by Fay Robinson
“No way in hell!”
“I figure you owe me that.”
“Owe you! Old man, I don’t owe you shit!”
Ray played his trump card. “Yes, you do, son. We both know you’re the one who sent me to prison.”
JACK TRIED NOT to show how badly the accusation had hit him, but it was impossible. The anger rushed from him like air from a balloon. He sat to keep from falling. “You tripped the silent alarm that night.”
“No, boy. I told your mama that, but the alarm didn’t go off. The owner didn’t set it on Thursdays when he left because he always came back after dinner to write payroll checks. No alarm, and yet those cops were on me the second I got inside. The only thing I can’t figure out is why you tipped them.”
Jack swallowed hard. “You knew…all these years?”
“Why do you think I confessed? If I’d taken my chances with a trial, your mama might have found out you were helping me steal. I didn’t think she needed that news on top of everything else.”
Jack looked at the man he both hated and loved, and fumbled for the words to explain. “I didn’t know what else to do but turn you in. You were killing her. I thought if you were out of the picture, we might stay put somewhere and she’d get better.”
But she hadn’t gotten better.
How young and naive he’d been. He’d believed that without Ray around to drag them down, they get a nice house, maybe even find Emma and bring her home.
But his part-time salary hadn’t gone far, and they’d gotten stuck in public housing, a rattrap worse than what they’d given up.
His mother had gotten sicker and sicker. Medicaid hadn’t covered all the bills.
“If it means anything, J.T., I don’t hold it against you.”
Jack sprang to his feet. “It means nothing,” he flung at him, and staggered through the door.
He’d barely made it outside to the edge of the porch before he lost his lunch.
LUCKY WENT DOWNSTAIRS when she felt better. Her sisters and Cal had gone home. Her grandmother was in the kitchen heating water. “Where’s Mom?” Lucky asked her.
“Oprah’s on.”
“Oh. Dad?”
“Reading the newspaper in the den. I’m making you some tea with honey. That always makes me feel better when I’m feeling low.”
“Thanks, Mema.” She got the teapot from the china cabinet, rinsed it out with hot water and sat down at the table to wait for the water to boil.
Her grandmother patted her hand. “Are you feeling better, Erin?” Mema was the only one who still called her by her given name. “I was afraid you’d cry yourself into a sick headache. You used to do that when you were little.”
“I still do now and then. I guess some things you never grow out of. I heard the phone ring a while ago. Was it…Jack?”
“Yes, it was. He called to check on you. Your father says he wants to come over later and sit down with them and talk. Jack’s afraid of what we think of him.”
“He should be…shouldn’t he?”
“Mm.”
“You don’t think he did wrong?”
“Yes, and I’m terribly disappointed in him, something I’ll tell him when he comes, but it’s not my place to judge, especially when I don’t know the whole story.”
“He has this past life I knew nothing about. Did Dad tell you how Jack grew up?”
“Yes, and I can’t imagine how difficult it was, caring for a sick mother, having his father in prison.”
“If only he’d told me…I would’ve understood.”
The kettle whistled. Her grandmother got up, poured the water into the teapot and brought it to the table to steep. “A tainted past is a terrible thing to drag with you all your life. Give him credit for rising above it.”
“I do.”
“Can you forgive?”
“His past, yes. His betrayal, I don’t know.”
“Decide carefully. When you get to be my age, you don’t want to look back with regret.”
LUCKY WAITED until five, then drove home, not wanting to leave Beanie outside too long in the cool evening air. The dog was getting old, and the arthritis in her hip joints bothered her this time of year.
Jack had promised he’d pack some clothes and check into a motel. True to his word, he wasn’t there, but he’d left the porch and outside lights on for her. He’d also left a note on the kitchen table. He hadn’t had time to get his files from his office, he said, but would collect them tomorrow while she was at work.
“I love you,” he’d written. “I need you and Booger. Please forgive me.” The message broke her heart.
