Текст книги "The Devil and the River"

Автор книги: R. J. Ellory

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 33 страниц)

11

The years will always erase the precise memory of a face, but they cannot erase my recollection of how beautiful Nancy Denton was.

And I was not the only one who thought Nancy Denton was the most beautiful girl in the world.

I know that everyone in Whytesburg thought she was an angel, and I think half the world would have agreed.

I remember her standing there near a turn in the road, and as soon as she saw me, she started running. I ran, too. Didn’t matter whether I’d seen her an hour before or a day or a week; seeing Nancy was always the best thing.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey back.”

“You ready?”

“As ever,” I replied.

She twirled then, and she said, “This is my best dress for dancing. I am going to dance with Michael until the sun goes down, and then I will just keep on dancing.”

I laughed with her. She looked so happy.

This was how it was. This was how it was meant to be. I believed it, but Nancy believed it more.

Before Michael Webster came home from the war, there was just me and Nancy. There was Matthias Wade, of course, and it was so very obvious that Matthias loved Nancy as much as it was possible for one person to love another. If she hadn’t fallen head over heels for Michael, then maybe she would have been Matthias’s girl. But—like my mom said—maybe that never would have happened, the Wades being who they were an’ all. Anyway, Michael Webster did come home from the war, and everything changed.

Michael was famous before he even got off the train. We had seen his picture in the Whytesburg Gazette. He had a Purple Heart and some other medal that I cannot now recall the name of, and there was a party for when he arrived. It was October of 1945, and I was all of five and a half years old, but even I knew who Michael Webster was.

Michael was twenty-two years old, and every girl in Whytesburg wanted to marry him.

Sometimes, a town like this, the most interesting thing going on was the weather, and that didn’t change much more than once a month. But this was a big deal. This was a special day. This was a historic event. Michael Webster came home from the war, the only member of his unit to survive, and he was Whytesburg born and bred.

He was shy and humble, and he said he hadn’t done much to be such a hero, but that made people love him all the more. Seemed the more self-effacing he was, the more they built him up. It went on for weeks, it seemed. He couldn’t do anything for himself. He couldn’t put his hand in his pocket for anything. Everyone took care of him. Everyone wanted to be Michael Webster’s friend.

Nancy was all of seven years old. I was two years behind her. We thought Michael Webster was like a movie star from Hollywood. People said he should wear his uniform all the time. People said that everyone should know what a great hero he had been. I think Michael just wanted to disappear into anonymity. I think he just wanted to be a normal person, but it seemed that no one was going to let him.

After a while, the hubbub died down.

And then Michael seemed to withdraw. He had his mother’s place down at the end of Coopers Road, and he stayed there most of the time. Everyone thought he would get a job, but he didn’t. Not for a long time. He seemed to want nothing but his own company. It stayed that way for four or five years, and then he started work at the machine plant west of Picayune. And then a while later, he met Nancy, really met her, and that was when it all changed.

Me and Nancy were already friends with the Wades by that time. It was 1950, if I remember rightly. Matthias was seventeen, Catherine was fifteen, Eugene was twelve, and Della was seven. I remember their mom as well. Her name was Lillian, and she was the most beautiful woman in America, perhaps the world. Seemed to me that some people had been personally blessed by God. Here she was, as beautiful as any magazine picture I had ever seen, and she was married to one of the richest and most powerful men in America, and she had four children, all of them kind and sweet and funny and smart.

I mean, Matthias was the eldest, but despite his age, despite his family, he never played boss. He never played that card. It was as if he had set himself to doing all he could to make us happy.

It was—at least to me—a magical time.

We played pinochle for nickels and dimes, and we played it with serious faces, like we were betting on the outcome of a capital trial or a gunfight.

I would make wisecracks, and Michael would do a John Wayne voice and say, “Well, missy, that’s an awful big mouth for such a little girl.”

