The Devil and the River

by R.J. Ellory

  “I am not doing it for you, Sheriff,” she said. “I am doing it for myself and maybe for Nancy Denton and Michael Webster. Seems that maybe Leon Devereaux might have got what he deserved, but I can find no justification for what was done to Nancy and Michael. They loved each other. Was that their crime?”

  She turned and looked at Maryanne. “You knew them,” she said. “They didn’t deserve that, did they?”

  “No,” Maryanne said. “They did not.”

  “Take care,” Gaines said, and he released her hand.

  Maryanne showed her to the door, waited with her for the minutes before the cab arrived.

  She returned to the kitchen, found the three men in silence.

  It seemed to be some small eternity before anyone uttered a word.

  68

  She came to him in his dreams.

  Della Wade.

  Of course it was not her, not in appearance, but in her words, it could have been no one else.

  And in listening to her, he knew that she had lied to him.

  The war raged about them, and they stood in some clearing. Through the overhanging trees, he could still see the ghosts of tracers, the way the phosphorous hung above the ground, and there was the smell of cordite and blood and the stagnant water that seemed to find its way into everything—your fatigues, your boots, your skin.

  For a while she looked like a little Vietnamese girl. She stood silent, and there was blood on her ai do, and there was blood on her hands.

  It was the blood on her hands that told Gaines that she had lied.

  The blood on her hands made him think about what she had said.

  And then the little girl opened her mouth, and though she did not make a sound, Gaines could understand what she was saying.

  War cleanses men of all that is best in them.

  It cleanses with fire, with bullets and blades and bombs and blood.

  It cleanses with loss and pain.

  But the only things that can kill you out here are faithlessness and shortness of breath.

  Later, when Gaines woke from the dream, the memory of it fading from his thoughts too rapidly, he recalled Della’s words.

  He would send Devereaux to shoot him in the head.

  It was that statement, those few words, that did not ring true.

  Gaines, sitting there on the edge of his bed, looking out the window and awaiting the ghost of dawn that slept just a few inches beneath the horizon, did not believe that Matthias Wade had said any such thing to his younger brother.

  Matthias Wade, if nothing else, was a smart man.

  Matthias Wade may very well have threatened Eugene, but he would not have used Leon Devereaux’s name.

  That did not make sense.

  Gaines could have been wrong, of course. He knew that. He knew he could be wrong about Michael Webster. He may have been the one who stole Nancy Denton away that night and strangled her. He knew he could be wrong about Marvin Wallace. He could be wrong about Matthias Wade. Matthias could be no more responsible for the death of Nancy Denton than he was himself.

  This was not detective work. This was a blunt and brutal fist of a thing, constantly hammering away at nothing in the hope that some small truth might be revealed. He was surrounded by liars, people who knew things that they would not share, people who themselves had been misled, deceived, betrayed. He had no leads. He had nothing of significance or consequence, and it had been this way right from the start. He had made guesses and assumptions. He had chased shadows and specters. He had asked questions of those who did not wish to be asked and read a second meaning into their answers.

  And this was what he had, in and of itself the merest shadow of the truth, and it served in the absence of anything else.

  However, Gaines knew he had to believe in something, so he chose to believe that Della Wade had lied to him about Eugene and Leon Devereaux.

  Gaines showered and dressed. He made coffee. He stood on the back porch and looked out toward the trees.

  He closed his eyes and spoke to his mother. He hoped she was well, that she had found peace, that there was something beyond this life that made this life make sense.

  He dared to believe that there might be something, for what was here made no sense at all. The world made no sense, people made no sense; what they did to one another, what they said. How man treated his fellow man, not just in war, but also in peace, for peace seemed to be nothing but a charade to pass the time between each outbreak of violence. He had read this one time, that there had been eleven days of peace in the last two thousand years. Why would people want to live this way? Why would such a thing be considered a worthwhile existence?

