Heaven's Crooked Finger

by Hank Early

  I paced around a little, trying to make my mind work on the problems at hand. First and foremost, I needed to make up my mind about North Carolina. If I didn’t go back soon, I’d definitely lose those clients. More than that, I badly wanted to go back. I’d long been programmed to escape when things got tough. I’d done it thirty years ago when I went to Granny’s and then again three years later when I split for North Carolina. Both of those had worked out pretty well. Why shouldn’t the same plan work now?

  I kicked the picnic table, frustrated by my indecision. I’d always been a decision maker. Leap first, figure out where I was going to land on the way down. Now I felt paralyzed—impotent, really—to just pull the trigger and get the hell out of town.

  I sat back down and held up a fist. One finger at a time went up until I’d ticked off five questions:

  1. Where was Bryant McCauley?

  2. What had happened to Allison DeWalt and, maybe even more important, Allison’s little girl?

  3. What was Lester doing at Ronnie Thrash’s house?

  4. Was my father alive or dead? I felt silly even posing the question, but there it was.

  5. Depending on the answer to four, could I ever find a way to bury my father once and for all?

  I looked at my open palm and realized there was no decision to make. As much as I wanted to go back to Charlotte—and at that particular moment, I wanted to go back very badly—I wouldn’t find the answers to any of those questions there, and if I tried to continue living without those answers . . . well, I couldn’t see much of a life for myself that way.

  Before I had time to second-guess my decision, I called a PI buddy I knew only as Abernathy from Asheville and left a message asking him to call me back.

  “I got some work I’m going to throw your way.”

  Abernathy, a large black man with no less than forty-four tattoos (one for each year of his life, he liked to explain) was the hardest-working PI I’d ever known. He’d take the cases, and he’d get them done. My clients wouldn’t care as long as they got results. It was one of the advantages of working in this field—nobody gave a damn about technique, just the final score.

  Next, I searched through my contacts until I found my cousin, Burt. He was a few years younger and had always sort of looked up to me. After I was kicked out of the Holy Flame, he was the only person who would speak to me when he saw me. Later, in North Carolina, he reached out and kept me updated on his family life, and I kept him updated on my lack of one. Compared to a lot of my family, Burt had been good to me, though I was also smart enough not to read too much into his apparent kindness. Daddy never let anyone go completely. I felt fairly confident Burt had been “encouraged” to reach out.

  I found the number. I’d last dialed it in 2011. Had it really been that long? I tried to remember what we had talked about then. Probably his kids. He had two—Baylee would have been around twelve then, and her little sister, Amanda, maybe seven. He was proud of them, though I could have done without the reports of their successfully memorized Bible verses. That probably made me sound a little like a dick, but I had no illusions about my ability to see beyond my own hang-ups.

  I pressed call and waited.

  He answered on the third ring. “Earl?”

  “That’s right, Burt. How you doing?”

  “I’m doing pretty good.” Was there a pause? It sounded like there might have been. And if so, what did it signal? Probably nothing other than his surprise to hear from his self-absorbed, backsliding cousin.

  “It’s good to hear from you,” he said.

  “Yeah. You’ll never guess where I am.”

  “In town.”

  There was an awkward silence. “Uh, yeah. How’d you know?”

  “Word gets around.”

  “Was it Choirboy?” I said.

  “No. I don’t see him much these days. Did you run into him?”

  “Yeah. Is this really a thing? Calling himself Choirboy?”

  “It’s just a nickname. You know how he is.”

  “How he was. People are supposed to change. You know, grow up.”

  “Not Choirboy.”

  I let that sit, still wondering how a fifty-something-year-old man could call himself such a ridiculous name.

  Yet was it ridiculous? It certainly seemed to heighten his already ominous character.

  “Earl?” Burt said. “You there?”

  “Yeah. I was just . . . Look, I hate to invite myself, but I’d love to come by the house for dinner sometime. You know . . . I’m just trying to see some of the old guard.” I hesitated, wishing I could just hang up. Why was it always so hard to confront my past?

  “Sure thing,” he said. “I was going to call you anyway. How about Friday night?”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m by myself now.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Well, what I mean is . . . Jeannie left me.”

  “Oh, man. I’m sorry to hear that, Burt.”

  “Aw, it was a long time coming, but it’s okay. The girls will cook us up a right nice meal.”

  “I don’t want to impose. We could meet some—”

  “No way. You’re a Marcus. I’m a Marcus. We’ll cook. Eat out? Come on, man.”

  “Okay. Fine.” I laughed a little, and I hoped it didn’t sound as forced as it felt.

  “Six o’clock?” he said.

  “I’ll be there.”

  I ended the call and realized someone was in my peripheral vision.

  I almost didn’t want to turn around because I was sure it would be Daddy.

  But when I did turn around, I saw Choirboy standing under the eaves of the church, staring out at me. He seemed to be lost in thought and didn’t acknowledge me at first. Then he lifted one hand mechanically in what almost passed for a wave. When I didn’t respond, he put his hand down and walked inside.

  27

  “Did you see that guy?” Mary said as we settled back into her Tahoe.

