“There’s something you both need to understand. In water-related accidents, the … missing persons … are usually recovered rather quickly.” He paused to clear his throat, then continued. “We’ve searched around the clock since the accident and haven’t found Mrs. Barnett yet. To me, that means it could take a whole lot longer. Or possibly … never.”
The Andersons’ sobs grew louder, their embrace tighter.
“What I’m trying to say,” Granger added, “is that it doesn’t do any good for the two of you to sit around and wait. You’re only torturing yourselves, and you’d both feel a lot better if you got back into your normal routine. You owe it to yourselves and your families.”
Across the room Liz nodded in agreement.
“But we can’t just—“ Helen began to blurt but Granger interrupted her. “I know the thought is unpleasant. And all I’m suggesting is that you think about it, all right? Your daughter wouldn’t want you to suffer like this. She’d want you to go home and get on with your lives.”
Having noticed Liz’s open concurrence, he looked to her for support. “Wouldn’t you agree, Miss Farrell?”
“Yes, I would,” she said without hesitation. “I know Nancy would want it that way.”
Granger slowly rose to his feet, pleased with his performance. “If there’s anything I can do, please call me,” he said.
At the sound of the couples’ mumbled thanks, he turned for the door. Liz followed him outside.
“I appreciate what you did in there,” she said with a smile. “I’ve been thinking exactly the same thing myself.”
Granger regarded the young woman with admiration. Though her eyes were red and swollen and her hair was a mess, she held a certain unique appeal. His friends often laughed at his attraction to heavy-set women. But here was one he’d like to know better.
“Miss Farrell,” he said. “Is it all right if I call you Liz?”
“Certainly.”
“I—“ he began, then paused. He wanted to ask her if he could see her socially, but realized the timing was wrong. Perhaps later another opportunity would arise. “I’m glad we met,” he said instead.
Liz smiled. “So am I,” she said.
The afternoon had passed uneventfully, the trip to Vincent for Nancy’s personal supplies having posed no problem. Wayne picked up a few extra items, including a hair brush, a package of bobby pins (though he didn’t actually know if she used them) and a box of chocolate-covered cherries. He had apologized profusely for tying her up again prior to leaving, assuring her that it would be the last time. Nancy had not uttered any complaint and upon his return, smiled innocently as he loosened the nylon strips. She seemed pleased with the gifts—especially the candy—and expressed her appreciation warmly. Wayne then massaged her neck and shoulders, assuring her that her comfort was important to him.
Now she lay sleeping in the bedroom, her steady breathing barely audible above the hum of the refrigerator. Wayne reached for a sweater from a corner coat rack in the living room and quietly stepped outside. The air was brisk and refreshing, and he inhaled deeply, absorbing the sounds that surrounded him—a crow cawing as it soared high above, the bark of a distant dog—and the whine of an approaching automobile.
Suddenly his Dad’s pickup rolled into view, bouncing slowly along the narrow roadway toward the trailer. Wayne’s heart froze. What could he do? If another altercation should awaken Nancy, she was unbound and free to call attention to herself. And there was no time to dash inside and secure her. Would she do such a thing?
Wayne swallowed hard as the truck rolled to a stop. He’d have to remain calm and be careful. Stay in control of the situation. Avoid any disagreement, talk quietly, and keep his father outside.
James Crocker exited the truck and slammed its door. “Hello, son,” he said, his face red with embarrassment. James sauntered toward the boy, both hands in his pockets, his head hung low. “I’m real sorry about last week,” he said, his voice soft and cottony. “Guess I got juiced to the gills again.”
Wayne met him twenty feet or so from the trailer’s door.
“No harm done,” Wayne said, forcing himself to give a friendly nudge to his Dad’s ribs. Placing his left arm around his father’s shoulder, Wayne steered him from the trailer.
“I know I make it awfully hard on you and your mother,” James continued. “But I ain’t got many other faults.”
Wayne laughed. “Yeah, but your drinking alone is bad enough,” he said. Wayne led his Dad around the far end of the trailer, to a small butane tank at the tongue of the trailer hitch. Knowing their voices shouldn’t carry as far as the bedroom, Wayne rested his right foot on the protruding metal lip.
