Dangerous Undertaking (18 page)

“No. Something you know something about. Electricity, or the lack thereof. When we first met, your power pole had been knocked down.”

“That’s right.”

“I want the names of every man who was late that Friday and their employment records and applications. And, I want the same for every person supervised by Odell Taylor whether they were working that Friday or not.”

“I don’t see what that has to do with anything,” Pryor protested.

“Mr. Pryor, there are a lot of things you don’t see. Like the fact that there is a link between that toxic waste and death. An old man lost a prized horse because of somebody’s illegal action.”

“A horse?” asked Pryor. “Like that nag I saw when I went up to inspect the quarry yesterday?”

“Yes,” said Tommy Lee. “That nag had sired the unborn foal that was also killed by the contaminated creek water.”

“Tell you what, Sheriff, just to show you I’m not the hard-hearted bastard you claim I am, I’ll send that old farmer—”

“Mr. Charles Hartley,” Tommy Lee said.

“I’ll send Mr. Hartley a check for his loss, even though we bear no responsibility. If we’re finished that is.”

“For now,” said Tommy Lee and stood up. “I’ll tell Kyle Murphy to expect those employee files by mid-afternoon. He has offered the full resources of his department.”

As we passed Jane Cummings’ desk, Pryor yelled from his doorway, “Jane, draw up a check for Charles Hartley.” He paused, then said, “Hey, Sheriff, how many cans of dog food you think that horse was worth? Fifty?” He slammed his office door.

Jane Cummings looked up at us. “You know,” she said, “he’s beginning to piss me off.”

Tommy Lee and I stepped down from the construction trailer into the late morning sunlight.

“I hope I didn’t overplay my hand,” said Tommy Lee.

“You mean with the new shores comment?”

“That and dangling the prospect of an heir in front of him. I’m just trying to make him jump because he’s probably got everyone else toeing the company line.”

“His stunt with the check for Charlie Hartley reminded me of somebody else.”

“Who?”

“The Coleman child. Maybe I’ll have to help someone step out of the company line.”

“What do you mean?” asked Tommy Lee.

“I need to revert to my daytime job. An undertaker consoling a family. Some ol’ time religion wouldn’t hurt either.”

“Barry, should I be having a bad feeling about this?”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be careful.”

I do my best contemplating while lying on my sofa with my eyes closed—not a nap but a relaxed reflection, as I like to call it. However, this time all I saw was a grieving mother and Fred Pryor handing her a hundred dollars for the life of her son. Was Jimmy Coleman collateral damage, nothing more to Fred Pryor than Charlie Hartley’s horse? And there was Fats, hovering over Harriet Coleman. What did he say? “Too cold. It was too cold.” I sat straight up on the sofa. Fats’ other words sprang to mind, the words he had written on the note pad—“Barry Clayton, weather.” “Weather” and “too cold.” I telephoned Mom to find out how to reach Reverend Pace. He had also heard Fats’ words and would know more about any religious rituals that might be involved.

“‘Too cold,’” I said when I reached him. “I know what Fats meant when he said it. The weather was too cold for the snakes.” I waited for the voice on the other end of the phone to respond, but the silence told me my point was being thoughtfully considered.

“Yes,” Pace said at last. “No rattler would have been out on a rock at that temperature. I knew something bothered me about Luke Coleman’s story. I even looked for rocks around his house. I didn’t think about the cold.”

“We can’t prove it,” I said, “unless someone tells what really happened. You’ve probably witnessed snake-handling before. Do you think that’s how the boy was bitten?”

“No. I been in these hills forty years and never heard of any church or sect letting kids handle serpents. Maybe he was with his dad when they were ousting the rattlers from their den.”

“Maybe,” I said. “Maybe a lot of things. What we do know is they probably lied about how the boy was bitten. So what else are they lying about, and how far would they go to keep their snake-handling a secret?”

“You think Luke Coleman or that Leroy Jackson killed Fats McCauley?” asked Pace. “They heard Fats say it was too cold for the rattler to be out of its den.”

“What proof did Fats have?” I asked. “He just mumbled ‘Too cold’ and went on home. Luke Coleman and Leroy Jackson went to Kentucky that night. They weren’t in town. No, I was thinking if we don’t know the truth of how the snake bit Jimmy, we might not know the truth of when the snake bit him. They could have been afraid to bring the boy to a doctor and they tried to care for him themselves. Remember Friday morning several of those church members were late. Maybe that’s the reason.”

