by C. J. Box
He had known the sheriff would be hard to nail down and it took three more stops before he found Sheriff Clayton Burwell engaged in a game of horseshoes behind the gristmill. Even though prodded by his own impatience, he knew better than to interrupt the game. Hoping the man he needed the ear of would win, he watched and waited until Arnold Morgan got two ringers in a row and Sheriff Burwell was undeniably defeated. Without giving the man a chance to engage in the usual banter, William stepped up to him and asked for a word.
“Sure, Will, what’s on your mind?” Burwell asked, rubbing his palms against his trouser legs and then lifting a tankard that sat on the ground beside them. “That was a stinker, wasn’t it? Two back-to-back and by Arnold Morgan.”
“Rotten luck,” William said, and then rushed on while the man was taking a drink. “I was wondering, Clayton, what’s been done about that Grant boy’s killing. It happened near my place, you know, close enough for me to hear the whole thing.”
Burwell exhaled with satisfaction and shook his head. “That was a bad thing, killing a half-wit boy like that: cutting his throat like a hog and leaving him laying in the road to bleed to death. Some folks are too damn mean to live and that’s the truth.”
“And?” William prompted and waited, but the sheriff was deeply engaged in slaking his thirst and dismissing his horseshoe opponents with a wave and a few acid remarks. When it seemed as if he had forgotten the subject altogether, William brought it up again.
“Have you gotten anybody for it yet?” he asked. “Josh Miller told me he was going to talk to you about it—about what he knew. Or what he thought he knew.”
“He did,” the sheriff said, and collecting the horseshoes from the far stake, he walked over to the back of the mill and hung them on a nail. “I listened to him and I thanked him.”
“And?” William said again, wondering if the man was thick. “What came of it? What are you doing about Eddie Bishop?”
“I rode over to the sawmill one day when he was working. I asked him if he had anything whatsoever to do with the killing of Johnny Grant. He said no, or I believe it was, hell no. I asked him if he’d gotten himself a new watch recently, that someone had seen him with one the day after the killing and it looked mighty suspicious, and I wanted to know the truth. He said he had got a new watch recently and not that it was any of my damned business, but Wendell Pike gave it to him because it seems Wendell was figuring on getting himself a new one and didn’t need it anymore. Not that it was any of my damned business, I believe he added in case I missed it the first time.”
“And?”
“And what, Will?”
“What did you do then? What else did you ask him?”
“I asked him nothing else. Told him he could do with a damned sight more respect for the law and left. What more was there for me to ask him?”
“Ask him if you could see the watch, see if it looked like Johnny’s.”
“I don’t know what Johnny’s watch looked like. Do you?”
“No, but somebody must have seen it, somebody at that sawmill or some neighbor. Or a shopkeeper, maybe.”
“Will, I’ll tell you what I told Josh Miller. That boy had no living relatives. The only neighbor that cared a whit about him was old lady Cox who lives in that shack down the road from him, and she’s blind as a bat and couldn’t tell a pocket watch from a wagon wheel. I think it’s an act of pure evil what was done to that boy—a gentle soul like that—but without a witness, without something to link a man to the killing beyond a bunch of guesswork and just plain talk, there’s not a thing I can do about it. You got anything to add? Josh said you heard the whole thing happen. You hear Eddie Bishop’s voice? Or Wendell Pike’s? Hear Johnny yell out their names or anybody else’s?”
“No. I heard voices, but—”
“But they could have been anybody’s. The dogs were barking up a storm, you said that yourself. I got no reason to hang any crime on Eddie Bishop because he’s got himself a new pocket watch. There’s nobody to say it was Johnny’s, and frankly, Will, like I told you, nobody gives a tinker’s damn that the boy’s gone, beyond the awful meanness of it. I’m sorry, but that’s just the way it is. The only way the Bishop boy’s got any chance of being brought up for that killing is if someone finds the money pouch or that locket in his possession, and you can be damned sure nobody’s going to, not at this point. Or, even more unlikely, if he confesses. Or, best of all, if Johnny Grant rises up out of the grave and points a finger at Eddie and says, That’s the one who cut my throat. The boy’s off scot-free, Will, and there’s not a thing for it, not a thing.”
