These Sheltering Walls: A Cane River Romance

by Hathaway, Mary Jane

  “I don’t want to talk about that,” he said. The thought of Henry was like a white hot pain, and wrapped around that pain was confusion, and now on top of that, fury crackled and sparked.

  Reisler wrote a quick note in his folder full of papers, keeping an eye on Gideon the whole time. “We might come back to her later.”

  “Am I under arrest?” He was so tired. He’d called Tom right after he’d called the police. Gideon had explained, and then told him he was sorry. He didn’t remember what Tom had said.

  “See, the crime points to you. This kind of circumstantial evidence can get you a life sentence. Or, another one, if we’re being accurate. Maybe this time they won’t let you out early for good behavior.”

  Gideon said nothing, simply waited.

  “But we also recovered other prints from the scene.”

  “From the scene? Or from the body?” Gideon knew the police would never offer that kind of information without a reason.

  “From your accomplice. If you testify against him, or give up the details of the dealers you were working with, we could cut you a deal.”

  “I didn’t do anything. I don’t know how Sandoz ended up in my house.”

  “This offer won’t stay on the table forever.” Reisler watched him closely. When it seemed clear Gideon wasn’t going to offer any information, he said, “Between your family’s history of drug dealing, the arson situation, and Barney Sandoz, you’re our number one suspect.”

  “Officially?” Gideon knew that if they named him as an official suspect, it was only a matter of time before he was charged.

  “Go home,” Reisler said, not answering him. “But don’t leave town.”

  Gideon stood up and walked out of the room without another word. His life had fallen apart in the space of just a few days and there was nothing he could do to put it back together again. He had no options left. Pointing fingers would make the people he cared about targets. Fighting the charges might expose the shameful details of how his parents died. As he left the station, walking past the stares and the whispered comments from the officers, he tried to think on the bright side. He’d survived prison once. He would manage to carve out a life for himself behind bars again.

  Stepping into the sunlight, he knew there was one big difference this time. As a fifteen year old kid, he hadn’t known how much he would missing. This time, Gideon understood with a blinding and painful clarity everything― and everyone― he was leaving behind.

  His cell phone rang and he pulled it from his pocket, glancing at the number on the screen. “No,” he whispered. But he had no choice but to answer.

  “Hello, Jeffrey.” He hoped he sounded confident. The head of the Natchitoches historical Society also served on the board of directors for the archives, the same board that took a chance and hired an ex con straight out of prison three years ago.

  “Gideon, we think it’s best if you don’t come back until all this is sorted out,” Jeffrey Powell said. He didn’t sound like his jovial self. Even over the phone, Gideon could feel the change in their friendship. It was strictly business now.

  “I can assure you that it won’t affect my work at the archives. My job has my complete focus and it always has.” Gideon could hear the panic in his own voice.

  “You have to understand that when we hired you, it was on the understanding that there would never be any other legal trouble. This is a very serious situation. We have to think of the public.”

  “I know. I agree,” Gideon said. His heart was pounding so hard he could barely talk. He leaned against the side of the station and tried to keep focused on the conversation. Being interrogated by the police didn’t bother him. The whispers and pointed glances in the station didn’t bother him. The threat of losing the one place he had left, the one place that had given him a sense of worth and dignity, brought him to his knees.

  “We met early this morning and decided it’s the right thing to do for the archives. It’s already decided.”

  “Jeffrey, please…” The Cane River collection was half gone and his project on hold. The archives were all he had left. His job was his distraction, the one thing that kept him sane.

  “Let us know if the police clear you from the list of suspects. Until then, we’ll have Bernice explain to anyone who inquires that you’re on a leave of absence,” he said, a note of regret in his voice. “Again, I’m sorry, Gideon,” he said, and the line disconnected.

  Gideon made his way back to his car, got inside, dropped his phone onto the passenger seat and stared out the windshield. He felt himself becoming unmoored, like a boat drifting away from the pier. All his worst fears were coming true and it felt worse than he ever could have imagined.