“They were praying over Jimmy Thursday night? But that could give them an alibi for Dallas Willard’s death and the chemical dumping,” said Pace.

“Possibly, and I want to establish that fact so we’re not wasting time on the wrong trail.”

“Where do you want to start?”

“I only know of one place,” I said. “Harriet Coleman. Someone has got to get her to tell what happened.”

Pace sighed. “Well, way I see it, it’s not a problem of the law, it’s a problem of the spirit. She needs a comfort.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “Would you go with me?”

“A preacher and an undertaker?” He laughed. “Guess we’re not so far apart at that. I’ll pick you up at eight tomorrow morning. My old Plymouth might be a little worn, but it will look more at home in the Colemans’ woods.”

Chapter 18

From the edge of the trees at the Kentucky workers’ compound, Reverend Pace and I watched Harriet Coleman hang a pair of jeans on the clothesline stretched across her front porch. The washtub of milky rinse water had just yielded up the last garment for drying in the morning sun. Harriet stepped back and looked along the fifteen feet of cord at her Jimmy’s clothes fluttering in the breeze.

I could only imagine how the finality of this never to be repeated cycle of washing and drying for her little boy must have torn at her heart. Suddenly, she whimpered and slid down against the porch post.

She didn’t hear Pace calling her name. She did feel my hand on her shoulder and the squeeze which brought her to her senses.

“Mrs. Coleman, are you all right?”

She squinted against the sun to make out the two men standing over her. She looked at Pace. “The preacher. From the funeral home,” she stammered. “I’m all right.” She struggled to get to her feet and willingly accepted my arm.

“Yes. We met at the visitation for your son. I’m Reverend Pace, Mrs. Coleman. This is Barry Clayton. He was there as well.”

Harriet Coleman gave me a nod of acknowledgment. “I remember. You were very kind.”

“We came by just to talk for a few minutes,” said Pace. “If you have the time.” He let his eyes wander to the string of drying clothes and the empty washtub.

“I was just finishing up. Jimmy’s things. I know it’s not right to keep them when some other boy could wear them.”

Her act of charity, coming from one who had lost so much and had so little, touched us both. I saw Pace’s eyes glistening. Without hesitation, he reached out and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. The woman fell against him, and all the unspoken sorrow boiled over as she cried against his chest. I opened the front door and motioned for Pace to bring her inside.

We seated Harriet Coleman in a plain rocker with a blue plaid cushion. The small front room had no sofa. Two other chairs were pulled around the kerosene heater. Four old framed photographs were clustered on one wall. Family portraits of another, more prosperous generation.

“I’ll get you a glass of water,” Pace said. He sought out the kitchen and returned with an iceless glass.

Harriet took a sip and held it in her mouth a few seconds before swallowing. Then she gulped more rapidly until the glass was drained.

“Another?” asked Pace.

“No, thank you.” She set the glass on the floor beside her. “You missed my husband. He won’t be back from work till four.”

“You can help us, Mrs. Coleman,” said Pace. “There’re some things we know aren’t right. You’re better to confide in me and Barry, and that way maybe we can keep anyone from getting in trouble.”

“You’d best talk to Luke,” she answered, and set her lips in a tight line.

Pace crouched down by the chair and took her hand. “Mrs. Coleman, your son was bit by a snake on a day too cold for it to be out on a rock ledge. We suspect snakes are used in your church service, and that snake was one of them. We’re not claiming it was anything more than an accident, but we are going to notify the sheriff, and he will have to investigate. Barry and I wanted to speak with you first. Barry’s been around enough deaths to know Jimmy’s doesn’t make sense the way we’ve been told it happened. I know men-folk can be hardheaded at times, and your husband and the others may not see things the way you and I do. I don’t want Jimmy to be disturbed if we can avoid it.”

“Disturbed?” she asked. “What do you mean disturbed?”

Pace looked to me to deliver the news. “He means a judge may order his body exhumed,” I said.

“Dig up my Jimmy’s body?”

“Yes. If they think something is being hidden from them.”

“Body or soul,” the woman whispered. “Body or soul.” She started to cry softly.

“We should never be afraid of the truth,” said Pace. “Jesus says, ‘The truth shall make you free.’ The loss of your son is burden enough, Mrs. Coleman. At least free yourself of any other burden.”