Other times, Matthias was so darn serious, quoting lines of poetry that he’d learned in order to impress us, to impress Nancy most of all, considering himself some type of philosophical outlaw, a Frenchman perhaps, a European of indistinct origin. A sudden teenage growth spurt had stretched him unexpectedly. He seemed to forever be apologizing for his height, not with words, but with awkwardness and hesitancy, as if he imagined himself clumsy and awkward when he was in fact not. His body language was a collection of confusing signs, as if physical movement was something new to him, and he was still furiously working to get a grip on what was going on. Forever agitated, all elbows and knees and mumbled apologies. There was little he could not break or spill or damage. I imagined there would be an abundance of glue in his house, and someone—patient as a fisherman—was forever following in his wake with a sharp eye and a steady hand for delicate repair work. Matthias carried this awkwardness through his childhood and into his teens, carried it well it seemed, for awkwardness appeared to be the only thing about him still undamaged. People tried to avoid him, but could not. They gravitated toward him, magnetized into some strange, intractable orbit, perhaps no greater motivation than the simple curiosity of seeing what he could now bring to ruination by personality and presence alone.

I saw something else in him. In his eyes were a thousand secrets and always that tight-lipped tension that suggested some desperate unfulfilled urge to tell the truth and be damned. He wanted Nancy to love him as desperately as he loved her, and yet he knew she never would. His compassion was in his silence, in the strength it took not to tell. That’s how I knew he was a good person. It would have been cruel to tell the truth, and so he did not.

But more than anything, Matthias’s mind was full of magic, too, and he shared it equally.

Until Michael became one of us, and then everything changed a hundred times and then a hundred times more.

It was so right, but it was so wrong.

How do I know that?

Because of what happened, that’s how.

But in that moment, standing there near the turn in the road, we knew nothing but excitement for the day ahead.

I remember what Nancy said as we started walking.

“I hope the summer lasts forever . . .”

That’s what she said.

She was smiling, her eyes so bright and clear, and she asked me if I had to choose just one, would I fall in love with Matthias or Eugene.

I was not like Nancy. I couldn’t talk about such things without feeling embarrassed.

“Oh, come on,” she said. “I reckon you think about Eugene just as much as he thinks about you.”

“Nancy, stop it! Really, I mean it. Stop teasing me.” I felt my cheeks flush with color.

“Or maybe you want me to think that you love Eugene, when really you love Matthias.”

“I don’t love either of them, okay? Really. Now stop it.”

She touched my arm. “I’m just playing, Maryanne. You know I am.”

“Well, I don’t like it,” I said, but I lied. I did like it. I wanted to think about Eugene. I wanted to think about Matthias. Sometimes I made believe I was a princess and they were gallant knights, and one day they would fight a duel over me and I would marry the victor. At the same time, I knew it was just a silly dream and that neither of them loved me the way that Nancy loved Michael.

“So come on . . . let’s hurry. Michael is going to meet us on Five Mile Road,” Nancy said, and she grabbed my hand.

“Is everyone going to be there?” I asked. “Della and Catherine too?”

“Catherine will come only if her dad says she has to, and Della is going to be with us all summer.”

“Catherine can be so bossy sometimes.”

Nancy stopped dead in her tracks. “Last week, you know what she said to Matthias?”

“What?”

“She said that I was childish.”

“She did not.”

“She absolutely did,” Nancy said. “She said I was childish and immature.”

“I think she’s jealous.”

“Of what?”

“Of how pretty you are and that Michael loves you and doesn’t love her.”

“Oh, don’t be silly, Maryanne.”

“I’m serious, Nancy. I think she’s jealous.”

“Well, if she is, then she deserves to go crazy with jealousy and end up in a madhouse.”

“Nancy, you can’t say that! That’s an awful thing to say about someone.”

“I don’t care, Maryanne. I am not childish and immature.”

“Of course you’re not, Nancy. But you can’t go wishing bad things on people. You know what my ma says about that.”

Nancy twirled again. “Let’s not talk about Catherine. Let’s talk about something else.”

And then we did—about Michael, as always, about Matthias and Eugene, about how Della was going to be beautiful like her mother, about what records Matthias would bring and whether he would have ham in the picnic basket or maybe cheese from Switzerland and fresh bread and lemonade.

Nancy was always ahead of me, running a few steps, turning around, walking backward as we talked. One time she stumbled, nearly fell, and for some reason we couldn’t stop laughing.

