Bill Hopkins - Judge Rosswell Carew 02 - River Mourn (12 page)

After Gustave
dismissed them, Ollie
and Rosswell drove to town. They stopped in front
of Mabel’s Eatery to sit in the truck under a street lamp, which buzzed and
crackled, awakening from its daylong sleep.

“Judge, come in for supper. It’s filet mignon night.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You’re not hungry?” Ollie gawked at Rosswell. “Are
you sick? I mean, besides…” Ollie examined his fingernails, then rubbed the
tattoo on his bald head while he peered through the passenger window.

“It’s okay to say besides the leukemia.” Rosswell
studied the Church of Sainte Genevieve, the patron saint of Paris. “I’m tired.
I need to go back to The Four Bee and sleep.” Maybe he’d dream of being in the
City of Light at the top of the Eiffel Tower, ready to jump.

“Go to bed?” Ollie checked his watch. “The sun won’t
set for awhile.”

Rosswell watched what looked like an egg yolk sinking
into a pool of blood.

There was concern in Ollie’s voice when he said, “Haven’t
you been sleeping?”

“I fall asleep for an hour, maybe two. Then I have a
nightmare. I wake up sweating. I don’t fall back to sleep. Happens about every
night.”

“Sleep paralysis.”

Rosswell had never heard the term. “What’s that?”

“It happens as you’re falling asleep or waking up. You
can’t move. Your muscles are weak. You can have hallucinations.”

“Hallucinations without booze? Or dope? Without fever?”

“Hypnagogia is what it’s called. Healthy people can be
affected, especially when you’re so tired you can’t function. Doctors write
about it in medical journals all the time.”

Rosswell remembered something about the episodes. “Someone’s
chasing me.”

“Have you been caught yet? I mean, in your dream.”

“No.” Rosswell closed his eyes. The fatigue clutched him,
drawing him closer to exhaustion. “Last night I dreamed I was hanging upside
down in a tree by one foot.”

“Typical.”

Rosswell opened his eyes and tapped rapidly on the
steering wheel. “Typical of what?” He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer.

“It’s a Tarot card. The Hanged Man is suspended upside
down by one foot between heaven and earth, between spirituality and
materialism. Like Absalom, King David’s son, caught by the hair of his head in
a huge oak tree. Between heaven and earth.”

“To borrow your favorite phrase, unadulterated
bullshit. Hanging between heaven and earth isn’t going to help me sleep.”

Ollie rubbed his head again. “Tried sleeping pills?
Chamomile tea? Hot milk?”

“I always carry three tablets each of antacid, pain
killer, antihistamine, and sleeping pill.” Rosswell pulled a green bottle from
his pocket. “I’ve tried everything.”

“Everything?”

“Everything but booze, if that’s what you’re asking.”
The bottle disappeared into his pocket. “Anyway, the doctor told me that the
effects of the chemo could last for six months or a year. Nothing drastic, but
I’d feel rundown occasionally. No big deal.”

Rosswell had never told Tina, much less Ollie, about
the black dog of depression licking at his heels. Such a revelation would serve
no purpose, although Rosswell suspected both of them had already recognized his
dilemma, growing like a thorn tree in a field of daisies. Why was he ashamed of
his mental problem? Lots of people were afflicted with depression and didn’t try
to keep it secret.

Winston Churchill publicly recognized the danger of
the dog. Rosswell had memorized a passage from the prime minister’s writings: “I
don’t like standing near the edge of a platform when an express train is
passing through. I like to stand right back and if possible get a pillar
between me and the train. A second’s action would end everything.”

Even though Etta James, the blues singer who suffered
from heroin addiction and leukemia, lasted until age seventy-three, Rosswell concluded
that he wouldn’t be as lucky. He had every reason to be depressed. He’d killed
a little girl in the war. He’d killed Johnny Dan Dumey. Tina was gone, maybe
dead. Maybe his child was dead. He’d seen a body thrown into the river. The
sheriff was—he had to face it—roadblocking him. And, as an extra bonus, he’d
fallen on top of a corpse decorated with a note in which some unknown bad guy—Nathaniel
Dahlbert?—threatened his life.

“Ollie, I’ll be through with court tomorrow morning
around ten-thirty or eleven. We need to talk about this some more.”

“Talk about what?”

“The case.”

Ollie ripped out his famous squeak. “There’s no case.
You heard Sheriff Fribeau.”

“And when did you start believing Fribeau? Don’t you
believe I saw a woman thrown into the river?”

“Never and yes.”

“What?”

Ollie exhaled loudly. “I don’t believe the sheriff. I
do believe you.”

“Then there’s a case.”

“Not if you and I are the only ones who believe you.”

“Ollie, what are you saying?”

