Michael was beside himself with sorrow and guilt, despite the fact that there was nothing for him to feel guilty about. It had happened, a horrible, horrifying sequence of events that was over practically as soon as it began. It was no one’s fault. Bryan was dead, and it was no one’s fault.
Correction. It was one man’s fault, one man named James Sparks who had been at the wheel of that cigarette boat. But now I knew better. Now there was another person to consider. In some way, Tom was involved with Bryan’s death as well. The thought made me physically ill.
Seven
As I sat on the dock, looking out at the water and remembering the day my husband died, I realized that, in a way, it felt good to be here, to reconnect with this place now that I had several years’ perspective. As Tom had said, James may be the one behind bars, but all of our lives were irrevocably changed that day.
My life had been changed irrevocably, in an instant. I had everything and then I had nothing. I was left with a void that would never completely be filled, no matter how much I might go on with my life or even love again. Bryan was dead and gone.
I closed my eyes and prayed out loud, thanking God that through it all He had been there to fill that void. His love had kept me sane in the midst of insanity. His steadfast assurance that He would bear my grief saved me from grieving all alone.
Some people, I knew, experienced a tragedy like mine and turned from God, concluding simply that He did not exist. I don’t know why, but that had never happened for me. I spent a long time angry with God, yes, but I never felt He wasn’t there. His presence was far too real to me for that.
A song came to mind, an old hymn, and with my eyes still closed I sang it softly, my voice echoing on the water.
Our broken hearts have left us sad and lonely,
but Jesus comes to dwell Himself within.
Opening my eyes, I stood up and held out my hands, knowing there was no one around to see or hear as I sang the chorus in an act of worship.
When Jesus comes the tempter’s power is broken.
When Jesus comes the tears are washed away.
He takes the gloom and fills the life with glory.
For all is changed when Jesus comes to stay.
“Amen,” I whispered. Then, wiping away my tears, I turned around and walked back to my car.
I drove out of the campground as slowly as I had driven into it, catching one last glimpse of the river as I steered through the trees. Back at the highway, I turned right, heading toward Riverside. In my heart I was determined to learn the truths I needed to know.
When I got back to town, I went in search of a library, certain they would have archives for the local newspapers. Fortunately, there was a good-sized facility downtown, and I parked and went inside, preparing my heart for the brutal truths I was about to encounter.
The library hadn’t put their collections online, but shortly I unearthed a whole week’s worth of stories on microfilm. The first headline was on the front page and said “Tourist Dies in Boating Accident on Appomattox River.” The article was fairly concise, the word “tragic” jumping out from the page in several places. Yes, it was tragic. The photo that was front and center was a distant shot of the water, with an ambulance parked beside it and several paramedics pushing Bryan’s lifeless, blanketed body inside. There were several smaller photos also, including one black-and-white shot of me as the “victim’s wife,” standing on the shore, my bathing suit and shorts covered in what I realized now was blood. I stared at the picture for a long time, at the dazed expression on my face, at the dark stains that marked my clothes, my hands, my legs. I had a sudden memory of Michael making me go in the water to rinse off. At the time I had been so out of it that I hadn’t even understood what he meant. Now I knew.
The article concluded with a paragraph about Sparks:
The driver of the speedboat was arrested less than a mile from the scene when he stopped at the Docksider Grill, allegedly unaware that he had struck Webber in the water. The suspect, as yet unnamed, was taken into custody and is being held without bail.
Feeling oddly detached from the stories in front of me, I went to the next day’s paper, which also had an article on the front page, this time with a photo of the speedboat being impounded by the police as evidence. “Speedboat Killer Tests Positive for Intoxicants” claimed the headline, though the paper didn’t say whether those intoxicants were drugs or alcohol or both. There also wasn’t any information about where he had been staying in the area, though it was clear he had been the only person on board the boat at the time. A local resident, Harry Stickles, had witnessed the accident from his own motorboat and had pursued the speedboat to the Docksider Grill.
“That fellow had no idea what he done,” Stickles was quoted as saying. “When we caught him at the dock, he was absolutely shocked.”
I didn’t know until reading the article that Sparks had been taken under citizen’s arrest until the police could get there. A photo at the bottom of the page showed him being carted off in handcuffs by an policeman identified as Officer Darnell Robinson. Strangely, I felt a wave a pity for Sparks, who thought he’d been out for a little boat ride, only to learn he had just committed a hit-and-run.
My pity didn’t last long. In the next day’s paper, the test results had been released: The driver’s name was James Sparks, and his blood alcohol level was listed as 1.2, way beyond the legal limit for any kind of driving. His mug shot was featured prominently, next to a photograph of Bryan, with the caption: “Sparks Held for Manslaughter; Architect’s Life Cut Short in Hit-and-Run.”
Bryan’s photo was a professional head shot that had been taken for a company brochure the year before. In the picture he looked studious and handsome, brown hair cut short, his wire-rimmed glasses adding just the right intellectual touch. The article had apparently been written with information supplied by one of Bryan’s brothers, who was quoted as saying, “Bryan was a very special guy. He will be greatly missed by all who knew him.”
