The Trial of Dr. Kate (8 page)

Kate placed her arms around Shenandoah and gave her a hug. Then Shenandoah pushed the button, and the deputy let her out of the room.

Outside, a cloudless sky stretched as far as the eye could see, and the sun beat down with the fury of a freshly lit torch. Sweating, Shenandoah stepped between the whittlers and continued across the courthouse yard.

This drinking business is terrible,
she thought.
It’s got to go against her at the trial. The county is full of born-again Christians like Brother Abernathy. How is Jake going to deal with this?

Just as she reached her car, she noticed Hank Boldt coming toward her from the other side of the street. As always, Hank had a big smile on his face.

Shenandoah waved. “You thought of anyone I could talk to about Dr. Kate?”

Hank removed his straw hat and said, “Yes, ma’am, Miss Shenandoah. I think you might talk to Randall Moody over in Moodyville. I know him and his wife had some trouble with a birthing, and Dr. Kate saved his baby girl.”

“Moodyville? Out Highway 30, about five miles north of town?”

“Yes, ma’am. Take the first street after High and turn left. That’ll take you to 30, and it’s a right fine road. Jest follow it.”

“Thanks, Hank.”

* * *

Deciding to see Army later, Shenandoah left Round Rock and soon found herself on a good but narrow blacktop road. It wound through the countryside, creating a shady tunnel under large maple trees. Beams of bright sunlight filtered through the leaves, making her giddy. Soon, she drove onto a plateau, and about five miles to the northeast she could see the foothills of the Smoky Mountains that she remembered from childhood. A lone buzzard circled high on a thermal close to the road.

Until that moment she hadn’t realized how much she’d missed the mountains. The Delta country around Memphis was as flat as a pancake and devoid of character in her view. She’d had ambivalent feelings about Round Rock all her life. Now she felt even more confused, for she realized she had deep ties to the people and the land itself.

She passed a small country graveyard on her left. A rusting wrought iron fence enclosed the ancient, crumbling headstones. Several of them leaned precariously to one side, high weeds engulfing them. The land she passed had drought-browned grass, and the cows looked skinny. There were several sickly tobacco patches and some bare plowed fields.

As she moved through a curve, she noticed a Dodge pickup sitting on the side of the road. From the lines of it, she could tell it was a brand new model, though it was already covered in limestone dust from one of the unpaved county roads. Even the driver’s window was opaque. It pulled in behind her as she passed.

She wouldn’t have thought anything about the truck if it hadn’t been for the incident with the tires. But it followed her for about a mile, staying roughly twenty yards behind her car. She felt a lump in her throat and noticed her pulse quicken. Slowly, she pressed the accelerator toward the floorboard, speeding up to fifty miles an hour. The truck did the same. Her mouth felt dry, and she pulled her purse next to her leg. It contained a snub-nosed Colt .38.

She kept accelerating, as did the truck. She hit a straight stretch and glanced at her speedometer. The needle was pinned at eighty miles an hour. The truck pulled alongside her car. The passenger window was opaque with dust as well.

Suddenly, the truck swung into her lane, forcing her to hit the shoulder of the road. She fought to keep the car from sliding into a ditch, but was able to pull the left front wheel back onto the asphalt and once again gain control. The whole time, the truck stayed right beside her.

Ahead, a tractor pulled onto the road in her lane. She stepped on the brakes and slowed the car just as the truck swung into her lane again. This time she lost control. Her car went off the road, jumped the ditch, and plowed through a dry field. She fought the wheel, trying to keep the car from flipping over.

Finally, the car came to a stop in an explosion of dry Parsons County dirt. Her chin hit the steering wheel, and for a split second, she lost consciousness.

Quickly, she shook herself awake and looked out of her window. The truck sat in the middle of the highway. As soon as she moved her head, the truck began to move, and within seconds it was barreling down the blacktop, moving out of sight.

Shenandoah crawled out of the car and saw the tractor moving across the field toward her, brown dust flying off its big rear wheels. She reached into the car and removed her purse. She slipped the Colt out and held it in her right hand behind her back.

As the tractor approached, Shenandoah saw that it was driven by an old woman with a tattered straw hat pulled down over her furrowed face. The tractor made an abrupt stop, and the woman crawled down and wandered over to Shenandoah. She spit a trail of tobacco juice from the side of her mouth.

