Hick leaned forward, his chin near the steering wheel, trying to will the car to move faster. “How am I going to tell Claire?” was his first thought, and then it occurred to him that perhaps it would be best if he didn’t. She had been through so much in her life, outliving her husband and children. Why add to her pain?
The truck stood in the yard, its presence there now seemed foreboding. He approached it and paused with his hand on the door handle, not sure of what he was looking for and afraid of what he might find.
Finally, he flung open the door. Steam smacked him in the face and a hot, strong smell of mildew filled the air with dank sweetness. He climbed in, and the humidity clung to him, wrapping itself around his body. His shirt stuck to his underarms, his chest heaved trying to breathe the hot, soggy air.
He glanced underneath the seat. The car was filled with sand and dried, caked mud. Mold grew along the bottoms of the doors, and dried grass and leaves hung from the brake pedal and clutch. He maneuvered around the steering wheel, lay across the seat, and opened the glove box. It was filled with sand and gravel, thick and hard, coming off in chunks beneath his finger. Beneath that, there were a few papers, molded and unreadable.
He looked on the floor of the passenger side. Besides an empty soda bottle, there was gravel and sand littered about, left behind from the water that had seeped in from under the floorboard. He grabbed the bottle and sat up when something caught his eye. Lying across the seat, he reached beneath it, pulling out a hair ribbon. It was mud-stained and already rotting, but little hints of pink showed through the grime. Claire had never worn such a ribbon.
He felt guilty holding it, as if some long dead secret had been dug up that should have stayed buried. He closed his eyes and gripped the hair ribbon. In his mind, he recalled Ross at his wife’s funeral, a miserable, heartbroken man left with two small boys and an uneasy guilt because he wouldn’t get the doctor. “That boy is devastated,” Hick’s father said after the funeral. “If it weren’t for his mother, he’d have to farm those kids out.” How had that heartbroken man sunk so low as to sleep with Iva Lee?
He crawled out of the truck, even the stifling heat of July seemed cool by comparison. He took off his hat and ran his sleeve over his eyes to dry the sweat that was burning them. He put his hat back on and turned, running straight into Claire.
“Miss Thompson! You scared the bejesus out of me.”
“Is there something I can help you with, Sheriff?” she asked.
“No, ma’am. I was just finishing up some paperwork. That’s all.”
“About Ross?”
“Yes, ma’am.
She seemed to be scrutinizing him and he felt uncomfortable. “And what did you find?”
“Nothing new. I just needed to go through the truck once more.”
“What’s in your hands?”
He glanced down at the hair ribbon and soda bottle. He clasped the ribbon in his fist and thrust it into his pocket. “Nothing really.” He held up the bottle. “Just a few odds and ends. The truck is pretty much empty. You plannin’ on sending it to the dump any time soon?”
“Perhaps,” she replied. “You’re awful jumpy. Is something the matter?”
The ribbon felt heavy in his pant’s pocket. He wanted to hide the truth from her if he could. “No. Everything’s fine.”
She glanced at the bottle. “What are you doing with that?”
“I was just cleaning the car out.” He shrugged his shoulders. “You can return it for the deposit if you want.”
“I would like the bottle,” Claire told him. He handed it to her and, after a pause, she said, “Hick, be honest. What else did you find?” She held out her hand, and with a feeling of resignation, he reached into his pocket and handed her the hair ribbon. He expected her to appear confused, but instead she just looked at it and shook her head. “A little hair ribbon.”
Feeling curious, Hick asked, “Ma’am, this might seem an odd question, but can you tell me what Ross’s frame of mind was on the day of his accident.”
“Why, what do you mean?”
He tried to sound nonchalant when he replied, “Oh, you know. Was he upset about something? Depressed maybe? Angry?”
Her face grew pale. “Hick Blackburn, what are you implying?”
“I’m not implying anything. It’s my job to ask questions.”
