Cypress Grove (5 page)

Chapter Eleven

Don Lee came with me. We’d spoken with the boy’s mother downstairs. Seth was busy filling out college applications. All the pictures on his walls hung perfectly straight. The spines of the books in the bookcase behind the door were all flush.

“How come you’re so much older than the sheriff and Don Lee?”

“Mr. Turner’s retired, Seth. He’s agreed to help us out, more or less as a consultant.”

You could see the intelligence in his eyes, the interest. He’d rather ask questions than answer them. He knew about his world. Knew it too well, perhaps. Now he wanted to know about other people’s.

“So what can I do for you?”

“I was hoping you could tell me again what happened.”

“I don’t think there’s anything I can add to what I told the sheriff.” But he went along, forever the good kid, reciting all but verbatim what was in the official report. With time and retelling the story had baked to hard clay; nothing new or surprising was likely to peer out of doorways or corners.

“Sarah stopped because she saw something move.”

“Said she did. You’re gonna talk to her, too, though—right?”

I nodded. “She didn’t scream, anything like that.”

“Unh-unh. She just pushed herself up in the seat and said, ’Seth, what is that?’ I didn’t see anything, but I got out of the car and went to look. After a minute she came up behind me.”

“Was there blood?”

“Not near as much as you’d expect. I remember thinking then how that made it all seem so much stranger. Just that hunk of wood sticking up out of him, and everything arranged so neatly there by him like he was, I don’t know, in his room at home.”

“Were there field mice around, rats, anything like that?”

“If there were, we didn’t see them.” He looked full at me. “Why would you ask that?”

“No real reason. What you do is, you go ahead and ask whatever comes to mind, never mind if it makes sense or not, just trying to get the shape of the thing, hoping it might shake something loose.”

“For you, or for me?”

“I’d settle for either.”

“Interesting.” He jotted something down on a notepad beside him.

“How long have you and Sarah been dating?”

“Sarah and I aren’t dating. We just hang out together.”

“In the driveways of unoccupied houses.”

He started to say more, then shrugged.

I glanced pointedly at the photograph on his desk. “What does
she
have to say about that?”

“A lot. Pretty much nonstop. But Sarah . . . Sarah and I have been friends a long time. A lot of the others don’t like her, think she’s weird. But there aren’t many people around you can have a conversation with, talk about the things you think are important. Look, you’re from the city, right?”

“Yeah. But the place I came from’s a lot like this one.”

He nodded.

“Then maybe you know how it is.”

Music’s the first handhold you lose in growing old, I thought as we made our way down narrow wood stairs to the basement Sarah Perkins had claimed as her own. The stairs were plain, untreated planks set into notches in doubled two-by-fours, heads of ten-penny nails dark against them.

Sarah sat below in a pool of light. The music washed up from below, too, a drain in reverse. To me, it sounded like a slurry of things recorded from nature—cricket calls, footsteps over gravel, apples falling—then tweaked beyond recognition.

Sarah turned in her chair as we stepped onto the cement floor. Years ago, someone had laid in a frame of two-by-fours, started putting up Sheetrock, even tacked up one wall of cheap woodgrain paneling before abandoning the project. Sarah had covered the spaces with old album covers (mostly 1950s jazz), movie posters (a decided taste for horror films) and a hodgepodge of pieces of dark fabric of every conceivable size, shape and texture. Books were stacked against every wall. But mostly the room took its form from the U-shaped desk within which Sarah sat in the midst of three or four computers and as many monitors, along with various cross-connected black boxes, scanners and the like. The huge half-dark, half-bright room was the inside of her head, this the cockpit from which she kept it on course.

Almost instantly, she broke into Don Lee’s introduction.

“How’s Seth?”

“He’s fine,” I said. “You two haven’t seen one another?”

“Our parents won’t let us. Here.” She handed across one of those clear folders with a plastic piece that slips over the edge to bind it. “This should help.
And
save time.”

Don Lee looked at it a moment and handed it to me. The cover read, in small capitals:
INCIDENT OF THE NIGHT OF MAY 14
. Then, following a two-line space:
AS AVERRED BY SARAH PERKINS
. Below that, her address, phone number, two e-mail addresses and a signature.

