Tin God; Skeleton's Key; Ashes and Bone

by Stacy Green

  Understanding flashed across Jaymee’s face. “Oh my God. That might be blood on the end of that handle. Emery Lewis disappeared, and that handle was stuck there. The bones are his. Except, where are his clothes?”

  “I don’t know, but he was murdered. Maybe whoever did it took them to help keep the body from being identified. Either way, I think the cave is where that kid died.”

  Rubbing her temples, Jaymee leaned back in the chair. “Okay, so this is a big deal. But what does it have to do with Nick’s kidnapping?”

  “The cartridge box.” Dani flipped through the papers until she came to the clipping. Now, the boldface headline screamed at her. She should have seen this right away, but she’d pushed the research aside, worried about the storm and her friends. The damned answer had been sitting on her kitchen table for days.

  University of Chicago Student Finds Rare Confederate Artifact

  Emery Lewis, political science and history major, was hiking through the Adams County countryside with a metal detector, the latest technological advancement in archeological research, when he discovered a cartridge box with a bullet hole. Experts at the Adams County Historical Foundation confirm the cartridge box is authentic and believe the damage was made by a Minié ball, a typical type of ammunition of the Civil War. The piece is leather and well-preserved, having been found buried in the dirt of a rice field just off Hwy. 84. The field was the site of a Confederate camp and several skirmishes with Union soldiers looking to invade Roselea. The metal roller buckles are intact in the piece, and experts believe they set off the metal detector.

  Lewis, an avid Civil War buff, is thrilled with the find. Members of the Adams Country Historical Foundation stated they asked Lewis to donate the piece to their archive, but he refused. Lewis has already caused unrest by his comments regarding the supposed inequality of whites and Negroes, and city officials believe it would be in his best interest to donate the cartridge box as a show of good faith to the town.

  “This is a beautiful representation of the segregationist attitude of the southern people. A piece of history like this belongs to all of us, and just because I’m not from around here doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate its value,” Lewis said. “Not unlike the hardworking blacks of this area who aren’t provided the same basic civil liberties because of the color of their skin. We are the same.”

  Jaymee snorted. “So he’s basically saying the locals didn’t deserve to have the cartridge box because they couldn’t appreciate it.”

  “That’s how most people took it. He disappeared a couple of weeks after he gave that interview.” She should have put on her white gloves but too late now. The papers weren’t that old, anyway. She fished through them until she found the small article on his disappearance. “The paper spends more time lamenting the loss of the box than the kid’s life. It disappeared with him.”

  “You’re sure it’s the same box?”

  “Absolutely. Even in this crappy picture, you can tell the bullet hole’s in the same place. Not to mention the metal buckles. They’re unmistakable. Which brings us to this point: how did the cartridge case turn up when Lewis never did? He seemed pretty attached.”

  “Did the box have any red dirt on it, like what we saw in the cave?”

  “No. I don’t think the box was ever there,” Dani said. “I think his killer kept it and somehow, it ended up back on the market. Question is, how?”

  “Maybe he sent it back to a family member for safekeeping,” Jaymee said. “He knew people were pissed and was worried they’d take it. Family member sells it later.”

  “Maybe. Either way, Nick must have realized what the case meant as soon as he saw the picture.”

  Jaymee’s eyes welled with tears. “Of course he did. Civil rights cases are one of his passions. He’s studied all of them, and he always talks about those cases being Pulitzer material. About how there were still people missing from those days, and how uncovering one of them would change a reporter’s life.”

  “That’s what happened, Jaymee.” Dani started pacing the kitchen, following the pattern of the linoleum she still needed to replace. “I don’t know if Nick was ever in the cave, but he figured out the Emery Lewis connection when he saw the picture of the cartridge case.” Dani stuck the papers in her bag. “We should call Cage, tell him what we found. But in the meantime, my Internet’s still down thanks to the storm. Hopefully it’s up in town. Let’s head to the library, see what we can find. We’ll go through the microfilms if we have to. Lewis’s disappearance wasn’t as big as Medgar Evers’ murder or the Mississippi Burning killings, but it had to have made the Jackson news, and certainly his hometown.”

