by Terry Shames
“Let’s go outside and sit down,” I say.
Although the sun is up, it hasn’t penetrated the back yard yet, and wisps of mist swirl in the wind, close to the ground under the pecan and post-oak trees. The wind has shifted to come from the north and it’s actually chilly, but Dunn, dressed in a T-shirt, seems not to notice.
“How long have you known Jack?” I say.
Dunn runs his hand along his unshaven chin. “Something like fifteen years.”
“How did you meet him?”
It takes him several seconds to answer, as if his thoughts are far away. “His dad brought him to a VA meeting I was running over in Bryan.” He manages a smile. “Belligerent son of a bitch gave me so much shit, I was ready to throw him out. But after I knew him a while his attitude was what I liked about him.” He shakes his head, the smile snuffed out. “Nobody deserves that kind of injury. He always felt that somehow people blamed him. I told him that was ridiculous, but he said the questions people asked him made him feel like that.”
“What kind of questions?”
“Oh, like, wasn’t there some way of identifying vehicles that had been booby-trapped, or wasn’t he wearing body armor. Stuff like that. But what really got to him was people telling him he should trust in God and look on the bright side, and that maybe his wounds were a blessing. What bright side is there to being blind and having a festering wound that won’t heal?”
I shake my head. Sometimes people can’t imagine someone else’s burdens. “Anybody in particular that bothered him?”
Dunn grimaces. “He never mentioned anybody. Probably a good thing. One of us would have had to set them straight.”
“With Bob gone, I expect Jack was worried about what was going to happen to him.”
He groans. “Oh, God, I didn’t even think about that. He was about to get married. I guess I’ll have to go tell her.”
I feel like someone has shoved me backwards. “What are you talking about? Who was he going to marry?”
“That waitress down at the café. Lurleen Zachary. They’d been keeping company for a good while. She wouldn’t marry him, said she liked things just the way they were. But when Jack’s daddy passed, she changed her mind. Jack just told me a couple of days ago. It was going to be awhile before they could make it official. I guess Lurleen never bothered to get a divorce when she and her old man split up. So she had to file and wait for it to go through.”
“I’ll be damned.”
Dunn stands and gestures toward my cup. “You want a warm up?”
While he’s gone, I think about Lurleen’s solicitous way with Jack down at the café last week. I don’t remember her at Bob’s funeral, though. But why would I? And then I think about Woody’s plan to rescue Jack from his troubles. Jack getting married would have put a kink in that notion.
Dunn comes back and looks at the darkening sky. “We’re about to get a storm. I guess I better get on down to Lurleen’s. Do you know her?”
“Just from the café.”
“How about if you come along?”
“Not on that cycle, I’m not, but I’ll follow you.”
Lurleen lives in a rusted out aluminum trailer on the other side of the railroad tracks directly east of the café. It’s on a regular size lot, and looks like it has been there so long it has taken root. A makeshift wooden ramp leads up to the front door.
Dunn says, “The boys and I built that ramp.”
There’s no reason I should have known about the relationship. Jack and Lurleen are another generation entirely. Still, I like to keep up with the business of the town. I wonder if Loretta knows what was going on.
“They were real quiet about it so her ex-husband wouldn’t find out and try to take the kids away.”
Jack’s disability check would have taken a financial strain off Lurleen. And it would have been nice for Jack to have a family. Whoever killed Jack took away hopes and dreams along with him.
When Lurleen opens the door, she’s already dressed for work in her dull gold uniform. She’s got a sweet, round face, with soft brown eyes. The lines around her eyes are deep for a woman her age, a hint of the hard life she led before she kicked her husband out. Behind her I hear kids squabbling. She looks distracted and flustered. “Walter, what are you doing here?”
“Lurleen, why don’t you step out here for a minute,” Dunn says.
“I don’t really have any time right now. And look at that sky. It’s going to pour before too long.” But then the gentleness of his voice registers with her. She looks at me and realizes something is wrong. Her hand goes up to her throat, a gesture women make when they sense bad news coming.
