In Every Heartbeat (26 page)

Her heart ached as she thought about Hannah and Hester calling Maelle Ma and Jackson Pa. Her jealousy toward the two girls went even deeper than her jealousy toward Jackson. At least she’d always known Maelle loved Jackson—Maelle spoke of him every time she and Libby were together.

Once, when Libby had been twelve, she’d asked Maelle how she could still love someone who was so far away. “Why don’t you quit waiting for him and just find someone else?” Libby had asked, unaware of the insensitivity of the question.

She could still remember the soft look that had come over –Maelle’s face before she cupped Libby’s cheek and answered, “There’s no one else who could replace Jackson. Even though we’re far apart, he’s close to me—I feel him in every heartbeat.”

At the time, Libby had inwardly scoffed at such a romantic notion. But now her heart ached with the desire to be loved that way by someone. To know, even when separated, that she was being held in his every heartbeat. How she longed to be important. To someone. To anyone.

The sun moved ever higher, washing away the bright colors of morning and replacing them with a clear blue that perfectly matched the color of Petey’s eyes. The inner prompting to pray for him returned. Tears pricked behind her eyes, surprising her with their presence. She wanted to pray—to support her dear friend, whose world was crumbling.

But she couldn’t.

“I’m so sorry, Petey.” Lifting her gaze to the blue sky that reminded her so much of Petey’s eyes, she said on a ragged whisper, “I can’t pray for you. I’m not important enough to warrant God’s attention.”

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-NINE

P
ete’s admiration for Jackson grew by leaps and bounds as the day progressed. Even though the man had gotten little sleep Sunday night, having dozed on the train in lieu of a good rest in his bed, he appeared alert and intelligent Monday as he asked questions, filed papers, and somehow managed to secure a meeting in private chambers with the judge who’d handed down Oscar’s sentence. As much as Pete had wanted to speak on his brother’s behalf, he clamped his lips tight and allowed Jackson to do all the talking.

Jackson scooted his chair closer to the judge’s desk and placed a stack of papers in front of the man. “After reading the report covering the investigation and the trial transcript, there are two questions that were not—in my opinion—adequately addressed by Mr. Leidig’s representing attorney.” He pointed to something on the top page. “The clerk died of a gunshot wound, yet no weapon was recovered at the scene. No one seemed to inquire about the absence of a gun.”

The judge shuffled through the stack of papers as if seeking something. “That does seem unusual. . . .”

“Secondly, although Mr. Leidig repeatedly indicated another man was responsible for the clerk’s death, his claims were never pursued. It appears, from reading these reports, they found a boy sitting beside the clerk’s body. When he admitted to being in the store for the purpose of stealing money, they simply held him accountable for the murder, as well.”

Pete fidgeted as the judge and Jackson discussed the trial transcript at length, line by line, and by the end of the forty-minute session, Jackson had secured permission to talk to Oscar on the guarantee that he would hand any new evidence to the police for investigation.

The judge leaned back in his chair. “Even though I’m granting your request, I find it highly unlikely the boy will offer any information of value. What this transcript doesn’t indicate is the boy’s attitude during the trial. He was very close-mouthed and uncooperative. But never let it be said retribution took precedence over justice in my courtroom.”

Jackson nodded. “Thank you, your honor. I appreciate your willingness to allow a second look at the evidence.”

The judge gestured toward a sober-faced man in navy trousers and a matching belted jacket, indicating he should step forward. “The officer will escort you to the jail, where you can visit with Mr. Leidig.”

Jackson thanked the judge again and then quirked his fingers at Pete. Pete hop-skipped to catch up to Jackson, and side-by-side they followed the officer down a long hallway to a heavy door. The man opened the door and stepped through without glancing back, and Jackson had to catch it to keep it from slamming shut.

A steep, narrow staircase waited, the steps formed of cement. Moisture clung to the cinder-block walls and concrete floor, leaving the surfaces slick, and Pete held tight to the iron handrail to keep his peg from slipping. Not until they reached the barred door to a cell did the officer turn around. His eyebrows rose when he spotted Pete.

“Judge said the lawyer could go in. He didn’t say nothin’ about nobody else.”

A second officer, portly and with heavy jowls, pried himself out of a straight-backed chair and hustled over with his right hand hovering inches above his sidearm. Pete instinctively drew back.

Jackson put his hand on Pete’s back and urged him forward. “This young man is Peter Leidig. He’s Oscar’s brother. I assume family members are allowed?”

