I could have put out my hand and touched his arm. The smallest gesture would have stopped him. But I had no right to make that move, and I let him walk past me without a word.
Scott Hampton was everything I expected. His face, undeniably handsome, seemed fixed in a permanent sneer. His blond hair was gelled back, à la Elvis, giving him a strange dated appearance that was at odds with his eyes, which said he was a man of the moment.
“Mrs. Keys has hired me to prove you didn’t kill her husband.” I didn’t bother to hide the doubt in my tone. Scott Hampton sat on his bunk, rocking slightly to a beat I couldn’t hear. He didn’t inspire compassion or confidence.
“Tell her to save her money.” He stood up and walked to the bars.
I had not been aware of the full measure of his sexuality until he moved. He was a jungle cat, a predator. It was in his walk, in the way he held me with his eyes. He was a dangerous man, and he liked knowing that I knew it. The first hint of a smile touched his lips.
I held his gaze until mine slid down his body, exactly as he wanted it to. The tattoo on his left arm caught my interest. The skull and crossbones looked professionally done, though the black ink spoke of decoration acquired in prison.
“I can’t help you if you won’t help yourself,” I said, finding the words from a million old television shows.
“I don’t want your help,” he countered as he lounged against the bars of the cell. “Give Ida Mae back her money and leave me alone.”
“For some reason, she wants to believe you’re innocent,” I told him. “Maybe she’s crazy, but that’s what she believes.”
“Do you make a living taking advantage of old folks or is this a special case?”
I felt as if he’d slapped me. “Listen, Hampton, if it were up to me, I’d just as soon walk away from this. The sheriff is pretty certain you’re going to Parchman prison for a good, long stretch. You may have done time in Michigan, but that’s kindergarten compared to Parchman.”
“So I’ve heard. Do they still work the inmates in the cotton fields? I might come in handy, singing the blues. Back to the roots of the music, you might say.”
I was suddenly tired. Scott Hampton was a man who buzzed with electricity. He sucked at my energy level. “This may be a joke to you, but I’m not working for you. You can help me or not. Either way it’s up to Mrs. Keys. I’m going to tell her that I think you’re a waste of time, but she decides what happens next.”
“Make her decide to drop this thing,” Scott said, his voice even but his eyes sending all kinds of warnings. He tried to hold my gaze, but a breeze outside the jail caught the branches of an old magnolia tree that stood not far from the statue of Johnny Reb, the bronze image that memorialized all the men who’d given their lives to noble ideals enforced with foolish violence. My gaze locked on the rope that swung so lazily from the graceful branches of the tree, a hangman’s noose on the end.
Scott knew that I saw it and a sound, almost animal, came from him. “Keep Ida Mae out of this. Give her back her money,” he ordered.
“Who put up the noose?” I asked him, my voice only a little shaky. The South is filled with symbols—neon crosses, snakes and their handlers, bedsheets, flags, magnolias, and mockingbirds. But there is none more potent than the noose. Someone had sent Scott a very explicit message, and he knew it.
“Stay out of it,” he said.
“Did you see them?”
“No.”
“Have you told the sheriff?”
“No.” He grinned, daring me to ask more.
“Coleman will find out who did this,” I said. It didn’t matter what Coleman thought about Scott Hampton personally. Someone had broken the law, and in doing so had stirred up the horror and hatred of the past. Someone would pay for that.
“My best advice to you, Ms. Sarah Booth Delaney, is that you keep your nose out of this, and don’t take Ida Mae’s money. She doesn’t have much and she’s going to need what she has to survive this.”
“Tell me one thing, Mr. Hampton,” I said, finding that cool, level voice that I needed. “Did you kill Ivory Keys? If you say yes, I’ll take that answer to Ida Mae and advise her to let it go. But until you confess, she isn’t going to drop this.”
His face was hard, his mouth a thin line. “I’m tried and convicted. If they don’t kill me before the trial, I’m going to Parchman. Some amateur private detective isn’t going to change that at all.”
“Nice dodge. Did you kill Ivory Keys?” I repeated. The least he could do was confess and let Ida Mae off the hook.
His hands grabbed the bars so fast I involuntarily stepped back. The smile that touched his face held satisfaction. “It’s a good thing to be afraid of me,” he said. “A very good thing.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
A native of Mississippi, Carolyn Haines lives in southern Alabama on a farm with her horses, dogs, and cats. She was recently honored with an Alabama State Council on the Arts literary fellowship for her writing. A former photojournalist, she is active in organizations that rescue animals and promote animal rights.
Books by Carolyn Haines
Hallowed Bones
Crossed Bones
Splintered Bones
Buried Bones
Them Bones
Summer of the Redeemers
Touched
SPLINTERED BONES
A Dell Book
Published by
Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2002 by Carolyn Haines
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2001053780 No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.
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eISBN: 978-0-307-42327-6
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