“I’m resigning as your research assistant. I’m trying
to become a respectable businessman in Sainte Gen and riling the law is the
last thing I want to do.”

Rosswell didn’t answer. Ollie’s desire not to draw the
attention of the cops was sound reasoning. There was no way to argue that.
Probationers should always be respectful to the law. And, when probationers
break the law, they should do it in private and not tell anyone.

“Rosswell, did you hear me?”

“Yes, I heard you. Well…have a good night.”

“Forget what I said about the trust fund for my
grandkid.”

“Wow!”

“Don’t act so surprised,” Ollie said. “I’m not taking
your money, even if it is for my grandkid. I’m not a thief.”

“Turn around. See what beauty arrives.” Rosswell
pointed to Jasmine LaFaire dallying toward them. Her gait was a lingering
stroll. “Here comes the deck hand. Maybe you’ll have a better night without me.”

Ollie straightened to his full height. “She walks nice.”

“I love the silver tips on her hair. That goes good
with your purple tattoo.”

Jasmine arrived at the passenger side of the truck. “Judge.
Ollie. You all having a private conversation?” Instead of motor oil, now Jasmine
carried a lemony scent about her. Her bulky overalls had been replaced with skintight
jeans and a pink peasant blouse, accenting her curves.

Impressed with her transformation from a manual
laborer to a beautiful woman, Rosswell’s tongue stilled, unable to receive
signals from his brain.

Ollie said, “We were trying to decide the style of
architecture for the church. Judge says it’s Late Romanesque but I’m tending toward
Modified French Gothic. What do you think?”

Jasmine glimpsed at the church, then spoke to Ollie. “I’ve
been thinking about something. Lots of things, in fact.”

Rosswell said, “Maybe Renaissance?”

“Both of you may think you’re fooling my dad and the
sheriff and everyone else in the county, but not me. You all are playing
detective because you don’t like the way the cops are handling this. Anyway,
Judge, you asked me if I saw the men on the boat do anything suspicious.”

Ollie said, “Actually, it was me who asked you that.”

Rosswell elbowed Ollie in the ribs. “We’re listening.”

“I got to thinking about what happened the other morning.
Something funny about Turk.”

Rosswell glared Ollie into silence when he started to comment.

She continued, “I think Turk is selling dope.”

Ollie said, “You and everyone else in a hundred mile
radius think that.”

Rosswell said, “Is that what you thought was odd about
Turk?”

“No. I’ve got to keep my eye on everything when we’re
on the river so I don’t have much time to watch the passengers. But there was
one thing that didn’t strike me odd till I thought about it later. I saw Turk
give Charlie money. Then Charlie gave something to Turk.”

Rosswell said, “Maybe Charlie is one of Turk’s
suppliers. Turk’s stock is getting low and he was replenishing his inventory.”

“Maybe,” Jasmine said. “But what Charlie handed Turk
wasn’t dope. It was a post office envelope. One of those big ones. Legal size. Sealed
up from what I could tell.”

Ollie said, “You can put lots of dope in one of those
envelopes.”

Jasmine said, “Sure, but this one was flat and thick.
It looked like a file was in there.”

“A file?” Rosswell said. “How can you tell what’s in a
sealed envelope?”

“I mean, it looked like what I send off to the
government. You wouldn’t believe the paper work I have to fill out. Charlie
gave Turk a file.”

Jasmine joined Ollie for supper. Rosswell stayed in the truck
under the streetlight, reading about Nathaniel Dahlbert’s house in the history
book he’d bought at the antique store.

River Heights Villa had been built shortly before the
Civil War. The wannabe Renaissance style called Italianate was in vogue at that
time. Among other things, the architecture of that day featured towers stuck
here and there. The grayish limestone building sported two of the towers, about
six stories high, on the north and south ends of the house. Rumor had it that
the Confederates in Missouri used the towers to spy on Federal activity in
Illinois and on the Mississippi River during the War Between the States.

Rosswell thought the towers would make good
observation posts. A guard posted up top could see the roads, the railroad
tracks, and the river traffic. River Heights Villa would make a great place for
a secret operation.

But what kind of operation?

Rosswell drove to The
Four
Bee, chewing on Jasmine’s information about seeing a file. And thinking
about Ollie abandoning him. One of the special channels this month on satellite
radio was The Beatles. John Lennon’s album
Imagine
started. Good
thinking music. Rosswell started talking to himself.

“Ollie’s quit and now it’s up to me to solve this
alone. What could be in that file? If that’s what it was. A list of dealers? A
list of suppliers? A list of customers? It had to be valuable if Turk paid
Charlie for it. Or maybe Turk gave Charlie postage money. Who the hell knows?
Maybe it means absolutely nothing.”

