“When you start thinking like that you get yourself into trouble,” Hick said. “I’m not saying that’s not what happened. But, you have to keep an open mind to all possibilities.”
“Such as?”
“Such as it is possible that Kelly was at the wrong place at the wrong time,” Hick said, flicking ashes into the ashtray.
Carol rolled her eyes. “Possible, perhaps.”
“Let’s go with Kelly having nothing to do with the murders and that he had just damned bad luck. Is there any reason to believe that someone would want Father Grant dead?”
“Sure,” Carol said, with a nod. “Nicodemus Skaggs wanted Father Grant dead.”
“But why?”
“Because Skaggs believed he was saving his daughter from a satanic institution.”
“But we know that Skaggs was wrong. Lavenia had not been converted and had never spoken of it to her father. So we know that someone fed Skaggs a line of bullshit.”
“Right,” Carol said. “So that raises the possibility that someone was using Nicodemus Skaggs to kill Father Grant. Or maybe Grant was simply unfortunate collateral damage and, in truth, they just wanted Nicodemus out of the way in prison. It’s not a stretch to understand that Skaggs’s hate and bigotry toward Catholics would have driven him to violence if it was hinted at that Grant was preaching to Lavenia.”
“True. It wouldn’t take a genius to understand that Skaggs could be easily manipulated. We need to go back to motive and opportunity,” Hick said. “According to Lavenia, she didn’t think her father had had any unusual visitors leading up to Grant’s murder. Of course, Lavenia worked during the day so it’s not out of the realm of possibility that someone spoke to Skaggs. I don’t think we’re jumping to too much of a conclusion to say Skaggs was not the target. There are easier ways to get rid of someone.”
“So someone used Skaggs’s ignorance and hate to convince him to kill a priest. And Skaggs’s Christian morals allowed him to do so because, in his mind, he was saving his child.” Carol shook her head and lowered her voice. “And then this person somehow got into the jail and disposed of Skaggs. Is this our theory?”
“Skaggs had nothing but ignorance, poverty, and a lot of mouths to feed. We know for a fact that someone spoke to Nicodemus Skaggs and told him that Father Grant had converted Lavenia. But who gained his trust, told him about the trial in Alabama, and then strangled him? That’s the real question.” He stabbed his cigarette into a pile of mashed potatoes.
Carol glanced at his plate and frowned. “You didn’t eat much.”
“Too much on my mind, I guess.”
“Well, I didn’t expect to find you two here,” a bright voice said over Hick’s shoulder.
Dr. Kenneth Lyman stood, holding the hand of a little girl. “This is my daughter, Beverly. Beverly, this is Miss Quinn and Sheriff Blackburn.”
The little girl was dressed in a clean, navy dress and she smiled. “Hello.”
“Today is Beverly’s birthday,” Dr. Lyman went on. “Tell them how old you are, honey.”
She held up four fingers and Dr. Lyman laughed. “That’s right.” He looked up and said, “We’re here for a celebratory ice cream. I didn’t mean to interrupt. I’m just surprised to see you.”
“We’ll be here another few days,” Hick said and then lowered his voice. “Father Grant passed away this afternoon and we’re waiting to hear what the arrangements will be for his funeral.”
Dr. Lyman shook his head. “I hadn’t heard. That’s a shame. I’m not Catholic, but from what I understand he was very well liked.” His eyes met Hick’s in sympathy. “I’m sorry. I know he was your friend.”
“Thanks,” Hick said.
“Well, I apologize for the interruption. You two are clearly very busy and I have a beautiful young lady who wants a hot fudge sundae.” He smiled at Carol. “I’m sorry the circumstances aren’t any better, but I’m glad you’ll be around for a few more days. Perhaps we can see each other.”
“Daddy,” the little girl said, pulling his hand.
He laughed again. “Well, duty calls.” He paused. “I am sorry. Good evening.”
