Waking Up Dead

by Margo Bond Collins

  “Perfect,” Stephen said. “And remind me never to piss you off. It’s all I can do to keep this old heap running as it is.”

  They were holding Rick McClatchey in the Birmingham City Jail. I felt odd as we entered the building. I couldn’t help remembering that this was the place where Martin Luther King, Jr. had written his open letter to the white clergymen who had called for “unity” against King’s nonviolent protest. I could even almost remember part of the letter: “Individuals may see the moral light and give up their unjust posture; but groups are more immoral than individuals.” Or something close to it, anyway. So entering this place gave me a chill, the kind that comes with knowing you’ve walked into someplace important.

  But it wasn’t just that. I had another kind of chill, too. I’ve always felt strangely guilty around police, even though I’m fairly law-abiding. Or rather, had been when I was alive. But I still get a kind of guilty feeling in the pit of my stomach whenever there are a lot of police officers in uniform around me.

  Not that it mattered any more. There wasn’t much left that a cop could do to me. Except maybe find my killer.

  The waiting room was depressing. A tall black man in uniform sat at a desk behind bullet-proof glass and took down Stephen’s and Maw-Maw’s names, as well as the name of the prisoner they were there to see.

  Then Stephen and Maw-Maw sat down in the hard plastic chairs of the waiting room. At one time the chairs had been a bright mix of primary colors, but now those colors had faded. The seats were worn smooth, almost white, and several of the chairs had blackened melted spots where someone had mashed out a cigarette at some point.

  The room still smelled faintly of cigarette smoke, despite the plastic “No Smoking” signs screwed into the walls.

  “This is awful,” I said quietly to Stephen. He nodded without answering.

  “I’m going into the back to see what I can see,” I said. Again he nodded without answering.

  The main door to the actual jail was controlled by the man behind the bullet-proof glass. I’d seen him push the button to buzz people through a couple of times since we’d been there.

  I, on the other hand, did not need to be buzzed through. I could just float through.

  That’s what I thought, anyway. I’d gotten used to just sliding through doors and windows, not worrying about normal barriers.

  Not that this door was any more of a barrier than most.

  It just had an alarm on it.

  And apparently I had enough energy, or something, to set this alarm off.

  I was about halfway through the door when the screeching bell sounded. I jumped about two feet in the air--quite literally--and came back down on the waiting room side of the door.

  “Never mind,” I said as I slid into the seat beside Stephen. “I think I’ll wait.”

  “Probably a good idea,” he agreed.

  Maw-Maw hadn’t said a word the whole time we’d been there. She just sat in her chair, her big black purse in her lap, her cane on top of her purse, and her arms folded on top of it all, and stared around the room.

  The alarm caused no small amount of concern to the police officers in the building, but once it had been established that the door had never opened, they finally agreed that it must have been some kind of short. The man behind the counter made a phone call requesting a technician to come check out the door.

  With all the excitement, it was almost an hour before we were called back to see Rick. Maw-Maw hadn’t spoken in all that time.

  I had expected that Stephen would have to talk to Rick through one of those telephone thingies like they always show on television--you know, where one person’s on one side of the glass and the other person’s behind the glass.

  Here, though, the visitors were allowed to talk to the prisoners in a common visiting room. Medium-sized tables filled the room, and people in orange jumpsuits talked in hushed voices to people in street clothes. A few children ran around the room, playing with each other while their parents tried to calm them down. Uniformed officers stood scattered around the room.

  The uniformed woman who had led us down the hall after calling Stephen’s name placed us at a table. “McClatchey will be here in just a moment,” she said in a pleasant but still serious voice.

  Another uniformed officer led Rick into the room and over to our table.

  Rick McClatchey looked like hell. And that was a generous assessment. He had big black circles under his eyes, which seemed to have sunk back into his skull. He had always been thin with a pale complexion, but now his face looked jaundiced and yellow. And his skin seemed to have sagged off his bones, as if he were too tired to even keep that much together. Looking at him, it was hard to believe that this change had taken place so quickly; Molly McClatchey had been dead less than a week.

