He’d be in Kentucky with that group he had found out about on the internet. He’d be living in the mountains, hunting for food, getting ready for the day when they gave him another assignment.
He was sick of jail, of being trapped indoors all the time. He liked to imagine the day when the fighters for the Cause would shoot their way in, unlocking the door and hurrying him out. In his imagination, they’d give him his gun back and expect him to start being a warrior at their side.
But for now he was lying on the cot in the orange jumpsuit that was too big for him. He looked at it with disgust, hoping the fighters would bring him the right kind of clothes.
“Hey, Wood, get up,” a gruff voice said, “That lawyer of yours is here to talk to you. Her and Deputy Borders. I think they’ve got some news for you.”
Nathan doubted it would be anything but more trickery, but at least it would get him out of cell for a while. He got up and ran his fingers through his hair. The door clanked open and he followed the guard to the interrogation room.
The woman lawyer smiled and said, “Good morning, Mr. Wood. Something new has come up in the investigation of the shooting of Hill Roland. This is Deputy Sheriff Skeet Borders. He’s going to be talking with you and asking you some questions, and I’ll be here to represent you.”
Nathan had gotten good at saying nothing. He said nothing. He focused his eyes on the cardboard box full of books and newspapers that was on the table.
Skeet Borders looked at the skinny kid sitting across from him, staring at the table top.
“That German Shepherd you shot is gonna be okay,” he said. “She may have a little limp. The sheriff and his family have adopted her. They’ll take good care of her. The sheriff says she’s already chasing their cats.”
The kid looked up.
“I figured you probably weren’t trying to kill her,” Skeet said. “And you’d want to know how she was.”
The kid sat up and folded his arms over his chest. For a split second he made eye contact. Then he shrugged.
Skeet didn’t buy the shrug.
“Now, let me ask you something about this man you shot,” he said. “We know you shot him, but we don’t know why. Was it because of the books he wrote?”
Silence.
Skeet stood up and looked through the box. He picked out two hardcover books by Hill Roland and a front page from The Merchantsville Messenger that had Hill’s picture on it. The headline was ‘Noted local writer shot, killed.’
“Did you ever read either of these?” he asked.
“No,” Nathan said, looking at the covers with a slight disgust.
Skeet turned one of the books over, showing Nathan the photograph of Hill Roland.
“Did you know Hill Roland was a writer?””
Silence again.
“So,” Skeet said, “What I can’t figure out is why you’d come 70 miles from Chaneyville to shot somebody you didn’t know anything about, because anybody who knows anything about Hill Roland knows he’s a big time writer. They’re going to make a movie out of one of his books.”
Nathan blinked when Skeet mentioned Chaneyville, but then went back to staring at the table.
“He was done writing about vampires, though,” Skeet said. “He had told a bunch of people that the next book he was going to write was one about this book.”
He dug into the cardboard box and put a small gray green book on the table.
The boy looked at it and glanced away.
“See, it’s named Gone Are the Days,” Skeet said, “and it says here it’s by this guy named Col. Jimmy Sheffield. Have you ever seen this book?”
Nathan looked at Molly and said. “I don’t have to answer that.”
“So when I asked you if you had read Hill Roland’s books, you just said no,” Skeet said, “But now when you see this old book you’re saying you don’t have to answer.”
“Don’t badger him,” Molly said.
“Okay,” Skeet said, “Let me get back to what I was saying, Nathan. See, it says on the front of this book that Col. Jimmy Sheffield wrote it, but what we know now is that Hill Roland was going to write a book that said it wasn’t Col. Jimmy Sheffield that wrote Gone Are the Days. It was his first wife who made up the stories and wrote them down, and then she died, and a long time later, after Col. Jimmy Sheffield had died, his second wife got the stories turned into a book and said he wrote them.”
He couldn’t tell whether Nathan was listening or not. Molly signaled to him that she would take over.
