They both leaned in close. Their eyes met over Hilda’s unresponsive form.
“You thinking what I’m thinking?” asked Doc.
“I believe I am, Doc. I believe I am.”
Hilda drifted on dreams, dreams of falling at the feet of a familiar figure standing over her. The figure held something in its hand. The figure swung it at her head, again and again, like it was a game, until the object broke with the sound of splintering wood. Words filtered through the haze but she could make no sense of them. She knew the meaning of each word but not how they went together. She tried to recall the figure’s face, but it hurt too much. The only way to avoid the pain was to sink back down again, below the surface, and sleep. Just sleep.
• • •
Back at the jail, Henry watched while Jimmy read the farming report for the third time in between fascinated glances in his direction. It was clear from his swagger that Jimmy thought himself better than a floor sweeper, a bucket emptier. It was also clear that he idolized his uncle Dwayne, while he chafed under his discipline.
“Jimmy,” Henry called, “can I have some fresh water, please?”
Jimmy filled a cup and passed it through the bars, careful to avoid contact.
“Thanks, Jimmy.” He drained the cup and handed it back. “I’m Henry.”
“I know who you are.” The boy took a step back. “Where’d you get that scar? In a knife fight?”
Henry’s hand went to his neck. “You could say that.” An easy smile. He kept his voice low and even. “Don’t worry, I ain’t gonna try nothin’. Your boss must trust you a lot, to leave you alone, in charge of everything.”
Jimmy shrugged, thumbs hooked in his belt loops, just like Uncle Dwayne.
“Your boss, he a good man, I can tell,” said Henry.
Jimmy cleared his throat and spat. “S’pose so. Most of the time, anyway. My momma says—” He stopped himself and blushed right up to his hairline.
Henry leaned casually on the bars, hands loose in front of him, like they were chatting together over a backyard fence. “It’s all right, Jimmy. Who I gonna tell, locked up in here? What your momma say?”
“She says…” He hesitated, glanced warily at the door, pulled his John Deere cap low over his eyes. “She says that Aunt Noreen gonna leave him, on account of him beatin’ on her all the time.”
Henry thought for a moment. “That a bad business, for sure. Why he do that?”
“Because,” said Jimmy, and his eyes swept over Henry in a slow, calculating arc, “she won’t tell him who is the daddy of her little nigra baby. But there’s folks think they know who it is.”
Henry kept his tone light although his heart had begun to beat faster. “Folks sure do like to talk.”
“Don’t you want to know what they say?” asked Jimmy. His cheeks were pink underneath the freckles. He leaned forward, feet nearly dancing with excitement.
“Up to you, Jimmy. You in charge here.”
“So I am.” He stood a little taller. “They say”—and he stepped closer to the bars, staring intently at Henry—“they say that baby’s daddy is…you.” He whispered the last word. “What you got to say to that, then?”
“That what your uncle thinks?”
“Uh-huh,” said Jimmy, with a gratified grin. “Indeed he do. So is you or ain’t you?”
Henry turned his face away to collect his thoughts. The fears he had pushed to the back of his mind now crowded around like a flock of vultures. After a few moments, he heard Jimmy sit down again with a disappointed huff and a shake of the newspaper.
Henry had always been good at thinking on his feet, but now his brain felt filled with molasses. To hear Jimmy say it out loud gave shape to the dread he had tried to deny. Icy fingers of fear squeezed his bowels. He had not known a feeling like it, not since the battlefield, with the raging storm of shells and gunfire all around. There, among dead and dying comrades, he had accepted death as an occupational hazard. He did not welcome it but accepted it.
This was different.
There was nothing better for keeping a small town happy than a scandal, and they didn’t come much juicier. It was one of the reasons why he’d left Heron Key all those years ago, to find someplace where people cared about ideas and world events, rather than just who stole whose milk cow back in 1895. And who dallied with whose wife.
