by R.J. Ellory
“And can you help us? Can you do what I’m asking?”
“I can. Of course I can. It’s not a question of whether or not I can. It’s a question of whether or not I am willing to.”
“And are you?”
“Yes,” she said. “I am willing to help you, Sheriff Gaines, but I can guarantee nothing.”
“I know.”
She shook her head. “No, I don’t think you do know. I don’t think you understand who you are dealing with here. If my brother is anything, he is organized. He is methodical. He is businesslike in everything he does, from the clothes he wears to the things he says, the way he manages my father’s companies, the finances, the help, the land we own, everything. Everything is under control; everything is precise. If he killed Michael Webster, then he did not kill him. He had someone else do it. That’s what he would have done. My brother, believe me, will not have Michael Webster’s blood on his hands.”
“But maybe there is something,” Gaines said. “That’s all we have right now . . . the possibility that there is something.”
“And there is something I want from you.”
Gaines didn’t ask her. He waited for her to tell him.
“I need you to do everything you can to help Clifton. If I help you do this, I want Clifton out of there, out of Parchman and back here with me.”
“I cannot promise—”
“And neither can I,” she said. “We are not asking each other for promises, Sheriff Gaines. We are asking each other to do the best we can. You want me to find evidence that will convict my brother of murder. I want you to dispute and disprove the evidence that put Clifton in prison.”
“This is a condition?”
Della frowned, looked at Gaines as if he had insulted her. “You don’t get this at all, do you? Maybe you do, and you’re just protecting yourself. Of course it’s not a condition. What kind of person do you think I am? You think I am going to trade the lives of innocent people for my own advantage?”
“I’m sorry, Della. I didn’t mean for it to sound that way.”
“Well, I don’t know what way you meant for it to sound, Sheriff. It sounded just about right to me. Maybe the Wades have a reputation around here. Maybe people think we’re nothing but a bunch of racist, self-interested, hardheaded assholes out to take advantage of any situation that presents itself. Well, maybe some of us have been that way, but I am not one of them, I can assure you.”
“Like I said, I’m sorry.”
“So no, it is not a condition. You are asking me to do something, to do my best to help you with this, and I am asking you to do your best. That is all.”
“I agree. I will do my best to find out what happened with Clifton’s conviction and see if it can be appealed.”
“And I will look for what you want,” Della said. “And I have a suggestion for you as well.”
“Which is?”
“Go talk to Leon Devereaux.”
“Who’s that?”
“He’s Matthias’s right-hand man. He’s not from around here, lives out near the factory in Lucedale. There’s not a great deal that goes on as far as Wade business is concerned that he doesn’t know about. But you have to understand—anything you say to Leon is going right back to Matthias.”
“When you say that this Devereaux is Matthias’s right-hand man, do you mean what I think you mean?”
“I am sure . . . I am absolutely sure that Leon Devereaux was the one who visited with Clifton.”
“And how do I reach you without alerting Matthias?”
“You don’t,” Della replied. “I will call Maryanne every day, early morning. If I miss a day, I’ll call the following morning. You let her know if you need to talk to me, and we’ll figure something out.”
“And if I need to get to you in a hurry?”
“Then Maryanne should call the house and say she is my hairstylist and that I need to arrange another appointment.”
“Understood.”
Della Wade rose to her feet. She looked at Gaines and then turned to look at the other three present.
“I can only hope that you turn out to be utterly wrong,” she said.
And with that, she left.
Eddie Holland walked out with her, offered to drive her home, but she declined. She had him drive her into town, and from there she took a cab.
By the time Holland reached Ross’s house once more, Gaines had left to drive Maryanne back to Gulfport. He returned promptly, said the entire journey had passed with few words exchanged. Seemed that neither he nor Maryanne Benedict had a great deal more to say about what was happening.
Gaines asked Ross and Holland to investigate the Clifton Regis B&E conviction. He was going to follow up on Leon Devereaux as discreetly as he could. Maybe getting something on Devereaux was another route to Matthias Wade.
