Ted Wheeler had aged ten years by the time Hick returned to the house. The Reverend’s face was haggard and drawn, the smug, haughty look gone. His hands trembled and he sat in a chair staring out the window. Hick joined Wash in the front room and Mrs. Wheeler handed him a cup of coffee, sat the pot on the coffee table in the front room, and retreated to a wingback chair where her knitting lay nearby. Wash stood in the doorway, cup in hand, watching Wheeler. A gentle breeze wafted the white curtains at the windows, ushering in the scents of grass and lilac.
Hick took a sip of coffee and looked at Wheeler. “You want to tell us what happened?”
The reverend jumped at the sound of Hick’s voice. “Happened?”
Hick drew in a breath, struggling to control his temper. In truth he was so goddamned angry, he cared not a whit about sparing Wheeler’s feelings, but he needed information and knew the best way to get it was to remain calm.
“It was the dog,” Wheeler answered in a shaky voice. “I was over there in my study, and I heard the dog barking.” He removed his glasses to clean them but stopped. “I thought maybe it was one of his brothers, up to no good. They’ve been all over town causing trouble.”
“Have they?” Hick asked in a low, bitter voice.
“They’ve been sneaking around and—”
Hick interrupted. “I just had word from the state troopers in Illinois. They traced them up there and are checking the strawberry patches. We know they were at Litchfield because Buckley at the bank said they sent in a cash deposit after they finished picking.”
Wheeler looked up. “They’re not even here?”
“No, they haven’t been here for four days. I guess putting food on the table seemed to be more important than molesting all you upstanding citizens.”
The glasses slid onto the floor. “But—”
“What happened after you heard the dog barking?” Wash prompted with no emotion. At sixty-three years old, Deputy Wash Metcalfe was little help when it came to leg work, but Hick was always impressed with his passionless, yet effective questioning. Hick knew Wash realized he had made a mistake fourteen years ago. He would not be making the same mistake again.
Wheeler’s eyes went from Hick to Wash and he ran his hand over his forehead. “I don’t … I heard the dog, and I got up from my desk to see what he was barking at. I spied someone at the back of the yard by the trash barrel.”
“Where was the rifle?” Wash asked. “In an upstairs closet.”
“So you saw a person in the yard and went to get your rifle?” Wash offered.
“Yes.”
“Was the figure in the yard behaving suspiciously?” Wash moved forward and sat the coffee cup down.
“No, but he was in my yard—”
“Did you feel threatened at any time?”
“Well, no, not exactly.” Wheeler responded, his face tight with agitation.
“Did it occur to you at any time that it might be a neighbor, or someone from town taking a walk, just wandering through, looking for something?”
Wheeler shook his head.
“So,” Hick said, taking up the questioning, “You heard the dog barking and immediately went upstairs to get a weapon?”
“Everyone had been saying—”
“Saying what?” Hick’s voice rose with frustration. “That the Delaney brothers were on some sort of murderous rampage? That after all these years of hard work and toil, they were out to spill innocent blood? For what? The fun of it?”
Wheeler looked at his hands and made no answer. Hick shook his head. He could barely stand to look at the man. “I warned you, Wheeler. I told you that if you didn’t stop filling everyone’s heads with hate, no good would come of it.”
Ted Wheeler’s haunted eyes rested on Hick’s face. “How is the little girl?” he asked in a broken voice.
“Hopefully sleeping. Doc gave her something and he and my wife are taking care of her.”
“I didn’t know …” Wheeler said, his voice cracking and his eyes trailing to the window.
“You worked yourself up into a lather. You worked half the town up into a lather. What did you think would happen?”
The reverend sat unmoving in the chair near the window as if wishing himself to another place and time. In the hour that had passed since Job Delaney was shot Reverend Wheeler seemed to shrink into himself. He’d been diminished, while his wife’s presence expanded to fill the space left behind. “What happens now?” she asked from the corner of the room.
“We’ll charge your husband with manslaughter; the district attorney will look at the case. They’ll note that the boy was trespassing on your property. They’ll also note that Job Delaney was poor, uneducated, the son of a convicted murderer, and that you are upstanding members of the community.” Hick shrugged. “In all probability, nothing will happen.”
