Dark of the Moon

by Parrish, PJ

  “I’m not sure they were even on duty. They weren’t wearing their badges, I saw that much.”

  “You say in’ they did this intentionally?”

  “I don’t know,” Louis said flatly. “Maybe they just like to go joyriding after dark and harass niggers.”

  Dodie put his hands on his hips. “They take your gun?”

  “No. Professional courtesy, I guess.”

  Dodie slipped his cap back on. He suddenly looked very tired. Louis studied his face. His surprise and his distress seemed genuine. If those cops last night had been tailing him, they hadn’t been sent by Dodie.

  “I want you to stick close to Junior for a while, Kincaid.”

  “I don’t need a bodyguard. And even if I did, he’d be my last choice.”

  Dodie pursed his lips. “Okay. But you be careful, you hear?” He motioned to the report. “What’s that?”

  “Print report from Jackson on the Mulcahey case. Guess whose prints showed up on the deer hide?” Louis said. “Leverette Mulcahey’s.”

  Dodie’s mouth drew into a line. “Leverette’s a hunter, he’s bound to have prints up there.”

  “Maybe, but that’s a damn good cover when you think about it.” Louis got up slowly, careful to hide the fact his ribs were killing him. Dodie didn’t need more reason to give Junior a babysitting job. “I think I should go out to the Mulcahey place to talk to Ethel about some things.”

  Dodie nodded. “I guess it’s time to talk to Leverette, too. He hasn’t gone back to Starkville yet. Saw him in town yesterday.”

  “He goes to MSU?” Louis asked.

  Dodie started toward his office. “Sure does.”

  Louis got up and went to the file cabinet, intending to put the print report in the Mulcahey file. When he opened the drawer, his eyes lingered on the John Doe folder. Then he frowned.

  “Sheriff? Where’s the envelope that was in here?”

  “What envelope?” Dodie called out from his office.

  Louis rummaged through the drawer. “The big one with the necklace and poetry book in it.”

  “It’s over at Wallace-Pickney.”

  Louis looked up to see Dodie standing at the door of his office, cigar clamped between his teeth. “Mike took it over yesterday.”

  “Why?” Louis said.

  “‘Cuz I told you to do it and you didn’t.”

  Louis looked back at the John Doe folder, with the big red CLOSED stamped on the front. He shoved the file drawer and it banged closed. With a quick look at Dodie, Louis started to the door.

  “Kincaid,” Dodie called out. “What in the hell were you doing in Jackson?”

  “Visiting a goddamn friend,” he shot back without turning.

  The basement was damp, and Louis knew that if he was cold, then Ethel Mulcahey, sitting there in her thin sweater, had to be shivering. He glanced around the sweet-smelling knotty-pined basement. A few sheets of paneling and an open box of vinyl tile sat off in one corner by the bar. A corner of the basement had been partitioned off for a workroom and Louis could see rows of shiny tools hanging on pegboard and a professional-looking saw bench. Earl must have just finished the remodeling.

  At the other end of the basement stood two handsome gun cabinets, and two more gun racks hung on the wall nearby. All were full of long-barreled guns. Louis went over to them.

  “I can’t believe it,” Ethel murmured. “Who would want to murder Earl?”

  Louis looked back at her. She looked as if she was going to cry again. She had already cried once upstairs when he told her that they suspected Earl’s death was not accidental. When Louis had asked her if there were any guns in the house, she had managed to compose herself and bring him down to the basement. But now, she looked pale and very fragile, like she might break into pieces at any moment.

  “Mrs. Mulcahey,” he said, “do you know which gun Earl used most often?”

  She shook her head. “He was a kind man,” she said vacantly, “he would never hurt anyone.”

  Without touching them, Louis examined the rifles, disappointed to discover none was a .30-.30. “Do you have any other guns?”

  “No.”

  “Does your son have any with him, up at school?”

  “I think so. He’s not supposed to, but I think he took one with him.”

  Louis stared at the shiny blue barrel of the shotgun. “Mrs. Mulcahey, did your husband and Leverette ever argue?”