  “I saw him. His name is Chester Dunkling. We used to call him Choirboy.”

  “Choirboy?” Mary shivered. “It fits him, except in a creepy way.”

  “Tell me about it. We called him that as a joke. But get this . . . he’s adopted the name now. And yet sees absolutely nothing ironic about it.”

  “Is he . . . I mean . . . I’m not trying to be rude, but is he . . . special?”

  “Yeah, he’s special, all right. But no. Not like that. He’s plenty smart. And plenty mean.”

  “What was he doing?”

  “Staring at me. We have a little history. He was sort of obsessed with my dad.”

  “And now he’s obsessed with you.”

  “Apparently.”

  She shook her head and inserted the keys into the ignition. She didn’t turn them though. Instead she said, “How was it?”

  “What? Me and Lester?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Bad. But nothing I can’t handle.”

  “Did you learn anything?”

  “Not really. Just stuff I already knew.”

  “Like?”

  “Like he wishes I would just go back to North Carolina. He’s not interested in salvaging our relationship.”

  “That’s on him, then.”

  I shook my head. “No, it’s on me.” And then before she could follow up, I said, “What about Thrash?”

  Instead of answering me, she cranked the Tahoe and started to back out before she stomped on the brake and brought the vehicle to a hard stop. “Want to go get a beer?”

  “What?”

  “A beer. I know it’s not quite noon yet, but I could sure use one.”

  “Okay.” I was more than a little taken aback by the sudden offer.

  “We can get some lunch too,” she said. “Then I’ll tell you about my interview.”

  * * *

  We went to Jessamine’s, a square brick building on the side of Highway 57 that shared a parking lot with a shady video store called First Look Video. It had been ther
e since the mideighties, and it had been a legitimate video store that did a pretty good business in soft-core porn in addition to the always popular new releases. Now it looked more like the kind of place you’d go to buy drugs or maybe to catch a sexually transmitted disease.

  We parked in front of the video store and walked into the small tavern. Years ago, Jessamine had been a widow who took over her husband’s bait and tackle shop—called Bait and Switch. She renamed it Jessamine’s, cleared out all the old fishing stuff, and started serving po’ boy sandwiches and soft drinks to the crowd of working men—loggers, power linemen, farmers, even the occasional sheriff’s deputy—who frequently traveled the area’s busiest road. When Coulee County finally went wet back in 1984, Jessamine quickly applied for a liquor license and saw her business more than double over night. It seemed nobody wanted to go to a piece-of-shit building by the side of the road for po’ boys, but if you could also have a beer or even a shot of whiskey with that po’ boy, well, that changed everything.

  The place felt mostly the same as I remembered it, but the crowd was fairly light because it was midday. We sat in the back, and a pretty waitress with a single long braid of blonde hair came over to take our order.

  We both ordered draft beers and hamburgers—no onions for me and extra pickles for Mary.

  “So,” I said, “what did Thrash have to say?”

  “It was a very unenlightening conversation.”

  “I hate to hear that. Surely you learned something. What did he say about Allison? Did he remember her?”

  “He said the name was vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place her. He said it was possible she’d gone to the church for a while. There were a lot of people that came and went.”

  “Yeah, that’s pretty much the opposite of helpful.”

  She shrugged. “He told me a lot of stories. Little anecdotes about the people and the church. If I didn’t know about your problems there, I’d almost be convinced it was a nice little place. Is there any way things might have changed?”

  I thought it over. I might have allowed the possibility, but then I remembered Choirboy had been hanging around the church. He was enough proof for me to know there wasn’t any significant change.

  “What about McCauley?”

  “He acted really surprised to hear McCauley was missing. He said he knew he’d been out of church the last few Sundays, but that wasn’t too unusual for a man like McCauley.

  “I asked him what he meant by that phrase, ‘a man like McCauley.’ He said it wasn’t meant as an insult but that Bryant had problems.”

  “Problems?”

  “Yeah, he said Bryant had been diagnosed with some psychological issues. He wasn’t more specific than that.”

  “I don’t really find that difficult to believe,” I said.

  “Yeah, I figured you wouldn’t.”

  “Anything else? Anything at all?”

  The waitress put our beers down, and Mary downed a third of hers before answering. “Damn, that is good. There was one thing. Nothing too concrete, but it definitely stood out. If Pastor Thrash told me once, he told me ten times how great a job your brother was doing.”

  “Well, that doesn’t sound too crazy. That’s just Billy. So positive it’ll make you sick.”

  She was silent, studying her beer. “Maybe. But it seemed like something else.”

  “What did it seem like?”

  “You a sports guy?”

  I pointed to my Braves cap. “Baseball was my first love, but Carolina is basketball country, so I like that too.”

  She nodded. “Football for me. Both of my brothers played. The oldest, Jeff, got a scholarship at Auburn and went on to play two years for the Patriots before blowing out his knee. Anyway, that pretty much made me a football fan. College, NFL, hell, high school. I love it all. So here’s something I’ve noticed over the years: when a general manager comes out and praises a head coach up one side and down the other, what do you usually think is about to happen?”