He searched his memory for some reason why Dwayne would think he had done it. He couldn’t recall ever speaking to Missus Campbell. It made no sense. And then came the realization that winded him like a punch: reason had nothing to do with it. If the deputy sheriff thought Henry was the father of his baby, all bets were off. A white man would have paid a heavy price. For a black man…there was no limit to the price he would pay.
Things suddenly fell into place: the smoldering looks from Dwayne, like he could barely control himself; the delight on his face when the bloody T-shirt was discovered at the camp.
Henry sat down heavily on the bench, more dispirited than at any time since his return, and stared at the stained concrete floor. There was a brown patch shaped like an eagle, its beak open, talons extended to skewer its prey. It made horrible, brutal sense.
This isn’t about the attack on Missus Kincaid at all.
His boots didn’t match the print they found. There was nothing to connect him to the attack. The bloody shirt was just an excuse to bring him in and get him alone. And he had walked right into the trap, high on happiness after his night with Missy. He might as well be the mouse, impaled on the eagle’s claws.
Doc was wrong. The deputy is just another hick lawman who uses his badge to settle any old score.
Henry sunk his head in his hands. He had completely misjudged the situation, his normal defenses down. There would be much sympathy for Dwayne among the townspeople, who were already minded to blame the veterans for any trouble. Henry had heard what white mobs in Florida did to men like him. There was no worse crime, in their world. The jail’s thick concrete walls would prevent any sounds from escaping into the street. And that will be just the start of it.
Nothing Henry said would make a damned bit of difference. There was no way to prove his innocence, nothing definitive that Dwayne would accept. And Henry had known plenty of decent men driven to savagery in extreme circumstances. He had seen them rip flesh from their enemies’ bodies with bloody howls of joy. Good men who, when at home, would lift a grasshopper out of harm’s way. Decency, he knew, was a veneer, hair-thin in places.
No, the idea had clearly caught light in Dwayne’s mind and already burned too bright for Henry to extinguish. The only answer was to escape, to run, as he had so many times before. He would head north and be out of the state in a few days if he traveled by night.
From the next cell came a soft, malign chuckle.
Henry said, “Yeah, Ike, like you ain’t up to your ass in it too.”
Ike stuck his grizzled chin between the bars and leered. “You gonna burn, baby. You gonna burn.”
Henry thought of Missy, of what they could have had together, what they could have built. He pictured the look on her face when she heard he had gone. It would mean the end of all his newly hatched plans. To have come so close to happiness, only to lose it over a damn fool deputy sheriff with a wayward wife was too much. His chest ached with the disappointment of it all. He became aware he was gasping for breath.
But wait… His heart lifted as he realized there was a simple answer. She’ll come with me, and we’ll start a new life together, somewhere away from all this. Yes, that was it. It would be hard for her, at first, to adjust to a new place, but he counted on the look he had seen in her eyes last night. And hadn’t she said she wanted to do something with her life? Well, here was her chance, with him. He would show her the great cities of the north, maybe even go to France. He didn’t care where they went, if they were together. What had seemed desperate
and hopeless suddenly became bright with promise. His breath came more easily, and his vision cleared. There was still a chance, if he was smart enough. And lucky enough.
But first he needed to focus on the job at hand. His training came back to him, and he scouted the contours of the jail, looking for weaknesses, assessing his options. Jimmy eyed him curiously from across the room.
And Henry knew what he had to do.
• • •
Sometime later, Dwayne returned to the jail. He strode over to Henry’s cell, where he stood quietly for a long moment. Henry’s demeanor had changed completely while he was out. The relaxed confidence was gone and in its place was extreme wariness. Through narrowed eyes, Henry followed Dwayne’s every move. A vein pulsed in his forehead.
Dwayne turned to Jimmy. “What’s been going on here?”
“N-nothin’, Uncle Dwayne.”
Dwayne just raised an eyebrow and waited.
“Well,” said Jimmy, “I just wanted to show you I can get people to tell me stuff too. So I told him…”
“You told him what?” Dwayne’s voice had gone deep and quiet.
