Unspeakable

by Sandra Brown

  Ezzy looked up at her, surprised. He had been reading a twenty-two-year-old newspaper clipping just last night, the very one from which she had quoted.

  She blushed and seemed embarrassed to have remembered his statement word for word. “I remember reading in the paper that you said that.”

  One of the Busy Bee’s regulars relieved her of the awkward moment by remarking, “Bound to have been those boys. Last anybody saw her alive, she was with them.”

  “Yeah, but she could’ve dropped them off somewhere and picked up another fellow.”

  “Like who?” his friend scoffed.

  “Like anybody. She was wild, they say.”

  “Well, I say that’s a damn slim possibility. Everybody knows they were involved.”

  “Then how’d they get to Arkansas so fast? Tell me that. You ever figure that out, Ezzy? Wasn’t that business in Arkadelphia their alibi?”

  “That’s right.” Leaving the rest of his breakfast unfinished, he stepped off the counter stool. “How much do I owe you, Lucy?”

  She tallied up his bill, and it was so ridiculously low that he doubled the amount and tucked it beneath his plate.

  “Thanks, Ezzy.” She gave him a smile that revealed a gold jaw tooth.

  “You know,” said one of the men behind him, “I was just thinking—”

  “That’s a switch.”

  “Fuck you and the horse you rode in on.”

  “Hey, boys, watch the language,” Lucy remonstrated. “You know the house rules.”

  “Sorry, Lucy. As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted…”

  Ezzy didn’t hear any more. He opened the door, causing the little bell above it to jingle, and let himself out. He pulled on his hat to shade his eyes against the morning sun. The concrete sidewalk was hot beneath his boots as he made his way to the Lincoln. The Stars and Stripes on the pole in front of the courthouse was already drooping from the heat and lack of wind. A lawn sprinkler was clackety-clacking on the plot of grass in front of the Confederate cannon, shooting out a feeble spray that evaporated before the water could find the ground.

  Ezzy’s car felt like a furnace when he got in. He turned on the ignition to get the air conditioner started. The first sound out of the radio was the morning news report. An intensified manhunt was still underway for Carl Herbold and Myron Hutts, recent escapees from the maximum-security prison in Tucker, Arkansas. They were now suspects in the murders of a gas-station owner and his daughter.

  “… leaving a trail of victims in their wake, starting with two prison guards. They’re now implicated in a double murder that took place overnight in the small town of Hemp, Louisiana.”

  Ezzy turned down the sound. He didn’t want to hear about the rape and murder of a fourteen-year-old girl again. Earlier he had watched the story on TV. The man had been discovered dead at his place of business by his wife. She’d gone looking for him when he and his daughter failed to return home from an evening softball tournament in a neighboring town.

  The missing girl’s body wasn’t found until daylight. A Frito-Lay truck driver on the first leg of his route had seen her lying in a ditch. Initial reports were that she had been sexually assaulted before being killed by a gunshot to the back of her head.

  Ezzy cruised the streets of the town, disinclined to return to his empty house. He wondered if Carl had killed that man and his daughter and, if he had, whether he was as proud of it as he had been when Ezzy interviewed him in that Arkansas jail more than twenty years ago.

  “Well, Ezzy, aren’t you a Good Samaritan?” Carl had mocked from behind bars. “Did you travel all this way just to pay me a call?”

  Wearing a bright orange jumpsuit, he had looked as handsome as ever. If anything, his smile appeared more dashing than before. Maybe committing murder had added that extra panache.

  Ezzy had refused to be baited by his false charm. “You’re sinking in a tub of shit, Carl, and there’s an anchor around your neck.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ll grant you I’ve had better days, Sheriff. They’ve got some piss-poor jails up here in Arkansas, let me tell you. Food sucks. Toilet stinks. Mattress is lumpy. No fun at all.”

  “I’m afraid you’d better get used to it, Carl.”

  “Naw, I’ve got me a good lawyer. He’s a freebie, but sharp as a tack. From up north someplace. Has himself a ponytail and an earring. Hates the system. Especially down here in good-ol’-boy country. Thinks all the officials are stupid and corrupt, and I think he’s right. He says they might get me for the holdup, but he’s pleading me out of that killing. It was an accident.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Look, the guy could’ve killed my big brother. I had to pop him first or watch Cecil die.”

