“Okay is about the best I can say for it. Had a hip replacement four years ago, and every time it rains my whole body feels like I’ve been sawed in half. Luckily it don’t rain much in Limite. But guess what—I can still drive! Knock on wood. I may get around like an old codger, but I get around. So what can I do you for? And call me Jim, please.”
I take a breath and say, “Jim, I went to see Eddie Newcott yesterday in prison. Death row.”
“Lord have mercy. His execution’s coming up, isn’t it?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Right, right. I remember. There was something in the paper on Sunday. Did you see that?”
“No.”
“It was one of those retrospective pieces about the crime. Evil Eddie and his Satanic church and all that. It said all his appeals had run out.”
“That’s correct. It looks like he will die at six o’clock tomorrow evening.”
“Well, that’s too bad. I never thought he should have been found guilty. That man was very disturbed. Very disturbed.”
“I agree with you. Listen, I have a question for you.”
“Shoot.”
“Jim, you investigated the abduction of my baby brother and arrested Gordon Alpine.”
“That’s correct.”
“Whatever made you go back to Alpine after interviewing him the first time?”
“Excuse me?”
“Well, as I remember it, it was a few days after the abduction, and you and your team had talked to everyone on our street. Then, one morning, the police showed up at Mr. Alpine’s house with a search warrant. What was it that led you to suspect him and get a search warrant?”
“Oh, it was a phone tip. Someone called the police station and said Alpine had done it. Not only that, the caller said Alpine had been making ‘naughty movies’ of children. Those were the words he used, ‘naughty movies.’ Back in 1966, we took that kind of thing seriously, just like we do today. Then there was another thing. We had interviewed young Eddie Newcott as a witness, you know. We talked to him again at length a couple of days after the abduction.”
“I remember that. Boy, do I. You took him to the station and questioned him all day.”
“That we did. And he said that Alpine was probably the one who had done it. When I asked him how he would know something like that, Eddie told me that he’d been in Alpine’s house the day after the Fourth and heard a baby crying in a back room. When I asked what he was doing over at Alpine’s house, he told me how Alpine always gave him presents and candy and stuff. Had been doing so for three years. Eddie’s father was in the room with us, and he went ballistic. He started yelling, ‘I told you never to go back over there,’ that sort of thing. I calmed down Mr. Newcott and questioned Eddie some more. After a while, Eddie lost it. He started crying and said Alpine had ‘touched’ him. That was enough for us to go to a judge. Mind you, we didn’t have any real evidence except the phone tip and what Eddie had said, but I went to the judge anyway. It was a tricky situation since his brother was the goddamned mayor. But since we were getting nowhere in the search for your little brother, and we’d had two accusations against Gordon Alpine, we got our search warrant.”
“But all you found was my brother’s rattle.”
“That’s right, but it was with the portrait Alpine had taken of your brother. Why would he remove the picture from the wall and stash it with the rattle in the drawer if they weren’t ‘souvenirs’ of the crime? And then we found all the child pornography.”
“And Eddie was a part of it.”
“I’m afraid so. That man Alpine had been abusing Eddie for three years.”
“I remember your testimony at the trial.”
“Another thing,” he tells me. “After Alpine had hung himself, we talked to Eddie and his family again, and the boy admitted that he was the one who had called in the tip.”
With those words, my heart freezes. Eddie was trying to tell me something yesterday. A letter I hadn’t gotten. Davy Jones’s Locker. He wanted to play our old game again.
“Jim, what happened to Eddie’s house?”
“It’s still there.”
“Does anyone live in it?”
“Lord, no. No one would touch it after the murders. A real estate company owns the property, and they’ve rented it out a few times in the last ten years, but nobody stays very long. It got repainted and all that.”
“Is the bomb shelter still in the backyard?”
“It is. Padlocked so no curiosity seekers will get inside.”
“Jim, do you own any bolt cutters?”
He pauses for a second. “Why do you want to know that?”
“I need to get inside the bomb shelter. Will you help me? Can you meet me over there?”
“Why do you want to do that?”
“I … I can’t explain right now. I just need to follow through on something Eddie said yesterday.”
He is quiet for a moment. Then he asks, “What time do you want to meet?”
