Burying Daisy Doe

by Ramona Richards

  Betsy still stretched, leaning over my arm, in an effort to watch the two men, but Claudia nodded. “I think so. One handled his daddy’s estate.”

  “No, he needs a criminal lawyer who knows tax law.”

  Betsy finally settled down as Mike’s cruiser backed out of a parking space and drove away. “Yes. We know someone.”

  “Go call him. Her. Whoever. Explain what’s happening.”

  With a slow nod, Betsy headed back to the office. Claudia started to follow her, but I snagged her arm. “Wait. Let her make the call. And would you please tell me what’s going on?”

  Claudia rocked up on her toes, watching her sister enter the office and close the door. Then she motioned for me to follow her away from the window. She lowered her voice to barely above a whisper, even though there was no one to hear.

  “After his father died, Hal went off the grid. He’d survived so many battles and wars and coups and all the cruel things people can do to each other. After everything went south with the Secret Service raids and his father was under suspicion, he just barely hung on. Once Isaiah was gone, Hal just walked away. Real survivalist stuff. Cabin in the woods, no electricity or sewer. Grows his own food. No address. Hunts for his meat. No one knows where he lives, where that cabin is.”

  “Not even Betsy?”

  “Absolutely not. No one.”

  I got it. “Including the IRS.”

  “Right. He had no income, had made plenty of money as a mercenary, inherited even more. He didn’t have to earn.”

  “But estates come with taxes.”

  “And he had investments that paid dividends.”

  “I bet the first year or two didn’t get their attention.”

  “No. It was year four and five when they started taking note.”

  “How did they find him?”

  Claudia looked around, as if checking for eavesdroppers. As far as I could tell, the only listening ears were Ratliff’s, from where he sat on a high shelf about five feet over our heads. He meowed, and Claudia jumped.

  I put a hand on her arm. “It’s OK. There’s no one else here.”

  She let out a frustrated sigh. “I know that. But just … how did they know he was here? Michael only did this because someone else insisted. But we brought Hal in the back way early this morning, before even the drugstore or Ed’s was open. In our car. How did they know?”

  Good question.

  “Let’s back up. How did the IRS find Hal?”

  “There’s a flea market, a permanent one, not too far from here. It’s open every weekend, and a lot of long guns get traded there. Pistols too. Usually it’s just farmers trading shotguns, rifles for pests and game, that sort of thing. Utility stuff, not for sport. Private sales like that aren’t regulated in Alabama, with a few exceptions. Unfortunately, Hal sold a pistol to a man who turned out to be a felon.”

  “Which is illegal.”

  Claudia sighed. “Eventually he broke the law again, and when they checked out the serial number, it tracked back to Hal. The ATF got involved, and the guy who’d done the trade told them Hal had a cabin somewhere around Pineville. So they issued a warrant and logged it with every law enforcement officer in the county. But how did Michael know he was here?”

  “I’ll ask him. But it’s clear you’re being watched.”

  “At six in the morning?”

  “Whoever’s watching probably has someone reporting 24-7.”

  “But why us?”

  I put an arm around her. “Because you’re helping me, and there’s still enough people in this town who don’t want me tracking all of this down. Y’all think there’s no proof. Hal thinks there’s no evidence, just information to be had. Apparently the folks on the other side think the evidence exists and that we’re close to finding it.”

  Claudia walked with me back to the office. Over our heads, Ratliff followed, leaping agilely from shelf to shelf, landing lightly.

  Claudia stopped at the door. “Wait a minute. If they think that there’s evidence to be had …”

  “Then there probably is. They don’t want us to find it. Our job is to track it down.”

  Ratliff chirped once, then landed with a thump behind us. We both jumped, and Claudia grabbed her throat. “Oh, that cat!” She let out the breath she’d been holding. “I swear he’s going to be the death of me!”

  Ratliff looked up at her, then did a circle eight around her ankles.

  I couldn’t help but grin. “Apparently, it’s treat time.”

  “He’s a cat,” Claudia said sharply. “It’s always treat time.”

  She knocked once and opened the office door, stepping around Ratliff. Betsy stood behind her desk, just hanging up the phone, and she motioned with a pen for us to come on in. She made one last note, then said, “It’s taken care of. The lawyer will meet Hal at the police department and stick with him through any arraignment. I still can’t believe they’ve done this!” She threw the pen down on her desk.

