Nate Rosen Investigates

by Ron Levitsky

  Ruth said, “I don’t like this. Danny shoulda come to the factory for lunch.”

  She probably wanted some small words of comfort, but he didn’t know what to say, and he wouldn’t lie to her. “Let me go first.”

  He’d never walked through a cornfield before. The deep green stalks reached his shoulders; tasseled and heavy with corn, they seemed ready to be harvested. He wondered what Danny did here day after day. Did he have to weed between the plants, as one would a garden? Or was his a self-imposed exile, to be away from women expecting too much and a family expecting too little?

  He didn’t want to leave Ruth to her worries, so he said, “Corn’s pretty tall.”

  “It’ll need to be harvested soon. My boy did right well planting this crop. Maybe a farmer’s what he’s cut out to be. They’s farmers on his daddy’s side, way back.”

  “Not on yours?”

  “No, our men mostly worked the coal mines. One a’ my people did see corn like this. My great-granddaddy fought with General Lee at Antietam. That’s up in Maryland. You ever hear tell about that battle?”

  “I think so. It was before Gettsyburg, wasn’t it?”

  She nodded. “Bloodiest single day of the war. Both sides met in a cornfield like this—tall and green and smelling sweet. When it was over, not one bit a’ stalk was left standing. Boys massacred each other. Great-granddaddy was wounded, dragged himself away, and lost a leg. Grandma said he was always bothered knowing he’d have to be buried hundreds of miles from where his leg was.”

  “He was fortunate to have crawled away from his wound. Other people aren’t so lucky. We . . . they carry the hurt inside for the rest of their lives.” Rosen knew he shouldn’t be talking like that. He said, “War is hell,” then shook his head. “Guess I shouldn’t be quoting General Sherman to you.”

  “That Yankee was speaking the truth. I lost me an uncle in World War Two, a brother in Korea, and a son in Lebanon. That last was the worst, but at least I could understand it. A man fights for his country, it’s something worth dying for. If anything happens to Danny, I couldn’t stand it. Maybe ’cause he’s my youngest, maybe ’cause he’s still like a baby. Never did grow up. You understand what I’m saying?”

  Before Rosen could reply, he heard a sharp crack; at the same time something whizzed past his ear, snapping the broad leaf brushing against him. Ruth pushed him to the ground as he heard another shot. She squatted beside him and drew out her rifle.

  He asked her, “You all right?”

  She angled a few feet forward in the direction of the gunfire. “My boy’s out there. Somebody’s trying to hurt my boy.”

  Another shot cut through the corn. Rosen crawled on his belly toward her. “Ruth, you don’t understand.”

  “Something’s moving—there!” Raising the rifle, she fired.

  “No, Ruth, don’t!”

  Reloading, she fired again. In the distance a man screamed.

  “Got ’im!”

  Turning, she nodded curtly to Rosen. As the man’s scream slowly settled into a low plaintive moan, Ruth’s jaw slackened and, suddenly, her eyes grew wide. Letting the rifle fall, she struggled to her feet, slipping in the muddy field, and sobbed.

  “Lord Jesus, it’s Danny! I shot my Danny! Oh, God, no!”

  Before Rosen could reach her, she ran toward the wounded man, pushing aside the cornstalks, struggling through ankle-deep mud. “Danny, forgive me! It’s Mama! It’s Mama!”

  Rosen grabbed Ruth’s rifle and hurried after as best he could, but lost her in the rain and corn. Suddenly the cornfield opened. He stumbled over another rifle, then noticed different plants, green as the corn but taller and thinner, with long, thin leaves spread wide like a skeleton’s fingers. He smelled something acrid, almost making his eyes tear, a familiar odor he couldn’t quite identify. The crying grew louder and, moving past several plants, Rosen saw a small wooden shack. Danny lay against the doorway. He wore a denim jacket, soaked by the rain, and cradled his left arm. Ruth sat on the ground beside him, hands clasped together as she stared at the wound.

  As Rosen approached, she looked up and tried to smile. “He’s gonna be all right, thank the Lord. Just nicked his arm. Ain’t that right, son?”

  Danny’s face was white, his eyes unfocused. His voice seemed disembodied, almost mechanical in its crying.

