by Amy Brashear
The house is empty. It’s only 8:15 p.m. Mom and Dad are spending the evening with Mr. and Mrs. Hope, and Asher has reluctantly agreed to be with his teammates, to honor Kenyon and to celebrate making the team. So it’s me, alone, for the next couple of hours at least.
An idea goes from a thought to a plan: zero to sixty in a matter of seconds, as fast as Karen Westwood would gun her accelerator.
But first I call the Hope residence. When Dad is handed the phone, I tell him that I’m home early, safe and sound. Mom asks if I had a good time. She sounds concerned. I lie and tell her that I did. They’ll be home late.
I debate changing out of my ruined dress and into some comfortable pants and a sweater, then decide against it. It would waste too much time.
Pulling my hair into a bun in the bathroom, I smile at my reflection in the mirror. Lying on Nancy’s behalf seems like the right thing to do. It’s what she would have done.
The hall closet is where we keep our double-barreled shotgun and the box of ammo.
Grabbing the shotgun and six rounds, I head for the garage, plucking the keys off the peg. The Porsche awaits: a shiny, silver, two-seated standard. There’s one place I can go to get my answers.
Swinging the gun around, careful not to scratch the car, I lean it against the passenger seat. Then I toss the ammo onto the passenger seat and stick the key in the ignition. The engine revs. A shiver runs down my spine as I put the car into reverse and shift into drive. Out on the dark prairie road, the wind blows my hair right out of its bun. It flops into a mess. Little Bastard is what James Dean called his car. I understand that now. Turning onto the Arkansas River Bridge, I slam on the brakes, coming to a complete stop. My head almost meets the steering wheel. The shotgun falls and hits my thigh.
Taking a moment to breathe in the cold night air, I press on the gas and it sends the Porsche down the abandoned River Valley Farm lane. My throat feels tight. I suddenly realize I’m crying, and I’m not sure why.
Mr. Stoecklein heard Bobby’s truck when he left Saturday night and Landry’s the other day, but why didn’t he hear the killers? What about the screams? Let alone the gunshots? The gunshots were a hundred yards away. Am I missing something?
Parking off to the side, I grab the weapon and the shells and get out of the car. Aiming the double-barreled shotgun toward the sky, I remember what Seth taught me: “Look, it’s pretty self-explanatory. Point. Shoot. That’s all you really need to know.”
I squeeze the trigger not once but twice. BOOM. BOOM. A porch light flicks on at Mr. Stoecklein’s house. Loading two more rounds, I aim the gun at the sky. BOOM. BOOM. Leaning over the car, I grab the remaining rounds and load them.
“Who’s there?” Mr. Stoecklein shouts, bursting out the front door.
When he see me, he freezes and points his sawed-off shotgun at me.
I don’t lower my weapon like you see on TV shows; I aim my gun at him. I’m squinting in the glare of the porchlight. Wearing my punch-stained Chanel and heels and holding a double-barreled shotgun, I look like Calamity Jane—with the added bonus of tears rolling down my cheeks. I don’t brush them off.
“Carly Fleming!” I shout.
“Lower your gun, little girl,” he says, his voice loud and even.
“No.” I straighten, collecting myself. “Lower yours.”
My entire body trembles, not with fear, but with adrenaline.
He walks closer. His face is a mask of darkness; he’s silhouetted by the light behind him.
“You’re threatening me, my family,” he says. His voice is softer now.
“Consider it a warning,” I say.
“You . . . you do know that by trespassing on this property and shoving a gun in someone’s face, you’re breaking the law.”
I sniff. “I don’t care about laws.”
He cocks his gun while I aim mine at his unreadable face.
“Why didn’t you do anything that night?” I ask him.
He stops and lowers his weapon. Blinking, I can see now that his expression is one of tired disbelief. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“You heard—you had to. Why didn’t you stop them? Why didn’t you save Nancy?”
“I didn’t hear anything,” he says. His voice sounds sad, rueful. He takes a deep breath.
“But you heard Bobby leave. If you heard Bobby leave, then why didn’t you hear the killers as they drove up—or away?” I ask him.