  “Save it for the jury, Carl.”

  Carl’s face had turned hard and angry. Brown eyes blazed. “I’m not going to prison for murder, Sheriff. You can write that down. I didn’t go into that store to kill anybody.”

  “Well, even if these fellas here in Arkansas don’t nail you, you’re going away for a long time.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “If you walk out of this, I’m hauling your sorry ass back to Texas to answer for Patsy McCorkle.”

  “That chunky girl? Ugly gal?”

  A horn blasted Ezzy out of his recollection. Realizing that the traffic light had turned green, he waved an apology to the other driver. With nowhere else to go, he headed for the residential neighborhood where he and Cora had lived nearly all their married life.

  He hated the hollow feel of the house as he let himself in. Cora was a small woman; strange that her absence could create such a vacuum. He removed his hat and hung it on a peg near the back door. He went into the kitchen and noticed that he had left the coffeemaker on. He turned it off.

  Then, moving into the hallway, he considered what to do with the rest of the day. Watch TV? He had his choice of inane soap operas, inane talk shows, or inane infomercials. Work in the yard? Too hot. And he wasn’t good at it anyway. Cora claimed that plants saw him coming and committed suicide before he could kill them.

  This interior debate was all for show, a balm for his stinging conscience, because he already knew what he was going to do.

  Fighting the allure no longer, he went into the den and sat down behind a massive rolltop desk that he’d inherited from his daddy. He’d been a railroad man and had used this desk every day of his career. Considering it an heirloom, Cora protected the oak finish with weekly polishing. Ezzy unlocked the slatted top and pushed it open. Lying front and center on the desk was the Patsy McCorkle file.

  He opened it and stared at her senior picture. He remembered how obscene it had seemed to him when Carl Herbold casually referred to her as an “ugly gal.”

  “Before you and Cecil came up here to rob that convenience store and kill yourselves an off-duty policeman, you left Patsy McCorkle down by the river, dead.”

  Carl had stared at him through the bars of his cell, looking for all the world like an innocent man. Finally he threw back his head and laughed. “I don’t know what you’ve been smoking, Ezzy, but you’re fucking crazy.”

  “Everybody who was at the Wagon Wheel that night saw y’all leave with her. I’ve got dozens of witnesses.”

  “You’ve got shit,” Carl had shot back angrily.

  “You and Cecil weren’t with her?”

  “Yeah, we were with her. Or more like it, she was with us. She latched on soon as we walked in. She was drunk. We were getting there. We had some laughs. So what?”

  “I’ve heard y’all were having more than laughs, Carl, that you were putting on quite a sex show.”

  Carl had grinned and winked at him. “You sound sorry you missed it, Sheriff. Wish we’d’ve known you were interested. Cecil and me would have shared Patsy with you. Isn’t Mrs. Hardge giving you any pussy at home?”

  If Ezzy could have reached him through the bars, he might have killed Carl then and saved the State of Arkansas the expense of
putting him on trial and keeping him in their prison system for years. Thankfully, he had quelled his temper and left Carl laughing at his back.

  He had hoped to get more out of Cecil, who wasn’t nearly as cocksure as his younger brother. But Cecil had corroborated Carl’s story. “Yeah, we were dancing with Patsy and all, Sheriff Hardge, but we didn’t go to the river with her. We drove a good part of the night, held up that store at seven-twenty in the morning.”

  That much was true. Ezzy had read the arrest report for the crime, which, ironically, provided the Herbolds with an alibi for Patsy McCorkle. But he’d driven the same route the boys had taken that night. It was just over two hundred and fifty miles. Based on when they were seen leaving the bar, they could have taken Patsy to the river where they had sex with her and still made it to Arkadelphia well before seven-twenty. The time of Patsy’s death, which Stroud had established, didn’t conflict either.

  “Cecil, everybody in that bar saw you and Carl with the girl. I heard the three of you created quite a spectacle, even for that dive. Now don’t try and tell me that after all that fooling around, all that drinking and dancing and foreplay, you didn’t have sex with her.”

