They walked to the water’s edge and Hick yanked on the line. It wouldn’t budge. “It’s probably tangled in a tree root.” He sat down and began to remove his shoes.
“Wait,” Henry called in a choked voice that startled Hick.
He looked at his nephew’s round blue eyes. They seemed enormous in his white, peaked face. He leaned to him and touched his arm. “What’s wrong, Henry?”
“Ain’t that where they found the baby?”
“It’s close.”
“Do you think you oughta? You know … go in there?”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s where she died.” Henry said, in a small whisper.
“It’s okay,” Hick told him, patting his shoulder.
He stepped into the dirty water, and his feet sank immediately, cool sandy mud squishing between his toes and up over his feet. He took another step and the water washed up around his ankles, dampening his pant leg. He bent down and picked up the line, following it into the brush. Branches and logs drifted along the shore and thick reedy grass. He stepped painfully on a log and cursed under his breath, then yanked, once again, on the line. It still wouldn’t budge so he bent down and reached under the black murky water to find what the line was tangled in.
The water was up to his knees, so dirty and impenetrable he couldn’t see his hand in it. Groping through the mud, his hand stirred up silt, causing the water to appear darker and more somber. He hated the slimy feeling of the bottom of the slough. It wasn’t deep, but the water was almost opaque, the smell was putrid, and the bottom was slick and lumpy. His fingers slid along the fishing line until they came to the hook, firmly embedded in the base of a log. He lifted the log and an eruption of mud and silt clouded the water as he pulled out the hook.
Standing upright, he glanced across the water toward Matt Pringle’s house and noted that all of the slough’s debris seemed to end up in this corner. It occurred to him that the baby, more than likely, had washed there and could have come from any place on the slough’s shore. They needed to do more looking. Too much effort had been concentrated on this one little spot.
He sloshed through the water bringing the line back to the shore, and sat beside Henry who was quiet and pale. After a moment’s silence the little boy said, “It ain’t right to kill no little baby.”
Hick shuddered and covered his eyes with his hand. “No, Henry, it ain’t right. Killin’ seldom is.”
Henry turned to him. “Uncle Hick, have you ever killed anyone?”
“When I was at war.”
Henry looked confused. “But I thought only bad people killed.”
“I wish I could explain it to you, but I can’t.”
Henry peered into Hick’s face. “Are you sad because you killed people?”
Hick’s throat tightened and his nose tingled. “Yes, Henry. Every day.”
Henry sighed and they both looked back out at the water. “Do you think whoever hurt that baby is sad?”
“I don’t know.”
Henry appeared to be thinking, and after a short pause, said, “I wish they’d have killed me instead.”
“What?” Startled, Hick turned to look at his nephew.
“That baby never got to run or play or even eat ice cream. I already done all that. I wish she could have.”
Hick stared at the little boy, astounded by his unselfishness. He put his arm around the child’s shoulders and admitted, “It is a right shame that she never got to do those things.”
“That person was bad.”
“Yes,” Hick answered, realizing that although they may not be a threat to the community, there was a killer in their midst. Shame crept into his mind. In reality, the child had not been a person to him. She had been a case, a mystery to be solved, even an inconvenience, but she had never in his thoughts appeared as a living, breathing being. She had been inconsequential, someone he didn’t know. Henry saw it differently.
“I tell you what,” he said, trying to take the boy’s mind off such dark matters. “It’s about lunch time. What do you say I take you and Benji to the diner for a burger? Would you like that?”
Henry eyes grew round. “Yes, sir.”
The boys chattered happily in the back seat of the car, but Hick’s mind was otherwise engaged. He thought about what Henry had said, and for some reason the idea that the baby would be smiling by now occurred to him.
They walked into the diner and immediately the two little boys eyed Maggie, who was waiting on a table. “Aunt Maggie!” They rushed to her and hugged her thighs.