  “That’s the trail Nick would have followed,” Jaymee said. “Let’s go.”

  31

  Thankfully, Roselea’s library was in the older section of town and unaffected by the fire in the subdivision. And the Internet worked. Dani and Jaymee settled in front of one of the computers, shoulder-to-shoulder. Jaymee’s feet constantly moved, every tap of her toes on the threadbare carpet infecting Dani and making her fingers fly over the keyboard.

  “Civil rights history is depressing,” Jaymee said. “And embarrassing. Just fifty years ago, we were barely removed from slavery. It was nothing to have ties to the Klan.”

  “My great-grandfather was an active member.” Dani said, grinning as Jaymee’s eyes widened in surprise. “On my mother’s side. He grew up in Greenwood, Indiana. Used to be a farming community and is now more of the south side of Indianapolis. I never knew him, but my mother remembered him and her grandmother talking about seeing a man hanged in the woods. She didn’t realize what it all meant until years later.”

  “Damn. In Yankee land?”

  “Indiana is sort of middle ground. And Indianapolis was the headquarters of the KKK in the 70s. Bet you didn’t know that.”

  “Well, I guess you are a true Southerner at heart,” Jaymee said dryly.

  “That’s not a part of your history I’d like to be associated with, thanks.” Dani scanned link after link. “Here. The Jackson Clarion-Ledger.”

  She glanced at Jaymee, but her friend stared stoically ahead. “It has an article about Emery Lewis’s death. He was staying at a boarding house that apparently isn’t here anymore and went for a late evening walk. Took them regularly. Never returned. Police found his wallet in a dumpster on the other side of town, but no fingerprints were lifted. Since he’d pissed off the town, I doubt the locals strongly investigated his disappearance.” She squinted at the screen. It was only a matter of time before she’d have to succumb to reading glasses.

  “Let’s see, he’d come down here with four other college kids, all civil rights workers. They all received threats and various taunts, but no actual attacks. Lewis left all of his things in his room—except the cartridge case. He was afraid someone would take it. It never turned up either.”

  “So whoever killed him did take the case. Maybe even killed him for it, although the idea is off the wall.”

  Dani looked at Jaymee, stillness settling between them. Jaymee’s eyes widened, the creases between her eyes deepening. Dani’s breath was tight.

  “You think,” she kept her voice low, “that Nick figured out who killed him? And that person lashed out?”

  “I…I don’t know. I’d like to think Lewis wasn’t killed over the cartridge box, but those were angry, angry times. Someone might have been looking for an excuse. So they keep the cartridge box. Somehow, years later, it ends up in Ben Moore’s possession. But it’s real, so why did Ben even send the picture to Nick anyway?”

  “He might have assumed it was fake,” Dani said. “Ben wasn’t an antiques expert, and no one’s seen the original email yet. I want to know how Nick tracked the killer down. And how does the killer know Nick’s on his trail? Did Nick approach him? Would he do that?”

  Jaymee snorted. “If he thought it meant a break in the story, absolutely.”

  “Then we’re on the right track. I can feel it.”
Dani turned back to the computer and pulled up an article from an Ohio newspaper. “This one’s a lot more in-depth. There’s a lot of outrage. Lewis had called home and told his family he’d been receiving threats for stealing history and for fraternizing with blacks. He’d been visiting their homes, trying to get them to register to vote. Handing out campaign stickers. A group of young men cornered him the first weekend he was down here and told him to go home. He didn’t give his family any names. Father claims police blew them off. The state and national authorities were busy with bigger cases, riots. And so Lewis just slipped away.”

  The Ohio articles kept coming although very little information changed. No witnesses, no suspects. Family insisting the Roselea authorities were uncooperative. Eventually, the frequency of the articles diminished until they disappeared altogether. Just like Lewis.

  “What’s that?” Jaymee pointed to a link from the Roselea Ledger. “1974. Roselea Ten Years after the Emery Lewis Disappearance.”

