By 3:00 I was beatin myself up for ever thinkin such awful things about my brother.
Four o'clock and I was back to the bloody uniform. Stevie's obvious lies. Erika's time of death.
Who had been with her the night she died? I had to convince Trent to tell me.
Trent. How was I supposed to tell him I didn't want to go to New York? I'd break his heart.
On the other hand runnin away right now seemed mighty temptin. I could leave this mess behind. Start over. Work in a fancy New York salon.
By the time I stumbled from bed, I knew I had to make Stevie talk to me. What had he done with that bloody uniform? What if he washed it, and the blood didn't all come out? It was evidence just waitin for the cops to find.
But what if he was guilty? I couldn't protect a killer. Besides, if I messed with evidence, I could get in serious trouble.
I took a shower and got dressed. Drank a bunch of coffee to fry my already fried nerves. A half hour before I had to open the salon I strode to Stevie's trailer. His threat echoed in my head.
"I'll hurt you. Real bad."
This was crazy. I should just leave this alone.
At his door I hesitated, then knocked hard and long, the metal clangin beneath my fist.
No response.
Give it up, Deena.
I walked down the trailer to my brother's bedroom window and rapped on the glass. "Stevie, get outta bed! I need to see you."
Still nothin. I banged again. "Stevie!"
A growl drifted from inside. "Go away, Deena!"
"I'm not goin away. I want to make sure you're all right."
"I'm fine."
Sure he was. All bloody Tuesday night, with Erika killed as early as 11:00.
"Stevie, if you don't let me in, I swear I'll bust your door down!"
"You do and you'll be sorry."
I leaned against the trailer. "Why are you actin like this?"
"Go away, Deena." His voice hardened. "I mean it."
"I have to talk to you, and I don't want any neighbors to hear." I threw a glance to either side. On my right was the Fredericks' house. Gary would be at work, but Betty stayed home with a two-year-old. Did she have a window open? On the left sat the Dragers' little place. They were a young couple, both workin. Probably gone by now.
"Stevie, open the door!"
"No!"
My head lowered. I rubbed between my eyes, starting to cry. Dear Lord, how can this be happenin?
I cupped my mouth against my brother's window. "Stevie, you have to tell me what happened Tuesday night."
No answer.
"Stevie!"
"Deena, I'm warnin you." His words seethed. "Go. Away."
The hairs on my arms raised. I pulled back from the window. He was just actin like this because he was scared. Hadn't I seen him do that enough as a child?
I leaned in once more. "The cops'll come after you. Then what?"
"Why should they?"
"You know why."
"You gonna tell em?" The words spat like fire. "Huh, Deena?"
"No."
"Do I need to come out and make sure you won't?"
My heart dropped. I turned away. What was that you said about New York, Trent?
Gazin down the street, I fixed on the cemetery. I pictured my brother stumblin through it in the dark, tryin to wash off blood in Turtle Creek. He often cut through the graveyard and down the stone steps on the other side to go to work. Quickest way to the factory, which sat a third of a mile beyond. But he never walked through that unlit place at night.
What if he'd dropped some piece of evidence near the creek?
Hurryin back up the road, I jumped in my car and drove around the block to the rear of the cemetery. Parked near the stone steps and trotted up to the top of the knoll. The sun was already warm and not a breeze to be found. My body heated up, sweat at the back of my neck.
Straight ahead were all the graves. Turtle Creek splashed to my right. I swished through the grass toward it, eyes riveted on the water.
Along the bank weeds were pressed down, as if someone had stomped through. I stared at them. What Monday of the month was comin up?
The fourth.
Church volunteer ladies would be out here in a few days, pullin those weeds. If this was any kind of evidence at all, they'd take care of it.
Easin closer to the shallow water, I peered into it. A dragonfly hovered above a rock, the creek a-shimmer in the sun. Nothin glinted in the light. No knife blade.
Well, why should there be a knife here? The weapon was left in Erika's neck. Still, what if there'd been a second knife? Or . . . somethin else?