“Leroy Jackson said it was God’s will. That’s why Jimmy died.”

“Your heart will tell you God’s will,” said Pace. “I don’t claim to understand the mysteries of Life and Death, but I cannot and do not believe God wanted your boy to die. There are tragedies that happen. God’s will is to bring Good out of Evil, and to bring you peace. Jimmy is in His care now. You are the one we are concerned about.”

“It was God’s will,” she said. “If Luke and I told what happened, God’s punishment would be on Jimmy. I couldn’t endanger my boy’s soul.”

“So that’s what Leroy Jackson said. And what does your heart say?” asked Pace.

“I’ve been listenin’ to my heart since we buried Jimmy. Jesus says, ‘Suffer the little children to come unto me, for of such is the Kingdom of Heaven.’ I know my Jimmy is with Jesus.”

“Then you have nothing to fear for his soul, my dear,” counseled Pace.

“There were no rocks, no snake on a ledge,” began Harriet Coleman slowly. “That was what Odell told us to say. Otherwise, he said we would get everyone in trouble.”

“Where was Jimmy bitten?” asked Pace.

“Under Leroy’s house. In the crawl way. It was early Friday morning.”

“Friday?”

“Yes. Luke had to work Thursday night. Some of the men were helping Odell Taylor at Broad Creek. Jimmy and I woke up Friday morning and found Luke still gone. That day was a teacher workday to get report cards ready. Jimmy didn’t have no school. I let him walk up the ridge to Leroy’s and wait for his daddy. Sometimes the men share rides. Luke had ridden in Leroy’s truck. ’Bout an hour after Jimmy left, Luke and Leroy come running up. Luke was carrying Jimmy. Leroy said they’d found Jimmy lying underneath the house by the pit where they keep the snakes. The slat cover was off.”

“Why didn’t they take him to the hospital?” asked Pace.

“I pleaded with them. Luke did too, but he was so scared. Leroy said them was anointed serpents. God would cure Jimmy if we had the faith. Leroy stayed right with us at the bedside, but it weren’t no good. My boy just slipped away before my eyes. Saturday morning he was gone.”

“And where was Odell Taylor?” I asked.

“He’d gone back to work Friday. Didn’t know about the accident till that evening when he came to see why Luke didn’t return to the job. The men who worked Thursday night were supposed to get a few hours sleep, and Odell cleared it so they could punch in late.”

“Didn’t he think Jimmy should go to a hospital?”

“Odell agreed with Leroy. And he told Luke there would be a lot of questions. That Luke was in it as much as any of them. He wouldn’t want someone else to get hurt. That’s when he told us to tell the story about the snake being on a ledge.”

“Do you know what he meant about someone else getting hurt?”

“I guess about the snakes.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Coleman,” said Pace. “I know this hasn’t been easy for you.”

“I swear it’s the truth. They won’t bother Jimmy, will they? Luke and I don’t care what happens to us, as long as they don’t bother Jimmy?”

“No, Mrs. Coleman,” I said. “I can’t think of why the sheriff would want to do that when I tell him what you’ve told me. And for right now, I’d advise you not to say anything to your husband. No sense involving him unless there’s a reason. Are you comfortable with that?”

“Yes, sir. I’d never lie to him, understand, but I’d rather he didn’t know I talked to you unless something’s going to come from it.” She turned to Pace. “You would tell me that, wouldn’t you? So as I could speak to him myself.”

“You have my word on it,” he promised. “And I’ll be glad to talk to Luke with you, if that time comes.”

As Pace steered his car onto the highway, I said, “We’d better get straight back to Tommy Lee. That was pretty damning testimony.”

“Do you think they’ll be prosecuted for not taking the boy to a doctor? It’s sensitive where religious beliefs and medical treatments cross paths.”

“I was thinking of what she said about Odell Taylor’s Thursday night work party. That’s the night before Dallas Willard’s truck appeared. Taylor and the men lied about where they had been. And then Harriet Coleman said Taylor told her husband there would be questions and ‘he was in it as much as any of them.’ He may have been talking about more than snake-handling.”

“Murder?” asked Pace.

“What do you think?”

The old reverend shook his head. “I don’t know, but if there is a hell of fire and brimstone, the majority of its population must consist of preachers who have bent the simple faith of good folks like Luke and Harriet Coleman to their own purposes. And Leroy Jackson has got to be earning a place for himself on those fiery sulfur shores.”