  She looked up at him. Then she smiled slightly, like only a mother could. “Sometimes. Leverette wanted to quit school and start his own business, a laundromat. He wanted his father to back him, but Earl said not until he finished school.”

  Louis turned to look at her. “How much of an investment was it?”

  “I’m not sure. I never paid much attention to finances.”

  “The life insurance…do you know how much that was?”

  “Only because they called. Earl’s policies are worth about a million dollars.” She shook her head. “That seems like a lot.”

  “Are you the beneficiary?” Louis knew the answer, but he tested her just the same.

  Mrs. Mulcahey seemed embarrassed. “No, Leverette gets about a fourth, as does my daughter.”

  The basement was quiet for a moment. Louis’s eyes traveled over the sleek guns. When he turned back to Ethel Mulcahey, he saw something in her teary blue eyes. She knew what he suspected.

  “We are a close family. Detective,” she said softly. “Leverette could never do what you’re thinking.”

  “I have to ask, Mrs. Mulcahey.”

  The dampness was seeping through to his bones. He suggested they go back upstairs. Ethel moved slowly, in a broken sort of way. Louis felt sorry for her as he followed her up the narrow stairs. At the top, as they entered the kitchen, Louis stopped, hearing a car. Mrs. Mulcahey went to the window and parted the curtains. “That’s Leverette now.”

  Leverette Mulcahey was a tall, dark-haired boy who walked with the blocky swagger of an athlete. He wore a burgundy Mississippi State sweatshirt and snug jeans over strong, slender legs. He came up the steps and Louis met him on the porch. For a second, they eyed each other, then Leverette’s shoulders drooped and he moved to the wooden swing and sat down. Louis let the screen door slam shut.

  “Leverette…”

  “Isn’t it bad enough Dad’s dead? Do you have to keep coming around?”

  “I need to ask you some questions,” Louis said.

  “About what?”

  “Well, we told you it was an accident—”

  “It was no accident,” Leverette murmured, looking down at the porch.

  Louis waited, but when Leverette said nothing more, Louis asked, “What do you mean?”

  Leverette shook his head. “I just never thought it was an accident.” He scuffed his tennis shoe against the porch, setting the swing in slow motion.

  Louis watched the young man carefully. “Leverette, did you call me?”

  Leverette blinked a couple of times. “Call you?”

  “On New Year’s Eve.”

  Leverette frowned. “Why would I call you?”

  Louis leaned against the post, watching him. Leverette let his eyes fall again to the porch. Louis had to tell him.

  “We think your father was murdered,” Louis said. He hesitated. “Leverette, I have to ask you some questions.”

  “About what?”

  “Do you have any guns in your dorm?”

  His eyes shot up, then darted away, steady on the warped boards of the porch. “I can’t believe this.”

  “Leverette, do you have any guns with you at school?”

  He shook his head.

  “These questions are just routine, Leverette.”

  He looked up. “My dad has a million in life insurance. And now you’re asking me about my guns. Sure, routine…”

  “Where were you that morning?” Louis asked. “Your mother says you were home for the holidays, but no one knows where you were.”

 
“I went for a walk.”

  “At seven a.m.?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  “Leverette, I need a better story than that.”

  Leverette looked up finally. His eyes were defiant but there were tears brimming his dark lashes. “That’s all I got. Detective.”

  Louis watched as Leverette twisted his hands and then put his face into them. He leaned his elbows on his knees, rocking in the swing. Louis’s instincts, all his training, had told him never to trust anyone. People could con you out of anything. The most sympathetic old woman could be a cold-blooded killer. But Leverette was tough to read.

  “Thank you, Leverette.”

  He looked up, surprised, but did not reply. He returned his face to his palms.

  Louis stuck his head in the door and thanked Ethel, and left. He stopped off at two neighbors’ but his questions about the Mulcaheys didn’t unearth much that was new. One man told him the son came home once a month or so, and yes, he did go hunting with Earl frequently. But his wife volunteered that the whole family got along and she had never seen a hint of trouble between Leverette and his father. He got the same story from the neighbor on the east side. If Leverette Mulcahey had intended to murder his father, he hid his plans well.

  As Louis headed back to the station, he called Mike on the radio and asked for Dodie.

