Echoes of the Fall

by Hank Early

  I sat down next to Mindy and turned away from Argent. “Hello,” I said.

  She looked a little confused, but then she recognized me and smiled. “Bob Jenkins, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You caused quite a stir the other day.”

  “I did?”

  “I overheard my uncle telling Mr. Harden about it. Said you were snooping around upstairs.”

  I shrugged.

  “Is it true?”

  Before I could answer her, I felt a tap on my shoulder. “Excuse me,” I said. I turned, expecting it to be Argent with some smart remark, but instead it was Ronnie.

  He embraced me tightly, patting my back. “Thanks for coming, Earl.”

  I hissed at him, trying to warn him Mindy was there and he was blowing our cover, but Ronnie didn’t catch on.

  “I’m dedicating our first song to the one and only Earl Marcus,” he said.

  “Wait a minute,” Mindy said. “Earl Marcus?”

  I sighed and sat back down on the barstool. Ronnie said, “Oh. Shit. My bad.”

  I held my hand out to Mindy. “Earl Marcus. Private investigator. Nice to meet you.”

  * * *

  After that, the night went well. Surprisingly so. At least for a while. The best part was that Argent and Walsh kept their distance. If they noticed me at the bar, neither showed any sign. Nearly as good was Mindy’s reaction to me being a detective: she was fascinated.

  By the time the Bluegrass Mountain Cult played their first song—a raucous number with a call-and-respond chorus that sounded like you got yours, but I got tore up repeated over and over again—Mindy and I were deep into a conversation about the school.

  She wanted to know what I was investigating. I told her about Weston Reynolds, being careful to leave out anything that might relate to Joe.

  “I’ve been wondering about that too. Why the secret identity, though?”

  “I’ve got a reputation around the county,” I said. “There are some powerful people who don’t like me.”

  I had to resist the urge to turn toward Walsh’s table when I said it. Mindy nodded. “Right. Well, what can I do to help?”

  “Have you seen or heard anything about the boy’s death?”

  “Just rumors,” she said.

  The Bluegrass Mountain Cult ended the song with a sudden crescendo of guitar, drums, and driving bass, and the bar erupted in applause.

  “Thank you,” Ronnie said. He was sweating, and somehow he’d man- aged to get his Rolling Stones Steel Wheels T-shirt tangled up in his guitar strap, exposing his tattooed stomach. “That was for my buddy, Earl Marcus!” The crowd cheered. “Stand up, Earl!”

  Mindy clapped and said, “Go on.”

  Reluctantly, I stood. The crowd cheered again. Two things struck me then. One, Ronnie’s band was good. The place was eating them up. Two, I felt better than I had in a while. Not great. Probably not even good. But alive. I felt alive.

  I was sitting back down as the band launched into their next number when I noticed Walsh out of the corner of my eye. He was laughing and pointing at me.

  “Excuse me,” I said to Mindy.

  As I walked across the crowded bar, I realized I was making a mistake. I realized how easy it would have been to ignore him, to pretend he wasn’t even there. I could have gone back to talking to Mindy, and I might even have found out something useful. But I couldn’t let it go. I hated Jeb Walsh. I hated him and what he was doing to this county. But that wasn’t why I was walking over to confront him. I was walking over to confront him because of my pride. Because I had to prove he didn’t frighten me, that try as he might, he would never intimidate me.

  I had no idea if this was right or wrong, good or bad. I just knew it was what I had to do.

  All three men saw me coming and began to smile. Walsh nudged Argent as if to say, can you believe he’s coming over?

  On the way, I grabbed an empty chair from a nearby table and lifted it high into the air to clear the crowd. It felt good to see Jeb flinch a little as I brought it down to the floor. He recovered quickly—a real talent of his—and pointed at me.

  “This asshole’s just going to join us, Press. Shouldn’t that be illegal?” Mayor Keith laughed nervously. Argent smiled as if he wasn’t sure how to take Walsh’s statement.