  I laughed. She was a fan. “Easy. He’s going to get canned. Probably sooner than later.”

  She snapped her fingers and said, “Bingo.”

  “But . . . that doesn’t make sense. First of all, comparing Thrash to an owner simply doesn’t work. He’s only an associate pastor.”

  She shrugged. “I’m just telling you the way it seemed to me. It was weird. That’s all.”

  It was a little strange to see Thrash so intent on that point. After all, what did Mary care about how Lester was doing?

  My thoughts were interrupted by a sharp scream from the front of the restaurant. The place went quiet, and I followed everyone else’s eyes to an old woman, steadying herself on the bar. She was pale and seemed out of breath.

  Jessamine.

  “I’ll be right back,” I said.

  Jessamine tried to compose herself as I drew closer, but it was too late. Her eyes were still too wide and focused on me alone. Somehow, my presence had frightened her.

  “Are you okay?” I said, taking her arm.

  She nodded. “I’m fine. Just jumpy in my old age. Yours is a face I didn’t expect to see. What’s it been, twenty-five years?”

  “Thirty.”

  “What would bring a man back after thirty years? I’d of thought you would have forgotten this place.”

  “It’s not a place easily forgotten,” I said.

  “I reckon so.”

  “Why did I startle you?”

  She patted my hand. “It was good to see you. I’ve got to get back to the kitchen.”

  “Why not have a seat and meet my friend Mary Hawkins?” I nodded at her.

  “Another time.” She pulled away.

  “Okay. Sorry I startled you.”

  “Wasn’t your fault. Don’t give it another thought.”

  “Sure you won’t come sit a bit?”

  “No, I’ve got things to do.”

  I watched her walk back to the kitchen. She was lying, something that was hard for an honest person like her to get away with.

  But why? What had frightened her?

  I went back to the table with Mary and sat down. Our food had arrived, and Mary nodded at me over the hamburgers. “What in the hell?”

  “Odd thing. That’s Jessamine. Apparently seeing me gave her a start.”

  Mary grinned. “You are ugly, I guess, but not that ugly.”

  I ignored her joke and chewed my burger thoughtfully. My mind was churning so fast, I didn’t even taste a damn bite of it.

  * * *

  When the waitress brought the check, I motioned for her to come closer.

  “Any idea what that scream was about?” I said in a low voice.

  She gave me a nervous smile. “Ms. Jessamine is getting old.”

  “Yeah, but something had to set her off.”

  “Well . . . between you and me . . . I heard her telling one of the cooks about it. Apparently there’s somebody here whose father is supposed to be dead. But Ms. Jessamine’s husband claims he saw the daddy out on a hike one day. Ms. Jessamine saw the son a few minutes ago—and apparently this fella looks like his daddy—and that was all it took. She was already wired up from her husband’s story and then . . . bam. She got a scare.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Thanks. I was just wondering. Glad to hear it was nothing.”

  “Yeah,” the girl said. “Like I said, she’s old.”

  I waited until she was out of earshot and leaned across the table. “I think we need to pay a visit to Jessamine’s husband.”

  28

  Jessamine’s husband was an Atlanta transplant named Crawford Middleton, who’d come to Coulee County to die and ended up finding a new life after meeting his bride. At eighty years old, he’d arrived with stage three liver cancer and a pension the size of one of these mountains thanks to his years working in the Atlanta financial sector. His only plan was to buy some land and die while he watched the sun setting behind the mountains. Two months later, he met Jessamine, and a mon
th later they were married. Six months after that, he was declared cancer-free, and these days, he spent all his time breeding golden retrievers, hiking, and leading excursions into the lesser known parts of the Fingers.

  And apparently, he liked to hear himself talk. Or maybe he was just lonely. It was hard to tell. What was clear was his unrestrained joy at receiving visitors. He let us right in and didn’t stop talking until Mary basically just bulled her way through the briefest of pauses.

  “We’re here about someone you claim to have seen on one of your hikes.”

  He sucked in a breath, ready to talk some more, but then stopped. “Which hike?”

  Mary glanced at me.

  I said, “Do you know who RJ Marcus is?”

  He nodded vigorously. “Oh, I certainly do. I remember well when they found his body. Poor soul.” He took a second look at me. “You’re his boy. I see the resemblance.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You don’t carry yourself like a preacher.”

  “Well, there’s a good reason for that. I ain’t one. You’re thinking of my brother, Lester.”

  “Oh. I thought he only had the one son.”

  “It’s okay. I’ve been gone for a while.”

  He nodded. “I see. Well, I don’t mean to disturb you, but I saw your father. It was definitely him.”

  I felt something giving way inside me. How much longer was this nightmare going to last? Of all the things that haunted me about home, of all the things this trip could dredge up, finding out Daddy was somehow alive was by far the worst possible one.

  No, I decided. There was one worse.

  I steeled myself to ask the next question.

  “What did he look like?”

  “Good question,” Crawford said with a wry smile. “I guess I’ll say that he looked fair to middling—for a dead man.”