  “Son, tell me you’re all right. Please tell Mama you’re all right.”

  Leaning the rifle against the shack, Rosen knelt beside Danny and examined his wound.

  Ruth said, “Don’t hurt the boy. Please.”

  The bullet had grazed Danny’s arm just below the shoulder. There was an angry tear in his jacket but not much bleeding. Folding his handkerchief diagonally several times, Rosen knotted it around the wound. Danny jerked his head, and his crying stopped.

  “Mama,” he half whispered, “I didn’t know it was you. I just thought somebody was comin’ after me. I never meant to—”

  “Hush. Don’t you worry about nothing. We’re gonna get you to a doctor right quick.”

  He swiveled his head both ways. “No. No, I can’t.”

  “Course, son. You got to.”

  Rosen said, “He may be in shock, but he’s all right. Let’s get him out of the rain. We ought to keep him warm.”

  They carried Danny inside. Rosen grabbed Ruth’s rifle before closing the door behind him.

  The shack was one large room, illuminated by two windows on either side of the door and a kerosene lamp set on a table. Near the table stood a kerosene heater, which gave off a heavy oily smell, but even that couldn’t mask a much stronger odor, one that Rosen now recognized from his college days. They lay Danny on an old couch. Ruth sat beside him, letting his head rest upon her lap, while Rosen looked out the window at the green plants with their thin pointed leaves. It’d been a long time since he’d seen marijuana growing that tall.

  There must’ve been a hundred plants, clustered together in patches of about a dozen and surrounded by chicken wire to protect them from rabbits and other small animals. Each area had been carefully weeded, with troughs dug into the earth to carry off excess rainwater. The entire area was surrounded by cornfields; unless standing in their midst, a person would never realize the marijuana plants were there.

  Turning, Rosen let his eyes adjust to the kerosene lamp. A smell like burning rope hung so heavy in the air it almost suffocated him. Drying racks lined the walls, where bunches of leaves slowly withered. Three boxes were stacked beside one of the racks. The top carton was open, revealing small plastic bags filled with the drug. Several sacks of fertilizer lay piled against the back wall, along with shovels and hoes. Kitty-corner to the couch was an orange crate serving as a bookshelf. Rosen pulled out one of the books, Marijuana—Home-Grown and Proud of It. The others were of a similar theme—a do-it-yourself guide for the small businessman.

  Coughing, Ruth asked, “What is this place?”

  Danny looked away.

  “Nate?”

  Clearing his throat, Rosen replied, “I guess you could call this a hash house, but not the meat-and-potatoes kind you’re used to. Isn’t that right, Danny?”

  The young man bit his lower lip.

  “Ruth, your son’s in the wholesale business. He supplies marijuana to other ‘businessmen’ who, in turn, sell it on the streets of Earlyville. Right, Danny?”

  Again Danny wouldn’t answer, but this time Ruth turned his face toward her. “Is what Mr. Rosen’s saying the truth?” When he nodded, she said softly, “How’d you get into something like this?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You tell me how something like this could happen.”

  “I don’t know, Mama. Marijuana was always here growing wild. In high school a bunch of us would come get us some and smoke it. Weren’t any harm.”

  “How could something like this get on our property?”

  Rosen said, “It grows wild all over the Midwest. I remember you once saying how, during World War Two, the a
rmy tried to grow plants on your property to make rope? Rope comes from hemp, as does marijuana. The government probably grew the first crop here but, unfortunately for Danny, it’s no longer a patriotic enterprise.”

  Ruth shook his head. “Why, son? Look at the corn you was growing. You’ve got a fine crop here. You was finally making something of yourself.”

  Danny sat up, grimacing as he adjusted his arm. “Making something of myself? Who you kidding? Price a’ corn wouldn’t keep a man in beer and cigarettes, much less give him a living. But this here, Mama, is a real gold mine. I get two to three hundred dollars a pound! And some of the new plants I been working with bring me twice that much. Stuff’s so strong they call it ‘Bible Weed’—smoke enough of it and you’ll see God.”

  “That’s blasphemy.”