  “Evening,” I said.

  “We don’t want any trouble,” Mayor Keith said.

  “Shut up,” Jeb said.

  Keith bristled as if he was going to object to being disrespected but in the end said nothing.

  “What do you want?” Walsh said.

  “Just thought I’d say hi. Haven’t spoken to you assholes in a while.”

  Walsh picked up his whiskey and threw it back. He placed the glass on the table, lightly, before turning to Argent. “Want to go get me another? The service in this place sucks.”

  Argent hurried off for another drink.

  “Now that the law is gone, I can say what I want to say.”

  Mayor Keith stood up suddenly. “I have to go to the restroom.”

  “Go already,” Walsh said.

  Once he was gone and we were alone, Jeb slid his chair around until he was right next to me. The music was loud, but he spoke right into my ear, and I heard every word.

  “You been sniffing around some stuff,” he said. “That’s going to get you killed.”

  “Maybe so,” I allowed. “But I’m not going to stop.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t expect nothing less of a man like you. How’s Mary?”

  “Where’s Rufus?” I said, purposefully ignoring his question about Mary. He just wanted to bait me.

  “Who?”

  “Don’t pretend you don’t know.”

  “You mean the old blind socialist?”

  “Call him what you will. Where is he?”

  “Hell if I know. Maybe you should report it to the sheriff.” He nodded at Argent, who was leaning against the bar, leering at Mindy.

  “I’m going to win,” I said.

  “I didn’t know we were playing a game.”

  “Fuck you.”

  He laughed. “I heard the African Queen left you. I’ll bet a pale hand like yours ain’t no match for that tight little pussy.”

  This is what he did. Every fucking time. I stood up, fists clenched, ready and willing to punch him.

  But I never got the chance. The song ended, and with it, the tension that had been building inside me drained away. Mary didn’t need me to defend her. Not like this. The only way to defend Mary and all the women like her was to finally find a way to take Walsh down. Punching him would feel good, but it would only be for me.

  So instead of punching him, I leaned forward and repeated what I’d said earlier. “I’m going to win.”

  I didn’t wait for his reply. I walked out the door, into the night, and wondered how I’d ever win anything again without Mary, without Rufus, without the calming influence of whisky. Which is why I decided not to go back in. I knew if I did that I was going to get drunk, and if I got drunk, I might blow everything up.

  34

  The next morning, I woke before the sun came up, unable to shake the feeling I was living on borrowed time, that at any moment I could get a call from Argent, not about Rufus but about the dead body I’d buried. He’d have some questions, but he wouldn’t really want any answers. They would just be foreplay, a way to set up the inevitable charges. Maybe they’d even have Chip Thompkins on board as a witness.

  I wished he’d call me back and tell me something, one way or the other. I’d nearly called him several times over the last few days but had resisted because I knew too much pressure might scare him away.

  Chip or no Chip, one thing was clear: I had no time to waste. There was nothing else for me to do but try to take down Jeb Walsh and, in the process, figure out what had happened to Rufus. It felt good, in a way, to be light, to feel clean, just a man on a single path. The problem was what the problem had always been: when the path
ended, what was left? I couldn’t help but think of Backslide Gap and that long dark fall.

  I was about to head out when my phone rang. It was Claire.

  “Did you find out anything on the credit card?” I asked, though I wasn’t sure why. I already knew Joe’s identity.

  “No, but I did come across something I thought might interest you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “An article from an old newspaper. Remember how you asked me to look into the Harden School?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, I came across this while I was searching. It involves your friend Rufus.”

  That got my attention. “When can you meet?”

  * * *

  Twenty-seven rings and no voice mail. If I’d been calling anyone else in the world besides Ronnie Thrash, I would have given up. But not Ronnie. With Ronnie, you never knew. Besides, I was pretty sure he’d gotten trashed last night.

  “Earl?” he said, his voice surprised, as if he would never—not in his wildest dreams—have conceived that he might get a call from me.

  “Can you go see if Rufus made it home?”