Hick’s eyes followed the pair as they sat at a table toward the back of the room and he smiled watching the little girl scramble onto a chair. “Cute kid,” he remarked.
He turned back to Carol and she was studying him. “Speaking of cute kids, shouldn’t you check in at home?”
“Yeah. I should probably let Adam know about Grant, too.” He rose from the table and tossed down some coins. “You coming?” he asked.
Carol hesitated and then smiled a little sheepishly. “I think I’d like some ice cream. You know … just for practice.”
Hick nodded and then smiled. “I think some ‘practice ice cream’ could be very good for you.”
Carol winked and left him to join Dr. Lyman and his daughter and Hick smiled watching the little girl.
As he drove away from the café, a steady rain drummed on the roof of the car and caused the windshield to fog. He wondered if it was raining at home. He glanced at his watch. It was almost 7:00 p.m. and he needed to call Adam at the station to fill him in on Grant.
19
Thursday, September 8, 1955
The motel room was dark and stuffy as the rain sprayed against the window and a dank, musky smell rose from the carpet. Hick stared at the phone and, for the first time in a great while, thought of his father. He recalled the image of him, coming home from work, shoulders slumped. How long had his father known he had cancer? How many exhausting, pain-filled years had he spent dragging himself to his job as high school principal to provide for his family?
Hick tried to remember a time in his life when his father had not been there for him, but he could not recall one instance when he had not been willing to offer advice, encouragement, and love when Hick needed it. James Blackburn’s life had not been ideal. Hick’s brother had died before Hick was born and Hick now understood that his mother never really fully recovered from that blow. And, yet, his parents never ran, they never deserted Hick. The miles between Hick and his sons seemed enormous. He ran his hands roughly over his face, and then picked up the phone receiver.
“A damned shame about Grant,” Adam said when Hick told him of Father Grant’s passing.
“From what the doctors told the new priest here it sounds like Grant had a hard row to hoe in front of him. I reckon it’s for the best.”
“I guess,” Adam said. “And you still have no idea what put the idea in that Skaggs’s head about his daughter or why he decided to shoot Grant?”
“Not really.” Hick leaned back against the headboard and ran his hand through his hair in frustration. “According to the sheriff, Skaggs isn’t one to jump to conclusions, but he sure did this time. There’s nothing, not a shred of evidence that Father Grant ever spoke to Lavenia about joining the church, becoming Catholic or any of the things Skaggs says caused him to shoot Grant. The whole thing is outlandish and preposterous and no one can figure out where that notion even came from. Of course, there’s always the possibility, he just imagined it on his own. It wouldn’t be the first time someone flew off the handle without a good reason. Still …”
“What?”
“I just can’t make sense of it. Lavenia has worked at that Catholic Church for several years and Skaggs never took issue with the pastor before Grant. And, it takes a good deal of imagination to come up with the idea that a man you’ve never talked to converted a daughter who never mentioned it. How he was able to conjure that up in his mind with no basis in fact, and then let it anger him to the point of murder? The whole thing has me stumped.”
“Any ideas?”
Hick hesitated, and then rose from the bed, walked to the window, and glanced at the rain splashing down onto the parking lot. “Adam, all the signs here point to someone deliberately manipulating Skaggs. It seems like he was goaded to violence.”
“That seems like an awful big jump. Why would you think that?”
“You ever hear of Father James Coyle or Edwin Stephenson?”
“No. Should I have?”
Hick lit a cigarette. “No. And that’s my point. Somehow this Skaggs knew all about some case that happened way back in the 1920s where a Methodist minister shot and killed a Catholic priest and was acquitted.”
“Why was he acquitted?”
“Because the Catholic priest was supposedly proselytizing the man’s daughter and the jury found that unacceptable.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“No. Sound familiar?”
“I see your point. But what would be the reason?”