  “He’s busy,” Mike said.

  “Well, tell him we have to get a search warrant for Leverette Mulcahey’s dorm at MSU.”

  “Gotta get Judge Eucher for that, Louis. Might take awhile.”

  Louis frowned. He had forgotten that the judge rotated between counties and was seldom in his office.

  “Hey, Louis,” Mike said. “A package just came for you from Florida. Whatcha do, order some grapefruit?”

  Florida? Then he realized it had to be from Marsha Burns, the sculptor. She had said she was going to send back the unfinished head. He told Mike to just put it on his desk. Another lead stifled by Dodie.

  When he got back, Larry and Junior were there, joking around while Mike lounged at the dispatch desk. Louis looked at the box on his desk with dismay. He opened the box halfheartedly and read the note sitting atop the plastic peanuts.

  Dear Detective, I couldn’t help but think about what you said on the phone, and I decided that money or politics shouldn’t interfere with the execution of justice, no matter how long overdue. I finished the head as quickly as I could. I hope this helps you.

  Sincerely, Marsha Burns Louis let loose with a laugh that drew looks from the deputies. “I love you, lady,” he said.

  He dug through the layer of peanuts and carefully lifted the heavy gray bust out of the box. He set it down on the desk and took a step back.

  A face stared back at him, a young face, about eighteen. It was thin and chiseled, with high cheekbones and a high forehead. A long nose, and heavy, but curiously delicate-looking lips. A jutting, almost defiant jawline, and almond-shaped eyes.

  Louis stared at the face sadly. He had been handsome. Somehow Marsha Burns had also managed to give the hard clay bust an oddly touching expression of sadness mixed with hope.

  Junior and Mike had come up to stand quietly behind Louis.

  “He sure looks sad,” Mike said.

  “You’d be sad, too, if they hung you,” Junior said. Junior let out a snicker. “And they might just do that to you, Kincaid, you don’t quit playing footsie with Abigail Lillihouse.”

  Louis’s head jerked around in shock. “What?”

  Junior’s smile faded. “Lou—”

  Louis grabbed the collar of Junior’s shirt, cutting him off, and slammed him against the desk. “I’m going to say this one time, and one time only,” Louis hissed. “Keep your ignorant opinions to yourself. No one here is interested in what you have to say. Especially about Abby Lillihouse. Do you understand, you stupid redneck?”

  Louis let go of his shirt, and Junior stumbled slightly, color rising quickly to his chubby cheeks. He glanced back at Larry and Mike with embarrassment. Mike’s mouth hung open and Larry started motioning toward Louis with his fists. Junior moved forward, thrusting his face nose-to-nose with Louis.

  “You want a piece of me, Kincaid? Well, come on, dammit, let’s go!”

  Louis turned away in disgust.

  Junior bobbed around to face him, thrusting out his chest. “You think you’re a real big man, now, don’t you? You think you’re better than all of us! Well, come on, big man!”

  “Stop it. Junior,” Mike called weakly.

  “I’m fuckin’ tired of your attitude, Kincaid!” Junior yelled, raising his fists. “You’re so smart, you’re so damn much better than us! Now you even got a white woman to fuck!”

  Louis reacted so quickly that it was not until he felt Junior’s flesh against his fist that he realized he had hit him. The punch landed on Junior’s jaw, sending Junior tumbling off the side of the desk, dragging the ink blotter, telephone, and cardboard box with him. The phone cord trapped the bust, pulling it off the desk.

  Louis stretched to catch it, but missed. A second later. Junior tackled him, throwing him to his back. He straddled him, pinning him to the floor. Larry leapt forward, hunkering over the desk, watching as Junior drew back his fist, raising it over his head.

  A gunshot pierced the air.

  Junior’s fist froze in mid-air and he sat up, breathing heavily, his lip bleeding. Louis shoved him off and used the desk to hoist himself up. All faces turned toward the door to the sheriff’s office.

  Dodie jammed his gun back in his holster, glaring at everyone. Without a word, he turned and disappeared back into his office. The door slammed shut, sending a shudder through the walls.