Reverend Wheeler’s eyes widened. “But he’s dead.”
“Welcome to the world of ‘justice’.”
Mrs. Wheeler could not hide the obvious relief from her face. As much as he wanted to, Hick couldn’t begrudge her audible exhalation of relief. And yet, there was a sadness that lingered. “My little Susie … tell me, Sheriff. What does the fact that she was … what does any of this mean?”
“You had no inkling your daughter was pregnant?” Hick took a seat on the couch opposite Mrs. Wheeler.
She shook her head. “Not until Ted told me today. She was a good girl. I can’t imagine how it happened.”
“Can you tell me anything about Susie’s final months? Who were her friends? Where she spent her time?”
“But, why?” Mrs. Wheeler asked in a tear-filled voice. “What does Susie have to do with any of this?”
“Because I don’t believe Gladys Kestrel was the only person to know Susie was pregnant. There were two parties involved … there always are. I believe Abner Delaney was simply at the wrong place, at the wrong time. Like Eben and Jed … and Job.”
The Reverend Wheeler looked up. “But he was—”
“Executed?” Hick finished the sentence and rubbed his hand roughly across his mouth in frustration. “I can’t prove it yet, but I believe Abner Delaney was executed for a crime he did not commit. I believe he was innocent, and I intend to prove it.”
Ted Wheeler’s face crumbled. His mouth twitched and his nostrils flared. “I have hated Abner Delaney with all the energy of my being for over a decade.” He seemed lost, as if he no longer knew what to live for.
Hick studied the reverend. It was clear he was in shock and would be little help. He turned his attention back to Mrs. Wheeler. “Do you know why Susie was out by the slough that day? Did she frequently walk there?”
“No. I never knew Susie to go there. She just didn’t come home from school that day.” Mrs. Wheeler’s eyes filled with tears. “We didn’t get to say good-bye.” She wiped them quickly and continued. “Susie was seeing Ronnie Pringle at the time she was killed. But I don’t know when they would have had the opportunity to … Ted made sure they did their courtin’ here. In the front room.”
“Even if Ronnie were still alive, I wouldn’t take the time to talk to him. Had he been the father, he would have made it right and married Susie. That I don’t doubt for a minute. The fact that Susie confided in Gladys Kestrel tells me she never told Ronnie. It’s pretty hard to convince a man he’s the father of your child when you haven’t had relations.” Hick shifted uneasily on the hard couch. “No, it’s pretty clear Susie didn’t want you or Ronnie to know she was pregnant. Were there any other boys Susie was interested in? Any one else she saw?”
“No, Sheriff. Susie was either at school or at home. She didn’t spend a lot of time at friends’ homes and she didn’t go to town on Saturday nights and drive around like so many of the girls. She was quiet. She studied hard and worked hard. I don’t understand…”
“What about Gladys? Did you know she and Susie were writing?”
“No. I had no idea Susie ever confided in Gladys.”
“So Susie went to school, came straight home and studied every night, is that it?”
“Well, she stayed after school most days because of her activities.”
Hick made a note in his book to check her school records and the yearbooks to find out who was with Susie in her after-school clubs. It was clear Ronnie Pringle was not the only boy in Susie’s life. Who else did she spend time with?
Hick rose and closed his leather book. “I see no reason to run you in,” he told Wheeler. “You’re not a flight risk. I’ll turn your case over to the District Attorney and you’ll hear from him. Deputy Metcalfe here will do the formalities.”
The phone rang and Mrs. Wheeler excused herself to answer it.
“And that’s it?” Wheeler asked, astounded. He looked up at Hick. In one hour Ted Wheeler had gone from a vindictive hate-monger to this broken shell of a human being and Hick couldn’t help but feel it was the reverend’s own doing.
“Yeah, that’s it.” Hick was unable to conceal the bitterness in his voice. He turned to leave, but Mrs. Wheeler stopped him.
“Sheriff, that was Deputy Kinion. There’s been a fire at your mother’s. She’s okay, but you need to head over there now.”
A fire? Hick stood, immobilized for a moment and then turned to Wash. “You got everything under control here?”
