The Sign of the Book (15 page)

I got my first disturbing look at Jerry late that afternoon. The victim's parents had rented a house near the edge of town, not far from where Parley lived. They had taken what they could get on short notice, and the house had no telephone as yet, so Parley said it would be a drop-in-and-take-your-chances affair. I walked over: two blocks up the main road from Parley's place, then right on a dirt road for another half mile. Parley had given me a verbal road map and I knew the house when I came to it. It was well back from the road at the bottom of a hill near the creek, barely visible through the woods.

Jerry was sitting alone in the front yard, watching keenly from a swing as I stopped on the road: a typical kid with a mop of dark hair, wearing corduroy pants and a sweater. Even from that distance I could see awareness in his face, as if somehow he sensed who I was and why I was there. I knew this was impossible but the feeling wouldn't shake. I came into the yard and said, “Hi, Jerry,” but I knew better than to approach him before going to the house and announcing my presence. I said, “Is your grandma home?” but if he comprehended, he gave no sign of it. I came up through the trees and moved past him, up the path to the front door.

A woman in her sixties came out as I knocked. “I hope you're not selling anything.”

“Erin sent me. My name's Cliff Janeway and I'd like to talk to your grandson for a few minutes.”

“What for? He can't talk.”

“Yes, ma'am, I'm aware of that. But we thought it might be helpful…”

“Helpful to who? She killed my son. Why should we help her?”

“It's not a question of why, Mrs. Marshall. We just want to know what really happened.”

“Isn't that fairly obvious?”

“What's obvious isn't always what's true. That's why we have courts, to sift what people think happened from what really did happen.”

This could go either way, I thought. I watched her agonize over it for half a minute. “We don't think she did it,” I said at last.

“Lawyers always say that. I heard this was cut-and-dried.”

“Prosecutors like to say that. And newspapers always make it seem that way.”

“Well,” she said as if momentarily confused, “if she didn't do it…”

Her eyes wandered out to the yard, where Jerry hadn't moved, and I saw a slow-creeping awareness come over her.

“My God, are you suggesting—”

“No,” I said quickly. “That's not even a hint of what I'm saying.”

“Well, if it wasn't her, who else could it be?”

“That's what I'm trying to find out.”

She shook her head. I had an urge to tell her that there had been time for a third party to be in that room and her son may have known some shady characters. But I couldn't say that at this point.

“Look, Mrs. Marshall, I know this is difficult. I don't want to make it harder than it already is. I'm hoping you'll understand the difficulty on our side. We just want to find out what happened.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You're going to make out like the boy did it.”

“Don't do that, Mrs. Marshall. That's not fair to anybody at this point.”

“Then what am I supposed to think?”

“Nothing, yet. Just let the facts come out.”

“I understood she was going to plead guilty…”

“I don't know who could've told you that, but it's just not true.”

“She was going to plead guilty. Then you lawyers came, and—”

I felt the interview getting away from me, spinning out of control before it got started. “None of that is true,” I said in a slightly pleading voice. “Look, I know you wouldn't want to send her to prison if she's innocent. Even if there are hard feelings, nobody would do that.”

I let that settle on her for a minute. Then she said, “What do you think this child can tell you?… This little boy who can't even speak his mother's name?”

“I don't know.”

She thought about it. “Am I required to allow this?”

“Not at this moment.”

“What happens if I say no?”

“I could ask for a court order. They'd probably want to videotape it and do it in the courthouse. They might have some psychologist brought in from Denver to ask the questions. I'd rather not do that now, unless it's necessary.”

She thought about that and took her time.

“If I did let you talk to him, I'd have to be there.”

“Absolutely.”

“I'd want to know what questions you're going to ask him.”

“That depends on him, I don't have anything written out. Maybe I'd just want to say hello for now.”

“I don't know what good you think that'll do.”

“I don't know either. Maybe none.”

“If you upset him, if you start asking questions I don't like—”

“I'll leave. I promise.”

Again she wavered. She was curious now but suddenly a little afraid as well. I could see the fear in her eyes as she stared out at Jerry on the swing. She turned and looked up at me and I could almost read the fear in her face—
What if he's right? What if that kid murdered Bobby, and if he did do that, what's to stop him from killing us all in our sleep?
I wished I could reverse the clock and take back everything that might have put that idea in her head. I wanted to go back a few hours and rethink the wisdom of coming out here in the first place, but there was no going back: there never is.

“Come on,” she said abruptly, and I followed her out into the yard. Jerry sat up straighter at our approach, like a bird watching an animal it has never seen before. His eyes never left my face: he seemed wary, not afraid, and as we came closer, I noticed a splash of freckles across both cheeks and his nose. He looked like a kid I might have known in my own childhood.

“Jerry,” Mrs. Marshall said. “This is Mr. Janeway. He just wants to say hello.”

I sat on the ground across from him and looked into his blue eyes. “Hi, Jerry,” I said. He looked so familiar to me: it was almost spooky, till suddenly I realized that his face was the spitting image of Alfalfa from the old
Our Gang
comedy shorts.

“You look like one of the Little Rascals,” I said. “Anybody ever tell you that?”

