No Way Home

by MacDonald, Patricia

  “Dwight could get in trouble for helping him to get away. Did you ever think of that?”

  Debbie looked squarely at Lillie. “I thought of it,” she said. “I’ll say he forced us. With a gun.” The girl pulled a piece of paper out of her bag and wrote on it hurriedly. “This is the address, where he’s at.”

  Lillie looked down at the paper rattling in her hands. “Thank you for telling me,” she said softly.

  “It was the Lord’s will for me to run into you today,” Debbie said sincerely. “I just hope they catch who really did it.”

  Lillie exchanged a wondering glance with the young mother-to-be and then she shivered. “I have to talk to the sheriff,” she said. “Right away.”

  Chapter 7

  A DEPUTY WHOM LILLIE DID NOT RECOGNIZE sat with his feet up on Royce’s desk, studying the latest issue of Guns and Ammo magazine.

  “The sheriff’s not here,” drawled the young man in answer to Lillie’s anxious request.

  “Where is he? I need to talk to him right away.”

  “Out of town,” said the deputy.

  “Out of town!” Lillie cried. “There’s a cold-blooded murderer loose in this county. Why isn’t the sheriff here?”

  The deputy suddenly recognized Lillie as the murdered girl’s mother and took his feet off the desk. His cowboy boots hit the floor with a thud. “Deputy Reynolds is in charge, ma’am,” he said respectfully. “He’s over having lunch at the five and ten. He can help you, I’m certain.”

  “Well, I hope so,” Lillie said angrily. She slammed the office door behind her in frustration, then strode out of the town hall. People came and went across the main square of Felton and the atmosphere in town was normal, business as usual. Shoppers visited the slightly shabby stores that bordered the square. A couple of kids sat on the base of the statue of Andrew Jackson in front of the courthouse, crushing the Virginia creeper vines that entwined it. Oh, people talked about the murder. She knew that. Every time she passed people she recognized and a silence fell, she knew that her daughter’s death had been the subject of conversation. But soon it would just be gossip in town, an event that had once shocked them. For them there was no urgency about the whole thing. Not even for the sheriff. It was not their lives that had been changed forever, she thought, angry tears pricking her eyelids. She took a deep breath and composed herself. She could not wait for the sheriff. If Wallace Reynolds was all she had, then Wallace it would have to be.

  She crossed the square to the five and ten, glancing into Flood’s Pharmacy on the way. Bomar must have been out, for only his salesgirl was behind the counter. She was talking to a customer and all the while staring at herself in the mirror behind the soda fountain, examining her makeup with an intent expression. A couple of teenagers sat, as usual, at the soda fountain. Lillie walked on and opened the door to the five and ten. The familiar woolly smell of stale popcorn, sweetish candy and old cardboard boxes greeted her. She spotted Wallace Reynolds at the lunch counter and hurried over.

  “Wallace,” she said without preamble, “I have to talk to you right away.”

  The deputy set down his sandwich and looked up, surprised. “Miz Burdette,” he mumbled, wiping his mouth. “Shouldn’t you be at home?”

  “Why should I be at home, Wallace?” Lillie asked. The deputy was a good four years younger than she, but he had a reproving manner that tended to make people feel as if they had to explain themselves. “I came to see the sheriff but it seems that he just up and left town,” she said indignantly.

  Wallace pushed a grayish pickled okra to one side of his plate and wiped his hands on a napkin. “It’s not a pleasure trip, ma’am. He left this morning to take his boy off to the Sentinel. That’s the military school over in North Carolina.”

  “Tyler?” Lillie dropped down on the stool beside the deputy. “How come? He never mentioned any such thing.”

  Wallace Reynolds shook his head. “Between you and me, Miz Burdette, that boy has been nothing but heartache to him.” Wallace mimicked the motion of lifting a bottle to his mouth. “If you know what I mean.”

  Lillie nodded numbly. “I know,” she said. “But military school…” She thought of Tyler at the funeral, disheveled and wild-eyed. Several years back, after Lulene died, Lillie had vowed to herself to try to help out. She had asked them to supper a few times, Royce and Tyler. But Tyler had been so silent and awkward, even around the kids, and Royce seemed to simmer with irritation at the boy. It made everyone uneasy, and after a while she stopped asking them. She wished now that she had tried a little harder. Apparently they had reached the point of no return.

