by Parrish, PJ
“I could use some help,” he said.
Her green eyes locked on his for a moment, and he resisted the urge to look around the room to see if anyone was watching them. Then, suddenly, her eyes brimmed with tears.
“Abby—”
She quickly lowered her head. She dug in her knapsack, pulling out a pen and a pad of bright pink paper. She scribbled something, folded it and slid the paper across the table. She looked up, her eyes bright and pleading. Then with one quick move, she gathered up her books and knapsack, rose and ran toward the door.
Louis stared after her, stunned. He reached out and picked up the paper. He unfolded it and read what she had written: I have to talk to you about last night. Meet me on Road 490 at the turnoff to the lake in 20 min.
He stared at the paper. Her name was embossed at the top, so serious, like business stationery—but on hot pink paper. It made him think of a girl playing dress-up. With a sigh, he folded the note and put it in the pocket of his jacket, hung over the back of the chair.
Damn, he didn’t need this. He didn’t think he had put out any signals toward Abby. Not intentionally, anyway. Where had she gotten this idea that he was interested? Jesus, he needed to talk to her. To say something. She was a beauty, but he shook his head, thinking of one of Bessie’s expressions: When trouble comes knocking, don’t go answering that door. Going out to that lake would only bring more trouble.
He returned the poetry book to the shelf, then wandered through the aisles, trying to figure out where to go next with his investigation. The medallion, in its plastic, was heavy in his pocket, and he thought back to what Zachary Taylor had said that morning, about looking for its owner among old, prominent families. Well, the Lillihouses sure fit that description, and the body had been buried on their land. But where was the connection? And where was the “why” of the murder?
He found himself in the back of the library, standing before a door with a sign above it that read Local History. He peered though the glass at the dark room. He opened the door and flicked on the light. It was musty and deserted. There was a microfiche machine off in the corner. There were shelves filled with large books and newspaper binders.
“I’m sorry, you’ll have to leave now.”
Louis spun around. It was the dour elderly woman who had been behind the main desk when he came in. “Pardon me?” Louis said.
“You’ll have to leave,” she said. “We’re closing.”
“Oh…sorry.” With a look at the room, Louis switched off the light and closed the door. He’d have to come back; this might be worth pursuing.
The woman accompanied him to the front door and locked the door behind him. Louis stood on the steps for a moment, looking at the sun sitting low in the sky. He glanced at his watch, realizing he was hungry. Then he thought of Abby, out at the lake, waiting for him.
Shit, he couldn’t just leave her sitting out there. He had to go. He headed to the Mustang, but just as he was getting in the car, he heard the squeal of tires and a too-familiar voice.
“Louis! Sheriff wants you,” Junior called from his patrol car.
Louis looked down the road, in the direction of the lake, then back at Junior. “What for?”
“How the hell do I know? Sheriff said get you and get you now.”
He couldn’t possibly reach Abby, and she would think he was even more of a jerk. Damn. “Junior, you go ahead,” he said. “I need to stop somewhere first.”
“No, sir. Sheriff said to bring you now, that it’s important and can’t wait. I’ll follow you.”
Louis let out a long breath. “All right. Let’s go.”
Louis’s mood didn’t improve when he got back to the station and saw that Dodie was waiting in his office with Walter Kelly. It could only be bad news.
Louis tossed his jacket in a chair and shook Kelly’s hand. Junior followed him in uninvited and stood against the wall. Dodie tilted back in his chair, chomping on his unlit cigar.
“Sit down, Kincaid,” Kelly said, dragging up another wooden chair. Louis obeyed and waited. Kelly remained standing, tugging at the lapels of his slate-gray suit. Louis noticed he had the peculiar habit of sucking in his cheeks with each breath.
“We have great news for you,” Kelly said. “We’ve identified your John Doe.”
Louis’s eyes darted from Kelly to Dodie and back again. “Who is it?”
“A man by the name of Willie Johnson.”
Louis held back a smile. Good move. Pick the most common black name in the South. Unverifiable.