Drained of energy, she took a bath. Later, her sisters and Cal called, as did her parents. Jack had stopped by to apologize, her mother said. “I felt sorry for him. He’s afraid he’s lost you and is just devastated.”
“He may have,” Lucky told her.
She ate a light dinner, more for the baby’s sake than her own, for her appetite had deserted her. At seven, the time Jack usually made it home, Beanie went to the door to wait.
“He’s not coming home tonight, girl. You’re stuck with me.” Lucky tried to coax her back to the rug. She’d walk over when spoken to, lick Lucky’s hand, then return to her post at the door. “You’re going to have a long wait.”
Lucky turned the dead bolt and left Beanie where she was. Ray Webster was probably why she’d felt nervous out here lately, but it wouldn’t hurt to remain careful.
Wandering into the baby’s room, she ran her fingers across the top rail of the crib. Inside, waiting, were a stuffed dog and a bear with a stitched smile. A mobile of unicorns dangled above.
“Look at what Daddy did for you, Grace.”
Everywhere the evidence of Jack lingered—cologne on the bathroom sink, a T-shirt shed after a workout, his running shoes by the front door.
Last night they’d looked through a book of plans, trying to agree on a style for the new house, and it still lay open on the coffee table. She’s wanted a log house; he’d wanted something modern with lots of glass. Typical that they couldn’t agree.
On his desk was a book about Indian ceremonial bowls. Sitting down, she flipped through the pages. She’d referred him to an expert at the university for the remainder of his questions, and he hadn’t bothered to tell her the result.
That was typical, too, the way he closed her out of that part of his life. Was he still working the artifact case? Was it tied to Miss Eileen’s disappearance? To Charlie Bagwell’s death?
Bending down, she looked under the desk. The box of files was still there. Should she? She’d promised Jack she wouldn’t. But did that promise still count after what he’d done?
She battled with her conscience for all of two seconds before she slid out the box and removed the lid.
Inside were clippings and photographs, as Jack had said. Some were about artifact theft. Some were about Miss Eileen’s disappearance and the search for her body. Most of this stuff Lucky had seen before.
But also included were the editorials her father had written to try to get Terrell Wade committed. These she’d been too young to read at the time.
“…and confine this individual.
“…known to be violent and uncontrollable.”
He’d certainly been convinced of Terrell’s guilt. But she wasn’t convinced. And the more she read, the more it reinforced a worry she’d carried all her life. Clearly the people of Potock—she and her father included—had committed a terrible injustice. They’d ganged up on poor Terrell because he was different. They’d made sure he was sent away.
“Lord, forgive us.”
She repacked the box and replaced it under the desk. Beanie was still at her spot by the front door, and Lucky tried once again to get her to move.
“He’s gone, Beanie. Daddy’s gone.” The dog looked at her with the saddest expression, as if she understood. Lucky stroked her hard and started to sniffle. “Oh, not again.”
Her purse was on the table by
the door, and she searched it for a tissue. In the zippered pocket, where’d she stuck it months ago, she found Terrell’s handkerchief. She started to use it to wipe her eyes, then stopped.
What was it her grandmother had said about a tainted past being a heavy thing to drag around? Well, she didn’t intend to drag hers around any longer.
Folding the handkerchief neatly, she put it back in the bag. No, she wouldn’t use it. She intended to return it.
AFTER JACK MADE HIS APOLOGIES to Lucky’s parents, he knew he had another stop before going to the motel for the night—the hardest one. He took a deep breath and knocked on the front door of Cal’s house. Cal opened it, the TV remote in one hand and a bowl of popcorn in the other.
He surveyed Jack’s rumpled suit and tired face and told him he looked like crap.
“I feel like it.”
“Figured I might hear from you tonight.”
“I came to say I’m sorry. I should’ve told you the truth.”
“You hurt me, man. You hurt all of us.”
“I know. Your family…” Regret filled him again, making it difficult to speak. “I care about all of you very much.”
