Under a Dark Summer Sky (18 page)

There was no response. Henry unlocked the cuffs. “Jimmy, you're okay. You've had a shock. Nod if you can hear me. And breathe, just breathe.”

Jimmy nodded, but his hands continued to shake, his eyes fixed on the body that turned gently in the wind.

“Can you do this, Jimmy? Tell me now.” Henry's hand was on Dwayne's gun.

Jimmy exhaled. “Yes, I can do this.” He breathed loudly through his mouth. “I can. Do this.”

Henry considered briefly whether to trust the boy, then quickly decided it was beside the point. But just in case, he prepared to move into the driver's seat. “Here, put the cuffs in your pocket. Make it look official. And take this.” He handed the gun to Jimmy.

The boy looked at the gun for a long moment. His resolve seemed to falter. “Uncle Dwayne never let me touch his gun. I only ever used my daddy's shotgun for hunting deer. I ain't never fired a pistol. Like as not, I'll end up shooting myself.”

“You carry a gun so you don't have to fire it. Remember what I told you: it's not what you do but what people think you do. You just gotta look like you could shoot the buttons off their shirts. Wait.” He removed Jimmy's John Deere cap. “That's better.”

Jimmy took a pinch of chewing tobacco from the glove compartment and shoved it in his gum and jumped down from the cab. He looked so young.
We
are
dead. This is never going to work.
But then he left the truck and approached the group of men with a swagger that was pure Uncle Dwayne, thumbs hooked in his belt loops, gun stuffed in his pocket.
I
should
have
removed
the
bullets. He's going to blow his foot off.

Jimmy strode into the group with a big smile and shook hands all around. A long conversation ensued, none of which Henry could hear properly. The men regarded Jimmy with guarded expressions as they stood casually beneath the hideous form in the tree. They barely glanced at Henry. He might as well have been luggage. Henry cast his eyes to the floor of the cab and hunched his shoulders in a posture of surrender. The image of the mutilated feet stayed in his head. Trails of blood wound around the legs like black worms.

More muffled conversation. Henry sneaked a quick peek. Jimmy's head was up, his shoulders back. He laughed at something and clapped one of the men on the shoulder.
Don't push your luck.
They looked like people at a normal social gathering. Jimmy's hand rested comfortably on the gun. He spat liberally on the ground.

After more shoulder slapping and handshaking, Jimmy made his way back to the truck with a fond wave. His grin looked like it had been carved into his face. He waved some more to his new friends as they drove away. It was several miles before he spoke. All he said was, “I need a drink.”

• • •

With no hope of finding a liquor store at that hour, he had to make do with strong coffee from a diner. Since they could not be served in the same establishment, Jimmy brought the steaming cups out to the truck. The waitress watched suspiciously from the window, hands on hips.

“You did it, Jimmy,” said Henry after a gulp of the bitter liquid. He tried to banish the thought that it tasted of someone else's saliva. “Your uncle woulda been proud of you. Thank you.” The homey smell of coffee filled the cab, which only increased his sense of unreality. Here, just a few miles away, it was a normal morning, where people did normal things. They drank coffee, had breakfast, went to work. Meanwhile, not far away, a vision of horror swung from an old tree.

Jimmy said nothing, just gripped his coffee cup as if he needed the warmth, although his freckled cheeks were shiny with sweat. He was most likely still in shock, Henry figured, and not only because of what he had seen, but also because of what it meant. Henry knew how it felt to have his certainties, those treasured things he believed to be true, yanked from under him. The boy would need time to adjust to that loss.

Henry's own pulse was still ragged. When his eyes had first flown open, for a fraction of a second, he had thought the legs of the slowly turning corpse were his own, that he had somehow become a bystander at his own death. It would not have surprised him, as he had felt fate's soft wings brush against him many times. But this time was close, closer than ever before. Had he not run from Heron Key when he did… A chill passed through his body, like a cold jolt of electricity, as he took in the full realization of what might have happened. The murderous fire in Dwayne's eyes had stayed with him. The memory remained undimmed with every mile they traveled.