  “Hey, man,” Stephen said in a quiet voice.

  “Hey,” said Rick. “What are you doing here?”

  “I wanted to come see how you’re doing,” Stephen said.

  Rick’s eyes flicked to Maw-Maw, but he didn’t seem able to drag up the energy to ask who she was, even.

  “Okay, I guess,” he said. “As okay as I could be, anyway.”

  “I’m real sorry about Molly, Rick,” Stephen said.

  Rick’s eyes met Stephen’s and then flicked away. “Yeah. Me, too.”

  “I heard they denied bail,” Stephen said.

  “Yeah.” Rick didn’t look up. “Guess I’m stuck here until the trial.” He laughed harshly.

  “Ask him about his brother,” I said.

  Stephen flashed an irritated look at me.

  “So what does your lawyer say?” he asked Rick.

  Rick shook his head. “Not a whole lot just yet. He says they’re working on getting the forensic evidence together.” His voice trailed off.

  “Yeah?” Stephen prompted.

  “But he says it doesn’t look good for me. He’s already saying I should take a deal.” He looked up at Stephen, and crossed his arms on the table, leaning over and staring into Stephen’s face. The dullness fled his eyes, replaced by a burning intensity. “But I didn’t do it, Stephen. I swear to you I didn’t do it. I couldn’t hurt Molly. Not ever.” He dissolved into tears and put his head down on his crossed arms on the table.

  Stephen awkwardly patted Rick’s dark hair. “I know you didn’t, man.”

  “Dammit, Stephen,” I said. “Quit wasting time. Ask him about his brother and about Howard.”

  Stephen glared at me, and then took a deep breath.

  “Hey, Rick?”

  Rick looked up, wiping his eyes angrily--but I sensed the anger had more to do with his own breakdown than with anything else. “What?” he asked.

  “Do you know anyone with the last name Howard?”

  Rick looked thoughtful for a second, and then shook his head. “Not that I can think of. Why?”

  Stephen ignored the question and forged ahead with the harder one. “What about Jeffrey? Do you know of any reason he’d be angry with you or Molly?”

  Rick looked stunned. “Jeff? No. He’s been my biggest supporter in all this. He comes to see me nearly every day. He’s the only one who believes I didn’t do it.”

  “I’ll just bet he does,” I said sarcastically. Everyone ignored me.

  “You don’t think he had anything to do with it, do you?” Rick demanded. “Because he couldn’t have, he’s my brother. He knows I’m innocent.”

  “He’s not the only one, Rick,” Stephen said, again ignoring Rick’s own questions. “We’re all keeping the shop open, keeping it running for you. It’ll be waiting for you when you beat this thing.”

  “Thanks.” Rick’s eyes welled up with tears again.

  “No problem, man.”

  Suddenly Maw-Maw leaned forward. She had been so quiet for so long that I think we’d all almost forgotten she was there.

  “Now you listen to me, young man,” she said, pointing her finger at Rick and squinting at him through her glasses. She l
ooked like an old witch, her gray hair sticking out from her bun in several directions, her fingers bony and gnarled. “You did not do this thing. We all know it. But you got to figure out who you can trust. And that brother of yours ain’t no good. No good at all.” She leaned back in her seat, satisfied at having said her piece.

  Rick blinked at her, startled.

  “Who are you?” he asked her, then stared at Stephen.

  A uniformed officer walked up and loomed over our table. “Time’s up, McClatchey,” he said.

  Rick sighed and stood up.

  “Thanks for coming to see me,” he said to Stephen. He looked at Maw-Maw as if he’d like to say something more to her, but the officer led him away before he had a chance.

  “So what do you think?” I asked after we were back on I-20 headed toward Abramsville.

  “I think we don’t really know more than we did before,” Stephen said.

  “That ain’t true,” Maw-Maw said.

  Stephen and I both glanced at her, surprised.

  “So what do we know now that we didn’t know before?” I asked.

