Brad Bybee, news editor.
June Hargrove, high school principal, Zeke’s teacher.
“What did Zeke and Tandy do? Where did they work?”
“Zeke worked at the factory. His supervisor was a character witness, too, but he’s dead now. And the plant shut down five years ago. They’ll have old records somewhere in the courthouse. I’ll ask Shirley to check into it when she’s back on Monday. I’ll see if she can get you a copy of the trial transcript, too, if you like.”
Shirley, sheriff’s office receptionist, will check court records—HR and trial.
“Thank you. What about Tandy?”
“Tandy never worked that I know of. I doubt she could have kept a job. She had a drug problem.”
“Oh.” Maggie’s pen stilled. “Did Zeke have a drug problem?”
“Not that I’m aware of. ‘Course it’s been a long time, but I’ve seen it over and over. One spouse takes on all the responsibility. Sometimes it’s a kid living with an addict parent. They work hard bringing money in the front door, and the one at home shovels it out the back faster than they can haul it in. It happens too often in small counties like this one. I imagine it happens everywhere. Something eventually gives. Responsible party can’t take it any more, or the addict overdoses or does something to get themselves jailed. We try to dry them out, and as soon as they’re released, most of them are right back at it again.” Canon looked up, his eyes apologetic. “That probably sounds pessimistic. I don’t mean for it to be. This job makes you a realist.”
Maggie twisted the pen in her hands. “I know if I work on telling this story it’s going to have some darkness, Canon. Murder…adultery…drugs… I don’t like thinking about all that, and I certainly don’t want to sensationalize it, or try to capitalize in any way on someone else’s pain.”
“Of course not.”
“It’s important to me that you know that. I’m trying to work my courage up to ask Mr. Thompson about this before I get too far down the rabbit hole. I wouldn’t want him to think that was my goal.”
Canon put his hand over hers. “You don’t come across that way, Maggie.”
Relief washed over her. “Thank you for saying that.”
Canon pulled his hand back. She immediately missed its warmth.
“But…” How could Maggie explain this so he would understand? “I’m looking for the shafts of light, Canon. That’s what I want to do with the story. I came to this cabin needing hope, and I found it. I found it in getting a glimpse of Zeke. Regardless of whether I dreamed him or he was really here, he convinced me I was going to be okay. And that’s what I want to do for him in return. Use his story to offer anyone who might be walking a dark path, a ray of hope…a shaft of light. Does that make sense?”
Canon was suddenly staring at her in a way that made Maggie’s heart knock. His look was warmer than his touch had been. It was nice to see him in plain clothes. He was softer, more approachable. The words had tumbled out easier with him now than they had with Maggie’s own children. Canon was the only one who knew about Zeke, whether he believed her or not.
Canon picked up his glass. “Should we move to the couch to continue this interrogation?”
Maggie smiled. “This is a change for you, I guess, to be on the other side of the questions.”
As he stood, Canon said, “If a pretty lady wants to ask me questions after fattening me up, I can’t say I mind.”
Canon thought she was pretty? That was nice. Maggie suddenly wished she’d left her hair down. She always pulled it up into a loose knot when she was cooking.
She picked up her notebook, her pen and her glass, and followed him over. Canon sat in Zeke’s spot, Maggie in hers, both of them stretching their legs to the fire on the ottoman. Before putting his feet up, Canon pulled his boots off and set them to the side.
“I hope this is okay,” he said, when he caught her gaze again. “I wouldn’t want to get dirt on your furniture.”
Maggie resisted the urge to remind him that this wasn’t really her cabin. It wasn’t her furniture. Canon wore navy Gold Toe socks, same kind Maggie used to buy for Tom. She thought of Zeke in her blue and white striped fuzzies. “It’s nice to see you more relaxed.” Maggie poised her pen again. “Tell me about that day.”
“Night,” he corrected, getting the facts straight again. “I don’t want to minimize what you said. I think you tell that to Ollie Thompson, exactly what you told me, and you’ll have his full support.”
