What would I say? he asked himself.
That I haven’t done all that badly, he thought. But now I need to put things right. Put the broken things back together as best as I can.
Make it all safe again.
He nodded and steered the car away from the curb. He drove away, passing through familiar routes, past remembered places. He could sense Ferguson’s presence like some bad smell lingering over the town. He felt better moving about, as if by staying alert he served as some sort of shield. He did not even consider sleep; instead he traveled up and down through the roads of his memory, waiting for enough of the night to end so he would be able to see clearly enough to do whatever he had to do.
27
TWO EMPTY CHAMBERS
At first the dawn light seemed reluctant to force its way into the shadows. It gave doubt to shapes, turning the world into a quiet, suspect place. It had still been dark when Tanny Brown picked up Cowart and Shaeffer from the motel. They had driven through empty streets, past lamps and neon signs, weak illumination that only heightened the inevitable sense of loneliness that accompanies the early morning. They passed few other cars, only an occasional pickup truck. Cowart saw no one on the sidewalks. He spotted a few people sitting along a counter inside a doughnut shop; that was the only sign that they were not alone.
Brown drove swiftly, cruising through stop signs and two red lights, and within a few minutes they had passed through the town and were heading into the surrounding countryside. Pachoula seemed to stumble and fall behind them; the earth appeared to reach out and entangle them, dragging them inside the variegated maze of drooping willow trees, huge, twisted bramble bushes, and stands of pine. Light and dark, muted greens, browns and grays, all seemed to blend together fluidly, making it seem as if they were heading into a shifting sea of forest.
The police lieutenant turned off the main road, and the car shuddered and bumped as it hit the hard-packed dirt that cut beneath the canopy of trees toward Ferguson’s grandmother’s shack. Cowart felt a fearful surge of familiarity, as if there was something awful and yet reassuring in the idea that he’d been down the road before.
He tried to anticipate what would happen but found only an unsettling excitement. He had a quick memory of the letter he’d received so many months ago: . . . a crime that I DID NOT COMMIT. Gripping the armrest, he stared straight ahead.
From the backseat, Andrea Shaeffer’s voice penetrated the thick air. “I thought you said you’d arrange for backup. I don’t see anybody. What’s going on?”
Brown answered abruptly, with a clipped tone designed to preclude further questions, “We can get help if we need it.”
“What about some uniforms? Don’t we need some uniforms?”
“We’ll be okay.”
“Where’s the backup?”
He gritted his teeth and answered bitterly, “It’s waiting.”
“Where?”
“Close.”
“Can you show me?”
“Sure,” he replied coolly. He reached inside his jacket and removed his service revolver from his shoulder holster. “There. Satisfied?”
This word crushed the conversation and filled Shaeffer with an empty fury. It did not surprise her that they were proceeding alone. In fact, she realized she preferred it. She allowed herself to envision Ferguson’s face when she arrived at his grandmother’s shack. He thought he’d scared me off. Thought he had me running, she told herself. Well, here I am. And I’m not some little twelve-year-old that can’t fight back. She reached down and put her hand on her own pistol. She looked over at Cowart but saw the reporter’s eyes staring ahead, oblivious to what had just been said.
In that moment, she thought that she would never, ever again get as close to the core of being a policeman as that moment and the next moments to come. The clarity of their pursuit seemed to have gone past such worldly considerations as rights and evidence, and entered into some completely different realm. She wondered if closeness to death always made people crazy, and then answered her own question: Of course.
“Okay,” she said after a moment’s pause, adrenaline starting to pump and not completely trusting her own voice. “What’s the plan?”
The car lurched as it hit a bump.
“Jesus,” she said, as she grabbed her seat “This guy really lives out in the sticks.”
“It’s all swamp, right over there,” Cowart answered. “Poor farmland off the other direction.” He remembered that it had been Wilcox who’d pointed this out to him before. “What is the plan?” he asked Tanny Brown.