She laughed as they almost tripped her up. “Hey fellas,” she said, good-naturedly rubbing both of their heads. Glancing up, her eyes met Hick’s in an unguarded moment when he couldn’t stop the love shining from them. He felt exposed, unsteady.
“Been fishing?” she asked, glancing down at his wet pants and muddy shoes.
“Yeah,” he answered, corralling the boys to the nearest booth to keep from tracking mud into the diner.
“Anything biting?”
“I caught three fish, Aunt Maggie,” Henry bragged.
“Good for you, Henry. You guys hungry for lunch?”
“Yes ma’am,” the two boys chorused together.
“What about you, Hickory?” Her eyes met his and the appeal was there … the wanting everything to be okay again.
He smiled, relief flooding through him, and absentmindedly squeezed her hand. Then she pulled a pad from her apron pocket, “What can I get you, and don’t say ‘just coffee’.”
He could smell her perfume, and her smile was invigorating. He suddenly felt alive and hungry. “I’d like a burger with slaw and fries and some apple pie.”
Her eyebrows went up. “I’d say you were famished.” She took the boys’ orders and headed back toward the kitchen.
“She sure is pretty,” Henry said, adjusting himself in the booth so that he was on his knees, leaning across the table.
“Daddy says you’re a damned fool for letting her go,” Benji informed Hick.
“Does he now?” Hick asked, amused at the perfect imitation of Adam.
“Yes sir,” Benji replied. “He says there’s fools, and there’s damned fools and then he told mama you were a damned fool.”
Hick turned his face away from the serious child, trying to hide a smile. “Well, your daddy is usually right about these things.” He couldn’t stop himself from glancing, once more, at Maggie as she went back to the kitchen. And then his mind drifted back to the image of the slough. I need to see Adam, he thought to himself while the boys chattered away.
11
“God almighty, I hate it down here!” Adam complained, swatting a mosquito from his neck.
Hick removed his hat and wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve. He put the hat back on, squinted into the bright sunshine, and studied the bank of the slough. Mosquitoes hung in the air like wispy little black clouds, their buzzing loud and monotonous. The air was heavy, laden with moisture, giving one the impression of drowning on dry land.
“Dammit!” Adam swore as his boot sunk into the mud. He pulled his foot up, but the book stuck fast sending him stumbling, his dry sock plunging into the wet marshland. “What are we looking for anyway?”
Hick squatted on his haunches and gazed at the shoreline. “I don’t know.”
“Why in the hell do we need to traipse through this swamp?” Adam complained. With a frown, he pulled the boot out of the mud and limped over to a log, sitting down and putting it back on. A cottonmouth slithered by on top of the water and Hick watched its graceful movements, fascinated with the seemingly effortless motion and the elegant ripples it left in its wake. He wondered what it would be like to glide effortlessly on top instead of constantly feeling like he was being pulled down and sinking.
“Next time it’s Wash’s turn,” Adam decided, tying his boot laces in a double knot. “I don’t know how you can stand this.”
“The heat never bothers me,” Hick told him and involuntarily shivere
d. “Just the cold.”
They walked along the bank, the tall cypress trees regarding them not as trespassers, but as merely insignificant passersby. They had stood unmolested in this bayou for hundreds of years and would be there long after Hick and Adam were gone.
They walked up a small rise in the land and came out near the home of Matt Pringle. Further away stood the Scott house and Claire Thompson’s.
Adam paused and examined the flat piece of ground overlooking the slough, the place teenagers referred to as “pecking pond.” Grinning, he said, “Remember the first time I caught you and Maggie up here? I almost ran you in.”
Hick laughed and replied, “You knew better. I’d have told the sheriff you were the one who told me about this place.”
“God, your dad used to hate me,” Adam remembered, standing tall and taking his hat off to wipe his neck and head with a handkerchief.
“He didn’t hate you,” Hick argued. “He just thought you were a little old for Pam, that’s all. If he’d have known you ever had her up here, he would have hated you and he might have killed you.”
“I never did nothing to be ashamed of with her. I knew better. Besides, she wouldn’t have it.”