“Maybe not,” Will said. He thanked the sheriff for his time and determined to himself that there must be a thing for it, that he would find the thing for it, and the thing he found would bring that dead boy justice.
It was the first thing that had made sense in weeks.
* * *
The sheriff had given him no satisfaction but several ideas. Find the money pouch and locket. This had no realistic value, since Eddie Bishop, although rough, was not stupid and would know these two things would link him to the crime. The sheriff’s favored option, Johnny rising up from the grave, was also not worth wasting a thought on, although with his newfound fantasy of Hannah doing the same, it was hard for William not to picture this, picture the boy coming forth from the earth and finding justice for himself.
A confession seemed only slightly more possible. Any man who would do such a deed would not have to worry with being pricked by a conscience. Either he had none or a conscience so twisted that his only notion of good and evil involved injustice to himself. William thought and thought, he thought while covering seeds, while chopping wood and combing hair and collecting eggs. He thought of Johnny Grant and the boy’s naive trust and how it had probably helped to kill him, and he thought of Eddie Bishop and his meanness and greed, which would probably kill him one day but hadn’t yet. He had taken everything the Grant boy had in the world, even his dogs, at least one of which had been cut for pure meanness, and he had taken his mama’s locket, which had been taken for greed. Done everything, Josh Miller had said, but open up the boy’s mouth and . . .
William, as though suddenly bewitched, put the egg in his hand back into the nest and sat back on his heels in the floor of the chicken coop. Gold teeth. If the boy had had them, the killers would want them. But only if they thought they were there.
The new plan, conceived in an instant after weeks of pondering, was as obvious as it was frightful. William faulted himself for not thinking of it the same night Josh had spoken the words, for not going home at once for the shovel and rope. The trouble was, then as now, he would need some help.
He had not had much use for the preacher since Hannah had died. The man, who had no wife to miss and no children to raise alone, had asked William to accept the unacceptable. The idea that Hannah was in heaven did not warm William’s bed at night, nor dry her daughters’ tears. To the girls, William spoke of Hannah being in a better place; to himself, he only knew of a stone and six feet of earth.
He had spoken to no one about his thoughts, for they were surely blasphemous, and as bitter as he was, there were still the girls to think about, their place in the community and their future, for who would want to bring into the fold of their family the daughter of a blasphemer? The few remarks he had made, sentiments that had leaked out after several mugs of rum, had been to Josh, who had suggested, stupidly, that he speak his mind to the Reverend Brown. At the time, William had likened that notion to thrusting a scalded hand into the fire. Now he had a real use for the man. What he was planning was against the law and was on church property. More importantly, he needed another pair of eyes and ears to make the scheme work, a pair of eyes and ears that carried the weight of moral authority behind them. Who better, if he could be convinced of the sanity of the scheme, than the Reverend Brown?
For several more days William went about his farm work, rehearsing and carrying out the plan
in his mind, flinching at the open horror of it but at the same time reveling in the idea that it might work and the boy might ultimately rest in peace.
He made inquiries of his more pious neighbors about when the preacher’s circuit would bring him their way, about where he’d be staying and how long. Finding this out, he did what he had to do. Come the Reverend Brown’s Sunday, William scrubbed the girls the night before, dressed them in their cleanest dresses, suffered through the purgatory of hair combing, and went to church.
The service lasted two hours and consumed most of his patience, the socializing with friends and neighbors the rest. He had spent half an hour watching the girls gather bluets for their mother’s grave by the time most all of the wagons had gone, finally giving him a chance to speak to the minister privately. He had originally thought to invite the man home for a meal, but Callie and Louisa were terrified of him and William did not want to start a series of nightmares that might go on for weeks. Instead he requested a private meeting for later that night, around nine if it was possible, as he had already arranged to leave the girls with a neighbor and his need to speak with the reverend was urgent.