  “We know that boy didn’t have nothing to do with killing his wife.”

  I stared at her, my mouth hanging open. “Uh. Maw-Maw? We already knew that.”

  She shook her head. “No, Miss Ghosty Pants, you did not. You thought he didn’t have nothing to do with the murder. But then, you thought his brother didn’t do it either--least, that’s what you thought until you saw the brother give that Howard boy that briefcase. So whatever you think you know, you don’t know all of it.”

  I took a deep breath. “Okay, then. How do we know now that Rick didn’t have anything to do with it?”

  “Because,” she said, “you could see it all over his face, plain as day. He is just a poor little boy all caught up in something he don’t even understand.” Her voice was sympathetic, and she pursed her lips and shook her head sadly. “Don’t even know who his real friends are,” she said sadly, almost whispering.

  I stopped back by Howard’s on our way into Abramsville. To my delight, he was standing in front of the open hood of his SUV, cursing at the engine.

  Just for fun, I made a detour through his house and blew out the television and microwave. And then, for good measure, I destroyed his stereo, too. Finally, I shoved as much energy as I could muster into each of the three phones in his house. By the time I left, I was pretty sure he was cut off from everyone except his immediate neighbors.

  It was the least he deserved, but as I made my way back to Stephen’s car, I realized that the last two days had left me feeling drained.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Stephen asked as I got into the car.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your body. It’s all . . .” he waved his hands back and forth in front of his face. “All transparent.”

  I looked down at myself. Even I could see the edge of the car seat through my legs.

  “I just used up a lot making sure Howard couldn’t follow us,” I said.

  “A lot of what?” Stephen asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said irritably. “Energy, I guess. Quit talking. Just drive us to Maw-Maw’s.”

  Once there, Maw-Maw insisted that I have a “little lie-down” in her guest bedroom. I was in no shape to resist, so I took her advice and dropped down onto the bed. I didn’t need to lie down to go into my fugue floating state, but it felt good to do so--comforting, familiar.

  I closed my eyes and let myself drift.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I awoke--or at least, came back to myself--to the sound of loud voices coming from the living room.

  “Absolutely not,” I heard Ashara say loudly

  “I am a grown woman, missy, and I will do as I please,” Maw-Maw replied, with almost as much force.

  “You’re an old woman, and you’re going to get yourself hurt. Or worse.”

  “It don’t matter what you say, Ashara. I am not going to quit. Callie needs us, and so does that poor Rick McClatchey. We are going to solve this case.”

  I pulled myself up out of the bed (I realized that I’d actually sunk partway through the mattress in my stupor) and headed toward the living room, ready to wade into the fray.

  Ashara spun around to face me as soon as I entered the room.

  “And you,” she said, pointing her finger at me accusingly, “you’re the one who dragged us all into this. It’s your fault, you know.”

  I hung my head. “Yeah,” I said. “I know.”

  Maw-Maw clicked her tongue at me. “Now don’t you go taking the blame for something that isn’t your fault. Just because Ashara here is scared don’t mean that we’re gonna up and quit.”

  “You took my grandmother to a prison,” Ashara said, still glaring at me.

  “A jail, actually,” I said. “There is a difference.”

  “Not to me, there’s not,” Ashara said.

  “I told you we were going to do it.”

  “Yeah. At work, where I can’t even answer you without everyone thinking I’m totally crazy.”

  I tried to calm her. “If it’s any consolation, I don’t think we’re going to need to go back. I don’t think Rick McClatchey knows anything useful.”

  Ashara sighed and sank down onto the couch. She shook her head and spoke more quietly. “It just scares the hell out of me knowing that that murderer is out there loose and knows who we are.”

  “It scares me, too, Ashara,” I said. “Believe me, I don’t want either of you getting hurt. Any of you.” I looked around the room. “Where’s Stephen?”

  Ashara stared at me blankly for a moment. “He hasn’t been here since he dropped you and Maw-Maw off yesterday afternoon.”