  “Military school’ll be the best thing for him,” said Wallace. “Straighten him right out. Anyway, you wanted to talk to the sheriff. What’s the problem?”

  Lillie turned her mind away from the sheriff’s problems and back to her own. This could not wait for his return.

  “Wallace,” she said, “I have come into some important information. Someone—I can’t tell you who, so don’t even ask—just told me some things that prove that Ronnie Lee Partin was not responsible for my daughter’s death.”

  Wallace smiled sadly at Lillie and pushed his beige plastic plate aside with one fastidious finger. “Miz Burdette,” he said in a patronizing tone, “I think someone is playing a mean joke on you. Ronnie Lee Partin is a desperate criminal, and it is my best estimate that your daughter crossed his path at a very bad moment and became his victim. I believe that when we are able to apprehend Mr. Partin, we will have our killer.”

  “Well, go ahead and apprehend him then,” Lillie said, thrusting the piece of paper at him on which Debbie had printed a Kentucky address. “This is where you’ll find him.”

  Wallace took the paper from her and looked at it suspiciously. “Where’d you get this?”

  “I told you. I can’t say. I got it from someone who knows that Ronnie Lee did not kill Michele and only wants to prove it.”

  Wallace studied the address with a sour expression on his face.

  “As I understand it, the sheriff never has believed that Ronnie Lee was the one,” said Lillie.

  Wallace shrugged. “With all due respect, ma’am, the sheriff is preoccupied with his own problems, he’s overworked, and he ain’t getting any younger. He may not be the ideal one to decide.”

  “He’s just saying what makes sense,” Lillie insisted. “Ronnie Lee Partin had no reason to kill my daughter.”

  “Miz Burdette,” Wallace said, shaking his head. “You have to be around these people to comprehend what they are like. They don’t need a reason for what they do. The best reason any of them need in this world is that they have consumed a bottle of whiskey and they just feel like it. Do you know,” he continued, warming to his subject, “that not three weeks ago we arrested the Boynton brothers, and do you know why? Because they shared a bottle of moonshine and then they went out in Buddy Boynton’s boat with shotguns and they went speeding across Crystal Lake, shooting at anything that moved on the shoreline. They thought that was a real good time.”

  “So maybe Buddy Boynton killed my daughter,” said Lillie. “Don’t you see what you’re saying? It could have been anybody with the price of a bottle of bourbon.”

  “Now don’t get all upset,” Wallace said stiffly.

  Lillie sighed in exasperation as the waitress, a chubby girl with bleached blond curls piled up on her head, came by. “Y’all want anything else?”

  “Check,” said Wallace. He peered at the piece of paper and then at Lillie. “If we do find Partin at this address, you’re going to have to tell us where you got this.”

  “And you’re going to have to come up with a killer,” Lillie snapped back at him.

  Wallace stood up from the counter stool. “I’ll be in touch with Mr. Burdette or yourself on this.”

  “Good,” Lillie said coolly. She knew the deputy was offended and she didn’t care. She wished she could have spoken to Royce, but there was no time to waste. She didn’t care wh
at Wallace Reynolds thought. Royce would be grateful for the information, and he would be relieved to have Ronnie Lee Partin locked up again. But it was no wonder, she thought, that Debbie was afraid to talk to them. You could be treated like a criminal just for trying to help.

  And, of course, it was no wonder Wallace resisted this new wrinkle. It put them all back where they started from. They had no killer and no information. If only someone would come forward, she thought, as Debbie had. And then she realized, as she thought about it, that perhaps there was something more she could do.

  Lillie heard the anxious note in Pink’s voice as he called out, “Lillie, I’m back. Where are you?”

  “I’m in here,” she called out. “In the den.”

  Pink came to the door and looked in warily, as if reluctant to see what condition she might be in.

