Down River

by John Hart

  “She says that I was a lovely boy.” My father turned in his seat, and his shoulders squared up. “Do I know her?” I asked.

  “You should stay away from her.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that you should stay the hell away from her.”

  I went shopping for Grace. I bought flowers, books, and magazines. None of it felt right; it was all guesswork, and I had to face the truth of it once again. I didn’t know her anymore. I felt restless, and drove around town for a bit. Every road was layered in memory, so textured that the past was physical. That was another thing about home.

  I was almost back to the hospital when my cell phone rang. It was Robin. “Where are you?” I asked.

  “Look in your mirror.” I looked and saw her car twenty feet behind me. “Pull over. We need to talk.”

  I hung a left into a quiet, residential area that had been developed in the early seventies. The houses were low with small windows. The yards were neat and trim. Two blocks down, kids rode bikes. Someone in yellow pants kicked a red ball. Robin was all business.

  “I spent the morning making very quiet inquiries,” she said. “Reached out to people I trust. Asked them to keep me in the loop. I just got a call from a detective friend who was about to testify in Superior Court when Grantham showed up and spoke to the judge.”

  “Judge Rathburn?”

  “Yeah. Rathburn called a recess and took Grantham into chambers. Ten minutes later he canceled court for the day.” She paused.

  “You know why, don’t you?”

  “This came from one of the clerks. It’s solid. Grantham presented the judge with an affidavit in support of an arrest warrant. The judge signed off on it.”

  “A warrant for whose arrest?”

  “Unknown, but given what we know, I suspect that it has your name on it.” Distant laughter rolled over us, the high squeal of children at play. Robin’s eyes were filled up with worry. “I thought that you might want to call that lawyer.”

  Grace was sleeping when I returned to the hospital. Miriam had left and my father was in the room with his eyes closed. I put the flowers by the bed and the magazines on a table. I stood for a long minute, looking at Grace and thinking of what Robin had told me. Things were coming to a head. “You okay?” my father asked. His eyes were red from sleep. I pointed at the door, and when I left, my father followed me out. He scrubbed a hand over his face.

  “I’ve been waiting for you to get back,” he said. “I told Janice that I want to have everyone to the house for dinner. I want you to come.”

  “Janice didn’t like that, I bet.”

  “It’s what families do. She knows that.”

  I looked at my watch. Afternoon was upon us. “I need to speak with Parks Templeton,” I said.

  My father’s face twitched with sudden worry. “What’s going on?”

  “Robin thinks that Grantham has an arrest warrant with my name on it.”

  He understood immediately. “Because they’ve identified your prints on Dolf’s gun.”

  I nodded.

  “Maybe you should leave.”

  “And go where? No. I’m not running again.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  I looked at my watch again. “Let’s have a drink. On the porch. Like we used to do.”

  “I’ll call Parks from the car.”

  “Tell him he should get here sooner rather than later.”

  We walked outside and turned for the parking lot. “There’s one more thing I’d like for you to do,” I said.

  “What’s that?”

  I stopped and he did, too. “I want to speak with Janice. In private. I want you to make it happen.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “She testified against me in open court. We’ve never talked about that. I think we need to get it behind us. She won’t want to have the conversation.”

  “She’s scared of you, son.”

  I felt the familiar anger. “How do you think that makes me feel?”

  Back in the car, I pulled out the postcard sealed in its plastic bag. Danny never made it to Florida; I was pretty certain of that. I studied the photo on the card. Sand too white to be real, and water so pure it could wash away sin.

  SOMETIMES IT’S JUST RIGHT.

  Whoever killed Danny Faith had mailed this postcard to try and hide the crime. It could very well have prints on it. I wondered for the hundredth time if I should tell Robin about it. Not yet, I decided. Mostly for her own good. But it was more than that. Somebody, for reasons unknown, had killed Danny Faith. Someone pointed a gun and squeezed the trigger; lifted Danny up, and dumped him down that great dark hole.

