The Closing: A Whippoorwill Hollow novel (The Whippoorwill Hollow novels) (4 page)

A loud clank sounded to Nate’s left. He flashed the light that way. The front door, a metal door, had swung open and closed in the wind. He walked to the door, stepped inside, and flashed his light around. The first floor was one big room, high ceiling, no partitions, cinderblock walls, and concrete floor. Water dripped from cracks in the ceiling and pooled in puddles on the floor. Concrete steps began their climb in a corner of the room and hugged the front wall up to the second floor. The row of windows was beneath the stairwell. Deatherage said he slept in a room on the second floor. From there he could have heard cries from someone under the stairwell. He would have come down the steps and turned to the door. He would have seen Updike’s body lying under the windows, just as he told Nate.

Nate turned his light on the rear of the vast first floor and saw a dark mass in a far back corner. Something moved there. “I told you to leave me be. I didn’t see nothin.” The voice was hoarse. The words were slurred. Nate focused his light on the corner and saw a man on top of a pile of mattresses. Nate walked toward the man. The sound of his steps echoed off the walls, giving him the impression someone was walking along behind him. He stopped and flashed the light behind him. He saw no one.

“Go away. Leave me be.”

Nate turned back to the man and saw him prop himself up on his elbow. Nate walked closer. The man’s face was bearded and covered with grime. His hair was long and matted. He reeked of body odor and whiskey. “Leave me be. I did what you said. I didn’t tell nobody. You got no call to roust me out again.” His voice rattled with phlegm. He held up his hand to block Nate’s light and squinted at him between filthy, scabrous fingers. The man looked surprised. “Who the hell are you?” His gaze shifted to a spot above Nate’s shoulder and his eyes widened.

Nate’s thoughts were sluggish, his mind numb. He was lying on his belly. He rolled over on his back and groaned. He sat up and held his head in his hands. Pain pounded his skull above his ear. He rubbed the spot. It was tender. He crawled to his hands and knees. When the floor stopped whirling, he picked up his flashlight, rose to a crouch, and flashed the light around the warehouse. No one was there. He struggled to his feet and leaned against a wall. He pointed the light at the corner. The bearded man and the mattresses were gone.

Nate walked unsteadily across the warehouse floor and out the front door. He pointed his light down the dirt road. There was no one in sight. He touched the tender spot above his ear. It was swollen and oozing blood. He pressed a handkerchief to it and looked at his watch. It was just after eleven. He guessed he entered the warehouse about ten thirty, so he’d been out for twenty to thirty minutes. He searched his pockets. He still had his wallet and cash. His mugger was not a thief.

Someone must have seen him leave his motel room and enter the warehouse. He looked at the dark motel rooms. His car was the only one in the lot. Willis Odoms’ house was dark and quiet. All of Ewell Street was dark except for the light in the room above the gas station. That window overlooked the motel and the entry to the warehouse. Either Drinkard was Nate’s assailant or he saw who followed Nate from that window. Drinkard was a liar. Nate thought about how he’d smiled with his tongue rolling in the gap in his teeth, and his temper flared.

In happier times Nate had been a patient man, careful, cautious. He’d had something to protect—his precious privileged life. Those times were gone. He jogged to the motel’s office, jerked open the screen door, and threw his shoulder against the main door. It gave way. Nate shoved his way inside and walked over to the desk. He found scissors in the middle drawer, wedged the scissor blade under the rolltop, and busted its lock.

Nate found copies of seven receipts made out to Darlene Updike, all dated April and May, 1967, except the last one. It was dated June 2, 1967, the night before the morning of the murder. He leafed through the registration book. All seven entries in the book matched the dates of the receipts. He put the receipts in his pocket and walked out of the check-in shack, across the street, and around the gas station. He flashed his light inside the window of a back door. Stairs led to a second-floor room. Nate tried the door. It was locked. He raised his fist to pound on it, but he stopped. If he confronted Drinkard at that moment, he would thrash him. Beating the old man would accomplish nothing.

Nate stepped back from the door and waited for the surge of adrenaline to pass. When he regained control, he analyzed the events of the night more logically. Drinkard was too old to have attacked Nate, but he probably knew who did it. He knew a lot more about Updike than he wanted to reveal, too. He wasn’t smart or sophisticated, and he probably didn’t know much about the law. It shouldn’t be difficult to intimidate him and force him to tell Nate what he knew.

Nate rapped on the door. “Drinkard! Open up!” A door opened at the top of the steps, a wedge of light fell across the stairway, and Drinkard limped down the stairs. He tripped the lock and opened the door.

“What you doing up so late, lawyer?”

Nate withdrew the receipts from his pocket and held them up for Drinkard to see. “You lied to me. Darlene Updike stayed in the motel seven nights, including the night before she was murdered.”

Drinkard stared at the documents and said nothing.