  “Come on in,” she said. She was seated cross-legged in the middle of the floor of the den on a hooked rug she had made one winter when Michele was in the hospital with pneumonia and she was sitting up with her. On the floor around Lillie were photo albums, and all of the recent photos of Michele were out of their sleeves and piled up on her lap.

  “What are you doing there, honey?” Pink cajoled in the voice one might use on a distraught ledge walker. “You don’t have to sort those out now. This stuff’ll be here.” He squatted down beside her and began to close up the albums.

  “Don’t,” she said. “I need a picture of Michele.”

  “What for?” he asked miserably.

  She felt a little sorry for him. He was clearly worried about her mental state, and perhaps, she thought, she had given him reason. He would never come out and ask her, of course. Pink had a horror of any talk of feelings, and over the years she had come to accept it. He showed affection with gifts and avoided discussions by turning on the TV and arguments by driving around in his car.

  “It’s okay,” she reassured him. “I need it for the paper. The newspaper. Pink, I came by your office today.”

  “I know,” he said. “I found your note in the door. What did you want?”

  “Well, I’d just been talking to Wallace Reynolds. I wanted to see Royce but he’s out of town. He took Tyler to military school. Did you know about that?”

  “Oh, yeah,” said Pink. “He told me he was going.”

  “He did? He never mentioned it to me.”

  “Maybe he thought you had enough to worry about. He’s had nothing but trouble with that kid,” Pink said irritably.

  “Anyway,” said Lillie, “this is going to come as a shock to you. I know it did to me.”

  Pink stared at her. “What are you talking about?”

  Lillie told him about her encounter with Debbie Partin. Pink got up while she was speaking and sat down on the edge of the ottoman that matched his old club chair. He held the photo album on his lap and ran his fingers in and out of the embossed grooves on the cover.

  “And these pictures?” he said.

  Lillie got up and sat on the arm of the club chair. “I’m gonna put the best one we’ve got of her in the paper and ask people to call us with information. People who don’t want to go to the police. Like Debbie Partin. You see what I’m saying?” She put a hand on Pink’s shoulder. “There was somebody else. And somebody may be walking around town this very minute who knows about it. But they might be afraid to go to the sheriff.”

  Pink sat silently for a moment, his chest heaving, as if trying to catch his breath. “This is a nightmare,” he whispered at last. “A goddamn nightmare.” He shook his head and ran one freckled hand over his thinning hair. “Why did this have to happen to us?” He stood up abruptly, and shiny photos fluttered around him to the floor. He went over and opened the window. “How long have you been cooped up in here?” he asked.

  “Pink,” said Lillie. “We need to do something.”

  He turned back to her. “What can we do? We have to let the sheriff take care of it.”

  “Didn’t you hear me? Don’t you care?” she demanded.

  “About my little girl being killed?” Pink cried, his wide face reddening. “Well, what the hell do you think? How could you ask that of me?”

  “You’re right, Pink. I’m sorry. You’re right.”

  “We can’t look for a killer. For God’s sakes. It’s all I can do to keep this family from falling apart. I come home and I’m afraid of what I’ll find. Afraid I’ll find you’ve gone off the deep end. You don’t eat half the time. You don’t sleep. Let the police take care of their job. You have to start taking care of yourself, Lillie. And what about Grayson? And me?”

  “I’m home,” came a voice from the kitchen. Pink’s head jerked up, startled. Lillie frowned down at the fistful of pictures she was holding.

  “We’re in the den, son,” Pink called out.

  Grayson appeared at the door of the den and looked in at his parents. “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Gray,” Lillie said stubbornly. “Maybe you can help. It seems as if that Partin boy didn’t kill Michele after all. Maybe there was someone else. Someone who didn’t like her, that you can think of. Maybe someone who was mad at her for something.”

  Grayson was taken aback. “I don’t know,” he said.

  “Try and think, honey. Did she ever mention anything like that?” Lillie persisted.

  “How do you know it wasn’t Partin?” Grayson asked.

  “It’s a long story,” Pink interrupted. “There’s no proof of anything yet. Let’s not get all worked up. How was your day at school?”

  “Great,” said Grayson. “I was nominated for student council vice president.”