  Before I went to the cops, I needed to know who.

  In case it was someone I loved.

  We gathered on the porch, all of us, and though the liquor was expensive, it felt thin and false, like the assurances we traded. None of us believed that everything would be all right, and when the words dried up, which they often did, I studied faces that were naked in the hard rays of the bright, falling sun.

  Dolf lit up, and loose tobacco settled on his shirt. He flicked at the small, moist pieces with an utter lack of care. Yet he wore his larger concerns like he wore his boots, as if he’d be lost without them; my father could have been his brother in that regard. They were pared down, the both of them, scoured clean.

  George Tallman watched my sister like some part of her might fall off, and he’d need wariness and great speed to catch the piece before it struck and shattered. He kept an arm pressed against her, and leaned low when she spoke. Occasionally, he looked at my father, and I saw adoration in his face.

  Jamie sat darkly next to a row of empty bottles. His mouth dipped at the corners, and hard shadow filled the sockets of his eyes. He spoke infrequently and in a low rumble. “It’s not fair,” he muttered once, and I assumed that he was speaking of Grace; but when I pressed, he shook his head, and tipped back the brown bottle of whatever foreign beer he’d chosen.

  Janice, too, looked tortured, with chipped nails, dark circles, and hollow eyes. She’d deteriorated even over the past day. Her words came often and forced, and they were as brittle as the rest of her. She played the role that my father had imposed upon her, that of hostess, and, to her credit, she tried. But it was a brutal thing to see; and there was little mercy in my father’s eyes. He’d told her what I wanted and she did not like it. The fact of it was all over her.

  I kept an eye on the long drive, looking for dust behind bright metal. I hoped for the lawyer to make it first, yet expected Grantham and his deputies to arrive at any moment. A lawyer friend once said that it was easy to hate lawyers until you needed one. At the time I’d found him glib, but not now.

  Now he was a goddamn genius.

  The day settled as our conversation dwindled to nothing. There was danger in words, trip wires and blind spots where great harm could be done. Because the reality of murder was more than the concept of it. It was the loose, damp corpse of a man we’d all known. It was the questions that sprung up, the theories that we’d all turned over yet not once discussed. He was killed here, where the family lived and breathed, and that danger alone should be enough; but there was also Grace.

  And there was me.

  No one knew what to do with me.

  When Janice spoke to me, her voice was too loud, her eyes directed somewhere over my shoulder. “So, what are your plans now, Adam?” Ice clattered in the fine crystal beneath her white-tipped fingers, and when our eyes finally met, there was a sudden filling of the space between us, as if countless wires connected us, as though they all started humming at once.

  “I plan to have a conversation with you,” I said, and did not mean for the words to sound like such a challenge.

  The smile slipped off her face, taking most of her color with it. She wanted to look at my father, but did not. “Very well.” Her voice was cool and even. She smoothed her skirts and rose from the chair as if an unsee
n force lifted her. She could have carried stacked books on the crown of her head, even as she leaned in to kiss my father on the cheek. She turned at the door, more calm, I thought, than she had ever been. “Shall we go to the parlor?”

  I followed her into the cool interior, down the length of the long hall. She opened the door to her parlor and motioned me ahead of her. I saw pastel colors and rich fabrics, a bag of incomplete needlepoint on what my mother would have called a “fainting couch.” I took three steps into the room and turned to watch her as she gentled the door shut. Her thin fingers spread out on the dark wood, then she turned and slapped me. Pain flared like a match head.

  Her finger rose between us, and the damaged paint shone on her nail. Her voice wavered. “That’s for having your father lecture me about the meaning of family.” She stabbed her finger in the direction of the porch. “For insulting me in my own home.” I opened my mouth, but she spoke over me. “For calling me on the carpet in front of my own family like I was some wicked, wicked child.” She lowered her hand, tugged at the waist of her pale yellow silk jacket, and suddenly, she was shaking. Her next words fell into the room like petals from a dying flower.

