Out of the Darkness

by Robert D. McKee

  He hadn’t decided yet where he was going. First he thought about heading up into the mountains and waiting until all this blew over. But it was winter, and living in the mountains would be chilly. Hank Jones liked to avoid chilly living as much as possible. Besides, he wasn’t sure things would ever blow over. There was a judge in it now and that new lawyer in town. Even if Sonny could convince the sheriff to forget about what Polly had said, Hank doubted the lawyer or judge would soon forget.

  He had filled Lester’s bags with the food and was now in his own room shoving clothes and shaving gear down into the other set of bags.

  As he packed, Hank pondered where he should go. Making decisions had always been an inconvenience for Hank. For every reason he could think of to do something, he could always think of at least two good reasons not to do it. He was in the midst of debating the good and bad about heading east into Nebraska when he heard the clop of a horse’s hooves. He felt his balls tighten at the sound. Hank wouldn’t have thought any law would be out to his place this soon. With a shaky hand, he drew his revolver and rushed to the window.

  The early morning was still cool. The rider was far enough away that Hank couldn’t make out the face, but he recognized the thick buffalo-hide coat the man wore. It was only Sonny Pratt. Hank hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath until, in his relief that it was Sonny, he felt the air rush out of him.

  He holstered his gun and returned to packing his things. After a bit there were footsteps on the porch. “Hey, Hank,” Sonny called. “You in there?” The front door opened, and Hank heard Sonny come in.

  “Back here, Sonny.”

  There was the jingle of spurs as Sonny moved through the house and came into the small bedroom. “What you doing?” he asked.

  Hank had the things he was packing spread out over the bed. Lester’s bags were at the foot of the bed on the floor. Sonny went over to them and looked down. The buckle was broken on one of the flaps, and Sonny lifted the flap with the toe of his boot. “So, Hank,” he asked, “you going on a vacation or something?”

  “I’m getting my ass outta here. That’s what I’m doin’.”

  “You’re leaving? How come?” Sonny crossed the room and leaned against the wall opposite Hank.

  Hank lifted a pair of socks and brought them to eye level. There was a hole in one the size of a half-dollar. He checked the other one. There was no hole in it, so he shoved the pair into the bag. “How come?” Hank said. “Christ, Sonny, what d’ya think? You heard them boys talking in Buck’s last night the same as me.” He stopped his packing long enough to meet his friend’s eyes. “They’s coming after us, Sonny, for what we done to that damned sister of yours. Maybe for what you done to Lester too.”

  Lester had been a dumb one. And the truth was that Lester would rather go whoring than eat. Hank had always found that an aggravating flaw in his brother’s character. But Hank had to admit he sometimes missed the kid. Not that Lester didn’t have coming what Sonny gave him. He did. Lester knew better than to be talking to that lawyer fella the way he was. But still and all, from time to time Hank did miss the dumb bastard.

  “They is coming after us this time,” Hank said again, “and the thing to do is get.”

  Sonny shook his head. “Naw,” he said, “you’re being hasty, partner.” He said it pod-ner, the way the old cowboys used to say it when he and Sonny were kids. “They don’t have anything on us.” Sonny’s voice was soft the way it always was. Hank had never heard Sonny raise his voice to a soul. Hank knew the madder and more dangerous Sonny got, the softer his voice became. When he was his angriest, Sonny barely spoke above a whisper. Hank, on the other hand, was a screamer. When he got mad or upset, he would yell. That was the way average folks were, as far as Hank knew. But not Sonny Pratt. Sonny was the soft-spoken sort. “It’s Polly’s word against ours,” Sonny said. “And as far as Lester’s concerned, why, hell, they can’t prove a thing.”

  “Remember, Sonny, it ain’t the county attorney or Sheriff Collins who’s in charge this time,” Hank said. “That lawyer’s in charge, and I hear he’s a smart one.” He resumed his packing. “I ain’t sticking around to see if he can prove things or not. I’m gettin’ the hell out.”

  “If you run,” Sonny said, “that’s as good as confessing.”

  “Not if they don’t catch me, it ain’t.”

  “Where are you planning to go?”