  “Ugh. What am I, his babysitter?”

  “Just do it, okay? I’ve got a lot on my plate.”

  “Yeah, I noticed you didn’t hang around very long last night. Hell, you missed our best stuff.”

  “I’m sorry about that, Ronnie. I had to get out of there or I was going to hurt Jeb Walsh.”

  “All the more reason to stay. Hang on.”

  There was a loud clatter, as if the phone had been thrown against the wall. I waited for nearly ten minutes, still sipping the last of my coffee, watching the slow spread of the yellow and orange turning the sky from black to purple to clear blue through the kitchen window.

  “He ain’t there. Fuck. You know I’m not going back to sleep now.”

  “Give it a shot anyway. I want you well rested.”

  “Why?”

  “So you can go with me to the school early tomorrow morning.”

  “School?”

  “The Harden School.”

  “What are we going to do there?”

  “Hopefully get there early enough to get in.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You don’t have to. You in or not?”

  “Okay. Whatever.”

  I was silent, thinking.

  “You there?” he asked.

  “I’m here.”

  “Well, shit. Say something.”

  “I think somebody kidnapped Rufus.”

  Now it was Ronnie’s turn to be silent. I wasn’t sure what I expected him to say. He and Rufus hated each other, or at least made a good show of hating each other.

  “So, you think his disappearance has something to do with this school?”

  “It’s the only theory I’ve got.”

  “Last time I helped you, I went to Hays for eight months.”

  “I know.”

  “You ain’t even going to try to promise me that won’t happen this time?”

  “No. I’d like to, but I can’t.”

  Ronnie didn’t speak. The moment felt odd. Bizarre, haunted somehow. Ronnie always had something to say.

  “You there?”

  “I’m here,” he said. “I just … well, I guess I just respect the hell out of that.”

  “Out of what?”

  “You being straight with me.”

  “Does that mean you’ll help?”

  “Of course I’ll help. I was just trying to make you sweat. You think I’d turn down a chance to get the team back together? Now, let me go to sleep so I can be there with bells in the morning.” Somehow I could hear his grin through the phone. Ronnie was the consummate no-regrets kind of guy. Maybe that more than anything was what drew me to him. My whole life was regret, meted out minute to minute, hour to hour, season to season, a cycle of pain that always came back to me, haunted me. Ronnie’s pain could smack him in the mouth over and over again, and he’d never worry about it, at least not until he felt it hit him the next time.

  * * *

  My plan was simple, but risky. If Ronnie and I could get to the gate early enough to catch Mindy as she started through it, we could plead with her to let us in. Seeing her at the bar the other night had given me some hope she might be persuaded to help me. I had nothing concrete other than my gut to make me think this, but it was just about the only way I could imagine getting inside those gates again.

  Once inside, I wanted to talk to Edward Walsh, and possibly some of the other boys. I wanted to get them on tape, telling me stories of abuse, of the cruel methods used inside. Once I had that, I’d have one more bullet in my cartridge that might convince Chip Thompkins to write the story.

  Bonus if I could find a way to trace it all back to Jeb Walsh. But that was for tomorrow. Today I had to meet with Claire and hopefully find Rufus.

  35

  Frankie’s Beans had gone through at least five iterations since I’d moved back to North Georgia from Charlotte. New managers, new names, new signs, but I was hoping this one was going to stick. I liked the new manager, a long-haired kid name Theo, who had a master’s in philosophy from some school down in Florida. He wasn’t a hippie—at least not in the traditional sense of the word—but you’d be forgiven for thinking he was. The long hair and unshaven face masked a sharp mind, one more interested in questions of metaphysics than psychedelic drugs. We’d spent many an afternoon in the spring talking about the world and the way things always seemed to go wrong. And damned if he didn’t make a good pot of coffee.