  “I refuse to be frightened, and I refuse to be manipu­lated. Not by you and not by your father. Not anymore. Now, I’m going upstairs to rest. If you tell your father that I struck you, I’ll deny it.”

  The door closed with the faintest click, and I think that I would have followed her out, but it didn’t happen. The cell phone vibrated in my pocket, even as I took the first step. I recognized Robin’s number. She was out of breath.

  “Grantham just left with three deputies. They plan to execute the warrant.”

  “They’re coming here?”

  “That’s my information.”

  “When did they leave?”

  “Fifteen minutes ago. They’ll be there any minute.”

  I took a deep breath. It was happening again. “I’m on my way,” Robin said.

  “I appreciate the thought, Robin, but whatever is going to happen will be long done by the time you get here.”

  “Is your lawyer there?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  “Just do me one favor, Adam.” I waited, said nothing. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

  “Like what?”

  A pause. “Don’t resist.”

  “I won’t.”

  “I mean it. Don’t antagonize him.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Okay. I’m rolling.”

  I closed the phone, rattled a vase on a side table as I passed down the hall. I walked into the sudden warmth of sunset and saw Parks Templeton climbing the steps. I pointed at him and then at my father. “I need to see you two inside, right now.”

  “Where’s your mother?” my father asked.

  “Stepmother,” I said automatically. “This is not about her.”

  “What is it?” Parks asked.

  I looked around the porch. Every eye was on me, and I realized that discretion was irrelevant. It would happen soon and it would happen right here. I put my eyes on the horizon one more time, and saw just how few seconds were actually left.

  It looked like three cars. Lights on, sirens off.

  I met the lawyer’s eyes. “You’re going to earn your money today,” I said. He looked perplexed and I pointed. The lights flashed brighter as the day darkened around us. They were close; two hundred yards. Engine noise reached out and touched us. It swelled as my family came to its feet around me, and I heard the sound of rocks being thrown against metal, the dull clank and bang of cars moving too fast on gravel. Ten seconds out the lead car killed its lights; the others followed suit. “They’re here to serve an arrest warrant,” I said.

  “You’re sure?”

  “I am.”

  “Let me do the talking,” the lawyer replied, but I knew that he would be useless. Grantham would not care about subtleties. He had his warrant, and it was enough. I felt a hand on my shoulder; my father. He squeezed hard, but I did not turn around; and no words found their way past his lips. “It’s going to be all right,” I said, and his fingers tightened.

  That’s how Grantham found us—an unbroken line. His hands settled on his hips, and his deputies formed up around him, a wall of brown polyester and black belts that angled low on one side.

  Parks stepped into the yard, and I followed him down. Dolf and my father joined us. The lawyer spoke first. “What can I do for you, Detective Grantham?”

  Grantham dipped his chin to peer across the tops of his glasses. “Afternoon, Mr. Templeton.” He shifted slightly. “Mr. Chase.”

  “What is it that you want?” my father asked.

  I looked at Grantham, whose eyes shone intently behind the same thick and dirty glasses. There were four men, not a single expression between them, and I knew then that there was no stopping it.

  “I’m here lawfully, Mr. Chase, warrant in hand.” His eyes found mine and his fingers spread out. “I don’t want any trouble.”

  “I’d like to see the warrant,” Parks said.

  “Momentarily,” Grantham replied, his eyes still on me. He’d not once looked away.

  “Can you stop this?” my father asked the lawyer in a low voice.

  “No.”

  “Goddamn it, Parks.” Louder.

  “We’ll have our moment, Jacob. Be patient.” He spoke to Grantham. “Your warrant had best be in perfect order.”

  “It is.”

  I stepped forward. “Then get on with it,” I said.

  “Very well,” Grantham replied. He turned to my left, the cuffs coming out. “Dolf Shepherd, you are under arrest for the murder of Danny Faith.”