Her eyes shifted. She raised her hand to smooth the hair that was pulled back. Hick noticed the knuckles on her hand were arthritic, severely so, and he recalled Iva Lee mentioning “bulby” hands. A wave of realization swept over him, stealing his breath and making his heart skip. The revelation that Claire Thompson could be the murderer of the baby in the slough washed over him. His knees almost buckled.
“Is there anything the matter?”
“No, ma’am. I just need to get back to the station, that’s all.” He desperately needed to speak with Adam. He screwed up one investigation by not waiting for Wash and Adam to give their input. He would not make that mistake again. Not on something this important.
“You look pale. Come inside and have a glass of iced tea.”
“No, thank you,” Hick replied, turning to leave.
“Please, Sheriff,” Claire begged, “just for a minute. You look peaked. Sit down and cool off. I know it was hot in that truck.”
He turned to her. The pleading in her eyes made him feel sorry for her, and suddenly he doubted his instincts. He felt foolish. “A glass of tea would be nice. Thank you.”
He followed her up the steps and into the house, sitting down in the front room while Claire went to the kitchen. “I saw the boys in town playing baseball,” he called to her.
She joined him with the iced tea in her hand. “I expect most everyone’s in town today for the Fourth of July.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, taking the glass from her and drinking down a large gulp of tea.
“Is your tea okay?”
“Yes, ma’am. It’s just what I needed. I appreciate you going to the trouble.”
She smiled. “No trouble at all.”
He finished and she rose and took the glass back to the kitchen. He waited politely for her return. After about five minutes she came back. “Sorry I was gone so long. It generally takes about five minutes.”
“What?”
“Chloral hydrate. The dose you just took generally takes about five minutes to work.”
He rose from the chair and felt suddenly dizzy; the room was spinning beneath him. He wanted to speak, but his speech slurred. Glancing at Claire’s face, he felt suddenly impressed with how hard it looked. Everyone knew her life had not been an easy one. She worked like a dog for everything she had, but the face that stared at him was harsh, it seemed to be waiting for something.
“Don’t look at me that way, Hick. I feel bad enough about this as it is. You know I can’t let you tell anyone what you know.”
He tried to walk to the door but fell, crashing hard onto the floor. His eyes questioned her, and Claire seemed to understand. She stood over him. “That son of mine,” she said shaking her head. “I know a man has his needs, I didn’t expect him to stay home and be a monk. But he was going to marry her. My son, Ross Thompson, going to marry an imbecile! What do you think I should have done … sit back and let him make a laughing stock out of the whole family? By God, I wasn’t about to let that happen.”
Hick lay on his stomach. He could hear her words, and most of what she said registered in his mind. His body was limp He couldn’t move a muscle, he couldn’t feel anything, he couldn’t speak.
“You were a good son to your daddy right up to the last. You would’ve never done him the way Ross did me. I’m sorry to have to do this.” Those were the last words he heard, and then everything went dark.
20
The young woman’s eyes were open, but lifeless. Outside, the wind raged against the old farmhouse, ice skittered against its clapboard frame. Hick’s breath came in frosty gasps. “We’ve got to get out of here,�
� he told Sergeant Brody, his voice shaking.
Brody looked out into the storm. “Not yet. A few more hours and the storm will blow over. Then we can make our way back.”
Hick’s head quivered uncontrollably. “No. We need to leave here now.”
Sergeant Brody turned to him. He glanced at the young woman on the floor, her face frozen in death. He crossed the room to where Hick was kneeling, looking into her face, unable to move. Placing his hand on Hick’s shoulder, he told him, “This is what war is. She’s a casualty … there are plenty more casualties out there. A lot of our boys are lying dead in the snow looking just like her. They didn’t volunteer for this either. It’s just the way it is.”
Hick’s eyes turned up to Brody, questioning.
Joe Brody shook his head. “You’ll never be able to make sense out of a senseless act. This whole damn war is senseless, but we have to win. If you don’t fight, you get exterminated. Just remember, Blackburn, the winners decide who lives and who dies.”