  He drank his coffee. He smoked his cigarette. He knew he had to go up to the Wade house and confront the truth.

  Once inside, Gaines pressed a clean shirt, shined his shoes, cleaned, and reloaded his gun, even gave a sheen to the worn leather holster he had used since he’d first joined the Breed County Sheriff’s Department.

  Today was the day.

  Today something would happen.

  Enough of the lies, the deceptions, the mysteries, the unknowns.

  Today the truth would out, and if the truth would not be coaxed out with words, then perhaps something else was needed.

  Perhaps a war.

  Perhaps that’s what he would deliver into the hands of Matthias and Della Wade: a war.

  Someone should go with him. But not Hagen. Hagen was a married man, a man with children. Nate Ross or Eddie Holland. Perhaps both of them.

  And then Gaines decided against it. This was a matter of law, and he represented the law. Eddie was retired and no longer possessed any official authority. Nate was a lawyer, not a policeman. If Gaines could not deal with this alone, then he could not deal with it at all.

  And so he waited, waited until the sun had broken the horizon and started its slow ascent. He stood inside the front doorway of his mother’s house, and he watched as the colors of the fields and trees were revealed, as the shadows lengthened, as the redbirds and thrashers finished their chorus, and then he walked down to his car, started the engine, and drove away from Whytesburg toward that beautiful old house on the banks of the Pearl River.

  This was the end of it.

  It had to be.

  69

  Sheriff John Gaines, standing there between the high pillars of the Wade house entranceway, was permitted by one of the staff to step inside.

  Gaines told them he had come to visit with Mr. Wade, and yet they did not ask which one. Gaines was shown into a small library to the right of the reception hall, and here he waited for Matthias Wade to appear.

  He waited a good fifteen minutes, and then the door opened, and through that door—pushed in a bamboo and wicker wheelchair—came Earl Wade, smartly dressed, a cream-colored three-piece suit, an open-necked shirt with a neatly tied cravat, the expression on his face one of curiosity, interest, a slight degree of concern, perhaps.

  Gaines rose from where he had been seated.

  Earl Wade, all of seventy-six years old, smiled at Gaines and said, “Excuse me, sir, for not rising to greet you, but my legs refuse to cooperate this morning.”

  Gaines walked toward him, extended his hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Wade.”

  They shook. Wade’s grip was firm and resolute.

  “They came and told me a sheriff was here, someone asking for Mr. Wade. I imagine you came to visit with Matthias, but Matthias is not here.”

  “I did come to see Matthias, sir, but I do appreciate your courtesy.”

  “Well, I understand that he will not be long, that he is attending to some small matter at one of the factories. Meanwhile, you and I shall keep company, and he will be here momentarily.”

  Wade turned to the elderly woman who had pushed him into the room. “I will have tea, Martha,” he said. He turned back to Gaines. “Coffee, Sheriff, or will you join me in some tea?”

  “Tea would be fine,” Gaines said.


  “Tea, Martha, for two, and I will have lemon.”

  Martha acknowledged the request and left the room.

  Gaines watched the old man. He was smiling, but not at Gaines. His attention was directed toward something in the middle of the room, though Gaines could not determine what he might have been looking at.

  For a short while, it was as if Gaines were not there at all.

  “There are moments, are there not?” Earl Wade said, and yet he did not turn his attention to Gaines until he had asked the question.

  “Moments, sir?”

  Wade smiled. “I remember when we had dinner with Ron Richardson. You remember that?”

  Gaines opened his mouth to speak, to suggest that Wade might have mistaken Gaines for someone else, but Wade went on as if Gaines were not present.

  “He was a drinker, no question about it. Never known a man who could drink so much and still stand up.” Wade laughed. “Remember what he said about his wife? Said she set a mattress down on the garage floor for when he stumbled home drunk. She didn’t want to be woken by his noise or his stink or his crude advances. ‘Need my beauty sleep.’ That’s what she said. ‘Hell,’ Ron said, ‘she could sleep straight through till Judgment Day; ain’t gonna make a mite of difference.’ You remember when he said that?”