  He put the car in gear and headed home, or the place he once considered home but was now the place Barney Sandoz took his last breath. One day he’d been secure in the life he’d built in Natchitoches, the next he was fifty years from shore, aimless and lost. He wasn’t sure who he was without his work.

  He was almost out of Natchitoches when he noticed the gas gauge hovering near empty. He pulled into a run-down little station on a side street and got out. He could see a young man at the counter and as he came closer, something in his expression made Gideon’s hackles rise. Casually glancing around, he saw a car pull into the lot. Pushing the door, the little brass bell tinkled a welcome but the kid stood frozen behind the counter, his irises ringed with white. Gideon took one cautious step, then another, all his senses focused on the man who exited the car behind him.

  “Well, well. Lookey what the cat dragged in.” Now that he was closer, it took Gideon less than a second to understand what he was facing. The prison tattoos that covered both arms and part of his neck were horribly familiar.

  Gideon moved slightly to the side so he could reach the door knob or the handle of a dirty mop that rested in a bucket, depending on whether he needed an exit or a weapon. The man came closer, stroking his long beard, thick fingers showing tattoos on every knuckle. Gideon didn’t break eye contact even as the kid behind the counter hurried away.

  “Have we met?” Gideon asked. It was a rhetorical question. The purpose of the gang tattoos were so that a person would be welcomed or feared without having to be introduced. A name could hold power, but Gideon didn’t need to know it.

  “We got friends in common,” he said.

  Gideon shifted his weight toward the mop, trying not to think of how the police would react if he beat someone within minutes of being interviewed about a murder.

  “My buddy Duane and me, we shared bunk space for prit’ near ten years,” he said.

  A jolt of recognition went from the top of Gideon’s head to his toes. He barely breathed.

  “Ya really gets to know a man in prison. His hopes, his dreams. How he gonna spend his first few weeks of freedom.” The man couldn’t hold back a smirk. “Somebody snitched on my buddy Duane and he been waitin’ more’n twenty five years to even the score.” He stepped closer. “Well, Duane is ready. Just as soon as he gets out, he gonna find that snitch. He coulda got away with it. The only witness,” he leaned close and whispered the rest, “was some little kid who didn’t remember anythin’ much.”

  Gideon felt cold sweat trickle down his back. For the second time in an hour, he found himself back in that dark place. He remembered the sound of his daddy’s shouts and his mother pleading and Katie Rose’s crying and the river. The river, how it roared in his ears, rushing above his head and under his feet, endlessly swirling in the darkness, tugging at his pajamas, tumbling him under branches and into the banyan roots along the bank.

  “Duane, he takes his plan real serious ‘cause his friend Mark didn’t get the chance to get that snitch. Somebody took him out before he could track him down, see? And maybe this guy is comin’ for him, too. Maybe he better do them both, so he covers all his bases.”

  Gideon knew there was no point in explaining that he’d been wrong to kill Mark Daniels and that he had no plans to kill Duane
Banner. Without breaking eye contact, he took a step backward, then another. The man didn’t move, but his smile widened. Gideon felt the knob of the door under his hand and flicked his gaze to the anti-theft mirror over the counter. The path to his car was clear as far as he could tell. He turned the knob, stepped to the side, and backed out. The man didn’t follow, but let out a low chuckle as the door swung closed.

  Gideon scanned the empty lot, his heart pounding. His palms were slick with sweat. He inhaled and smelled the prison cafeteria. He could almost see the green bean casserole, overbaked tater tots, the plastic forks and knives. Gideon pulled his keys from his pocket and flicked open his Swiss Army knife, still scanning the area, adrenaline pumping through his system.

  He backed toward his car, glanced into the back seat, almost certain he’d see someone crouched behind the driver’s seat, or a dead body. Nothing. He slid behind the wheel and locked the doors. Within seconds he was pulling away, breathing shallowly, watching his rear view mirror.