Hick didn’t look at Adam. He remembered Maggie’s soft, olive skin, pale in the moonlight. Adam might not have anything to be ashamed of, but Hick certainly did.
Adam was lost in his reminiscing. “The first time I brought Pam up here, she just stared me down like I was crazy. She said, ‘What do you think you’re doing, Adam Kinion?’ I told her I wanted to look at the full moon and it was pretty rising over the slough. It really was … I wasn’t putting her on. I knew then I wanted to marry her. It didn’t matter to her that I was eighteen years older than she was. She knew her own mind, and I loved her for it.”
“She always was a bossy old nag,” Hick agreed, laughing.
“Boy, that’s my wife you’re talking about,” Adam warned him with a grin.
Hick walked back to the slough. From there he had a perfect view of most of it except the corner where they had found the baby. It lay around a bend, shielded by thick grass and dense forest. The two men stood before the water.
“This is the most likely spot,” Adam remarked. “It’s close to the road and there’s easy access to the water.”
Hick looked around and then nodded. “Johnny says he was down by Scott’s property line. He would have had a clear picture of the water if they were around here.” The rise where the cars parked was about fifty yards away. He could see how someone could easily pull up there at night, sneak down to the water and drop the baby in. He felt his body shuddering and said in a shaky voice, “And they just left her in the water.”
“Are you okay?” Adam asked him.
Hick was not okay. He closed his eyes as a wave of nausea washed over him. “Maybe the heat is bothering me, after all,” he said feebly. The sound of an infant crying was roaring in his ears. He could hear it louder than Adam, who was talking to him.
“What’s wrong?” he finally heard Adam ask.
Hick took a couple of deep breaths and the sound of the crying died away. He exhaled loudly and opened his eyes wide, recalling where he was and what he was doing. He was sweating, more from the distress of his mind than the heat. Adam was looking at him closely and he knew he must offer some explanation.
“Sometimes I remember things I saw … you know, things from the war. I can’t stop ‘em. I’ll be okay.”
Adam looked unconvinced. “How often does that happen?”
“Not very. It’s just since this baby—”
“You tell anyone? Like the doc? Listen, we all know you’re not sleeping.”
“I’m fine,” Hick said, his eyes on the mud.
“Hick, don’t forget, I was in the trenches myself. Maybe you should—”
“I’m fine,” Hick said again with a look that stopped any discussion. He stood up and remarked, “We’re right here at the Thompson’s. Maybe we should check with her about last season’s pickers.”
Adam appeared to want to say something. His mouth opened, then he merely shrugged and they headed to Claire Thompson’s house. They were met by Jack, who was weeding the garden.
“Hey, Jack,” Adam called to the boy.
He paused in his work and hollered, “Howdy, Mr. Kinion. Right pretty day we’re havin’, ain’t it?”
Adam paused and took off his hat. He wiped his forehead with his shirtsleeve and then smiled at the boy. “Only if you like it hot,” he answered.
“Is your Granny at home?” Hick asked.
“She’s around back finding us a pullet for dinner,” he replied.
Hick and Adam rounded the corner of the house and spied Claire in the chicken yard. She laid a pie plate of feed on the ground and waited for the chickens to come and eat. Then swiftly she reached down and wrenched a young male by the neck and quickly snapped it. She moved so quickly the other chickens never paused in their eating. She carried the bird with its wings still flapping and exited the coop. As she fastened the gate, she spied the men. “Hello, boys,” she said and nodded toward the kitchen. “Won’t you come inside?”
Adam shook his head. “We’ve been out at the slough. We’re a mess.”
She glanced at their muddy shoes and asked, “Well, what can I do for you?”
Removing his hat, Hick asked, “Ma’am, we’re looking for records on all the pickers that worked in the area last fall. Did any of your renters hire local people?”
Claire thought a moment and answered, “I have to be honest with you, I really don’t know. Ross took care of all the records for the renters. I wasn’t feeling well at the time. He was out a lot, checking on the fields.”
