by Carol Coffey
A slight flicker of an eyelid told him the old man was not unconscious.
“Open your eyes, Shank. I have something you want to see before you take your last sorry breath.”
Locklear waited as Shank slowly raised his eyelids to a half-open position.
“What do you want?” he panted.
Locklear unfurled the brown paper and held the box out for Shank to see.
The old man’s eyes shot open. He coughed and grimaced in pain as his eyes filled with tears. Locklear wasn’t sure if his weeping was due to pain or emotion. If it was due to the pain of a gunshot wound, it was a feeling he was familiar with.
“Hurts, doesn’t it?” he asked.
Shank reached forward and touched the edge of the lid gently as the tears continued to flow. He tried to sit up but pain gripped him. He fell back, panting.
“Where? Where?” Shank coughed and, unable to finish his sentence, gasped for air.
“A penniless ex-heroin addict named Letitia Grant had it.”
“Who’s she?” Shank whispered.
“A descendant of John Grant.”
Shank fixed his eyes on the box and raised his hands up to Locklear.
“Please, please, let me hold it.”
“This was never buried on the Fehr farm. John Grant took it with him when he escaped to New York. He gave it to his wife and it was passed on from generation to generation of Grants, all thinking it was a family heirloom when it was something he stole from Eli Shank exactly one hundred and fifty years ago. Now, Shank, you will be dead in the next couple of days if not hours – so why don’t you try to redeem yourself before you die. Why don’t you do one decent thing in your life and tell me why the hell this box is so important?”
“Have you looked inside?” Shank whispered.
“Yes. There’s nothing in it but dirt.”
“You had no right.”
“Every right. I have it now.”
“I want Beth to have it.”
“Beth, when we find her, won’t have much use for this in prison.”
Samuel Shank broke down. “Please!” he gasped. “Don’t send her to prison. Please ... not my Beth.”
“You should have thought of that before you led her into a life of crime.”
“It wasn’t crime!” he gasped. “Please let me hold it before I die.”
Locklear handed the box to Shank, hoping to elicit more information.
Unable to bear its weight, the old man dropped it onto his chest. He screamed in pain.
Maguire rushed inside and stood open-mouthed at the sight of the box on top of the old man’s wounded chest.
“I told you Doc said no interviews, sarge!”
“It’s OK, Maguire. I’m just showing him something.”
“What’s that?”
“Something of great value to our friend here but he won’t say why. Go wait outside, Maguire.”
Maguire reluctantly left as ordered and Locklear pulled a seat over to the bed.
He leaned forward, opened the box and tipped its contents forward for Shank to see.
“See – it’s just soil.”
Shank dug his fingers into the soil and cried.
“Now, are you going to tell me what this is?”
“Pain!” Shank gasped.
Locklear closed the box and returned it to its brown-paper covering. He rang the bell and waited while a nurse administered an injection into the drip and left.
“Now, tell me. Tell me everything.”
Shank’s eyes closed slowly as the pain medication rushed into his bloodstream.
“What will do you for Beth?”
“I’ll see that she gets a nice cellmate.”
He was not going to lie to Shank. It was not in his nature despite it sometimes being a requirement of the job. He had Mendoza for that.
Shank’s breathing became more laboured. He raised his hand, asking Locklear to wait until his breathing slowed. Locklear wondered how much of the scene in front of him an act, an attempt to stall for time.
“Talk or I’ll renege on my promise to make sure Beth gets a nice cellmate. Might make sure she gets a roommate with a gripe against you. I’d say there are a few ...”
“OK,” Shank replied with a clear voice. His breathlessness seemed to have suddenly disappeared. “The first Mennonites arrived in this country in the late 1680s to escape war and persecution. My ancestor, Jan Shank, did not want to give in to this and held on until he could no longer remain in his home. In the year 1711, he had no choice but to follow his brethren to America. Our homeland was ravaged by war. Our people were persecuted for their beliefs.”
“So they made a new life in America.”
“Yes, with heavy hearts they took a ship to this country. Many died on the way. Women, old men … children.”
“I need to hear about the box.”
“I’m getting to it. But you need first to understand those first Mennonites and what was sacred to them.”
Locklear waited.
“My ancestors settled here in Virginia and began to farm once more. They grew their own food and raised cattle and attended church. Jan became the pastor and the Shanks have been pastors ever since.”
“Until Bishop Rahn demoted you.”
Shank ignored this. “I am telling you this for Beth. So you will understand her.”
Locklear doubted her would ever understand Beth Stoll or her grandfather. Nothing was worth the pain they had put people though.
“They were welcome in America and free to practise their ways. But deep in the heart of Jan Shank was a regret that he had to leave his farm.
“The box!” Locklear said.