Her eyes widen. “Just a minute,” she says. She pokes her head back inside. “You kids get ready for school. Right now. I mean right now.” She closes the door behind her and stumbles a little.
Dunn reaches out and steadies her.
“Is this something about Jack?”
“It’s bad news, Lurleen.”
Her face closes up. “How bad? What happened?”
“He’s gone.”
She gives a little whimper. “Oh, Sweet Jesus, this can’t be. What happened?”
Dunn glances at me to fill her in. “I’m sorry,” I say. “Jack’s nurse called me about three o’clock this morning and I went over there and . . .” I hesitate, not wanting to say the words. “It looks like somebody killed him.”
Lurleen puts her hands to her face and her shoulders heave. “Killed him! What do you mean? Killed him how?”
“Lurleen, you don’t need to know the details this minute. Just give it some time to sink in.”
“Oh, this is just awful. Poor Jack.” Her head comes back up and her eyes are wild. “Who did it? Who could have done it?”
The door opens and a little boy about six, still dressed in his pajamas, peeks out. “Mamma, Glory won’t let me in the bathroom.”
Lurleen seems not to have heard him. I move past her and take the boy by the hand. “Let’s go see what we can do about this,” I say.
He trots along inside with me. The interior of the trailer is as messy as three kids can make it. At the table sits a boy on the cusp of adolescence, long and skinny. He’s pecking away at a computer, and scowls at me, being at the age where scowling is the only possible response. “Who are you?” he says.
I tell him. “Your mamma could use your help getting your brother and sister off to school.”
“This is Saturday. We don’t have school,” the little one says, and busts out laughing.
“Don’t be a goof,” his big brother says.
I ask the little one his name. “Carlton. I’m six. And he’s Will. He’s twelve.” The older boy glares at his brother as if he’s just divulged a closely guarded secret.
“How old is Glory?”
“She’s eight. Mamma says she’s mean as a snake.”
It’s hard to keep my mouth from twitching in a smile, which provokes an answering grin in the older boy. “Carlton, you’re never going to be much of a poker player,” he says.
“Well, Carlton, I know you’d like it to be Saturday, but it’s not. It’s Wednesday. So let’s see if we can’t get Glory to give up the bathroom.”
“What happened to your leg?” he says, pointing at my cane.
“Carlton, that is none of your nosy business,” his brother says.
I tell him I don’t mind being asked, and I tell Carlton about the cow knocking me down and stepping on it. He’s pleased with the story and looks at me with admiration.
“Carlton, why aren’t you dressed?” a prissy little voice says. I turn and see a pint-sized version of Lurleen, but bossy, with her hands on her hips and a smirk on her face.
“You wouldn’t let me in the bathroom,” the little one says with a hitch in his voice.
“Well now she’s out, so scoot,” I say.
“But . . .” He’s ready to declare war.
“Go, go, go. This is your chance,” I say.
“W
ho are you, and where’s my mamma?” Glory says.
“You two,” I say, including Will in my glance, “Your mamma has had some bad news, and maybe needs you to cut her a little slack.”
Will stands up. He’s taller than I would have thought. “What kind of bad news?”
“She’ll tell you about it in her own good time.”
On the way home I stop by Loretta’s. I’ve just reached her steps when another flash of lightning hits, and the rain turns on like a faucet. Loretta flings open the door. “I saw you drive up. Get on in here before you drown.”
She gives me a towel to dry off as best I can.
“Come on into the kitchen. What brings you out here so early?”
The news about Jack shakes her up. She’s got a son who’s not much older. “I swear I never heard of such a terrible thing. What is this world coming to?”
I don’t have an answer for her on that one.
“You had any breakfast?” Her solution for most things is to ply people with food.
“Just coffee.”
She cracks a couple of eggs into a pan, warms up some coffee cake in her little toaster oven and opens a jar of peach jam. When she sets the plate down in front of me, she sits down to watch me eat and asks about the particulars of Jack’s death. I tell her as much as I think she can stomach.