“I think I ought to bring Luke Coleman in for questioning.” Tommy Lee made the matter-of-fact statement in the confines of his office. Reverend Pace and I sat across the desk from him. The sheriff had listened silently as we related our interview with Harriet Coleman, and he pronounced this judgment without hesitation.

“I don’t agree with you,” I said and looked to Pace for support.

He nodded his approval. “You know I’m as mad as you are about Jimmy Coleman being denied medical treatment, but Barry is right. The boy’s death will get into a freedom of religion issue, and if Luke witnessed, or worse, participated in the murder of Dallas Willard, he’s not likely to admit it. And it sounds like Taylor has coached his story.”

“A story we now know is a lie,” protested Tommy Lee.

“Exactly,” I said. “I suspect they killed one of the rattlers right after the boy died on Saturday so it would be fresh in the truck. It was a conspiracy held together by fear. We know what happened, but they don’t know we know. Why give up that advantage?”

Tommy Lee conceded the point. “Yeah, when someone thinks he’s in the clear, he’s more likely to screw up. Looks like we move straight for Odell Taylor then.”

“Is he your main suspect?” asked Pace.

“Well,” said Tommy Lee, “he had his men on the job the night Dallas died. Then he didn’t want Jimmy Coleman to go to a doctor because of the questions that would raise. I think Taylor feared questions concerning Thursday night, not the snakebite on Friday morning. Luke would be asked why he wasn’t home. Taylor couldn’t trust that Luke or his wife would hold up under examination.”

I jumped in to state the obvious. “By then, Leroy Jackson had scared the Colemans into relying on faith healing, and that served Taylor’s own interest. Why risk going to a doctor? If the boy survived, everyone would be in the clear. When the boy died, it was just a tragic accident. God’s will. Neither the chemical dump nor Dallas’ body had been discovered, and no one had any reason to doubt the events the Colemans described. After all, the boy had died on Saturday, but we now know it was the day after he was bitten.”

“Why would Taylor kill Dallas Willard?” asked Pace.

“Maybe he was in the wrong place at the wrong time,” I said. “Let’s assume the grading or tunneling at the Broad Creek Project uncovered the cache of containers buried by Pisgah Paper Mill. If only a few people knew about it, Fred Pryor had three options. He could immediately report the discovery to the EPA and make arrangements for a proper examination and disposal, he could check the contents himself, weigh the toxic risk, and then notify the EPA, or he could sneak them off the premises without alerting the EPA.”

“That all makes sense,” Tommy Lee said. “If Pryor indeed found them, we know he didn’t notify the EPA. I don’t think he even bothered to check the containers because it didn’t matter what they held. He didn’t want his construction schedule buried by a costly and time-consuming site reevaluation. Even if the material was relatively harmless, the EPA would be alarmed that waste had been disposed of in such a manner. It was just the kind of development Pryor was anxious to avoid.”

“So he entrusted the problem to Odell Taylor,” I said.

“Odell Taylor,” agreed Tommy Lee, “and maybe Bob Cain. One of Taylor’s crew probably unearthed the drums in the first place. Taylor knows the area. He has access to a rail spur and a work engine. Taylor and his men load the stuff on a rail car, sneak out to the main line and travel to the abandoned spur where they can transport the drums to the quarry and dump them in the water.”

“He and his crew would never have to go out on a highway,” I said.

“Right. Fred Pryor may not have known the exact solution to the problem, and probably didn’t want to know. He kept his hands clean and paid off his security chief Bob Cain to ignore whatever Taylor devised. I’ll bet a guard wasn’t even assigned that night. It was perfect.”

“It was perfect until Dallas Willard showed up on the same stretch of track,” said Reverend Pace. “A terrible coincidence.”

Tommy Lee shook his head. “I don’t know about that. I keep saying I don’t like coincidences. And we don’t know why Fats was killed with Dallas Willard’s shotgun unless that was the whole point. The killer made sure the shell was left in the bathroom because Dallas provided the answer to who-dun-it. Mystery solved. A convenient way to murder Fats for whatever reason. It might not tie into Dallas Willard in any other way.”

“Whoever killed Fats had to know it was Dallas’ shotgun,” I said. “He probably took it from him.”