“Not mountain climbing. Just a long walk.” He checked his wallet again.
“We got enough money?” I said.
“We’ll be all right,” he said. “Let’s go.”
23
Sheriff Hadley Preston filled a Styrofoam cup from the coffeepot and glanced at the news trucks. The vultures were still there, but he knew they only circled so long before they pounced. They had reported about the missing suspect but hadn’t heard about the incident the night before, and he hoped they wouldn’t for a while. He was trying to work out the sequence of events from long ago, but the more he thought about it, and the more he looked at the pictures of the car they’d pulled from the reservoir, the less sense he made of the situation. The whole thing reminded him of a spent candle that just leaves a smoke trail that circles up and up and then disappears into the air. Maybe there was something to this lady in Colorado. Maybe Dana had been telling the truth.
Mindy put a report on his desk. “This is about that license plate you had me run. And that reporter fellow from the
Herald-Dispatch
is on the phone.”
“You know I don’t want to talk to—”
“I wouldn’t have bothered you if he hadn’t said he had some information. I think you ought to talk with him.”
“Information about what?”
“He said he knows about Gray Walker.”
Preston cursed.
“I swear, I didn’t tell him a thing,” Mindy said.
“No, he probably got to Mike and promised him a box of chocolate-covered cherries or a six-pack of Coors.”
Mindy smiled. “He’d sell his soul for a Budweiser.”
“All right. Close the door for me.” Preston picked up the phone and put on his reading glasses.
“Sheriff, it’s Todd Bentley from the
Herald-Dispatch.
I’m in your neck of the woods. Okay if I come by?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Mr. Bentley. You know how territorial reporters get. Stick one microphone in front of me and they start having babies right in front of your eyes.”
Bentley chuckled. “Well, I think you’ll be interested in what I have to tell you. It’s about Graham Walker.”
“You know, not everything you drag out of one of my deputies is the gospel.”
“I didn’t get this from Mike. Though I do know about the shooting.”
Sheriff Preston sighed and rolled his eyes. This guy was good. A real go-getter. He probably saw this story as a way to move up to some other paper. Maybe Cincinnati or Lexington. Anything to get him out of the hills.
Preston pulled the report Mindy had given him closer. It always helped keep his emotions in check when he was focused on more than one thing. The West Virginia license plate the lady from Colorado had given him had been inactive for years.
“What makes you think there was a shooting?”
“Because he told me,” Bentley said.
“My deputy told you?”
“No, Graham Walker told me your man broke through the back door of the shack where he was staying.”
Sheriff Preston nearly dropped the phone. “Is that so?”
“Fired his birdshot over the deputy’s head, which made the deputy—how should I say this? Lose control? Do I have that correct?”
Preston remained silent.
Bentley continued. “Walker said he didn’t know who it was, and he reacted on impulse. You evidently had him engaged in conversation out front, and that’s why he was startled. He said he believed you when you told him you were alone.”
Preston had never said he was alone. Bentley was trying to corner him for information, but the reporter also had clearly spoken with Walker. “Mr. Bentley, you know you could be accused of interfering with an ongoing investigation.”
“I’m not here to interfere. Walker called me. What was I supposed to do, refuse?”
“You should have told him to turn himself in.”
“I did. And that’s what he wants to do.”
“He told you that?”
“Yes. He wants to come in, but he wants assurance that he won’t be held responsible for your mistake.”
Preston flipped to the second page. It listed an incident report in Kentucky where state police had recovered several pounds of cocaine from an RV with West Virginia plates. Two suspects were apprehended at the scene. They were implicated in a shooting that had left three men dead at a warehouse several miles away. They also found several hundred thousand dollars in the RV. The vehicle had been wrecked and the two suspects were unconscious when police arrived. The vehicle had been impounded in Kentucky.
“My mistake?” Preston said. “And I suppose you want to be there when Walker gives himself up, with somebody taking pictures. Not to get the story, of course, just to make sure your fellow human being is treated fairly. Is that right?”
The occupants of the RV claimed the drugs and money weren’t theirs. They claimed a man had used a young girl to gain their trust and then held them at gunpoint. The man fled on foot when the RV went off the road and wrecked. There was no word about the whereabouts of the girl.
“I just want to get to the bottom of what happened,” Bentley said. “There are a lot of people who have a huge hole in their hearts regarding this Edwards child, and if this man can help tie up those loose ends, I want to be there.” There was an edge of sincerity in his voice.
“That’s a pretty convincing speech, Mr. Bentley. How long you been working on it?”
“Ever since I got off the phone with Walker,” Bentley said. “But seriously, the one I keep coming back to is the grandmother, Mae. You can see the pain every time she talks about her granddaughter.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“I’ve also talked with the mother, though she didn’t know I was a reporter.”
