentlemen! Gentlemen!" Doc Pritchard said, spreading his hands as if smoothing a sheet. "I suggest we take a vote."
"I vote no," Eric growled, going to the window facing the street.
"All in favor," Randy said, raising his hand.
Doc and Jake raised their hands in unison.
"Motion is carried," Randy said.
"Shall we call Mr. Strickland in and give him the good news?"
Sweat trickled down Billy Bob's back. For the last ten minutes, he had waited outside the bank president's office suffering in agony. When Randy called him in, he knew instantly how the vote had gone. Randy, Doc, and Jake shook hands with him, smiling, while Eric just stared out the window frowning.
But what difference did that make now? He was William Robert Strickland, Marshall of Elm Grove, Indiana! He pumped out his chest and checked his reflection in the full-length mirror. He had purchased the mirror when he became a special deputy. Before that, he never liked looking at his reflection. The belt with a pistol, handcuffs, and nightstick was perfect as were the dark blue shirt, black hat, and polished shoes. But somehow, even as careful as he was, he had gotten mayonnaise on his pants during his hurried supper. Tears moistened his eyes.
"Your appearance is the most important part of law enforcement," he remembered his father saying. "If you look like a bum, people will treat you like a bum."
Hurrying into the bathroom, he wiped away the mayonnaise, leaving a dark smear. Frantically dabbing at the spot with a damp cloth helped but it didn't remove all of it. Finally he got it all off leaving a dark wet spot.
Later, he maneuvered his new Chevy Impala down Main Street, stopping in front of the bank. He walked to the corner of the building where his father had died.
"I made it, dad. I'm a real police officer," Billy Bob said, his voice barely a whisper.
He drove around, patrolling the streets. Glancing at his watch, he saw it was 2 a.m.; two more hours to go. With his shift running from eight to four, the Town Council had agreed with his suggestion of checking on the church once a night.
"At least 'till the murderer is captured," Randy Farley said.
As usual, everyone agreed with him except Eric. Shutting off the headlights, he eased the car into the parking lot.
A figure stepped behind a large oak tree at the edge of the cemetery. His hands shaking, Billy Bob trained the spotlight on the tree, one hand holding the .38 cocked and the other using the car door as a shield.
"Freeze!" he yelled, his voice high to the point of breaking.
The figure stepped into the circle of light. Billy Bob relaxed as he recognized the tall, muscular figure of Jack Johnson.
Poi
nting the gun into the air, he pulled back the hammer to release it. As he did so, his thumb slipped. The explosion reverberated against the surrounding trees.
Jack dropped to the ground.
Running to the prone man, Billy Bob grasped Jack by the arm.
"Mr. Johnson, are you hurt? I'm sorry; I didn't know it was you."
"Is that why you tried to shoot me?" Jack said, regaining his footing.
"I thought it was the killer, you know, returning to the scene of the crime. Please don't tell anyone about this, Mr. Johnson. I could lose my job."
"I won't say anything as long you tell me everything you know about Lonnie Greggs," Jack said.