  Cecil’s eyes darted about his cell. He glanced past Ezzy at the jail guard. He chewed his inner cheek. “Okay, okay. She, uh, got me off. With her hand. Under a table there at the Wagon Wheel.” He ducked his head and smothered an aw-shucks laugh. “Damnedest thing I’ve ever done. All those people no more than a few feet away, and there’s my dick, flapping around under the table. But that was Patsy. She’d do anything for laughs.”

  “And later?”

  “Later?”

  “What did you and Patsy do for laughs later?”

  Cecil got nervous then and started gnawing on his thumbnail. “What did Carl say?”

  “Carl said y’all parted ways outside the bar.”

  “Yeah, that’s right,” he said quickly. “We drove to Arkansas and realized we were hungry and since we didn’t have any money we decided to hit that store.”

  “And wound up killing a cop.”

  “We didn’t know he was a cop. Stupid asshole pulled a gun on us. What was Carl supposed to do? He had to protect us from getting killed, right, Sheriff? Sheriff?”

  But Ezzy had already turned his back on him and was on his way to talk to the county prosecutor handling the case. He was barrel-chested and red-headed. His florid cheeks looked like balloons about to burst. “Sorry, Sheriff, uh… what was it?”

  “Hardge.”

  “Sheriff Hardge. I sympathize with your situation. I surely do. I know you’d like to close the books on your case down yonder. But if I submit these boys to that kind of testing to help clear your case, I’m liable to lose mine. At the very least it would give their lawyers a basis for appeal. They could scream violation of rights. You know defense lawyers these days. Bet they’re as bad in Texas as they are here. They pull bullshit out their asses all the time, and felons go back on the streets. If I was to grant your favor, these boys might even get their trials dismissed altogether.” He lit an unfiltered Camel and waved out the match. “Sorry. We got ’em first. They killed one of our own. We’re gonna keep ’em guests of Arkansas for a long time.”

  “All I need is a semen specimen. From both of them. How’s that going to violate their rights?”

  His laugh sounded like a band saw biting into a two-by-four. “Jacking off in a jar? Somebody asks me to do that, I’d consider it a violation of my rights.”

  Chapter Twenty

  “Okay, but don’t back up.”

  “I promise I won’t.”

  “You’ll stay right there?”

  “Right here. Just remember to kick your legs real hard like you practiced.”

  The water was no higher than David’s waist. Even so, looking apprehensive about the four feet separating him from Jack, he took a huge breath and plunged forward. Several strong kicks later, his splashing hands made contact with Jack’s. Jack pulled him up and helped him regain his footing on the cool silt bottom of the river.

  “Way to go!” Jack gave the boy a high five.

  “I did it!”

  “I knew you could.”

  “Can I do it again?”

  “Anytime you’re ready.”

  David waded back to his starting place. “It was fun last night having ice cream, wasn’t it, Jack?”

  “Sure was.”

  “I wish you were with us all the time. You could sleep in my room.”

  “Don’t you think it would be crowded with both of us?”

  Skimming his hands across the surface of the water, David gave it some thought. His face brightened with a sudden inspiration. “You could sleep with my mom. She’s got a great big bed.”

  Jack hid his smile. “I don’t think so.”

  “Why not, Jack? She probably wouldn’t care.”

  “I just couldn’t do that.”

  “How come?” the boy persisted.

  “Because you’re a family. You, your mom, and your grandpa. I’m not a member of the family.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “What’s that?” Jack held up his hand for quiet. “Sounds like a triangle.”

  “Yeah, that thing.” David made a circular motion with his closed fist as though waving a magic wand. “My mom’s s’posed to use it in case of an emergency.”

  “An emergency?”

  Jack grabbed David’s hand and thrashed through the shallow water to shore. “Quick, put your shoes on. Get your clothes.” Jack scrambled into his jeans and picked up his boots. The triangle had stopped clanging, but Anna wouldn’t have used the emergency signal just for the hell of it.