28
The house is painted white, probably to contrast what had been there before. It appears to be an abandoned property, certainly unkempt, but it hasn’t been vandalized. Its condition isn’t as bad as I thought it might be. A rusty, years-old FOR SALE sign stands in the front yard.
I park in the driveway and wait for Baxter to arrive. In the meantime, I get out of the car and gaze at my old home across the street. A couple of teenagers are shooting hoops; a basketball hoop has been erected next to the drive since I’d last seen the place. Flowers decorate the beds in front, and the lawn is neatly manicured. It’s pretty. I don’t believe the house ever looked so nice when we’d lived there.
Since I’m a few minutes early, I stroll down the sidewalk until I come to a spot across from Gordon Alpine’s old abode. It, too, appears to be occupied by happy people. The lawn, flower beds, and windows display life and joy.
Perhaps the darkness that once permeated Chicory Lane in the sixties has finally been evicted.
I return to the Newcott house and go around to the side to examine the old gate in the fence. It’s still there. A sign warns, NO TRESPASSING. That doesn’t stop me from opening it—no locks on the gate—and scanning the backyard. The steel door to the bomb shelter is rusty and somehow sunken deeper amidst tall grass and weeds. At that point, I hear a vehicle in front of the house. A blue pickup truck has pulled up to the curb. Jim Baxter steps out and, with the help of a cane, walks slowly around the back end to greet me.
“Hello, Jim,” I say, shaking his hand. “You don’t look a day over seventy.”
“Liar. But I appreciate it. You, on the other hand, don’t look a day over forty, and that’s the truth.”
“Hardly, but thank you.”
“May I ask how old you are?”
“Sixty-one.”
He shakes his head. “No way.”
“Way. I appreciate you coming to meet me.”
He shrugs. “It’s a bit unorthodox, and it’s officially trespassing, but what the hell. The bolt cutters are in the back of the truck.” He grabs the tool out of the cargo bed and points. “Lead on.” Baxter follows me to the side of the house, through the open gate, and into the yard.
“I believe Eddie wanted me to look in Davy Jones’s Locker. At least I think he did.”
“Look in what?”
“A secret hiding place in the shelter that we used when we were kids. I bet you didn’t know it was there.”
“I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.”
“I didn’t think so.”
The steel door has a serious padlock on it. I take the bolt cutters from Baxter and work the magic myself. The thing snaps off easily enough. I drop the cutters in the grass and open the squeaky, heavy door.
“Is there still electricity here?” I ask.
“Don’t know.”
I glance at Baxter’s cane and legs. “I don’t expect you to navigate the steps. I’ll go down myself.” I find the old light switch, but not
hing happens when I flip it. Unfortunately, the shelter is dark and dank, and it smells of mildew and who knows what else. The walls are still black. It will be impossible to see anything in here.
“No lights!” I call up the stairs.
“I have a flashlight in the truck. Be back in a sec.”
The sunlight streaming in from the open door illuminates the immediate area around me. Cobwebs cover much of the space. The partition separating the shelter from the toilet is still behind the stairs. I’m dying to peer behind it, but I figure I won’t be seeing anything without the flashlight.
“Here you go!” His head appears above. We make eye contact and he drops the torch. I catch it—it’s the heavy-duty kind that police use. I flick it on and shine it over the main room. It has been completely cleared of any furniture and wall decorations. Eddie’s artwork is gone. The pentagram on the floor, however, is still there, albeit worn and faint. It’s a creepy, haunted place now, even in the daytime.
I move around the partition. The toilet has been damaged. The seat is missing and the cracked top looks as if someone had smashed it with a sledgehammer. The floor is dusty, and cobwebs cover the space behind the commode. I grimace as I use the flashlight to sweep away enough of the webs so that I can kneel and touch the concrete floor. I don’t see any giant spiders or cockroaches, thank goodness.
Holding the light in my lap, I feel around where I remember the sides of the slab are located. The grime is thick and it takes some doing. I wish I’d brought some gloves. Eventually, I discern the demarcations in the surface and recall that it was often difficult for me to lift the cover.
“You all right down there?”
“Yes! I found the spot. Now, if I can just get it open!”
“Do you need help?”