“You do?” Canon’s words washed over Maggie and loosened her tongue. “Here I’ve jumped feet first into trying to put into words a life and a series of events I don’t know anything about—it’s really none of my business—and yet I feel so strongly that I’m supposed to do it. I confess it’s given me a focus and energy I needed, but I don’t want this to be a selfish endeavor, Canon. I want this story to be the kind of gift it’s been to me.”
“How has it been a gift?”
Maggie looked around the room. What was it about this cabin? Something spiritual hung over the rafters. “I don’t know how to explain it, any more than I know how to explain what happened here before you showed up. Or after you showed up.”
Canon grinned. “I’m part of the story?”
Maggie laughed. “Maybe.”
He grew serious. “I’m sorry for what you’ve been through…with your marriage.”
Maggie looked down. She didn’t want to talk about that.
Canon seemed to sense it. “So you want to know about that night?”
Maggie nodded and got her notebook ready.
20
“Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.” Psalm 23:4, NIV
“I was out on Treetop Ridge when the call came in.” Canon picked up his wine glass, swirled it, and stared down into the burgundy liquid. “Now remember, this is thirty years ago. I know as well as anyone how memories can twist in the mind a little over time. But I remember Zeke made the call himself.”
“He called to report the…”
“Murders. Killings. Shootings. Don’t get me started on the differences. He called from the house right after it happened.”
Maggie tried to imagine the scene.
“I always liked Zeke Thompson. He was older than me. I was twenty-four at the time, had only been a deputy two years, not long out of college.”
Suddenly curious, Maggie asked, “Where’d you go to college?”
“Vanderbilt. Class of ‘82. Criminal Justice Program.”
“I went to Vanderbilt! But I didn’t start until ’85.”
“I knew it!” Canon’s eyes flashed in the firelight. That smirk again. “Sorority girl.”
Maggie shook her head. “Never had time. I met Tom my freshman year. He was a senior, headed to medical school. My parents didn’t see the point in me finishing my education, and I didn’t question their judgment on it. One of my life’s regrets.”
Canon nodded. “We’ve all got some of those.”
Maggie watched his eyes cloud over and wondered what regrets Canon lived with.
“So Zeke made the call,” she said.
“He said, ‘There’s been a shooting.’ Gave the address. He and Tandy lived out on Mill Creek. That’s all he said, that there’d been a shooting. I headed over there, and called it in to my dad who headed over there. My father was the sheriff before me. I don’t guess I told you that.”
Another surprise! “Did he retire?”
Canon shook his head. “Shootin’ at a robbery at the Interstate exit. Anyway…” He shook his head again, as if to swat the painful memory away. “I got there a few minutes ahead of Dad. Zeke was sittin’ on the porch steps, covered in blood.
“I said, ‘What’s happened?’ and he said, ‘Tandy shot the man from Trenton, then tried to shoot herself. She didn’t have the strength, and asked me to do it for her. He beat her.’ Zeke’s voice broke then, I remember. ‘He bea
t her real bad, Canon.’
“‘Anyone else in the house?’ I asked.
“‘No.’
“‘When did it happen?’
“‘Right before I called you,’ he said.
“He looked so lost. I got him up and brought him in with me so I could check the house. Roughest crime scene I’d ever witnessed up to that point. Scenes like that have a way of staying with you.
“Man from Trenton was dead on the floor in the bedroom. Tandy was up on the bed, blood everywhere. Zeke said the man beat her bad, and he did. That was pretty evident. She wasn’t wearing much, and her body was twisted up, arms and legs splayed at odd angles.
“About that time, my father got there. Told me to cuff Zeke and put him in the car, which I did, but I felt bad about it.”
Maggie thought of the men at the Ron-dee-vu roadside bar last month. Canon didn’t seem bothered to break up their fight and send them on their way. But those men were all belligerent. Sounded like Zeke was contrite. Was that why Canon felt bad about it? Because Ezekiel Thompson didn’t seem like a killer?