The police lieutenant slowly steered the car to the side of the road and stopped. He rolled down his window and damp, humid air filled the interior. He gestured down, through the gray-black blend of light and dark. “Ferguson’s grandmother’s shack is about a quarter mile that way,” he said. “We’re going to walk the rest of the way. That way we won’t wake anyone unnecessarily. Then it’s simple. Detective Shaeffer, you go around the back. Keep your weapon ready. Watch the back door. Just make certain he doesn’t hightail it out that way. If he does, just stop him. Got that? Stop him . . .”
“Are you saying . . .”
“I’m saying stop him. I’m damn certain the procedures are the same in Monroe County as they are up here in Escambia. The bastard’s a suspect in a homicide. Several homicides, including the disappearance of a police officer. That’s all the probable cause we’ll need. He’s also a convicted felon. At least he was once . . .” Brown glanced over at Cowart, who said nothing. “So, you know what the guidelines are on use of deadly force. You figure out what to do.”
Shaeffer paled slightly, her skin turning wan like the air around them. But she nodded. “Got it,” she replied, imposing a rigid firmness on her voice. “You think he’s armed? And maybe waiting for us?”
Brown shrugged. “I think he’s probably armed. But I don’t think he’ll necessarily be alert and waiting. We moved fast to get here, probably just as damn fast as he did. I don’t think he’ll be quite ready. Not yet. But remember one thing: This is his ground.”
She grunted in assent.
Tanny Brown took a deep breath. At first his voice had been cold, even. But he then dropped the menacing tones, substituting a weariness that seemed to indicate he thought things were heading to an end.
“You understand?” he asked. “I just don’t want him running out the back door and heading into that swamp. He gets in there, I don’t know how the hell we’ll find him. He grew up in there, and . . .”
“I’ll stop him,” she said. She did not add the words this time, though they were in each of the three’s heads.
“Good,” Brown continued. “Cowart and I will go to the front. I don’t have a warrant, so I’m kinda making things up as I go along. What I figure is, I’m going to knock, announce, and then I’m going to go in. Can’t think of any other way to do it. The hell with some procedures.”
“What about me?” Cowart asked.
“You’re not a police officer. So I have no control over what you do. You want to tag along? Ask your questions? Do whatever you want, that’s fine. I just don’t want some lawyer coming in later and saying I violated Ferguson’s rights—again—because I took you with me. So you’re on your own. Stand back. Come in. Do whatever. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“That fair? You understand?”
“It’s fine.” Cowart nodded his head. Separate but the same. One man knocks on the door with a gun, the other with a question. Both seeking the same answers.
“Are you going to arrest him?” Shaeffer asked. “On what charge?”
“Well, first I’m going to suggest he come in for questioning. See if he’ll come along voluntarily. But he’s coming in. If I have to, I’ll re-arrest him for Joanie Shriver’s death. What’d I say yesterday? Obstruction of justice an
d lying under oath. But he’s coming with us, one way or the other. Once he’s in custody, then we’re going to sort out what’s happened.”
“You’re going to ask him . . . ?”
“I’m going to be polite,” Brown said. A small, sad smile worked the corners of his mouth for a moment. “With my gun drawn, cocked, finger on the trigger, and pointed right at the bastard’s head.”
She nodded.
“He doesn’t walk away,” Brown said quietly. “He killed Bruce. He killed Joanie. I don’t know how many others. But there are others. It stops here.”
The statement filled the air with quiet.
Cowart looked away from the two detectives. He thought, There comes a point where the proofs required in a court of law don’t seem to make much difference. A few strands of light had surreptitiously passed through the branches of the trees, just enough to give shape to the road before them.
“What about you?” the police lieutenant asked Cowart suddenly. His voice cracked the silence. “Have you got all this straight?”
“Straight enough.”
Brown put his hand on the door handle, jerked it hard, and thrust the car door open. “Sure,” he said, unable to keep a small mockery from his voice. “Then let’s go.”
