by Byars, Betsy
She didn’t want to linger. She picked a spot where the mound of dirt was lowest, climbed over, hopped the trench, and stepped onto the roadway. She brushed off her jeans, unfolded her coat, and put it on. She was loping toward Main Street when she heard it.
A car engine.
She glanced back. The car had been hidden in the trees. Now it roared out, tires squealing, coming straight at her.
Herculeah was in the worst possible place. Perhaps the driver had been waiting for that. Beside her, the mound of dirt was too high to jump over, the trench too narrow to fit in. There was no room to get out of the car’s way. She glanced back again.
The car was twenty yards away.
It was gaining speed.
Herculeah had always heard that when you thought you were going to die, your whole life passed before your eyes. What passed before Herculeah’s eyes was a fast-approaching bumper—it was less than ten yards away now—and the thought that she was not going to die by a black car.
She threw herself up the bank. Her feet slipped on the loose earth. She went down on her knees. She glanced at the car.
It was five yards away now.
Using all her strength, Herculeah pushed herself up the mound of earth and threw herself over the top. The car sped past, swerving on the very spot where she had stood only seconds ago. She could smell the sickening scent of exhaust.
She took deep breaths. She was relieved, but at the same time—
She lifted her head. She heard the car back up, the squeal of brakes. The car stopped. There was a whir as the window rolled down.
Herculeah waited. Her heart began to pound in her throat.
She knew the driver of the car was just on the other side of the ditch, listening, waiting for her to reappear. If she did, he would come at her again. And this time, she might not be quick enough to get away.
She ran beside the mound of earth, toward the sound of the traffic, eyes fixed on her goal, breath held. She stayed in a crouch, keeping her head well below the top of the mounds of red earth.
And then she heard the noise, the persistent whir of the engine. The car was moving too.
It moved at her pace, always just a stone’s throw away. It was as if the driver could see through the pile of dirt and knew exactly where she was.
Herculeah kept moving. Her throat was dry. The blood pounded in her ears.
She came to what had once been a driveway. Now it was just an open space.
When she crossed that space, Herculeah knew she would be vulnerable. If the driver did know where she was, he would anticipate her movements. He could swerve into the driveway, and—“and I’d be history,” she said.
She took a deep breath, another, and then with a burst of speed that surprised even herself, Herculeah ran across the open space and into the shelter of the elm trees.
Panting with exertion and fear, but shielded by the trees—he couldn’t get her here—she glanced at the car. With a screeching of tires, the car roared by and disappeared in a cloud of reddish dust.
It really was gone this time.
Keeping to the edge of the trees, Herculeah ran toward Main. As she rounded the bend, she could see the lights ahead, the cars, the people moving and shopping. She hurried to be one of them.
As she walked, she bent and began to brush off her coat. “And I was going to take such good care of this coat,” she said.
Herculeah came to Main Street. When she crossed she looked both ways, the way her mother had taught her to when she was a child.
Then Herculeah turned for home.
But she had the terrible feeling she would see that black car again.
14
SWFET OLD DAD
“You’re filthy, Herculeah! Where on earth have you been?”
“Oh hi, Mom.”
“Look at yourself.”
Herculeah glanced in the hall mirror. “Oh, no. I don’t care about myself,” she said. “Look at my coat. This is my new coat! I love this coat. It’s ruined.”
“I’ve got a brush. I’ll have a go at it.”
“Thanks.”
“But where have you been?”
“I was checking out some construction over on ...” She made a quick decision to leave off the name of the street. “On the other side of Main Street. That’s where I was.”
“I thought you’d outgrown digging in the dirt.”
“Oh, Mom.”
“See, that’s where Tarot got his ‘Oh, Mom’s’ from.”
Her mother left the room and returned with a brush. “Take it off,” she told Herculeah. Herculeah shrugged out of the coat.
“What happened? Did you fall?” With long, sure strokes, Herculeah’s mother brushed the coat. “It’s coming out. See?” She paused to look at Herculeah. “So did you? Fall?”
“Mom, it was very strange. I was on my way home. The street I was on ...” again she was careful not to give the name, “is very narrow. They’ve dug ditches for pipes and haven’t filled them in. The dirt’s in huge piles, some of it out in the street.
“So I was walking along and I heard a car behind me. I looked around. It was a black car. No lights. No big deal—it was just sunset. And then the car started coming at me—right at me. So I scrambled up the pile of dirt, slipped, and fell down on my knees—that’s where those two circles of dirt came from. Then I threw myself over the top. That’s where the rest of the dirt came from.”
Her mother had stopped now, the brush suspended over Herculeah’s coat. “Do you think the driver did it on purpose?”
“Why would he?” Herculeah asked evasively.
“You tell me.”
“It was dark. It’s possible he didn’t see me.”
“Did you get the license number?”
“Not hardly. I was on my face in the dirt when it passed.”
Herculeah decided not to mention that the car had tried to stay with her and that she had to make a frantic dash for safety.
“Anyway, it’s over. I’m unharmed. I’m safe. I learned my lesson.”
