Canon felt it best not to state this…for the present.
* * *
Maggie opened the cabin door and stepped inside where the fire was still going but dropping low. Canon took off his jacket and bent down to stack more logs on while Maggie removed her wrappings.
Then he stood. “I’m listening.”
They sat at the dining table and Maggie walked him through the first night. “I went to the kitchen to heat soup, then started a warm bath for him.” Her eyes landed on her computer. “Here!” She picked it up and flipped the screen open. “You can read about it. I started writing everything down. I’m a writer. I never told you that. I came here to work on a book.”
Canon took the computer, his eyes combing over the words. Maggie saw them stop and bore into one spot on the screen. “His name was Zeke?”
“Yes. Short for Ezekiel.” Maggie pointed to that line of dialog.
The sheriff got a strange look on his face and rubbed his jaw. “You ever been to Marston County before?”
“No.”
“You’ve not done research on this place?”
“When I rented this cabin there was a short blurb online about the history of the man who built it. I was curious to know more. But that’s all. Why?”
The sheriff closed the lid. “You mind riding down to Ollie’s with me? I’d like to show you something.”
Maggie pulled her boots and coat back on. As they left the cabin Canon plucked the radio from his belt. “Amos, I’ll be a little longer getting that stretcher back down there. You okay?”
“Take your time, Boss. I’ll go around the ridge and see if I find anything.”
When Canon parked at Mr. Thompson’s, he didn’t go to the door as Maggie had expected. He motioned for her to follow him around the side of the house instead. In back, several yards behind a car shed, lay an old cemetery. Maggie had noticed it on her walks down to the cottage, but it was well off the road. She never thought to come closer and have a look. The sheriff walked out to the cemetery now and stopped near one of the graves, the one with the most modern headstone. He crouched down and scraped snow and ice until the words beneath them were revealed: Ezekiel Thompson, beloved son.
Maggie stared. She wasn’t sure when her head started shaking but presently heard herself saying, “That’s not possible. That’s not…I mean…”
She felt the sheriff put an arm on her shoulder, but it spooked her. Maggie flinched and stepped away. “I don’t know what’s going on here!” Her voice was strange…shrill. The vocal cords—Maggie wanted to scream suddenly from all she knew about the vocal cords. But this…she didn’t know anything about this.
Maggie didn’t know anything about writing, or cabins, or dead bodies, or Ezekiel Thompson. She needed to go home. But where was that? The condo? The condo wasn’t home. She didn’t have a home. She didn’t have a husband. She didn’t have anybody who cared about her. No, that wasn't true. Robbie and Cal did. They still loved Maggie, but they had Mark and Yvette. I am no longer anyone’s top concern.
Maggie shook worse than when she’d seen the body in the woods, worse than when Zeke was in the cabin.
No! Zeke was dead.
Maggie looked at the headstone again—at the dates. 1950-1986. Zeke had been dead for thirty years? Maggie thought of his outdated jacket and shoes, the Rick Springfield haircut. A strange noise gurgled from her throat. Cursed vocal cords!
The radio on Canon’s hip crackled. He picked it up, his eyes never leaving Maggie’s face. “You got something?”
“Yeah. Can you get back up here?”
“Coming.”
Maggie’s breath came in lurches, and from the look of the sheriff’s face the look on hers was bad. “I’ll be fine,” she whispered, not sure she believed it.
Concern etched deep around Canon’s eyes. Maggie wanted to fall into the pool she saw there, wanted to believe his care for her was real, not simply part of his regular duties. But she steeled against the thought. Knights on white horses were only to be found in fairy tales. Maybe that was why fiction had called to her so strongly. Is that what Zeke was? A fairy tale? Fiction?
Canon reached for her elbow. “I’d feel better if you weren’t alone.”
“She’s not alone.”
Maggie and the sheriff turned to see Mr. Thompson leaning on his cane. Neither of them had heard him come into the yard. “Saw your deputy go by earlier. He made a lot of racket. What’s brought you out here this time, Canon?”
Canon scowled. “You didn’t come to the door this mornin’ when I knocked.”