  “That’s wonderful, son,” Pink exclaimed. “Won’t that look fine on your record. And then, if you win this one, senior year you can shoot for president.”

  “I think I’ve got a good chance,” said Grayson. “The election’s in two weeks and all the kids are feeling sorry for me because of Michele.”

  “Grayson!” Lillie cried. “How can you say that?” She felt as if his words had slapped her in the face.

  Grayson looked startled at his mother’s tone. “What?”

  “He’s thinking like a politician,” Pink said soothingly. “You’ve got to be a realist about these things, Lillie. There is such a thing as a sympathy vote.”

  Lillie stared at them both. “Is that all you can think about Michele’s death? That it’ll get you votes in a school election?”

  Grayson shook his head incredulously. “Well, of course not, Mother. I was just proud of being nominated. The only reason I mentioned it was because I thought it would make you proud, that you’d be pleased.” He looked around the room at the scattered photos of his sister. “I thought you might be glad to have something else to think about, but I guess I was wrong. I’m sorry I bothered you about it.”

  “She doesn’t mean it like that,” Pink assured him hurriedly.

  “Grayson,” Lillie said in a trembling voice, “I did not mean that your news wasn’t important. But to speak of your sister’s death as if it were some kind of lucky advantage you have…”

  “Sorry,” said Gray. “I only meant that there are a lot of people who liked her at the school, and they’d probably vote for me just because of her. If that’s wrong, I’m sorry. That’s all I meant. I never dreamed you’d take it any other way.”

  “Well, maybe I misunderstood,” Lillie said wearily.

  “Come on, come on,” said Pink. “We’re all tired. We’re all on edge.”

  “I’ve got a campaign meeting tonight,” said Grayson. “I’m gonna make a sandwich. Unless you fixed something?” He looked back at Lillie expectantly. “Or shall I fix y’all one too?”

  Lillie felt the familiar stab of guilt. She had been too absorbed in the revelation about Ronnie Lee Partin. And she had no appetite. But that was no reason to keep neglecting them like this.

  “Stay put, son,” said Pink. “I’ll run down to the Country Kitchen and pick up some catfish and hush puppies. We’ll sit down
together and eat for a change.” Grayson was poised in the doorway. Pink saw the expression in Lillie’s eyes start to drift again. “Come on, Lillie,” he said irritably. “We all have to eat.”

  Lillie looked at her husband helplessly. “I hate sitting down in there,” she said. “Seeing her empty chair…”

  “Grayson,” said Pink. “Go take Michele’s chair out to the garage. Go on.”

  “Yessir,” said Grayson.

  “Gray,” Lillie said. The boy stopped and looked at her. “I didn’t mean to spoil it for you. I think it’s great you were nominated. Really I do.”

  Gray raised one silky eyebrow skeptically, but his voice was pleasant. “Well, I’m grateful.”

  Lillie looked at her husband. “Pink, I didn’t mean to put him down. It’s just that the way it came out sounded horrible to me.”

  Pink looked at his watch. “I believe I’ll run get that catfish right now. Let’s get this supper on the table.”

  He doesn’t want to discuss it, Lillie thought. He never does. He just wants this whole ugly mess to go away. But it’s not going anywhere. She looked down at the pile of pictures at her feet and suddenly felt exhausted. I’ll clean them up later, she told herself. She heard Pink slam the back door. Dragging herself to her feet, she decided to go into the kitchen and put out the plates for supper. That way they could sit right down when he got home with the catfish. She walked to the kitchen and reached the door just in time to see the legs of Michele’s chair disappearing out the back, leaving black scuff marks across the tiles where Grayson had dragged it away.

  Chapter 8

  EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, after a stop at the local doughnut franchise, Lillie arrived at the office of the newspaper, the Cress County Courier. The office was located on Route 31 alongside a dozen or so other businesses with parking lots and neon-lighted signs that prospered on the highway strip between Felt and Welbyville. The newspaper occupied a one-story building with a tinted glass front and a broad-shingled eave. The adjoining business, which shared a common wall and a parking lot, was a Radio Shack, and the hum of the word processors in the newspaper office seemed to ride a constant, muffled bass line.