“You’re in a lot of trouble, Mister Drinkard.” Nate pushed past Drinkard and climbed the stairs. Drinkard followed him. Nate stepped into a small room with worn, scuffed hardwood floors and faded wallpaper. A single bed rested on the back wall. Stacks of old newspapers and magazines lined the other walls. A desk and a chair sat in front of a window. A phone sat on the desk.

Drinkard crossed the room and stood in front of the bed. “What do you mean I’m in trouble?” he said.

“You’ve broken the law. You’ve committed serious felonies.”

“I didn’t break no laws.”

“Did you tell the sheriff’s office about the nights Darlene Updike stayed in the motel? Did you show the sheriff the receipts and the registration book entries?”

Drinkard started to answer but stopped short. He swallowed hard.

Nate said, “Withholding information material to a homicide investigation constitutes obstruction of justice.”

“I didn’t withhold nothin. No one asked me about the girl.”

“That doesn’t matter. You knew she stayed here seven nights and you didn’t come forward. Failure to volunteer material information is the same as withholding it. Obstruction of justice is a felony. It carries a minimum five-year jail term.”

“I didn’t mean to do nothin wrong. I didn’t know I was breakin the law.”

“Ignorance of the law is no defense.”

Drinkard sat on the bed, took off his ball cap, and ran his hand through his hair.

Nate said, “I’ve scheduled a meeting with George Maupin in the morning about the Deatherage case. Unless you and I work something out, I’ll have no choice but to tell him you withheld evidence.”

Drinkard looked at Nate hopefully. “What do you mean by work somethin out?”

Nate paused for a long time, making Drinkard sweat. “You have information, Mister Drinkard. If you tell me what you know, I’ll consider giving you a pass on obstruction of justice.”

“What kind of information?”

“You were sitting at this desk, waiting for me, when I arrived tonight. It took you more than ten minutes to cross the street and check me in. You spent that time calling someone on the phone and telling him I was here. Who did you call?”

“I didn’t call nobody. I came soon as I saw you.”

“You’re lying.”

“I didn’t call no one. Swear to God.”

Nate shrugged. “It’s your neck.” He headed toward the door.

“Wait,” Drinkard said. “You don’t understand. Talkin to you could buy me more trouble than five years in jail. If I agree to talk to you, I don’t want people to know. I want you to promise to keep my name out of it.”

“I can’t promise you secrecy. Developments in the case may force me to reveal you as a source of information. I’ll try to keep our conversation confidential, but I can’t guarantee it.”

“That’s not good enough.”

“If I tell George what you’ve done, there’s no doubt you’ll be locked away for at least five years. You’re not a young man, Mister Drinkard. You’ll be in jail for the better part of the time you have left, but if you tell me what you know, there’s a reasonable chance I won’t have to reveal our conversation to anyone and you won’t suffer any adverse consequences. Seems like a clear choice to me.”

Drinkard stroked his jaw.

Nate waited a long time, but Drinkard didn’t volunteer anything. Nate said, “Who did you call when I arrived here?”

Drinkard looked askance at Nate. “Judge Herring,” he said in a small voice.

Nate was surprised. He had appeared in court before the judge. The judge was not in the best of health and walked with a limp. He wasn’t physically capable of attacking Nate, but he could have told someone to do it. “Why did you call the judge?”

“He told me to call him when you got here.”

“Why did he want to know when I arrived?”

“How the hell do I know? I don’t ask him no questions. He’s the big boss. He owns the motel. The gas station, too. He says do somethin, I do it.”

“What did the judge say when you told him I was here?”

“Said thanks for tellin him. That was it. Swear to God.”

“Someone followed me into the warehouse. You were watching from this window. Who followed me?”

“I didn’t see. I went to bed after you checked in.”

“Your light was on when I left my room, and it was on when I came out of the warehouse. Your bed’s still made. You’re still dressed.”

“I laid down on top of the covers to read the papers. Sleep don’t come easy when you’re old. You’ll see when you’re old as me. I turned on the light to read the papers. I didn’t watch the motel.”

Nate saw newspapers strewn on the floor next to Drinkard’s bed. Maybe he was telling the truth. Nate wanted to be sure. He pointed to the wound over his ear. “See this? The person who followed me attacked me and knocked me out, and I’m damned good and mad about it. Tell me who followed me or I’ll turn you in to George Maupin in the morning.”

Drinkard scooted up on the edge of the bed. “I don’t know who hit you. If I knew, I’d tell you. I don’t want to go to jail.”

Nate searched Drinkard’s face. He seemed to be telling the truth. “All right. Tell me about the night before Darlene Updike was killed. What time did she check in?”

Drinkard hesitated and then said, “Supper time. About six.”

“Did you know she was coming to stay here that night?”

“You’re messin with fire now, lawyer. You’d best back off.”

“Answer me or I’ll turn you in for obstruction of justice.”

