Gone to Ground (17 page)

I just plain didn't have the energy.

Did friends avoid me because they believed Stevie was guilty, or because they knew he wasn't and didn't want to be overheard saying so? I wanted to believe the latter. But more likely most folks thought he did it. Why shouldn't they, after Chief Cotter had run his mouth?

On Friday night Chief Cotter and John searched Stevie's trailer, this time with a warrant. I didn't even know about it until Saturday mornin, when Hesta Bradley asked me what they'd found. I nearly dropped my curlin iron. I called the police station right away. Chris Dedmon answered. Yes, he said, they'd searched with a warrant. But he wouldn't say if they found anything.

The not knowin drove me crazy.

Saturday late afternoon Trent came over. He planned on stayin in Amaryllis long enough to attend Stevie's court date on Monday. Then he'd have to head back to Jackson. Life went on, and there were other crimes to cover.

He stood on the porch. I almost didn't let him in the door. "Well, there you are." My tone wasn't exactly friendly.

Trent spread his hands. "Just wanted to see how you're doing."

"You sure didn't seem to care last night. Soon as Chief Cotter got through you were gunnin to ask him more questions. Didn't have the time of day for me." Not that I cared where Trent was. But he said he loved me. So what came first—his work or me?

I crossed my arms. "I suppose you've filed your story by now. The one that's gonna be read all over Mississippi, sayin Stevie Ruckland's the Closet Killer."

"I didn't say that, Deena. I had to report he was arrested."

"Why?"

"Because that's my job."

I glared at him.

"Look—would you just let me in?"

No. Yes. No.

I was bein an idiot. Trent was one of the few people who'd at least talk to me. And the only one who'd bothered to come over.

I stepped aside.

We walked into the livin room in silence. He faced me awkwardly. "Deena, I'm really sorry about all this. I can't
not
cover the case. You have to know that. I need to write the articles as objectively as possible. That doesn't mean I agree with everything Chief Cotter does."

Somethin cracked inside me. My eyes started to burn. "I know."

"So . . . can I least sit down?"

I nodded.

Trent eased onto my couch, as if afraid I'd change my mind. I stumbled into a tired pacin. I didn't know what else to do.

He cleared his throat. "Chief Cotter might've jumped the gun, arresting Stevie."

I stopped in my tracks. "How?"

"I can't see that they have enough evidence yet. Makes me wonder what the D.A. thinks of the arrest. D.A's are known for holding police back until there's enough evidence to convict. They want all their ducks in a row. Right now Chief Cotter doesn't even know if the bloodstains on that uniform came from Erika. I mean, if by some wild event that proved true, Deena . . ."

If that proved true, Stevie was toast.

"Way I look at it, the chief's made a big gamble. He really thinks Stevie's his man, and he wants to get the culprit off the streets. If he waits for DNA evidence to make an arrest—which could take weeks—and another murder occurs in the meantime, the town'll want to skin his hide. So he arrests Stevie, figuring he's got just enough for the judge to deny bond, given all the murders. Then the chief's got a couple months until the grand jury convenes to gather evidence—main thing being the DNA results."

"A couple
months
?"

"Afraid so. They don't meet until July."

July
.
It was a lifetime away.

Sudden knowledge punched me in the gut. That blood on the uniform
was
Erika's. I was goin to lose my brother. The only family I had left.

My legs went weak. I stumbled to the couch and fell on it. Next thing I knew I was bawlin on Trent's shoulder. He just patted my arm and let me cry. "I'm so sorry, Deena. I'm so sorry."

When I got hold of myself, I pulled away. Staggered to my feet to fetch tissues.

That night I didn't sleep at all. Just stared at my dark ceilin like some zombie. Was Stevie safe? By some miracle, would the judge grant bond on Monday? To think of him stuck in jail until the grand jury met in July! Unless the DNA came back with no match to Erika. But if he
was
indicted he'd sit in jail months longer until his trial came. Then he'd be convicted. If Chief Cotter could gather evidence to charge him with more than one murder, Stevie would be up for the death penalty.

Did my brother do this? Had he really killed those women?