His gun at his side, he approaches cautiously. My shaky finger dances over the trigger.
“Carly, listen,” he pleads. “Put that gun down. You’re scaring me.”
Loosening my grip on the gun, I lean back on the car and try to breathe. “Why didn’t you hear? Why didn’t you hear?”
He takes the gun from my hands just as I hear the wail of a siren. Lights flash through the trees. A patrol car turns onto the property. “It’s going to be okay,” he soothes. He reaches for me, to stroke my hair or pat my shoulder, but hesitates at the last moment.
“You called the sheriff?” I ask him.
A smile flits across his face. He rubs his eyes. “Carly, you fired a gun on my property. I didn’t know it was you.”
Covering my face with my hands, I start to cry again.
“Please believe me,” he adds. “I would have done anything that night to save them. I would have run over there and blown them to bits if I heard anything.”
The siren falls silent. A car door slams. I lower my eyes to see Sheriff Robertson standing next to his patrol car with his handgun drawn.
“It’s okay, sheriff, it’s a misunderstanding,” Mr. Stoecklein begins. “You don’t need to . . .” His voice trails off.
“A misunderstanding,” I whisper.
Clearly this isn’t a misunderstanding to Sheriff Robertson. I’m escorted to the back of his patrol car. He puts his hand on the top of my head and pushes me—somewhat gently, at least—into the backseat, slamming the door shut.
If Sheriff Robertson is doing this to scare me, it’s working. He talks to Mr. Stoecklein before laying my double-barreled shotgun in the trunk. Then he starts up the siren again, red and blue lights flashing, as he takes me to jail. The whole ride, I’m numb. I have only one thought. Did he put the shotgun in the trunk to use as evidence against me?
I’m arrested, booked, fingerprinted. When my mugshot is taken, I feel as if I’m onstage again. Maybe it’s the bright lights. But this is no act. I hold a tiny black sign with white letters: carly anne fleming. garden city police kansas 11/21/59 5’5” 110 pounds. I recognize the police officer who takes my picture; he was a senior at my school when we first moved to Holcomb. He pretends he doesn’t recognize me. Or maybe he really doesn’t. I swear I might pee my pants.
An older deputy takes me upstairs to the “ladies’ ward.” He’s grim and silent. He looks disgusted with me. Keys rattle on the belt under his paunch. The ward is actually a tiny cell, built in the sheriff’s residence—in the kitchen no less. White bars separate me from the sink and countertops. It’s not even a cell. It’s a cage. It occurs to me that maybe it really is some sort of animal pen—a place where the police dogs can curl up on quiet nights when there are no lady criminals to arrest. There’s a window, but it’s too high for me to look out.
After what seems like an eternity, a woman appears to offer me a glass of milk and a homemade chocolate chip cookie. She’s not Sheriff Robertson’s wife, though she looks familiar. She’s plump, maybe a bit older than my parents. Maybe the same age. I’m too tired to tell.
“Don’t be scared,” she says.
Before I can reach through the bars to accept, the kitchen door bursts open again. It’s the sour deputy and Sheriff Robertson.
“Sheriff, is she going to stay the night?” Deputy No-Name asks, as if I’m not right here, five feet away.
“Deputy, I don’t th
ink it’s necessary,” Sheriff Robertson says. “She’s learned her lesson.” He turns to me. “Haven’t you, Carly?”
I bite back my fear and anger. “Yes, sir,” I say. “Never point a gun at a grown-up.”
Sheriff Robertson laughs. “Well put.”
The deputy unlocks the cell door and grabs my arm as if I’m a flight risk. Sheriff Robertson closes the door and escorts me out of the residence and down the stairs. I sit on a wooden chair, handcuffed to the stair rail as my parents talk to both of them. I catch a glimpse of Asher, lurking off to the side. Poor kid. He came home after his big day and what must have been an emotional night to this.
Then I spot Mr. Stoecklein. Now I feel sick.
Before I know it, my parents are standing in front of me with their arms crossed. They look more exhausted than upset. “Dad, I’m sorry,” I say.
“Not now,” Dad grunts.
“Not ever,” Mom corrects.