Wash nodded. “You best get over there.”
Pam Kinion was sitting on the porch swing patting her mother’s hand when Hick arrived. The smell of smoke was thick.
Hick climbed the steps, and said, “What happened?”
“I don’t know.” His mother looked from her daughter to her son. “I was frying bacon and I went to get something …”
“How long was it frying?”
“I don’t remember.”
“I was coming over to see if Mom needed anything from the store,” Pam said. “As soon as I got out of the car, I could smell the smoke. I got Mom out and doused it with salt. Adam says we caught it just in time.”
Hick’s heart pounded at the thought of what might have happened and his palms began to sweat. He knelt in front of his mother, looked into her eyes.
She smiled weakly. “I’m okay. Don’t worry yourselves.”
He kissed her cheek and went into the house, stopping short just inside the doorway. The smell of smoke clawed at his throat A farmhouse in Belgium filled his field of vision and snow fell around him, melting on his skin. Flames hissed with every flake and the acrid smell of burning gasoline, fabric, and human flesh filled his nostrils. His heart pounded in his ears and his vision swam. He pressed a hand against the door jamb to steady himself.
“The oil got hot enough to ignite,” Adam said in a voice that sounded oceans away.
Hick swallowed hard and forced himself to nod, to shut away those memories one more time. He let go of the door jamb and followed Adam into the kitchen. The damage was shocking. The bacon had cooked into leather and flames had exploded up the wall and to the ceiling. Ash and salt lay like a blanket of heavy snow on the stove and the room was filled with greasy, black smoke.
Adam’s face was grim. “Much longer and the curtains would have caught and then the roof.” He shook his head. “Your mama was very lucky today.”
The damage was confined to the corner of the kitchen with the stove. Had Pam not decided to stop by, the outcome would have been completely different. Hick’s knees threatened to buckle. He lit a cigarette and shook his head. “How could she have forgotten she was frying bacon?”
Adam closed his eyes and scratched his head. “I don’t know, but she’s getting worse.”
“Jesus,” Hick said. Pam and Maggie had been right.
Pam came to the doorway and said, “I’m takin’ Mom home with me. She’s a little shaken up, and I don’t think she should be alone.”
Adam nodded. “That sounds like a good idea.”
His mother appeared behind Pam. “Oh dear,” she said. “What a mess. What am I going to do?”
“Don’t worry about it, Ma,” Hick told her. “We’ll take care of this. You go on with Pam.”
“But—”
“Come on Mama,” Pam said in a gentle voice. “Let’s go on to my house.”
She hesitated, appeared uncertain.
“I’ll stick around here,” Hick said. “I need to go through the study and look through Dad’s things anyway.” He crossed the kitchen and kissed his mother’s forehead. “You go on with Pam and get some rest. I’ll keep an eye on the place.”
His mother’s face lit up with obvious relief. “That would be a comfort to me.” He watched Pam help their mother into the car. When had his mother shrunk? She looked so small.
As the car pulled out of the driveway, Hick and Adam went around the house opening windows to let out the choking smoke. In the study, Hick surveyed the papers spread on the desk and shook his head. “We can deal with the kitchen later. We have to find out what on earth Gladys was looking for.”
“I’ll leave this to you to try to find out,” Adam said, turning to go. “Someone needs to get back to the station.”
“When you get there, look through those old yearbooks we brought from Gladys’ room. After talking with the Wheelers, it seems Ronnie Pringle toed the line. He could be her baby’s father, but for some reason it doesn’t feel right. See if you can turn someone else up. Someone that was in the same after-school clubs maybe.”
“Okay. I’ll call you if anything jumps out at me.”
The front door closed behind Adam, leaving the house eerily still. Hick crushed out his cigarette in an ashtray and looked about the room. He recalled the patient, wise face of his father, one of the few men on earth who was able to retain his respect. Their last conversation came back to him with all its bitter sweetness. Hick was headed to war and his father knew the boy in Hick would be a casualty. James Blackburn understood, what so many did not, that not all war wounds are visible.