By 5:00 a.m. Sunday I still lay awake, my body rigid with one thought: get Stevie to talk. My visit with him meant everything. If Stevie could just tell me that blood came from someone other than Erika, I'd tell Tully and Cherrie Mae. We could concentrate on Mike and Mayor B. The quicker we managed to prove one of them killed Erika, the quicker I'd bounce Stevie out of jail. I didn't want to wait for Cherrie Mae's photos. Or Tully's swabs. Who knew if Chief Cotter would even pay attention to them?

I dragged myself in and out of the shower. To the kitchen for three cups of coffee. I could barely eat. My face looked ten years older, dark circles under my eyes. By noon my brain had near shut down again. I slumped on the sofa—and fell asleep.

A ringin phone startled me awake.

"Hello?" My voice sounded drugged.

"Deena, that you?" It was Cherrie Mae.

I twisted upright, rubbin a crick in my neck. "Yeah. Just fell asleep for a little while."

The time! My gaze jerked to my watch. One thirty. I had to leave soon to visit Stevie.

"Just checkin up on you." Cherrie Mae sounded worried. "I know you bout to go."

"I'm . . . okay. No, I'm not. It doesn't matter what I am. I just have to make my brother tell me the truth. I'm gonna do that, Cherrie Mae. I'm not leavin that jail till he talks to me. When I get back here we'll know more. I'll call you."

"Hope you right, chil." She sighed. "I do hope you right."

"Have you talked to Tully?" In all my worry over Stevie, I'd given her little thought. How selfish of me. Couldn't be easy bein around a husband she thought was a killer. And who abused her. "If Mike finds out what she did—I'd hate to think what he'd do to her."

"Haven't talked to her. And I ain't stopped prayin since she left here. I wanted to call, but what if Mike answered the phone? I'm not sure Tully's got much freedom when he's off work. Wouldn't want to get her in trouble."

"Yeah. I hear you." I flexed my shoulders. "I need to go, Cherrie Mae. Call you soon as I can."

"I need to be goin myself. Erika's funeral's at two o'clock."

The funeral. I'd forgotten all about it. Good thing I had an excuse not to attend. No one would want me there anyway.

In my bathroom I threw on some makeup. Somewhere between foundation and mascara I managed to convince myself of Stevie's innocence. This was all just a big mistake. I'd get the truth—the whole story—out of Stevie, and put an end to this.

I would.

At 1:45 I slid in my car. Ten minutes later I drove past the pretty park in Bay Springs. Past the town's City Hall and toward the courthouse. Tucked behind the courthouse was the jail, a low-lying, bland buildin of faded red brick. I pulled into a parkin space and gazed toward the entrance. Two people sat on benches near the door. A third fed coins into a Coke machine.

My eyes caught sight of a blue-trimmed sign. "Visitation," it read, with an arrow pointin down the length of the buildin.

I pushed myself out of the car.

For a moment I stood lookin dumbly at my purse. Would they let me take it in? My brain couldn't seem to make a decision. Just whirred like a machine out of gear.

I opened the trunk and shoved my purse inside. Locked the car and dropped the keys in the front pocket of my jeans.

Chin lowered, I shuffled down the sidewalk to the rear entrance for visitors. To my left sat the back of the red-bricked courthouse, where Stevie would be on Monday. I wasn't even sure I'd attend the hearin. Trent had told me Stevie would be handcuffed and shackled. How could I see him like that? Maybe I'd stay home, wait for Trent to call.

I reached the jail's back entrance. Three other people, two black women and one young white man, waited ahead of me, sittin on mustard-colored chairs with steel legs. They glanced at me, then lowered their eyes. I pulled to a halt and stood awkwardly, arms crossed over my chest like it was a winter day.

"You waitin to see somebody?" one of the black women asked.

I nodded.

"Sign in over there." She pointed to a small rectangular table to the left of the door. A piece of paper and pen lay on it. I stepped to the table and leaned down to view the list.

Name:
Deena Ruckland.

Inmate:
Steven Ruckland.

Relationship:
sister.

A few minutes later the door opened and a man stepped out. He smiled at us and checked the paper. "Only four today. All right. Y'all can come in. No purses, no cell phones." His gaze swept over us.

One by one we were checked and admitted inside.

Behind me the steel door shut with a heavy
clang
. The air closed in, suckin away my breath. Already the outside world seemed so far away in this place. I could feel the thud of my heart.