  “I ain’t decided. Nebraska. Maybe Colorado. Anywhere far away from here’d do.”

  Sonny took off his hat, shoved his hair back, then put the hat back on. “Well, Hank,” he said, “I think you’re making a mistake. You might as well be writing those folks a letter saying we’re the ones who did the crimes.”

  Hank had finished with one bag and now began filling the bag on the other side. “Sonny,” he said, “I’ve been doin’ things your way ever since we was boys. I gotta admit, you are a faster thinker than me, and mostly your ways’ve been best. We’ve raised us some hell and had us some fun at every turn. But I got a feelin’ that this time we’re in deep. Let me finish up here, and then let’s ride over to your place, get some of your things, and both of us light out. What d’ya say?”

  Sonny gave a smile. “Now, you know I could never do that. Why, this is my home, the same as it is yours. I wouldn’t be happy anywhere else, and you know deep in your heart you wouldn’t be happy anywhere else neither.”

  “Well, I know I wouldn’t be happy down in the state penitentiary,” Hank pointed out. “That’s for damned sure.”

  Sonny shook his head. “You are truly a worrier, aren’t you? You always have been. No one’s going to the penitentiary. I can handle this lawyer.”

  “That may be, but this time you’ll be handlin’ him without me. I am changin’ my location as fast as that nag of mine’ll get me somewheres else.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t do that, Hank. As your friend, I’m telling you it’s not a wise thing. It’ll make us both look bad if you run.”

  “Then you best come along. That’s all I can say.” Hank tucked his extra pair of long johns into the bag, buckled everything up, and bent to pick up the bags on the floor. He looked the man who’d been his boyhood friend right in the eye. “I’m right about this, Sonny.” He tapped himself on the chest. “This time, I am right. We’re in for a fall if we hang around here.” He threw both sets of bags over his shoulders. “The only thing for us to do is leave.”

  Sonny made no comment, so Hank turned for the door. As he started to leave the room, though, he did hear his friend say something, but Sonny was behind him now, and he said it so softly, Hank couldn’t make out what it was.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Micah’s stomach did a quick flop as he cut into his fried eggs. He was eating a late breakfast this morning. Last night’s victory celebration at Chester’s—the one Micah had been certain they would never enjoy—had continued until . . . well, Micah wasn’t certain how late it lasted. All he knew for sure was it had gone on until the numerals on the grandfather’s clock in Chester’s parlor had begun to blur.

  Today was to be the last day of the trial, but since the judge brought that to an abrupt end, Micah had the day free. He had taken advantage of that fact by sleeping a couple of hours later than usual and coming to Lottie’s for breakfast. As he left, he tacked a note on his office door saying where he was in case a client should wander by. He doubted that would happen since clients had been pretty scarce, but he left the note anyway.

  Having a big breakfast was unusual for Micah. He seldom ate breakfast. His regular morning fare consisted of no more than two or three pots of coffee, swilled nonstop in his office from first light till noon. This morning, though, despite a headache, Micah felt good, and he decided to begin this fine day with a healthy breakfast of fried eggs and a rasher of bacon.

  “Sit down, Fay,” he whispered when she brought his food. “Let’s eat breakfast together just this once. Who cares what people think?” This was not the sort of thin
g Micah ever joked about. Neither he nor Fay thought of it as a joking matter. But he felt frisky today. He knew she’d never do it. He expected he’d faint dead-away if she did. It was clear the town knew he and the Charbunneaus were friends. After all, he had stayed at Lottie’s home before and during the trial. But it was all right to be friends with the colored as long as it went no further than that.

  Fay shot him one of her looks. “Don’t start with me, Micah,” she said under her breath. She did, though, give him a smile, and with a furtive move, she traced her index finger along his wrist as she set his plate on the table.

  Micah’s victory in court had made him the hot topic of Probity conversation. He knew he’d always been well liked in the community—or at least his father had—but since Judge Walker made his ruling, people had looked at Micah in a different way. Before it didn’t matter that he was now an attorney, everyone still thought of him as the rowdy youth he once had been. But since yesterday he sensed they viewed him with a kind of respect. It was what he wanted, but now that he was getting it, it made him uneasy. What might they expect of him next?