Inside, with approximate times, was a step-by-step listing of her and Seth McEvoy’s arrival at the subdivision, their pulling into the driveway, her first sight of what she believed to be movement, their investigation of same and subsequent call to the police. She had fixed the times by checking her memory of the music being played against the radio station’s log.

“I have a good ear for music, and excellent recall,” she said.

Oh?

The second page of her report recounted what she and Seth had said to one another, beginning with “Seth, what is that?” and ending only with them saying good-bye when her parents (her mother, actually) picked her up at the police station. The third and fourth pages held computer-generated diagrams of relative positions: car, body, moonlight, the man’s belongings, the stake.

“Thank you,” I said.

“You’re welcome, Mr. Turner. Is there anything else?”

“Tell you the truth, I don’t know. I’m kind of overwhelmed here.” I had another look. “This is great.” After a moment I said, “Seth told me you and he aren’t dating.”

“Seth and I are friends.”

“Friends. That’s one of those words that can mean different things to different people.”

“Words are like that.” She smiled at me. “Aren’t they?”

“He also told me his girlfriend—what’s her name, again?”

“Emily.”

“That Emily isn’t too happy about you and Seth spending so much time together.”

“Imagine that.” A couple of bells sounded somewhere in her instrument panel. She glanced briefly down. “Do you know what a truffle is, Mr. Turner?”

“More or less, I think.”

“They’re tubers. They grow underground, on the roots of trees that have spent years earning their place, struggling for it, working their way up into the light. The tuber lives off the tree and gives nothing back.”

“Okay.”

“Emily is a truffle.”

“Even had a look at Danny Bartlett’s cows last year when they came up frothing at the mouth,” Don Lee said. “Been known to pull a tooth or two, need be.”

“He had a few choice words to say about my bothering him, but he’s on his way.”

“I could have gone to see him.”

“I offered. Said he had to come into goddamn town anyway, he just hadn’t goddamn it planned on it being so goddamn early.”

“Barks a lot, does he?”

The sheriff nodded as the door opened and, borne on a flood of badinage, Doc Oldham entered. “Goddamn it, Bates, what’s the matter with you, you can’t handle a simple thing like this without hollering for help. This here your city boy?”

Boy
—though we were much of an age. I nodded, which seemed the safest way to go at the time.

The sheriff introduced us.

“Don’t talk much, does he?”

“You looked like you had more to say. I figured I’d best just wait till you wound down.”

“I don’t wind dowm. I ain’t wound down in sixty-some years now and I don’t aim to start. What the hell, you got coffee here to offer a man or not?” Don Lee was already pouring one, and handed it over. “Worked up to Memphis, I’m told.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You like it?”

“The city, or the work?”

“Both.”

“I liked the work. The city, I got to liking less and less.”

“’Spect you did. Saw things from the other side for a spell too, I hear.”

“Didn’t much like that either.”

“Make the city look right tame?”

“Most ways it
was
the city—just a smaller version. Same tedium, same hierarchies, same violence and rage.”

“Goddamn it, Bates, I will say one thing for you. You send for help, at least you got the decent good sense to bring in someone able to find his own head in the dark.”

The sheriff nodded.

“And he ain’t talkin’ all the time like some others. Momma brought him up right.”

“Actually, sir, it was my sister. Our mother passed when I was five.”

“How much older was your sister?”

“She was sixteen.”

“Good woman?”

“The best. Lives out in Arizona now, has three kids.”

“Bringing up her
second
family.”

I nodded.

“My folks disappeared when I was fifteen,” Doc said. “We never did find out what became of them. There were two kids younger than me, one older. I was the one took care of us. It’s a miracle, but we all turned out all right.”

“That’s what families are all about.”

“Used to be, anyhow.” He finished his coffee, put the mug down on the desk, and slid it towards Don Lee, who went to refill it. “You wanna put some goddamn sugar in this one to kill the taste?” Doc said. Then to me: “What’d you need?”

“Considering what I have, just about anything would be welcome.”

“You read the file?”

“Sheriff Bates showed it to me.”

“Don’t know as I can add much to what’s there.”

“You didn’t do the autopsy yourself, right?”