Suddenly, Hick felt the burning friction on his face as he was being dragged across the room and toward the door. There was a feeling of dampness, which somewhere in his consciousness registered as blood. His eyes opened and he looked up into Claire Thompson’s face. It was red from exertion and she stopped and straightened out, breathing heavily. He must have blacked out again, because the next time his eyes opened he found himself alone, his feet out the door and on the porch. Then, the sound of his squad car being started made him desperately try to remember what he was doing and where he was. The last thing he recalled was being rolled across the Thompson front porch and into the trunk of his car.
He must have dozed, because the silence after the storm woke him. Joe Brody had covered the mother and her child with a blanket. He was carrying a can of gasoline and meticulously pouring it over them.
“What are you doing?” Hick asked.
“A war crime tribunal is … unpleasant.” Joe spread the gasoline throughout the room. They stood outside and watched as the roof finally caved in, the heat from the flames licking Hick’s face, filling his nostrils with smoke.
Hick woke to that same strong smell. Groggily, he felt the biting metal on his handcuffed hands and strained his eyes against the darkness. His legs were thrown over a spare tire and he soon realized he was in the trunk of his car. A strong smell of smoke and intense heat warned him of a danger he was unable to see. He drunkenly jerked at the handcuffs. The chain held tight and he jerked again, harder. The effort only produced two cuts on the tops of his wrists. He shook his head and tried to clear the fog from his mind. He felt sick and disoriented and his eyes would close regardless of the danger he was in.
The gun was heavy and cold in his hand. He caressed it, his finger playing around the trigger, drunk with the knowledge of the power it wielded. Pain and sorrow, the hurt that washed around him and then swallowed him could be ended today, now. At night when his buddies in the tent would sleep, Hick would take the pistol and press it to his temple, wondering if he could go through with it, wondering how much more pain it would take to give him the courage to pull the trigger.
He held the gun to his right temple, the steel digging into his skin, leaving a pock as he twisted it back and forth, his heart pounding, trying to will his finger to pull the trigger. An explosion made him jump.
A tire had exploded from the heat. The heat and smoke began to intensify. Soon, they would incinerate everything: Hick, the car, the handcuffs leaving nothing behind but the impression that a terrible accident had taken place. He kicked at the lid of the trunk and again, strained against the cuffs.
He shook his head and tried to comprehend where he was, but he was dizzy, disoriented, immobilized. He wanted to understand what was happening, his survival instinct screamed out for him to fight, but he was sick and dazed.
The inside of the trunk was unbearable, the sweat poured from him as if he was melting. His skin was hot, red and flushed, the heat dried out his mouth and eyes. He struggled for air. The black smoke suffocated him and filled his nostrils and burned his eyes. He shouted and kicked at the trunk again and again, hoping someone might hear him. But no one did.
Sweat dripped into his eyes, and he rubbed his face against his shoulder. The fire roared in his ears. He gave one last tug, crying out in pain as the cuffs dug deeply into his wrists. He was exhausted, unable to breathe or see as the fire grew stronger. Hick grew weaker. He closed his eyes and laid his head back. He took in deep breaths of smoke, knowing what it meant to burn to death and preferring smoke inhalation. As Maggie’s face loomed up in his imagination, he began to feel himself drifting away.
Then a whoosh of cold air filled the trunk and jarred Hick to his senses. He felt someone’s hands reach around him. He blinked against the brightness of the flames and tried to see who was there. Fingers groped for him. Strong hands clasped his shoulders, dragging him roughly from the trunk. The handcuffs were red hot and through his smoke-filled eyes he saw a shadowy figure splash a bucket of water toward him. The coolness washed over him, and everything faded as he felt himself dragged away from the heat.
The nausea awakened him. Crickets chirped and frogs called from the slough. He sat up and felt an overwhelming desire to vomit. The room spun and everything ached.
He blinked in the dim light and tried to discern where he was. Suddenly, Coal Oil Johnny pulled back the blanket that served as a door and walked in.
“Johnny?” Hick said in confusion.
The old man smiled his toothless grin. “You gonna be okay, Sheriff. Won’t be sending for the sin eater today.”