She grinned at her mother. Her mother didn’t grin back. “I wish I could believe that.”
“Believe it. Oh, I’ve got to hurry. Dad’s picking me up, remember?”
Her mother was still watching as Herculeah started up the stairs.
“Oh, Herculeah—”
“Mom, I have learned my lesson, all right?”
“Meat stopped by and left something for you. He said it was important.” Mrs. Jones picked up a folded sheet of paper from the hall table and handed it to Herculeah.
Herculeah unfolded it. “It looks like a Xerox of some sort of note.” She felt a quickening of interest because it might have something to do with the coat.
“Yes, that’s what Meat said. He was just back from the Copy Cat.”
“I wonder if this has anything to do with ...” She broke off with a brief glance at her mother and sat down on the stairs. She read it and the paper sagged to her lap as if it were too heavy to hold.
“Oh, Mom, you know what this is?”
“No, what?”
“Oh, Mom.”
“Well, tell me.”
“Meat and I were talking about a note his father wrote him—the only note his dad ever wrote. Meat came across it stuck in his mom’s cookbook. I asked him what the note said, and he started to tell me—he knew it by heart—but he couldn’t finish. I think he was afraid it was going to make him cry. And for some reason Meat has the stupid notion that he can’t cry in front of me! I’ve cried in front of him lots of times.”
“Boys,” her mom said with a shake of her head. She smiled down at the top of Herculeah’s head.
Herculeah was looking down at the sheet of paper. “I know that’s what this is, because it starts out ‘Dear Albie.’ Meat got that far. He told me his dad called him Albie.”
Herculeah looked up at her mother. “Do you want to hear it?”
“I’d like to very much—if you don’t think Meat would mind.”
>
“I don’t. Here goes. ‘Dear Albie, I’m sorry, Pal, that I had to leave without saying good-bye. But when a man gets his big chance, he has to take it. Mind your mom now and don’t ever forget me.’ And it’s signed ‘Sweet old Dad.’”
15
FORTUME COOKIES
“So, Dad,” Herculeah said, “I was hoping you’d wear that tie. It’s my favorite.”
“Actually, it’s my third favorite.”
“You’ve only got three.”
“Four, if you count the Snoopy tie you gave me last Christmas.”
“Which you never wear.”
Herculeah and her father were in a Chinese restaurant, waiting for their food to be served. Herculeah did not want to talk about ties. Her only interest was the note that had been in the lining of her coat, but now she felt reluctant to discuss it. She was sure her father would sense she was too interested and would make her promise not to get involved.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t at the precinct when you called yesterday, Herculeah. Was it anything important?”
“No, not really.”
“DiAngelo said you sounded upset.”
“Well, I was, a little.”
“So?”
“Well, something happened that afternoon that sort of bothered me.”
“Such as?”
“You aren’t going to like this.”
Her father looked less relaxed. He sat up straighter. “You haven’t found another body, have you, Herculeah?”
Herculeah tried to ignore her father’s disapproving tone. It wasn’t her fault she’d discovered poor Madame Rosa murdered, or almost fallen on a body in that abandoned house, Dead Oaks.
“No.”
“Well, that’s a relief.”
She added, “At least I hope not.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just what it says.”
“Go on.”
“Well, you remember that money you gave me?”
“Yes, I remember the money I gave you. You called me up and said, ‘Do you have any extra money?’ Herculeah, nobody has extra money. There’s no such thing as extra money. Even millionaires—”
“Don’t give me the extra-money lecture. This is too important.”
“Well, get on with it.”
“I went into this store called Hidden Treasures. It’s where I buy most of my stuff—my binoculars came from there and those little round glasses that help me think—but this time something drew me to the coat-rack, which surprised me because I do not need a coat. Nobody I know even wears coats. Everybody wears jackets.”
“Are we at the important part yet?”
“We’re getting there. Dad, I was drawn to this coat. I put it on and it fit perfectly. I took it to Meat’s to show him, and he said it makes me look Russian—did you think so?”
“I’m not up on Russian fashion.”
“Anyway, I noticed there was a piece of paper caught in the lining of the coat. I got it out and it was really ... well, it scared me. That’s why I called you.”
“What did the note say?”
“It was written by a woman and she said somebody was going to kill her.”
“Where is the note?”
The note was in Herculeah’s pocket, but for some reason she was hesitant about bringing it out.
“What did the note say—exactly?”
Herculeah sighed. She felt she was making a mistake, but she pulled out the note.
“Read it for yourself,” she said. She pushed the piece of paper across the table.
Her father read the note and looked up at her, his expression serious. “And you found this in the lining of the coat?”
“Yes.”
“Where’d you buy the coat?”
“I told you—Hidden Treasures.”
“Did the woman who sold you the coat know where it came from?”
“Not exactly—just that it was in a box of horse stuff—you know, like bridles and whips.”
“Did you discuss this with your mom?”
“I couldn’t. She was on a case.”
Her father now gave a sigh of disgust. One of the reasons Herculeah’s parents had divorced was because her father belittled her mother’s career as a private investigator.