“Hadn’t had my coffee yet.” Mr. Thompson looked down to his old boots then over at the headstone. He repositioned his cane on the ground, seemingly unable to find a spot he liked.
“You had enough coffee now for me to leave Mrs. Raines with you?”
“’Course I have.” Mr. Thompson waved Maggie to the house. “Come in out of this cold, Mrs. Raines.”
Maggie pointed down to the headstone. “You lost your son? His name was Zeke?”
Mr. Thompson nodded.
Canon took Maggie’s elbow and saw her to the front door of Mr. Thompson’s cottage. She didn’t pull away this time.
“I’ll be back as quick as I can,” he said low.
Maggie’s breathing was nearly back to normal. Mr. Thompson felt like a friend. She didn’t doubt that he was real. “I’ll be fine,” she told Canon again. And she almost believed it this time.
14
“I will put my Spirit in you and you will live.” Ezekiel 37:14, NIV
Mr. Thompson’s cottage was as outdated as Graceland’s Jungle Room. It hadn’t seen a woman’s influence in a number of years.
“Irene died of cancer,” he explained as Maggie followed him through the front room into the more lived-in den behind it. If Mr. Thompson was sleeping off a drunk, he didn’t leave signs of it out in the open.
The old man picked up a frame from a side table and handed it to Maggie as he pointed toward two patched recliners. A middle-aged woman stared out through the glass. Sandy-colored hair, reminiscent of the seventies, not exactly a beehive, but stacked in stiffly sprayed Aqua Net. The collar of the woman’s dress looked to be influenced by Audrey Hepburn or Jacqueline Kennedy.
“She was lovely,” said Maggie. When she handed the brass frame back to him, Mr. Thompson picked up a second photo from the top of the TV cabinet.
“This is Zeke.”
Maggie took the frame and stared down at the familiar face. So it is. But the young man in her hands was a younger Zeke than she had met. This was a graduating high school senior, hair to the top of his shoulders, in an ill-fitting coat and tie.
Mr. Thompson chuckled from where he leaned on his cane watching her. “That was my suit jacket. Too big for him. We never were well off. I been the caretaker for that cabin you’re stayin’ in since the year Zeke turned sixteen. That’s when we first came to Marston County. Irene worked at the Levi factory. When she got the cancer, she had to quit. Lost our insurance.”
Maggie was well familiar with the high cost of medical care. She had an appreciation for the steep price tag to the professionals who provided it. She also knew that for the average citizen—particularly one without insurance—it was a delicate balance to weigh the cost of treatments for something terminal against the good those treatments couldn’t really guarantee.
“How long…I mean…what year did you lose her?”
Mr. Thompson motioned for Maggie to sit, which she did, still holding the picture of Zeke. He took the recliner beside her. “Eighty-six. She got the cancer right after Zeke’s conviction in eighty-three, and died just before he broke out.”
The old man suddenly seemed more stooped, more frail than on the day he showed Maggie the cabin. “A parent never imagines when their child is born they’ll go to prison one day. Or die too young.”
Maggie’s mouth felt dry. “What happened?”
“Zeke married a local girl, Tandy Wilkins, right out of high
school. Irene wanted him to go to college. That was the whole reason she worked. Nearly every dime was put back for his education. But that Tandy was a pretty girl—rough as all get out, rough family—but pretty. She turned his head. Irene and me begged him not to marry her, but it’s hard to talk reason to a boy when a pretty girl has got into his head. Tandy was the reason he went to prison.”
Mr. Thompson’s jaw clenched. “Irene used to say there was no choice, after the choice to follow the Lord, as important as the choice of who one married.” He looked around his humble cottage. “I guess she knew as well as anybody. Her own life wasn’t raised much by marryin’ me.”
Maggie put a hand on his arm. “Her life was rich if you loved her.”
Mr. Thompson’s blue eyes watered—Zeke’s eyes, but older. “Oh, I loved her. As well as I knew how. She deserved more, but…she put up with me. And I reckon she’s earned her place among the angels because of it.”
Maggie looked down at Zeke’s high school picture again. “Your son had your eyes, Mr. Thompson.”