  “No, Mama, it’s business. Big business. I grow the marijuana, dry and package it. Look here.” Lifting a cushion, he took a shoe box from a hole in the box spring. Grinning, he dumped its contents, mostly hundred-dollar bills, onto his mother’s lap. “There’s about twenty thousand dollars here, and I started another box hid in the corner. You want me to grow corn? I’m rich, and Daddy said I never did have no head for business. If he could see all this, I wonder what he’d say now.”

  Danny’s grin faded as Ruth brushed the money from her lap as if it were something crawling on her. “Thank the Lord he don’t have to see it. What’ve I done to make you do something like this?”

  “But, Mama . . .”

  “Don’t.” She looked up at Rosen, her eyes glistening. “Nate, we’re going to the police. I’d surely be grateful if you’d come with us, see that the boy gets whatever rights is due him.”

  “No, Mama, I can’t give all this up!” He tried to stand.

  Rosen pushed him back onto the couch. “I’ll help, but before we go, Danny’d better tell us all of it.”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “The murder of Lemuel Banks.”

  Ruth grew pale. “Lord, no!”

  Danny grabbed her arm. “Mama, I swear I had nothing to do with no murder. You gotta believe me!”

  “What’ve you done?”

  “Please, Mama.”

  Rosen said, “I think he’s telling the truth. But, Danny, if you want to save yourself from the charge of accessory to murder, you’d better tell us who the killer is.”

  He shook his head.

  Ruth put her hand over his. “You’ve got to, son. Time for you to be a man.”

  “I’m scared, Mama.”

  Rosen said, “That’s all right. I think I know. The same person who got you into the drug business. You couldn’t have done all this by yourself. It takes a combination of flair and attention to detail. Popper Johnston, right?”

  Like swallowing medicine, Danny shut his eyes tight and nodded.

  Ruth looked up at Rosen. “How’d you know?”

  “The district attorney mentioned marijuana had become a big problem in the area. The problem began soon after Reverend McCrae’s church was established—about the time Popper came to town. A coincidence? When I helped set Claire’s bond, a drug dealer was appearing before the judge. Popper disappeared for a few minutes, just after the dealer left the courtroom. Another coincidence, or were they working together? You remember our lunch last Friday?”

  “Yes. With Johnston and Jesse Compton.”

  “Popper was talking about the anonymous backers for McCrae’s televised service. I don’t believe there are any. He’s backing the show himself to launder all the dirty money he’s been making from selling Danny’s marijuana. You saw how much cash he had on him when he paid the lunch bill.”

  “Yeah,” Danny said, “it was Popper. When the church first come to town, Claire went to work in the factory. I tried to date her, told her about the marijuana growing wild and how we could get high. She wouldn’t have anything to do with me, but a few days later Popper came to see me. Said he overheard Claire telling Reverend McCrae about the marijuana and how they prayed for me. This all was Popper’s idea.”

  “What about Lemuel Banks?”

  Danny swallowed hard. “Popper was with me that day—brought me some new seeds to work with. We was talking just outside the shack when Banks come walking up with his snake bag. Popper didn’t wait for no explanation, just grabbed a rifle and lit out after him. I followed close enough to see him shoot Banks in the back. That was just outside the cornfield.”

  Rosen added, “He threw the rifle at the edge of the field, so the police wouldn’t snoop around and find the marijuana. Of course, in this town the Hobbes name would’ve been enough to keep them away.”

  “Guess so.”

  Ruth said, “Then you didn’t hurt nobody. Why didn’t you tell the police? Was it just ’cause of the money?”

  “Popper called me an accomplice. Said if he was arrested, so would I. He scared me. I’m still scared.”

  “I’m gonna take care of you, boy. Mr. Rosen said he’ll help us.”

  Rosen grabbed Danny’s shoulders. “Only if he tells the whole truth. Were you involved in your uncle’s murder?”

  “No! No, I swear I wasn’t!”

  “There was something between you and Claire. I saw the way you looked at her at her house the morning after your uncle’s death.”

  He was shaking hard and, despite his wounded arm, pushed Rosen away. “No! I mean, I told you already I tried to take her out.”

  “That was before her marriage. What about after? Remember, the truth’s going to come out.”