“I’ll let you know!”
I tug, push, press, and scratch, getting nowhere. Will I need a chisel? A lever of some kind? Another minute ticks by as I work at it.
“Shelby?”
“I’m still trying!” I hear his footsteps on the stairs. “You don’t need to come down, Jim.”
“It’s all right, I won’t break my neck. What the heck are you doing?” He peeks around the partition and finds me on my knees.
“I’ve almost got it—” And then, it gives. I manage to lift a side high enough for me to use the friction of my fingertips. Once I get it to where I can grasp it from underneath, it’s cake.
I lift the slab and shove it to the side, revealing the square hole in the ground.
A faded envelope sits atop a dark cloth. Written on it, in Eddie’s familiar block-letter printing, in pencil, are the words TO SHELBY TRUMAN.
“Oh my God.”
“Don’t touch it!” Baxter says. “Wait.” He pulls out a cell phone and takes a photo. “Okay, go ahead.”
I lift the envelope. It’s sealed.
“Should I open it?”
“Go ahead.” He takes another photo as I do so.
It’s a letter, again scribbled in block, printed letters. I start to read it, but my eyes jump to the cloth. It’s dark blue. Blue. It’s a bundle. The cloth is wrapped around something.
“Oh shit. Oh Christ.”
It’s Michael’s baby blanket.
I carefully lift the thing out of the hole. Light as a feather.
“What is it?” Baxter asks.
“My baby brother’s blanket.”
He snaps another photo.
I slowly unwrap it.
My scream echoes off the walls of that dank, dark portal to hell.
Inside the blanket are the skeletal remains of an infant.
29
AUGUST 14, 1966
DEAR SHELBY—
I AM GONE AWAY. MY DAD IS SENDING ME TO A PRISON HOSPITL PLACE. I DONT KNOW IF I WILL SEE YOU AGAIN. IN CASE HE FINDS THIS OR IF POLICE FIND THIS, I HOPE YOU GET THIS LETTER. IT WILL BE HERE TIL SOMEBODY FINDS IT.
I CAME OVER YOUR HOUSE ON JULY 4 TO SEE IF YOU WANT TO WATCH FIREWORKS WITH ME IN THE PARK. YOU WERE IN YOUR BAKYARD WITH YUR MOM AND DAD. I HEARD BABY CRY. I WENT TO HIS ROOM AND PICKED HIM UP. I TRYED THAT BOUNCE YOU SHOWD ME. I THINK I DID IT TOO HARD. HE STOPED CRYING. I DIDNT MEAN TO HURT HIM. I GOT SCARED. REAL SCARED. I THOUGHT I HAD TO HIDE HIM. I PUT HIM IN DAVY JONES LOCKER. I DIDNT KNOW WHAT TO DO. YOUR MOM WOULD KILL ME. MY DAD WOULD KILL ME.
SO I BLAMED MR. ALPINE. I PUT YUR BROTHERS RATL AND PICTUR IN MR. ALPINES BEDROOM. I DID IT BECAUSE HE DID BAD THINGS TO ME. AT FIRST I DIDNT KNOW THEY WERE BAD. MAYBE SOMEDAY YOU WILL FIND OUT WHAT HE DID. IM SORRY. SO FAR NO ONE KNOWS ABOUT YUR BROTHER. IT WAS A ACSIDENT. IM NO GOOD. I LOVE YOU BUT NOW I AM A BAD PERSON. DAD SAYS IM CORUPTED. I HOPE YOU CAN FORGIV ME.
EDDIE
30
It’s ten minutes to six on Friday, and the ceremony is about to begin. At the very same time, on the other side of the state, Eddie Newcott is about to be put to death.
I was at the scene yesterday longer than I wanted. It was a very difficult couple of hours for me, but Jim Baxter smoothed the way with the authorities—he knew everyone there. He had me report the crime with my cell phone, and then he waited with me until the officers arrived.
While we sat inside my car, Baxter told me he was sorry. “I should have been smarter,” he said. “I should have realized that Donner and Mayor Alpine and the chief had made a deal.”
“What do you mean?”