The deputy bends over and unlocks the handcuffs.
I rub my wrists. “Am I free to go?”
The sheriff nods. They agree that since it’s my first offense, I should be let off with a warning. Mom drives Asher and me home while the deputy takes Dad out to the Clutter farm to get the Porsche.
CHAPTER TWENTY-four
In Sunday school, Audrey gleefully points out that I broke three of the Ten Commandments. She adds that attempted murder is just as much of a sin as committing murder, so technically she believes that I have broken four. Needless to say, I’m glad to join my parents in the sanctuary after such a true display of Christianity by Audrey Phillips.
At least Reverend Cowan is on a more positive biblical high, exhorting us not to judge and to love thy neighbor. But as I listen, I consider (not for the first time) how the New Testament totally contradicts the eye-for-an-eye message in the Old Testament. Reverend Cowan wants us to pray for whoever committed “this unimaginable atrocity, in the sacred confines of a family home.” He’s adamant about this part. Now I’m angrier than ever. His language makes my blood boil. It was an unimaginable atrocity.
“We need forgiveness, not revenge,” he says.
I roll my eyes. How can we even think about forgiveness? It’s just another reminder that people are ignorant. Maybe Holcomb is particularly ignorant. Never underestimate the power of the uneducated in large groups. I know I’m judging everyone here, but I can’t help it.
Honestly, right now, I’d like to treat the killers the way Audrey Phillips treated me. I want to see whoever did this pay with their own lives. I want revenge, Old Testament style.
Reverend Cowan invites those who feel the need to come to the altar to pray. Mom practically grabs me by the arm and pulls me out of the pew, leading me down the aisle.
All eyes are on me. There are whispers throughout the sanctuary.
I catch a hushed snippet: “. . . Shouldn’t she be in jail?”
Maybe judgment isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. The New Testament might be on to something with forgiveness after all. I slump down on my knees at the altar. Mom stands behind me with her arm on my shoulder, making sure that my head is down. Asking God to forgive me seems impossible. What did I do wrong? Okay, maybe I shouldn’t have pointed a gun in Mr. Stoecklein’s face.
Mom’s hand is gripping my shoulder so tightly, I’m sure it’s leaving a mark.
Okay, fine, God. I shouldn’t have pointed my gun in Mr. Stoecklein’s face. I’m sorry. Forgive me, please?
Instead of going home, we go to the country club to have lunch. The omelet bar and an unlimited supply of Shirley Temples are exactly what I need right now.
I stand in line, waiting for Chef Daniel to cook up my spinach, tomato, and cheese combo. “Extra cheese, please,” I say, watching him dump a handful of sharp cheddar into the pan.
A girl behind me coughs. I glance over my shoulder. Karen. Of course. She looks as pleased with herself as ever. Her Sunday dress is pink. She reeks of purity, even though I didn’t see her at the service this morning. If only people knew the truth. On the other hand, I know the truth about her, and she knows I know. And perversely, that’s what makes her so happy.
She smiles. “Funny how people treated you in church.”
I don’t say anything.
“What? No comeback?” she asks.
“No comeback.”
She waits for me to say something more. I don’t. She edges closer, standing right behind me. I can smell her perfume. Finally, I can’t take it anymore.
I whirl around. “You didn’t even go to church this morning,” I snap at her.
She shrugs, eyeing me up and down. “Audrey told me. You know her dad’s chief deputy. She also told me you were arrested last night. She told me every last detail.” She pauses dramatically and shakes her head. “Arrested? Really, Carly.”
Amazing. It figures that the sour, pudgy deputy, who never even bothered to identify himself—which, come to think of it, might even be illegal; I should ask Dad about that and get that guy in trouble—is Audrey’s father. Why didn’t I know that? This town is so small. But then, Nancy always teased me about how I’m the last girl in Holcomb to figure anything out. It hurt me when she did that, and she knew it. She had a mean streak—not all the time, but more than most people know.
On the other hand, she was right. I’m a fool.
Too bad she isn’t here now to share a smug little moment with Karen. I feel a pang as I take the plate and start to walk away. That doesn’t stop Karen from following. She’s baiting me. But I’m not going to acknowledge her. That’s exactly what she wants.