“Dana? What did she tell you?”
“She was high at the time and made a pass at me.”
“Are you saying she wouldn’t have if she’d been sober?”
Bentley went on. “Most of what she said didn’t make sense. She told me all about the loves she’s had and lost, and it sounded like it was quite a list. How does a sweet old woman like Mae Edwards have an offspring like that?”
“You think Mae is sweet?”
Bentley laughed. “Well, she’s a little territorial, but I’m sure she’s good at heart. She just wants to see her granddaughter again.”
“Did Dana talk about her own daughter?”
“Not on her own. I threw a couple of lines out there to see if she’d take them, but it was buried deep. I don’t know if she’s just shut it out or if there’s guilt. I finally said something like, ‘Have you ever lost something that you wish you could get back?’ And she made a joke about her virginity. Then I steered her toward kids, and she said she once had a daughter but that she was gone.”
“When was this?” Preston asked.
“After they pulled the car out of the reservoir,” Bentley said. “Took me a while to find her.”
“How come you didn’t do a story on her?”
“You’d be surprised how much you have to know before you write something true, Sheriff. Probably a lot like your job. You know more than you let on when you’re talking to someone. Like this Walker character. You must have some pretty good suspicions about him to go after him that late.”
“Yeah, with me and Mike. A whole posse.”
“Do you think he knows something?”
“I think he knows a lot.”
“I mean about the Edwards case.”
“You’re the one who talked with him. Did he say anything to you?”
“Unfortunately he wasn’t in the talking mood, other than to ask my help coming in.”
Sheriff Preston pushed the report away on his desk and leaned back in his chair. The air conditioner made a rattle anytime it was turned on high, so he kept it on medium, where the hum dulled the senses and cut the heat to about eighty-five. Sweat trickled down his neck, and he could feel the stains spreading under his arms.
“Mr. Bentley, I can tell I was wrong about you. There is a caring bone in your body. You’re not in this just for the story.”
“What are you getting at?”
“Help me bring this boy in. Tell me where he called you from and I’ll find him.”
“That’s what he’s afraid of, Sheriff. He thinks you’re going to come in with guns blazing because he shot at an officer.”
“I gotta tell you, it doesn’t make me too happy that he pulled a gun on my deputy, but I can assure you I’m not going after him with guns blazing.”
“Well, that’s why he called me. I’m just telling you what he said. And if you want my help, I need to be part of him coming in.”
Mindy stuck her head into the office. “I’ve got one of the troopers from the Kentucky State Police on the line if you want to talk to him.”
Sheriff Preston nodded. “All right, Bentley. How did you leave it with him?”
“He said he’d call me and set up a meeting place and I’ll call you.”
“Let me give you my cell number. But don’t be surprised if you don’t hear from him.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“He might change his mind. That’s been my experience. He’ll either turn tail and run or do the job himself.”
“Meaning suicide?”
“If he doesn’t see a way out and the liquor talks to him, yeah.”
“I’ll let you know what I hear,” Bentley said.
24
We headed out toward a little town. The streets were torn up with potholes, but it seemed like a nice place. There was a funeral home, a post office, and a shoe store, but a lot of the places looked like they had gone out of business.
With my hand in his I got this tingle in my belly that something good was about to happen, and I thought maybe he was taking me to see my mama. Maybe she was sitting in a house waiting for me, praying I would come back.
We turned down an alley and walked and walked until we passed a big brick church. I haven’t been in many of them, but from the open windows I could smell that old wood and those pews and something inside sparked a memory.
“Is this Dogwood?” I said.
“No, Dogwood’s down the road ten miles or so. Why?”
“Because I think I remember this place. That church smell.”
We walked over the freshly mowed grass with a few dandelions trying to come up and some crabgrass growing near the building. It was shady in that area, the big cross above us blocking the sun. He stopped and lifted me to one of the stained glass windows that was open, and that’s when it came back to me like a flood. An older woman smiling at me and holding me up. I closed my eyes and saw a blurry vision.
“What is it, June Bug?”
“The strangest thing. I remember this woman holding me up. It smelled just like this. And she called me a name.”
“Natalie?” Dad said.
He held me up so I could keep smelling and looking, though I had my eyes closed trying to see that old woman’s face. When I couldn’t bring it back, I looked in and there were all these pews sitting empty in the sunlight. “No, it was something else. She held me up and laughed.”
I glanced at the big organ over on the other side of the church and the piano on this side and wondered what it sounded like in there with all that music going and people singing. People in choir robes swaying, that’s how I pictured it.
“What are you thinking?” Dad said.