And then Michael appeared in the distance, and he raised his hand, and from that moment until we reached him, it was as if I were no longer there.

I became a ghost perhaps, which now—looking back—seems both ironic and prophetic.

Perhaps we all haunted the edges of Nancy’s universe that summer. Perhaps Michael and Nancy were stars, and we were merely satellites in orbit.

She was there, and then she was gone. And though the memory of her face would fade, the memory of that day in August would haunt me for the rest of my life.

12

Gaines’s first order of business on Thursday morning was to go see Lester Cobb.

Lester looked like the kind of feller who’d eat his dinner straight off of the floor. He transmitted a dense wave of stupidity, as if all who were drawn into it would find themselves making foolish utterances and inadvertent quips. Surely this could not have been the truth, but such was the profundity and abundance of Lester’s ignorance that it seemed such a way. He perpetually wore a suspicious expression, as if wary of being gypped or deceived. He ran the pet store in Whytesburg, a pet store that seemed to be closed more than open, and certainly more trouble than it was worth. Gaines would get a report and send Hagen or one of the uniforms down there. Some howling and caterwauling beast was forever in back disturbing neighbors and passersby, and Lester Cobb would be dragged from his home to feed the thing or let it loose. Gaines had had words with him on three or four occasions, said he would get the Animal Welfare people in to close him down, and Cobb would stand there, his tics and twitches in full force, a nervous habit that saw him constantly finger-tipping imaginary lint from the cuffs of his jacket, and say, “Yes, sir, Sheriff Gaines. Yes, sir, indeedy.” And that would be that. Cobb would feed his animals and lie low for a month or two. Gaines would see him in town, off down the street wearing that unique and extraordinary expression, as if ever alert for underhanded overtures and con tricks from strangers.

That Thursday morning was different. Gaines wanted to see Lester about snakes. He arrived and found the pet store closed, the same sign in the window as ever. BACK IN THIRTY MINUTES. If urgent, call 224-5659. Gaines could just imagine it. Hey, Lester, you gotta get back here quick! It’s an emergency! We need three white mice and a talking bird!

Driving out to Cobb’s house had not been on the agenda. Gaines needed to be in the office, needed to get active on the Denton killing, but the riot of barking that erupted from behind the store forced his hand. If he didn’t deal with this, there would be one phone call after another about Lester’s damned noisy dogs. Gaines went around back and looked over the fence. Thankfully, the hound was chained. Gaines vaulted the fence and then he stood there quiet and still until the animal settled. He approached it slowly.

“Hey, boy,” Gaines said, and the dog succumbed to Gaines’s tone of voice. His head went down, and his tail started wagging. He stroked the dog’s head.

Gaines got in through the unlocked rear door, found a sack of dog biscuits and a bowl. He set them down in the yard, fetched a bowl of water, too, and just as he was closing up, he noticed something that caught his eye. Up near the front window, the angle of its placement catching the light through the front window, was a small aquarium. There was no water in it, and a flicker of movement within sent a shudder up Gaines’s spine.

He was right. Garter snakes. Two of them. Bigger than the one found in the cavity of Nancy Denton’s chest, but garters all the same. He’d seen them here before, of course, but in light of recent events, they inspired a very different reaction.

He would have to drive out and see Lester, if only to learn where Lester had gotten them from. Whytesburg was an old town, but still a town that aged only a year for every decade it existed. Maybe someone looking for a garter snake twenty years ago would look in the same places as Lester did now.

Gaines radioed Hagen from the car, said he was taking a trip over to Cobb’s place, that he wouldn’t be long.

“We gotta get on this Denton thing,” Hagen told him.

“That’s what I’m on, Richard,” Gaines replied. “You heard about the snake thing, right?”

“Yeah, sure did. What in God’s name is that all about, John?”

“Well, maybe God knows, but I sure as hell don’t. Anyway, I got a couple of snakes down here at Cobb’s place, same kinda snakes as the one we found. I’m just gonna take a moment to find out where he gets them from, is all.”