  Gaines said nothing.

  “One time he shot that dog. Shot it clean through the head. Thought it was deer, he said. I asked him how the hell he could mistake a dog for a deer. I mean the damn thing was some sort of spaniel, some sort of little thing, you know? ‘I was drunk,’ he said. ‘I was just drunk.’ ‘And that’s your get-out clause?’ I asked him. ‘You were drunk?’ ”

  Wade’s laughter at this recollection was interrupted only by Martha returning with tea. She served them both without a word, and then she left the room and silently closed the door behind her.

  “Matthias isn’t here?” Wade said.

  “So I understand,” Gaines said.

  “I don’t know where he is and I don’t know what he’s doing. That boy is a law unto himself. All of them are. Useless, the lot of them. Useless children.”

  “I think he is attending to some business matters at one of the factories,” Gaines said.

  “Yes, I think you’re right, sir,” Wade replied. “And what has he done now? Is he in trouble with the law again?”

  “Again?”

  “Oh, you know Matthias. He’s always in some sort of difficulty, always having to explain his way out of some hole he’s dug for himself. Only two weeks ago he decided it would be a good idea to urinate in the fish pond. I mean, seriously, what possible purpose could be served by urinating on the fish? Unfortunately, his mother has banned me from beating him.”

  Earl Wade sipped his tea. His attention drifted again.

  Gaines’s attention was distracted by the sound of footsteps above their heads.

  “Do you have cigarettes?” Wade suddenly asked.

  “Yes, sir, I do.”

  “Oh, let me have one. They don’t let me have cigarettes anymore. Treat me like a goddamned child.”

  Gaines fetched the packet out from his shirt pocket. Wade took the cigarette excitedly, his hands trembling as Gaines lit it for him, and then he greedily inhaled, leaning his head back and closing his eyes.

  Wade turned back to Gaines, but his eyes were closed. “It is a sad state of affairs when you start to despise your own children,” he said. His voice was measured and precise, as if he were giving a sworn statement. “Matthias is a son of a bitch; Della is a whore, Eugene is a churchgoing Bible-quoting queer who thinks he can sing, and Catherine thinks she’s too damned good to have anything to do with us anymore. I hate them all.”

  Wade took another draw on the cigarette and smiled. “A bastard, a whore, a queer, and a bitch. Those are the fruits of my loins. They say that friends are the family you choose. If I had the choice, I’d see all of them off with nothing, and I’d give all my money to my friends.”

  “Marvin Wallace,” Gaines said. “He is one of your friends, isn’t he?”

  “Marvin. Marvin Wallace. Yes, Marvin Wallace is a good man. Marvin sorted out that terrible business, you know?”

  “Terrible business?”

  Wade reached for his tea. It seemed for a moment that the cup would slip from his fingers, but he regained control of it.

  “What terrible business, Mr. Wade?”

  “My wife was beautiful, you know?” Wade said. “Did you ever meet my wife?”

  “No, sir, I didn’t.” Gaines edged forward on his chair. He wanted to rewind the conversation before it drifted even further. “I was wondering what you meant when you said that Marvin Wallace helped you sort out some terrible business.”

  “Yes, he did, God bless him. Lillian never really liked Marvin, you know, but then a man’s friends and a man’s family are better kept apart, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Lillian was your wife—”

  “Lillian is my wife, yes. She’s been gone for quite a while now, and I don’t know what she thinks she’s doing. She was supposed to be back hours ago.” Wade dropped the smoked cigarette into his teacup and asked for another.

  Gaines gave it to him, helped him light it.

  “You, sir, will be in the deepest trouble imaginable when they find out that you have been giving me cigarettes.”

  “I think they might have more serious things to concern themselves with, sir.”

  “Serious, yes. Why do they always have to be so serious? When did everyone become so damned serious?”

