The Drought (17 page)

Skimming through the articles again he found a name he recognized. Landrieu, was Gerdie Davis’s maiden name. She and his grandmother had been close friends. Standing there, he contemplated how she would react to a phone call from the sheriff, inquiring about the death of a relative that had occurred fifty years earlier.

Of course, he didn’t have to blurt it out, he could ease around the topic, discuss his grandmother and the things she had left behind. With some discomfort he could broach the topic of the articles and let Gerdie offer any details she felt comfortable discussing.

Quite frankly, he didn’t even know what he was after. The topics didn’t tie together. He’d started with voodoo, ended with a packet of articles about the child murders that happened fifty years ago, and now he was contemplating stirring up painful memories for an old woman who had always been kind to his family.

Unable to stop himself, he grabbed his grandmother’s address book out of the drawer next to the phone and thumbed through until he found Gerdie Davis’s number located under G for Gerdie. If he cared to look he knew his old number up in Atlanta would be located under the letter N.

She’d once said if she listed every Singer she knew under S it would take her half a day to find the one she needed. She would usually follow that comment with a pointed stare directed at her husband of forty years and say, “and if anyone has a problem with how I organize my book, why, they can just use the white pages under the cupboard over there, they’re alphabetized and everything.”

Gerdie’s reaction to his phone call was as unexpected as the packet. She said, “I was wondering when you’d get around to calling.”

“How’s that?”

“Just putting two and two together? You northerners think you’re so quick.”

“Now, listen Gerdie, Georgia is a southern state. I don’t know how long it’s going to be until all you all let that go.”

“All I’m saying is your Mama and daddy should never have moved you away from Anne, it nearly killed her to see you go. Now where were we?”

He sighed. “We were adding up two and two.”

“I guess Gwen Ducett’s butchered collie tied it together for you. Not many people recall the dogs went missing before the children. I suppose if Joseph Hammond were still alive he might have raised a red flag about that little detail. Of course he’s been dead now for nearly twelve years.”

“Gerdie slow down now, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Who’s Joseph Hammond?”

“Why the reporter who followed the murders back when I was a child.”

Nathan glanced at the articles and saw the byline on each story. Responding as if it was a mere oversight he said, “Oh Joseph, I imagine he would have been able to shed some light on this situation if he were still alive.”

“Yes, I would say so. He covered every horrid death. It wasn’t easy for him. I know he struggled with that burden for years to come. A few months before he passed on, I was visiting the assisted living home where he was staying and I had occasion to stop and chat with him for a few moments. He said the oddest thing to me, I’ve never forgotten. He grabbed my hand and said, “Gerdie do you realize the weather changed after Harriet died?” It was a wonder he could remember my name let alone the name of my sister. I patted his hand, and smiled the same way my grandchildren dismiss me when I prattle on.”

She paused for a moment, long enough to make Nathan think she’d lost her train of thought or the line had gone dead. He was about to interject when she started speaking again.

“You know Nathan, I found I couldn’t get that little tidbit out of my head. Eight days passed. Finally I went down to the library to check on the weather the week my sister died. He was right. We’d been engulfed in that damn drought for five years but after Harriet died, the weather was cooler again. What do you make of that?”

“Coincidence?” It was voiced as a question.

There was silence on the line before she responded. “I suppose that’s right. Maybe my memory is the result of an irrational mind but to my recollection the murders, every ugly act in town stemmed from that god-awful heat.” Bristling she added. “I read the police blotter I know you’ve had a little spike in crime around town—don’t tell me you haven’t.”

Nathan let his weight slide back into the chair, feeling tired he glanced at the articles on his table. Harriet Landrieu had been the last child murder. Surprised he hadn’t thought about the most obvious question he asked, “How did it end?”

The question took Gerdie by surprise. “What do you mean?”

“Seven children died. Why not ten, twenty, or more? What happened? How did it end?”

“Don’t you know Nathan? It was a woman.”

He was stunned. He had lived with the stories of the missing children his whole life. How had he not known they had caught the murderer? “When?”

“It was after my sister disappeared. They caught a transient woman out in the woods, gnawing on one of her victims.” Her voice faded as she finished the sentence but she rallied and finished the story. “She never went to trial. A mob took her off the steps of the courthouse and dragged her into the woods. No one knows what happened. They never found her body.”

He responded in a soft voice. “Someone knows.”

She managed to laugh. “Maybe you should have a chat with your Dupier friends. Their granddaddy was the sheriff back in ’54. They might have a few tales to tell.” She took his silence to mean he hadn’t known Roger Dupier had been sheriff. “Well hell, Nathan I think we could fill city hall with everything you don’t know about Reserve.”

“I think I’d have to agree on that point.”

“Being a northerner it’s to be expected.”

“Gerdie.”

She couldn’t resist one last shot. “It’s a good thing your Grandmother was so dearly loved, else you wouldn’t have seen the inside of the sheriff’s office unless Schneider caught you shoplifting at the five and dime.”

“I know, Gerdie. And as always I’m thankful for the people of the Parish for electing me to office.”

“That’s a real nice line, Nathan.”

“Thank you. I’ll use it during my reelection speech next year.”

There was a long silence; her words redundant in the wake of it. “Might not want to shine your shoes just yet. If a child goes missing…” She let the sentence hang out there half finished.

He responded with the only words he could summon. “I know Gerdie. I know.”

Junction, Texas

Jar and Suzy set out toward the McManus farm together. After what happened to Rod Sawyer and Suzy’s dad, the ten mile trek by bike seemed foolish, even downright stupid. Jar had the fever of conviction. He was going with or without Suzy.