“I’m not as bad as you think,” James said defensively.
Their eyes met briefly, then James looked away. “Let’s not talk about that,” he said. “Let’s go inside and watch TV.”
“No!” Wayne blurted quickly. “I … uh … I’ve been workin’ inside. Just waxed the floor.” Swallowing hard, Wayne pocketed both hands, jingling his car keys.
Although James thought the boy seemed awfully nervous, he decided to let it pass. “All right,” he said instead. “Why don’t you come to the house for supper? Your mother ain’t seen you in days.”
Wayne shuffled his feet in the loose soil. “I’ve got a lot to do around here. The place is a mess.”
James looked up sharply. “What’s so goddamn important about this fuckin’ place? Nobody sees you anymore!”
“I just want to take care of my investment, that’s all.”
“Hell, you weren’t that concerned when you lived at home!” James huffed, then pivoted quickly toward the front of the trailer. “I want to see what’s so damn important.”
Panicking, Wayne wedged himself between his father and the door. “N-N-Now Dad, let’s n-n-not get into another fight. Why don’t you just go home and we’ll try this again later, okay?”
“The hell I will,” boasted James as he reached for the door.
Wayne slapped his father’s hand away from the doorknob.
“You little shit!” James growled, reflexively drawing back a fist to deliver a punch. Wayne dodged the errant blow and tackled his father low, sending them both sprawling to the ground. Then, his pulse pounding, his adrenalin at its peak, he scrambled over his father and pinned the older man’s flailing arms to the ground.
“Listen to me!” he said between gritted teeth. “You get outta here and leave me alone!”
James eyed his son in shocked dismay. Was the boy insane? In silence, the two remained motionless. Finally James closed his eyes and shook his head. “I don’t know you anymore,” he mumbled. “You’re not my son—I ain’t never seen you before!”
Loosening his grip, Wayne removed his weight from his father’s stomach. “Please go,” he sobbed.
James staggered to his feet and dusted dirt from his clothing. Then without a word he returned to his truck, shaking his head as he drove away.
Wayne sat in the dusty soil, his hands shaking as they reached to dry his eyes. Then came the click of the doorknob. The door opened slightly, and Wayne turned to see Nancy’s face peering outside.
For hours he wondered what might have happened if her timing had been a few minutes earlier.
It was late afternoon when Sheriff Arnold arrived at the Mason home, tired and dismayed by the testimony that had led him there. At least two of Bertha Mae Sampson’s high school friends had mentioned the name of Demetrius Mason, with whom she had been seen recently on numerous occasions. The most disturbing revelation came from Ellie Parks, who reported that Bertha Mae had planned to see Demetrius the evening she disappeared.
The drive from Leeds to Selton had been difficult for the sheriff. He considered Preacher Mason far too decent a man to be faced with such a family crisis. But he knew Demetrius Mason wasn’t the first son of a holy man to rebel against a strict religious upbringing. And now that Demetrius appeared to be linked to the final hours of the Sampso
n girl, the sheriff couldn’t help but wonder if the boy were involved in the Barnett accident. After all, the purse had been discovered near the boy’s home, its contents ransacked.
When the sheriff brought the car to a stop outside the run-down home, young Nat bounded around the corner of the house and raced up the porch steps to announce his arrival. Almost immediately, the boy’s father appeared at the door, his face haggard with worry.
Sheriff Arnold regarded the man with deep concern—he looked as if he’d aged twenty years overnight. Not knowing how to begin, the sheriff waited for the colored man to speak first. The two hesitated, in silence, then finally Sheriff Arnold slammed the car door and cleared his throat. Preacher stepped across the porch, wiping his brow.
“Hope I didn’t make that deputy of yours mad,” he mumbled.
“How’s that?” Sheriff Arnold asked.
“Your deputy. I hope I didn’t make him mad when I wouldn’t talk to him this evening.”
“I don’t understand.” The sheriff stood perplexed. Which deputy? And for what reason had a deputy come to the Mason home? Sounded like something Hart would do.
Preacher motioned the sheriff up the front steps. “Didn’t you get my message?” he asked.
