A Judgment of Whispers

by Sallie Bissell

  “That was amazing,” Grace said. “He’s only ever earned money for cutting my grass.”

  “Makes them feel self-reliant,” William Carson replied. “Getting paid to do something.”

  “Have you worked with autistic people before?”

  “In my former life I taught teachers how to teach. Special needs students were a large part of our curriculum.”

  “How did you wind up here?’

  William Carson smiled. “I came up here from Nashville for a long weekend and fell in love with the place. Shortly after I retired from teaching, this store went up for sale. I pounced.”

  “And you’ve never looked back?”

  “Not once.” His eyes crinkled up behind his glasses. “This truly has turned out to be a new Eden. For me, anyway.”

  Suddenly Zack appeared in the doorway. “All done,” he said, grinning proudly.

  William Carson went to check his work, then came back and opened his cash drawer, handing twelve quarters to Zack. “You did a good job,” he said. “Maybe you can help me out again sometime.”

  Zack nodded, pocketing his wages and hurrying over to the pinball machine. As he started firing the silver balls, Grace checked her messages via Wi-Fi. None from Mary Crow, thank God. Then she took her basket and shopped for necessities—toilet paper and wine, a pound of bacon and some of the fresh tomatoes William had bragged about. After that, she headed to the cash register.

  “Are you enjoying the Burton cabin?” asked Carson as he rang up her purchase.

  Grace flinched—their location was supposed to be secret. “How did you know we were there?”

  He grinned. “Just a little downside to Eden. The local gossip grapevine swings pretty wide.”

  She swallowed hard, suddenly nervous. “What else did the grapevine reveal about us?”

  “That you’re wealthy, from North Carolina, and that your son

  is … different.”

  “It got two out of three things right,” replied Grace.

  “You’re not from North Carolina?”

  “No, I’m from North Carolina and Zack is different. But I’m about as far from wealthy as you can get. I’m a painter.”

  “Really?” He smiled, interested. “What do you paint?”

  “Landscapes, mostly,” Grace answered truthfully at first, then added a lie. “Which is why we’re here. We’re friends with the Burtons and I’m doing some painting, up in the forest.”

  “And you probably don’t wish to be disturbed,” said William.

  She didn’t know how to answer him—probably they shouldn’t make friends with anybody up here, but some nights she would give anything to hear another voice besides the ones coming from Zack’s videotapes.

  “I’ve put you on the spot,” William said quickly. “I apologize.”

  “No, it’s not that. It’s just that Zack doesn’t deal that well with strangers.”

  “I understand.”

  “But don’t please don’t tell anybody that,” she added. “People have been so friendly to us.”

  “How about I just don’t add to the gossip one way or the other,” said William. “And you and Zack can go at your own pace.”

  “Thank you,” said Grace, grateful. “That would probably be best.”

  She paid for their groceries and they started the mile-long walk back to the cabin.

  “I like Mr. Carson,” said Zack, her two bottles of Merlot clanking together in his backpack. “He doesn’t smackertalk.”

  “I know. He was nice to give you a job.”

  “I did a good job too,” he added proudly.

  “Yes, you did.”

  They walked down the main road, the sun warm on their backs. Zack spotted a turtle crossing the pavement and ran to move it off the road.

  “Mama, can we stay here?” he asked when he returned to walk beside her.

  “Where?”

  “Here. In this town. We get to walk around. Go places. It’s fun.”

  “I’m sorry, honey, but I don’t think we can stay.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because our home is in North Carolina. My job is there and Clara is waiting for you to come back.”

  “But I like it here better. Adam moved away; couldn’t we move away too?”

  She sighed, her own backpack suddenly growing heavy. What could she tell him? That life wasn’t that simple? That teaching jobs were scarce and making a living as a full-time painter was virtually impossible?

  “No, honey. We just don’t have the money.”

  “So we’ll have to go home?”

  “Eventually.” She suddenly wished she could tell him her dream instead of their reality. That the DNA on those underpants would be someone else’s, and they would go home to find that people had forgiven him for being different, forgiven her for trying to protect him from the viciousness of rumor. But she doubted that would happen—hate was a hard habit for people to break. But what not even Zack knew was that if his DNA showed up on those underpants, they would not be going home at all. They would walk up to Carson’s store one last time. She would buy chocolate milk and chocolate ice cream and make a big milk shake with it. Then she’d empty all the bottles of tranquilizers she’d brought into it. Then she and Zack would curl up in front of that fancy TV and fall into one final, deep sleep as they watched videos of other people’s lives, where husbands remained true, boys grew into healthy men, and little girls like Teresa Ewing weren’t allowed outside after dark.

  Thirty-Nine

  Victor Galloway watched through the two-way mirror as Butch Russell squirmed in his chair, trying to find a comfortable position to sit in. He’d been transferred to the Justice Center from the hospital, where he’d been treated for a gunshot wound to his left buttock and blood poisoning brought on by Two Toes McCoy’s herbal remedy.

  “Did you tell him that the DNA test came back inconclusive?” Victor asked Buck Whaley, who stood beside him.