Jimmy straightened his cap, swallowed hard. His large Adam’s apple bobbed. “I told him…I told him that people sayin’…they sayin’ he’s Roy’s daddy.”
Dwayne said to Jimmy, “I’ll deal with you later. Bring him to my office, then go back to your momma.” To Henry, he said, “You and me gonna have ourselves a little private talk.”
Dwayne sat at his desk and shuffled some papers to calm his temper, collect his thoughts. On the way over from Doc’s office, he had tried to make sense of what the evidence was telling him: that no boot had made the mark on Hilda’s face and that Henry was not involved. There was still the matter of the bloody shirt, which had to be explained.
And as for the other business he had with Henry… He felt tired, just tired to his marrow. He was tired of the way Noreen flinched when he came near, tired of the whispers and knowing looks from people in town, tired of feeling like every step he took led him deeper into the swamp. He had been fighting to get at the truth of what Noreen had done. Now that he was so close to finding it, he wondered why he had bothered. What would he do, once he had the knowledge? How would it make things any better?
He felt much more in control this time. Things were clearer in his mind. Roberts would not get the better of him again.
He heard the heavy cell door creak open on rusty hinges, then slam shut. Henry said, “I don’t feel so good.”
“Come on,” said Jimmy. He led Henry into the office, where he appeared to stumble. In a flash, Henry snatched the paper spike off the corner of the desk and pressed its vicious point hard against Jimmy’s throat.
Dwayne was on his feet in an instant, hand on his holster. “You idiot,” he hissed. “What do you think—”
“Put your gun on the desk, Deputy. Slow now.” Henry’s eyes were wide but in control, his voice level. “I got no interest in hurting this boy, so don’t make me.” He jabbed the spike harder, his arm around Jimmy’s neck. Jimmy yelped.
Dwayne obeyed. “Henry,” he tried, “listen, you don’t want to do this. I know you weren’t involved in the attack on Missus Kincaid.” He spread his hands. “We can work this out.”
“Yeah, like they worked it out in Tallahassee, and Tampa? Like they did in Greenwood?” He began to shuffle back toward the door, still with Jimmy in his grip. “No offense, Deputy, but I’d rather take my chances in a swamp full of gators. Your key ring, please.”
“Henry, you have my word. Just put the spike down and let Jimmy go. No harm will come to you. We’ll forget all about this.”
Dwayne thought back to their previous meeting, how he had come so close to beating Henry senseless, had wanted to with a desire akin to lust. He saw that Henry read his thoughts. In that moment, the argument was lost.
Henry said quietly, “Now, Deputy Campbell, you and I both know that ain’t so.” He stuffed Dwayne’s gun into his pocket. “Keys. Now. Give them to Jimmy. Now get into that cell over there.”
And with that, he locked Dwayne into his own jail cell. Dwayne sat miserably on the bench.
Henry continued toward the front door. “Now, Jimmy, you gonna lock the door behind us, you understand?”
Jimmy’s throat bulged against the spike. “Yes,” he gasped, his eyes rolled back in terror.
“If you hurt him,” said Dwayne, hands on the bars, “I swear—”
“He won’t be hurt,” said Henry. “I just need to borrow him for a spell. And your truck. Good-bye, Deputy Campbell.”
He heard the cough of his truck’s engine, followed by the scrape of tires as they drove away. Then there was silence. Dwayne was left alone with his thoughts, and Ike’s gleeful cackle.
Chapter 16
It was that funny time of day when late afternoon turned to early evening. But there would be no colorful sunset tonight. Thick, dark clouds had been rolling in all day. An irritable wind had sprung up to worry the laundry on the line. Then came a series of miserable squalls, so Missy had moved Nathan inside. She rocked him and sang:
Precious Lord, take my hand,
Lead me on, let me stand,
I am tired, I am weak, I am worn;
Through the storm, through the night,
Lead me on, to the light:
Take my hand, precious Lord,
Lead me home.