Jimmy cleared his throat. “They said—they said they had come to harvest, that he was just about—ripe. Been there five days.” Jimmy's voice was dull and flat with none of the youthful squeakiness. “One of them said—he said he wanted a toe. As a souvenir. For his granddaughter.” He slurped his coffee. “When they saw me, with the cuffs and the gun, they thought I was there to…interfere. But I told them I was just passing through, not interested in anyone's business but mine. They wanted to know…they wanted to know what I planned to do.” He eyed Henry askance. “With you. Asked if I needed any…assistance.”

Henry was acutely aware of the danger they had faced during those few long minutes. The thought struck him that Jimmy was probably safer, at that moment, with an escaped black prisoner than with his own kind. For those locals to carry out a murder so brazen, they must have had no fear of the law. Jimmy had been very, very lucky to pull it off. Henry studied him. Jimmy's face was different, not as soft as before. “Do you really think they bought it?”

Jimmy turned toward him and Henry saw that his eyes had aged overnight. There was a new, sad seriousness in the lines around his mouth. “Yeah, I think so. Yeah.”

“What did he… What did they think he'd done?”

“Raped a white girl.” Jimmy stared through the windshield again, like he could still see it. “Maybe. They weren't real clear about that. Henry,” he said as he threw the dregs of his coffee out the window, “you were right. Let's get outta here.”

• • •

They made the outskirts of Miami at midday, following the railway tracks, by which time hunger demanded another stop. There was a store near the depot with some black men at the window lined up to buy food. Jimmy swung the truck around and Henry joined the line. He had not asked again when Henry would release him but seemed content to just keep driving.

Two men in overalls stood at the front of the line. One of them nodded. “Howdy.”

Henry nodded back. A harassed old woman was busy dispensing food for their lunch pails through the open window. “You together?” asked Henry.

“Yeah,” said the man, “but don't worry, we'll leave some for you.” His eyes took in Henry's gaunt frame in its dingy clothes. “Plenty left, ya see? Hey, Moses,” he said. “What time you make it?”

His companion squinted at the sky. Dark, fast-moving clouds obscured the sun. It felt like early evening rather than afternoon. “Time we be gone, Clarence. Got to make the Keys before the storm.”

“Where you fellas headed?” asked Henry.

“Going down to pick up some army boys, ya see?” asked Clarence. He scuffed his boot in the dirt. “Was supposed to see my gal in Lakeland, but they pulled me in for this instead.”

Henry had started to understand that “ya see?” wasn't really a question. It was Clarence's way of ending a thought. But he needed to know more. “Did you say army boys? In the Keys? Whereabouts?”

“We got to make a few stops, ya see?” asked Clarence. “The last stop is the bird one, can never remember the name. Raven? Pelican? Moses, you remember—?”

“Heron?” asked Henry.

“That the one,” said Moses. “Some asshole up in J'ville thinks you can get a relief train down there in three hours. Gonna take that long just to get her juiced up. Train shoulda been sent yesterday. We got to get in and out fast, and this shitty weather won't help.” He shut his lunch pail. “Thank you, ma'am. Come on, Clarence.”

Henry looked over at the truck where Jimmy waited, eyebrow raised quizzically. He pointed to his watch, clearly keen to be off. They had made good time through the morning. It should be possible to get most of the way to Georgia by morning. He would be free. Safe and free. He could start again, somewhere fresh, where no one knew anything about his past, or the veterans, or Heron Key. He could go back to France. He could go anywhere. He was free. He should have been looking forward, toward a new life somewhere. But all he could do was look back, toward the black horizon.

He imagined them—Jeb, Franklin, Lemuel, Sonny—waiting patiently for rescue while the storm bore down on them. He imagined Missy in the shelter. He had abandoned her to face its fury on her own. He thought of the clearing, with the old oak tree and the horrible fruit hanging from its branch. And he thought of Dwayne's face, teeth bared in rage, his fist pulled back to strike.

And then it hit him like a physical blow, the realization that had been growing since they left Heron Key: the farther north they traveled, the less free he felt. It was like he was attached to the place by a long rubber band that was now stretched to its absolute limit. Missy had reminded him that things would only change when folks decided to change them. She was right. Yes, there were risks for him back in Heron Key, from the storm and the law, but finally he understood. He had left his people behind. Without them, he could never be truly free. Risks didn't matter at this point. Choices mattered. And there was really only one.