And then Gaines headed home, and for a while he sat in silence on the back porch steps. He looked out at the field, thought about the ghosts that haunted the turnrows beyond the house, and then he left for the office.
Even though it was Sunday, he found Richard Hagen there. He was typing up speeding tickets and DUIs, stabbing the keyboard as if trying to wake it from sleep.
“So where we at?” Hagen asked Gaines.
“We are in a deep hole and we have to dig ourselves out of it.”
“So no change, then?”
Gaines smiled. “Della Wade.”
“What about her?”
“I just had a long conversation with her over at Nate Ross’s place.”
Hagen turned his chair, all ears, suddenly intent. “Is that so?”
“Yes, it is.”
“And?”
“She’s going to do what she can to find us something on Matthias.”
“You’re serious? Her own brother?”
“You don’t know the half of it, Richard. Right now her boyfriend, one Clifton Regis, is up at Parchman Farm on what could very well be a bullshit rap, and he’s got a couple of missing fingers as well.”
“Matthias did that?”
“Yes . . . well, Matthias ordered it, and it looks like someone called Leon Devereaux actually did the work.”
Hagen frowned. “Who the hell is Leon Devereaux?”
“Lives out near one of the Wade factories in Lucedale. Apparently, he takes care of any extracurricular work that Matthias Wade might need doing when things don’t go the way he wants them to go.”
“And we’re on to him? Is that what we’re doing?”
“Yes, that’s what we’re doing.”
“Well, Lucedale is up in George County. I can go out there and chase up anything they have on him, if you like.”
“You know anyone up there?” Gaines asked.
“Hell, no. Only thing I know about Lucedale is the Cook Family Singers.”
“The who?”
“Cook Family Singers. Gospel singers, you know? Used to tour with the Carter Family. Played the Grand Ole Opry a good few times. Think my wife has a few of their records.”
“Didn’t know you were a gospel man, Richard.”
“I’m not. My wife is into it. Me, I’m more Janis Joplin and the Allman Brothers.”
“Well, okay. So I figure you should go home and spend some time with your gospel wife, and I’ll go to Lucedale. I don’t know what the hell you’re doing sitting here typing up DUIs for anyhow.”
“Gotta be done sometime, and my wife took the kids on up to see her folks in McComb.”
“Well, your call, then. Stay here and finish this, or come with me to Lucedale, see what we can find out about Leon Devereaux.”
“I think I’ll come with you,” Hagen replied.
“Good enough.”
Gaines and Hagen took one car, left Whytesburg a little after two for the eighty- or ninety-mile drive. They made good time, and were there before three thirty. Finding the George County Sheriff’s Office closed, they made inquiries at the gas station. The sheriff’s name was Lowell Gradney, lived out
on Seven Hills Road, about a mile down and on the left-hand side. Gaines thanked the attendant, headed the way he showed them, and drove on out there in the hope of finding Gradney at home.
56
Gradney was younger than Gaines had anticipated, early forties perhaps, and looked like he was settled in Lucedale for the duration. This was not a county-assigned property, but a well-kept midsized home with an orderly yard set with flowers and low shrubs, window boxes brimming with color, gingham curtains on the windows, and a couple of young children playing on the veranda.
Gaines went on up there while Hagen hung back by the gate. When the elder of the children—a blond girl no more than five or six—saw him, she went in through the door calling for her daddy. The second child, a boy of three or thereabouts, just sat cross-legged and eyed him without concern or suspicion. Perhaps strangers showing up on a Sunday afternoon was nothing to get agitated about in these parts.
Gradney came out drying his hands. He was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, no belt, no boots, and when he saw the uniforms, he frowned. Then he smiled and came on through the screen and down the steps to greet his visitors.
“Apologies for the time and the day,” Gaines said. “John Gaines, Whytesburg, and back there is my deputy, Richard Hagen.”