That was the last article that earned the front page. There were other mentions inside later issues of the paper, but the whole thing eventually became less about the specific incident and more about the perils of drinking and boat driving. When it had degenerated into mere statistics, I concluded my search. As neither the killer nor the victim were locals, there didn’t seem to be any further follow-up articles.
At least I had some names. I returned the tapes, signed out at the reference desk, and wandered from the library, my notebook and pen in hand, pausing at a pay phone near the front door to look in the local phone book. I found a phone number for a man named Harrison Stickles on Oakmont Road and copied it down. I also noted the address of the police station.
By the time I got back into the car, I realized I was starving. I found a small restaurant up the street and went inside, ordering tea, vegetable soup, and a grilled cheese sandwich, all comfort foods. As I waited, I scribbled thoughts in my notebook, scary thoughts that made me vaguely nauseous.
Tom feels guilty about Bryan’s death, I wrote. Culpable. Why? Did he drive the boat? Supply the boat? Supply the alcohol? I was reaching, I knew, but there had to be some reason why Tom blamed himself.
If Tom knew James Sparks, there were many ways he might have somehow been involved in Bryan’s death. I just needed to learn where the gaps were—what Sparks had been doing in the area, who he was with, if it was his boat. I knew that cigarette boats cost a fortune, and that frightened me. Certainly, Tom had a fortune to spend on a big fancy boat if he wanted to.
By the time the food was put in front of me, my appetite had waned a bit. Still, I sipped at the tea and picked at the sandwich. I needed to keep going, and I wouldn’t last long without eating.
Once I finished and paid the bill, I called Harrison Stickles from the car, feeling a rush of relief when he confirmed that, yes, he was the same Harry Stickles who had helped out with that hit-and-run boating accident a few years back.
“Who wan
ts to know?” he drawled. “You a reporter or something?”
He sounded eager, as though he missed the attention the whole incident had brought him. I said that no, I was the widow of the man who had been killed that day.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” he said. “I didn’t realize. What can I do for you?”
“To be honest,” I replied, not being honest at all, “I was passing through the area and I realized I never really thanked you for your help that day. I just wanted to give you a call and let you know how much I appreciated your efforts.”
He sounded touched, like a sweet old guy who would have done his civic duty either way, but it was nice to be acknowledged.
“I did what any good citizen would do,” he told me. “When I saw that boat plow into that guy—uh, I’m sorry, into your husband—I didn’t even think. I just took off behind him.”
“You followed him all the way to the Docksider Grill?”
“It weren’t too far. Maybe a mile at the most.”
“So he was never out of your sight the whole time?”
This was the question I didn’t want to ask, terrified that perhaps Sparks hadn’t been the one at the wheel that day at all but had somehow made a quick switch with Tom.
“Never out of my sight,” Harry said. “He wasn’t getting away from me no way, no how.”
“And there was never any moment where you didn’t see him?” I pressed. I had to be sure.
“Nope. Lemme tell ya how it was,” Harry said, his voice warming to the tale. “My son and I was down at the river that day, trying out the new five-point seven-liter MerCruiser we put in our ski boat. When you folks came by, we had just put her in the water, and J.T. was parking the car. I was sitting there idling the boat when I heard that big sucker come roaring ’round the corner. I saw what was gonna happen, and sure enough it did. Pardon me, but the sound that boat made smacking into your husband’s body still gives me nightmares.”
I swallowed hard, thinking, Me too.
“Anyway, I didn’t even wait for J.T. I just slammed down the throttle and took off. I wasn’t sure how far I’d have to go, but then pretty soon the guy starts slowing down like nothing’s going on. He pulls into the Docksider and ties up. By the time I got out of my boat, he was walking up the dock.”
“What happened then?”
“Well, I was a wrestler in high school,” Harry said, “so I used some of my moves to get him down. He wasn’t nothing but a little guy anyway. I pinned him to the dock and held him there till we started drawing a crowd. A buddy of mine owns the Docksider, and I hollered for him to call the police, that we had ourselves a hit-and-run boat driver.”
“So if it hadn’t been for you,” I said, “he would’ve gotten away.”
“If it hadn’t been for me,” he said, “I don’t think that boy would’ve even known what he done. I said to him, ‘Didn’t you even hear that big thwack? Didn’t you feel it?’ He says, ‘I just thought I clipped a little driftwood.’”
So it really wasn’t Tom who killed my husband, which had been my greatest fear. I breathed a deep, long sigh of relief.
“You know, I was gonna testify and everything,” Harry said. “But then that fella pleaded guilty and they ended up not having a trial.”
“Have you ever heard anything about him since?” I asked.
“Nah. It’s old news now. He got a pretty stiff sentence from what I recall—though of course you know that. I ’magine he’s locked up tight over at the state penitentiary.”
“I imagine so.”
We talked a moment longer, but I had already learned what I needed to know. I thanked the man again and hung up, glad at least that I had been able to acknowledge the good he had done.