Hick rubbed his eyes. “I don’t know. As far as I can tell Grant was well liked so I don’t know why anyone would want him dead. Same with Ernest Kelly. Of course, there are plenty of people who would have loved to see Skaggs put away in prison …”
“So you think someone there in Birch Tree somehow knew something about this case from the 1920s and told it to Skaggs to get him riled up and to trick him into thinking he could kill someone without any consequences? But who would know anything about something so obscure?”
“Well, believe it or not, one of the men who sat on the jury that acquitted the minister is here in town. And he had a pretty substantial bone to pick with Nicodemus Skaggs.”
There was a pause. “How substantial?”
“Substantial enough that I can’t rule him out.”
“But not substantial enough to believe proof positive he put Skaggs up to it.”
“Not really. And this same man also told Skaggs’s woods-colt all about the case. And he’s another person with a grudge against Skaggs.”
“But what difference does all this make anyway? Hasn’t justice for Grant already been served with Skaggs’s suicide?”
Hick stretched his back and exhaled. “Not necessarily.”
Another pause. “What does that mean?”
“Don’t you see? If someone put Skaggs up to it, they’re still out walking around, but they’re just as culpable. They knew what they were doing when they told Skaggs what he could do and by pretending he would get away with it.”
“Hick, it would be impossible to prove that someone knew Skaggs would kill a man because of what they told him. Unless they paid him to do it there’s nothing to charge them with.”
“I know that.”
“Then what are you trying to do? What is your end game here?”
Hick lowered his voice. “Adam, I think there’s more here than meets the eye. It’s just a hunch, but I’m gonna level with you. I’m not sure Skaggs’s death was a suicide.”
“That makes no sense. If someone just wanted to get rid of Skaggs, they had already succeeded. He was going to prison and likely to the chair.”
“Maybe. I’m still not sure about any of this. But I’m not willing to give up just yet. I owe it to Grant to stay a little longer.” A dull ache began at the base of Hick’s skull and he rubbed his neck. Shaking his head, he said, “I just need a break in this case. There are too many scenarios, too many suspects, and too many loose ends to just leave now.”
“Just how long are you planning to stay there?”
“We’re waiting to find out about the funeral arrangements. After that, I don’t know.” He put out his cigarette, then asked, “How are the boys?”
“They’re fine. Jimmy wanted me to be sure and tell you he’s learned his times tables. And Jake is good as gold, like always.” There was a hesitation in Adam’s voice and then he said, “Hick. They need you. You’ve got to snap out of it.”
Hick expected the usual feelings of irritation and indignation to arise at this comment, but was surprised when, instead, a deep resignation and quiet sadness filled him. “I know,” he said. “I’m working on it. In the meantime, give everyone my love and tell them I’ll be back soon.” And with that, he hung up.
The motel room was not anything special and, as Hick sat there after talking with Adam, it seemed suffocating, like it was closing in on him. The rain had slowed to a trickle, and he opened the window, allowing the rain-freshened breeze to waft into the stale room. Heavily, he sat on the bed, and his gaze traveled across the knotty pine wall paneling and landed on a painting of a sailboat in some non-descript harbor. For a brief moment, he imagined being away from everything on a boat. Then he sighed. He was just as alone there in his quiet motel room as he would be in the middle of the ocean.
He wondered what his boys were doing. He knew that it was about their bedtime. He could see Pam, managing the way she always did, making sure they’d cleaned behind their ears and brushed their teeth. His heart ached for want of his sons. He wanted to smell the sweat in their hair and feel them wriggle in his embrace. He wanted to go home.
What he needed was a good night’s sleep. A fresh mind in the morning might reveal something he’d overlooked. He sighed. It was at this time of day that the crushing reality that Maggie was gone always hit with the most force. He had never fully appreciated how much it meant for someone to ask him about his day, or what was on his mind. He glanced back toward the pillow and in his mind’s eye he could see her sleeping, her dark hair spread out around her, a peaceful smile upon her lips. Every night he would tiptoe in, trying not to wake her, but she always woke, no matter the hour. She wanted to see him, to hear him, and to be sure he was alright. It had been hard for her, being married to a sheriff. Cherokee Crossing wasn’t exactly ridden with crime, but there was always the chance something bad might happen. And it had. But it had happened to her. The fact that she was gone forever hit him with the force of a gut punch.