  “Nobody’s getting that information,” replied Whaley. “Word from the boss.”

  “Cochran?”

  Whaley looked at him as if he were stupid. “Turpin.”

  “But that report came in days ago,” said Victor. “I gave it to Cochran myself.”

  “Turpin’s put out a gag order.” Whaley turned his attention back to Russell, who fidgeted as if fire ants were hatching in his trousers. “Anyway, it gives us a little more leverage if nobody knows we don’t have shit.”

  Victor frowned. “Did the other guy ever turn up? The used car guy?”

  “Saunooke and Riley brought him in yesterday, from Florida. He’d been hiding out at his mother’s.”

  “Cochran told me Two Toes buried the underpants.”

  “Two Toes was helping his disciple Janet pack up to move. They found the panties hidden in the back of Butch’s closet. Janet freaked out, realizing that her precious baby might be a killer. Two Toes had to slap her to calm her down. Finally he told her he would take care of them.”

  “But why bury them?”

  “Something to do with his loony religion. He told her it would make peace with the tree, since that’s where we found the girl. The sandwich bag was from Janet Russell’s kitchen, the tobacco from Two Toes’s pack of smokes.”

  “But how did Butch Russell get them in the first place? Did he kill the girl?”

  “He says he didn’t, but he did finally admit that they were playing strip poker. Teresa agreed to do it, but only if they got rid of Zack Collier. She was afraid of him.”

  “What then?”

  “Teresa had just lost her underpants when Two Toes showed up and started throwing his knife around. The kids grabbed their clothes and scattered. Russell and McConnell snatched Teresa’s panties as they left.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “According to Rus
sell, McConnell took them home. Then when the girl went missing and things got serious, he gave them to Butch for safekeeping.”

  Victor frowned. “And Butch kept them for twenty years?”

  “He was scared to get rid of them when the case was hot. After that, he got all weird and paranoid about them. He admitted he’d jerked off into them a couple of times. I’m guessing McConnell probably had too. That’s why they freaked when this blew up again. Russell knew the new DNA techniques are light years beyond the ones in ’89.”

  “So they needed a scapegoat and chose Collier,” said Victor.

  Whaley gave a weary sigh. “Einsteins, they ain’t.”

  “Has Russell fingered anybody for the murder?”

  “The only thing Russell says it that it wasn’t him. That’s the one part of this stupid story he’s never waffled on.”

  Victor walked out of the Justice Center, frustrated. He’d had cases wash out before—key witnesses had been scared out of testifying, or the definitive piece of evidence simply wasn’t there. But for Turpin to keep this pot boiling just so he could get some votes didn’t seem right. He had little knowledge of politics, but he realized Mary was on to something when she kept talking about transparency in the DA’s office.

  He got into his car and pulled out onto Main Street. Mary had mentioned that she had another luncheon appearance today, but he couldn’t remember where. She’d done the Methodist Women and the Chamber of Commerce—what was it today? He closed his eyes, then it came to him. The big Baptist church that stood in the shadow of the courthouse. Bag lunch with the candidates. He drove east, parked in the lot behind Mary’s office, and walked the two blocks to the church.

  At the back of the building, a number of cars were parked around a door covered with a green canopy. He went over and let himself inside the building, where he heard distant laughter, then applause. He followed the noise down a hall and through some double doors. Suddenly he was standing in the back of a large auditorium where about thirty people sat listening to Mary and Turpin and Prentiss Herbert. He caught Mary’s eye, then took a chair in the back of the room. The stumping went on as usual—Mary talking equality in domestic violence prosecutions while Turpin thunderously accused Mary of defending child-killers and hiding suspects to avoid questioning. As the DA hammered away, Victor grew angry. He wanted to stand up and say, “You’re full of shit, Turpin. You know you don’t have the goods in the Ewing case. Why don’t you just shut the fuck up?”

  But he knew that would certainly cost him his job and probably make things worse for Mary. If his father, a former Golden Gloves champ, were describing this DA race, he would say Mary was swinging hard, trying to land a knockout punch, but Turpin’s little jabs were scoring points with the voters. Prentiss Herbert hadn’t even answered the second bell.

  Finally it was over. Mary shook hands with her opponents and slowly made her way over to him.

  “Agent Galloway.” She smiled as if she hadn’t seen him in weeks instead of this morning, in bed. “What a nice surprise!”

  “Can we go up to your office?”

  “Sure.” Her smile faded. “Why am I thinking you don’t have good news?”

  He shrugged. “It just depends on how you look at it.”

  They hurried up to her office. Ravenel was gone and it wasn’t Annette’s day to work, so they had the place to themselves.

  “Don’t tell me.” Mary gave an edgy laugh. “You’re going back to Rosaria.”

  “Who?”

  “That girl tattooed on your back.”

  He shook his head. “Don’t be ridiculous. This is much more important than Rosaria.”

  “Then you’re going back to Atlanta. They offered you an undercover job in Narcotics.”

  “I’m not going anywhere, Mary.”

  “Then what, Victor? I’ve never seen you look this way.”