  “I’m sorry.”

  She put her hands on her hips. “This is not on you. This is on all of us who’ve never stood up to these people. Who let them think that we’re too bullied to ever ferret anything out. I think it’s time to start making some phone calls.”

  “Sister?” Claudia walked behind the desk and put her arm on Betsy’s shoulder. “What are you thinking?”

  Betsy let her sister’s arm fall away. “I’ve had it. We’ve lived under this tyranny all our lives. It drove our other sisters out of town, out of our lives. It put our father in an early grave and left our mother to grieve herself to death.”

  Claudia’s eyes rounded in concern. “Betsy …”

  Betsy’s hand slashed through the air. “No. I’m done.” She focused on me. “Our father was in on it. Trapped by it.” She thrust a pointed finger toward the floor. “We own this freakin’ building! Free and clear. He could have stood up to the Pattons.”

  “He tried!” Claudia had gone stark pale. “You know what they did!”

  Betsy’s breath came in deep, rapid gasps. “I know all too well what they did.” She glanced at me again. “When Daddy tried to resist, threatened to turn them in, they kidnapped Abby, our oldest sister. They tied her to a tree at the end of Ebenezer Carver’s field road and left her there. She managed to get her gag off, and Ebenezer eventually heard her screams. He rescued her and called Daddy.”

  My knees felt weak. “How old was she?”

  Claudia dropped onto the couch. “Sixteen. We were stairsteps. I’d just turned thirteen.”

  “And I was nine. Even then I knew Abby would never be the same.”

  Claudia clutched her hands together, twisting the fingers back and forth. “She wound up at Bryce.”

  I sat next to her. “The psychiatric hospital.”

  Betsy nodded. “She attempted suicide when she was in college.” She began to pace. “Two days after Ebenezer found her, Abner Patton paid Daddy a visit here in the store. He had no idea that I was playing in the back room. I heard the whole thing. He reminded Daddy that he had four more daughters.”

  “So your father gave in.”

  “Yep, but what Patton didn’t know is that Elmore’s had been courting Daddy. He took revenge by leasing the whole kit and caboodle to a national chain, which Patton wouldn’t dare mess with. Daddy rented the house here, and all of us took an extended vacation to Fairhope. Our sisters stayed there.”

  Claudia still stared at her hands. “When Elmore’s closed, we thought we could come back. The tenants had moved out of the house. We hadn’t been here three days when Patton showed up and informed my father that the town was suffering without a general store.”

  I looked from one sister to the other. “He reopened?”

  Betsy paused in her pacing. “No. He died. Heart attack. Shortly after, the sheriff’s department took over. Rent free.”

  “Of course.”

  Betsy resumed pacing. “But when everyone came to offer Mother their condolences, they talked. Ab
out all of it. And you heard Hal. He wanted to talk. I think other folks do as well. They just need persuading.”

  A thought niggled at the back of my brain. Something that Miss Doris had said. It began to swirl around the threat from Patton about Mike’s job, and it formed and popped out my mouth before I could stop it. “What does Ellis Patton have on Mike?”

  Claudia’s head snapped up, her mouth in a small O. Betsy froze in her tracks.

  “I mean, more than just his job. Ellis has threatened to fire him if he doesn’t toe the line, which is why he came to get Hal this morning. But it has to be more than that. Mike’s a good cop, with the best training possible. He could get a job anywhere in the country. Unless Ellis has something that would ruin his career.”

  Claudia closed her mouth with a soft “Ummm.” Then she looked at Ratliff, who had found a new perch on top of the refrigerator.

  Betsy crossed her arms. “Are you sure you want to know? You don’t really need to know what, just that there is something.”

  “I’m sure. Please tell me.”

  And she did.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Pineville, Alabama, 1984

  THE NEXT FORTY-EIGHT hours were excruciating. No calls, no word at all from Pineville. Roscoe spent it on the cot, praying—and hoping he’d heal faster than the doctors anticipated. He took his pain pills, washed in the gas station bathroom, and ate takeout the manager brought him. He hated waiting. Even more, he despised hiding. He’d resented it as a kid, seethed when he had to do it in Vietnam.