“We could all be murdered in our beds.” She echoes what every woman of a certain age in Jarrett Creek will say. It’s more a comment about the uncertainty of life than about really being afraid she’ll be murdered.
“I suspect this isn’t a random killing,” I say.
“You mean somebody had it in for Jack? What kind of threat could he be, all lame like he is, not to mention with his eyesight gone?”
“You’ve asked the right question. Either he was a threat or somebody was after revenge.”
“Or his money. I understand he had a good bit put away. That brother of his . . .” Her voice trails away. Loretta doesn’t think people are evil—just misguided.
“Let’s not go off speculating. That’s the job of the police.”
“If Rodell has it in him to investigate properly,” she mutters darkly.
I finish up my breakfast and carry my plate to the sink.
“Leave that,” she says.
I obey, knowing how particular she is about the way chores get done in her kitchen. I pour myself another cup of coffee and sit back down.
“I guess it’s up to Curtis and Marybeth to see to the house,” she says.
“I was just waiting for a decent hour this morning to call Curtis, and then I’ll drive over to College Station and break the news to Marybeth.”
“Yes. You can’t leave it to Rodell. Or his deputies.” She purses her lips.
When the rain lets up, I head back to Jack’s place. It’s harder to locate Curtis than I expected. The phone number on the list in the Harbin kitchen has been disconnected. Information tells me his number is now unlisted. If I were still with the police department, I could demand the number, but the bored little operator isn’t interested that Curtis’s brother has died. I dig around in a kitchen drawer that holds pieces of paper with various scribbles on them, and finally come across one with a number for “The True Marcus Ministry.”
A man answer brusquely, “Marcus Ministry.”
“I’m looking for Curtis Harbin.”
“He’s in Dallas.”
“Who am I speaking with?”
“This is Brother Kittredge. And who might you be?” He has a belligerent tone that aggravates me, but I need to stay cool since I need him to cooperate.
I tell him my name. “I’m wondering if there’s any way I can reach him.”
“He’s at a gun show.”
I wait for more, since this doesn’t tell me how I can get in touch with Curtis, but silence prevails. “Well, there’s a problem. His brother has died, and I need to get in touch with him right away.”
“Uh-huh.” He pauses. “You’re talking about his blood brother, not a church brother.”
“That’s right. Do you know where Curtis is staying?”
“Hold on a minute.”
After a long while he comes back and tells me if I’ll leave my number, they’ll contact Curtis and have him get back to me.
I stand at the sliding glass door and watch the rain slash down. I’m thinking it could take a while for Curtis to call back, and I should have left my home number, so I could have waited at my own house. But it isn’t ten minutes before Curtis calls.
“What’s going on? Did I hear this right? Is Jack dead?”
“I’m sorry, Curtis. Somebody killed him.”
“What do you mean killed him?” He sounds more annoyed than upset.
“He was stabbed to death in his bed.” I normally wouldn’t be so blunt, but Curtis and his church brother have rubbed me the wrong way.
“Do they know who did it?”
“Whoever it was didn’t leave a calling card.”
He sighs. “I guess I’ll have to come back down there.”
“There’s no hurry,” I say. “They’ll have to get a medical examiner from Houston to do an autopsy, and it may be a few days before they will release Jack’s body.”
“No, there can’t be an autopsy. My church doesn’t believe in desecrating a body.”
“That’s between you and the police.” I don’t see that it matters much. It’s pretty clear what killed Jack. But Curtis won’t have any say in the matter, regardless.
“I’ll be there as soon as I can. Has anybody called Mother?”
“I’m going over there to tell her in person.”
“I don’t envy you that. Jack was her favorite. She’ll probably go nuts.”
After this unsettling conversation, I’m at loose ends. Where the hell is Rodell? Is he going to investigate Jack’s murder, or just hope whoever did it strolls into the station and confesses?