Canon stopped to rub his forehead. Maggie wondered at the disturbing sights he’d seen over the years and how many times he’d been conflicted by what his job required. It was odd to think how this gray-templed man at the end of her couch now was younger when these events happened than the mid-thirties Zeke that Maggie had met.
She laid down her notepad and found herself reaching for his shoulder. “Canon?” When he looked up there was sadness in his eyes. “Why don’t we stop there for tonight?”
“You said you knew it was a dark story.”
“I know.” Maggie nodded. “So I’m probably going to have to take it slow.”
Canon’s eyes scanned the room. Was it surveillance he was always doing, or did dark memories haunt him? Did Canon Dale see ghosts, too?
“I shouldn’t be sharing these darker details with you staying out here alone,” he said suddenly. “I should have thought about that before getting too far into the—”
“Don’t be silly. I asked you to.”
Canon stared at her so long Maggie grew uncomfortable. Could he not find the words he was looking for?
“I should go.” He finished the last sip of his wine and stood. “I’ve taken enough of your evening. You weren’t expecting company.”
Maggie smiled inwardly at the understatement that was. But neither Zeke nor Canon had proven an interruption. Together, they were jump-starting her heart again.
She sought to put a final upbeat note on the conversation by saying, “I’m glad you stopped by,” but she still felt the cloud that settled over the room.
Canon pulled his boots on, then stood and reached for his coat. “Come by the office in the next day or two and I’ll let you read the reports if you want.”
“I’d like that.”
Before he went out, he whispered, “Lock your doors.”
* * *
On Tuesday, after two uneventful nights, Maggie drove to town and parked at the sheriff’s office. The weather was cold and cloudy, but no snow was in the forecast.
A stocky woman looked up when Maggie opened the door.
“Hello,” said Maggie.
The woman scrunched her nose. “You’re not that writer, are you?”
Maggie swallowed as a young brunette at a side desk in a deputy’s uniform stuck out her hand. “Becky Renco. You must be Maggie Raines.”
“Do I have a writer’s look about me?” asked Maggie, taking Becky’s hand.
Becky gave her three hard pumps, holding the last one midway in the air. “You were in one of the pictures Amos took of the crime scene on Patterson Road.” She spoke at a clip as fast and strong as her handshake.
“Oh.” Becky turned her hand loose and sat back down. “I thought it must be a small town indeed if I was the only stranger to come through in a while.”
“Well…” Shirley Weems, the receptionist in plain clothes who hadn’t identified herself but whose nameplate sat on the corner of her desk, had a slower drawl. Her words came out as thick as Becky’s came out thin. “Lord knows, we don’t get a lot of strangers in this office.”
Shirley and Becky cut their eyes at one another. Maggie felt she was missing some piece of information they were privy to. Had Canon told them Maggie claimed a ghost was in her cabin?
“Sheriff Dale said I wasn’t considered a suspect.” Maggie wanted to be sure they knew that.
Both women guffawed. “Of course not,” said Becky. “Amos takes pictures of everything, that’s all. He loves that new camera.”
Shirley looked over her shoulder at Canon’s office window. He was on the phone, with his back turned.
“I’m working on a book idea,” said Maggie.
“So we heard.” Shirley eyed her, taking in Maggie’s hair, hoop earrings, black North Face jacket, tan corduroys and black leather boots.
Maggie had thought she looked stylish—European, even—until she fell under Shirley’s eye. Now she seemed inappropriately dressed and pulled at the ends of her cashmere scarf. She glanced through the glass at Canon again, wishing he would hurry up and get off the phone. These women made her feel more antsy than when Canon brought her in for questioning.
“Sheriff Dale said I could come by and look through the Zeke Thompson case files.” It seemed wrong, somehow, to refer to him as Canon in front of them.