He was tired … of everything. The bottle sat invitingly on the nightstand and he shook out one and then two pills. He threw them back into his mouth and lay back down. He picked up a newspaper from the nightstand and lit another cigarette, waiting for sleep to find him and hoping the morning’s light would illuminate an answer … any answer.
20
Thursday, September 8 - Friday, Septmeber 9, 1955
A silvery-gray brightness greeted Hick as he opened the door to his home. He stepped inside and the air felt thick and foggy. A shadow was before him and he rushed to it, recognizing Maggie’s form. He stopped short when he got close. He could hear her crying softly as she gazed into the bedroom where the boys were sleeping. Hick glanced inside and his heart jolted when he saw the room filled with smoke. Flames licked up the sides of the beds and the bottom of the curtains quickly engulfed. All the while the boys slept on. Maggie’s eyes met Hick’s, and he felt a shock of sadness flow through him. He turned back to the room and saw it was now filled with smoke. He could no longer see the boys. He wanted to rush inside and pull the boys from their beds, but his feet were frozen to the floor. He looked back at Maggie and she was gone and he was anchored in place, unable to …
“Hillbilly!” a voice shouted, waking Hick from his disturbed sleep.
His eyes flew open and the motel room was filled with smoke. Carol yanked the bedding off him, coughing and hiding her face and eyes in the crook of her arm, then tossed it to the floor, stamping on it with her feet. He sat up and shook his head, trying to clear the fog and the smoke from his groggy mind.
“What the hell is the matter with you?” Carol demanded as she, stomped on the bedspread and folded it over, smothering the flames. “Are you trying to kill yourself? Why the hell are you smoking in bed? And with a newspaper? What were you trying to do, use it for kindling?”
Dazed, Hick looked around the room at the burnt newspaper fluttering in the air around him. He stared in confusion at the smoldering bedspread on the floor.
Carol opened the door to let out the smoke. “It’s a good thing you opened this window. I just got back from Ken’s and smelled smoke.” She moved across the room and stood before him. “Are you okay?” she asked, in a slightly softer tone.
Hick sat on the edge of the bed with his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands, trying to force his mind to wakefulness. “Yeah,�
� he managed. “I don’t know what—”
“I do,” Carol interrupted, the sharpness back in her voice. She grabbed the bottle of Phenobarbital. “This stuff is not good for you. They’re doing studies about it right now. It’s dangerous.”
“With all we need to figure out, I wanted to be sure and get a good night’s—”
“I’m not stupid, Hillbilly! You take these every night. Every single night. I can tell. You’re afraid you won’t ever sleep again without them. They help you to forget …”
“Stop!” he roared in a voice that shocked even himself. He inhaled and closed his eyes, his head hanging down. After a long moment, he glanced up, expecting to find her gone. Instead, she remained motionless, in the same spot. “I’m sorry,” he managed to croak.
Carol glanced around the room. “You’re lucky it was only the newspaper and bedding.” She didn’t say next time might be worse because it didn’t need to be said. She picked up the bedspread and took it into the bathroom.
“I’m putting the bedspread in the bathtub. You scorched a decent hole in it. Good luck trying to explain that to the manager,” she called from the other room.
Hick ran a trembling hand over his eyes. He didn’t know what possessed him to take two pills, he’d never done it before, and he was having difficulty clearing the cobwebs from his mind. His heart and chest felt as if they’d been shocked and his nerves were a jangled mess. The dream had been so vivid, Maggie’s expression so full of sorrow and regret. Carol came back into the room, and he looked at her through bleary eyes.
“I dreamt my boys were in a house that was on fire and I couldn’t move.”
Carol sat at the end of the bed, quiet for a moment. “You need to get off those things.”
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