  The pills helped, but he felt himself growing as numb as Maybelle had seemed to be. He stared at the rough beams over his head, slowly losing any sense of anger or resentment. If this was his new normal, he was in serious trouble.

  The night of the third day, Roscoe drifted in and out of sleep until a soft knock on the door just after midnight roused him. “Yeah?”

  The door opened, and the young manager appeared, his face twisted with anguish. “I just gotta phone call, man. You need to get to Pineville.”

  Roscoe struggled to sit. “Now?”

  “Yeah. It’s bad.”

  Roscoe slipped on a sweatshirt. He’d been wearing the same pair of jeans with one leg cut off for a couple of days. It’d have to do. Suddenly, he was grateful for the rest. He felt stronger for it. He stuck the pain pills in his pocket but was glad he’d been a few hours without them. His ribs ached, but he breathed and moved easier. He grabbed his crutches and headed for his car.

  The hour drive to Pineville seemed to last all night. The stretch of Interstate 59 northeast of Birmingham held few cars, but a forest of pine trees on either side of the road went on forever, a mesmerizing blur of green and black. Roscoe used Motown soul on the radio to stay awake, letting his mind drift to a different time, a more pleasant existence. A true fantasy.

  A fantasy that dissipated even before he pulled into the Pineville square. He smelled smoke and slowed, expecting to see an array of emergency vehicles. But the empty, silent square felt ghostly, deserted. A normal 2:00 a.m. on the square, except for the smoke hovering in and around the buildings, a gray fog filling his nostrils. As he turned the corner that took him by the bank and drugstore, he saw the source of the smoke.

  His store. His cherished and carefully cultivated appliance and repair store was a smoldering hulk. The fire had taken it to the ground, along with half of the two buildings on either side: the hardware store and a sewing notions shop. Tendrils of smoke spiraled up from hot spots, drifting slowly toward the heavens.

  Roscoe pulled up and stopped, pushing himself out of the car. He stood, leaning heavily on the crutches, numb as he watched the last of his life drop into ash.

  He felt rather than saw the old man ease up behind him. He’d obviously been waiting, responsible for the stark emptiness of the square.

  “Abner.”

  “Roscoe.” After a moment, Abner leaned closer, his voice low and hard in Roscoe’s ear. “You wouldn’t listen. You never did. Not even as a kid when your daddy tried to tell you what you should and shouldn’t do. You step out of bounds, you pay the price.”

  Roscoe shifted his weight to his good leg and let his right crutch lean lightly against his side. “Is that what happened to Chris and William?”

  The old man’s teeth ground so hard Roscoe could hear his jaw crack. “No, that’s on you. Like I said. If you had just listened.” Abner stepped to Roscoe’s left, and he motioned to the smoky ruins. “Just like this. And just like those two federal boys you’ve been meeting with.”

  Roscoe straightened his shoulders, and his left crutch fell to the ground.

  Abner laughed, a low, mean chuckle. “Oh yes. They’re gone too. Has no one told you? Found out at your daddy’s field just like that woman. Two of your daddy’s hired men found them. Or didn’t he tell you?”

  Roscoe glanced sideways at the old man. “Why would he? My daddy’s gone. In hiding from you and your goons.”

  The old man’s eyes narrowed, and his brows came together. “What? No. That can’t be right. They told me—”

  “What? Don’t tell me someone lied to you.” Roscoe shifted his grip on his right crutch, moving his hand down to the main support.

  “They wouldn’t—” Abner stepped a few inches away.

  Roscoe twisted, swinging the crutch fiercely across his body, his left hand clutching it mid-swing to add more force. It hit with the force of a baseball bat, the twin beams of the upper section catching Abner Patton across the face with a blow that crushed his nose and cheekbones. A harsh shout of pain burst from him, but he stumbled into the gutter and fell backward, his head slamming into the fender of Roscoe’s car. His skull splintered, caving inward, and Abner slid to the ground, smearing blood and gray matter down the side of the sedan.

  Thrown off balance, Roscoe tumbled down over Abner’s body. His casted leg skidded out from under him, and he rolled over on his back, down the old man’s legs. Pain roared through him, making him bellow as he tried to thrust himself away from the body. He lay on the sidewalk, gasping for air, trying to completely grip what he’d just done. He’d been so numb as to not believe his eyes when he’d spotted the store. But Abner had managed in mere seconds to stir a lifelong fury from dormant to full bloom.