He seemed fascinated by her voice. His legs kicked and he stared at her mouth with those round blue eyes while she sang. She touched his nose with his favorite wooden elephant. He grabbed it from her hand and gummed the trunk. His teeth had started to come through, so that lately everything went into his mouth—seashells, driftwood, even Sam’s bone. The dog had looked on in affronted confusion while Nathan chewed contentedly until Missy had whisked it away.
As a girl, she had always expected to have children one day. It was just what folks did. Then as she got older and more settled on her own, she had let go of that certainty with some sadness. It was just part of the bigger sadness of being alone. Over time, she had come to accept that there would always be other Nathans who needed her, and that would be her place.
“It ain’t too late,” she said to Nathan and wrestled the elephant from his grip. It was time for a bubble bath and then bed. Hopes she had long abandoned, things she had thought impossible, had come back into focus since Henry came home. It was like she had been looking through a dirty window for a long time. The glass was clean again. “Only too late when—”
Mama burst into the kitchen, hat askew and sweat on her upper lip. “They arrested Henry,” she panted. “Dwayne brought him in from the camp, something about a bloody T-shirt they found in his cabin. People say he the one that—”
“Course he ain’t, Mama!” Missy leaped from her chair. “We got to go down there and straighten this whole thing out.” But she felt a weight land heavy on her heart. The arrest would be proof enough of his guilt for the kind of folks who already believed.
“Take Selma with you,” said Mama as she collapsed into Missy’s vacant chair. “I stay here with the baby. And, Missy,” she said, “watch yourself. There’s an ugly mood out there, and I ain’t just talkin’ about the weather.”
• • •
Missy shuffled along beside Selma. The sky matched her thoughts: dark gray and heavy with rain. Why would God bring Henry back to her, only to snatch him away like this? Despite her brave words, she was scared for him. Mama was right about the mood in town. Folks on street corners stared at them as they passed, muttering behind their hands.
The weather got worse as they walked. The wind pulled at their skirts, sprayed sand on their bare legs. She studied Selma’s profile. Everyone knew she practiced the old ways, with knowledge inherited from Grace. Just talking about such things would give Mama apoplexy. For her, there was the one true church, and al
l else was blasphemy. The devil’s work. Still, she had to ask. “Selma, is there any way…is there anything you can do…I mean, can you…?”
Selma said nothing, just trudged on. Then, very quietly, she said, “I brought him back once, and look how good that turned out. Got to work with man’s law on this one.”
A pickup truck appeared ahead, driving fast right toward them. Just before they jumped out of the way, it skidded to a stop in a cloud of dust. At the wheel was a young white man in a John Deere cap with a shocked, frightened expression, and Henry was on the passenger side, looking grimly determined.
“Missy!” he called. He took the keys from the ignition and jumped down. It was then she saw the gun in his hand. “Now just stay calm, Jimmy,” he said, “and everything gonna be all right.”
The white boy stared straight ahead, hands clenched on the wheel. Missy thought she saw his lip tremble.
“What’s happened?” demanded Selma. “Where you get that gun?”
“They let you go?” Missy asked. She didn’t know what to think, filled with equal parts hope and dread.
“Not exactly,” said Henry with a look over his shoulder. He was fairly humming with tension. “I ain’t got time to explain. I got to leave. Now. Missy, you trust me?” he asked, more seriously than she had ever seen him.
His eyes were focused on hers. They were filled with desperate longing, deep as the sea. She nodded. “Yes, but—”
“Then come with me. We’ll go away together, anywhere you want. Start over. You can go to college, or do whatever—”
“Wait, I cain’t think!” For years she had dreamed of something like this, but it was not how it should be. His excitement had the metallic shine of desperation, like the gun in his hand. The boy at the wheel of the truck seemed turned to stone. It was wrong, all of it—every part of her body said so. Yet he stood there in front of her, Henry, saying these things. His words came too fast; she needed more time.
“Missy,” he said with yet more urgency and another look over his shoulder. “I explain everything once we away from here, but we got to go now. You comin’ with me?”
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