I don’t have long to wonder because just then Rodell stomps into the kitchen looking like hell. His eyes are bloodshot and that’s just for starters. Despite his long affair with the bottle, he’s usually pretty particular about the way he dresses, but today he looks like he slept in his clothes—in a barn. And there’s dried blood on the side of his face.
I step up closer and peer at the blood. He’s got a nasty cut. “Rodell, what the hell happened to you? Looks like you might need stitches.”
“When did you get your medical license? And what are you doing at a crime scene?” A wave of stale alcohol fumes pours out of him. His ire brings on a coughing fit so hard he doubles over.
“Get over here and sit down.” I lead him over to a kitchen chair and he sprawls into it, almost falling off.
He moans and buries his face in his hands. “I’m a sick man,” he says hoarsely.
“You’re a drunk man.” But in Rodell’s case, both are true. A few months back Doc Taggart told Rodell if he didn’t stop drinking he was going to do major damage to his liver. And for a while Rodell slowed down considerably. But he’s an alcoholic. Slowing down isn’t good enough, and stopping doesn’t seem to be an option. “Where’s James Harley?” I ask.
“I don’t know.” Rodell moans again. Suddenly he lurches up and staggers over to the sink and starts retching. The sight and sound of it calls up memories of my father, who had a long and unsatisfactory relationship with alcohol. That’s probably why I don’t have much patience with Rodell.
I get Rodell to sit back down and then call down to the station, but there’s no answer. Some police department. I call James Harley’s place and get an earful from his wife about the nerve I have disturbing a man who has just come off duty. But she tells me that Bill Odum is the deputy on duty today. Eventually I reach him down at the café and tell him to come get Rodell, that he’s not fit for duty.
I’m about ready to leave to go tell Marybeth about Jack’s death when I stop in my tracks at the front door. A plan has popped into my head. Since Taylor visited me last week, I’ve been thinking a
bout her worries over her sister. Suddenly I see an opportunity has opened up to help Taylor find out what’s going on at True Marcus Ministries.
I call Taylor’s mamma for Taylor’s phone number. I don’t tell her mamma about Jack, because if I get her started, I’ll never get off the phone. She’ll hear the information through the grapevine soon enough.
Taylor isn’t home, but she answers her cell phone. I hear people talking in the background. She says she’s at a spa outside of Dallas.
When I tell her about Jack, she starts to cry and says she’ll call me back in a few minutes. When she gets back to me, I tell her as much as I think she needs to hear, and she cries off and on.
“Listen, this may not be the best time, but I’ve been thinking about your sister.” I tell her my plan.
She’s quiet for several seconds. “You’re right. This would be a good time. I can arrange to get away. I’ll call you back.”
“I’m on my way to give Marybeth the news about Jack.”
“I’m sure she’ll get some good drama out of it,” she says bitterly. “That woman is a piece of work. Always was.”
“Now Taylor, not everybody has as much strength as you.”
I arrive at Marybeth’s apartment at five o’clock, thinking Marybeth probably gets off work sometime after four. I’m surprised when she comes to the door in her bathrobe. She blinks nervously. Her movements are jerky, as if she’s perpetually startled.
“Samuel, what a nice surprise. I’m afraid I’m not dressed for company.” She clutches the robe closed. “I wasn’t feeling good, so I took the day off.”
“I’m sorry to disturb you.”
“It’s okay. I can’t seem to get myself back on track since Bob died.”
And I’m about to throw her even farther off the track. “I need to talk to you Marybeth.”
Even though I try to put a warning in my voice, she doesn’t catch it. She swings the door wide. “Come on in. I’ll just go put some clothes on.” She flits away before I can stop her.
I’ve been in her apartment before. It’s the tiniest place I’ve ever seen, one small room that’s a combined living room, kitchen and dining area, and an even smaller, closet-size bedroom. There’s one window that looks out onto the parking lot. It’s in a building where a lot of students live, close to the Texas A&M University campus. Marybeth works there as a secretary in the research park.