“Just the preliminary. Autopsy gets done up to the capital. Technically speaking I’m just coroner. Hereabouts that’s an elected position, doesn’t even require medical training.”

Don Lee began, “It’s an important—”

“It’s political bullshit’s what it is. Nobody else would take it, and for damn good reason.”

“The body had been there a while, you said.”

“Been there alive for some time before he was there dead, and that was three, four days.”

“The stake had been driven in there?”

“No way. Where he lay’d be my guess. Someone mopped up as best he could. Lot of blood trace still. The bedding was rolled. Makes me think maybe he’d come back, laid down to rest thinking he’d go back out.”

“So the body got moved.”

“Absolutely. Some point after the stake went in—dead or almost, really no way to tell—he got wired to that trellis.”

“Blood and skin under his nails?”

“Looked to be. Could just be dirt, grease.”

“Maybe that’ll give us something. I assume State’ll do blood typing, run the DNA?”

“Blood, yes. Anything heavier’n that gets shipped out to Little Rock or Memphis, one of the big labs.”

“You’re saying be patient.”

“Be very patient.”

“Nothing else?”

I looked around the room in turn. Bates shook his head, as did Don Lee.

“One thing I have been thinking on,” Doc said.

“Okay.”

“This man’s been out there, on the street, a while.”

“Three, four months at least. Probably a lot longer.”

“So how’s it come about he has soft hands?”

We got tagged midday one Saturday. Dispatch was sending out a black-and-white, but the Lieutenant wanted detectives to rendezvous. Half a dozen calls had come in about whatever the hell was going on out there.

It was one of those new developments north of Poplar near East High School, reclaimed land where long-boarded-up storefronts, restaurants and thrift shops were being leveled to create inner-city suburbs, row upon row of sweet little perfect houses each with its own sweet front and rear lawn.

When we pulled up, one of the guys had a hedge trimmer, the other one a posthole digger. Took us some time to sort out they were in each other’s yards. They’d gone from insults across the fence to a swinging match, and when that did neither of them much good, they’d opted for technical support. One was busily defoliating every bush and small tree on his neighbor’s lawn, including plants in window boxes. The other was busily making the next yard look like a convention of moles had just let out.

The uniforms had just about talked them down by the time we got there. These guys had been riding together for fifteen, sixteen years; everyone in the department knew them. Tall one was Greaser, named for the hair tonic he must have bought in quart jars. Short one was Boots, for the zip-up imported footwear always polished to a high shine. Light reflected off Greaser’s hair or Boots’s boots could blind you.

Boots had Mr. Ditch Witch, Greaser had Hedge Man. They’d persuaded them to lay down the appliances and were bringing them together as we arrived. Close-up disputes like that, it’s always a kind of square dance, swing them apart, bring them together, open it up again. As we climbed out of the car, the two had just shaken hands and were talking. Next thing we knew, they’d grabbed up a garden hoe and a leaf rake and were going after one another again, Robin and Little John with quarterstaffs on that narrow bridge. Should have been on riding mowers, galloping towards one another, lances at ready.

Randy looked across the top of the car shaking his head and said he knew all along it was gonna be one of those days. About that time the hoe caught Greaser hard on the side of the head. He’d moved in to intercede, baton high to protect himself, then half-turned to check on the other guy’s position. Went down like a burnt match.

“You see that?” Randy said later. “Hair didn’t move at all. What
is
that shit he puts on it?”

The citizen let the blade of the hoe fall to the ground, handle in his hand. Jesus, what had he done. But the one with the rake was still charging toward him, teeth aloft like a giant bird claw. Then his left foot stepped over a garden hose, we saw Boots run between them, suddenly Boots was behind the guy, still had hold of the hose, now he was pulling it tight—and the guy slammed to the ground.

Randy stood shaking his head. “Sure hope he don’t aim to hog-tie him, too.”

“I’ll call it in,” I said.

Doctors stitched it as best they could, but the hoe had opened it up even better, and Greaser wound up with a scar that ran an inch and a half or so down his forehead over the left eye. He took to pasting a lock of hair in place over it.

“Missiles take out civilization as we know it,” Randy said, “that hair of his’ll still be perfect.”