Drinkard closed down. He sat back on the bed, crossed his arms over his chest, and set his jaw. “I’ll do the five years.”

Nate was surprised. Drinkard was obviously afraid of someone. It seemed likely he was afraid of the “big boss.” “Answer my questions or I’ll call Judge Herring on that phone and tell him you ratted on him.”

Drinkard stood. “You can’t do that. You’ll get me in a world of trouble. You’ll be in big trouble, too. You don’t know what you’re up against. You call the judge and you’ll stir up more trouble than you can imagine.”

“I’m not afraid of the judge.”

“You should be. Don’t call him.”

Nate picked up the phone.

“Wait.”

“Did you know Updike was coming to the motel the night before she was murdered?”

Drinkard sat on the bed and heaved a sigh.

“Answer my question.”

“Judge Herring told me she was comin.”

Nate replaced the phone in its cradle, sat in the desk chair, and pondered Drinkard’s second big surprise of the night. “How did Judge Herring know her?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t say. I didn’t ask. It was none of my business.”

“Did you call the judge when she checked in?”

“He told me to call him when she got here, and I did what he told me.”

“Did you watch her room that night?”

Drinkard nodded.

“What did you see?”

“Don’t make me say, lawyer. Leave it be.”

“Tell me or I’ll call the judge.”

“You’re makin a big mistake, lawyer.”

Nate reached for the phone.

Drinkard held up his hands. “Don’t.”

Nate sat back.

After a long silence, Drinkard said, “Judge Herring came to her room.”

Nate paused to consider the implications of the judge’s presence in Updike’s room the night before her murder. “What time did the judge arrive?”

“About nine.”

“How long did he stay?”

“About an hour.”

“What’s the judge’s reputation for faithfulness to his wife?”

“Aw, hell, lawyer, you’re chasin the wrong rabbit. The judge wouldn’t cheat on Betsy. They been sweethearts since high school. The judge wouldn’t know how to play around if he tried.”

“What was he doing in Updike’s room?”

“I don’t know, but he wasn’t sparkin her. Other men did, but not the judge.”

“Did you see other men come to her room?”

“Damn straight.”

“Who?”

“Kenny Deatherage, for one.”

Drinkard was full of surprises. Deatherage said he didn’t know Updike, but Drinkard had no reason to lie about it. “When did Deatherage visit her room?”

“That same night, the night before she was killed.”

“What time was he there?”

“Not long before the judge got there. About half past eight. Looked like Kenny meant to stay a while. He had a jug of liquor with him, but he was only in the room a couple minutes. He came out mad. Drove off in a hurry, tires squealin.”

“Did he come back to her room that night?”

“Not as far as I know.”

“Did you see anyone else go to her room that night?”

“No. I went to bed after the judge left her room.”

“Did the judge or Deatherage visit her the other nights she stayed here?”

“No.”

“Did anyone else visit her?”

“She came here drunk most nights. Different men stayed with her each time.”

“Who were they?”

“Married men who didn’t want people to know they were with her.”

“Tell me their names.”

“I don’t want to get them in trouble.”

“Tell me their names.”

Drinkard sighed. “Frank Gentry, Larry Lamb, Herman Doyle. They could barely walk when they snuck in her room, drunk as skunks, just like her.”

“Did you tell the sheriff any of this?”

“Those men didn’t want their funny business spread around. Besides, what they did with the girl was none of my business.”

“Did you tell the sheriff about Deatherage’s visit to Darlene’s room?”

“Hell, no.”

“Why not?”

“The judge came to her room right after Kenny left. I was afraid I’d get tripped up and spill the beans on the judge. The sheriff had the goods on Kenny. He didn’t need me to tell him nothin.” Drinkard looked at Nate fearfully. “I told you all I know. Now you got to protect me. I’m an old man, lawyer. I can’t afford to lose my job. Ain’t no jobs in Bloxton even for the young men. I lose this one, I won’t have me no job and there ain’t nobody to take care of me. Anybody finds out I told you about the judge, I’m done for.”

“I’ll do what I can to keep your name out of the case, but I have to defend Deatherage. If that requires me to reveal our conversation, so be it.”

Drinkard grimaced. Nate headed to the door.

Drinkard said, “You get it in a knife fight?”

“What?”

“That big old scar. Maybe you pushed somebody too far. He came at you with a knife. That how you got it?”

“I was injured in a car accident.”

“Well, I’ll be damned. I would’ve bet good money somebody cut you on purpose. Somebody you treated poorly. Maybe caught you when you wasn’t ready, when you was sleepin.” Drinkard held Nate’s eyes for a moment and looked away.

Nate went back to number three. Drinkard’s thinly veiled threat worried him. He took the tire iron from the trunk of his car and carried it into the room. He locked the door, propped the back of a chair under the knob, and lay on the bed fully clothed with the tire iron in his hand at his side.