Shank grimaced. “Before my ancestor walked away from his farm in Germany with his wife and children, he knelt on the ground and filled that box with soil from around his parents’ graves and so took with him a small piece of the earth he had loved and that they and those that went before them had toiled for. He handed the box down to his eldest son who passed it down through the generations for one hundred and fifty years.”
“Until the Civil War?”
“Yes,” Shank said quietly. He pulled the covers up around himself.
Locklear pulled them back down. He needed Shank awake, cold, and uncomfortable.
“Tell me about Eli Shank.”
“Eli was an unhappy man. He was restless. The war started and of course, as Mennonites, my ancestors were not permitted to take part. But some of the young men in the community were restless. They wanted to do their part. But in Eli’s case it was to get away … for adventure …”
Locklear hazarded a guess. “And, perhaps, a licence to commit murder?”
Shank lowered his head. He did not answer. He continued, “He pleaded with his father for permission but this was denied. Then, soon after the war started, Eli’s mother relented and helped him steal away in the night. Before he left she gave him the box as a promise from him that he would return. She knew he understood the importance of the box and what it meant to the family and believed that, by giving it to him, he would survive the war and return to her to take his place as pastor of the community.”
“So Grant stealing the box from him would have prevented Eli from being able to go home?”
Shank nodded. “Eli knew that the Fehrs were hiding Grant on their farm. They were stupid, idealistic fools.”
“They were heroes.”
“Grant was a criminal.”
“They didn’t know that. They offered Christian refuge to someone in need. Isn’t that something your Bible advocates?” Locklear said.
“Daniel and Joshua Fehr shamed Eli and shamed the Shanks. They shamed my family.”
“Eli shamed himself,” Locklear retorted.
“Each generation of Shanks has been charged with a responsibility to get the box back. Some tried harder than others. My father, Samuel, put a curse on the Fehr farm. He said nothing would grow there as long as they refused to give us back what was rightfully ou
rs.”
“They never had the box, Shank. Grant fooled them. He never buried it on the farm. I doubt they even believed that he stole it – at least not at first. I believe that the brothers thought Eli had lost his mind and they were protecting an innocent black man from certain death.”
“You can believe what you like. You did not know them. You do not know the Fehrs. Luke Fehr – he is a dangerous man.
“Because he stood up to you? Because he didn’t embody the Mennonite passivity that enabled you to terrorise the community?”
Shank did not reply.
“I want to know how,” Locklear demanded, “and why your family managed to force the Fehrs to hang themselves for generations.”
“My ancestors were the pastors here always. They made the rules and the community followed. The Fehrs knew they had to do what was right. They had to make retribution to my family and to the community. Eli’s father was a very old man. Eli should have become pastor on the day he turned twenty-one but when the Fehrs protected Grant they blocked Eli’s route home. He could not go home without the box so they effectively ended the life that he had been destined to follow.”
Locklear thought about Eric Stoll’s story that Eli’s father and younger brother were found dead which paved the way for Eli to return home to his doting mother but he did not know which happened first and he would never know.
“All of this for a box full of soil? Your family ruined the lives of generations of Fehrs for dirt from a farm thousands of miles away from America – the country that gave your family refuge? How in your God’s name does that fit in with your beliefs?”
“It is a pact,” Shank replied quietly.
“What?”
“A pact. Eli decided the terms and Daniel Fehr agreed to it. When John Grant disappeared off the farm, Daniel realised that he and Joshua had been deceived. Joshua had died by then. Daniel agreed that it was the responsibility of the Fehrs that the box be returned to the Shanks
And, until it was, the eldest male of the Fehr family would take their own lives on their 21st birthday in compensation for the life they took from Eli.”
“So, Eli killed Adam Fehr?”
“He killed himself.”
“That’s not the way Grant told the story. Even before he was shot, he said he didn’t kill Adam Fehr. He said Eli did.”
“That’s a lie.”
“Shank, do you have any idea how ridiculous this is? How insane it was for your ancestor to force this family to kill themselves for a piece of dirt? This was over one hundred and fifty years ago. You could have stopped it. Your grandfather or his father could have stopped it. You must have known in this modern world that this was absurd, that what your family were doing was illegal, was a crime.”
“I’ve told you, they shamed us. They took away our good name in the community. Everyone knew Eli had been shunned. They had to be punished, they had to feel the pain of what they did to us and, until they compensated, they were shunned from the community. We do not live by your rules, by your law. We never have and we never will.”
“What about the rules of your God? Your commandments? Thou Shalt Not Kill?”
“They killed themselves!” Shank spat.
“What about the Yoders, the Ropps and Mrs Whieler? They had nothing to do with this pact and yet you and your family terrorised them until they signed over their farms to you. Most of those people are dead by your hands.”
