“For what?”
“I dunno. For Amy, for—a miracle, the second coming, Christ, I don't know! It was all I could think to d-d-do.”
“Did anyone see you there?”
“This woman came out of one of the other cabins that first time and gave me the once over. So I left.” Mark was silent for a moment. He chewed abstractedly at his lower lip. Abruptly his thoughts found voice: “I only wanted to help, to find out what the trouble was!” He broke off as abruptly, embarrassed by the outburst, and closed his eyes, hard. When he looked up again, his eyes were liquid and unguarded. He spoke in barely a whisper: “I was there at the river house, don't you see? In the woods. Hiding, for Chrissake. I heard her go off the bridge. I didn't even know what—who it was. Do you see? It was the end for Amy. And me. I was just plain scared, Christ, I was hiding. I was going to help her, pro-t-t-tect her, I was going to…” His hands rose, palms up, as if lifting something, or, perhaps, demonstrating their emptiness. “Right.” He let his hands fall to the table. “It all happened so fast. I mean, over the last couple of weeks, but it sounds—feels, even—like years, decades. Then—what, three or four days ago?—Amy and that woman had a real big fight. I was outside, waiting for Amy to leave. I'd followed her. I was going to try to talk to her again. And then I started hearing their voices, loud. Amy came storming out with the woman after her. She kept saying—the woman said, `Promise me. Promise you'll not see that Ayers bastard ever again.' I remember that: `. . . that Ayers b-b-bastard.' That's what she said.” Mark looked up, desperately. “I thought she was talking about me. I mean, that was only natural, wasn't it? I'd have to've been—Christ Jesus, would it've been normal to figure that your father was—I mean, with the girl you were going to m-m-marry? Would it?”
Pickett said nothing.
Mark looked down, kneaded his furrowed brow and continued: “That was the night before the party. I decided right then and there to talk to the woman, to find out what she had against me, what she had over Amy. I couldn't the next night because of the party and all—Christ, and that business with the m-m-murder…”
“Why didn't you tell me about this woman when you came to see me?”
“I didn't mean to talk about Amy at all. I didn't see the connection until the next day. I was in my room, and I heard this ruckus downstairs. All hell's breaking loose. It was that woman—the one Amy'd been seeing. Christ, she was yelling at Father, really giving it to him. I don't think I've ever heard that kind of talk. Mother was there too—and that was really strange. The woman was mad at m-m-Mother, yelling at her—and Father—like she knew them both. God, she was mad. Told Father to lay off the kid. That's what she kept saying, `Lay off the kid.' Told my Mom she was—called her horrible names. There was some sort of fight. I mean, I heard some sort of scuffle that broke the name-calling off pretty sharp. Then all of a sudden she was gone. Everything was quiet. I went downstairs a few minutes later and saw father drop something into the top drawer of that desk in the hall. You know, the one with the leather top?”
Pickett nodded.
Mark wet his lips, ran a hand carelessly through his short hair. “It was the g-g-gun. The one I found next to the body that night—”
Pickett pulled the gun from his pocket. “This?”
Mark flinched. “Yeah.” He opened his mouth to say more, but nothing came out.
“Just tell it as it happened. One thing at a time.”
Mark took a deep breath. “I didn't think much about the gun because, well, what she'd been saying about the kid—`Lay off the kid'—and what I'd heard the night before—you know, her telling Amy to stay away from Ayers—well, it all of a sudden made sense.” He started, bringing both hands to his forehead. “No. No, it didn't make any sense at all. But I knew—for the first time I thought that I knew—what she was talking about. She wasn't talking about m-m-me. I don't know why I didn't think of it before. I—” Mark's hands began to shake again. He exhaled again, more slowly, his mouth slack, eyelids heavy. “I tried to reach Amy all day. I couldn't find her. I went to the woman's place—”
“Had the rain started yet?”
“What? Oh. Yeah, I-I-I think so. I'd sat around the house till after it was dark. I couldn't decide whether to go or not—I mean, I just wasn't sure if I w-w-wanted to know what was going on.”
“Why? What made you finally decide to go?”