“You okay, honey? Why’d that truck run you off the road?”

Relaxing, Shenandoah slipped the pistol back into her shoulder bag. “I have no idea. Did you recognize the truck?”

“Ain’t never seen it before in these parts. You sure you ain’t hurt none?”

“I’m fine. Could you pull my car back up onto the highway?”

The woman spit another stream of tobacco juice through her parched lips and laughed. “I ain’t got nothing else to do. Ain’t nothing to plant in this dried out Parsons County dirt. This damned drought’s sending me to the poor house.”

With that, the old woman walked back to the tractor and removed a long chain from a metal box behind the driver’s seat. She wrapped it around the brace of the car’s front bumper and laid it out on the ground. Then she climbed into the driver’s seat and fired up the diesel engine. She turned the tractor around, backed up to Shenandoah’s car, and attached the chain to the tractor’s trailer hitch.

“Sit in the car, honey, and steer the thing back up to the blacktop while I pull it.”

Shenandoah scrambled back into her Chevy as a bloom of black diesel smoke bellowed out of the tractor’s exhaust. The tractor’s big rear wheels dug into the parched earth, and the right one began to spin before it finally gripped the surface and began to move forward. The car’s steering wheel spun quickly as the wheels lined up with the path of the tractor.

Once the car rolled onto the highway, the tractor stopped and the old woman released the chain. Shenandoah crawled out of her car and walked to where the woman stood gathering up the links.

“How much do I owe you?” Shenandoah asked.

The woman frowned. “Nothing. It were jest the neighborly thing to do. You ought to talk to the sheriff about that pickup, though. Somebody’s got it in for you, child. That’s for damn sure.”

“Thank you,” Shenandoah said as she pulled a business card from her purse. Handing it to the woman, she said, “My name’s Shenandoah Coleman. You ever get down to Memphis, call me, and I’ll take you to lunch.”

The old woman laughed so hard that tears came to her eyes. “I’m eighty-two-year-old and ain’t never been out of Parsons County, lady. Don’t reckon I’ll be going to no Memphis. But it were nice of you to offer.” She extended her hand. “My name’s Annabelle Lee Montgomery Tate. Be careful, honey. Stay clear of that damned pickup.”

Shenandoah patted the woman on the shoulder, and said, “Thank you again. You’ve been a great help.”

Once again behind the steering wheel, Shenandoah started the car and watched the woman drive the tractor away. Slowly, she pressed the accelerator and moved the car forward. Her mouth was dry and she held on to the wheel with a firm grip to keep her hands from shaking.

Shenandoah realized she was frightened more than she wanted to admit. She’d been in some scary spots during her days with the WASP, but she’d always escaped them unscathed. The scariest episode had been when she fell out of a Stearman biplane in 1942 while training as a student pilot. Moving down the highway, she let her thoughts drift back to that time.

* * *

It was hot, humid, and miserable, as only a midsummer’s day in Houston, Texas can be. Even at 6:00 a.m., the temperature was 85 degrees and climbing. Shenandoah Coleman was performing a pre-flight check on a Stearman Model 75 biplane before taking her first check ride. Her instructor, Hal Morris, was a mean-ass captain in the US Army Air Corps, and he was known for his flash temper. They had been training together for three weeks. Shenandoah had obtained her civilian license before the war and had more than eight hundred hours recorded in her log book. However, the army insisted on training the women pilots again in military aircraft. After all, they would be flying some of the most advanced aircraft in the world. Their main mission would consist of flying planes from the factory to Army Air Corps bases.

Perspiration beaded across Shenandoah’s forehead as she drained gasoline from the tank to check for water in the fuel. She’d just finished when her instructor walked up.

“Grab your parachute and prop the plane, Coleman. I’ve got ten check rides today, so move your skinny ass.”

Shenandoah felt her face flush, but she reached for the parachute that lay on the concrete next to her and slipped it on. While Hal climbed into the back seat, Shenandoah walked to the front of the plane and prepared to crank the prop.

