The street was at the southern tip of the Key, a mile or so before the ocean encroached tightly and made construction impossible. The road spun off to the left, a single lane of crunching shells cutting between some trailers and small single-story houses. There was a haphazardness to the road, as if the lots were simply carved by convenience. A rusted Volkswagen bus painted in faded ancient-hippie psychedelic style sat on blocks in one front yard. Two children in diapers played in a makeshift sandbox next to it. A single woman wearing tight blue cut-off jeans and a tank top and smoking a cigarette sat on an overturned bait bucket, watching over them. She eyed Matthew Cowart with a practiced toughness. In front of another house there was a boat, with a ragged hole beneath the gunnels, up on sawhorses. Outside a trailer, an elderly couple sat in cheap green-and-white beach chairs underneath a pink umbrella. They didn’t move as he rolled past. He put his window down and heard a radio turned up to some talk show. Disembodied voices filled the air with angry tones debating meaningless issues. Bent and twisted television antennas littered the sky. Cowart felt he was entering a sun-baked world of lost hopes and found poverty.
Midway down the street was a single white clapboard church behind a rusty wire fence. There was a large handwritten sign out in the front yard: FIRST KEYS BAPTIST CHURCH. ALL WELCOME TO ENTER AND BE SAVED. He saw that the gate at the street was off its hinge and that the wooden steps leading to the front door were splintered and broken. The doors were padlocked.
He drove on, looking for number thirteen.
The house was set back thirty yards from the road beneath a gnarled mangrove tree, which cast a variegated shade across the front. It was cinder block, with old jalousie windows, their smoked glass open to catch whatever breezes filtered through the tangle of trees and brush. The shutters on the outside of the house were peeling black paint and a large crucifix was attached to the door. It was a small house, with a pair of propane fuel tanks leaning up against one wall. The yard was dirt and gravel, and dust kicked up about his feet as he walked to the front door. Scratched in the wood of the door were the words JESUS LIVES INSIDE ALL OF US.
He could hear a dog barking in the distance. The mangrove tree moved sightly, finding some small bit of wind chased by the heat. But he felt nothing.
He knocked hard. Once, twice, and a third time.
There was no answer.
He stepped back and called out, “Hello! Anyone there?”
He waited for a reply and was met with silence.
He knocked again. Shit! he swore to himself.
Cowart stepped back from the door, peering about. He could see no car, no sign of any life. He tried calling out again. “Hello? Anyone home?”
But again there was no reply.
He had no plan, no idea what to do.
He walked back to the street and then turned and looked back at the house. What the hell am I doing here? he wondered to himself. What is this all about?
He heard a mild crunching sound up the street and saw that a mailman was getting out of a white jeep. He watched as the man stuck some circulars and letters in first one, then another mailbox. Cowart kept an eye on him as he made his way down the street toward number thirteen.
“How ya doing?” Cowart asked as the man approached.
He was a middle-aged man, wearing the blue-gray shorts and pale blue shirt of the postal service. He sported a long ponytail, which was clipped tightly in back, and a hangdog droopy mustache. He wore dark sunglasses, which hid his eyes.
“Seen better. Seen worse.” He started to paw through his mailbag.
“Who lives here?” Cowart asked.
“Who wants to know?”
“I’m a reporter for the Miami Journal. My name is Cowart.”
“I read your paper,” the postman replied. “Mostly the sports section, though.”
“Can you help me? I’m trying to find the folks who live here. But there’s no answer at the door.”
“No answer, huh? I’ve never seen them go anywhere.”
“Who?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Calhoun. Old Dot and Fred. Usually sitting around reading the Bible and waiting for either the final day of judgment or the Sears catalogue to arrive. Generally speaking, Sears seems more dependable.”
“Have they been here long?”
“Maybe six, seven years. Maybe longer. I only been down here that long.”
Cowart remained confused but had another quick question. “Do they ever get any mail from Starke? From the state prison?”
The mailman dropped his bag down, sighing. “Sure do. Maybe once a month.”
“Do you know who Blair Sullivan is?”
“Sure,” said the mailman. “He’s gonna take the hot squat. I read it in your paper the other day. This got something to do with him?”
“Maybe. I don’t know,” Cowart replied. He stared back at the house as the postman took out a sheaf of circulars and opened the mailbox.
“Uh-oh,” he said.
“What?”
“Mail ain’t been picked up.”
The mailman stared across the dusty yard at the house. “I always hate that. Old folks always get their mail, always, unless something ain’t right. I used to deliver on Miami Beach, you know, when I was younger. You always knew what you were going to find when the mail hadn’t been picked up.”
“How many days?”
“Looks like a couple. Oh shit. I hate this,” said the postman.
Cowart started to approach the house again. He walked up to a window and peered in. All he could see was cheap furniture arranged in a small sitting area. There was a colored portrait of Jesus on the wall, with light radiating out of his head. “Can you see anything over there?” he asked the postman, who had joined him at the front of the house and was staring through another window, shading his eyes against the glare.
“Just an empty bedroom.”