“Please. Call me ‘Ollie.’ Enough of this ‘Mr. Thompson’ business.”
Maggie grinned and handed him the photo. “He reminds me of Rick Springfield.”
“The singer? On that soap opera?” Mr. Thompson chuckled, running a creased hand over his son’s likeness. Maggie wondered how many times he’d held the picture and stared down with regret.
“That would have made Zeke smile. Irene cut his hair, even after he was married. And that’s exactly”—Mr. Thompson pointed a crooked finger as he said this—“who he wanted it to look like. That soap opera singer.” He chuckled again at the memory.
Maggie smiled. “I’m really sorry you lost your wife and son, Ollie.”
Mr. Thompson sighed. “That’s life, I reckon. We’re all headed to the grave. I wouldn’t have chosen to be the last one standin’, but…I guess I’m glad it didn’t have to be one of them.”
He ran his hand over the frame again before hauling himself out of the recliner to set the picture back on the console. “Only good that come of him marryin’ Tandy Wilkins was it gave us his college fund for treatments for Irene. But she wouldn’t let me use it. We were savin’ it for children they might have, but Zeke and Tandy never had no children. The Thompson name will end with me. I used the money on attorney fees instead. I reckon Irene don’t hold it against me. Money always did run through my fingers.”
Mr. Thompson folded himself back into the recliner. “I guess Canon told you how Zeke died.”
Maggie shook her head. “No, he didn’t.”
“I found him dead on the porch of that cabin you’re stayin’ in. Not a scratch on him, but he was stiff. Paul said he froze to death. He was only wearin’ a light jacket. Got out of jail somehow—Canon told me how—I don’t recall right now. Just walked out, I think he said. I was still tore up about Irene and didn’t know he ever come here. But the cabin key was gone from the shed out back and I found him down there two days later.”
Maggie stared at Mr. Thompson. Time seemed to slow. I didn’t imagine Zeke. He was there.
“The truth is, Mrs. Raines,” Mr. Thompson continued, his already hoarse voice cracking. “I had too much to drink that night.”
“Please.” Maggie put a hand on his arm. “Call me Maggie. Enough of this ‘Mrs. Raines’ business.”
His face relaxed then. “I knew I liked you the first minute I laid eyes on you.”
Maggie squeezed his arm. “Same here.”
Mr. Thompson patted her hand. “I hope you’re gettin’ along okay in this snow. I’m sorry I haven’t been up to check on you.”
Maggie thought of how Zeke’s head had whipped around when she mentioned Mr. Thompson’s name. As if he’d forgotten. Had Zeke never appeared to his father?
“I started drinking too much when I was a kid. Irene still married me. We grew up together. Made it hard to keep a job sometimes. I tried to quit. Did quit, for years when Zeke was young. I got this job and it provided us with a home. Zeke loved it out here. Hunted all over these woods. He was a real good boy, Maggie. Apple of his mother’s eye. She taught him to read before he went to school, and he was smart. Boy, I mean smart! Top of his class. Teachers bragged on him. That was thanks to Irene, his smarts. He got those from her. She really could have been somethin’. Never did know how I caught her eye.”
“Zeke was your only child?”
“Hmm?”
Maggie could see Mr. Thompson traveling in his mind. She felt bad to interrupt him.
“Oh, yes. Only child the Lord ever blessed us with.”
Maggie had stirred enough emotion for the old man for one day. She stood.
Mr. Thompson looked up. “Canon never did say what brought him out here. It wasn’t just to check on me.”
“No. He…” Maggie hated to tell Mr. Thompson about the prison break. “He found a body in the woods behind the cabin. A Hispanic man he was looking for,” she was quick to add.
“I see.” Mr. Thompson thought for a minute, grasping his cane to rise. “How’d the man die?”
“I don’t think they know yet. They were going to take the body to someone named Paul.”
“Yeah, Paul. He’ll know. That’s the coroner.”
Maggie started for the door. Cold as it was, she looked forward to walking back to the cabin, to being in the open air. “I’ll let you get back to your day, Ollie.”