My heart fluttered as I made my way down the creek, searchin for anything out of place. Anything that screamed my brother had been there. My blouse grew damp and my head pounded. By the time I reached the point where the creek went beyond cemetery property, I felt sick in my stomach. Not because I'd found anything. Because I even had to look.
Eyes burnin, I slumped my way back up the creek and down the stone steps. The day had just begun, and I was exhausted. And I looked like the dickens. Checkin in my rearview mirror, I pushed bangs out of my eyes and wiped perspiration from my forehead.
One thing I knew, as I drove toward Main Street. After I closed up shop for the day, and while Stevie was at work, I had to find a way to get into his trailer. Once upon a time I'd had a key. Maybe it was stuck in some junk drawer.
I had to get that bloody uniform out of my brother's house.
http://www.pulitzer.org/works/2010-Feature-Writing
2010 Pulitzer Prize
Feature Writing
The Jackson Bugle
Gone to Ground
What happens to a small, quiet Southern town when evil invades in the form of a serial killer?
By: Trent Williams
October 29, 2010
(Excerpt)
The apparition in Amaryllis's cemetery is not the only kind of ghost in Jasper County. Along Highway 528 and elsewhere in the area are the ghosts of numerous settlements, once bustling burgs and now little more than pine trees and a few scattered buildings.
Amaryllis's history is much like that of its once neighboring towns—except for how it got its name. Founded in 1877 by Roland Marks, Amaryllis cut its acreage out of the longleaf yellow pine forests surrounding Highway 528—at that time a mere dirt and gravel road. The lumber business was booming in Mississippi, aided by the building of railroads. Marks, hard-working and entrepreneurial since his teens, thumbed his nose at the area's successful "Big Four" logging companies and built his own saw mill. Marks's wife, Lucinda, was an avid gardener, her favorite flower, the amaryllis, gracing their front yard in early spring. The blooms were no small feat, given the county's ubiquitous red clay dirt. Legend has it that as a birthday present Marks eventually allowed Lucinda to name the town, sure that she would dub it Marksville, or perhaps even Roland. Lucinda had other ideas. When she decided to call the town after her favorite flower Marks was livid, considering the moniker far too feminine for the home of his hard-scrabble business. But Lucinda stood her ground, and Amaryllis it became.
Marks Mill continued until 1908 when, unable to compete with the Big Four, it stuttered to a halt. Still, Amaryllis managed to hang on while nearby settlements such as Acme, Waldrup, and Paulding faded away due to the lumber mills' eventual demise. Bradmeyer Plastics, the factory that today employs almost a fifth of the town's working citizens, wasn't built until the 1950s. In those lean in-between years, Amaryllis lost many people but clenched its teeth and hung on.
It is that same tenacity and will to survive that has fueled its citizens in the past three years since the Closet Killings began.
Chapter 13
Cherrie Mae
Thank heaven for Fridays—the one work day I give myself a two-hour lunch. After cleanin houses all week, my ol bones needed the rest. Especially after doin the big two-story McAllister house Friday mornin. It had been almost a year since I pulled the pink thong out from under the McAllisters' bed. Verna McAllister and I ain't spoke of it since. But tell you one thing—she give her husband a lot colder eye than she used to.
At my kitchen table before I left for work I'd read Trent's latest news story on Erika's murder. He kept his word and didn't use my name, givin "anonymous" information bout Erika eatin brownies, and how the autopsy report backed that up. Erika was killed with the same "precise stab wound to the neck" that the other victims suffered. Course, I already knew that. What hit me hardest was the estimated time a the murder—somewhere between 11:00 p.m. and 2:00 a.m. I had to stop readin for a minute when I saw that.
Erika mighta died just one hour after I left her? What if I'd stayed longer?
That guilty thought stuck to my insides like a big burr. I had to beg Jesus' help to pry it loose. Then it hit me. Maybe this is why the Lord put me in a position to solve this terrible crime. He was givin me a way to find justice for Erika.
