In a Dark Season (32 page)

The Drovers’ Road XV

And Faithful Beyond

The hammering of the day before had been replaced, as the morning hours wore on, with the increasing clamor of a gathering crowd. Lydy lay motionless on his narrow bunk, not even turning his head when the rattle of the chain announced the opening of the door.

A rough voice proclaimed, Professor, here’s your broadsheet. Printer’s got three little boys hawkin copies to the crowd and they’re sellin like one thing.

The Professor took the sheet that was thrust through the narrow crack. The hand withdrew, the door shut, and there was the familiar sound of the lock and the chink of the chain being replaced. Holding the hastily printed broadside to the light, the Professor pursed his lips as he scanned the inky lines, then offered the rough sheet to his companion.

Here, my poor boy, is the account based on your trial. The version of the unhappy events that you swore to in court. The printer has labored all the night to have this ready for your…for your perusal.

The young man glanced at it briefly, then returned his gaze to the featureless winter sky beyond the barred window. I ain’t no hand to read. I’d take hit kindly was you to say it over for me.

The Professor cleared his throat. Of course, if it will afford you some modicum of satisfaction. The title is, as you wished—The Most Lamentable Story of Lydy Goforth, Composed by Himself on the Eve of his Hanging for the Grewsome Murders of the Standkeeper Lucius Gudger and his Fair Daughter Luellen—Anno Domini 1860.

When Lydy made no response, the Professor took an oratorical stance, holding the rough sheet at arm’s length, and half singing, half intoning, began to recite the hastily composed verses.

“Come all ye good people and hear my sad tale;

My time it draws nigh and my soul it doth quail.

I’d have you take warning, take warning of me

If murder you’ve done, then you must pay the fee.”

An abrupt gesture from Lydy silenced him. I believe I don’t want to hear it atter all. If you wrote hit as I told you, hit’ll do. Long as I know that you have the true story wrote down somewheres else.

There was a sudden roar from the crowd outside and once again a rattle and clank and the door swung wide. Three armed men stood there, and beyond them a shifting crowd, all craning to see the prisoner emerge.

Lydy, you got to come on now.

The burliest of the three stepped forward but Lydy waved him back. Swinging his feet to the floor, he stood, his hands clenched at his sides. Professor, I thank ye kindly for your company and charge you to keep to our bargain.

The Professor laid a hand over his heart. Faithful till death. Choking on the word, he brushed his eyes with the back of his other hand. And faithful beyond.

And faithful beyond, replied Lydy, opening his hand to let the smooth stone fall to the floor.

Chapter 43

The Biter Bit

Wednesday, December 27, and Thursday, December 28

S
o if Revis was blackmailing these people—what are the names? Kildare, Pretty Boy, Holy Joe, The Fairy Queen, and Little Big Man—in October and November and December—”

“The Fairy Queen didn’t pay in December,” Elizabeth put in. “And the payments from the others each went up by five hundred dollars.”

Phillip ran his hand over his head, then pointed a warning finger at her. “Don’t say it. Is there an entry for January?”

She flipped ahead. “Revis’s accounts for ’96. Only January is filled in and it looks like The Fairy Queen is off the books—there’re just the four names. But the rate they’re paying is up—two thousand dollars each for two of them, and three thousand each for the other two.”

“And by February, Revis was dead. The classic mistake of a blackmailer—ask for too much and the victim—or victims—can turn desperate.”

Elizabeth looked back to the page for October 1995 and ran her finger down the names. “It started here—and this is when Mackenzie’s anonymous letter-writer says she was gang-raped and when Bam-Bam dropped out of sight. Could be a coincidence but somehow I doubt it. The payments increase in December—was Revis just greedy? Or did something else happen?”

Phillip’s quiet answer was like a knell. “December’s also the last time anyone heard from Amanda’s brother. You realize, don’t you, Lizabeth, whose bones those probably were in the silo?”

She nodded silently and pointed to the December entry. “The Fairy Queen,” she whispered. “Spinner.”

“That leaves four possibilities for Revis’s murderer—”

“The Bad Boyz.” She put her hand to her mouth. “Cletus said that they were bad boys who put him in the bus with the naked girl.”

“I’m not sure I follow you—bad boys?”

Elizabeth moved her finger to another entry. “Now there’re only three—Holy Joe’s gone too—the so-called suicide.”

The night-duty aide was moving quietly around the room, tidying the other bed, where she had dozed, and collecting the romance novel and puzzle books that had kept her company through her shift. Nola watched through barely opened eyes and made her plan.

This one’ll leave a little early, as usual, and Michelle will get here a little late, as usual, and there’ll be time.