  Gaines hesitated. He let Wade’s words hang in the air for moment, and then he said, “Marvin Wallace said that there was some trouble that needed sorting out.”

  “Marvin Wallace needs to learn how to keep his mouth damned well shut. Man needs to get some backbone.”

  “He’s been saying things, you understand.”

  Wade frowned, leaned forward out of the chair. “There are things that you talk about and things that you don’t. Marvin Wallace needs to learn the difference, or we’re all going to pay the price.”

  Gaines didn’t understand what was happening. It was like listening to Webster again. What was Wade talking about? Pay the price for what?

  Gaines knew there was no way to force Wade to speak, but questions—gently directed questions—could perhaps prompt him to say more.

  “Wallace said that Matthias—”

  “You spoke to Wallace?” Wade asked suddenly.

  “Yes, I did.”

  “When?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “Did you go and see him, or did he come to you?”

  “He came to see me.”

  Wade sneered derisively. “I knew it. I knew he was weak. I knew he would be the first one to speak. Goddamn him!”

  “He told me some of what happened.”

  “Did he, now?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what did he tell you? What did he tell you exactly?”

  “He told you nothing, Sheriff Gaines.”

  Gaines turned suddenly.

  Della Wade stood there in the doorway. She took three steps forward, snatched the half-smoked cigarette from her father’s hand, and dropped it in the teacup.

  “Martha!” she shouted. “Martha, get in here right now!”

  Martha hurried into the room.

  “I don’t know who the hell you thought this was, or why you let him in, but he has been in here with Father, upsetting him and giving him cigarettes. Take Father upstairs now.”

  “Sorry, ma’am,” Martha said. “I thought it was some sort of official business.”

  “See?” Wade said to Gaines. “See the kind of crap I have to put up with from these inconsiderate, selfish . . . Jesus Christ, this is intolerable.” He looked up at Della as he was wheeled from the room. “Whore!” he snapped.

  Della closed her eyes for a moment and said nothing until her father was gone. She closed the door behind him and then stood there looking at Gaines as if Gaines
had himself been the one to curse at her.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  “It has to end, Miss Wade. This has to end. I can’t let this go on anymore.”

  “Let what go on, exactly? What is it that you think has to end?”

  “All the lies. Whatever happened to Nancy, whatever happened to Michael Webster and Leon Devereaux. Your brother knows the truth, and if he is involved, then he needs to be held accountable for what he’s done.”

  “You came to me for help. I helped you. I am doing this my way, and that is the way it is going to be done.”

  “I can’t let that happen. This is police business. People have been killed. Not only killed, but their bodies—”

  “I know what has happened, Sheriff, and I told you that I would help you. What I did not expect was to find you in my house, talking to my father.”

  “Your father said—”

  “What my father said or did not say is neither here nor there, Sheriff. My father does not understand what he is saying, and even if he does, it bears no relevance to what is happening here.”

  “He said that Marvin Wallace needed to keep his mouth shut or they were all going to pay the price. What did he mean, Miss Wade? What did your father mean by that?”

  For a split second, the air of self-possession became transparent. Had Gaines not been looking directly at her, he would not have seen it.

  “I do not know, Sheriff Gaines. I have absolutely no idea what he might have meant.”

  “I think you do, Miss Wade. I think you know precisely what he meant.”

  Gaines got to his feet. He looked back at her unerringly.

  “So what? You’re now going to start accusing me of being involved in what has happened here? What my brother is involved in is not something I know about, or want to know about.”

  “I don’t believe you, Miss Wade,” Gaines said. “I don’t think Matthias spoke to Eugene, or maybe he spoke to him but he did not tell him about Leon Devereaux. I think Matthias is far smarter than that. He would not name names, would he, Miss Wade? He did not threaten you with Leon Devereaux, did he? That’s not what you said. You said that he threatened Eugene. And Clifton never mentioned Leon. Clifton did not know who cut his fingers off. That name came from you, and only you.”