Hagen came through the gate and extended his hand.
“Must be important enough for you boys to come on over here on a Sunday afternoon, and if it’s that important, then the least I can do is accommodate you. Come on up to the house and we’ll talk.”
The house was cool. That was the first thing Gaines noticed. The second was how well presented each room was, not extravagant, but furnished with pieces that would not have seemed out of place in a much larger and more expensive home. Seemed that Gradney had some money behind him; such a standard of accommodation could not have been maintained on a sheriff’s salary.
Gradney walked Gaines and Hagen on through to the parlor, and here they were introduced to Gradney’s wife.
“This here is my wife, Sarah. Sarah, this is Sheriff Gaines and Deputy Hagen up from Whytesburg on a little business.”
She came away from the sink, and in the light from the window, Gaines saw her clearly. Sarah Gradney was an extraordinarily beautiful woman, but there was something about her that belied the matter-of-fact reality of being a small-town sheriff’s wife. This was where the money came from, Gaines felt sure. The way she spoke, the way she moved—these things suggested a background very different from her current whereabouts and social position. Gaines wondered what the backstory was, but he simply shook her hand, apologized for the inconvenience of arriving unannounced and uninvited on a Sunday afternoon, and thanked her for her hospitality.
“Oh, it’s no matter at all, gentlemen. Please, be seated. Let me get you something to drink. Perhaps some coffee, some tea, some lemonade.”
“Whatever’s the least trouble would be fine,” Gaines said.
“Well, considering you’re here on such a fine day, then I think a little lemonade would best suit.”
Gradney indicated a large table to the left of the room, and here they sat while Sarah busied herself with a jug from the refrigerator and glasses for each of them. Once she had served the lemonade, she stood momentarily with her hand on her husband’s shoulder.
“I’ll be out in the yard with the children,” she said. “Anything else you boys need, you just holler.”
“Thank you, Sarah,” Gradney said.
“Appreciated, ma’am,” Gaines added.
Sarah left them to it, closing the parlor door behind her.
“You have a beautiful home,” Gaines said, “and a lovely wife.”
“Lucky man,” Gradney replied. “They sort of came together.
Sarah was a Lanafeuille ’fore I married her. They own pretty much everything between here and Pascagoula. Hell of a wealthy family, and they didn’t take too kindly to the idea of their daughter up and marrying a policeman. But hell, in the end there wasn’t a great deal they could do about it. They’re good people, when it comes down to it.”
“Well, it seems like you really have made a good life for yourself here . . . and beautiful children you have, too.”
“Which is all as well as may be,” Gradney said, smiling, “but that sure as hell ain’t motivation enough for you to drive over here on a Sunday afternoon. So, what are we talking about here?”
“Leon Devereaux,” Gaines said.
“Oh my. Oh my,” Gradney said. “So what has the charming and delightful Mr. Devereaux gotten himself into now?”
“You know him?”
“Know him? Hell, I might as well be related to him, the number of times we visit with each other. He’s a thief and a liar and a cheat and pretty much anything else you can think of. A drunk as well. Far as he’s concerned, life is just something that gets in the way of him and his liquor. I keep tellin’ him, he ain’t gonna find nothin’ worth much of anythin’ in this life if he just keeps lyin’ about everythin’, but he doesn’t seem able to restrain himself. If he isn’t somewhere maneuvering to sleep with some poor son of a bitch’s wife, then he’s someplace else sleeping off a drunk or hiding from a husband with a gun.”
“Sounds like a fine, upstanding citizen.”
“Well, like many a folk, somewhere along the line he got the idea that rotgut whiskey was the curative for all that might ail him now or in the future. But Leon goes a little way further than that. Took me a while to appreciate where he was at, but there ain’t much good goin’ on in there, and that’s the truth. I always try to give folk the benefit of the doubt, you know? Seems when it comes to most bad people, there’s always someone good trying to clamber on out and show their face. With others, well, they’re just bad right through to the core. Leon Devereaux falls into the second category.”