I rested my chin against the cool concrete windowsill. “I know living out of an RV is fun and you get to see lots of places, but wouldn’t it be nice to live in a house and go to a church like this? have our own yard? maybe a playground with a little swing set? and a dog? a little puppy I could train to sit and chase a ball and fetch your paper in the morning?”
Dad’s face lit up a little bit, but at the same time he looked sad. Like he knew what I was saying wasn’t ever going to happen. “I suppose it would,” he said.
“Can I help you?” someone said behind us. Sometimes people can say that to you in a store and what they mean is “Get away from there.” But this voice sounded like the man actually meant it. He had on nice clothes and looked a little older than my dad.
Dad put me on the ground, and I tugged my shirt down in the back.
“Just looking inside,” Dad said. “You have a nice church here.”
The man came over and said he was the pastor. I wanted to ask him all kinds of questions, but Dad told him we were taking a walk.
“I hope you’ll visit us this Sunday,” the man said.
“We’re just passing through,” Dad said.
The man stared at us like he knew there was something wrong. He looked Dad square in the eyes and said, “Are you two okay?” He said it like somebody told him to ask it. I don’t know how God works with people and if he does that anymore. There’s all sorts of stories in the Bible about him talking to people from bushes and such. I suppose if you want to hear God talking to you he’ll do it in a way that you can hear eventually.
“Yeah, we’re fine,” Dad said.
My heart went pitter-patter when the man turned around. I thought that was the worst answer Dad could’ve given, so I couldn’t help saying, “Except that our RV got wrecked and this truck driver took all our money.”
Dad poked me on the shoulder, but the man turned and looked us up and down. “You poor things.”
“I’ve got relations that live here in town, Pastor,” Dad said, putting his arm out and pushing me behind him. “That’s where we were headed. We just made a little detour to look at your church.”
“What’s the name?” the pastor said. “Your relations.”
Dad hesitated. “Johnson. First name is Franklin. If I remember correctly, he lives on Third Street.” He tilted his head to one side, pointing down the street.
The pastor bit his lip and looked down. I thought that was a bad sign. “Son, Franklin passed. It must have been four, maybe five years ago. Had a heart attack over at the Big Bear. Sweetest man I ever met.” He snapped his fingers. “Went just like that.”
“Is that so,” Dad said. He said it kind of soft, almost like a prayer.
“I think that house was sold. Mrs. Johnson moved back to Cleveland to be close to family. A sister, I believe.”
Dad nodded and I stared at him and he just looked at the church like there was something interesting he could see in the bricks. I wondered if that was his daddy.
“Franklin had a brother who lived over in Dogwood, didn’t he?” the pastor said.
Dad nodded. “Henry.”
“Why don’t you hop in and I’ll give you a ride over there.”
“No, thank you. We’ll be all right.”
“Are you sure?” the pastor said. “It’s air-conditioned. Sure would feel good to get out of this heat.”
“It sure would,” I said. I wanted to get in that car worse than anything. Almost worse than getting a dog but not quite. Dad stood there looking away, and I came out from behind him. “How many people go to your church?”
“Depends on whether it’s Christmas, Easter, or some other Sunday,” he said, smiling. “At the peak we probably have a couple hundred. On Wednesday nights it’s a handful.”
“Is it fun being a pastor?”
“June Bug,” Dad said, telling me to stop.
“No, she’s all right,” the pastor said. “I enjoy it. It makes me feel good to know that I’m helping people. And at other times it makes me sad when people get stuck and won’t accept God’s forgiveness.”
“I’m a Christian,” I said.
“I could tell just by looking at you.”
“Really? Is that something every pastor can do?”
He chuckled. “Well, I don’t know if everyone can, but there’s something about the way a person looks sometimes, the way they smile or talk, that helps you tell they know the Lord.”
“Where were you going when you stopped to talk to us?”
“June Bug,” Dad said.
The pastor ignored Dad this time and glanced at his watch. “I was headed for some lunch over at the diner and then on to the hospital to see one of my church members.” He looked at Dad. “But I’ve got plenty of time to take you wherever you need to go. Seriously, I’d count it a privilege.”
I turned to Dad. “Please, can we ride in the air-conditioned car?”
Through the buildings came a siren and Dad looked more like some animal that was cornered than anything else. “I suppose if you have the time, it would be a help.”
The man smiled from ear to ear like we’d just made his whole day. Some people smile when they take your money and others smile when they help you. Right then I thought about Sheila in Colorado and the way she smiled whenever I’d find some new thing in her house. It’s like uncovering a buried treasure when you find people like that. Of course my dad and I have seen a few of the other kind too.