Mark's eyelids fluttered, fanning his eyes into brightness. “I thought that I—that the house would explode. There was so much unspoken, so much—up in the air. Father was in his study—or I'd thought he was—had been there since the afternoon without coming out. And Mother, she—I dunno—she was so intense, so wired.… When she came back I just had to get out. I don't know why I went to that woman's place except that I thought maybe Amy would be there. I parked around the corner and came in through the woods. I could just see the cabin through the trees when I heard a dog barking, a-a-and this scream. It scared the crap out of me. For some reason I thought it was Amy. I ran t-t-toward it—where I thought it came from a-a-and—” Mark cleared his throat and wiped his mouth. “And I found the body laying there—j-j-just like the man in the river. And the gun was lying there, t-t-too.”
“That's why you ran, because of the gun?”
“Yeah, I guess. I just don't know, I wasn't really thinking what I was doing. Maybe I was running from everything. It was the gun that gave me an excuse, anyway. It was the same gun, you see—the one Father had put in the d-d-drawer. I was afraid—afraid that he'd… he'd…” Mark swallowed hard and blinked. “I-I-I hadn't seen him all day, and I was afraid that he'd gone out and… So I took the gun. That's when the woman—the one from the other cabin, with the dog—saw me. I ran. I drove to Del's. I couldn't think what else to d-d-do. We hid the car in the saw grass. Del said the police would be looking for it.”
“You gave the gun to Trap?”
Mark nodded. “I, well, he wouldn't let me take it. Said it was time to break the karma chain or something. He talks like that sometimes—Del does. He-e-e's…” Mark's eyes became unnaturally bright and the words began to roll from his tongue. “. . . had a tough life, y'know, Del has? But he's been awfully nice to me. He's been…” Mark shifted in his seat, his eyes blinking erratically. “Y'know some people think he's crazy. You know that? But, well, I don't know why—I mean, yes, I do know—know why, I mean—see, people all want the same thing, but they don't know what it is, or they think it's something else—that's what Del says—and when someone like Del comes along, well, people think… they think… But then—th-th-then people don't always… know…”
Grief or fatigue or too much life lived too soon overwhelmed the words. Mark pressed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, and pressed hard. His face froze distorted; his body grew rigid and silently quivered to the frequency of some interior current. Pickett put his hand to Mark's forearm.
“Mark—”
“No! Just… leave me be for a minute. Okay?”
Pickett stood and, for a long interval, stared down at Mark Ayers. He walked to the screen door. The rain still fell. The floor was damp from the fine spray that filtered through the screen. Pickett closed his eyes and breathed deeply of the cool wet air. A hand fell softly on his shoulder.
“Boy gone be alright?” Pulley's brown eyes looked up to Pickett's. “Aint takin him nowheres tonight, are ya?” The voice was warm and musical; the eyes, quick and wary. Pickett looked over Pulley's head. Mark slumped over the table, and buried his head in his arms.
Pulley's eyes were still on Pickett's. And they smiled. “Stay the night, Mister. Aint no use rushin nothing.” Pulley took Pickett by the arm. “Aint no use in that, son. Plenty a time for trouble…”
Pickett bunched his lips, and nodded. “Yeah. You're right there…” He walked past Pulley, Mark, to the back of the room and a pay phone. He lifted the receiver and dropped in a dime. He dialed 8 numbers, waited, dropped in two quarters and a nickel, and waited some more. “Yeah. Sheriff Beane, pl
ease.… Uh-huh, I know. I'm Pickett.… I'm sure he does. Put him on, will you?… Yeah, I'll wait. Got plenty of time…”Pulley smiled at Pickett from across the room. Pickett raised his chin and eyebrows, and he smiled too. But only with his lips.
29
“You'll need see Homer. But I don't think he'll keep you long.”
Bodie Pickett threw open the Nova's door and swung one foot out onto the hot asphalt. He squinted in the glare down the rows of parked cars that ran to the white Temple dome beyond. “Stay here and wait. Now I mean that—enough's enough. Don't make things any harder than they are already.”
“It's all r-r-right, Bo. I…” Mark's weary face relaxed. “I'm sorry. I mean, well… Yes, I'll wait.”
Pickett pushed himself from the front seat. He stood unfolding in the sun, then walked around the front of the car to the passenger side.