“Is there any chance,” he asked Moses, “you could take a passenger?”

Down in Heron Key, Dwayne went to his favorite thinking spot at the beach. Eventually he had managed to raise the alarm, and someone got the spare keys from Noreen. He could not meet her eyes when she opened the cell door, nor Ike's when he released him. Ronald wouldn't like it, but Dwayne would deal with him after the storm had passed. The beach was the only place where he could avoid the smirks and questions, the only place where he could clear his head. He sat at the same old, scarred picnic table he always used. It didn't matter about the weather. He needed to calm his thoughts, which were as jumbled as the flotsam washing onto the sand.

There was little time left. Ronald and his cronies would be at the country club by now, organizing their action against Henry. It almost made him smile to imagine their surprise when they found out he was long gone. Dwayne had done his duty and reported the escape to police upstate, but he was under no obligation to inform the likes of Ronald.

There was another, darker reason why he had told no one in town. It was partly that his damaged pride hurt worse than a jellyfish sting—he should have been prepared for Henry to make a move—but there was some part of him that wanted Henry to get away, wanted to deny Ronald his vengeance. Nothing Dwayne had done would change the outcome anyway. It was only a matter of time. A white boy with a middle-aged black man would not be hard to spot.

His mood darkened to match the dirty-looking clouds. Milky gray waves heaved themselves onto the shore. He had wasted precious time chasing a phantom. He had no other leads, and now a damned hurricane was about to destroy any chance he had of finding them. Hilda's attacker would certainly be gone once the storm was over, if he was even still around. The chaos of the cleanup would be the perfect cover for someone wanting to disappear. And from the look of the sky, they did not have long to wait. The storm had come much quicker than Jenson had predicted.

He had failed, for the first time in his career. It might cost him his job. It would definitely cost him respect in the community. He could easily imagine the
Heron
Key
Bugle
's headline: WORST CRIME IN RECENT MEMORY GOES UNSOLVED. But he did not see what else he could have done. His only choice was to accept it, take the responsibility and the consequences.

But still he sat there as the palm trees started to shake and crackle in the wind and the rain spattered his shoulders. Wind-whipped sand stung his face. Yet still he sat there, pondering. The answer was there in his head, he could feel it, just out of reach. With his pocketknife, he carved the pattern of marks from Hilda's face into the table's weathered surface. The scratch of the knife on the wood was like a chick pecking at the inside of an egg. The answer was there, so close; he just needed to focus and think harder.

But his concentration was disrupted by strange sounds from down the beach. It was only Zeke, yelling at the sky as usual. He was always very agitated when a storm was on the way. Dwayne squinted in the strange, hazy yellow twilight. Usually Zeke just shook his fists, but today there was something in his hand. A big stick…no, not a stick. It had a rounded head. Zeke swiped it through the air like he was playing a game against an invisible opponent.

Suddenly Dwayne realized what Zeke held in his hand. He looked again at the marks he had carved into the table, then leaped to his feet and ran toward the figure in the water.

As he approached Zeke's shack, he slowed. Zeke was easily spooked, especially in this state. The wind whisked most of Zeke's words away toward the mangrove swamp, but it was clear from the wild swings of the tennis racket that he was very upset. Waves lapped at his scabby knees. He wore only his usual frayed shorts, almost more hole than fabric. Ribs poked through the thin skin of his chest, which was dotted with tufts of white hair that matched his beard. Poncho was perched on a rotten piling nearby, feathers aflutter, eyes narrowed against the wind.

“Zeke,” called Dwayne. “Can I see that?”

“It's my weapon! I got him on the run!” He flailed the racket at the sky. “Be gone, cocksucker, back to the hell you came from!”

The frame of the racket's head was broken. A section of it flopped each time Zeke swished it through the air, but there was no mistaking the distinctive crosshatch pattern of the strings.

“It's broke, Zeke. Give it here. I can fix it, make it work better.”

Zeke paused. His breath came in ragged gasps. “You can…you can do that?”

“Think so. Give it here.”