  Yesterday? I’d been in my fugue state for twenty-four hours. Dammit. Another day lost. I was beginning to think that we needed to move quickly; if we didn’t, we might lose track of everyone. And the only way we were going to be able to tell the police what had really happened was if we had some sort of real evidence. Something tangible. Something that would leave them in no doubt that Howard had killed Molly and Jeffrey McClatchey was in on it.

  Bags of money passed between two men wasn’t going to cut it. It simply wasn’t enough.

  “Did you find out who the other safe deposit box belonged to?” I asked Ashara.

  “Yes,” she said. “Someone named Mary Powell.”

  Powell. I’d heard that name before.

  “Did you say Mary Powell?” Maw-Maw said, sitting up straighter in her recliner and staring at Ashara.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Ashara said, looking confused. “Is that important?”

  “Hmm,” said Maw-Maw. “Might be.”

  “Where have I heard that name before?” I asked.

  “When I told you about how Jimmy Powell done got into a fight with them Howard boys and disappeared all them years ago.”

  “Was Mary Powell a relative of his?” I asked.

  “All them Powells are related,” Maw-Maw answered, waving her hand dismissively in the air.

  “Yes, but do you know how Mary Powell was related to Jimmy?”

  “Well, I do believe that both his mother and his sister was named Mary.” She nodded her head definitively. “Yep. So there’s two Marys right there.”

  “Did you get anything other than a name?” I asked Ashara.

  “Yes. I found out who else was on the signature card: both Rick and Jeffrey McClatchey.”

  “That’s weird,” I said.

  Ashara nodded. “I also got an address for Mary Powell, but it might be old. The box was paid for at least ten years in advance, but it didn’t look like anyone had been in to open it in years. And the McClatchey brothers were added to the signature card only about four years ago.”

  “You want to drive by the address?” I asked. “It can’t hurt to see if there’s a name on the mailbox or something.”

  Ashara sighed. “Okay. Fine.”

  “I’m coming, too,” Maw-Maw announced, heaving hers
elf up out of her chair.

  “Of course you are.” Ashara sounded resigned.

  “So how long ago did Jimmy Powell disappear?” I asked Maw-Maw once we were in the car and headed through town.

  “Well, I was just about twenty-one--it wasn’t long before I married your grand-daddy, Ashara--so that would have been . . . let me see. . . .” Her eyes flicked back and forth in her head as she figured it out. “Nineteen and forty-seven. All them boys come back from the war and Jimmy Powell was just as pretty as he could be. But he didn’t last for more than a year before getting into it with those Howard boys, so it must have been in ’forty-seven that he disappeared.”

  1947. I wondered if the U.S. government had been making thousand-dollar bills in 1947.

  Something was starting to come together, but I still didn’t have all the pieces. I couldn’t put the ones that I did have together, couldn’t see the big picture, but I knew I was getting closer.

  * * * *

  The house we were looking for was in one of the older neighborhoods in town--much shabbier than the one Maw-Maw lived in. Some of the houses looked like they were barely standing, held together with boards and string and tar-paper. But the address Ashara had led us to was in much better condition. It was tiny, but freshly painted. Azaleas bloomed in a tiny patch of ground in front of the porch, which, unlike the Howard’s, did not sag.

  “Nice-looking place,” I commented to Ashara.

  “Mmm,” she murmured in agreement.

  “Think we should stop in and say hello?” Maw-Maw asked.

  Ashara kept driving, right past the house. “No. I don’t,” she said. “I think we ought to go home and consider what all this might mean. What do you think, Callie?”

  I ignored her, too busy staring out the back window to answer her.

  “Ashara?” I said nervously.

  “Yeah?”

  “See that white SUV behind us?”

  She looked in the rear-view mirror. “Oh, shit,” she said. “Is it Howard?”

  Maw-Maw craned her neck around and for once didn’t even bother to correct her granddaughter’s language.

  “I think it might be,” I said. “How did he get it running again so fast?”

  “Oh,” said Maw-Maw. “He’s a mechanic.”