“Did he keep any written records, in particular records of what was paid out?” Adam asked.
“Of course,” Claire replied. “The renters hired the workers and paid them, but since it was our land Ross was responsible for reporting wages. He was always very good about writing things down.” Her eyes welled a little and she quickly wiped them with her shoulder sleeve. “I’m sorry, boys. He was careful, careful about everything.” By this time the chicken had ceased its reflexive movement.
“I’m sorry we have to bother you about this,” Hick told her, a feeling of guilt rising.
“It’s no bother,” she told him, and indicating the dead chicken said, “I need to put this fellow down. Give me a minute.”
They watched through the screen door as she put the chicken in the sink and then crossed the room toward a large roll top desk. “May I ask what you are looking for?”
“We’re just keeping an eye on all the itinerants coming through,” Hick answered. “Trying to find out who was working and who was not.”
She found a metal box and brought it outside, handing it to Hick. “I believe all of Ross’s records are in here. I haven’t had the heart to look, but I know I’ll have to. Picking season is only four months away.”
“We’ll get it back to you right away,” Hick promised. As they were leaving, they paused beside Jack still working in the garden.
“Need any help there?” Hick called.
“No sir,” Jack replied. “I can do it. It’s just even with all the rain, the ground’s so hard this year. Granny can’t even dig no more. Floyd and me planted this whole garden.”
Hick watched as the boy worked alone in the heat with no father beside him. “You sure?” He couldn’t help but ask.
Jack wiped his forehead. “I appreciate it, but it ain’t as bad as it looks.” He glanced to the sky. “Besides, it looks like rain.”
They left him straining and sweating in the hot sunshine.
The itching woke Hick the next morning. That and the sensation of not being able to freely move the right part of his face. He rose groggily, stumbled into the bathroom and groaned. His face and neck were streaked with poison ivy, his left arm and hand were covered with blisters and his eye was swollen shut.
“Great,” he grumbled, forcing hi
mself not to scratch.
Adam looked the same, and Wash laughed at the two men when he saw them at the station. “What the hell do you expect when you spend an afternoon in a swamp?”
Hick hung his hat, scratching the blisters on his neck.
“You’d better stop scratching,” Adam warned.
Two days later found Hick in the doctor’s office, the poison ivy on his neck infected from the scratching he couldn’t seem to control.
Dr. Prescott shook his head. “You never could stop your scratching. I remember when you had the chickenpox. Pam never scratched when she had ‘em, but you got the impetigo. Your daddy marched you in here and I had to give you a shot of penicillin.”
“I was four years old,” Hick protested.
The doctor examined Hick’s neck. “Let me see those fingernails.” Hick obediently raised his hand and the doctor told him, “Your daddy kept ’em shorter than that. You need to cut ’em back a little.”
“He cut ’em with a pocket knife for Christ’s sake.”
The doctor stared at him blankly. “Then use a pocketknife. You got some nasty boils on your neck, there. I’m gonna give you a prescription. Make sure you take these every day.”
Hick buttoned his shirt and began the uncomfortable process of tying a tie around his festering neck
“Hick, how much weight have you lost?” the doctor asked abruptly, taking Hick by surprise.
“What?”
“Son, if you don’t mind my saying, you ain’t looking too good these days. Ever since we found the baby you’ve been irritable.”
“I’m fine.”
The doctor raised his eyebrows skeptically and Hick confessed. “Alright, maybe I don’t sleep as much as I should.”
“Do you eat?”
Hick shrugged. “When I’m hungry.”
“When’s the last time you ate?”
Hick wasn’t as much surprised by the question as by the fact that he wasn’t sure of his answer. “I ate dinner with my mama Sunday.”
“Hick, it’s Tuesday.”
Hick brushed him aside. “I’m eating. I just don’t remember ‘cause my cooking is so awful.”
“You ever consider taking a leave of absence? I can’t help but think there’s some things you need to work through.”
Beneath Still Waters Page 8