“He was a dirt farmer up in Tanner County,” Kelly went on. “The sheriff up there, Vance, remembered a fellow getting into some trouble a few years back. He’d been arrested and tossed in jail, and—well, sorry to say, son, the administration at that time was real poor in the community-relations department, and I regret to say that the young man mysteriously met his death after he was abducted from the jail by a mob.”
Louis had trouble keeping a straight face. “How did you identify him?”
“Dental records.”
“You’re kidding.” Louis suddenly remembered Jacob Armstrong’s words. “No dental work.”
“Kincaid, this is not a kidding matter,” Kelly said. “You seem pretty ungrateful another county had to do your legwork for you. Sheriff Vance spent a lot of time on this, researching old records, talking to folks.”
“Time?” Louis repeated. “I spent the time. And if you’re trying to tell me some poor old dirt farmer actually had teeth, let alone dental records that were kept all these years, then you must think I’m pretty damn stupid.” Louis stood, snatching his jacket off the chair.
Dodie motioned for Louis to sit back down. “Kincaid, calm down.”
Kelly threw Dodie a look that silenced him immediately. Louis slid back into the chair, staring at the wood floor. Tension ate away the next few seconds. Finally, the mayor spoke.
“Took, Kincaid, we all know you have a chip on your shoulder to overcome.”
“What?”
“Well, you’re young and you’re black,” Kelly said. “And you’ve got a bleeding heart. Not a good thing in a police officer.”
Louis bristled but remained silent.
“Now, you’ve been whinin’ about these goddamn bones for weeks now,” Kelly went on. “Sheriff tells me you spend your time visiting Civil War historians and reading damn poetry.”
“Mayor—” Dodie said.
Kelly’s head snapped toward Dodie. “Shut up, Sam, or it’ll be your ass on the line here instead of his. If you had done your damn job, I wouldn’t have to do it for you.”
Dodie fell silent again, his face set in stone. Louis glanced at Junior, who was picking at his nails with the toothpick he usually kept in his mouth.
“Those bones have been identified, and his name is Willie Johnson,” Kelly said. “Now, you gather those bones together, order a damn casket, and let’s get this sucker buried.”
“Mayor,” Louis said, “I have to tell you that—”
“You don’t have to tell me nothing. You got that?”
Louis thought about telling them what Zachary Taylor said about the medallion’s symbolism and Jacob Armstrong’s observation but remained silent. What good would it do?
Kelly reached for his long wool overcoat. “Sam, I’d like the service scheduled for January fifteenth.”
“Martin Luther King’s birthday,” Louis said softly.
Kelly looked at Louis. “It is? Well, all the better. We’ll play it for all we can. Plan the whole kit and caboodle—local paper.
maybe even some of those Jackson reporters. Get some fancy black reverend to come do a nice talk on this poor bastard. It’s over, as of now.”
Kelly buttoned his coat. “Now, Sam,” he said, “I expect a real nice memorial, you understand? I’ll talk to y’all when I get back from Gulf Shores.”
The door squeaked closed behind Walter Kelly. Louis stared blindly out into the street behind the sheriff’s head. Dodie rubbed
his face.
“Sheriff, this man isn’t who they say he is,” Louis said softly.
“What difference does it make?”
“It makes a big difference…to me,” Louis said firmly.
Dodie eyed Louis for a second then turned to Junior, still propped against the wall. “Leave us alone,” he said.
Junior moved toward the door, eyeing the bright pink paper he had seen fall from Louis’s jacket. He scooped it up discreetly, slipping it in his pocket.
Louis waited until he left then leaned forward in the chair. “Listen, Sheriff, I’m not unreasonable. I don’t expect to find out who murdered this man, but I do expect to find out who he was. That’s the least I—we—can do for him.”
“Leave it be, Kincaid. It don’t matter who he was as long as he gets a proper burial.”
“It matters,” Louis said, raising his voice. “He was a man, he had a name. It matters!”
Dodie eyes snapped. “Get the damn chain and book,” he said deliberately, speaking as if to a child, “and take them over to Wallace-Pickney and let Stan know what’s goin’ on with this memorial and all.”