  Light flashed on steel, and when it circled his wrists, the old man bent under the weight of it.

  This was wrong. In almost thirty years I’d never seen Dolf raise his hand or his voice in anger. I pushed toward him and deputies drove me back. I called Dolf’s name, and the batons came out. I heard my name; my father yelling for me to calm down, to not give them an excuse. When his hands, thick and speckled, finally gripped my shoulders, I allowed him to pull me back. And I watched as Dolf was stuffed into one of the marked cars.

  The door slammed, lights pulsed on the roof, and I closed my eyes as a sudden roar filled my head.

  When it died, Dolf was gone.

  He’d never once looked up.

  CHAPTER 19

  I called Robin from the car and told her what had happened. She wanted to meet us at the jail but I told her no. She was already in this thing too deep. She fought me about it, and the more we argued the more convinced I became. She’d made her choice—me—and I wasn’t going to let that choice hurt her. We agreed to meet the next day, once I had some idea just what the hell was going on.

  We went downtown to the Rowan County Detention Center; Parks, Dad, and me. Jamie said he couldn’t handle it, and I knew what he meant. The bars, the smells. The fact of it. Nobody tried to talk him out of it. He’d been sullen all afternoon and there was little love lost between him and Dolf. The building loomed against the descending sky. We crossed against traffic, mounted broad steps, and passed through security. The front room smelled of hot glue and floor cleaner. The door fell shut behind us, a crash of metal, and lukewarm air sighed out from ceiling vents. Four people sat in orange plastic chairs along the wall, and I took them in at a glance: two Hispanics in grass-stained clothes, an old woman in expensive shoes, and a young man biting his nails bloody.

  Parks stood out in his immaculate suit, but no one was impressed, least of all the sergeant who sat behind the scuffed bulletproof glass. Parks drew himself up and played the lawyer card and asked to see Dolf Shepherd.

  “No.” The response was unequivocal, offered with the tired indifference of long practice.

  “I beg your pardon?” The lawyer appeared truly offended.

  “He’s in interrogation. Nobody sees him.”

  “But I am his lawyer,” Parks said.

  The sergeant
pointed to the long row of molded chairs. “Help yourself to a seat. It’ll be a while.”

  “I demand to see my client now.”

  The sergeant leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. Age had put its mark on the man: deep frown lines and a belly like a suitcase. “Raise your voice to me one more time and I will personally put you out of this building,” he said. “Until I hear otherwise, no one sees him. That’s the word from the sheriff himself. Now, sit down or leave.”

  The lawyer settled back onto his heels, but the hard edge did not leave his mouth. “This is not over,” he said.

  “Yes, it is.” The officer rose from his chair, walked to the back of the room, and poured a cup of coffee. He leaned on a counter and stared at us through the bulletproof glass. My father put a hand on the lawyer’s shoulder.

  “Sit down, Parks.”

  The lawyer stalked to a far corner and my father tapped on the glass. The sergeant put down his coffee and came over. He was more respectful to my father. “Yes, Mr. Chase?”

  “May I speak with the sheriff?”

  The man’s features relaxed. In spite of everything that had happened in recent years, my father was still a force in this county and respected by many. “I’ll let him know you’re here,” he said. “No promises.”

  “All I’m asking for.”

  My father moved away and the sergeant lifted a phone off its cradle. His lips moved minutely, and he hung up. He looked at my father. “He knows you’re here,” he said.

  We gathered in the corner. Parks spoke in a low whisper. “This is intolerable, Jacob. They cannot keep an attorney from his client. Even your sheriff should know that.”

  “Something’s off,” I said.

  “Meaning what?”

  I read the frustration in the lawyer’s eyes. My father was paying him three bills an hour and he could not get past the front desk.

  “We’re missing something,” I said.

  Parks paled. “That’s not much help, Adam.”

  “Nevertheless . . .”

  “What are we missing?” my father asked.

  I faced him, saw that he was close to the edge. Dolf may as well have been his brother.