“Hickory, I’d give anything to keep you home with me,” he’d said. Hick knew his parents wanted him to go to college and get a deferment. Matt Pringle and some of the other wealthier boys in town had gone that route. But even if Hick wanted to, his grades would not have gotten him into college. He’d had other things on his mind when he’d been in high school. And there was a part of him that wanted to go into the army … wanted to see the world and to experience the manly art of war. Hick closed his eyes, remembering how stupidly naïve he’d been.
This was his father’s domain and Hick felt like an intruder. He lowered himself into his father’s chair and began going through the papers on the desk one by one, but there was nothing of note. Tax receipts. Bills from various utilities and handymen. Notes from Jake Prescott detailing the treatment his father had put off until it was too late. Hick stacked these items and placed them back in the right hand drawer.
He opened the drawer on the left and noted it was full of correspondence. He pulled the letters from the drawer. They went back decades. Some were from relatives, long dead. James Blackburn had been the youngest son in a family of seven and the only one who had lived long enough to have children of his own. His longevity in a family of short-lived men only added to the mythology that seemed to follow and haunt him, the notion that he was magical because he was the seventh son of a seventh son. His father had never escaped this idea, at least not with the more superstitious folk in Cherokee Crossing.
He sorted through the letters, mainly from old college friends and colleagues in the vicinity, other principals from nearby school districts. Hick held one up. What exactly was he looking for? The room darkened suddenly and a low rumble of thunder rattled the window panes. Another storm. Seemed like spring had been one storm after another. He glanced out the window and saw billowing clouds moving across a darkening sky. Damn, this one was coming up fast.
He stood and went back around the house closing windows and returned to the study. Flipping on the light, he sat back at his father’s desk. A pop of lightning was followed by a long, low growl of thunder and Hick absently noted the wind was picking up. He put aside the letters from old college buddies and family. These did not seem like they would be of any interest to Gladys and he concentrated on the letters from colleagues, thumbing through them to see if anything could be relevant. Dear Jim, the first letter read, You must think of yourself and the family. Even if you take some time off, the school will be there when you return.
There were many others in that same vein. The principal from Marmaduke telling him, This isn’t something that will take care of itself and one from Missouri saying, Your family needs you more than the school. Think of them.
Hick recalled the willing role he had played in the sham his parents created. He remembered the tales of “sunspots” and “age spots” and how he had believed the lies his parents told him because he wanted to believe them. They never sat down with him and told him his father had cancer. Everything was designed to give him as little as possible to worry about. They could not have known his father would die when Hick was in Europe and that his first letter from home would be the announcement.
An electric blue flash lit up the outside. An ear-shattering crash of thunder followed, and the house went dark. The room seemed to hold its breath, abnormally still and calm even though rain fell in silvery sheets, blowing sideways from the force of the wind that caused the cotton plants across the road to sway and dance wildly. Hick headed to the kitchen to get a candle.
Glancing at the blackened wall, he opened the ice box to see if there was anything there. Shaking his head, he wondered if his mother ever ate. His father would have wanted him to take better care of her. He had let him down again.
He found the white utility candles in a bottom drawer and grabbed a couple and then pulled down the candlesticks. Snatching the last apple in the otherwise-empty fruit bowl, he headed back to the study.
Noon in Arkansas and dark as pitch. Hopefully there wouldn’t be a tornado. He lit the candles and ignored the odd shadows flickering on the study’s walls. Taking a big bite of the apple, he started in on the letters again.
Many discussed the depression and its effect on the students. Others questioned closing school for October as was the custom in the cotton belt. As Hick read through them, the murder of Gladys Kestrel drifted back further into his mind and was replaced by a swelling pride. So many people had come to his father for advice. Arkansas had long been recognized as lagging in education, and his father had worked hard to change things. He rallied against the notion that high school should be reserved for the privileged few and had increased attendance two-fold during his tenure as principal. He was respected in his community and by his peers.
Despite everything going on around him, Hick was filled with a sense of connection and contentment as he read letter after letter, as if he was sitting with the father he had loved and admired and missed so terribly. And then the warm feeling evaporated and his blood chilled. He sat up straight in his chair and re-read the letter in his hand. The candles flickered wildly as his breath quickened. Then the letter fell to the desktop and he covered his face with his hands.