Johnston - I Promise (13 page)

Delia stared at her mother openmouthed. “Did you?”

“Did I what?”

“Ask Daddy for a divorce?”

“It doesn’t much matter now, does it?” Hattie said.

Delia had never seen her mother cry, had never even seen tears in her eyes before. But one spilled onto her mother’s cheek and slid down her face.

Delia’s throat ached. She wished she could cry. But she felt no sorrow, only horror. And relief.

Hattie swiped at her eyes with her fingertips and wiped the resultant tears on her jeans. A moment later she was back in command of herself and the situation.

“I’ll call Sheriff Davis,” Hattie said. “Delia, you take Rachel upstairs and put her back to bed. Stay with her. Don’t leave her alone.”

Hattie stopped them before they could leave the room. She put her hand under Rachel’s chin and lifted it to look into her eyes. ''I’m going to tell the sheriff you came down here after you heard the gunshot and found your father dead. You saw the gun on the desk and picked it up.”

“On the floor,” Rachel corrected.

“All right, on the floor. That is all you will tell the sheriff, do you understand?”

“Yes, Mama.”

Sheriff Davis arrived with his county patrol car lights flashing and siren blaring. He was followed by Fire Rescue and more police and a crowd of gawkers who had heard the call on their police scanners or through the CB radio network.

Delia sat beside Rachel on her bed and kept her arms around her sister the whole time Sheriff Davis questioned her. She felt Rachel trembling with fear, but she didn’t incriminate herself in any way. The sheriff had no inkling she had murdered their father.

Her mother escorted the sheriff from the room, and Delia sat holding her sister, needing as much comfort as she had to offer.

“I didn’t do it, Delia,” Rachel whispered. “I swear I didn’t.”

Delia felt a clutch somewhere in the region of her heart. Poor Rachel. She couldn’t face what she had done. And who could blame her. Surely the sheriff would conclude Ray John’s death had been a terrible accident. Rachel would be safe then.

Oh, God! How could she tell the sheriff now that Marsh had not raped her, that her father had been the culprit? No one would believe her father’s death was accidental if they knew the truth about what he had done to his daughters.

“We’re free, Delia,” Rachel whispered. “Daddy can’t ever hurt us again.”

Delia looked into her sister’s hazel eyes. Innocence had long since fled them. But she didn’t see guilt, either. She put her arms around her sister and laid her forehead against Rachel’s.

“Yes,” she murmured. “Free.”

Then why did she feel so trapped?

Marsh had been sitting in the same chair in the same room at the county sheriff’s office in Uvalde for sixteen hours. He thought this sort of interrogation only happened in the movies. He hadn’t asked for a lawyer because he didn’t think he needed one. Now he was beginning to wonder.

He glanced up at Sheriff Davis, who was leaning against the wall with his hands folded over his belly. “I told you before,” Marsh said. “I went driving by myself last night in my pickup. I was in my bed sleeping this morning until I went out to feed the stock.”

“Nobody saw you?”

“My father was asleep when I got home last night.” Out cold in front of the TV. “He wasn’t awake when I got up this morning.” He hadn’t sobered up yet.

Marsh’s story hadn’t changed. He didn’t know why Davis kept asking him the same questions.

“You don’t know anyone—besides yourself—who might want Ray John Carson dead?” Sheriff Davis asked.

“No one.” Except Delia. He missed her. He needed to talk with her, see her. He was convinced her mother had kept him from seeing her at the hospital. He was anxious for her to get well enough to meet him at the live oak. He knew she would come when she could. He went there every day to wait for her. Except today. He had been in the sheriff’s office all day.

He wondered how Delia felt about her father’s death. Had it been an accident? Or had she taken revenge for what he had done to her? He wouldn’t blame her if she had. He didn’t think many people would. His own feelings were no secret. He was glad the bastard was dead.

“There’s someone to see you, sheriff.”

Sheriff Davis turned to the deputy who had appeared in the doorway to the interrogation room. “Who is it?”

“I think you better see for yourself,” the deputy said.

Sheriff Davis turned to Marsh. “You sit there and think about telling me the truth.” Then he left.