“You know he works for the Wades, right?”
“Works? Is that what they call it? Leon doesn’t do a great deal of that, I can tell you right now. Maybe he has some sort of agreement with the Wades, but that factory he’s supposed to manage, well, I don’t know that they see him there more than once a month.”
“Do you know what his relationship with the Wades is? Matthias Wade, specifically?”
“Don’t know, and don’t know that I want to know. Somehow or other, he always manages to wind his way out of trouble. I’ve had him for DUIs, B&Es, harassment, statutory rape, criminal damage, aiding and abetting an escaped felon, grand theft auto, pandering. The list is endless. I’ve had him locked up more times than anyone in my career, but never for long. Somehow or other, the witness always retracts their statement, the judge gives him a fine, a warning, anything but a custodial sentence, and Leon Devereaux goes back to doing whatever Leon Devereaux does, thankfully much of it outside my jurisdiction, as far as I can see.”
“We have a report that he cut a man’s fingers off and did so under orders from Matthias Wade,” Gaines said.
“Wouldn’t surprise me,” Gradney replied. “You came on in here and told me that he’d raped both your wives, drowned your kids, drank all your liquor, and then robbed the Whytesburg Savings and Loan, I’d ask you what he did after lunch.”
“When did you last have him in your office?”
“Oh, must be a month or so ago.”
“For?”
“Lord, I can’t remember. Got drunk and walloped a few people, more than likely. He ain’t such a big guy, but he won’t go down. Hit him as many times as you like, he won’t go down, stubborn son of a bitch that he is.”
“Where does he live?”
“Well, when he’s here, he lives down off Collins Road. Has a couple of trailers down there.”
“And he’s been here a long time?”
“Longer than me, and I been here six years.”
“Is he from here, originally?”
“No, he’s from Louisiana. Born and raised in Lafayette, went into the army down there, served in the war—”
“He’s a Vietnam veteran?”<
br />
“Sure is,” Gradney said. “Says it was the best vacation he ever took.”
“Crazy before he went out, or just when he came back?”
“Oh, I reckon he was as crazy as a shithouse rat from the moment he was born, Sheriff Gaines. I think the first thought when he came out of his ma was how many folks he could fuck with in his three score and ten.”
“Married?”
“No.”
“Kids?”
“Oh, I should think so. Probably a coupla dozen from a host of different women between here and Memphis, though I don’t figure him for the settlin’ down type, you know?”
“And when he’s not here, he’s just on the road?”
“I guess so. He drives a black Ford pickup, more rust than anything else. God knows how it stays together. When the car’s here, he’s around. When it’s not, he’s gone. He can be gone for weeks at a time, and then I get a call to say he’s busted some poor fella’s nose in a bar someplace and he’s getting ready to bust a great deal more. I go down, pull him in, keep him in a cell until he’s slept off the drunk, and then I kick him out again. Whoever he bashed never presses charges, or there’s someone ready to stand up and say it was self-defense. This has been going on for all the years I’ve been here, and I am sure it will continue this way until someone wallops him so hard, he don’t get up again. Shame is that whoever winds up doing that will probably get life for it, and in all honesty, he should get a medal pinned on his chest and a county pension for life.”
“Do you know if he’s here in town now?”
“I don’t believe he is,” Gradney replied. “Friday and Saturday night went by without a single word on Leon, so I guess he’s elsewhere.”
“And do you know if Matthias Wade has ever been down here to visit with him?”
“Couldn’t say. Leon is not someone I go looking for, and I don’t keep tabs on him unless I know he’s causing trouble somewhere. There have been times when I’ve known he was in town, but there’s been no trouble to speak of. How his deal works out with the Wades is his business, and I’m happy to leave it that way. Simple truth is that you go looking for Leon, you’re going to find trouble of one variety or another.”