After laying out his request, William willed the preacher to accept it. If he did not, if he balked or as much as hemmed and hawed, William planned to plead an immediate need for spiritual guidance, for salvation from hell, for anything that would draw the man to the church at nine o’clock.
He was relieved when the Reverend Brown immediately agreed to the meeting. Figuring he was chalking up sins fast enough without lying to a man of God, William gathered up the girls and left the churchyard quickly, before the preacher had a chance to ask him what it was about.
* * *
The girls had cried again at being left, and William wondered at the condition of his own heart that he felt simple sadness for this instead of agony, that his newfound craving for justice had grown stronger than his need to spare his children pain. He had assured them they were needed to keep Aunt Lottie company, kissed them both, and left. Riding to the church, rehearsing his upcoming speech in his head, he felt something akin to excitement. The emotion was so foreign, he wondered again at his own sanity.
Tying up at the church, he tilted his watch into the moonlight to check the time. He had thirty minutes to spend with Hannah before the minister arrived. Lighting the candle he’d tucked into his saddlebag, he walked around to the back of the church and found the stone he had carved weeks ago with the girls’ wilted wildflowers lying atop it. It was the first time he had been alone with Hannah since she had gone.
He stood for a moment, then knelt down; not, he assured God, to display any piety, but in order to be closer to Hannah. He had intended to send his thoughts to wherever she was, to commune with her even if the communication was only one way. But after a few minutes the ache to touch her was so great he grew weary of fighting it. Touching his fingers to his lips and then to the earth above her, he left the burying ground and walked back around to the front of the church.
If God was inside, William had no desire to be, so he put the candle out and settled on the front stoop to wait for the preacher.
When the man finally arrived, William stood up and led the way into the tiny sanctuary. Using the church’s tinderbox, he relit the candle, set it on top of the stove, and settled on the first bench. Impatiently he listened through the Reverend Brown’s small talk, waited while the man settled down beside him and placed a tattered Bible on the pew between them. The sight of it loosened William’s tongue.
“You can put that book away, Reverend, because we won’t be needing it. Although you might take issue with that after hearing me out.”
“If you don’t mind,” the minister said, “I’ll leave it between us. Even if you’ve got no use for it, I might. And it’s not impossible it could help you, William.”
Damn Josh Miller and his flapping tongue, William thought, but he didn’t plan to argue, at least not that particular point. He bore on to the business he’d come for.
“Reverend, I don’t know if you’ve heard, but a boy was murdered here a couple of weeks ago, an idiot boy named Johnny Grant.”
The Reverend Brown nodded. “I heard about the fact of it happening. I didn’t hear much more than that.”
“Well, I heard the whole thing happen,” William said, and again in his mind he heard the dogs barking and barking and then silent. “The ones that did it slashed his throat, stole his money pouch and his mama’s locket and his pocket watch, and cut his dogs. They did that last just for meanness. Then left the boy there in the road to die alone, bleed to death while his dogs bled with him, one beside him and one off somewhere else. He lived alone and he died alone with not even a dog to comfort him. And the ones who did that to him walked away and are going about their business while that boy lies back of the church in swampy ground that butts up against the woods. Dead for all time and nobody thinking much of it but what an awful shame it was and what a meanness. But what can anybody do about it without some kind of proof saying who did it?”
“Does anyone know anything at all?”
“It was done by Eddie Bishop,” William said, “with some help, I believe, from Wendell Pike. Eddie was showing off a new watch soon after it happened and cutting up with Wendell like they were big bugs, and you know Wendell thinks he is one, what with his daddy owning the sawmill. I think they just got tired of Johnny hanging around and the two of them cooked up a scheme to get rid of him and line their pockets at the same time. I want them to pay for that. The Grant boy had nothing in life. The least he deserves is justice in death and I aim to get it for him. Don’t tell me about the great reward he’s receiving in heaven or the better place he’s in right now, about how we should envy him. Right now he’s under six feet of swamp ground.”