Marsh rose from his seat at a wooden table that held an ashtray full of Sheriff Davis’s Marlboro butts and a Texas Longhorns mug half-filled with cold, milky coffee. He paced the width of the room—four steps across the beige linoleum—then turned and paced the length—five more. He stared at the two-way window, wondering if Sheriff Davis was behind it talking to someone, if they were watching him. He turned his back on it, but there was nothing to look at on the walls except a large black-and-white clock like the ones in schoolrooms that visually ticked off the minutes until you could leave.

He wondered how much trouble he was really in. The rape charge had been bad enough. He had held some hope—fading as his arraignment hearing loomed—that those charges might get dropped.

It surprised him that the sheriff had been so persistent in questioning him about Ray John Carson’s death. He had no alibi, but there was no hard evidence to link him to the scene, either. There was no way they could pin Ray John’s death on him. Could they?

Marsh was leaning against the wall with his legs splayed far in front of him when Sheriff Davis opened the door.

“You can go now.”

Marsh stared at him. “What?”

“You can go.” The sheriff swung his hand toward the hallway. “Get on out of here.”

Marsh scrambled to get his feet under him. “You’re done questioning me?”

“You’re in the clear. Ray John Carson committed suicide.”

“How do you know?”

“That’s official police business, not yours. Now beat it.”

Marsh didn’t have to be told twice. He grabbed his Stetson from the table and stuck it far back on his head. Whoever the sheriff had spoken with must have given him further information about Ray John’s death, something that had apparently cleared Marsh.

He glanced at the sheriff. The man was frowning, deep in thought. “Who was it came to see you?” Marsh asked.

“None of your damn business, boy. Now get on out of here before I arrest you for loiterin’.”

Marsh was almost out the door when the sheriff put a flat palm against his chest to stop him. “By the way, the rape charges against you have been dropped.”

A silly grin appeared on Marsh’s face.
Delia had come to the rescue, after all.
She must have told Sheriff Davis the truth. That also explained why Ray John had committed suicide. Delia must have told Ray John she planned to go to the sheriff. Ray John had killed himself to avoid facing the consequences of his acts.

Marsh spun around, freeing himself from the sheriff’s restraint, and backed his way out the door. He touched a finger to the brim of his Stetson. “I
won’t
be seeing you!”

On his way out, Marsh looked for Delia, but saw no sign of her. He hunted for the young deputy who had come to get Sheriff Davis, to ask him how long Delia had been gone and which direction she had taken. But the deputy wasn’t around, either.

Marsh let himself out the front door of the sheriff’s office and realized just how long he had been held for questioning.

It was dark out. A few lightning bugs glowed here and there. It dawned on him he had no way to get home. The sheriff had brought him to town in his county car. He would have to call his father to pick him up. Assuming Cyrus was sober.

He hated like hell to have to call his father. Cyrus hadn’t even bothered to come to the sheriff’s office. The most his father had done was call to make sure he wasn’t under arrest. Marsh had told him, “No, Dad, they’re just questioning me.”

“Then get home as soon as Davis is finished with you. There’s a calf chute that needs to be fixed before branding.”

Sometimes Marsh felt like picking up and leaving. Cyrus sure wouldn’t miss him. Except he would have to hire somebody to do all the work Marsh had been handling. There was nothing keeping him here—except Delia. And in a year she was going away and leaving him behind, perhaps forever.

You could go with her.

He felt tethered to the land by past generations of Norths, who were counting on him to make the most of what was there. He was trying. But it was hard to do it all by himself. He had learned enough about the ranch in the past couple of years to know some vast changes would have to be made for it ever to become a profitable enterprise.

Maybe the best way to save the land was to go away and make his fortune and then come back and fix things up the way they ought to be. Only, what skill did he have that would earn him a living, let alone make him a fortune?

He could work as a rigger in the oil fields. There was good money in that. Even better money if he worked in the Middle East. He could do that the years Delia was in college and come back with a nice nest egg. They would have the rest of her senior year in high school to be together before he left, time enough for him to hire and train somebody to help out on the ranch while he was gone.

With Ray John dead and gone, Delia could have no objection to returning here to live. They could be married when she finished college. She could commute to law school in San Antonio during the week. Maybe everything would turn out all right, after all.