“I’ve been out all day.”
“Oh,” Preacher responded. “Well, you see, I called around lunchtime and left word for you to stop by. Then this Deputy … Hart is it? … came by instead and he got kind of huffy when I told him I’d only talk to you.”
Sheriff Arnold scratched his stubbled cheeks. So Preacher did have more to say. That explained his uncharacteristic nervousness last Sunday.
“I didn’t get any message,” the sheriff said, “but I do know that your son appears to be connected with the Sampson girl.”
Preacher swallowed hard.
A gust of wind twisted through a nearby stand of pines and brought with it the first splattering raindrops of an evening shower. A rumble of thunder shook the front windows of the house.
“Better get inside afore we get soaked,” Preacher offered as he pulled the front door open. Maybelle entered the living room from the kitchen as the two stepped inside. She appeared sullen and unfriendly, hardly nodding at the sheriff as she reached for a string hanging from an overhead bulb to switch on the light. Briefly the sheriff remembered his own childhood home where there were no wall switches, his reminiscence cut short by a sudden flow of tears from Preacher’s wife. The sheriff settled into a straightback chair, facing the two on the sofa.
“I know this must be difficult for you,” he began, watching Preacher try in vain to comfort his wife. “But it’ll be best for everybody if you’ll just tell me what you know.”
Preacher patted his wife affectionately. “The man’s right,” he told her. “You know we got to do this.” She made no response. Staring past the sheriff at a portrait of Jesus on the wall, Preacher began, “When I got home from work last Thursday—”
“No!” Maybelle screamed. “You ain’t tellin'! I won’t let you!” Her arms struck out weakly at her husband to no effect. Then she stood abruptly and left the room. As she rose from the sofa, a small bracelet fell from beneath the cushion to the floor. Preacher scooped up the chain and tossed the jewelry to the coffee table. Sheriff Arnold casually noted an engraved heart. Then he looked back to Preacher.
“Will she be all right?” he asked.
Preacher shook his head. “I don’t rightly know. I ain’t never seen her so tore up afore.” Preacher breathed deeply. “Mind if I calm her down?” he asked.
“Go right ahead,” the sheriff answered.
The poor man’s world was falling out from under him, the sheriff knew. Preacher, who had always been a strong family man, was now pitted against both a son and a troubled wife. From the bedroom came the sound of muffled voices, increasing in volume and tempo. Sheriff Arnold glanced back at the engraved heart. N.S.B. The initials didn’t fit anyone in Preacher’s family. N.S.B…. N.S.B.—
A loud crash came from the bedroom—then the sound of tumbling furniture, the breaking of glass. Startled, Sheriff Arnold jumped to his feet, then froze. Aimed directly at him were the double barrels of a shotgun, with the quivering finger of a nervous woman dangerously near its trigger. Behind her, in the bedroom, Preacher struggled to his feet. “Lord, no!” he moaned. “Maybelle, honey—you don’t know what you’re doing!”
Maybelle peered down the double barrels wavering in her grasp. “Nobody’s gonna do nothin’ to my boy,” she said. “Nobody.”
From the cover of nearby shrubbery, Deputy Donald Hart watched the Mason home with curious fascination. Hiking along Kelley Creek to avoid being seen, he’d been drenched by a sudden downpour. He shivered in the chilly evening air, his teeth almost at the chattering point, as he peered ahead. The kid he’d seen earlier was playing in the front yard beside an abandoned Ford mounted atop four concrete blocks. Hart smiled at the sight of the dog, still caged in the shed away from the house. But the animal sensed his presence, and was now thrashing wildly inside the shed.
Hart turned his attention back to the house. He was fortunate to have gotten so close. In fact, were it not for the noisy dog, he could probably hear the conversation inside. But the dog growled relentlessly. Hart cursed the animal again and again. His plans were falling apart. He’d intended to eavesdrop, hoping to learn what the old nigger knew and turn it to his own advantage. But Hart hadn’t planned on running into the sheriff. It was just too risky to get any closer with his boss inside. If he were caught, there’d be some tall explaining to do.