I started up the car and drove to the police station, finding it tucked away on a little side street. It was a cute building, red brick with white trim and an American flag flying out front. I found parking at a meter down the block, and then I walked back toward the station, wishing I had kept my suit on after all. Somehow, I knew jeans wouldn’t make quite the same impression.
I’m not sure what made me glance back over my shoulder as I turned to take the wide white steps to the main entrance. But look back I did, and I caught a glimpse of someone, a man, suddenly ducking into a doorway. I wouldn’t have thought twice about it, except for the fact that he hadn’t made his move until I turned my head. Feeling a deep sense of foreboding, I proceeded into the building. At least I would be safe inside a police station.
At the front counter, I asked for Officer Darnell Robinson. A man pointed toward a fellow sitting at a desk not too far behind him.
“Darnell!” he called. “Somebody here to see you.”
The man looked up, the same officer I recognized from the newspaper photo. He stood and waved me over.
“Can I help you?” he asked, looking as though he’d rather not help me. Mostly, he just looked tired.
“Officer Robinson?” I said. “I wonder if I could talk to you for a moment.”
“Sure,” he said, gesturing toward the chair that sat alongside his desk. “I’m off in about ten minutes, but I can help you if it’s quick. What can I do for you?”
“My name is Callie Webber,” I said. “You probably don’t remember me, but my husband was killed here in town about four years ago.”
“Killed?”
“In a hit-and-run boating accident on the river. You were the arresting officer.”
His eyes widened and then filled with understanding. He nodded, leaning back a bit in his chair.
“Of course,” he said. “Mrs. Webber. You and your husband were water-skiing at the time.”
“Yes.”
“I remember it very well.”
He looked at me, so I continued.
“I’m back in town for the first time since it happened,” I said, “and I’m really just trying to piece together the facts of the case. I wonder if you could fill in some blanks for me, things that weren’t in the newspapers.”
“I can try. There were a lot of us involved in the case at first. I’m not sure I’ll be able to tell you everything you want to know.”
“Mainly I was just wondering about James Sparks, the man who killed my husband. I want information. Does he live around here, or had he come on vacation? Whose boat was he driving that day? Was it his? And so on.”
“James Sparks,” he said, thinking. “Yeah, he was staying up the river, not too far from where the accident happened. A fancy rental home. The boat came with the house, I believe.”
“Do you know if he was staying there alone?” I asked.
The officer shook his head.
“I don’t rightly remember,” he said, “but it’s a big place, four or five bedrooms. Goes for a couple hundred a night. Most folks don’t pay that much just to stay by themselves.”
“Does the name ‘Tom Bennett’ mean anything to you? Do you know if he was also staying there at that time?”
“No, I’m sorry. The name doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Do you have the address of the house, or maybe the name of the rental company that handled it?”
“The house is out on Randall Road, the last one just after it dead ends. I could check the file to find out who manages the property. The information might be in there.”
“I would appreciate it.”
He stood and went into another room, and while he was gone I opened up my notebook and skimmed through what I had written, trying to remember what other questions I wanted to ask. Before I could think of anything else, Officer Robinson was back at his desk, looking confused.
“I’m sorry, but there’s nothing there,” he said.
“Excuse me?”
“The file on James Sparks,” he said. “It’s missing.”
The officer tried to be as helpful as he could, but there was no record of James Sparks—on paper or in the computer.
“Somebody goofed somewhere,” he said finally, staring at the computer screen. “I can put a
request out. Maybe his file’s been pulled and is sitting on somebody’s desk.”
He gestured around the room, and I guessed I was supposed to take into consideration the number of desks that were there.
“What should I do?” I asked.
He pulled a business card out of his top drawer and handed it to me.
“Give me a call here tomorrow after one. I’ll see if I can find the file before then.”
“Okay,” I said hesitantly. Something about this felt very wrong.
I reached in my bag and pulled out one of my J.O.S.H.U.A. Foundation business cards. I scribbled my cell phone number on the back and then handed the card to him.
“If you find something sooner, could you call me?” I asked.
“Sure,” he said, looking at the card. “What’s the ‘J.O.S.H.U.A.’ stand for?”
“I wish I knew,” I said.
Eight
Back out on the street, I looked cautiously around before walking toward my car. It was broad daylight and I was near a police station, but still I felt apprehensive, remembering the man I thought was following me earlier.
Still, I made it to my car with no incident and without seeing a single passerby on the road. As I started it up and pulled out, I made sure no one was following me, adding several odd switchbacks just to be certain. There was no one there. It must have been a coincidence.
Once I felt confident that I was all alone on the road, I pulled into a nearby parking lot to study the county map. I found Randall Road and then traced with my finger the way to get there from here. I would need to cross the river and come at it from the other side.
I followed the route I had worked out, trying to calculate how much more daylight I had left. By the time I turned onto Randall Road, I figured that the sun would probably set in about an hour. That should be plenty of time for what I needed to do.
The Buck Stops Here Page 6