They followed a dirt path that ran diagonally out past the rodeo grounds. It provided more shade than the paved roads and it cut two miles off the total distance. Afraid to travel in the heat without a large supply of water, Jar loaded the baby buggy with several jugs of water and pulled it all behind his bike. The bulky buggy kept snagging on rocks and ruts along the narrow trail.

Each time the buggy snagged, a sense of doom overcame Jar. After three miles he was on the verge of tears. He kept pedaling, hoping his legs would hold out under the constant strain. The thought,
I have to talk to Maple McManus
, kept repeating in his head providing his tired legs with the necessary adrenaline to keep pedaling. To even consider the possibility Maple wouldn’t have the answers he was seeking would have mentally crushed him, making the journey impossible.

Behind him, the buggy snagged on something and abruptly stopped. He flew into the handlebars and let out a loud grunt.

Frustrated, he got off his bike and tried to throw it to the ground. Even in this grand gesture of anger the buggy defeated him. The bike, still attached to the buggy, leaned toward the ground and stopped several inches from the dirt. Jar flew into a full-blown temper tantrum. He lifted his legs high into the air and stomped the ground in anger; he kicked at the dirt, threw his arms up wildly and pulled at his sweat-drenched hair. “Jesus Christ! Goddamn stupid bike! Shit! Shit! Shit!”

Suzy stood, straddling her bike on the trail behind him, and watched as his anger became more focused and he attacked the buggy.

He launched himself at the contraption, pushing and pulling at it, until he managed to knock it over onto its side. The bike, pulled by the heavier weight, finally lay in the dirt. Satisfied, Jar sat down. Sweat poured down his face and neck and his hair stood out in dirty tufts. The muscles in his lower back and his legs ached dully from the effort of pulling the stupid buggy and the heat covered him like a heavy blanket urging him to sleep. He felt if he just closed his eyes he could lie down right there on the trail and rest for an eternity.

A shadow fell across his face. The brief relief from the glaring sun was welcome and a surprise. Jar opened his eyes to search the sky for the illusive cloud but found Suzy standing over him. When she spoke her voice was tinged with laughter. “If you’re done beating up the buggy, let’s grab some water and go sit under that pecan tree.”

Casting his eyes in the direction she was pointing, he saw a large pecan tree just to the left of the trail. Beneath its wilting branches was a glorious patch of shade. Suzy helped him push the buggy upright. They grabbed a jug of water, Jar’s backpack, and headed into the shade.

Resting their backs against the rough bark of the tree, each of them took a turn gulping down the now hot water that filled the milk jug.

Suzy grimaced when the water hit the back of her throat. “Tell me again why we’re riding out to the McManus farm?” She handed the jug to Jar.

He raised the jug to his lips, paused and said, “The little girl in the picture. I told you, I keep dreaming about her. She’s holding onto a little brown nub, scribbling furiously.”

“What if it’s just a dream?” She waved her hand indicating their dry surroundings. “This is real. We could die out here.”

He couldn’t dismiss her fears, Rod Sawyer had died. Her own father had come pretty damn close. He looked her in the eye and spoke with conviction. “I’ve never had dreams like this. Dreams so real, you think when you wake up, that’s the dream. Maybe I’m crazy, but that woman knows something.” Jar took another drink from the jug. “If you don’t want to come, I understand. It’s pretty hot out here.”

“It’s not the heat that has me scared. It’s Maple. I heard she carries a gun around with her. She keeps it loaded, too. How many sane women do you know that do that?”

“Not many,” he admitted, capping the lid of the jug on tight.

Truth be told, he didn’t want to move from beneath the tree. It was still hot, even in the shade but the relief from the direct sun was a Godsend. He was also coming to the realization they wouldn’t be able to pull the damn buggy the rest of the way, which meant they would have to leave the water behind.

Jar had brought along a buckskin canteen but it wouldn’t hold much. He didn’t know how much farther they had to go, or if they would have an opportunity to refill the canteen once they got to the ranch. If Maple chased them off with a gun, they wouldn’t have any water for the return trip. He looked over at Suzy and noticed she was drenched with sweat. Her shirt was clinging to her chest and her hair was wet against the back of her neck. As awful as she looked, he knew the presence of that much perspiration was a good sign.

Jar unhitched the baby buggy and left it on the trail. He straddled his bike and started to pedal, calling over his shoulder, “Let’s hope Maple’s in a good mood.” The ride without the buggy was amazingly smooth. For the first time since they started out he felt his spirits soar.

They were just past the rodeo grounds when they heard the first gunshot. Jar stopped his bike and listened. A whining ping sounded again in the distance. It sounded like the shots were coming from a rifle. Hunting season hadn’t officially opened but it wasn’t unlikely someone had come out to round up a few wild turkeys or take their chances at poaching a white tail.

His heart sank at the thought of someone poaching off McManus land. Maple would be in a fury if she caught any hunters on her land and more than likely would run Jar and Suzy off as soon as she saw them coming. He cast a worried look at Suzy and waited for her taunting, “I told you so.” Instead she shrugged her shoulders and waved him on. It wasn’t as if they could just turn around. They were almost out of water, the sun was burning at the hottest time of the day and they were tired. Maple’s barraging voice would have come as a welcome distraction.

He followed the dirt path for a few minutes, turned off the trail and headed toward a slight rise in the land. He left his bike in a patch of dried out buffalo grass and waited for Suzy. When she rode up, he said, “Leave your bike here and follow me.”