“We’ve been expecting you,” said Becky pertly. Her gaze was admiring. Why was Shirley’s so critical? “Canon said you’d come by.”
“It’ll take a few days to get the records from the courthouse,” drawled Shirley, whose hair was cropped bluntly beneath her ears. No one had likely ever accused Shirley Weems of being a style maven.
Maggie smiled at her again, wanting to win her over all the same. “I appreciate you doing that.”
Silence swelled then as Shirley nodded, her eyes fixating on Maggie’s scarf. Maggie wondered what to say next. Thankfully, she heard Canon’s voice come through the open door of his office. “Alright then, Paul.”
All three women looked toward the window as Canon turned to face the glass, setting his office phone in its cradle. He must have seen Maggie the minute she’d come into the station, before he turned his back, because Canon didn’t look surprised now as he stared at her. A ghost of a smile crossed his lips.
From Maggie’s peripheral view she saw Becky and Shirley exchange glances again.
“You’ve got a visitor, Canon!” Shirley called.
Canon stepped to the doorway. “You come to see those case files?”
Maggie’s heart skipped a beat to see him back in uniform. “If this is an okay time.”
“Of course!” He waved her in, refusing to meet the looks of the two women he worked with.
Maggie felt their stares as she went into Canon’s office. Three file folders sat ready on the corner of his desk.
“I’d like to keep them in the office, if you don’t mind. You’re welcome to sit there.” He nodded toward his chair as he reached for his coat. “I need to run down to the hospital a minute. Can I bring you a coffee on my way back? Shirley made a pot this morning, but it’s weak.” He looked over his shoulder at Shirley, who was watching them through the glass and dropped his voice. “Don’t tell her I said that. She’s sensitive about her coffee.”
Maggie smiled, she hoped not too broadly, as she inched past him then around the desk. It was strange to be behind the old behemoth and look out over the office from Canon’s point of view. She laid down her notebook and pen. “No, I’m fine. Any rules I need to know about? Anything off limits?”
Canon shook his head. “I reread the reports this morning. They’re pretty straightforward—one on each of the slain, one on Zeke that includes some trial notes. Took some pictures out. The rougher ones. You don’t want to see those.” He was making statements again. It wasn’t easy to question Canon’s judgment. “I know you have a healthy imagination,” he went on. “There’s plenty of detail in the report
s.”
Was he smirking at her again? Feeling protective? Or both?
As he went out the door, Maggie said, “I’m going by the newspaper office next. Do you have a problem with me seeing pictures that were in the paper?”
“No.” This was in his matter-of-fact voice. “Those were mild enough for public view.”
Maggie stared at him.
He started to go again, but stopped. Maggie must have had a strange look on her face.
“What?” he asked.
“I’m just wondering what kind of images you have burned into your mind.”
He shook his head darkly. “You don’t want to know.”
As Maggie watched him nod a good-bye to the two women in the office and go out the front door, she couldn’t help but feel she’d done Canon a disservice with their conversation on Sunday night. The cloud that formed over them then seemed to have followed him.
21
Thoreau said the regularity of the news, in his case a daily stroll to the village to hear the gossip, was “as refreshing in its way as the rustling of leaves and peeping of frogs.”
The Marston County Times was located in a nondescript building next to the Caroline Baker hardware store on a sloped side street off Main. A balding man with thick glasses looked up from a table behind the counter spread with papers: The Washington Post, The Wall Street Journal, the Nashville Tennessean, The Atlanta Journal-Constitution and The Commercial Appeal out of Memphis were a few Maggie recognized.
He came to the front counter and stuck out a hand. “Brad Bybee. What can I do for you?”
“I’ve just come from the sheriff’s office. I’m working on a book.”
Those words—like the idea—sounded good in Maggie’s ears. But they were frightening, too, like pulling a long-held secret from a box with several locks. What if she failed in her mission? What would she be then? Nothing more than a scorned woman with an unfinished degree who couldn’t really make it as a writer.
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