The heavier man nodded. “Well . . . they’re allowed. But none of ’em ’ve bothered. Only person been down here is a little reporter from the newspaper.” He puffed up importantly. “She took down my name, too.”

The officer who’d escorted Jackson and Pete downstairs made a face of disgust. “You aren’t guarding Billy the Kid, Holloway.”

The portly man deflated.

“Holloway’ll let you in,” the officer said, turning back to Jackson. “Judge didn’t give a time limit, so just let Holloway know when you’re done and he’ll let you back out.” He strode off without another glance.

Pete’s heart doubled its tempo while he waited for Holloway to unlock the door to Oscar’s cell. No one besides Libby had come to see Oscar? How frightened and alone the boy must feel. And probably resentful.
Lord, let him be willing to accept our help.

As he followed Jackson into the cell and the officer clanked the heavy door shut behind them, a chill crept down Pete’s spine. The cell was dim, lit by a single bulb hanging from twisted wires in the middle of the ceiling. A narrow cot—the only piece of furniture in the small square space—pressed into the far corner, and a slender blond-haired boy lay curled on the bare mattress. His eyes were open, seeming to look directly at Jackson, but he made no effort to sit up or to speak. Had it not been for his blinking eyes, Pete might have thought he was a mannequin laid out to fool people into believing a person inhabited the cell.

Jackson cleared his throat. “Oscar?”

Oscar sniffed in response.

“My name’s Jackson Harders. I’m a lawyer from Shay’s Ford, and I’m a friend of your brother, Pete. He brought me to see you.” For the second time, Jackson gestured Pete forward. But Pete hesitated. A part of him wanted to rush over and embrace his brother, to assure him he wasn’t alone, that someone cared. That
he
cared. But after all their years apart, they were strangers.

With Jackson applying pressure to his back, Pete had no choice but to shuffle forward a step. “H-hello, Oscar.” His brother didn’t move. “How are you?” Realizing how foolish the question sounded, he wished he could take back the ridiculous query. But, to his surprise, his brother slowly pushed himself into a seated position and examined the floor between his feet.

Head low, Oscar mumbled, “Not so good, if you wanna know the truth.”

Despite himself, Pete smiled. He slid his peg leg across the floor, inching closer. Oscar’s head shifted, and Pete knew he was looking at the wooden peg leg. Oscar’s eyebrows crunched, and his gaze bounced up to meet Pete’s.

“You ain’t my brother. My brother, he wasn’t a cripple. Don’t remember much about him, but I do know that.”

Jackson slipped in, “This is your brother, Oscar. Pete was in an accident. A trolley car rolled over his leg when he was a little boy. He’s used a peg leg ever since.”

Oscar peered at Pete, his expression dull. “A trolley run over ya? Prob’ly shoulda killed ya.”

Pete nodded. “Prob’ly shoulda.” He deliberately slurred his words to match Oscar’s speech. “But God saved me. And now He sent me here to try to save you.”

Oscar laughed, but the sound held no gaiety. “There’s no savin’ me. I’m a goner.” He scooted over, patting the mattress beside him and waiting until Pete sat. “But it’s good ya could come say goodbye. Always wondered what happened to ya.”

Pete wished they had endless hours to talk about the lost years. But time was limited. Their catching up would have to come later, after he’d managed to free his brother. Putting his hand on Oscar’s knee, he tipped forward to look directly into his face. “Listen, Oscar, last week you talked to a friend of mine—her name is Libby. She asked you lots of questions, remember?”

Oscar nodded. His hair flopped over his eyes, and he pushed it back with the heel of his hand. “I remember. She was real purty, an’ she wrote everything down on paper. Said she was gonna write a story about me.”

If Pete knew Libby, she’d write a dandy story. “That’s right. She told me what you said about there being someone else in the store that night.”

Oscar ducked his head.

“She said you told her you didn’t kill the clerk, but the other man did.”

Oscar’s shoulders rose, and he seemed to shrink inside himself. “Yeah . . . I told ’er that.”

Jackson stepped forward and crouched in front of Oscar. “Was that the truth, Oscar? Was there someone else there who shot the clerk?”

“What difference does it make?” He sounded confrontational. “Trial’s over. Sentencing’s done. There’s no hope for me now.”