  Dani clicked on the link and scanned the article. “Just a lot of reflection by the reporter on the impact of his vanishing. Lewis’s attitude about the cartridge box was like throwing a match in a puddle of gas. People remember the kid as pushy, refused to interact with him, but a lot of them felt bad when he was presumed dead. And worse ten years later. They’re still racists, but it’s easier to lament a white kid’s life. And the attitude seems to be he was killed for the box and not over civil rights.”

  “Oh bullshit,” Jaymee said. “Whoever did it was looking for a reason.”

  “This is an opinion piece,” Dani said. “By Matt Hastings.

  ‘In only ten years, the beliefs of the area have changed and yet stayed the same. The summer of 1964 seems a distant memory for most, but for those who stood in stark opposition to the black vote, the success of the movement still stings. And the disappearance of Emery Lewis shines like a beacon in our history. An example of hate’s ability to thread itself into the veins of even the simplest men. Emery Lewis was a stranger to us, a foreign object dropped from the sky to parade our vulgarities to his Northern friends without any thought to how our beliefs and ways are the product of generation after generation. Change is never easy, nor is acceptance of wrongs. I wish I could have discussed this with Emery Lewis one more time before he disappeared.’”

  Jaymee grabbed Dani’s phone. “Hastings had to know Lewis. And if Roselea in the 60s was anything like it is now, he had an opinion of who killed him.” She blew out a hard breath. “He’s in the phone book.”

  “You think we should go see him? Why don’t we call Cage?”

  “First, I know Nick. He’d have found this out just like us. Solving a murder is the kind of thing he lives for. It’s juicy and raw and not about something as predictable as money. It’s human interest. He jumped on this. Secondly, Cage is really busy right now. This might lead us nowhere. Better for us to check it out first.”

  “I suppose it can’t hurt.” Dani quickly printed off the articles. “But the man’s got to be in his seventies. He might not like us just rolling up on him.”

  “Too bad.”

  Outside, a gray afternoon dropped across the landscape. Dani shivered and zipped up her vest. She trailed behind a reenergized Jaymee. Dani wasn’t sure talking to Matt Hastings was worth their time. The man could be in poor health, have dementia. With their luck, the listing was old, and he’d already passed away. Still, looking him up was better than Jaymee just sitting around stewing in her own worries.

  They headed west out of town, passing the grocery store. Jeb Riley knelt in the parking lot, picking up scattered cans of food. “He stopped to check on us,” Dani said. “Least we could do is help him.”

  She reached him before Jaymee. Jeb started and then smiled. “Well, Miss Dani, thank you very much. Damn bags busted.”

  “No problem.” She handed him a can of unsalted peas. “How’s Grace?”

  “Numb, I think.” He stood up, items in hand, gratefully taking the loaf of bread Jaymee offered. “The maid, Charlotte, doesn’t want to leave her, so I said I’d pick up some groceries.”

  “That’s nice of you,” Jaymee said. “Please tell her I’m very sorry about Ben.”

  Shadows crossed Jeb’s aging face. “I will. And your Nick? Any word?”

  “Not really. We’re heading out to talk to someone who might have information, but it’s a long shot.”

  “Sometimes those work out.” Jeb sighed. “I don’t know what’s happening ’round this town these days. Everyone’s going to shit.”

  They followed him back to his car, Jeb thanking them as he tossed the stuff into the backseat. “I best get on to Grace’s. I know you girls are all alone at Ironwood. You need anything, head over to Oak Lynn or give me a call. Looks like the bad guys are in jail right now, but a man like Booth will make bail.”

  “We will,” Dani promised. They headed back to their car, waving at Jeb as they hit the road. “You know where this Matt Hastings lives?”

  “Phone book said his address was on County Line Road. That’s pretty wild country out there. Not far from the swamps. Moonshine land.”

  “Awesome.”

  32

  Matt Hastings lived in a fifties-era ramshackle ranch house with an overgrown front yard. Tucked away at the end of a dirt road, the house was off the main road, and the scenery sent chills across Dani’s already jittery nerves. A sign on the front door warned visitors oxygen was in use. Excellent. We’re about to badger an old man in poor health.