  I waited in the back for Claire, hoping I wouldn’t see anyone I knew, especially not anyone who might ask me how Mary was doing. I didn’t need anything else to remind me of her, not with her face already constantly swimming into my consciousness. Between that and Rufus’s absence, I’d started to feel like the protagonist in a Greek tragedy.

  When Claire did finally come in, I did a double take. She was more attractive than I’d remembered. Maybe it was her outfit, a short skirt and a tight blouse, both of which accented ample curves.

  She smiled and sat down across from me. “Thanks for meeting.”

  “Can I get you a coffee?” I said, taking her hand.

  “An iced coffee sounds perfect. This heat is insane.”

  I waved at Theo, and he came over, grinning.

  He shook my hand, glancing at Claire but not speaking. “How’s Mary?” he asked.

  “We broke up,” I said.

  “Oh, shit. I’m sorry, man.” He glanced at Claire awkwardly. “Is … is this …”

  “No,” I said. “This is business.”

  He nodded, pale faced.

  “She did want an iced coffee. And I’ll have some ice water.”

  “Coming up, Earl. Listen, if you need to talk …”

  “I’m fine, Theo. Really.”

  “Should we meet another time, Earl?” Claire said.

  “Nope,” I said. “This is perfect.”

  Theo left to grab her coffee.

  “You broke up with your girlfriend?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

  “It’s okay. I’m okay. It was totally my fault.”

  She reached across the table and took my hand. I let her. Of course I did. I was a glutton for a woman’s touch.

  “I’m sorry, Earl.”

  Theo returned with the iced coffee and put it in front of Claire.

  “Put it on my tab?” I asked.

  “On the house. I feel bad for interrupting.”

  “Not necessary,” Claire said, producing a small purse and putting it on the table. She opened it up and pulled out a five, which she handed to Theo. “Keep the change.”

  “We’ll catch up soon, Theo” I said.

  When I turned back to Claire, she was holding a photocopy of an old newspaper article.

  “I found this after talking to Susan. I hope I didn’t overstep my bounds.” She pushed the article acr
oss the table. “I think you’ll recognize a name in there.”

  The article was from a Chattanooga paper, and it was dated August 3, 1986. The headline read Missing Woman Ruled Dead.

  Twenty-one-year-old Harriet Duncan of Brethren has been missing for three days, but Sheriff Hank Shaw is calling off the search. According to Shaw, the troubled woman committed suicide.

  “Unfortunately, she had some emotional issues that likely caused her to make this decision,” Shaw said in a press conference.

  Though not a student, Duncan was a resident of the otherwise male-only Harden School, where she was undergoing an extensive emotional evaluation. According to several students, Duncan was obsessed with the waterfall at the rear of the school.

  “She used to go out there and sit all the time. And she was always saying how she was going to jump across the ravine,” 10th-grader Chris Marsh said.

  At least one counselor witnessed the leap. Rufus Gribble, who helps with discipline at the school, was with her three nights ago when she told him she was going to jump across the ravine.

  “She’d been telling me for a while she was going to jump to the other side and never come back. I told her there wasn’t any way to make it. I think she knew it too. It was just what she said because she didn’t want us to know she was trying to kill herself,” Gribble commented.

  Sheriff Shaw claims she would not have been able to make the jump. “Unless she’s Superwoman, she’s dead.”

  “I tried to physically restrain her, but she slipped free,” Gribble continued. “She leapt into the darkness. I couldn’t see, but I heard her scream. When I called out to her, there was no answer. She was gone.”

  Duncan’s older sister, Lyda, has asked for a full investigation into the school, claiming the methods used by the administration were abusive, but according to Gribble, that just wasn’t the case.

  “Mr. Harden and Mr. Deloach did everything they could possibly do to help her. She just didn’t want help. I’d say if she hadn’t come to the Harden School, she would have been dead a long time ago.”

  Randy Harden, the school’s founder and headmaster as well as Harriet’s uncle, echoed these sentiments. “I took Harriet in as a personal favor to my sister, and we did everything within our power to save her, but sometimes you have to want to save yourself. She just didn’t.”