The drive from Cobb’s store to Cobb’s house was all of ten minutes, down along the county road that ran parallel to the Pearl River. Gaines pulled up in front of the place, steeled himself for the barrage of abuse that would more than likely come his way, and he went on up to the door.

“Who’s there?” Cobb shouted from within.

“Sheriff Gaines, Lester. You need to get on down to the store and sort out the hound you got tied up in the yard. He’s upsettin’ folk with all his hollerin’ and whatever.”

“I’ll be there shortly.”

“And I need to ask you about snakes.”

There was a moment’s pause and then, “Snakes?”

“Garter snakes.”

“I got some if you want one.”

Gaines shuddered again. He could see that dead snake, its tail in its mouth. “Want you to come on out here and talk to me civil, Lester. Don’t want to spend the next five minutes shouting through your front door.”

“Hang fire there a moment, Sheriff.”

Gaines waited.

Cobb came to the door in dungarees and bare feet. His hair was tousled. He had an enamel mug in his hand. “You want some coffee, Sheriff? Just made it fresh.”

“I’m good, thanks.”

Cobb pushed open the screen door and let Gaines in.

The house—as usual—was a sty. Cobb smiled. “Cleaning woman’s on vacation,” he said, just as he always did.

“Garter snakes, Lester,” Gaines said. “You got two in a tank in the front of the store.”

“You got inside the store?”

“Went to get some biscuits for that damned noisy dog.”

“Much obliged for that, Sheriff. So, the snakes. What about them?”

“Where d’you get ’em?”

“Down at the river; usual place.”

“You see anyone else after snakes when you was down there?”

“Mike is down there. Don’t know if he’s after snakes, but he’s always hangin’ around, crazy old motherfucker that he is. Well, I say he’s old, but he ain’t much more ’an fifty or fifty-five maybe.”

“Mike?”

“Yeah, Mike Webster. He fought the Japs, you know? Guadal-canal. He has some history, man. They call him the luckiest man alive. He wears the army jacket and whatever. He’s always down there. Wears camouflage fuckin’ paint on his face sometimes, you know? Talking to hisself most o’ the time. Says he likes it down there because the devil don’t like running water. Crazy, crazy son of a bitch.”

Coming from you, that’s something, Gaines thought, and then there was another thought, the memory of a comment Judith Denton had made. Was there a Michael? Yes, there was. And hadn’t he been in uniform on the night that Nancy Denton had gone missing?

“And he’s the only one you seen down there?”

“Only one I seen regular. Asked him one time why he was always down there and he said he was waiting for someone.”

“Waiting for someone?”

“ ’S what he said.”

“He say who he was waiting for?”

“Nope. And I didn’t ask. He ain’t the sort of person you feel like you should encourage to converse, if you know what I mean. Kinda creepy. Looks at you like he’s figurin’ out how it would feel to wear your skin.”

“How often’s he down there?”

“He’s been there every time I go. Last time was two days ago, three maybe. I was down there doin’ some fishing, and he came along. We had a smoke. He talks a lot. Most of it I don’t fucking understand. Lot of stuff about the war in Japan.”

“He lived around here long?”

Lester shrugged. “Always been around, ’s far as I know. He came back here after the war, I think. He told me he was in a unit in fuckin’ Japan, and he was the only one who survived. And then there was that thing that happened in the factory back in whenever . . .”

“Factory? What thing?”

“Go see him, man. You go talk to him. Ask him about what happened in Japan, and then ask him about the fire in . . . hell, whenever it was. Fifty-two, I think. You go ask him about all of that. Helluva story, man, helluva story.”

“What’s he look like?”

“Kinda my height, sandy-colored hair, cut longish in back. Denims, army jacket, one of them bush hats like folks wear in the jungle an’ all. Has a beard and whatever. Kinda like a hippy maybe, but he has the mad eyes goin’ on.”

Gaines couldn’t think of anyone fitting that description in Whytesburg. “Where does he live, Lester?”

“Christ knows. I asked him one time, and he just said up the river a while. Was thinking he was from Poplarville, or maybe someplace in between.”

“Okay, Lester, that’s really appreciated. Now, you finish up your coffee and get on down to that store of yours. You got enough complaints going on, you know?”