He rose to his feet to see her off. “I hope you’ve had a good stay, Maggie. In spite of this business with the man Canon found. And knowing about me and my troubles.”
“I have.” She put her hand on the old man’s arm again. “And we’ve all got troubles, don’t we?”
Mr. Thompson’s eyes were so like Zeke’s it caused a knot in Maggie’s stomach.
“You’re a fine lady, Mrs. Raines. Maggie. I’ve tried to give you your space, so you could write. But I’ve enjoyed knowing you were in the cabin. You know I’m here if you need anything.”
She didn’t tell him he had failed to answer the only time she had called him. She didn’t want to make Mr. Thompson feel any worse. Or did I call him? Maggie wasn’t overly sure of any of the events from the past two days.
“You still planning to go home tomorrow?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“I’m glad this unpleasantness hasn’t driven you away.”
“No. In fact…” The thought just occurred to her. “Would it be okay if I come back, Ollie?”
His countenance lifted. “All you have to do is say the word, Maggie. Deal directly with me, instead of going on the Internet. You’ll always get first dibs with me.”
“Thank you.”
On impulse, Maggie hugged him. He didn’t seem as startled this time. Then she walked out into the crisp golden day. As Maggie turned a corner on the snow-covered lane and the cabin came into sight with the sun reflecting on the windows, she suddenly knew why Zeke had come to her there.
Zeke wants me to tell his story.
15
If a story comes to you and takes root, you are the keeper of the tale. You may never know how it truly sprang to life, but now your job is to feed it. See what kind of fruit it bears.
Maggie’s vision had never been more sharp. The snow glistened in the sun like a sea of diamonds. In her precarious new mental state…maybe because of her precarious new mental state…Maggie felt alive.
The closer she got to the porch of the cabin, the stronger she pictured a man curled in front of the door, until movement on the hill beyond drew her gaze. Canon and his deputy were coming down with the loaded stretcher.
Maggie stood and watched, then sat on the swing until the two men slid the body in the back of the SUV. She wondered how much money it cost to outfit a vehicle for a sheriff’s line of work.
Canon arched his back like he was glad to be free of the load. Maggie remembered how heavy Zeke’s stiff body had been when she pulled him in and dragged him toward the fire. As Amos drove away, Canon came toward her look
ing tired, lifting a boot up to the step.
As Maggie watched his breath roll out she thought of Zeke’s breath on her hair as she undressed him. Everlasting. Why the word ‘everlasting,’ Zeke? She wished she’d thought to ask him. Would she ever see Zeke Thompson again?
Only on the pages. Maggie felt it in her bones.
Canon’s deep voice brought her back to the moment. “How are you?”
“Full of thought.”
The knit cap was back on his head. Canon…one ‘n’ like a law, not a weapon. Even so, Canon Dale looked as solid as the weapon.
He exhaled again, blowing more steam into the wind. The sun had melted some of the snow, but the temperature was still below freezing. “I’d like to get an official statement from you about all this.”
Maggie offered a weak smile. “Even if I don’t really know what ‘all this’ is?”
Canon nodded. Creases lined the corners of his eyes as he looked out toward the snow and squinted. “I’ve learned to trust the process. I still write the reports, even on things I don’t understand. Sometimes in the writing things become more clear. You probably know that if you’re a writer.”
What did he mean by if ? Maggie knew she hadn’t really earned the right to that title, but still had to fight the temptation to get her hackles up. “What’s involved?”
He took a minute answering, a look of satisfaction crossing his features. “You riding back to the station with me. I’ll try not to keep you any longer than I have to.”
Resigned, Maggie went inside for her purse. Then she locked the cabin door.
As she climbed into the sheriff’s car, her mind continued to try to make sense of things. Canon’s car was clean…nice smell…man smell, of coffee, cinnamon gum, and something like polished steel. Maybe it was his gun cleaner—some chemical used in detective work. Or carpet cleaner used on the rugs of his floorboard.
As the car rolled past the snow-covered land, Maggie turned to study the sheriff as he drove. How did Canon Dale factor into this story?
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