I hopped in the backseat and Dad got in the front. As soon as the pastor started that car the air felt so good I never wanted to get out. The seats were leather, and though they were hot when I got in, they turned cool fast. The pastor reached around and showed me how I could change the direction of the air. There was also this music that came on soft and low and soothing, and I could tell it was church music. Not the kind with the organ blasting and a choir but just one person singing about “the Lamb” or “the Father” and stuff like that. I figured he kept the sound low so we could talk because that’s what he did most of the trip.
We pulled out and Dad said for him not to skip lunch, but the pastor said he could afford to and he patted his belly. He said he went to the diner because his wife had him on what he called the John the Baptist Diet.
Dad didn’t ask, so I did because that sounded like the strangest thing in the world.
“A locust for breakfast, a locust for lunch, and a sensible dinner,” the pastor said. And then he cut into laughing, saying he’d used that joke the previous Sunday and the people in the church got a kick out of it.
I laughed but I guess I don’t know enough about John the Baptist.
We drove through the little streets with the pastor pointing out the houses of different people who attended the church. It seemed to me that a lot of people who went there had either died or were sick because just about every one of them had ailments. The pastor said one woman had surgery for a gallbladder and another man had prostate cancer and in another house the son was killed in Iraq. I was glad to get out of the neighborhood to tell the truth because it was getting depressing, but pastors must think about those kinds of things a lot.
As we drove this windy back road, I could tell Dad was looking at things and noticing stuff, though he wasn’t saying much. “Do they still have the Halfway Market along Route 60?” he finally said.
“You bet they do,” the pastor said. “Expanded it not long ago. They’ll have some of the best sweet corn this side of heaven in a few weeks.”
When we passed it, the pastor slowed down and let Dad look. I wondered why he would ask about it.
“I used to have a job in high school, and I never took anything to eat for lunch. Every day I’d get hungry just before work, so I’d stop in there and buy some chips or a Little Debbie cake.”
We drove on and the pastor showed us the new post office and the elementary school. Dad had gone there when he was a kid, and I couldn’t for the life of me imagine that he was ever as little as me.
The pastor snapped his fingers. “Now I remember. You were in the military, weren’t you? Special forces.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I remember seeing the write-up in the
Cabell Record.
”
“Then you’ve got a good memory,” Dad said.
The man laughed. “I’m a stickler for details. I can tell you the starting lineup for just about every team in the majors from ’68 to ’75. National League, of course. That kind of attention to detail helped me out when I started memorizing verses and studying Greek. And then remembering names and faces each Sunday.”
We passed a police car with its lights on, sitting behind a beat-up old car with two guys in it. The pastor slowed down to have a look at them and then pursed his lips. “That was one of the Meadows boys driving. He’s been on the prayer chain for one thing or another since he was about twelve. His mother’s going to be beside herself.”
We kept driving, and I tried to pick out the house most likely to have my mother in it. The ones with the white picket fences were my first choice, but there were others that were made out of brick that looked nice. And then there were a few trailers that seemed like a mansion to me because of living in an RV.
“Now if I remember correctly, Henry’s house is up Virginia Avenue and then left toward the interstate.”
Dad nodded and looked to the right and left. “If you wouldn’t mind, why don’t you just pull in here and let us out.”
“I can drive you all the way back there. It’s no problem.”
“I know.” Dad looked out the window again, like he was expecting to see someone he didn’t want to see. “I think it would be best if we walked back.”
The pastor turned left and didn’t slow down, and the veins in Dad’s neck bulged. “I want you to stop now!”
The pastor had his foot on the brake as fast as a squirrel can run up a tree. “You don’t have to shout.”
“I’m sorry,” Dad said. He got out of the car and opened my door while I unbuckled.
“He didn’t mean anything by it,” I said to the pastor. “I think he’s nervous.”
The man nodded and reached down in the middle of the seat for something, then turned around to pat me on the shoulder. He slipped a little white piece of paper into my hand that had his name and phone number on it as well as the address of the church. “You take care, June Bug. And if you ever need anything, you call me. You hear?”
I nodded and got out. Before he closed the door, my dad leaned down and said, “I thank you for the ride. Didn’t mean to scare you.”
I don’t know what they said after that because I was taking in all the sights and sounds and smells. There was a horse barn across the street and small houses in a row. Some of them looked nice; others looked old and dingy. The electric wires ran by the road above us and almost seemed like they were sizzling in the sunshine.
As the pastor pulled away, my dad took my hand and we started walking. Just then, the prettiest black dog came out of a house across the street and stood on the top step and barked. You wouldn’t think that a dog barking could make you feel welcomed, but right then it felt like I had set foot in a place that should have been home a long time ago.
Dad can walk really fast when he’s on a mission, but this was about the slowest walk I’d ever been on with him. It was almost like walking through a cemetery only there weren’t any tombstones.