  Taking David by the hand again, Jack ran through the woods toward the house. Dusk had fallen. They encountered clouds of mosquitoes but were moving too fast for them to light. Jack tripped over a vine and nearly dragged David down with him.

  “How’re you doing?” he called down when he regained his footing.

  “I’m okay, Jack.”

  The heavy, humid air didn’t make for easy running. By the time they reached the clearing, Jack was sucking hard to draw each breath. He paused and looked frantically toward the house. No smoke. A fire in either the house or the barn had been his first fear. The lack of rain had left everything as dry as tinder. One spark could have ignited a dangerous blaze.

  He was relieved not to see one, but something urgent had happened and he still didn’t know what it was. Releasing David’s hand, he sprinted the remaining distance to the house, where he clambered up the front steps and burst through the door. “Anna? Delray? Where are you? What’s the matter?”

  He glanced into the living room, but it was empty. As he came back around he ran squarely into Anna, nearly sent her sprawling, and only prevented it by catching her by the shoulders. “What’s wrong?”

  She pointed him upstairs.

  Jack doubled back, rounded the balustrade, and took the treads two at a time. He reached the second floor in seconds. Delray was lying in the hall, steps from the door to his bedroom.

  Jack knelt down beside him. He was unconscious. Jack dug his fingers into his neck, feeling for his carotid. There was no pulse. “Shit. Don’t die. Not now.” Straddling Delray’s hips, he began administering CPR. He heard Anna and David running down the hallway toward him.

  “David?”

  “What’s wrong with Grandpa?” There were tears and anxiety in the boy’s voice.

  “Ask your mother if she called nine-one-one.”

  “She says she did, Jack.”

  Anna knelt down on the other side of Delray. Jack glanced at her. “You called?” She nodded. “Good. Good,” he said.

  Because if help didn’t arrive soon, Delray wasn’t going to make it.

  * * *

  The doctor was typically guarded. He walked a thin line between glossing over the seriousness of Delray’s condition and unnecessarily alarming those who cared about him.

  “The preliminary tests show s
everal blockages, any one of which would be serious by itself. His blood pressure is at a critical level. Our first order of business is to bring it down and get him stabilized.”

  His diagnosis was translated to Anna through an interpreter. Her name was Marjorie Baker. Both of her parents had been deaf, so sign had been her first language. She was a certified level-five translator and a deaf educator. That’s how she knew Anna. She had worked with her throughout her schooling, then later became her friend.

  Beyond her administrative duties in the public schools, Marjorie Baker was an advocate for the deaf in the rural communities of East Texas. Unlike hospitals in larger cities, this one didn’t yet have a Teletype system for the hearing-impaired to use. Consequently, Ms. Baker had been called immediately after Delray was admitted. She had arrived calm and concerned. Jack liked her instantly.

  “After his blood pressure is under control and he’s stabilized, then what?” she asked, translating the question Anna had signed.

  To his credit, the doctor spoke directly to Anna. “Then bypass surgery is called for. Alternatives to surgery, like angioplasty or putting in a stent, are no longer options, I’m afraid. The blockages are too severe.”

  “Can you do it here?” Marjorie asked.

  “The operation?” When Anna nodded yes, he replied, “No, ma’am. I’m a cardiologist, not a cardiac surgeon. I can refer you to several excellent surgeons in either Houston or Dallas. Whoever you select, we’ll bring him up to speed on Mr. Corbett’s condition and see that he gets all his films, et cetera. It’s done all the time. We make the transfer as easy on you as possible.”

  “Don’t worry about any inconvenience to me,” Marjorie said, speaking as Anna signed. “I want what’s best for my father-in-law.”

  “Of course,” the doctor said.

  “Is Grandpa gonna get well, Jack?”

  “That’s what we’re working on.”

  Ashamed of his tears, David turned toward him and pressed his face against Jack’s thigh. “Can you give them any idea of what his chances are?” Jack asked the doctor.

  “It’s too soon to tell. Honestly,” the doctor added when he read the skepticism in Anna’s eyes. “Right now, his condition is critical. I won’t lie to you and say otherwise. He’s in cardiac intensive care. We’ll monitor him carefully throughout the night. By morning I should be able to give you a more definite prognosis.”