Shank said nothing. He had already confessed to his involvement in their fates in front of Locklear. Peter Wyss had achieved that much and had given his life for the truth.
Locklear paced up and down and shook his head, trying to make sense of Shank’s tale.
“I just can’t believe that this was all for a piece of dirt. I don’t buy it. I just don’t.”
“Then you don’t understand us. It is a pact. It cannot be broken.”
“It was a pact,” Locklear replied. “But it’s over now.”
He walked to the door and opened it.
“It is over, Shank, because look at you! You’re dying and your granddaughter is going to prison. There’s no one left to do your dirty work.”
Shank looked away to face the window.
“I know you’re broke Samuel. The IRS has frozen all of your accounts. Beth can’t run with no money.”
Shank did not move his eyes from the window but Locklear could see the nervous swallow, the clench of his jaw.
“Will you give her the box, please? It’s been in my family for three hundred years, missing for the last one hundred and fifty of those. I just want to die knowing I did not shame my family. Please ... please promise me you’ll give her the box. I ask nothing more.”
Locklear followed the old man’s eyes out of the window. He visualised Stoll staring out of her prison cell with the box as a reminder of how she threw her life away for a piece of dirt.
“Giving her the box does not absolve the shame you brought on your family but, OK, I will give her the box.”
Shank returned his eyes to the sergeant. There was a slight smile on his face.
“She’s still going to prison, Shank.”
“You haven’t caught her yet. I still have eyes everywhere.”
It was time for Locklear to clench his jaw, to express his frustration. Even in the face of death and defeat, even when Locklear had granted him his last wish, Shank was still defiant.
“No, but we will catch her and the eyes you have everywhere will close as soon as you take your last breath. The power you are addicted to and the hold you have over this community will die with you. It’s over.”
Locklear did not look back at the man as he opened the door. Outside, Maguire was nowhere to be seen.
Chapter 28
In Harrisonburg station, Mendoza had not arrived into work and no one could account for Maguire’s whereabouts. Carter, as far as Locklear had heard, was sitting with Sara Fehr, watching the woman slowly lose her battle with pneumonia.
Locklear returned the silver box to the safe and lifted the phone to ring Mendoza’s mobile. It rang out. He tried twice more. No answer. The last time he had seen the trooper was when he drove by the diner where she was having dinner with Maguire and some other cops he did not know well. He tried Maguire’s cell again as he drove to the diner.
Marilyn Monroe was not on duty but a young Rock Hudson told him Mendoza had left with the cops around 9pm. Locklear wondered if Mendoza had hooked up with one of them and the thought of this aroused feelings of both jealousy and paternity in him – feelings of concern he did not want or need.
He went to her motel room. When there was no answer, he peered through the window and noticed that the bed had been overturned and that Mendoza’s suitcase had been emptied onto the floor. With one swift boot, he kicked the door in and ran to the side of the bed, expecting to see her on the floor. A sharp pain cut into his foot, his injury not quite healed yet. He removed his piece and crept to the bathroom which was empty. Locklear sat on a chair and thought about who he would call for help. He did not want to take Carter away from Sara’s bedside. With her family in hiding, Carter and Maria Whieler, who sat by her side all night while Carter sat by day, were the only two people Sara had. With no other option, he dialled the number but hung up after two rings. There was no way he could let Sara die alone. The sound of a muffled engine slowly broke into his thoughts. He stood and walked to the door where Mendoza was parking her car.
“Where the hell have you been?” he barked.
Mendoza locked her car and walked into her room.
“Jesus, sarge, if you wanted to look through my underwear, you didn’t have to kick my door in. I’d just have showed it to you!”
“That’s not funny, Mendoza. Someone wrecked your room – obviously looking for the box –must somehow know we have it ...”
“You have the box!” she interrupted.
Locklear stared at the woman. Black mascara was caked on her eyelashes and she had dark lines under her eyes. His
trooper had obviously had a long, hard night.
“Yes, while you were enjoying yourself, Letitia Grant showed up with the box. There’s nothing in it but some German soil. And this morning I spoke to the IRS guy who wanted to talk to me. Turns out Shank is broke.”
Mendoza’s tongue moved in her mouth as though she was trying to figure out what to ask about first.
“German soil?”
“Yep.”
“How is that treasure?”
“Beats me. Come on- we have to find ourselves a hotel. If they know where you are, they know where I am. Things are heating up, Mendoza. Things are about to get even more nasty around here – so, until it’s over, that means you don’t leave my sight.”
On the phone, Irene argued with Locklear as he fought for more expensive accommodation – a hotel where people’s comings and goings could be seen from the reception area. When Locklear’s voice rose to an unhealthy level, Mendoza took the phone off him.