Hick felt a laugh growing inside him. It came out in a raspy gasp that made him cough. “No, not today,” he agreed.
Johnny handed Hick a canteen. “How you come to be in such a spot, Sheriff?”
Hick took the canteen, his hands still handcuffed. He glanced at the old man as he took a long drink. Finally, he replied. “I found the eephus.”
Hick’s car had been driven to the far side of the Cypress swamp, a lonely place inhabited by snakes and wild animals and little else. Judging by the sun, Hick figured it was close to seven o’clock. It was still daylight, the Fourth of July celebration would not begin until nine o’clock, but Hick knew everyone was already in town. Claire had the perfect opportunity to silence Hick, and would have succeeded if not for Johnny.
Hick poured the water from the canteen over his head and wiped some of the soot from his face. “I gotta get to town quick, Johnny. Is there a car or anyone nearby?”
Johnny shook his head. “You can take Patsy.”
Patsy was Johnny’s mule, legendary for her stubbornness.
“Will she let me ride her?”
“Let me have a word with her first.”
Hick rose unsteadily and followed Johnny outside. He paused, holding onto the door frame as Johnny went to the barn. The shack was on the waterfront, lonely and tiny, barely habitable and exactly as he imagined it. Moments later, Johnny appeared leading an old mule by a tether.
“She don’t take to no saddle or harness. You gotta grip her mane, but she’s gentle.”
“Thank you, Johnny,” Hick told him, grasping the withered hand in both of his. “Thank you for everything.” Then, with Johnny’s help, he climbed onto the mule.
By the time Hick made it back to town, it was close to eight o’clock. The sun was red and undulating, hesitating to dip below the horizon, but the familiar songs of the mosquitoes and crickets signaled nighttime would soon arrive.
He lay across the mule’s neck and coughed and gasped. The air felt cool and chilly after the heat of the car. The after effects of the chloral hydrate still left him groggy.
He took the back way into town and left the mule tied behind the sheriff’s station. Adam’s face registered shock when Hick staggered through the door. “Christ, Hick. Sit down. My God, boy, what happened?”
Hick’s face was scraped and cut. It was covered with black soot and ash, and he was bruised. He sank int
o the chair Adam offered, not caring that Wayne Murphy was standing by the bars of the cell, alert, waiting for his explanation.
“I found out who killed the baby,” he told Adam in a raspy voice while Adam fumbled in a cabinet for the keys to the handcuffs.
Adam unlocked them and Hick rubbed his wrists. He took the water Adam offered and wiped the soot from his face.
Adam stood beside him. “Tell me what’s happened.” Hick glanced at the cell that held Wayne Murphy, then he rose and went to Adam’s desk. He opened Ross Thompson’s metal box and looked at the names of the pickers he had been in contact with the year before. There were several pay stubs made out to Bill Stanton. At some point, Iva Lee must have come to the fields with her daddy.
Hick sat at the desk and put his head in his hands while Adam patiently waited. Finally, Hick looked up. “Adam, Ross Thompson was the father of Iva Lee’s baby.”
Adam slowly sank into a chair, his face grave and pale. He closed his eyes. “How do you know?”
“You ever look at Floyd’s fingers?”
Adam shook his head.
“They’re the same as the baby’s. Floyd’s fingers are webbed.”
Hick watched as realization swept over Adam. His eyes grew wide and he shook his head. “What the hell could Ross have been thinking?”
“I guess loneliness can drive a man to do things he’d never do otherwise,” Hick replied. He paused and finally added, “Iva Lee didn’t kill the baby.”
Adam stared at Hick and realization lighted his features. He rose and paced the floor. “I’ve known Ross Thompson all my life. I can’t believe he’d kill a child.”
“He didn’t.”
Adam turned, his face puzzled.
“Claire killed the baby, Adam. And she tried to kill me.”
Adam walked to the window and stared, evidently trying to make sure he had heard right. Finally, he asked, “Did you just say Claire Thompson tried to kill you?”
Beneath Still Waters Page 15