In the end, he hitchhiked home. Cyrus was sitting in his chair, asleep. The broadcast day was over. The TV was hissing snow.

He punched the TV off, and the sudden lack of sound woke his father.

“Wh-a-t? What’re you doing?” Cyrus demanded in a sleep-slurred voice. “Why the hell’d you turn off the TV?”

“It’s time for bed, Dad.” Marsh pulled his father up out of the chair and slid an arm around him to support his uncoordinated efforts to stand.

Cyrus stared at Marsh in an alcoholic stupor. “Wouldn’t be . . . like this . . . if you hadn’t killed your mother. Loved her. Hate you for it.”

“I know, Dad,” Marsh said wearily as he walked his father to his bedroom.

The bed was unmade, the sheets dirty. Marsh missed the days when his grandmother had taken such good care of them. He didn’t have time to do everything, and the house had suffered as a result. He would do some laundry tomorrow—Hell, it already was tomorrow—and remake his father’s bed with clean sheets.

“Miss her so much,” Cyrus sobbed. “Wanta die sometimes.”

“I know, Dad,” Marsh said. “I know exactly how you feel.”

He could almost feel sorry for his dad. Except he couldn’t forgive him for his meanness or for being a lush. He didn’t think if he lost Delia forever he would spend the rest of his life pining for her like this. Sure, he would grieve. But he would go on with his life. He would never do what his father had done.

Marsh laid his father across the bed so he could pull his boots off, then unbuckled his belt and unzipped his jeans and pulled them off too. He unsnapped his Western shirt and tugged that off, leaving Cyrus in T-shirt, boxer shorts, and socks. He lifted his father’s feet onto the bed and pulled the sheet up around him.

He looked down at his father, feeling guilty because he was ashamed of him and angry at him for pissing away his life. If he ever had a kid, he wasn’t going to be like his dad. He was going to remember what it felt like to need your father’s respect and to want to respect your father. He was going to hug his kid. And ask him about his hopes and dreams. And love him.

Except, even that wasn’t enough. He would make damn sure his kid
knew
he was loved.

“Good night, Dad.”

He turned out the lamp and closed the door behind him. He went to his room and lay down on his grandmother’s quilt and stared up into the darkness.

The next thing he knew, it was dawn.

He awoke with the thought that there was nothing keeping him from seeing Delia. Her father, who had forbidden him contact with her, was dead. He could likely show up at her back door and be allowed to talk with her. Her mother might even give him permission to date her.

He suited word to deed. After a hasty shower and shave he dressed quickly, then realized he didn’t want to show up at Delia’s door looking like a range bum. So he took off his shirt and pressed it and shined his boots, and took another swipe through his hair with the comb. It needed a cut, but he wasn’t willing to postpone his visit long enough to wait for Red White’s Barber Shop to open.

He arrived on Delia’s doorstep at an indecently early hour for company. Except, ranchers kept such indecently early hours, he knew she would be up. He saw a light on in the kitchen, and several more upstairs. He knocked on the kitchen door and waited impatiently, anxiously, for it to be opened.

He expected to see the housekeeper. Mrs. Carson answered the door instead.

“G-good morning,” he stuttered.

“I’ve been expecting you,” she said. “Come in.”

Mrs. Carson expecting him? Mrs. Carson inviting him in? This was definitely “The Twilight Zone.” He looked for Delia over the small woman’s shoulder, but didn’t see her.

Mrs. Carson stood back and held the screen door for him. “Are you coming inside?”

He took two steps inside the door, but that was as far as he got, before she let the screen door slam and turned to face him.

“Delia’s gone,” she said. “She disappeared sometime during the night. She left a note saying she was going away, and that she wouldn’t be back. Until you showed up here, I thought she might have gone with you.

“If you’re here, she really meant what she said in her note.” Her eyes were bleak. “She’s gone. And she’s not coming back.”

Marsh’s heart began to race. “Can I see the note?”

Mrs. Carson’s lips flattened and the skin around her mouth turned white. “No.”

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?” he demanded. “How do I know she’s not upstairs right now?”