I asked if he had ever seen those comedies on TV.

“They don't have TV here,” Mrs. Marshall said. “Just as well, judging from what's on it.”

“It doesn't matter,” I said. “For what it's worth, you look like Alfalfa. He was a great movie star, long before I was born.”

I said, “He's the one I always liked as a kid.”

I reached out my hand. “It's good to know you.”

“Shake the gentleman's hand, Jerry,” Mrs. Marshall said.

Reluctantly Jerry put his hand in mine and I squeezed it and held it for a moment. There was something about this kid: even if he couldn't show his feelings, I could almost sense the hurt in him. I felt him tremble and I thought,
Oh, kid, if there's any way I can take some of that pain on my shoulders, let me have it, I'll take it all if you'll just give it to me.
“Don't be afraid,” I said. “I'd like to be your friend.”

I reached out to touch his shoulder but he drew back sharply. “It's okay,” I said.

I was about to say I was a friend of his mother's when Mrs. Marshall said, “I told you. Didn't I tell you you couldn't talk to him?”

“His arm seems to be hurt,” I said.

“It's fine.”

But I had a hunch, as strong as any I could remember. Before she could object, I had touched his shoulder and peeled down the sweater, revealing an ugly bruise.

“How'd he get that?”

“He fell off the swing. It's fine, it's nothing to worry about, leave him alone. You had no right to touch him.”

I backed quickly away. “Can I ask him about what happened that day?”

“I don't think that's wise.”

“Only if he saw it. If that bothers him, I'll leave.”

“It makes no sense. Why ask the question when you know he can't answer you?”

“If I just asked him… what happened to his dad.”

“You're going to upset him.”

“Jerry,” I said.

“I think you should leave now,” Mrs. Marshall said.

“Okay.” I was good and goddamned frustrated, but a deal is a deal.

“It's been good meeting you, Jerry.”

Suddenly he grabbed my hand and held me tight. Mrs. Marshall said, “Jerry, you stop that,” but I looked back at her and told her it was okay. “It is
not
okay,” she said. “How do you expect us to teach him any manners if you come behind me and say that's okay?” I offered a sad little apology but I was looking at Jerry when I said it. His mouth opened and I had the crazy thought that he was about to speak, and that once he did, all the mysteries of his universe would roll out in a deep, bassy voice. But Mrs. Marshall said, “I think that's enough,” and I got up slowly and followed her back to the house, giving Jerry a wink over my shoulder. At the door I turned and waved to him.

Inside, Mrs. Marshall fidgeted nervously. “What did that prove?”

I just looked at her, which made her more fidgety.

“You had no right to touch him. You shouldn't have done that.”

“I'm sorry it upset you,” I said. But I didn't apologize for touching him.

“What'll happen now?” she said.

“That'll be up to Erin. I'm sure she'd like to keep him out of it but I don't know if that'll be possible.”

“Did he really see what happened?”

“He might have.”

“Oh, God. God, what a thing,” she said, and her voice was thick. “Do you actually think he could've done this himself?”

“No,” I said, as earnestly as I could. “Nobody thinks that, Mrs. Marshall, I promise you.”

In fact, I didn't know what to think. All I could go by was my gut.

I looked around at the sparse furnishings. She said, “We had to move in here on a moment's notice. Good thing we're retired.”

“What about the other two kids?”

“My husband has them. They went downtown for some ice cream.” She looked at the clock. “They'll be back any minute.”

She sensed an unasked question and said, “Jerry certainly would've been welcome to go with them, if that's what you're thinking, but he didn't seem to care. I'm sure they'll bring him back some.”

I nodded a
That's good
motion and again she looked around uneasily.

“Mrs. Marshall, may I ask you a few more questions?”

She looked wary but she didn't say no so I pushed ahead.

“Has Jerry shown any unusual behavior since he's been with you?”

“What do you mean? I haven't been around him long enough to know what's usual. All his behavior is unusual, wouldn't you say?”

“Nightmares. Does he ever scream in the night?”

“If that child has ever uttered a sound, nobody I know has heard it.”

“What about nightmares? You can have those even if you don't scream.”

She didn't answer for a minute, long enough to be an answer in itself. “Sure, he's been troubled,” she finally said. “God help him, who wouldn't be?”

“How can you tell?”

“I'll wake up and find him standing beside my bed. Just standing there trembling.” She looked worried, as if suddenly the thought frightened her.

“Does he do this every night?”

“I've only had him for two weeks. But, yes, so far he's not had a night when he's slept all the way through.”

“What do you do when you find him like that?”

“Put him back to bed. What else is there?”

“Does he ever resist that?”

“Just that first night.”

“What did he do then?”

“Struggled a little. Got away from me and ran outside.”

“Where outside?”

“Back to the shed, that ramshackle old thing behind the house.”

“Was he trying to hide?”

“Who knows what's in that child's head? Whatever's troubling him, I couldn't leave him there in the middle of the night.”

We looked at each other.

“Well, could I?”

“No,” I said. “Of course you couldn't.”

“Don't be judgmental, please don't do that. We're really doing the best we can here. We're trying to help, but this isn't the greatest situation in the world, either.”