“What this is all building up to,” she said to Nathan, “is that the people investigating this case have found out there’s this man down in South Georgia, who has been doing a kind of Col. Jimmy Sheffield program, dressing up in a costume, and he’s been working a long time on a book about Col. Jimmy Sheffield, and it’s pretty important to him, because he lost his job when the college he was teaching at closed down.
Nathan put his head down on the table.
“Just listen,” Molly said gently. “They know that you knew this man, and you were staying at his house sometimes. They’re thinking that maybe your reason for shooting Hill Roland was to keep him from writing a book saying Col. Jimmy Sheffield wasn’t the real author of this book. They’re thinking maybe this man paid you to shoot Hill Roland, and if that’s the truth, and you’ll testify to it, maybe you won’t have to be in prison for life. Maybe we can make a deal and get you less time.”
“Y’all are crazy!” Nathan burst out. “It wasn’t anything about that book.”
“What about the poisoned rum balls?” Skeet asked, “Did you know about the rum balls.”
Nathan looked at Molly. “What’s he talking about?”
Molly explained about the poisoned rum balls, how they were mailed to Hill Roland, and wound up causing the death of Olivia Benedict.
Skeet leaned back in his chair and shook his head.
“I never heard anything about her,” he said.
“So it looks to us like this man tried to do his own killing, “ Skeet said. “He tried to poison Hill Roland. Then when the wrong person ate the rat poison, he figured he’d better send a sharpshooter and get it done right. He’s the one we want, because it’s like I was saying last night, he had three victims – this girl he didn’t even know who got poisoned, and Hill Roland, and you.”
“I ain’t no victim,” Nathan said, biting his bottom lip.
“Sure you are,” Skeet said, “Of course he didn’t kill you, but my guess is he told you a pack of lies to get you to kill Hill Roland, and it ruined your life. Wouldn’t you rather be out deer hunting today than sitting in this jail?”
“It wasn’t about that dumb book,” Nathan burst out. “I wouldn’t shoot nobody over a book. It was for the Cause.”
Skeet thought fast.
“And this man we’re talking about is the one who told you about the Cause, isn’t he?” he said, “Because he knew you wouldn’t shoot somebody without having a good reason.”
“He said the leaders of the Cause needed it done,” he said. “He showed me the e-mails they sent to him and then he got me cleared so they sent the e-mails to me, too. They said this man was an infiltrator and he was gonna give the code to the FBI if we didn’t stop him and they’d go after the leaders of the Cause.”
“I’m sorry, man,” Skeet said, leaning back in his chair, “but it sounds to me like you’ve been had. Anybody can set up an e-mail and have it say anything they want. He probly made up the e-mail himself.”
“You don’t know how bad things are,” Nathan said earnestly. “Or you do see, but you don’t want to see. The feds are gonna start by just abolishing all the state lines and making the whole country under one government, but there’s going to be a fight that’ll make the War Between the States look like peanuts, because the Cause is mobilizing in every state. It’s gonna be like Armageddon “
He stopped, looking worried, and said, “And you’re lying about the e-mail.”
“No,
I’m not,” Skeet said. “I used to try lying when I was a kid, and I never could do it right. I’d get all mixed up, or my Mama could tell by looking at me that I was lying. I’ll bet you’re the same way. The reason you stop talking is that you aren’t a liar and you know you’d wind up telling the truth.”
“I’ll tell you the truth about Col. Jimmy,” Nathan said. “There was a lot more to him than writing this stupid little book.”
“Right,” Skeet said, “We know about him being in the Klan and all that stuff, but the thing is that a whole buncha people were in the Klan back then so that’s no big deal all by itself, and the only reason anybody outside of Chaneyville has ever even heard of him is that his name was on this book. I never heard of him myself until yesterday.”
“There’s a whole buncha stuff you don’t know,” Nathan said. “And it wasn’t the Klan. It was the Cause, and the war wasn’t about slavery or anything like that. It was about states’ rights.”