  They had been following him, waiting for the right moment to threaten and intimidate. They. He wasn’t even sure who they were.

  Gideon turned onto the highway and headed home. The roads were clear ahead and behind him, but his heart was in his throat. Duane was getting out of prison in a week and he was going to murder someone else. And not just anyone. He was going to kill the person who made sure that Gideon’s family got justice, and then he was going to come for Gideon. Again.

  ***

  It hadn’t taken very long to clean up the mess. The broken chair and side table were piled behind the house. There hadn’t been any blood on the pine floors, but there was a lot of fingerprint dust on the surfaces. The police and coroner had tracked in dirt but that was easy to vacuum. In a few hours, it looked pretty much the same as it had before but it didn’t feel like his home anymore. There were very few places he had felt at home, but this old farm house had been one of them.

  His rocked slowly in his favorite chair, trying to calm the chatter in his head. The sun streamed through the old leaded windows over the door and he watched the dust motes swirl with the tiny currents of air.

  The sound of a car pulled him out of his thoughts. He leaned forward and watched through the screen door as a car drove slowly down the dirt road that led to his house. In minutes, Tom was walking up the steps and letting himself inside.

  Tom settled into the couch and let out a sigh. “You okay?”

  “Still here.”

  “You look tired,” Tom said. “You need to sleep.”

  Gideon didn’t answer.

  “Have you eaten anything? I can make some breakfast.”

  “Not hungry.”

  Tom leaned forward and said, “Talk to me. You found a dead guy in your house and you’re acting like everything is normal.”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “I want you to tell me how you feel,” Tom said without any hint of sarcasm.

  “There’s nothing to say. Someone dropped a dead body in my house and now I’ve lost my job. How do you think I feel?”

  “They fired you?”

  “On leave. The same thing, really.”

  “Gideon, I’m so―”

  He held up his hand. “Don’t.” He just couldn’t bear the sympathy right then. “I understand why they did. It looks bad. And there’s nothing I can say to change their minds.”

  “You seem pretty resigned.”

  “I can’t expect them to look any closer than what they saw on the news.”

  “Why do I get the impression you know a lot more about this murder than you’re saying.”

  “You think I’m involved?”

  “Involved covers a lot of territory. You didn’t kill him, but I’d bet you know who did.”

  “I don’t.” There was no way he was going to speak his suspicions out loud.

  He sat back and watched Gideon for a moment. “Remember when we camped out on that bench in front of Henry’s apartment?”

  “Of course,” Gideon said.

  “You told me that I understood why you were there because I knew what darkness there was in the world, what kind of evil walks beside us. You don’t need to protect me, Gideon.”

  “This is different. The less you know, the better.”

  “And how about the police? Are you protecting them, too?” Tom asked.

  “If I say anything, it will get back to the people who did this. There’s no way the police can guarantee anyone’s safety. Even twenty five years later.”

  “What do you mean? You think this is related to your family’s murder?”

  Gideon rubbed his face, surprised for a moment when he didn’t feel his beard. “Forget it. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “No. Explain yourself.” Tom was the friendly one, the guy everyone felt comfortable with, the one the old men wanted to take fishing and the young women wanted to bake cookies. But at that moment, Gideon saw a fierceness in him that harkened back to the childhood spent hiding from a drunk, violent father.

  Gideon shrugged and told him about the gas station, the convict, the threat. He could hear the lack of emotion in his own voice and part of him worried. The other part knew it was better if he didn’t feel anything at all. He had an unpleasant task ahead.

  “You need to tell the police what you know. They’ll find the informant and give them extra protection,” Tom said. “You’ll have to keep your eyes peeled. Maybe move temporarily until they get him back in jail.”

  Gideon shook his head. Police could only do so much. Retraining orders were just pieces of paper. Duane would just wait for another chance.