She could see the aide glance at her, so she maintained her gape-mouthed pose of deep sleep. The aide stepped over, leaned down, and gently pulled the sheet up a little higher. She stood and studied her client.

Benevolently? I think so but dare not trust her.
Nola began to snore slightly.
Don’t overdo it. Just enough to convince her that I’ll be asleep and out of trouble for another hour or so.

After another moment, she heard the diminishing squeak of rubber-soled shoes on linoleum. Cautiously she opened her eyes and saw with relief that her door was pulled almost shut.

As quickly as she could manage with limbs stiff from disuse, Nola Barrett pulled herself out of bed and hobbled across the room in search of her glasses. In one hand she clutched four white tablets.

“Good morning, Miss Nola! You want me to help you to the potty?…What a sleepyhead you are. I believe I’ll just turn on the TV to help you wake up a little so you can have some nice oatmeal when your breakfast comes.”

She almost caught me. If only I could have had a few more seconds to stir it in thoroughly.
Once again stretched out on the bed, Nola continued her imitation of sleep. She could hear Michelle’s heavy footsteps moving from the television to the plastic-covered reclining chair, and she could hear the chair’s sigh of protest as Michelle sat down.

“Ooh, here’s some good juice just goin’ to waste again.”

The television clicked on and a woman’s voice said,
“More later on the blizzard lashing the Plains; we’re going now to Bret on the beach at Waikiki—tough assignment, Bret!”

“Umph, reckon that juice woulda tasted better cold. It must of settled or something.”

A sigh and Michelle sat back. There was the rattle of the cart delivering breakfast trays in the hall.

“Just set it there. I’m lettin’ her get her beauty sleep.” Retreating footsteps and the sound of a lid being removed.

“Oatmeal, toast and jelly, scrambled eggs…maybe I’ll just taste a corner of this toast…”

The weather report droned on, segueing into something Nola recognized as Michelle’s favorite show—people yelled at one another and accused family members of heinous things while the audience cheered and booed like a crowd in the Roman Coliseum, watching the barbarians tear each other to pieces.

Michelle, who usually accompanied this show with a running commentary, was silent. Nola waited a little longer, then opened her eyes. The young aide was limp in the reclining chair, a half-eaten piece of toast drooping from one hand.

With a grim smile, Nola Barrett sat up and slipped on her glasses.

It worked. Now if he can only manage to do as I directed. He has to get here before they come for the tray.

Phillip dragged the navy watch cap from his jacket pocket and put it on, pulling it well down over his ears. “I’m going in and have a talk with Mac. These little account books will give him something to think about.” He tucked the parcel under his arm. “It all comes back to that old house and the things that went on there. I’m thinking Mac’s going to be very interested in the three Bad Boyz still standing.”

“I bet he will.” Elizabeth reached for the chicken bucket and the scraps of last night’s meal. “After I do my chores, I’m going in to check on Nola. She told me not to come back till Friday but I just don’t feel easy about her. Of course, if she’s still going on with that phony act, there’s not much I can do. But maybe I can get that aide to leave us alone long enough for me to ask some questions.”

Michelle slept on. Nola took a last look at the clock on the wall, removed her glasses, and lay down to wait.
What are the chances he’ll do it? I should have asked Elizabeth. But how well do I know her? She might have balked…have felt it her duty to stand in my way. But where
is
he?

The door was pushed open again and a familiar voice spoke. “As you desired, dear lady, punctual and sober. And I’ve brought the items you specified.”

Chapter 44

Star-2-3-0-0

Thursday, December 28

S
he specifically told me not to come back till Friday. Is she going to be angry if I just check on her? But what if she’s in danger from whoever was trying to keep her doped up?

The interior monologue repeated its dreary loop as Elizabeth parked her car and picked her way across the icy parking lot to the entrance of the Layton Facility. She was aware of a subtext to that monologue, running concurrently but, as it were, on a slightly different frequency.
This is a woman who tried to kill herself. Why do I believe she’s acting rationally?

At the front door she was surprised to see Thomas Blake, evidently on his way out. Blake was courteously holding the door open for a thin old man bent over a stout walking stick. Catching her eye, Blake nodded and waited.

Without a word to Blake, the thin old man hobbled through the door, brushing past Elizabeth as she waited on the porch. Something about the old man,
was it a scent? his gait? the set of his shoulders?
made her look more closely.

Stiff new overalls, a heavy jacket, and an insulated cap with earflaps protected him from the bite of the air, but he had taken the extra precaution of swathing his lower face with a plaid wool muffler. Mirrored sunglasses added a bizarre touch, and as he glanced briefly at her, Elizabeth saw her own reflection.
You’re staring at the poor guy, Elizabeth. Cut that out.

“Mornin’,” she said, nodding in his direction and looking away almost at once.