Herculeah went on quickly. “She wouldn’t tell me what the case was because she doesn’t want me to get interested.”
“Well, that’s the first smart thing your mom’s done in a long time.”
“Dad, the reason I called you was because I wanted to ask you to pull your Dies—you know, for unsolved deaths—for murders that could have been made to look like accidents.”
Her father turned the note over.
“The woman, the victim, would be a woman exactly my size. You know how big I am, don’t you? I weigh the same as mom and I’m as tall as you.”
“I know how big you are.”
“So will you please do it? Please? This is very important to me. I feel some sort of kinship with this woman.”
“Yes, I’ll look into it. I’ve already got some thoughts on it.”
Herculeah leaned forward eagerly. “Like what?”
“Well, I take it from the appearance of the coat—I mean, that is not a cheap coat, Herculeah—”
“I know. I paid six whole dollars for it.”
“I’m talking about the original price. What I’m getting at, Herculeah, is that the owner of that coat was not some bag lady.”
“No.”
“The victim, if she turns out to be one, which frankly I doubt—”
“I don’t.”
“The victim was fairly well-off and probably lived in a nice section of town.”
“Probably a very nice section of town,” Herculeah said, remembering the houses that had once lined Elm Street.
Her father glanced at her sharply, and she said quickly, “Go on. Don’t pay any attention to my comments.”
“I’m trying not to.”
“Dad, are you going back to the precinct tonight?”
“Give me a break, Herculeah.”
“Are you?”
“Maybe.”
“And will you pull your files?”
“Maybe.”
“And will you call me? I know the answer. ‘Maybe.’ Oh, great, here comes our food. Let’s eat up so we can get out of here and you can get back to the precinct.”
Herculeah picked up her chopsticks. “And I bet I know what my fortune cookie’s going to say. ‘An important question will be answered.’” She smiled.
“Or ‘Keep out of matters that don’t concern you,’” her father said.
And he was not smiling.
16
THE THIRD NAME
“I expected you to call me last night,” Herculeah said to her dad.
Chico Jones had stopped by the house on his way to work. Herculeah was having breakfast.
“I got busy.”
“That’s good. What did you find?”
“Let me get some coffee.” Herculeah watched him cross the kitchen. “Mim, you got any coffee?”
“By the stove.”
Herculeah waited impatiently while her father poured himself a cup of coffee. He sat across from her, and she leaned forward over her cereal bowl.
“So what did you come up with?”
“Two names.”
“Only two names? You mean there are only two unexplained deaths in this whole city?”
“Yes. Two. Be grateful. In the past twenty years—and that’s as far back as I went—there have been two women who fit the picture you’ve given me. Two is far too many unexplained deaths for me.”
“Yeah, sure, I didn’t mean it that way.” She put her elbows on the table. “So. Who are they? What are their names?”
Her father pulled out a piece of paper. He read from it. “Ethel Alice Stackmoore, 38, height 5’7”, weight 124, was found dead of a gunshot wound, October 21, 1992, in her residence. No weapon found, no arrests.”
“Where did she live?” Herculeah asked.
“In Marietta. I’ve got all that down here, including the addresses.”
“Marietta,” Herculeah said thoughtfully. She shook her head. “I don’t think so. Too far away. Who’s next?”
“Holly Forthright Downing, 24, height 5’7”, weight 128, cause of death, brain injury caused by fall down the basement stairway at her residence. Ruling by the court was accidental death, but the case is not closed.”
Herculeah put one hand to her throat. “Where was that?” she asked quickly.
He slid the sheet of paper across the table to her. Actually, it was only half a sheet of paper.
She checked the address. “Griffin?” Her shoulders sagged. “Griffin’s miles away from here.”
He nodded. “Is there any cream, Mim?”
Mim Jones took a carton of skim milk from the refrigerator and set it on the table.
“I can’t believe this is it,” Herculeah said. She kept staring at the paper in disappointment.
“What did you expect?”
“I expected better things of you.”
“I hear that all the time.”
“Herculeah, you’re going to be late for school.”
“I’m leaving right now.”
Herculeah went into the hall, put on her coat, and picked up her books.
“Aren’t you even going to say thanks?” Chico called after her.
She stuck her head back into the kitchen. “Yes, thanks for trying, Dad.”
“You’re welcome, hon.”
Meat was waiting for her across the street. She ran to him. “Oh, Meat, disappointment. My dad came up with nothing, absolutely nothing—one woman in Marietta and one in Griffin—both of which are too far away. Here. See for yourself.”
“Yeah, right. Well, I guess that’s the end of it.” Meat was not disappointed in the results—actually he was relieved.
“It is not the end of it,” Herculeah said forcefully. She looked down. “Oh, I forgot my library book and it’s due today. Wait for me.”
Herculeah entered the house and picked up her book from the hall table.
In the kitchen, her parents were talking quietly—not arguing. Herculeah paused. She didn’t want to disturb them. She loved it when her parents were like this, drinking coffee together, talking. She could almost believe they had once been in love.