  “You have to do something. You can’t just ignore it,” Tom said. Then he seemed to understand and he shot out of his chair. “You’re not― You can’t.”

  “I don’t have any choice.”

  Tom raked his hands through his hair and paced the room. “That’s not true, Gideon. We’ve been through this. Both of us. And this time I won’t stay quiet.”

  “Do what you have to do. I’ll do what I have to do.”

  “Stop acting like this isn’t wrong,” Tom shouted.

  “Someone has to stop him.”

  “But not that way. Not by taking his life. It’s a mortal sin.”

  “It’s nothing I haven’t done before,” Gideon said.

  “And what, you’re just going to say you’re sorry after? It doesn’t work that way and you know it.”

  “I knew what I was doing the first time.” Gideon remembered the first time Tom insisted he could ask forgiveness for Mark’s murder. Gideon had laughed in his face.

  “You didn’t completely understand the ramifications of your actions. You didn’t have a full grasp of the spiritual stakes. You were fifteen and a victim of a violent crime yourself. Knowing you would face a court of law and knowing you were committing a sin are totally different things.” Tom stopped in front of him, despair etched on his face. “But now you do.”

  He’d never really felt like anything but a murderer. He would miss this house, his quiet life, his little creature comforts. Fresh brewed coffee, long walks in the evenings, his favorite chair. But he’d always known, deep down, he couldn’t stay. “I don’t think I can drive out of town without being stopped by the time I get to New Orleans but I bought plane tickets. Return trip so it didn’t raise any suspicions.”

  “Tickets. You bought tickets.” Tom closed his eyes for a moment. “You’re not thinking straight, Gideon. You had a huge shock when you found Barney dead in your house. And now this guy shows up and tells you Duane Banner is going to kill someone and come after you. I know you hate it when I talk psychology, but I’m absolutely certain you have PTSD.”

  Gideon shot him a look. Of all the times, he really didn’t want to discuss Tom’s ideas about his mental state right now. “Post traumatic stress disorder? I disagree. But even if I did, it wouldn’t keep from seeing what I need to do.”

  “You’ve never gone through any therapy or talked about
what happened to your family, or what you did, or what happened in prison. You don’t understand it affects your view of the future, of your relationships, of your own worth. In prison, you were always on guard and ready to fight. You could trust your first instincts and you survived, but you can’t trust them right now. Not in the real world.”

  Gideon didn’t bother to respond. If he couldn’t trust his instincts, then he wasn’t even sure why they were talking. They were all he had.

  “I’ve never forced you out of the bubble you lived in because you seemed like you were doing okay, but this is self-destructive, maybe even suicidal. It’s wrong, Gideon.”

  “I’m not afraid of dying. I never have been.”

  Tom stropped pacing. “I know that. And that wasn’t natural, either. But I let it go because you didn’t seem like you were going to harm yourself.” He stared at the ceiling. “Okay, let’s say that guy is lying. Maybe Banner has changed and only wants to live a good life, and the guy is gunning for him. You’d be playing right into his hands.”

  “I can’t take that chance.”

  “What about Vince and Sally? What about Austin?”

  Austin had been wary, cautious. He wouldn’t be too surprised when he heard what Gideon had done. But Sally would. She’d never stopped loving him and Vince had always believed he could change. “I can’t worry about what they’ll think.”

  “So you’re willing to go to prison again?”

  “I don’t have anything left to lose. The board suspended me this morning. Everyone already thinks I’m guilty. So, if it means saving this person’s life, then yes. If it means keeping I care about safe, absolutely.”

  He could see Tom mentally changing direction but he still wasn’t ready when he said, “Have you asked Henry what she’d want?”

  Gideon felt a rush of pure anger quickly replaced by the same dull ache he’d felt since the fire. “She’s still not speaking to me. She won’t after this. And that’s fine. I wasn’t really meant to live out the rest of my days here. I was doomed a long time ago, maybe from the beginning.”