With a muttered and indistinguishable reply, he shuffled away, moving slowly but purposefully toward the parking lot.

“Mrs. Goodweather, good morning!” Blake’s voice rang out in cheery tones. “Well met! I’ve just been calling on our friend.”

How does he do it? Drunk as he was yesterday afternoon, here he is, out and about this early.

“How
is
Nola?” Elizabeth asked, stepping into the warmth of the lobby. “I just thought I’d come by for a minute.”

Blake let the door swing shut. “I found her much the same, I fear, quite unresponsive. I’m afraid, though, that your trip is in vain. You won’t find her in her room. An aide just collected her and wheeled her away for—what was it? I believe the young woman said hydrotherapy.”

“Really?” Elizabeth glanced at the clock on the wall.
A little after ten.
“Well, since I’m here, I guess I’ll wait.”

A thought occurred to her. “You know, I’ve been wondering about Nola’s uncle—there was some of his stuff in that box you lent me and it got me to thinking about his murder. I read about it in the paper back then, of course, but I don’t remember anything much except that he lived alone and that the stand had come down in his family. I guess
you
knew him fairly well, being his nearest neighbor and all.”

Blake’s quick look was guarded, but he replied, “I knew him slightly. He was not the easiest of neighbors. But, as you are undoubtedly aware, his establishment was a convenient source of beer and liquor. And, as you have surely surmised, I did, on occasion, have recourse to his wares, grossly inflated though his prices were.” He raised his hand to the keypad by the door, preparing to tap in the code that would release the lock. “I’m sorry I cannot offer more information. I have an appointment that must be honored.”

“Of course, please, don’t let me keep you. Just one more quick question—did anyone ever call you ‘Cat Man’?”

The steel-rimmed spectacles glittered at her. “As a matter of fact, that was the appellation the river guides bestowed on me years ago.” Blake punched in the code to release the entry lock. “It was kindly intended and preferable to ‘the Troll,’ wouldn’t you agree?”

With a civil nod, he hurried out the door and Elizabeth turned to make her somewhat shamefaced way to Nola’s room.

The door was shut. After tapping at it and receiving no answer, Elizabeth pushed it open.
I’ll just wait here till they bring her back from her hydrotherapy, whatever that may be.

Inside the room the television was chattering away, and before it, a figure swathed in a shawl slumped in a recliner chair.

“Nola?” But even as she spoke Elizabeth saw that it was the aide Michelle—sound asleep.

After twenty minutes of sitting on the foot of Nola’s bed and listening to Michelle’s adenoidal breathing compete with the dubious entertainment of a talk show, Elizabeth had had enough. She moved to the door only to be met by an awning-bedecked juice cart blocking the way.

“’Scuse, please.” A sleepy-looking woman entered the room carrying a pitcher of ice and a paper cup filled with a noxious-looking purple liquid. Depositing the cup on the tray table at the side of the sleeping Michelle, she glanced at the unconscious form and spoke loudly. “Here’s your juice, Miss Barrett.”

“That’s not Miss Barrett; that’s her aide.” Elizabeth tried to contain the indignation she felt—on behalf of Nola and every unfortunate enduring the anonymity of institutional care. “Miss Barrett’s having hydrotherapy.”

“Not today, she ain’t. The hydrotherapy unit’s out of whack. They got it all pulled to pieces this very minute. Two fellers been working on it since eight a.m.”

“No, Nola wasn’t scheduled for hydrotherapy today. Let me see—no, there’s nothing at all.” The woman behind the desk looked up with a reassuring smile. “You know, these senile cases wander some; it’s just the nature of the illness. But they can’t get out—all the exits have keypads or alarms. She’s probably in one of the other residents’ rooms—some of these old dears will go crawl in bed with the first man they come to. The widows, you know, they miss their husbands.”

She lifted a phone and spoke into it, then turned back to Elizabeth. “We’ll do a room-by-room search in each wing—if you’ll just have a seat in the living room at the front, I’ll let you know when Miss Barrett’s back in her room.”

As she sat on the shabby imitation Queen Anne love seat, waiting to hear that Nola had been found, Elizabeth found herself gazing at the keypad by the front door. “Press Star-2-3-0-0. Please do not open door for residents.”

Thomas Blake said Nola’d been taken away for hydrotherapy. Did he misunderstand?
Who
came and got her? And why?

As she stared out the door at the parking lot, its pavement now wet and shining with melting ice, the image of the thin old man Blake had held the door for flashed before her. Mirrored sunglasses, muffler, gloves, hat pulled well down
—that could have been anybody—that could have been Nola!

Minutes later she was pressing Star-2-3-0-0, shoving open the door, and sprinting for her car.