The man led us to a stark, rectangular area with five visitation stations—a lineup of steel stools and gray cubicles with white phones. A shelf you could lean your elbows on. Thick glass separated each visitor from the other side. A piece of wall stood between each cubicle both on the visitor and inmate side. My heart flipped at that. If Stevie and I leaned forward and spoke softly into our phones, no one would hear us.

The jailer pointed the other three people to their assigned seats. He looked at me. "Ms. Ruckland, please sit here." He indicated my stool. Did his eyes linger on me? Checkin out the relative of the suspected Closet Killer?

I sat on the stool and faced the glass.

My mouth dried out. Suddenly I wanted to jump up and run. What if Stevie begged me to take him out of here? What if he screamed at me for lettin him be arrested?
How
could I see him like this?

Then—there he was. Clad in a bright orange jumpsuit. Starin at me through the glass, lookin so lost. My throat jerked. The jailer nudged Stevie's arm and pointed to his stool, then withdrew. Stevie sat. I picked up my phone and gestured toward the one on his side. My brother reached for his extension.

"Hi, Stevie." My words came out breathy.

"Hi."

"How are you?" What a dumb question.

"How do you think?"

"Have you seen a lawyer?"

"Yeah." Stevie made a face.

"What did he tell you?"

"How I'm gonna see a judge tomorrow, and how he'll ask the judge for a bond, and I may or may not get it—probably not. And if I don't I get to sit in here for a lot longer. I don't like it here. The beds are like rocks. I have to be in a cell all by myself. I don't
like
bein by myself all day!" His voice rose. "And I don't like the people here either."

"Shhh." Goose bumps popped down my arms. Maybe bein isolated in a cell wasn't such a bad idea. At least no one could hurt him.

Stevie shook his head hard. "I
hate
Chief Cotter."

"You know I want to get you out of here."

"So do it." He glared at me.

"I'm tryin. But you have to help. Will you do that, Stevie?"

"What can I do? I talk, they don't listen. I don't talk, they don't listen."

"Who's they?"

"Chief Cotter and John. Yeah, that man you married."

"I'm not married to him anymore."

"Good thing."

I licked my lips. Leaned forward and lowered my voice. "Look Stevie, I'm workin on some things. But you have to do your part. Right now, you
have
to tell me what happened last Tuesday night."

"My lawyer said don't talk to anybody."

"
Anybody
doesn't include your sister."

Stevie's eyes slid to his left. "There are people in here."

"Talk real quiet—they won't hear you."

"There's nothin to say."

Please, God, let this work!
"How did you get that blood on your uniform?"

"I can't tell you that."

"Why?"

"'Cause I can't tell you that."

"You
have
to tell me, Stevie."

"I
can't
.
"

I thought of Mike Phillips, the blood he'd left on his own front door. "Did someone at the factory make you do somethin when you got off work?"

"Like what?"

"Like . . . go to Erika's house."

"Nobody made me go to Erika's house!"

"Shh." Sweat broke out over the goose bumps. I felt lightheaded. "Did you go on your own?"

My brother firmed his lips and eyed me. The expression scared me to death. I'd seen it too often when he was little.

"Stevie.
Did
you go to Erika's house?"

"It was
her
fault."

"Who?"

"She was mean to me."

A rock dropped down my stomach.

"I didn't mean to get blood on my clothes. I don't know how that happened. I took off my uniform so it wouldn't get dirty. Then I put it back on—and there it was. I don't like the smell of blood. Made me sick. I tried to wash it off in the creek. Then I put it on the washin machine. I thought I ran it through to clean but guess I didn't."

Scenes of our childhood flashed in my head. Stevie lyin to Mama. Him comin home from school, his lip split by some bully. He hadn't fought back. But in the house he'd trashed his room.

Sittin on that hard steel stool in the county jail, I'd never felt so alone in all my life.

"Stevie." My throat was so tight I could hardly talk. "Did you tell all this to Chief Cotter?" If he had, he was doomed.

"No."

"What did you tell him?"

"That I didn't kill that girl!"

"Okay, shhh." My fingers gripped the phone. Tears filled my eyes. I tried to blink them away, but they ran down my cheeks.