  The room was quiet as a graveyard. Louis looked up at the ceiling, watching the dust from the bullet hole rain down onto Larry’s desk. He looked at Junior, who was panting like a walrus, then down at the floor. The bust lay in the corner, broken into large pieces.

  Louis wiped the corner of his lip and tried to pull in a deep breath. He winced in pain, his hand going to hold his ribs. He picked up the box and went over to the broken bust. He knelt down and carefully put the pieces into the box and slowly got up. Without looking at any of them, he walked out.

  “Jesus, Junior,” Mike said quietly. “Why’d you have to do that? Louis—”

  “Mike,” Junior said, “go get the first-aid kit, will ya? I’m bleeding to death here.”

  Mike began opening cupboards. Larry came up to peer at Junior’s split lip. “He gotcha good. Better go put some cold water on that.”

  Junior trudged off to the bathroom, slamming open the swinging door. Larry squeezed in behind him as it squeaked shut. He followed Junior to the cracked mirror.

  “Fuck,” Junior said softly. “Look at me. That Kincaid’s got no sense of humor.”

  “How the hell did you know about Abigail?” Larry demanded.

  “What?”

  “Abigail,” Larry demanded. “How’d you know?”

  Junior wet a paper towel and dabbed at his lip. “I followed him. After I found that note I showed you.”

  “What note?” Larry said, irritated. “I don’t remember no note.”

  “I showed it to you. That note she wrote him that was in his jacket.”

  Larry came up next to Junior. “You never showed me no note.” Larry turned away as the door popped open and Mike stuck his head in.

  “You still need these?” he asked, holding out a can of Band-Aids.

  Larry slapped the door shut on Mike’s arm. “Get the hell out of here.” Mike’s head disappeared and Larry spun back toward Junior. “You sure about this?”

  Junior smiled. He wasn’t sure by any means, but this was too much fun to stop now. “The son of a bitch hit me, didn’t he?”

  “I don’t believe it,” Larry muttered, running his hand through his hair. Junior watched him in the mirror. Larry’s jaw went so tight that Junior could see the blood vessels pulsating. They rippled all the way into the thin brown hair
at his temples.

  Junior smiled slightly, watched him. “Kind of grates ya, don’t it?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Don’t go getting mad at me. It ain’t my fault she won’t go out with you.” Junior snuck another look at Larry’s face in the mirror. Man, he was pissed.

  “You gonna tell Max?”

  Larry started shaking his head. “Fuck, no. I ain’t being no dead messenger. Not me.”

  The bathroom was quiet as Junior turned off the water. Larry was so damn easy to rile. “Hey, Larry,” Junior said with a smile. “Can’t you just see it? That black hand on her little ass. That nigger cock in her juicy little pussy…in and out…in and out…”

  “It ain’t true, I know it ain’t true,” Larry muttered.

  God, this was fun. Junior turned and gave Larry a big smile. “I’m telling you, it’s the fuckin’ truth. Louis and Abby are doing it.”

  “Shut up. Junior!”

  Junior jabbed a chubby finger at Larry’s chest. “Face it, Larry ol’ boy, your dream girl is fuckin’ a nigger.”

  Chapter 13

  Louis closed his eyes, but sleep would not come. It was late, well after midnight. He could feel the cold air slipping through the cracks of the window, and he pulled the quilt up over his shoulder. The night sounds from outside—tires, boomboxes, horns—all seemed magnified in the darkness of the small room.

  He opened his eyes, then with a sigh pushed back the quilt and swung his legs over the side of the bed. It was no use; he was too keyed-up to sleep. His eyes drifted over the the cardboard box on the table that held the pieces of the broken clay bust.

  Ignorant assholes. Fucking ignorant redneck assholes posing as cops. He was tired of all of them. The cops who had beat him. Junior and his stupidity. And Dodie with his excuses that things were just different here. Well, fuck them all, those cowards on the Trace, Larry, Junior, and especially Dodie. Fuck him and the horse his robe-wearing father rode in on.

  He tried to pull in a deep breath but winced in pain. He rubbed his hands over his face. He wanted all this to be over with. He wanted to go home.

  There was a noise outside his room. The hall light went on, sneaking under his door. A few minutes later, there was a knock on his door.