Zeke handed him the racket with some reluctance. Dwayne fitted the broken edges of the frame together. There were brownish stains in the grain of the wood. And on the base of the grip, the letters
DM
, written in fuchsia nail polish. “Where did you find this, Zeke?”

Zeke tried to snatch the racket. He was surprisingly quick, but Dwayne was quicker. “Give it back,” Zeke demanded. “Cain't you see? It's almost…here.” He rasped this out in a hoarse whisper, which Dwayne could barely hear over the noise of the wind. Zeke's eyes bulged and spittle whitened the corners of his mouth.

“Tell me where you found it.” Dwayne raised the racket out of Zeke's reach.

“You said…” He made a grab for it and missed. “You said you'd fix it for me!”

“Where, Zeke, tell me where!” He was yelling now, partly to make himself heard over the wind, partly from frustration.

Zeke ceased his leaping and seemed to deflate. His bloodshot eyes darted fearfully toward the horizon, as if he could see something there, something vast and terrible. “In the storm drain,” he said. “After the big rain.”

It fit. That drain was fed by a ditch that ran alongside the road where Hilda was attacked. It all fit. A woman. Why hadn't he thought of that? Someone who played as much tennis as Dolores Mason could bring considerable strength to bear on such an object. She also had plenty of reason to want Hilda off the scene. He could have kissed Zeke at that moment. “I need to take this to the workshop, but I'll bring it back soon.”

“No!” screamed Zeke with such vehemence that Dwayne turned back. “Give it to me,” Zeke begged. “Please. I need it.”

These were the most coherent words he had ever heard from Zeke. For a brief moment, the man's eyes were lucid and clear. It made Dwayne wonder about the person he used to be.

But the racket's insistent weight in his hand demanded his full attention. He sloshed back toward the shore. Behind him, he could hear Zeke resume yelling, empty-handed, at the sea.

• • •

On the road to the country club, Dwayne leaned on the accelerator of Doc's truck and fought for control against the wind. The wipers could not keep up with the sheets of water blown sideways across the windshield. He really should have been home by now, where Noreen waited for him to take her and Roy to the shelter at Jenson's store. But he was so close, he could not stop now. The detour would not take long. He needed to see Dolores's face when he confronted her with the evidence. He would have to be satisfied with house arrest until the storm had passed. It would have to be enough. It
was
enough.

He arrived at the clubhouse, tennis racket stuffed in an old bag he found on the floor of the truck. In the main dining room, he found Ronald with about ten other men. It was dark inside, with shutters fixed over the windows and only lanterns to illuminate the room. The white bandage on Ronald's cheek glowed in their flickering light. A thick pall of cigarette smoke hung in the air.

Dolores stood next to Cynthia with a drink in her hand. Dolores had an air of annoyed distraction, like her thoughts were somewhere else entirely. Rain clattered incessantly at the windows, as if someone were throwing handfuls of marbles at the glass. The building was solidly constructed and had survived many storms in the past, but there were audible creaks from the timbers. Tentacles of sand crept under the door to be swept away by Violet's broom.

“Good of you to come, Deputy,” said Ronald, “but we were just on our way to see you. It's time for Mr. Roberts to face the consequences of his actions.”

There were nods and vague noises of agreement, but Ronald was clearly in charge. Dwayne regarded each of them in turn. All respectable landowners, farmers, businessmen. Churchgoers, every one. He marveled at how easy it was to turn supposedly good people. All it took was a suspicion, steeped in old grievances, ignited by hatred. He sensed they did not all share Ronald's fervor—especially George Mason, who looked distinctly uncomfortable—but were prepared to go along.

“Get on with it,” said Ed Henderson. “I got to check on
Princess
.” Everyone knew Ed loved his boat more than pretty much anything, including his wife, Marilee.

“Yeah,” said Warren Hickson. “We ain't got time for this. Storm's come in a lot faster than the weather report said.”

“I won't keep you, gentlemen,” Dwayne said, “and ladies. Henry Roberts is no longer in custody, the main reason being that he did not attack Hilda.” He felt no need to enlighten them about Henry's escape.

“Is that so?” Ronald folded his arms over his belly. “You must have thought different when you arrested him this morning. What changed your mind?”