Louis stood up. “It’s not right, danm it. It’s not right and you know it.”
“‘Right’? Right!” Dodie said, glowering at Louis. “Sometimes you just gotta forget ‘right’ and do what’s necessary.”
Louis stared at Dodie, shaking his head. “I don’t get it,” he said. “You let me go to Vicksburg. You let me get that forensic sculpture done. You give me rope, like you want me to solve this thing, and then you keep jerking me back.”
“Unfortunate choice of words, Kincaid,” Dodie muttered.
“Whose side are you on?” Louis said.
Dodie’s steely eyes stared up at him. “There ain’t no sides. Just what’s best for everyone involved.”
“What’s best? Or what’s easiest?” Louis said.
Dodie stood up. “The case is closed, Kincaid. Closed. You got that?”
Chapter 10
Louis closed the book: Attack on Terror—The FBI in Mississippi. He had read it before, as part of his black history course in college, and before leaving Michigan had decided to bring it along and reread it. He realized now that the book had been just words before. Now…now he was living it.
He laid the book aside and rubbed his eyes. Lila murmured and he looked over at her. He had been sitting by her bed most of the evening as he read, but she hadn’t stirred. He felt a heaviness in his chest as he stared at her. Her skin was like tight leather stretched across her hollow cheekbones. Thin strands of gray-black hair fell limply over the pillow. There was a small pile of photographs on her chest that rose and fell with each shallow breath she took.
Bessie had put the photographs there. They were snapshots of Louis’s family. Bessie said that Lila, early on in her illness, had often asked for them. Lately Lila had not been lucid enough to see them, but Bessie still put them there every evening.
Louis pulled his chair closer to the bed and picked up the photos. He sifted slowly through the blurred black-and-white images. Yolanda, his older sister, standing on the porch, her hip thrust out, arm elongated against the wooden post, her adolescent face staring smugly at the camera. His brother Robert standing with Lila in the dirt in front of their home. Lila wore a shapeless, flowered frock and Robert was barefoot and shirtless in denim pants.
Louis came to the last picture. He cocked his head, staring at the man. It was Jordan Kincaid, his father. He was standing in the shadows of a porch awning, wearing only baggy overalls and a straw hat. Louis held the picture to the light, rubbing his father’s pale face with his finger as if that would clear away the shadows created by the wide-brimmed hat. He could remember someone telling him, when he was small, that Jordan was blond, with powerful shoulders and an easy smile. He wasn’t sure who it was who had told him. It might have been Yolanda. She would have remembered Jordan. Louis had no memories of the man, but then, Jordan Kincaid had not even stayed around long enough to see his son take his first step. Louis did remember the social worker, though, who came six years later to take them away. Yolanda had been fifteen, Robert about eleven, and he had been only seven.
Sitting in the quiet now, he recalled a faint memory of Yolanda hugging him before he climbed into the strange blue car. He never saw her again. When he was sixteen, he received a letter from her, but by then the memories of how she had mothered him when Lila couldn’t had faded and he didn’t miss her anymore. He had a new life.
He did not know where either Yolanda or Robert was now. Bessie said she thought they might be living down near the Gulf Coast, but she hadn’t heard anything about them in five years. Frances and Phillip Lawrence had always encouraged Louis to keep in touch with his aunt Jenny. It had only been through her that Bessie had been able to find him.
Louis stared at the clapboard house in the first picture and compared it to his home in Michigan. The Lawrences had a nice house, a yellow brick tri-level with a big yard and neatly trimmed grass, a blue Doughboy pool in the backyard. He learned to swim in that pool. The house had been warm, with lots of rugs and padded furniture. He had his own room, decorated with sports awards from school and Detroit Tiger souvenirs. He loved baseball. The three of them had made every opening day for five years. Nineteen sixty-eight, the year Detroit won the Series, was his first year with the Lawrences. What a time to be a nine-year-old boy whose parents had season tickets!
He turned to look again at Lila. He was surprised to see her looking back at him. She was awake.
“Louis…” she whispered.