“Klan, Cause, States Rights, whatever you wanta call it,” Skeet said, “You’re sitting here in jail while he’s prancing around in a white suit with a fake mustache on pretending he’s Col. Jimmy. And he’s not worrying about Hill Roland writing any book that says Col. Jimmy didn’t write this book right here.”
Nathan put his hands over his ears and shut his eyes.
How about letting me talk to my client alone,” Molly said to Skeet.
Ten minutes later, she came out and said, “He’s going to go for a deal, but he says he won’t talk to Deputy Borders anymore.”
“Can’t say as I blame him,” Skeet said. “I can’t hardly stand myself.”
Molly gave Skeet a smile and said, “He’ll figure out someday that you helped him get less time.”
Then she looked at Sam.
“He says he’d rather talk to you, Sheriff Bailey. He hasn’t even said the name to me yet.”
The first thing Nathan Wood said to Sam Bailey was, “I feel bad about shooting the dog. She was coming after me. I aimed for the leg because I knew that wouldn’t kill her.”
“It still hurt her real bad, but she’ll be fine,” Sam said, checking to make sure the tape recorder was still running. “Now tell me who sent you down here to shoot Hill Roland. I just need the name and address now. We’ll get a full statement from you later.”
Sam already knew the address, but he wanted to hear that the kid knew where the professor lived.
“His name is Professor James Sheffield Tolliver and he’s renting the yellow house that’s on Murray Street near the elementary school. It’s 224 Murray Street.” Nathan said in a dull voice, “In Chaneyville.”
“Does he have a gun?”
“He’s got six of mine that I left there,” Nathan said, “but I don’t think he can shoot. He’s got my laptop, too. If y’all go up there, you think I can have it back so I’ll have something to do in here?”
“Not likely, Sam said, “But thank you for the information.”
CHAPTER 22
J.S. Tolliver had slept with the help of alcohol and pills. The more he thought about the reporter from Merchantsville driving 70 miles to see the papers, the more worried he got. What on earth would a reporter want with the papers? Or what if it wasn’t a reporter?
It was an investigator, a detective, who had called Melanie.
And, of course, Melanie had talked her head off, but what did she know? She had already moved to Macon before he left the house at the academy and she had a boyfriend now and hadn’t seen Nathan in more than a year. She didn’t even know that Nathan had been living with him for the last few weeks since his grandmother’s old house had been foreclosed on.
Even so, he was sorry he had lost his temper with her when she called to tell him about that conference call to Merchantsville. And when he had gotten through raging at her, telling her she had no business getting involved in a mess like that, she got a little huffy, sounded just like her mother, and said, “Well I guess it’s a good thing I didn’t give that detective your phone number when he asked for it.”
He had told her not to do that under any circumstances, that he didn’t have time to waste on whatever trouble his former students got into.
He wondered if that girl at the library had given the reporter his address, and decided he would just have to find out. Mayor Sheffield had been so concerned when he called her about it, but then when he had finally called her back, she hadn’t even come to the phone, but had her secretary relay the message that the mayor was in a meeting.
He could hear that prissy voice now.
“Mayor Sheffield said to tell you that Mrs. Tungate understands that you will be keeping the papers until you have completed your work with them, and she said to enjoy your visit to Atlanta.”
He should never have made that call, he thought. It was all nicely settled with the librarian, and then he had get panicky and complicate things, and how could he know the mayor would go to the library and the silly librarian would repeat what he said about being in Atlanta. It was just really the first thing that had come to his head, since it really was Scarlett’s birthday and that had been on his mind.
Of course, he hadn’t seen Mayor Sheffield that morning, but he couldn’t be sure she hadn’t seen him or seen his car. The old paneled station wagon always got noticed. He went out and pulled it into the garage, shut the garage doors. At around 10 p.m., he had a brainstorm and called his older daughter, Scarlett, in Atlanta to wish her a happy birthday. She thanked him but seemed to have guests. There was chatter and music in the background.