  “Do you have any idea what you’re going to say?”

  “Nope.”

  “Sounds about right.”

  A yellowed path cut through the scraggly yard. Sadly poetic that a man capable of writing such eloquent words lived in a place like this. He’d written for the paper until he retired ten years ago, but Dani supposed that didn’t pay much. A beat-up Toyota Camry sat beneath a sagging carport. Small pawprints in the layer of dust on the car’s bumper and the bird’s nest on the driver’s side mirror told her Matt didn’t get out much.

  “I hope he doesn’t stick a shotgun in our faces.” Dani forced herself to follow Jaymee up the cracked concrete steps. “I keep picturing an old man with skinny legs in boxers that are too big and a stained, white undershirt. Stiff white chest hairs trying to crawl out of his skin. More hair than he has teeth.”

  “Oh my God, shut up.” Jaymee knocked on the door, fake smile in place. Her tense stance made it clear she was ready to run.

  The man who answered the door was nothing like what Dani’s imagination had conjured up. Tall and skeletal, his plain clothes hung off him. Eyes sunken in his head, his chest so thin his collarbone jutted out. He regarded them with a curious smile. An oxygen tube clung to his nose. His breath sounded strained.

  “Help you?” Weak voice, but still dignified.

  “I hope so,” Jaymee said. “Are you Matt Hastings?”

  “I am. And you two are?”

  Jaymee quickly introduced them, words coming fast. “I’m Nick Samuels’s girlfriend. And he’s gone missing.”

  Dani’s breath hitched. She hadn’t expected Jaymee to jump right in. Matt’s thin face pinched, and he swayed. “The reporter?”

  “Yes. Did he come to see you about Emery Lewis?” Jaymee held up the copies they’d brought from the library.

  “He did. Two weeks ago.”

  Jaymee stilled, and Dani bit her lip. Nick hadn’t told them he was here two weeks ago.

  “You say he’s missing?” Matt leaned against the door, breathing heavy.

  “Are you all right?” Dani asked.

  “As much as I can be,” he said. “Lung cancer. Eating away at me. Come on inside, and I’ll tell you the same story I told Samuels.”

  Matt Hastings clearly lived alone. The interior of his house was in worse condition than the outside, but it was relatively clean. Sparse furniture, few personal items. The smell of permanent illness coated the air.

  “First off,” Matt said, easing into a
threadbare recliner and motioning for them to take a seat on an equally sad-looking couch, “you ladies have to understand what it was like back in those days. Different time. My parent’s generation—and mine too—was brought up to believe blacks and whites didn’t have the same rights. To even consider that they did just wasn’t morally right. Slavery wasn’t either, but to a lot of people back then, neither was equality.”

  “How did you feel about it?” Dani asked.

  Matt coughed. “I thought it needed to end. Blacks I knew worked hard for a lot less money, and they were good people. As I got older, and especially after I went to college—a little piss-ass community college, but still—I realized they deserved a chance. And that whether or not white folks liked it, change was coming. Figured might as well accept it instead of fight. Life’s easier that way.”

  “What about Emery Lewis?” Jaymee’s question was business-like. Dani knew she was reaching the end of her emotional rope. If they didn’t get a real break soon, Jaymee was going to lose it.

  “He was a bleeding heart lib, as they say nowadays. Which was all right. Maybe that’s what folks needed. But he wasn’t very tolerant. Always found that ironic.” Matt’s wry smile made his face appear even gaunter.

  “He expected to come down here and educate us on desegregation, and that would be that. Bit of a fool, actually. He’d been involved in enough of the movement to know things wouldn’t happen so easily.”

  “The article you ran ten years after he disappeared said he made a lot of enemies,” Dani said. “Because of his beliefs?”

  “Because of his attitude. Like a bulldozer, that kid was. No sitting around talking to the white folks. No finessing, listening to their side. Even if it was the wrong side, they wanted to be heard. And Lewis wasn’t interested.”

  “And then he found the cartridge box.”