William waited for recriminations, lectures, even a sermonette on his impiety, but the Reverend Brown simply looked at him for a moment. In the candlelight, William could read nothing in the man’s face except fatigue. Suddenly the preacher seemed more human than divine and William felt some of his own hostility drain away.
“I need your help, Reverend,” he said, and when the Reverend Brown nodded and said, “Go on,” William took a deep breath and explained his scheme in full.
Again the preacher was silent for several moments. When he reached down for the Bible, William stiffened in his seat.
“If you’ve got a bone to pick with me, Reverend, I’d rather hear it from you than from that book there. With all due respect, I’ve not had much use for it since Hannah died, and I don’t see how it could help with what’s facing us here. If you can’t see your way clear to help me, I’ll do it alone. But I intend on doing it, one way or the other.”
“On the contrary, William,” the Reverend Brown said, and tilting his Bible toward the candlelight, he flipped its pages quickly at first and then slowly and then one at a time until he’d found the thing he was looking for. Running one finger down the page, he stopped near the middle and looked up at William. “Of course I’m going to help you. Do you think I don’t want murderers brought to justice? I’ll help you, but it’ll have to be soon. I can’t stay past Thursday night or I won’t make it to Calvary Springs by Saturday afternoon. You’ll have to get things in motion quickly and pray they go as you need them to. It’s so outlandish it just might work.”
“It’ll work, Reverend. I intend to be sure of that.” William stood, impatient to get back to the girls. “You got all the details straight for your part, times and everything?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Good. Then I’ll do what I have to do tomorrow night, and come Tuesday night we’ll see if we can’t get that confession that Burwell needs.” William took up his candle and was ready to leave the church when politeness forced him to acknowledge that the Reverend Brown was still sitting with his fingers on a passage of scripture. “You got something under your finger there, Reverend, before we set off for home?”
“I do,” the minister s
aid, “and I want you to remember this on Monday night, when you’re standing behind the church, ready to start on the boy’s grave. Remember that you won’t be alone.”
The sanctuary was quiet for a moment as the Reverend Brown found his place, and then the words came softly into the silence, filling the room as if God himself were speaking.
“The Lord killeth, and maketh alive; he bringeth down to the grave”—here the preacher looked him straight in the eye—“and he bringeth up.”
William nodded, acknowledging the man’s point so he’d close his Bible and go home.
* * *
The plan would be carried out in three parts. The first part, and undeniably the hardest, would have to be completed on Monday night. That would be the setting of the trap. On Tuesday morning there would be the bait to cast about, and on Tuesday night the prey would be ensnared by their own greed, if everything went according to plan. Or if anything went according to plan, William had to admit to himself.
He spent Monday going over the details of the evening that lay before him. In addition to spinach seeds to sow, there was a considerable amount of wash to be done. Jabbing down on the garments in the washtub with a hoe handle, William considered what tools he’d need for his evening’s work. A shovel, certainly. A lantern to see what he was doing. An ax and a clawhammer because he didn’t know if the boy had been buried in a coffin or a winding sheet. A pint of rum to keep his nerves steady and keep his hands moving. Rope to pull the body up and a feed sack to move it in.
What to do with the boy’s body in the interim had been a thorny problem, but the Reverend Brown had finally suggested that he himself could find a few hours on Monday afternoon to leave his parishioners on the pretext of needing a time of private prayer.
Then, a few hundred feet into the forest surrounding the cemetery, he would dig the boy a temporary resting place. The prayer story, he assured William, would be no lie. He would surely be praying with every shovelful of earth that justice would be visited on the living and the dead. The new grave would be flagged with a strip of white cloth and William prayed the preacher would remember this detail. He had no desire to stumble around in the dark dragging a dead man in need of a grave.