“There is hope, Oscar.” Pete spoke with as much confidence as he could muster to make up for Oscar’s lack. “The judge is willing to look into your claim about another person doing the shooting. You just have to tell us what you know about him.” He lowered his voice, grasping his brother’s knee. “I know you told Libby you didn’t know who the man was, but that wasn’t the truth, was it? You wouldn’t partner up with a complete stranger to rob a store. That doesn’t make sense.”

Oscar sat in silence, staring straight ahead.

Pete squeezed his brother’s knee. “Go ahead. Tell the truth. Jackson can help you if you tell the truth.”

Oscar mumbled something Pete couldn’t understand. He leaned in closer. “What did you say?”

He covered his face with his hands. “I can’t tell you.” The words came out on a snarl.

“Sure you can.” Pete gave his brother’s knee another reassuring squeeze. “Jackson will find the man and make him tell the authorities that he’s the one who shot the clerk, but we need a description . . . a name.”

“I said I can’t!” Oscar lunged from the bed, pushing past Jackson and cowering in the opposite corner. He hid behind his upraised arms, his body heaving.

Jackson rose and took a step toward Oscar. “Oscar, did the man threaten you? Because I can protect you.”

A moan sounded from behind Oscar’s arms. He turned his back and hunched into the corner with his arms wrapped around himself. “Ain’t me needs protectin’. I can take care of myself. But if I tell, there’ll be no one to—” He sank against the cinder-block wall, and for a moment Pete thought he’d collapse into a heap on the floor. Then, drawing in a deep breath, he unfolded to his full height.

He turned slowly and looked at Pete. “It was good of you to come tell me good-bye, Petey. Glad to know you’re doin’ good, even if you are a cripple. I’ll always remember you came. But you . . . you better go now.”

Oscar crossed the floor, passing between Pete and Jackson without looking at them, and dropped onto the cot. Pete stared at the boy, uncertain what to do, until Jackson put his hand on Pete’s arm.

“Pete, would you step outside for a few minutes? I’d like to talk to Oscar alone.”

Although Pete had so much more he wanted to say to his brother, he didn’t argue. Maybe Jackson could use his lawyer skills to pry more information from the boy. He called to the guard to let him out, and Pete paced the small hallway while listening to the low, unintelligible voices behind the door.

Finally Jackson emerged, his face unreadable. He thanked the guard and ushered Pete toward the stairs. “I’m going to stay in Clayton at least another two days. I’d like to put you on a train back to Chambers—Isabelle will have many choice words for me if I don’t at least encourage you to return to school.”

Pete heaved himself up the final step and folded his arms across his chest. “I’m not going anywhere until my brother is released.”

Jackson nodded. “Figured you’d say that. And to be honest, Pete, I could probably use your help.”

As they stepped out onto the wide portico that led to the street, Pete swung to face Jackson. His heart beat double time. “So Oscar told you the name of the killer?”

Jackson shook his head. “The judge was right. He’s the most tight-lipped boy I’ve ever met. He wouldn’t give me a name. But it doesn’t matter. I know who it is.”

As soon as her classes ended Monday afternoon, Libby walked to the office of the
Boone County Daily Tribune
to find out whether the editor had read her article. If he didn’t plan to print it, she’d take it to the next editor, and then the next, until she found someone who would make Oscar’s situation known to the public. She also intended to suggest changing the names to protect Petey’s reputation. Surely the editor would be willing to acquiesce to her request when he understood Petey’s position as a ministry student.

The receptionist sent her straight to Mr. Houghton’s office when she arrived, and Libby’s heart pattered hopefully as she slipped into the chair facing the man’s messy desk.

“Miss Conley . . .” He snatched up her pages from a stack at his right elbow and tamped them together. “I’ve read your article. Four times.” He peered at her over the top of the papers. His words indicated interest, but he sounded disgruntled.

“Oh?” She couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“Yes. I never need to read anything more than once to form an opinion, so congratulate yourself. You’ve managed to stump me.”

She scratched her head. “You mean my writing has confused you?” Had she not been clear in presenting the facts? She reached for her pages, but he held them out of her grasp.

“Not so fast. I want to know what compelled you to make up this tale.”

Libby’s jaw dropped. “I did no such thing!”

He waved the pages, his lips forming a cynical smirk. “This isn’t the fanciful imaginings of a girl who aspires to be a world-renowned reporter?”

Her face flaming, Libby recalled the conversation she’d had with this man shortly after arriving in Chambers. She’d obviously made an impression.