“I can understand why you didn’t want anyone to know, but it doesn’t make the lying any easier to swallow.”
“If you can’t forgive me, can you at least accept my apology?” He extended his hand. “You’re the closest thing I’ll ever have to a brother, Cal. I don’t want you hating me.”
Cal sighed, stuck the remote on top of the popcorn and shook. “Ah, hell, come in,” he said, waving him through the door. “Football’s on. And you know how I hate to watch it alone.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE WEATHER REPORT predicted falling temperatures throughout the day and a hard freeze that night. Leona Harrison went out at lunchtime to throw an old sheet over her azalea bushes and cover her herbs with buckets.
“Mrs. Harrison?”
She turned to find a young woman in the yard. Soft brown curls peeked out from under a knitted hat. Her pregnant belly showed beneath her coat where the buttons wouldn’t close.
“Yes, I’m Mrs. Harrison.”
“My name is…Erin Cahill. I wondered if I might speak to you a moment about your nephew, Terrell Wade.”
“About Terrell? What about him?”
The woman dug in her purse and took out a piece of cloth. “A few months ago I hit my head. I was bleeding and Terrell was nice enough to give me his handkerchief. I wanted to give it back and thank him.”
Leona looked at the object the woman held and shook her head. “You must be mistaken. Terrell’s…ill. He doesn’t give young ladies handkerchiefs.”
She came closer. “Yes, ma’am, I know he’s autistic, but I ran into him one day this summer. I guess he’d walked away from Horizon House again.”
“He was out?”
“Yes, ma’am. Down by the river in a slough near where the old mill used to be. I was in my boat and he was…well, I’m not sure what he was doing. Playing in the water is the best description I can give.”
The center hadn’t told her about that instance. “He’s fascinated by water. Always has been. You say he helped you?”
“Yes, ma’am. That’s why I’d like to thank him.”
Leona still didn’t quite understand. Terrell lacked social awareness; he wasn’t capable of empathy. Offering a young lady a handkerchief was beyond his known scope of abilities.
“Who did you say you are?”
“Um, Erin Cahill. I was…Erin Mathison before I married.”
“Mathison.” The name made Leona flinch. “The newspaper Mathisons?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Erin Mathison. Which of the daughters was… Leona brought herself up ramrod straight. “You!” she muttered. “You have some nerve coming here after what you did to Terrell. What evil have you conceived now?”
“Mrs. Harrison, I promise you I’m here for exactly the reason I said. I was bleeding and Terrell offered me this—” she held up the cloth “—to wipe my head.”
“Leave my property.” She marched up the steps, but the Mathison woman followed.
“I know you dislike me but—”
Leona whirled. “That’s a mild word for how I feel about you, young lady. Do you have any concept of the grief you caused my sister? That you caused Terrell?”
“I’m beginning to.”
“Leave or I’ll call the police and have you arrested.”
Leona went inside and slammed the door.
“Please, Mrs. Harrison,” the woman shouted. “I believe Terrell is innocent and I’m determined to prove it. Won’t you put aside your feelings for me for his sake and listen to what I have to say?”
Leaning against the wall for support, Leona contemplated what she should do. Surely this was a trick. But if it wasn’t, she didn’t want to send away the first real source of hope she’d had in years.
She cracked the door open a few inches. “Are you or that editor sister of yours writing some article? Is that why you’re doing this?”
“No, this is strictly personal. No one even knows I’m here. And it has nothing to do with the newspaper.”
“We’ve all suffered enough pain, thanks to you and your father.”
“I understand. And I promise I’m not here to add to that pain.”
“Why did you say you believe he’s innocent?” Leona opened the door a bit wider so she could hear.
“That day at the river Terrell could have hurt me if he’d wanted to, but he didn’t. Instead, he was very gentle. He took this out and handed it to me so I could wipe the blood from my forehead. See—” she pulled back her hair “—I have a light scar from the cut. The incident got me thinking that maybe I’d been wrong about him. I was a child when Miss Eileen disappeared. Now that I’m an adult, I see things in a different way.”