“Contact!” Hal yelled, and Shenandoah pulled the big blade with all the power she could muster from her one hundred and fifteen pounds. The engine caught, and Shenandoah ran around the left wing and climbed into the front cockpit. She should have been in the rear cockpit because that was where the pilot in control always sat. But Hal insisted that his students sit in the front, because he was always in control.

Shenandoah pushed the throttle forward and the plane began to taxi. She performed a series of S turns so that she could see where they were going. At the end of the runway, she revved the engine and checked the magnetos and the carburetor heat. All the engine gauges were in the green. Satisfied that all systems were functioning perfectly, she rolled onto the end of the runway and again pushed the throttle forward. As they gained speed, she put forward pressure on the control stick between her legs and raised the tail of the plane. The biplane eased off the runway, and Shenandoah pulled the nose up to the horizon. At 1,000 feet above ground level, she made a left turn and entered the airport pattern. Then she did a right turn, exited the pattern, and climbed to 4,000 feet above ground level as she headed for the practice area.

Hal had told her that they would be doing a series of acrobatic maneuvers in addition to the usual check ride ones. At his instruction, Shenandoah went through the maneuvers: slow flight, S turns, and spins. She felt confident in all that she was doing. She’d performed these hundreds of times.

The next thing on the agenda was a series of barrel rolls. She preferred to perform them to the right, so she quickly pushed on the right rudder and at the same time pushed the control stick to the right. In doing so, she unintentionally released the clasp on her safety belt. As the biplane rolled upside down, Shenandoah fell out of the cockpit.

Shocked, terrified, and confused, she reached out and grabbed one of the struts that went between the wings. Her weight tipped the plane. She could see Hal fighting to keep it level.

“Drop off!” Hal yelled. “Parachute!”

Shenandoah had gone through parachute training, but the thought of dropping through the sky further terrified her. She began to crawl-walk back toward the cockpit. Two or three times, her boot actually fell through the canvas of the wing. She was afraid to even look at Hal because she could hear him yelling curses at her. Her heart raced, and her palms were so wet that she could barely hold onto the struts. Finally, she reached the cockpit and climbed aboard.

“I’ve got the fucking plane!”

Hal yelled as she strapped herself in. Hal flew them back to base and made a perfect three-point landing. He taxied them to the hanger and shut down the engine.

Shenandoah was horrified, ashamed, and frightened that she would be washed out of the program. She wasn’t sure she could face her instructor. But once on the concrete, she steeled herself and turned to look at her nemesis with a hang-dog expression.

To her surprise, Hal had a big grin on his face. He yelled, “Scared the shit out of yourself, didn’t you!”

“Yes, sir. Sorry.”

Hal walked over to where Shenandoah stood and placed his arm around her shoulders.

“Hell, I would have done the same thing. The only time I ever plan to jump is if the fucking plane is on fire. You’re an excellent pilot, Shenandoah. You should be proud of yourself. I’m going to give you a great recommendation.”

* * *

As she moved down the highway in a daze, Shenandoah barely noticed the landscape as she gradually picked up speed. By the time she reached another straight stretch, she was going seventy miles an hour. Suddenly, a man stepped onto the highway about fifty yards away and waved his arms over his head. “Now what?” she whispered under her breath as she pulled the shoulder bag next to her hip.

She brought the Bel Air to a skidding stop in the middle of the road and turned back to meet the man. He was about five foot eight, with jet-black hair parted in the middle and held in place with greasy lotion, and he wore a pair of bib overalls without a shirt and heavy construction boots. He had a several-day growth of beard but a pleasant face and a twinkle in his eyes. Smiling, he strolled nonchalantly to Shenandoah’s open window.

“Howdy, ma’am. Randall B. Moody, mayor and poet laureate of Moodyville, Tennessee. Hope you don’t mind me flagging you down. I like to personally welcome folks to Moodyville.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Moody,” she said, surprised to have met the person she was coming to talk to in such a way. “My name’s Shenandoah Coleman. I’m a newspaper reporter from Memphis. I’d like to ask you a few questions about Dr. Kate.”

“Memphis, you don’t say. You’re a right smart ways from home. We got us some Coleman people up here in this part of the state. You any kin?”

Shenandoah sighed. “I’m originally from Beulah Land, Mr. Moody.”

“Ain’t that something? You being a reporter and all.”