  “Remember our talk, when we agreed that there were certain things about our jobs that we couldn’t share?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Well, I need to share this. It may get me in big trouble, but I don’t care.”

  “What?”

  “There’s no DNA that links Zack Collier to that crime. There’s no DNA linking anybody to it. It’s contaminated and inconclusive. Turpin’s sat on that information for a week and will probably continue to sit on it until after the election.”

  She looked at him, incredulous. “Are you kidding?”

  “The report came in last Monday. I didn’t tell you because I assumed you’d hear it from Cochran. Today I found out that Turpin put the clamps on everybody.”

  “Are you sure it’s inconclusive?”

  “Absolutely. Now, I’m going to break the rules again. Do you want to hear Butch Russell’s version of what happened that afternoon at the tree?”

  “Of course I do.”

  He told her what Whaley had gotten from Butch Russell—the strip poker game minus Zack, Two Toes’s arrival, the kids fleeing, Devin and Butch stealing and keeping the underpants. She listened, not missing a beat of what he said. When he finished, she stared at the rug, frowning. Then she spoke.

  “So when Teresa dropped off that casserole, she probably didn’t have her underpants on.”

  “Not if I remember the timeline right.”

  Mary leaned forward. “So maybe after she delivered the food, she went back to the tree to look for them. That’s where she ran into whoever killed her.”

  Victor nodded. “Which now looks like to me like either Two Toes or your boy Zack.”

  “Only we’ll never know,” said Mary.

  “Not from those underpants.”

  “But how did they wind up under the tree twenty years later?”

  “Janet Russell and Two Toes were packing up Butch’s room. Janet found them stashed in his closet and went nuts. Two Toes got rid of them for her.”

  “And buried them,” Mary whispered, remembering the strange little ceremony she and Wilkins had witnessed. She leaned against the edge of her desk, staring at her mother’s tapestry. Then she said, “What time is it?”

  He checked his watch. “One twenty-seven.”

  “Maybe I can still reach Grace.” She reached for her phone. “She goes to some grocery store that has Wi-Fi. If I have news, I’m supposed to call her at one.”

  Mary punched in the number, waited for Grace to answer. When she didn’t, Mary put the phone on speaker and looked for the

  neighbor’s number, thinking she’d call him. But then she remembered she’d told Grace he would show up only if the DNA test was bad. For the first time in two weeks she had good news for Grace, but no way to tell her. She hung up the phone, disgusted.

  “I’ve got to go over there,” she told Victor. “If I leave right now, I can get there by late afternoon. I can tell Grace the news and get back here by midnight.”

  “That’s a pretty intense trip,” he said. “Is there no other way you can reach her?”

  “None that wouldn’t scare her to death. Anyway, if the rest of my life was hinging on a DNA test, I’d appreciate knowing the results as soon as they came in.”

  He stepped over and kissed her. “Can I come with you?”

  “Better not,” she told him. “Her son’s kind of dicey around cops.” She wrapped her arms around him, loving the way he felt next to her. “Victor, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this. And I promise you, nobody will ever find out where it came from.”

  “I’m not worried about that. But I am a little worried about you taking off for the Twilight Land. Especially with that Collier kid there.”

  “The Twilight Land is in Rugby, Tennessee.” She laughed. “Now I have no secrets from you at all.”

  “You take your gun, okay? And come over to my place when you get back.”

  “You’ll be awake?”

  “Awa
ke and waiting,” he whispered, his breath tickling her ear.

  She changed from her beige linen suit into shorts and sneakers and started driving. Traffic was heavy, with carloads of flatland tourists heading into the mountain coolness. She crossed into Tennessee behind a battered Ford with South Carolina plates, two children sticking their feet out the back windows. When she got to the little town of Newport, she pulled into a liquor store and bought a bottle of champagne. Though the DNA test had not exonerated Zack, neither had it nailed him as a child killer. She figured that alone was worth a glass of bubbly.

  She inched through five o’clock traffic in Knoxville. As the sun became a fierce orange ball on the horizon, she turned north. Two hours later she finally arrived at the little cabin that had so divided the Burton family. It nestled under the tall pines serenely, like a child blissfully unaware of the custody battle swirling around it. Mary pulled up beside Grace’s SUV, grabbed the champagne, and hurried to the front door. She knocked loudly, thinking Zack would have the TV or the VCR up full blast, but she heard nothing from inside the house.

  She knocked again. This time she thought she heard footsteps thudding to the door, then running away. “Grace?” she called, wondering if she’d caught Grace in the bathtub and Zack was too shy to open the door. “Grace, it’s Mary Crow.”

  The door opened abruptly, as if Grace had been standing there the whole time. She looked at Mary terrified, a long-handled spoon in one hand.

  Immediately, Mary realized what was wrong. Grace thought she’d come with bad news.

  “It’s okay.” Mary held up the champagne. “The test came back inconclusive. They won’t be arresting him on that evidence.”

  “Oh God.” Grace dropped the spoon and held both hands to her cheeks. “I thought you’d come to get him!”

  “No,” said Mary. “I called you a little past one, but I missed you. They’re learning more about what happened that night, but they still don’t know who killed that little girl.”