Dwayne set the grubby bag on the banquet table. It made a solid
thump
on the surface, which shone with the soft, mellow luster of decades of beeswax polish. “This is what changed my mind.” He removed the racket from the bag. “Dolores, I believe this is yours?”

Her eyes widened, and her hand reached out. “My racket, you found it!”

George stepped toward her. “Is that the one I got for you in Boca Raton? With the special grip you wanted?”

“Yes, it is.” Her hand dropped to her side. “I left it—I mean, I lost it, a few weeks back.” It was impossible to read her expression in the low light. “Where did you find it?”

Ronald advanced, clearly ready for a fight. “I've had enough of this. What does an old racket matter to you?”

Dwayne picked it up. “This is the object used to beat Hilda nearly to death. The pattern of the strings matches marks found on her face.” He studied Dolores. Her eyes were shadowed, but her back was straight. Cynthia, on the other hand, looked in consternation from Dwayne to Dolores and back again, one beringed hand over her mouth. The men crowded around for a better look at the racket. “You say you left it somewhere a few weeks ago?” Dwayne asked.

“Yes, I did…” She stopped, lost in thought. Her whole concentration turned inward, like her mind had traveled somewhere else entirely and left just her body there.

George moved to her side. “Where did you leave it, honey? Just tell him, so we can clear this up and get out of here.”

Wind pounded at the glass. Somewhere at the back of the building, there was a heavy whump and a crash. The lanterns shuddered.

“I don't remember,” she said. Her eyes remained focused on the mangled, stained lump of wood and catgut on the table.

“Of course you do, honey. This is your favorite,” said George. “Just tell—”

“Dolores Mason,” said Dwayne, “I'm arresting you—”

“Now wait a minute,” said George, with an arm around his wife's shoulders. “You don't really think—”

“Get off me!” Her shriek shattered the muggy atmosphere of the clubhouse. She pushed George away and backed toward the windows. “I can't bear for you to touch me!”

Her voice echoed off the polished wooden floor. No one spoke. The windows rattled in their frames. Cynthia sniffed quietly.

All attention was focused on George. He just let his arms drop. Then he slowly went to the drinks table and refilled his glass, right to the rim.

Dwayne thought he had never seen a more hopeless gesture. “Dolores,” he asked, “do you want to go to jail? Because if not, you got to tell me.” He looked hard into her eyes. “Now, for the last time, where did you leave the racket?”

Her reply was drowned out by the wail of the wind, but Dwayne read the words from her lips.
This
, he thought,
changes
everything.
“Say it again,” he said.

“In his car,” she spat. “I left it in Nelson's car.”

The men shuffled their feet. In the sheepish, sideways glances that passed between them, Dwayne saw their collective relief.
There
but
for
the
grace
of
God…

George said nothing, just stared into his glass with his back to the room. The others seemed stuck in some kind of trance, mesmerized by the drama unfolding in front of them. Even Ronald was lost for words.

The ferocious wind pounded the clubhouse. Dwayne's mind was already on how to find Nelson before the storm forced him to give up and find shelter. “We're done here,” he said, collecting the racket, “but, Dolores, don't—”

Something smashed into the big window overlooking the beach. The whole building trembled, followed by the
crack
of splintering wood. A corner of the roof lifted and allowed rain to pour in. Cynthia screeched and clutched at Dolores, who was covered in broken glass. She pushed Cynthia away with a cry and sped out the door, fine trickles of blood running down her arms. Everyone rushed for the exit, except for one person.

“George,” called Dwayne. “Aren't you coming?”

But George did not answer. He just swirled his glass and stared at the big sailfish on the wall.

Dwayne ran for the truck. Noreen would be frantic by now, but he had one more stop to make.

I
must
find
Nelson.

• • •

At the Kincaid house, Nelson was glad he had thought to raise the convertible roof on the roadster before the storm started because it would be a battle in this wind. The only possessions he cared about were packed in two leather cases in the backseat. He looked up at the big white house, which he had always hated. The windows seemed to glower at him with disapproval, just like Hilda's daddy. There was nothing here he would miss. Even Nathan had not been hard to give up. He was just another reminder of how Hilda had trapped him.