“You planned this, didn’t you?” she whispers loudly. “With Bobby.”
I almost drop my omelet. Now I can’t ignore her. I turn again. “Excuse me? What did you just say?”
“Don’t act so surprised,” she says. “We know that you’re not so innocent in this situation.”
“What are you talking about?” My voice is louder than I’d like it to be. “Are you making up a story as you go along?”
She laughs, glancing around the dining room. A charged silence has fallen over the guests. “Don’t go all mental on me,” she murmurs. “I was there. I saw everything. Friday night at Nancy’s after the play, you and Bobby were talking alone.”
Now it’s my turn to laugh. “That doesn’t mean a thing.”
“Come on, Carly, don’t be so naïve. It’s what people think it means.”
Lies.
Only then do I realize I’m not hungry anymore. I slam my plate on the nearest table. My omelet goes sliding off and onto the tablecloth. I storm toward the door.
“Watch out; she’s dangerous!” Karen shouts after me with glee.
On the way out, I catch a glimpse of my mother, her jaw hanging slack. She avoids my eyes and stirs her cup of tea. I wonder what she believes about me. I wonder what everyone else believes.
We’re home exactly ten minutes before a police car pulls up in front of our house. No siren or lights this time, though I’m not sure if that’s good or bad. I cower behind a living room curtain. It’s Audrey’s father. Just my luck. Three loud knocks and my heart beats so fast I swear it’s going to jump right out of my chest. Dad answers while Mom stands beside him, clutching her pearls. The deputy and Dad exchange a few hushed words, then Dad waves me over. I’m not handcuffed, but he takes me by the elbow to escort me out and put me in the back of a patrol car.
“Is this really necessary?” Mom asks.
“It’s protocol,” Deputy Phillips says. “We have to follow every lead.”
So it’s official. I’m a suspect. I poked my nose into all of this for Nancy, and for Bobby, and this is my reward.
Sheriff Robertson waits for me in an interrogation room. He’s not alone. Agent Nye and Agent Dewey lurk in the doorway. They nod as I arrive, and step out into the hall. They both pull cigarette packs from
their suit pockets at the same time, as if they choreographed this moment. I stare at them as they light up. My parents exchange a private disapproving glance and back away. The sheriff beckons to me, gesturing to a lone metal chair on the other side of his desk.
On the scuffed wooden desktop there’s a notebook open to a page covered with illegible scrawl (why do all policemen have terrible handwriting?)—and a tape recorder. Aside from that, the room is barren.
I turn to Dad, who nods for me to follow instructions. My legs tremble as I enter. The chair is cold, unforgiving. It hurts to sit down. The tiny room has no windows. It’s dark and damp, and it smells like stale cigarette smoke.
“Carly?” Sheriff Robertson begins. “I want you to know—”
“I didn’t kill Nancy,” I blurt out, loud enough that the two KBI agents fall silent in the hall; loud enough that I hear my father’s footsteps draw closer.
Sheriff Robertson stands. He walks over to the door and slams it shut.
My shoulders sag.
“Now, listen to me, Carly,” he says. The soft way he says my name reminds me of the way Mr. Stoecklein spoke to me when I broke down in front of him. He reaches for the tape recorder but stops short of pushing any buttons. “I don’t believe you had anything to do with it. But I have to follow every lead. Your father can explain the reasons why. He understands the way an investigation works. By clearing your name, we narrow the possibilities and get closer to the truth.”
The sheriff says all this while looking at the door.
“Do you understand what I’m telling you?” he asks.
I nod, swallowing. “Yes, sir.”
He presses the record button. “Okay, let’s get started.”
The questions seem silly at first. Stuff he already knows: my name, my age, where I go to school, how long I’ve lived in Holcomb, when I first met Nancy. I answer truthfully every question he throws at me. I don’t know how much time has passed; there’s no clock in here. But just when I’m starting to relax, he leans back in his chair, crosses his arms and legs, and asks, “What happened that Friday night?”
“What happened Friday night?” I repeat.