  Micah wasn’t kidding himself. He knew his victory in the courtroom the day before was in large part due to luck—the luck of trying the case before a judge who was as sensitive to the rules of justice as he was to the rules of law. Micah had pointed that out to Thomas Blythe and Earl Anderson after the trial yesterday afternoon, but Blythe had only smiled without comment, and Anderson didn’t smile at all.

  Micah watched the yellow of the eggs ooze out across the white plate, shuddered, and gave the plate a shove. Perhaps his stomach wasn’t ready for this after all. He picked up his coffee and sat back in the chair. As he did, he saw Emmett Pratt enter the café. Pratt spoke to all the patrons he knew, which was everyone, and made his way toward Micah’s table.

  “Mr. McConners,” Pratt said, “I’m Emmett Pratt.” Micah stood and they shook hands. “Would you mind if I join you?”

  “No, sir, not at all.” They sat down, and Micah started to motion to Fay to bring Pratt some coffee, but she was already on her way with the pot and another cup. Pratt accepted the coffee and told her he would not be ordering breakfast.

  “Congratulations on your victory, young man,” he said. “I was pleased with your success. I hear you were brilliant.”

  “Brilliant?” said Micah, embarrassed. “I think that’s overstating it. Dr. Hedstrom didn’t deserve what he was facing. I think the judge agreed.”

  Pratt spooned sugar into his coffee. “Well,” he said, “I sure agree.”

  There was an awkward silence. Finally, Micah asked, “Was there something I could do for you, Mr. Pratt?”

  “No, son,” the man said, “not really. I was hoping I could do something for you.” He dropped the spoon to the tablecloth and a brown stain began to spread. “Word is you’ll be making an investigation on my boy.”

  “Yes, Judge Walker asked me to look into the allegations Polly made in the courtroom yesterday, and some others too.”

  Pratt stared down at the spot growing on the tablecloth and said in a low voice, “I fear it’s true what she and her mother are saying.”

  Micah sat up straighter. “Do you know something about it?” he asked.

  Pratt shook his head. “No, not for sure. Fact is, I still can’t believe it. I do know, though, it was Sonny who fired that shot into the house you were staying at a couple of nights ago.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I was in the barn when he and Hank Jones rode in that morning. I heard them talking and laughing about it. They didn’t know I was there, and I didn’t let ’em know. But I listened.”

  Micah sat back in his chair. This was interesting. It didn’t rise to the level of being proof of Polly’s rape or Lester’s murder, but it was evidence of guilt. Why else would Sonny fire the shot into the house except to frighten the witness who was about to testify against him? Plus, as the judge had mentioned by firing into a house like that, Sonny Pratt could at least be charged with six counts of aggravated assault—a count for every person inside. And perhaps six counts of attempted murder.

  “I came into town that morning. I planned on telling Blythe or even Anderson what Sonny had done, but I found out no one had been hurt, so I—” He stopped without finishing.

  “Would you be willing to testify in front of a jury about this, Mr. Pratt?” Micah asked.

  There was a pause. This one was long enough Micah was convinced the man wasn’t going to answer the question at all. “Yes, sir,” Pratt finally said, “I would.” He looked across the table and found Micah’s eyes. “I’ll do better than that,” he added. “There’ll be trouble if you and the sheriff come out to our place to arrest him. I’ll bring the boy in myself.”

  “Are you sure that’s wise?” Pratt seemed to have recognized at least some of the truth about his son, but Micah wondered if the man understood how dangerous Sonny was.

  “I reckon I’ve been ignoring my duty long enough. It’s time I did something about it.”

  Micah thought for a moment. Having a father who was willing to testify to his son’s committing a crime changed things. They had enough with that alone to make an arrest on the aggravated assault charges. “I worry about you doing that, Mr. Pratt. That’s the sheriff’s job.”

  “That sheriff’s a sniveling coward, and you know it. I expect the fact he’s left Sonny alone to do his bad deeds all this time is partly because he’s my boy. The other part is because Brad Collins didn’t have the guts to arrest him.”

  Micah couldn’t disagree. “Do you think you can do this, Mr. Pratt?” he asked.