Rosswell’s gut lurched when
I Don’t Want To Be A Soldier
cued up.
After the riff by Joey Molland on his acoustic guitar, Rosswell recalled that
he sure as hell didn’t want to be a soldier either. Too late for that. He’d
volunteered. And he’d volunteered because he believed Aristotle who wrote, “We
make war that we may live in peace.”

Switching to the local AM station, Rosswell caught the
news.

“…corn futures plummeted after predictions the drought
affecting area farmers would last until…”

“…after a poor showing, the Cardinals lost again,
making this string of defeats the longest since…”

“…funeral mass scheduled tomorrow for the beloved
father of six young children, killed at the quarry when…”

“…strong winds out of the south followed by a powerful
front of moist, unstable Gulf of Mexico air, then a dry front from Canada…”

“…again reminded residents of the red flag warning…”

“…County Commission issued a strict no-burn order with
criminal penalties…”

Rosswell punched the OFF button, wondering why the
news was nothing but downers.

When he arrived at The Four Bee, he slammed on the
brakes. Something thumped. The sound came from behind the seat. He looked over
his right shoulder, trying to determine the source of the noise.

Now what? He was already upset because fracking Ollie
jumped ship and then all that weirdo talk from Jasmine about a file, and now his
truck was thumping. He knew something was going out on it. Something was
falling off his rattletrap and he wouldn’t have anything to drive till Vicky was
repaired.

Cursing, he rummaged around behind the seat. Hand saw.
Hammer. Plastic rope. Chisel. WD-40. Screwdriver. Dust bunnies. Another
screwdriver. Duct tape. Gloves.

And a bottle.

A fifth of 18-year-old single malt Scotch, nectar of
the gods of oblivion, still in a plain brown paper bag.

When had he stashed that behind the seat of his truck?
Must’ve been during one of his drinking binges, long forgotten. He’d been sober
five years. Maybe closer to six.

Setting the bottle on the seat beside him, he withdrew
the letter Tina had written him before she disappeared. He kept it folded in
his billfold. The creases were already tearing the page from so much handling.
He unfolded it carefully.

Dear
Rosswell, I love you so much. When I wake up in the morning, you’re the first
thing I think of. When I go to sleep at night, you’re the last thing I think
of. You’re on my mind every hour of every day. I want to know you and love you
the rest of our lives. I’ve got something really important to tell you. I’m so
happy to tell you. And I want you to be happy, too.

I’m
pregnant.

When
you finish reading this letter, come to me and hold me and never let me go.

I
love you always,

Tina

Rosswell re-folded the letter, kissed it, and stuffed
it back in his billfold. Tears welled, then ran down his cheeks, as they always
did whenever he read her beautiful note. But this time excessive fatigue caused
the emotional burst to be a big one. He hadn’t cried this much since Tina had
disappeared.

For a few moments, he watched the river before he
dusted off the bottle, broke the seal and opened it, breathing in the fragrance
of smoky peat.
Glorious.
The golden liquid shined when he held the
bottle up to a street lamp, casting oddly tinted rainbows from the orange glow of
a sodium bulb.
Even more glorious.
He screwed the lid on and cradled the
booze in his arms. More streetlights came on now that full dark had swallowed
the day. He left his truck, crossing the road into Père Marquette Park.

He sat for a while on top of a picnic table in the glow
of the street lamps, watching a black dog root through an overturned garbage
can smelling of rotten bananas, a stench that brought Rosswell to the edge of
vomiting. The dog cocked its floppy ears—one of them marred by a triangle
sliced out, perhaps from a fight—and then stopped for a moment before growling,
wheeling its head toward Rosswell, fixing its yellow eyes on him.

When a young mother carrying a little girl arrived and
began pushing the child on a swing, Rosswell’s stomach shot acid into the back
of his mouth, stabbing his throat with hot forks the whole way up. The mother,
a dark-complexioned woman not more than twenty-five, reminded him of Feliciana,
Rosswell’s first true love, killed as she drove him home while he snored, passed
out in the passenger seat. She never noticed the grain truck that plowed into
her side of the car.

Now, the woman in the park laughed. She talked and
sang to the child, a dead ringer for the girl in the Middle East. The child,
Rosswell estimated, had made no more than three or maybe four birthdays.
Hideous memories of the girl he’d shot ate at his brain, crunching on the
defenses he’d erected, trying to escape.

The dog, its muzzle enshrouded with dirty foam, lost
interest in Rosswell, slinking instead for the little girl. A low growl escaped
the animal’s mouth. The girl waved to Rosswell. “Hey, Daddy.” The woman
followed the girl’s gaze. “Rosswell,” she said.

Rosswell touched the star of the necklace Maman
Fribeau had given him and blinked.

When the dog leaped, Rosswell screamed and the dog, the
mother, and the child disappeared.