“Hell, Sheriff, they’s animals. They’s gonna make a noise whatever you do with them. And them folks that complain? If they weren’t complainin’ about me, they’d be complainin’ about someone else. That’s just their nature.”

Gaines said nothing. Cobb was right. Here is a dead child in the arms of her dead mother . . . now let us speak of small and inconsequential things.

Gaines went on back to the car. He turned the way he’d come and headed for the office. Somewhere northwest was a World War II veteran called Mike, a man who had been here forever, and Gaines needed to find him. Whytesburg was a small town, and small-town ways never seemed to change. No matter what happened, people seemed to stay put, as if distrusting and disbelieving of any wider world. In this light, it was not impossible to consider that the Michael mentioned by Judith Denton and the Michael of whom Lester Cobb spoke were one and the same person.

In Gaines’s experience, there were three types of war returnees. First were those who reintegrated, neither forgetting nor remembering, those who had somehow absorbed the horror, parceled it, packed it away. They found empty spaces every once in a while, gazing into some middle distance that was neither one place nor another. They saw things that others did not see, but they did not speak of them. Partly because to speak of them was to grant them strength and longevity, partly because no one would believe them. But they held it together. They came back, and they did all they could to belong again. Gaines was such a man—still there, still fighting with memories, with conscience, but somehow there despite all.

The second type were those who wore their history in all that they were: still wore fatigues and flak jackets, still woke sweating in the cool half-light of dawn, aware of shapes in the fog, aware of water around their ankles, the smell of blood and cordite and the sulfurous rot of dank vegetation. They were the ones on whom you kept a watchful eye, the ones who drank alone, their few conversations scattered with references to Bouncing Betties, toe poppers, Willie Pete, 105 rounds, and napalm. They would quote aphorisms from PsyOps propaganda pamphlets as if such aphorisms were gospel. They would talk of cutting LZs for dust offs, of long-range recon patrols. They needed routine. They needed orders. They were scared of the lonely places, the middle ground, the places between here and there, between departure and destination. They would smoke weed and get crazy-mischievous, calling random strangers from the Yellow Pages and making sinister threats. The past always finds you out. People know what you did afore you got here. The girl survived . . . She saw what you done. They stole restaurant napkins by the handful, motel matchbooks, even water dispenser cones. They had no use for them, but in some small way they believed they were striking a blow for the common man, the small guy, the working stiff, for those who had been betrayed by an uncaring government.

The third type were the dead. The army of the dead. Always a greater army than those who survived.

If “Mike from Poplarville,” or wherever the hell he was from, with his bush hat and his mad eyes, was down the Pearl River, then Gaines wanted to speak with him, if for no other reason than to see what he was doing, if he knew anything of snakes, if he perhaps remembered an incident that had taken place in August of 1954 when a sixteen-year-old girl had vanished from the face of the earth.

He could not ask questions of Bicklow or Austin. Nancy Denton would remain as silent as she had been for the past twenty years. Now it was time to challenge the memories of those who had been here two decades before.

But there was something else drawing Gaines in, something he could neither define nor determine. He could not clearly picture the girl’s face, despite the fact that he had seen her lying there on the mortuary slab only hours before. He could remember his father’s face, Linda Newman’s, the faces of Charles Binney and a host of other people who had briefly populated his life so many years before. But he could not remember Nancy, and he did not know why.

August of 1954, Gaines had been fourteen years old. McCarthyism was in its dying throes, Elvis was recording his first single, Rocky Marciano was champion of the world, and Johnson would soon be head of the Senate. The same world, but a very different world in so many ways. The subsequent twenty years had seen the assassinations of both Kennedys and Martin Luther King, the beginning of the Vietnam War, his mother’s illness, the loss of Linda Newman and the child that never was, the end of so much hope.

It had also seen a body lying undiscovered and preserved in the banks of the Whytesburg River.

Perhaps Nancy—symbolically—had become the child that never was.

Perhaps he—John Gaines, latterly of the nine circles of hell—was destined not to be haunted by those he himself had killed, but by those who had been killed in his absence.