He lowered his eyes. She had said his name once before, but only as part of incoherent ramblings. He waited, tensed for another one, guiltily hoping to hear Bessie’s footsteps on the stairs.
He felt something warm touch his fingertips, and looked up. There was a clarity in Lila’s eyes that he had not seen before.
“Louis…” Her fingers closed around his. They were warm. “We had no time,” Lila whispered.
Louis leaned closer. “What?”
“We had no time…to know each other.”
Louis looked back at the floor.
“Louis, look at me.”
He forced himself to meet her eyes.
“You came back to see me die,” she said. “Why?”
He swallowed dryly. “I don’t know.”
“I did wrong. I did wrong with you and Yolanda and Robert. I know that. I did wrong…”
Louis wanted to run from the room. Her fingers gripped his, surprisingly strong. He closed his eyes.
“Louis…talk to me.”
Louis gritted his teeth, fighting back tears. “Why?” he said. He took a shaky breath. “Why the booze?”
Lila’s eyes welled up. “Don’t…”
“Why?” Louis whispered hoarsely.
“‘Cuz it was all I had,” Lila said.
“You had us,” he whispered.
Tears fell down Lila’s hollow cheeks. “It wasn’t enough.”
Louis pulled his hand away.
“I done things wrong,” Lila said, crying. “I done things wrong and God ain’t gonna want me up there with Him.”
Louis shut his eyes. It was quiet, except for the sound of Lila crying. Louis could hear Bessie down in the kitchen making dinner. She was singing softly.
“Louis…”
He looked back at Lila. Her eyes glistened in the thin light, pleading up at him.
“Louis, I need to know you don’t hate me.”
He averted his eyes. He wanted desperately to run, get out of the room, away from her, away from this place.
“I guess you can’t find no words,” Lila said. “You never could find words too easy.”
His mind was screaming. You weren’t there, you weren’t there to hear me.
“You was my baby,” Lila said weakly. “You was so pretty, you with them sad gray eyes… Lordy, did we get the stares.”
From the darkness of his swirling mind, the old images came
now, the images of her drunkenness, her meanness, the overwhelming feeling of shame. All of it was flooding back to torture him, like those blurred snapshots. God, wasn’t there one good memory? Wasn’t there one thing to hang on to?
Suddenly the tears came. He couldn’t stop them. They fell, warm and silent, down his face. He felt her touch on his hand again.
“Hush, baby…hush,” she whispered.
He watched as her eyes slowly grew cloudy. The moment had passed, the lucidity gone as quickly as it had come. Lila closed her eyes, and after a few moments, her breathing deepened and Louis knew she was asleep again.
He picked up the photographs and placed them on her chest.
Bessie took Louis’s plate and scraped the food scraps into the sink. Louis sat back in the chair with a sigh. He was so tired. First the long drive to Vicksburg, then the mayor’s news about Willie Johnson, then the scene with Dodie. Any energy he had left had vanished up in Lila’s room. He had barely touched the dinner Bessie made, but she sensed something was wrong and for once had not nagged him to eat. He wanted to do nothing more than go upstairs and crawl into bed.
“You want pie, Louis?” she asked gently.
“No thanks, Bessie.” He took a sip of coffee.
“You didn’t come down when things was hot. I hate giving you leftovers. Lots of folks was asking about you. Charles was here.”
Louis picked up the coffee cup and over the lip, stared at the twinkling lights on the Christmas tree in the parlor beyond. “I don’t think she has long,” he said quietly.
“I suspect that’s so,” she said, nodding sadly. The furnace kicked on, sending a rumbling through the house. Bessie put her hand on Louis’s shoulder, but said nothing. The gesture brought an unexpected catch to Louis’s throat.
He stood up and caught sight of the sink piled high with the dinner dishes. “Want some help with those?” he asked.
Bessie smiled, shaking her head. “Get some sleep, Louis,” she said.
Louis nodded. He went up the stairs and with a glance toward Lila’s door, went into his room. He was just pulling off his shoes when he heard the phone ring downstairs. Bessie called out that the call was for him. He went out to the hall to pick up the extension.