Both men stepped back and Cowart called out, “Mr. and Mrs. Calhoun! Hello!”
There was still no reply. He went to the front door and put his hand on the doorknob. It turned. He looked over at the postman, who nodded. He opened the door and stepped inside.
The smell hit him immediately.
The postman groaned and put his hand on Cowart’s shoulder.
“I know what that is,” he said. “First smelled it in Vietnam. Never forget it.” He paused, then added, “Listen.”
The smell clogged Cowart’s throat and he wanted to choke, as if he was standing in smoke. Then he heard a buzzing noise coming from the back of the house.
The postman stepped back, retreating. “I’m gonna go call the cops.”
“I’m gonna check,” Cowart said.
“Don’t,” the postman said. “There’s no need.”
Cowart shook his head. He stepped forward, the smell and the buzzing noise seeming to gather him in, drawing him toward it. He was aware that the postman had left and he glanced back over his shoulder and saw the man hurrying toward a neighbor’s house. Cowart took several more steps into the home. His eyes searched about, grasping at detail, gathering sights that could later be described, taking in the threadbare furnishings, the religious artifacts, and the thick sense that this was the last place on earth. The heat built about him inexorably, joining with the smell, which permeated his clothes, his nostrils, slid into his pores, and tugged firmly at the edges of nausea within him. He moved ahead into the kitchen.
The old man and woman were there.
They had each been tied to a chair, at either end of a linoleum-topped breakfast table. Their arms were pulled back sharply. The woman was naked, the man clothed. They were sitting across from each other, just as if they were sitting down to a meal.
Their throats had been cut.
Black blood was pooled about the base of each chair. Flies
covered each face, beneath tangles of gray hair. Their heads were bent back, so that lifeless eyes stared at the ceiling.
In the center of the table, a Bible had been opened.
Cowart choked, battling unconsciousness, fear, and fighting to keep his stomach from heaving.
The heat in the room seemed to increase, washing over him in waves of thick, cloying warmth. The sound from the flies filled his ears. He took a single step and craned forward to read the words on the open page. A blood smear marked a single passage.
There be of them, that have left a name behind them, that their praises might be reported. And some there be, which have no memorial; who are perished, as though they had never been; and are become as though they had never been born; and their children after them.
He stepped back, eyes wildly searching the room.
He saw a corner door, leading to the outside backyard, with a single chain lock that had been forced. The lock hung uselessly from splintered old wood. His eyes swept back to the old couple in front of him. The woman’s flaccid breasts were streaked with brown-black blood. He stepped back fast, first one step, then another, and finally turned and rushed out the front door. He caught his breath, hands on knees, and saw the postman returning from across the street. Cowart felt a dizziness that threatened to drop him to the ground, so he sat abruptly on the front stoop.
The postman called out as he hurried toward Cowart, “Are they?”
He nodded.
“Jesus,” the man said. “Is it bad?”
Cowart nodded again.
“Police are on their way.”
“They were killed,” Cowart said quietly.
“Murdered? No shit?”
He bent his head again.
“Jesus,” the postman repeated. “Why?”
He didn’t reply, only shook his head. But inwardly, his mind reeled.
I know, Cowart thought. I know.
I know who they are and I know why they died.
They were the people Blair Sullivan had told him he always wanted to kill. Always. And he’d finally done it, reaching out from behind the bars, past the gates and fences, past the prison walls and barbed wire, just as he promised he could.
Matthew Cowart just did not know how.
10
AN ARRANGEMENT REACHED UPON THE ROAD TO HELL
It was late in the morning on the seventh day before Cowart was able to get back to the prison. Time had been trapped by the murder investigation.
He and the postman had waited quietly on the front stoop of the house for a patrol car to arrive. “This is a helluva thing,” the postman had said. “And, dammit, I wanted to catch the afternoon tide, pick up some snapper for dinner. Won’t get out on the boat now.” He shook his head.
After a few moments, they heard a car come crunching down Tarpon Drive and they looked up to see a single policeman. He parked in front, slowly got out of his green-and-white cruiser, and approached the pair.
“Who called?” He was a young man, with a weight lifter’s muscles and dark aviator shades hiding his eyes.
“I did,” the postman said. “But he went inside.” The man jerked a finger toward Cowart.
“Who are you?”
“A reponer for the Miami Journal,” Cowart replied sadly.
“Uh-huh. So what’ve we got?”
“Two dead people. Murdered.”
The policeman’s voice quickened. “How do you know that?”
“Go look for yourself.”
“Neither of you two move.” The policeman maneuvered past them.
“Where do you think we’d go?” the postman asked quietly. “Hell, I’ve been through this a whole lot more times than he has. Hey!” he called after the cop. “It’s just like in the damn movies. Don’t touch anything.”
“I know that,” the young policeman said. “Christ.”
They watched him as he walked carefully into the house.
“I think he’s in for the shock of his young career,” Cowart said.
The postman grinned. “He probably thinks that all there is to this job is chasing speeders heading toward Key West.”
Before Cowart could reply, they heard the cop say, “Holy shit!” The exclamation had a sudden high pitch to it, like the sound of a surprised gull, cartwheeling into the sky.