“I haven’t seen you in months,” he said, “I’d like to drive up and take you out to dinner tomorrow.”
“Thanks, Dad,” she said, “but, uh, well, Mom and Melanie are coming up and we were going to the mall and out to eat.”
“Well, of course, I wouldn’t want to interfere with family plans,” he said sarcastically, and she said, “Don’t start with me, Dad. I hear you already had a fit at Melanie this week, and I’m not in the mood for this.”
And she had hung up on him.
Over breakfast on Saturday morning, he found himself worrying about Mayor Sheffield again. She had always come to the telephone when he called. She was one person who truly valued his work.
He thought of dropping by city hall to see her and remembered that it was Saturday. Then he decided to call her. He would just confess that he told a fib to the librarian, because the last thing he wanted was somebody from the media going through his work.
His cell phone rang. He started to let it ring, but remembered that only a handful of people had his cell number. It could even be Mayor Sheffield.
Instead it was a woman asking “Is Billy there?”
“No,” he said angrily, “You have the wrong number!”
He looked at the time – nearly 10 a.m. – which meant the mail would come soon. Maybe, he thought, maybe there’d be an answer from one of the publishers. He thought that every day, but then he’d sent the proposal — the first chapter and the outline — to a dozen publishing houses. There had been two rejections – insulting because they weren’t even personal, just printed forms. Of course, he still had plenty of work to do on the book, but he wanted to know who was going to publish it.
Two blocks away, Sheriff Buddy Harley of Pine County conferred by radio with Tammy Hicks, the Chief of Police for Chaneyville.
“Okay,” he said, “Everybody move into position. He’s there, and Margie Barnes, the mail carrier, says he always comes out to get his mail just about as soon as she pulls up to his box, sometimes even before. He want to let her get around the corner and out of the way. I told her not to worry. Just leave it there or hand it to him and keep going.”
Sheriff Harley glanced over at Sgt. Taneesha Martin, who looked sharper in her uniform than anybody in his department. He grinned.
“I know you probably think we should go kick his door in,” he said, “But Sam Bailey says the old guy has got six or seven guns in there, and I don’t want to give h
im a chance of getting one in his hands.”
“I’ve never kicked a door in,” Taneesha said. “The safest way suits me anytime.”
Sheriff Harley rolled down the windows of the unmarked blue Ford and gave a thumbs up to the postal carrier. She scowled at him.
“We go to church together,” he told Taneesha. ”I’ll be hearing about this tomorrow morning.”
They both watched the front door of the yellow frame house as Margie pulled up to the mail box and hurriedly stuffed in a large manila envelope and some junk mail.
She was around the corner before the front door opened.
“Subject is coming out,” the sheriff said into the radio, “I’m going to cut off his entry to the house.”
J.S. Tolliver was a slim man with a thick mop of white hair. He was still in his bedroom slippers, but was wearing gray slacks and a white dress shirt left over from his teaching days, He had just reached into the mail box when a blue car careened across his driveway and screeched to a halt right in front of his front steps.
A tall, slim black woman in a uniform jumped out as three other cars arrived. A stout man got out from the driver’s side. Tolliver blinked and stared. It was somebody he knew from Chaneyville.
“Professor Tolliver,” the stout man said, “We have a warrant to search your home, and this lady is from the Magnolia County Sheriff’s Office. She has a few questions for you, so you’re going with her now. If you want to call a lawyer you can do it from my office.”
James Sheffield Tolliver’s world seemed to split into two parts. Two other cars had pulled up, boxing him in. More people in uniform were getting out of the cars.
He didn’t say anything but put his attention on opening the big envelope. Even though he knew it was his manuscript being returned, there was always the chance that there would be a letter of acceptance with it. He pulled it out the manuscript as they all watched, and a preprinted square of paper fluttered to the ground. He knelt to pick it up, still hoping.
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