  “All right. I tried to see her—”

  “Danny,” Ruth cried, “he was your uncle!”

  “He was an old man. Didn’t matter anyway—me trying. She wouldn’t have nothing to do with me. I come on strong one time. I was afraid she’d tell Uncle Ben, but don’t guess she never did. Leastways, he never said nothing to me.”

  Rosen stared at Danny for a long time, then asked, “Did Popper kill him?”

  Danny winced. “I don’t know.”

  “Could he have?”

  “The only other person who ever used to come around these fields was Uncle Ben. He used to go hunting or just walking, mostly early in the morning. Promised he’d leave my cornfield alone. I don’t believe he ever trespassed, but one day Popper and me saw him come pretty close to the fence. Popper got right nervous. After Uncle Ben was killed, I never had the guts to ask Popper, and he never said a word about it. We both acted like it never happened.”

  Ruth shook her head slowly. “Nate, do you think Johnston killed Ben?”

  “I don’t know, but it fits. On the night of his death, Ben went to McCrae’s church service angry at something the church had done. It sounded personal. Popper Johnston was a church member, McCrae’s cousin, and a friend of Claire’s. With all the talk about drugs and cults, maybe he thought the marijuana was church-sanctioned. Of course, there’s one way to find out.”

  Danny’s shoulder heaved as he wiped his eyes with his good hand.

  “The police,” Rosen said. “I’m sure Chief Whitcomb would want to join us when we visit our good friend Popper. This time, I don’t think he’ll be picking up the check.”

  Chapter Twenty

  tuesday afternoon

  “Lucky the rain’s stopped,” the driver of the laundry van said. “This close enough?”

  “Yes.” Jesse eased himself from the passenger seat, almost dropping his Bible. “It’s lucky you saw me leaving the campus. Thanks for the lift.”

  The driver scanned up and down the road. “Ain’t too many houses, and it’s a good half mile back to the highway. Sure you’ll be all right out here by yourself? I mean, what if it starts raining again?”

  “I’ll be in the best of hands. Thanks again.”

  Jesse watched the van drive away, then turned his attention to the old frame house up the road. It seemed different from when services were being conducted. Then it had been filled with the thunderclapped words of Reverend McCrae, joyous prayers of the congregati
on, and the taking up of serpents by those whom the Spirit had moved. But a building didn’t become a church because it had a steeple and stained-glass windows. People, carrying the holiness inside themselves, made it holy. Jesse wanted to believe he was one of those people and, therefore, needed to finish his conversation with Gideon McCrae.

  It was just after three. The Reverend said he’d stop by the church after work, about four. Having lent Rosen his car, Jesse had anticipated the walk to take an hour. The unexpected ride in the laundry van had been a blessing and perhaps a sign, like the ravens bringing food to Elijah. He could use the time to pray.

  The front door was unlocked. Jesse’s footsteps echoed through the large room where services were held. Folding chairs had been neatly arranged in rows for the next service, and the podium, resting on a wooden table, patiently awaited Reverend McCrae’s next sermon. Jesse continued down the center aisle and sat where he’d first watched Bathsheba take up serpents.

  He turned the pages of his Bible at random; the Book opened to Peter’s sermon in Acts: “The sun shall be turned to darkness, and the moon into blood, before that great and notable day of the Lord come: And it shall come to pass, that whosoever shall call on the name of the Lord shall be saved.”

  Putting the Book down, he clasped his hands in prayer. The sun over Earlyville had been darkened by clouds of suspicion. As for blood . . . both Ben Hobbes and Lemuel Banks had been murdered, and the killer was still on the loose, maybe planning to kill again. This was, indeed, a world of sin, yet “whosoever shall call on the name of the Lord shall be saved.”

  “Oh, Lord,” Jesse whispered, “take me! Take this wicked sinner to Your bosom!”

  He prayed as he’d never prayed before. He set before his eyes Jesus on the cross, the selfless love of One who sacrificed Himself so that others might gain eternal life. Selfless love—that’s what Jesse so fervently desired, but between his eyes and the crucifix rose the image of Bathsheba. Her body undulated like a snake, arms like snakes around his neck, drawing him to the soft swell of her breasts.