"Oh, Lord, help me do that." I gazed toward heaven. "And Ben, you keep close to Jesus up there the next few days. I'm gon need all the help I can get."
Heart heavy, I left to start my work day.
As I cleaned the McAllister house my thoughts kept churnin. What if Mayor B got rid a that evidence in his drawer before I could get to it? And on the night Erika died, did he leave his house just before 11:00, tellin Mrs. B he needed to go to the factory and check on somethin as the second shift ended? She wouldn't think anything bout it. Then after Erika was killed and the mayor said he was home at the time, Mrs. B just kept her mouth shut, never dreamin her husband coulda done it.
If only I could talk to Mrs. B about Tuesday night. But I couldn't figure how to bring up the subject without puttin her on guard.
At 11:30 I drug myself home and ate some leftover turnip greens. The pot liquor from the greens tasted mighty good on a piece a corn bread. Then I turned on my little laptop computer, a Christmas present from my son and daughter two years ago. Hardly used the thing. Now it would be my savin grace, along with the camera they got me the year before. Crazy notion my kids have, that I need such things. Maybe God was behind that too.
Sittin at the kitchen table, I took a picture a my refrigerator, covered with photos a Donelle and Lester, and all the grandbabies. Then I pulled that cable connector thing out a the camera bag and stuck it in the computer. Now how in the world did I get the pictures from one place to the other? I stared at the camera and all its buttons.
Ah. That dial right there.
Up on the computer came a beautiful sight—the program to get the pictures. I fussed with it awhile, slowly goin through the steps. And lo and behold, I ended up with that lovely refrigerator photo on my computer. Saved and safe.
Cherrie Mae, you ain't such a dummy.
I leaned back in my padded kitchen chair and rubbed my top lip.
Monday I could wear a pair a loose pants and drop the small camera in my pocket. The trick would be to get Mrs. B out a the house. Five minutes is all I'd need. But five minutes could be hard with Mrs. B. That woman had a mind a her own.
Did she know her husband had left their house Tuesday night? Surely she did.
I pushed to my feet and made for the phone to dial Cory, Pastor Ray's wife. As much as I didn't want to say nothin to anybody, I had no choice. At least Cory knew how to keep her mouth shut.
She answered on the first ring.
"Cory, it's Cherrie Mae."
"You okay? It's the middle of a work day."
"I'm on a lunch break. Listen, I wonder if you'll do me a little favor. Ain't this comin Monday mornin when our church weeds at the cemetery?" Our Baptist church and the Methodist church took turns the fourth Monday each month. Saved the town some money, and besides, we all wanted the graveyard lookin right. Everbody had at least one loved one buried there.
"Yes, it's this Monday. I'll be there. With the warm weather now, there'll be lots of work to do."
Thank You, Lord. "You know if I didn't work I'd be right there beside you."
"I know that, Cherrie Mae."
"But I was thinkin, with it bein spring and all, you could use some extra hands. You need to call Eva Bradmeyer, see if she'll put in an extra day to help you."
"But her church's month isn't till May."
"I know. But Mrs. B'll be willin to help."
"How do you know that?"
"Well, I just figure."
Cory was silent for a minute. "Don't you work at the Bradmeyers' on Mondays?"
"Yes, ma'am, Thursdays too."
"You working there this coming Monday then." It was a statement, not a question. I could hear the tone buildin in Cory's voice.
"Mm-hmm."
Cory made that little sound she do, with her tongue hittin her top teeth. "Why do you want to get Mrs. B out of her house?"
I looked at my camera. "Cory, this is somethin you don't want to know."
"Do tell."
"Ain't lyin to ya."
I could practically hear the wheels turnin in her head. As a pastor's wife Cory had to know when to keep a confidence, but that don't mean she don't have curiosity like the rest a us.
"Will you do it for me, Cory?"
"I can't lie."
"You don't have to lie. You done tol me there'd be a lot a extra work."