“What?”
Pickett pulled the silver automatic from his pants pocket. “I'd just as soon get this out of circulation.” He reached inside the window, clicked open the glove compartment and tossed in the pistol. “Enough is enough.” Pickett slammed the door shut. “You stay put now. This shouldn't take long.” Pickett wound through the parked cars toward the media annex. He passed the Sheriff's empty cruiser on the way.
On the other side of the glass door the same blonde sat behind the same counter, but the smile she lit was not the same—at half-mast in memory of her slain leader. Skeeter paced the linoleum behind her, twirling his Stetson around a boney index finger. He looked up: “Jeez, Mister Pickett. . .” He looked at the blonde. “Tell the Sheriff Pickett's here.”
The blonde looked up.
“Do it!”
She jabbed at the intercom.
“Yes?”
“Mister Cheatham, there's a Mister Pickett here to—”
The box popped and spat. “Get that boy in here,” crackled an electronic Homer Beane.
Skeeter leaned toward the box. “Y-y-yes sir. Right away.” Skeeter reached the sound studio door before Pickett.
Kimberly the usherette stood on the other side, one hand extended toward the knob. “Oh!”
“I'm Pickett.”
“Oh, Mister Pickett. Please follow me.”
He did. Skeeter remained behind with the sad blonde.
“It's horrible.” Kimberly spoke without looking back, moving swiftly down the long hall. “Just horrible.” She didn't feel the need to explain what she meant. Pickett didn't ask. She pulled up in front of the door from which the Ayers family had entered the studio on the day of taping. She opened it for Pickett; he smiled at her. She lowered her eyes. “I just don't know. . . I mean, what's going to happen?”
Not a question, so Pickett didn't answer. He walked past her through a short hall to a door marked, PRIVATE. He leaned into it and stepped through onto a wine colored carpet.
“Well, it's about time, boy.” Sheriff Homer Beane rose from a brown leather easy chair.
The walls were darkly paneled and lined with books and religious artifacts. To the right were an easy chair before which stood a weary sheriff and a large carved oak desk behind which sat Matt Cheatham. Only Matt's torso showed, covered by a stiff white dress shirt. Silver clasps held the french cuffs, a red silk tie hung from his neck, his face only slightly less white than his shirt. “Perhaps Mister Pickett can tell us what this is all about.”
The Sheriff bridled. “Maybe I'd best do the talking here, Mister Cheatham. For the moment anyways.”
Matt Cheatham shrugged. “Whatever you think best.”
Pickett said nothing.
On the opposite wall between two large bookcases, a door bore a black and white plastic sign: SANCTUARY/PLEASE DO NOT ENTER WHEN LIGHT IS ON. A light above the door glowed red from its brass fixture. The door itself emitted sounds, vague and muffled. An amplified voice, distant organ chords—they came as if from under water; and below them all, the indistinct rustle and random hacking of a congregation. Pickett tossed his head toward the door.
“Jan?”
The sheriff nodded.
Matt Cheatham quickly added, “The memorial service. It began right before Sheriff Beane arrived.” He looked at his wrist. “Jan usually returns here during the offertory. Another five, ten minutes.” He paused. “Fortunately, I was still here when the Sheriff Beane arrived.”
“Yes,” Pickett nodded. He smiled. “Fortunately.” He closed the door, walked to the wall opposite the desk and a brown leather sofa that matched Homer's easy chair. The leather creaked under his weight. The two men opposite stared, waiting. But Pickett said nothing.
“The, uh—” The Sheriff coughed. “The autopsy report's in. Sal's up half the night with it.” He cleared his throat, coughed once again, then finally looked at the tall man opposite. “Well, you was right, boy. Simple as that. It looks like the shot come after the blow to the head.” He turned. “You getting this, now?”
Matt's expression remained bland and wooden. Only his eyes moved—from Sheriff Beane to Pickett. “I'm not sure that I do.”
Pickett, still smiling, stared back. “The burns?”
“Not on the chair,” said the Sheriff. “On Ed. Not much, but enough. Nough not to've come from across the room anyways.”