And he was out of the car, striding up the narrow black dirt roadway, his broad back hunched forward slightly, as if he was heading into the strong winds of a storm. For an instant, Cowart watched the policeman’s sturdy progress, and he thought to himself, How could I have ever presumed to understand what is truly inside him? Or Robert Earl Ferguson? In that moment, both men seemed equally mysterious. Then he shed the thought as rapidly as possible and quickly fell in pace with him. Shaeffer took up position on the other side, so the three marched in unison, their footsteps muffled by the morning fog that coiled like gray smoke snakes around their feet.
Cowart spotted the shack first, wedged back in a clearing where the road ended. The damp swamp mists had gathered around the front, giving it a spectral, eerie appearance. There was no light inside; his first glance saw no movement at all, though he expected they had arrived just on the near side of waking. The old woman probably rises to beat the cock’s crow, he thought, and then complains to the old bird that it’s not doing its job. Cowart slowed his pace along with the others, lurking on the edge of the shadows, inspecting the house.
“He’s here,” Brown said quietly.
Cowart turned to him. “How can you tell?”
The police lieutenant pointed toward the far side of the shack. Cowart followed the trail with his eyes and saw the rear end of the car protruding past the edge of the porch. He looked carefully and could just make out the dirty blue-and-yellow colors of the license plate: New Jersey.
“That’s his kinda car, too,” Brown said softly, gesturing. “A couple of years old. American make. I’ll bet it doesn’t have anything special to it at all. Nondescript. A blend-right-in kinda car. Just like he used to have.”
He turned toward Shaeffer. He put his hand on her shoulder, gripping it firmly. Cowart thought it was the first familiar gesture he’d seen the big detective make toward the young woman.
“There’s only the two doors,” he said, continuing to keep his voice low, almost inaudible, but not the same way that a whisper disappears, hissing. His voice had a firmness to it. “One in front, that’s where I’ll be. And the one in back, where you’re going to be. Now, best as I can recollect, there’s windows on the left side, there . . .” He pointed, sweeping his hand in the direction of the side of the house that butted up close to the surrounding woods. “That’s where the bedrooms are. Any windows on the right I’ll be able to cover, either from inside, in the front living room, or the porch. So watch that back door, but keep in mind he might try to go out the window. Just be ready. Stay on your toes. Okay?”
“Okay,” she replied. She thought the word wavered coming out of her mouth.
“I want you to stay there, in position, until I call you. Okay? Call you by name. Keep quiet. Keep down. You’re the safety valve.”
“Okay,” she said again.
“Ever done anything like this before?” Tanny Brown asked abruptly. Then he smiled. “I suppose I should have asked that question some time earlier . . .”
She shook her head. “Lots of arrests. Drunk drivers and two-bit burglars. And a rapist or two. Nobody like Ferguson.”
“There aren’t many like Ferguson to practice on,” Cowart said under his breath.
“Don’t worry,” Brown said, continuing to smile. “He’s a coward. Plenty brave with little girls and scared teenagers, but he ain’t got it in him to handle folks like you and me. . . .” Brown spoke this softly, reassuringly. Cowart wanted to blurt out Bruce Wilcox’s name, but stopped himself. “. . . Keep that in mind. There ain’t gonna be anything to this. . . .”
He let his voice roll with its Southern inflection, giving a contradictory ease to what he was saying. “. . . Now, let’s move before it gets lighter out and folks start waking up.”
Shaeffer nodded, took a step forward, and stopped. “Dog?” she whispered hurriedly, nervously.
“None.” Brown paused. “As soon as you get to the corner, there, then I’m heading toward the front. You keep working your way around the back. You’ll know when I get to the door, ’cause I ain’t gonna be quiet when I get there.”