  A dampness brimmed the older man’s eyes. “I believe there’s a redeemable spot left somewhere in the boy. I’ll persuade him to come in.”

  Micah was reluctant but said, “All right. You go on out to your place. The sheriff and I will go out to get Hank. You bring Sonny over to the Jones place. We’ll meet you there at—” He checked his watch. “—noon. Then the three of us’ll bring them both back to town.”

  Pratt nodded.

  “Are you sure you’re all right with this?” Micah asked. Emmett Pratt might believe there was still something redeemable in Sonny, but Micah wasn’t convinced.

  “Don’t worry, son,” he said, “I’ll bring my boy to you. Everything’s going to be fine. You’ll see.” The man forced a smile, but Micah could see a sadness chiseled into the lines of Emmett Pratt’s face. It was a sadness cut deep enough that Micah expected it would never disappear.

  “You want what?” Chester asked.

  “To borrow a gun.”

  “Good, Christ, Micah, I can’t imagine anything scarier than you with a loaded gun.”

  “I also need to borrow a horse.”

  “All right, so there is something scarier: you with a loaded gun sitting astride a horse.”

  “I’m serious, Chester.”

  They were standing in Chester’s parlor. The place was still a mess from the party the night before, and snoring came from beneath a quilt spread across the sofa. Micah lifted the quilt’s corner and saw Jackson Clark sound asleep.

  “Jackson decided to stay for one more after you left,” Chester said.

  It was obvious Micah’s pounding on the front door had awakened Chester, if not Jackson. Chester wore a dressing gown, and his hair spiked in a dozen different directions.

  “I need to borrow a pistol and a horse,” Micah repeated.

  Chester rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, yawned, and asked, “Why?”

  Micah hadn’t spoken much about Judge Walker’s naming him to oversee the investigation. He hadn’t wanted his friends to worry. Now he was to meet Brad Collins in less than half an hour for the ride out to the Jones place. He knew he needed a horse, and he was afraid he might—God forbid—need a gun. He had no choice but to tell Chester everything that was happening.

  “You’re out of your mind,” Chester said once Micah explained the assignment the judge had given him.
“You’re no policeman.”

  “All I’m doing, Chester, is riding along with Collins to ensure he does a thorough investigation. Walker doesn’t want to allow too much independence on the part of local law enforcement in this matter.”

  “Well, that makes sense. What doesn’t make sense is dumping it on you. Really, Micah, you have nothing to gain by getting mixed up in this thing. Hell, you could even get yourself killed. Sonny Pratt and Hank Jones are no one to fool with.”

  “It’s too late for that. I’m already in it. Besides, I do have something to gain. I want to see Sonny and Hank brought to justice. I’d like nothing better.”

  Chester lifted a half-smoked cigar from an ashtray that brimmed with cigarette butts and even smaller cigar stubs than the one he’d plucked from the mess. “Well, all right, but it’s crazy,” he said, striking a match and holding it to the end of the cigar. “Wait here. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” Chester blew a stream of foul-smelling smoke into the air and started for the stairway. He stopped halfway there and turned to Micah. “And for God’s sake, Micah,” he said, “be quiet. I don’t want Jackson to wake up. He’d probably insist we have another round of drinks.”

  Chester climbed the steps and disappeared into his upstairs bedroom.

  While he waited, Micah wandered from the parlor into the library. Electric lamps were positioned around the room, but the generator wasn’t running so there was no electricity. Micah opened the bank of draperies at the front of the room. The morning light streamed in low, stretching shadows across the flowered carpeting.

  The library was its usual chaos. Micah walked to the large table that held Chester’s various projects and was as amazed as always. “Projects” was the word Chester used. “Dismantlings” was what Micah called it. Or disasters. Chester spent a huge amount of money buying all the latest gadgets, but he seldom used them for their intended purpose. Instead, he’d take them apart to see how they worked.

  Since his conversation with Lottie a couple of nights before, Micah had spent a lot of time thinking about the nature of the passionate life and the practical life. It was true he was sometimes an impetuous person who reacted before thinking a thing through. And it was also true that Fay was the practical one. But, he allowed, there was also a vein of the practical in him as well, and about certain things Fay could be as passionate as anyone.