Matt Cheatham shook his head. “I'm sorry, gentleman, I don't quite understand—”
“Well, Mister Cheatham, let me see if I can clarfy it some for you.” Homer scooted forward in his chair. “First, it seems that Brother Ed smashed his head gainst that wall before he died. You understan, Mister Cheatham? I aint goin too fast for you now, am I? Now, second, it seems like you must a been standing in the hall when you made that hole in Ed's chair cause from the look of them powder burns it pears that ol' Rog Mooring must a been standing where you were when Ed got shot. Seems strange, don't it. Don't it seem strange to you?” The volume rose with the intonation. “Don't it seem just a little goddamn bee-zare, Mister Cheatham?”
“I've no idea what you're talking about, Sheriff. Just ask Mister Pickett, he was there—he saw Roger shoot Edmund.”
“I saw Roger shoot, and I heard Ed fall. A few seconds later, I heard your shot.”
“You see, Sheriff? Roger shot—”
“That's not what I said.” Pickett's smile disappeared. “Roger fired, hitting the chair. Edmund rolled away from the shot onto the table, hitting his head against the wall. You grabbed the gun while I tried to quiet Roger. Then—well, you shot Edmund, Matt. That's the sum of it.”
Matt winced.
Pickett smiled and shrugged. “Nothing to feel bad about. Goddamn good shot, really—considering the pressure you were under. And the distance. Took nerve, anyway.”
Matt Cheatham's mouth opened slightly, then closed. His tongue flicked quickly over dry lips.
Pickett's smile broadened. “Far enough to make the shot chancy. But, too close not to leave some powder marks on the body. But, aside from that, not too shabby.”
“But this is absurd! Why would I want to kill Edmund? Really, now…” He gestured wildly. “This is barely… circumstantial!”
“Circumstantial my country ass,” boomed Homer. “All I need's a jury knows its ass from a watermelon and I got you sewn up, boy. You got that? Now you talk to me—and I mean now. Or you sure as hell gone talk to the electrician up at Starke.” Homer leaned forward, almost out of his chair. “You wanna talk, boy, or you want three-thousand volts shot up your ivy-league ass?”
The din of organ music drowned out Matt's reply. It swept through the sanctuary door along with Jan Ayers. On seeing the three men, Jan paused, chin raised, a pose theatrical and self-aware. She closed the door on the harmonious racket outside.
“Well…” Her tone was casual, her look decidedly formal. A black gown ran high on her neck in patterns of black lace. Her wig was blonde and high; her makeup, exaggerated. At her throat, tied around the lace with a black velvet ribbon, full and red as her mouth, bloomed a silk rose.
“Matt. Sheriff.” She looked at Bodie Pickett. “Is
anything the matter?”
Homer rose. “Considerable, I'm afraid, Ma'am. It appears that your husband was… well, that Roger Mooring wasn't the one who—”
“She's the one!” The silence that followed Matt's pronouncement resonated with the vehemence of his tone.
Pickett shook his head. “No, Matt.”
“It was! It was Jan.”
“Not likely.”
“Not Edmund, that Moses woman.”
Pickett said nothing. Once again, he smiled.
“I…” Matt blinked rapidly. “I put the gun back. She didn't… Jan was supposed to…” His eyes rose to Jan Ayers, hardened and grew small. “Jan was supposed to give it to the sheriff after the body was found.”
Beane looked skeptical. “Which body?”
“Purdy. He… Purdy, he had to be silenced, surely you can understand that. The Moses woman, Millie—her gun gave us the chance we'd been waiting for. If Jan had turned over the gun like she was supposed to, you would have had to blame that woman—”
“Oh, come, Matt.” Jan's mouth smiled. “You can't expect these people to believe—”
“No? You think I don't know, don't you? It was you—it couldn't have been anyone else. We were in the clear, too. But that wasn't enough for you. You had to get even, didn't you? You never forgave her. She got to Edmund first, and you just couldn't stand—”
“Be quiet, Matt. They don't know enough to—”
“Be quiet so they blame me? Is that it? No, my dear Jan. No more—”
Pickett cut him off: “How did you get the gun?”
Matt stiffened and turned his head slowly toward the tall man across the room. “Ask Jan. She came up with the idea.”
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