"I know, but . . . I've never called Mrs. B with that kind of request before. She'll think it strange."
Not half as strange as her husband bein out the night Erika Hollinger got killed. "Do it, Cory. We been friends a long time. You know if I'm bringin this up, it's got to be important."
"What if she says no?"
"Who could say no to you? You one a the sweetest women in town."
"I don't . . ."
"Please."
She sighed. "Will I ever know what this is about?"
"Most likely. But in the meantime I got to remind you that you cain't say nothin. And I mean even to Pastor Ray."
Silence. I waited her out.
"Okay, Cherrie Mae." Defeat touched her words.
Yes! "Thank you so much. I'm mighty grateful. Call her now, all right? And lemme know what she say."
"You are full of mischief, you know that?"
Better that than full a somethin else. "Thanks again, Cory. I look forward to hearin back from you." I hung up before the woman could change her mind.
I sank back in the chair and lowered my chin. A long shudder took hold a my shoulders. I was really gon do this.
The clock on my wall ticked. The phone didn't ring. I got up and washed out my plate and fork. Ate a couple chocolate chip cookies. Come on, Cory, where you at? Maybe Mrs. B was out.
Five minutes before I had to leave, my phone went off. I liked to jump five feet. I snatched up the receiver and saw the pastor's ID. "Hi, Cory?"
"It's done." She didn't sound happy.
"She give you a hard time bout it?"
"No, not at all. Said she'd put in an hour or so late morning."
"Thank you!"
"I have no idea how I'm going to explain to the rest of the women why I called Eva Bradmeyer."
"Don't tell em. When she show up, jus say, 'Eva! So glad you could help us out on your month off.' She'll say, 'Glad to do it.' And that'll be that."
"Cherrie Mae, for a Christian woman you sure got a lot a cunning in you."
If she only knew. "'The games one plays are not the games one chooses always.'"
"You quoting somebody again?"
"Maxwell Anderson."
"Who?"
&n
bsp; "Cory, thanks for your help."
As I drove off to clean the Trangells' house, I prayed Mayor B didn't touch that horrible file a his this weekend. And that, come Monday, I'd still find the courage to do what I had to do.
Chapter 14
Deena
I lugged myself through the day, one cut and style blendin with the next. At my short lunch break I drove down to Stevie's and banged on his trailer again, beggin him to let me in.
A glutton for punishment, that's me.
"Get outta here, Deena!" he hissed through the door. "You knock one more time, I'm comin after you."
He meant it, too. I heard it in his tone.
If I got into his trailer, and he found out . . . I didn't want to think what he'd do to me.
Back at work and frustrated, somehow I had to wash and style Norma Dodderman's hair without diggin my fingernails into her scalp. She wanted two inches cut off—a radical thought for her. Fortunately, Norma's one person in town who can yak even more than me. She had all kinds of wild theories about the Closet Killer—everything from the cemetery ghost to some Mississippi Bureau of Investigation policeman who'd hated workin with Chief Cotter and now wanted to get back at him.
That last idea didn't seem so far-fetched.
Patsy, at her own station, was cuttin Tom Leringer's hair. He was one of the checkers at Piggly Wiggly. Patsy was tall, rail-skinny, and bleached blonde. She had a crazy laugh that would cut off in the middle, like she had the hiccups. Not that she was laughin much at this conversation. Tom was short and squat, and had hair about as black as you could get. Mutt and Jeff had nothin on the two of them. Both were also talkers and put in their own two cents. All I had to do was clench my jaw shut and mutter uh-huh once in awhile.
I liked Tom, even while I distinctly disliked his sister, Letty June. Now that was another person who never set foot in my shop. She treated Stevie about as badly as anyone in town. Had ever since she and Stevie went to school together. The ugly woman clearly had some mighty poor self-esteem goin on, and tried to raise herself by belittlin the weak. It didn't help that she worked Stevie's shift at the factory. My brother did his best to steer clear of Letty June. I felt sorry for the woman's husband. How he stood her, I didn't know.
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