There was a momentary pause, then the young policeman came pounding fast through the house. He made it past Cowart and the postman, into the front yard, before he threw up.
“Hey,” the postman said quietly, “I’ll be damned.” He tugged at his ponytail and smiled. “You said it was bad. Guess you know what the hell you’re talking about.”
“Must have been the smell,” Cowart said, watching the young policeman heave.
After a moment, the policeman straightened. His hair was slightly out of place, his face pale. Cowart tossed him a handkerchief. The policeman nodded. “But, who, why, Jesus . . .”
“Who, is Blair Sullivan’s mother and stepfather,” Cowart said. “Why, is a whole different question. Now, don’t you think you better call this in?”
“No shit?” said the postman. “Are you kidding me? But isn’t he supposed to fry?”
“You got it.”
“Christ. But how come you’re here?”
That’s a good question, Cowart thought but out loud replied, “I’m just looking for a story.”
“Guess you got one,” the postman said under his breath.
Cowart stood to the side while the crime scene was being processed, watching as technicians worked the entire area, aware that time was sliding out from beneath him. He had managed to call the city desk and inform the city editor of what had taken place. Even for a man accustomed to South Florida’s inherent strangeness, the city editor had been surprised.
“What d’you think the governor will do?” he asked. “Do you think he’ll stay the execution?”
“I don’t know. Would you?”
“Christ, who knows? When can you get back up there and ask that crazed sonuvabitch what’s happening?”
“As soon as I can get out of here.”
But he was forced to wait.
Patience is needed in the processing of a murder location. Little details become magnified. The slightest thing can have importance. It is an exacting task when done by professionals who take pleasure in the painstaking application of science to violence.
Cowart steamed and fretted, thinking of Blair Sullivan waiting in the cell for him. He kept staring at his watch. It wasn’t until late in the afternoon that he was finally approached by two Monroe County detectives. The first was a middle-aged man wearing a tan suit streaked with sweat. His partner was a much younger woman with dirty-blonde hair combed back sharply from her face. She wore a mannish, loose-fitting cotton jacket and slacks, which hung from a lean figure. Cowart caught a glimpse of a semiautomatic pistol worn in a shoulder harness beneath the coat. Both wore dark glasses, but the woman took hers off when she stepped up to Cowart, revealing gray eyes that fixed him before she spoke.
“Mr. Cowart? My name is Andrea Shaeffer. I’m a homicide detective. This is my partner, Michael Weiss. We’re in charge of the investigation. We’d like to take your statement.” She produced a small notepad and a pen.
Cowart nodded. He pulled out his own notebook, and the woman smiled. “Yours is bigger than mine,” she said.
“What can you tell me about the crime scene?” he asked.
“Are you asking as a reporter?”
“Of course.”
“Well, how about answering our questions first? Then we’ll answer some of yours.”
“Mr. Cowart,” Detective Weiss said, “this is a murder investigation. We’re not used to having members of the press tell us about crimes before we find out a
bout them. Usually it’s the other way around. So why don’t you let us know right now why and how you got here in time to discover a pair of bodies.”
“Dead a couple of days,” Cowart said.
Detective Shaeffer nodded. “Apparently so. But you show up this morning. How come?”
“Blair Sullivan told me to. Yesterday. From his cell on Death Row.”
She wrote it down, but shook her head. “I don’t get it. Did he know . . . ?”
“I don’t know what he knew. He merely insisted I come here.”
“How did he put it?”
“He told me to come down and interview the people in the house. I figured out afterwards who they were. I’m supposed to go back up to the prison right away.” He felt flush with the heat of lost minutes.
“Do you know who killed those people?” she asked.
He hesitated. “No.”
Not yet, he thought.
“Well, do you think Blair Sullivan knows who killed those people?”
“He might.”
She sighed. “Mr. Cowart, you’re aware how unusual this all is? It would help us if you were a bit more forthcoming.”
Cowart felt Detective Shaeffer’s eyes burrowing into him, as if simply by the force of her gaze she could start to probe his memory for answers. He shifted about uncomfortably.
“I have to get back to Starke,” he said. “Maybe then I can help you.”
She nodded. “I think one of us should go along. Maybe both of us.”
“He won’t talk to you,” Cowart said.
“Really? Why not?”
“He doesn’t like policemen.” But Cowart knew that was only an excuse.
By the time he got to the prison, the day had risen hard about him and was creeping toward afternoon. He’d been held up at the house on Tarpon Drive until evening, when the detectives had finally cleared the scene. He’d driven fast back to the Journal newsroom, feeling the grip of time squeeze him as he threw a selection of details into a newspaper story, a hasty compilation of details painted with sensationalism, while the two detectives waited for him in the managing editor’s office. They had not wanted to leave him, but they had been unable to make the last flight that night. They’d holed up in a motel not far from his apartment, meeting him shortly after daybreak. In silence they’d ridden the morning commuter flight north. Now, the two Monroe County detectives were in a rental car of their own, following close behind him.
Just Cause Page 24