“That Gordon Alpine would confess to the kidnapping and murder of your brother in exchange for no charges or mention of the child pornography crimes. That’s surely what happened. I wasn’t in on it. I wish I could have stopped it. Then maybe we would have learned the truth.”
I didn’t know what to say.
In a half hour, Chicory Lane had become a circus for the third time in five decades. Medical examiners, forensics teams, and the media crowded the street. Luckily, I sat in the back of a patrol car and avoided the frenzy without the press being aware of my presence. I called Billy, got hold of my attorney, phoned Mr. Crane, and felt a little more secure by the time a detective by the name of Hodgkins interviewed me. I told him what I knew, holding it together long enough to talk rationally about the history of the case and my knowledge of what had happened. With the understanding that we would talk in more detail before I returned to Chicago, he let me go back to my hotel so I could have a breakdown in peace and quiet.
It now made perfect sense—Eddie’s pedophobia. His own guilt for accidentally killing Michael had given him a lifelong fear of babies. He never wanted to have any children of his own. I recall the times he always made sure I was using contraception. I remember his reactions when we were around babies in public. And it was why he killed Dora Walton and their unborn child. And it’s why he believed evil emanated from the hiding place in the bomb shelter—it was the place where he had buried the source of his guilt.
The tears flowed from anger, certainly, and a little from the painful feeling of betrayal. Mostly it was the guilt. My own. It was irrational, perhaps, but real. What was my role in this horrible tragedy? Not locking the goddamned front door? Or was it more than that? I had been intimate with the boy who had done this, as well as with the man he grew up to be. Throughout my entire life, there had been a fatal connection between Eddie and me. Could I forgive him? Could I forgive myself? That was something I didn’t think I could answer until some time had passed.
Of immediate concern was how I was going to stand at the dedication ceremony. It didn’t seem right that they were naming a park after me. There had to be a change of plan. With my hands still shaking, I dialed Mr. Bennett, my contact for the parks commission. I made my request, and he said he’d reach out by phone to the board members and other folks in charge. Bennett promised to call back, which he did today in the early afternoon. It was a unanimous decision to back my wishes, which I suppose is a little compensation for what I’d been through for the past two days.
I had also spoken to Robert Crane earlier today. He had told Eddie that I’d discovered the contents of t
he shelter hiding place. There was little response, only a nod and what Crane perceived to be an “acceptance.” “I think a great burden was lifted from Eddie’s shoulders,” Crane told me.
“Well, I think he could have removed that burden a long time ago,” I said. “His deathbed confession didn’t do me any favors.”
“No, I suppose not. I’m sorry, Shelby. Of course, you know these new revelations are not going to help his cause to avoid the death penalty. I’m sure the governor won’t step in at all at the last minute.”
“No, I wouldn’t expect he would.”
Before we hung up, Crane promised to let me know if Eddie had any last words before the administering of the lethal drugs.
Now, at five minutes until six, I envision Eddie strapped down on the table, the IV already connected to his arm. Witnesses, if any, besides his attorney, are seated in the observation room, watching him through a window. The warden is present and ready to give the go-ahead.
I try to focus my attention on the crowd of people at the park that holds so many memories for me. Of course, it looks completely different today than it did in the sixties. Receiving a new name is a good thing. It will help mark a delineation between the past and the future. And then, once the ceremony is over, I plan to go back to Chicago and never return to Limite. My parents are buried here, but would it matter if I traveled to West Texas just to stand at their gravesides? Will they know or care? I don’t need to stand beside a mound of dirt and read their names on tombstones to remember them.
But perhaps I’ll feel differently once some time has passed.
The gathering at the park consists of maybe a hundred people. More than expected, but the news yesterday probably attracted the curious. Jim Baxter is here, as well as Detective Hodgkins. I don’t recognize anyone else. There are several fans holding books, hoping that they will perchance receive a signature. I’m not in the mood to give out autographs, but I suppose it’s my duty at such an occasion. I’ll grin and bear it, and then take my heavy heart with me and quietly disappear.
Mr. Bennett steps up to a portable podium promptly at six. He says a few words about the park and then introduces me. “Please join me in welcoming one of Limite’s distinguished former residents, internationally bestselling author, Shelby Truman.”
The Secrets on Chicory Lane Page 21