  The square returned to silence, except for Roscoe’s harsh gasps. No calls for help, no sirens of warning. He looked at the old man, whose eyes stared blankly. Abner’s face had been so damaged as to be barely recognizable. The back of his head seemed concave. Roscoe struggled to sit up, leaning back on his arms, still sucking in air. He sat there, letting the blood rage leach away. As it did, he took a few deep breaths, even though his ribs ached anew. Finally he reached into his pocket and then swallowed three of his pain pills dry.

  This night was about to get a lot longer.

  Roscoe scrambled for his crutches, scooted to the curb, and used his car and his crutches to shove himself upright. Then he opened the back car door, tossed the crutches into the floorboard, and reached for Abner Patton. Placing all his weight on his right leg, he tugged and shoved the old man into the back seat. He slammed the door, glanced once more at his demolished store, and shoved himself into the driver’s seat.

  The trip to his daddy’s farm seemed as long as the drive from Birmingham. Adrenaline coursed through him, and Roscoe felt as if every nerve, every sense was on edge. He couldn’t shake the image of Abner waking up and bashing him in the back of the head.

  Crime scene tape still littered the area, bits of it tied to trees, the edge of the porch, a few stalks of corn. All other signs had already been cleared. Roscoe stopped the car at the house only long enough to grab a shovel from the equipment shed, then he headed down the field road. With the windows down, the pungent scents of ripening corn and soybeans threw Roscoe back into his childhood, including the night he’d hidden in the cornfield from the Klan.

  No more hiding. Not after tonight.

  He slowed the car, dodging mud puddles and depressions whe
re the sandy soil had sunk under the recent rains. Edging in under the trees at the edge of the creek, he looked for the bare ground he knew had to be the syndicate burial ground—the reason his father hadn’t let his boys take this route to the creek for fishing. He found it near a boat ramp reclaimed by kudzu and moss. Several mounds looked recent, and Roscoe pushed who they might be out of his mind. He needed to get through this.

  The ground was soft, but digging still took every ounce of his strength. His ribs felt as if they were breaking all over again, and by the time he got a shallow trench opened, he’d swallowed two more of the pain pills. He’d fallen twice, and his jeans and sweatshirt were caked with thick, wet mud as well as blood.

  Finally, he dragged Abner to the trench and rolled him in. Roscoe stopped, leaned over the hood of the car, and gasped for air. He had to finish; he had to rest.

  So it went, until a new mound had been neatly padded down.

  Roscoe drove back to the farmhouse and stopped, knowing he’d not be able to drive much farther with the number of pain pills in his system. He parked behind the equipment shed, which he hoped would be out of sight from the two boys his father had hired to take care of the livestock while he was gone.

  Roscoe stripped in the back yard, balled up his clothes, and shoved them into one of the grocery bags his mother kept stored on the back porch. He went into the house and fell across the bed of his childhood. He slept off and on for the next two days, expecting the cops to show up at the front door at any moment. Or the Klan to appear and drag him away.

  But no one came. The phone didn’t even ring. On the third day, Roscoe wrapped his cast in plastic and took a shower so long and scalding that the hot water ran out. He burned his jeans and sweatshirt in the kitchen’s wood-burning heater, ate some bread and butter his mother had stashed away, took more pills, and went back to sleep.

  Roscoe awoke slowly the fourth day, a soft breeze pushing the curtains on his bedroom window. The morning light had a bluish tint, a sure sign of a coming storm, and he could smell rain in the wind. A rooster crowed, and for just a moment, Roscoe felt warm and safe and at home. Then he heard the hired boys’ rattling truck pull into the drive, circle, and park behind the house. Morning sounds of a farm. Lowing cows, fussy chickens, barn cats eager for spilled milk. The squeak of wood on wood, the thud of doors. The boys chattered as they shelled corn for the chickens, exchanging gossip and tales about yesterday’s raids on the banks and courthouse. And the disappearance of Abner Patton. They called him a coward for running away, for going into hiding when the Secret Service was turning everyone else’s lives upside down.