The sun was falling slowly in the horizon, the temperature dropping fast. Hart shivered in his wet uniform. He couldn’t stand the exposure much longer, even though he was intrigued by the sound of a scuffle inside the house. The old nigger and his wife were arguing, he could tell.
Reluctantly, Hart turned and ran toward the creek, fleeing toward the warmth of his car. Fate had delivered another nasty blow, for he had fled just before the action began inside the Mason home.
Nat Mason hurried inside to investigate the commotion. With all the energy of youth, he bounded up the front steps, sailed across the porch and yanked the door open wide. His eyes met his mother’s—she was holding Pa’s shotgun, aimed straight at the sheriff. As her attention was diverted by her son, Preacher caught her from behind and snatched the gun away. Young Nat broke into tears, and Sheriff Arnold quickly swept him out of the room.
“Son,” the sheriff said. “I want you to play outside awhile.”
“But my Mama—”
“Your Mama’s fine,” the sheriff said. “We’ll take care of her.”
Sheriff Arnold ushered the boy to the door and gently pushed him outside, then closed and latched the door.
“Whew!” exclaimed the sheriff, glancing back at Preacher. “Ain’t nothin’ more dangerous than a hysterical woman.”
“Mister Sheriff, I’m awful sorry,” Preacher began. He stopped and scanned the lawman’s face. It looked hard as stone.
“This is a serious offense. You understand that, don’t you?” the sheriff said.
Preacher nodded. Maybelle stood motionless, still restricted by her husband’s grasp.
Sheriff Arnold returned to his chair. “I’ll tell you what,” he said as he sat down. “We’ll forget this little incident ever happened if you folks will cooperate.”
Preacher shook his wife until, with obvious resignation, she finally nodded. Then he looked over to the sheriff. “I intended to do that all along.”
“I know you did,” the sheriff said calmly. “Now, why don’t you just tell me the whole thing from the beginning.”
Preacher ushered Maybelle to the sofa where she reclined, sobbing quietly.
“Demetrius started takin’ up with bad company a few months ago,” the colored man began. “Particularly with some hooligans from Leeds. I talked to the boy over and over, but it didn’t do no good. He just wouldn’t listen. You know how boys can be, Mister Sheriff,” he said, paus
ing.
Sheriff Arnold nodded, and Preacher then continued.
“About two weeks ago when them Leeds boys come by for Demetrius in that ol’ pickup truck of theirs, I heard ‘em laughin’ and talkin’ outside. They was sayin’ as how Bertha Mae Sampson was willin’ to do nasty things with them—you know?”
The sheriff nodded again.
“I stepped out on the porch to give them boys a good sermon and they just ran off laughin'. Demetrius was right in the thick of it, too. And that hurt me, Mister Sheriff. That hurt me real bad.”
As Preacher broke off to step into the kitchen for a wet wash rag to wipe his wife’s face, Sheriff Arnold’s attention strayed to the bracelet lying on the coffee table.
“I gave him a good talkin’ to after that,” Preacher said, resuming his story after he had attended to his wife. “But the boy was disrespectful and laughed in my face. And besides, he said Bertha Mae was all talk and wouldn’t do nothin’ with them after all.”
Preacher paused to allow the sheriff to catch up with the notes he was frantically scribbling in a small spiral notebook.
“Last Thursday when I came home from work, Demetrius was edgy. He flitted all around this place like he was hopped-up on somethin'. I never knowed the boy to be interested in drugs, Mister Sheriff. But nothin’ surprises me no more. Them Leeds boys was capable of anything and they could easily drag poor Demetrius into something, too. The boy just didn’t have no mind of his own. Anyway, them hooligans drove up again and I told Demetrius not to leave this house. But he mocked me and said Bertha Mae was just a tease, but that they was gonna make her regret it real soon. And that boy had a wicked look in his eye, Mr. Sheriff. It scairt me pretty bad.”
The colored man sighed and squeezed his wife’s hand.
“I figured he was just mouthin’ off,” he went on. “But when he didn’t come home that night, me and the missus got worried. Next night when there was still no word from him, I went out lookin’ for him. Got caught up in that ice storm, an’ almost got kilt myself. But I never did see no trace of him.”
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