“Terrell wouldn’t hurt a fly. No one ever understood that. He sits alone and paints. He doesn’t bother a soul.”
“I believe you. Please…can I come in and talk for a moment? Hear me out, and if you don’t like what I say, I promise I’ll leave and never approach you again.”
Leona let her stand in the cold while she thought about it. The wind had risen and it whipped up under the woman’s coat, making her hug herself for warmth. Her nose was turning red.
“Please, Mrs. Harrison. I want to make things right, if that’s possible.”
As much as she disliked the woman, she was carrying a child and the weather was nasty. “Don’t suppose I can let you freeze to death on the porch.” She allowed her to enter.
“Thank you.”
Leona showed her to the kitchen and told her where to sit. “My husband’s not here at the moment.”
“He always has a fine garden. I passed this way a few times last summer and saw him working in it.”
“Yes, he likes to grow things.” She sat, but stiffly. “You’d best say what you came here to say, then leave before he gets back. Terrell isn’t a name he much likes to hear spoken.”
The woman cleared her throat. “Yes, ma’am. I understand. Seems like we all need to put this behind us. That’s why I want to find the truth.”
“How do you expect to do that?”
“I’m not exactly sure. I know you believe Terrell was a witness to what happened to Miss Eileen that morning, rather than her killer, and I think so, too. If I can talk to him, I might learn something that will prove it. Only, the center won’t let me see him without your permission.”
“Terrell doesn’t talk. Seeing him would be a waste of time.”
“I know he doesn’t talk, but I felt an odd…connection with him that day on the river. He knew I was afraid and hurt, and he responded. In our own way, we communicated. Maybe I can make that connection again.”
“I don’t see how that’s possible. He rarely responds to anything outside himself anymore, especially not to people. Not since…that morning the Olenick woman died.”
“Then how do you expl
ain this?” She held up the handkerchief.
“I can’t.”
“Will you let me see him? Please? Even if nothing comes of it, he won’t be any worse off.”
Remembering the violent painting Terrell had done of Eileen Olenick a few months back, Leona wondered if that was true. It might not be wise to allow anyone close to him. The woman might do him more harm than good, provide additional evidence against him. Yet what could the authorities do to him that they hadn’t already done?
“I’ll have to think about this.”
“That’s fair. I’ll give you my card.” She took it from her purse and wrote something on it. “I’ve added my number at home, so call there if you need to. And please, think seriously about letting me see him.”
“I still believe it would be a waste of time.”
“Maybe, but we won’t know if we don’t try.”
WHEN LUCKY CAME DOWN the steps to her car, the ancient blue Plymouth that had followed her all morning was parked several houses away. She walked over to it and knocked on the window. The driver rolled it down.
“I have to run by the doctor’s, then I’m headed to Turner’s drugstore. How about if, instead of following me, you meet me there at noon? I’ll buy you a cup of coffee and a sandwich.”
“When did you spot me?” Ray Webster asked.
“The minute I left the office. So what do you say, Mr. Webster? Can I buy you lunch? It’ll give us a chance to talk. You’re obviously as curious about me as I am about you.”
“Sounds like a deal.” He cranked the car. “I’ll see you at noon.” He pointed his finger at her. “Don’t you get yourself in any scrapes between now and then, missy.”
His scolding amused her. “I’ll certainly try not to.”
Since lunch was the drugstore’s busiest time, Lucky went a little early and got the corner booth so they wouldn’t be overheard. She ordered sandwiches and pie, but held off on the coffee until Jack’s father arrived. He showed up at noon on the dot and slid into the seat across from her.
“I ordered chicken salad for you. I hope that’s okay. I think you’ll like it.” Mr. Webster said it was fine. She motioned for Byrd to pour their coffee. “Would you mind getting those from the counter? Once I sit down in one of these booths, I can’t hardly get myself up.”