Shaeffer closed her eyes for one second, took a deep breath, and forced bravado into her heart. She told herself, No mistakes this time. She looked at the small house and thought it a small place, with no room for errors. “Let’s do it,” she said. She stepped across the open space quickly, slightly crouched over, a half-jog that cut through the mist and wet air.
Cowart saw that she had her pistol in her hands and was holding it down but ready, as she maneuvered toward the corner of the house.
“You paying attention, Cowart?” Brown asked. His voice seemed to fill some hollow spot within the reporter. “You getting all this?”
“I’m getting it,” he replied, clenching his teeth.
“Where’s your notebook?”
Cowart held up his hand. He clutched a thin reporter’s notebook and waved it about. Brown grinned. “Glad to see you’re armed and dangerous,” he said.
Cowart stared at him.
“It’s a joke, Cowart. Relax.”
Cowart nodded. He watched the policeman as his eyes fixed on Shaeffer, who’d paused at the corner of the shack. Brown was smiling, but only barely. He straightened up and shook his shoulders once, like some large animal shaking sleep from its body. Cowart realized then that Brown was like some sort of warrior whose fears and apprehensions about the upcoming battle dropped away when the enemy hove into view. The policeman was not precisely happy, but he was at ease with whatever danger or uncertainty rested inside the shack, beyond the fragile morning light and curling gray mists. The reporter looked down at his own hands, as if they were a window to his own feelings. They looked pale but steady. He thought, Made it this far. See it through. “Actually,” he replied, “that’s not a bad joke at all. Given the circumstances.”
Both men smiled, but not at any real humor.
“All right,” said Tanny Brown. “Wake-up call.”
He turned toward the shack and remembered the first time he’d driven up to the house searching for Ferguson. He hadn’t understood the storm of prejudice and hatred he was unleashing with his arrival. All the feelings that Pachoula wanted to forget had come out when Robert Earl Ferguson had been taken downtown for questioning in the murder of little Joanie Shriver. He was determined not to live through that again.
Brown set off swiftly, pacing directly across the hard-packed dirt of the shack’s front yard, not looking back once to see if Cowart was following him. The reporter took a single deep breath, wondered for a moment why the air seemed suddenly dry to his
taste, realized it wasn’t the air that was dry at all, and moved quickly to keep stride with the police lieutenant.
Brown paused at the foot of the steps to the front door. He turned to Cowart and hissed, “If things go to hell fast, make sure you stay out of my line of fire.”
Cowart nodded quickly. He could feel excitement surging through his body, chasing the fears that reverberated within him.
“Here we go,” said the policeman.
He took the stairs two at a time, in a pair of great leaps. Cowart scrambled behind him. Their feet made a clattering noise against the whitewashed old wooden boards, which added creaks and complaints to the sudden sounds that pierced the morning silence. Brown gathered himself to the side of the door, just off-angle, motioning Cowart to the other side. He swung open a screen door and grasped the doorknob. He twisted it carefully, but it refused to move.
“Locked?” whispered Cowart.
“No. Just jammed, I think,” Brown replied.
He twisted the knob again. He shook his head at Cowart. Then he took his empty hand, balled it into a fist and slammed it three times hard against the blistered wooden frame, shaking the entire house with urgency.
“Ferguson! Police! Open up!”
Before the echoes of his booming voice died away, he’d grabbed the screen door frame and wrenched it aside. Then he stepped back and raised his foot, kicking savagely at the door. The frame cracked with a sound like a shot, and Cowart jumped involuntarily. Brown gathered himself a second time, aiming carefully, and kicked again.
The door buckled and opened partway.
“Police!” he cried again.
Then the huge detective threw his entire bulk, shoulder first, against the door like some crazed fullback smashing toward the goal with the game on the line.
The door gave way with a torn, splintering sound.
Tanny Brown pushed it viciously away and jumped into the front parlor, half-crouched, weapon raised and swinging from side to side. He yelled again, “Police! Ferguson, come out!”
Just Cause Page 57
