Revenant (7 page)

S
trange Yoder was a man of indeterminable age. When he bent or moved, he seemed young. He was thin, like a teenager, and he wore his hair long. Quick, alert eyes belied the lines in his face. He was older than me. I knew this only because I'd known him all my life. He had a gift when it came to horses' feet, and though he was one of the best farriers in the nation, he chose to stay in Greene County, where there were still long stretches of piney woods and the slow amble of the Leaf River.

Strange didn't talk a lot. Mostly he looked. He could watch a horse walk and know exactly how to trim a hoof or shoe it or what treatment to prescribe for thrush or founder. He did it not for the money, but because he liked to help animals. He'd been my brother Billy's best friend. He'd come back from Vietnam; Billy had not.

Morning light shafted into the old barn through cracks in the east wall, and I sat on a hay bale holding a slack lead rope. Strange crouched in the center of the aisle with Mariah's left rear leg resting on his thighs as he used nippers to trim off the overgrown hoof.

“She's lookin' good for an old girl,” he said of Mariah.

“She seems to feel good. I don't see arthritis, but I've got her on some joint supplements anyway. I'm glad I didn't jump her too hard.”

“She jumped what she wanted,” he said. “You didn't push her and she knew what was right for herself. If more folks listened to their horses, there wouldn't be the trouble there is today.” He shook his head. “Damn quarter horse people just about ruined ten generations of horse breeding for those little tiny feet. Like putting a fat woman in ballet toe shoes. Damn bastards.”

Strange didn't earn his name because he was normal. He was opinionated, but about animals, which was the only thing he ever talked about. I could remember Strange when he was called Dustin and had a crooked smile and a twinkle in his eyes. He left those things, and his sense of humor, somewhere in the jungles of Vietnam. He'd held Billy as he bled out, unable to stop the flow of blood. Billy had been hit by a piece of shrapnel in the femoral artery. Had a medic arrived in time, my brother could have been saved. That was the midnight image that came to visit Strange when he slept—my brother, trying to smile and not panic as his blood soaked the jungle floor. Strange never talked about it after he'd told me this.

Strange trimmed Mariah all around and started on Hooligan. “Needs shoes on the front. His toes are chipped slam off,” he said, going to his truck to get horseshoes. “I hate to shoe 'im. If he gets down in the back pasture with all them roots, he'll tear 'em off.”

“I'll tell Dad to keep them up in the front for a few weeks.”

He nodded and went to work. Hooligan was half snoozing as Strange hammered the iron shoes to his two front feet and trimmed the back.

“Now for Bilbo.” I got the gray pony, a cross between a Shetland and a Connemara. For Annabelle, Bilbo had been a dream pony. He didn't hold me in the same regard, but Bilbo was always good for Strange, saving his practical jokes and shenanigans for me. Mariah and Hooligan were snuffling at the last morsel of grain in their stalls. For the first time in months, I felt a shadow of peacefulness slip over me.

“This pony needs ridin',” Strange said. “He misses your daughter.”

“I miss her, too,” I said. With Strange, it was okay to talk about painful things.

“Maybe I could send someone over to ride him.”

I hesitated, and though no word was spoken, Strange stopped his work, stood and looked at me.

“Your daughter wouldn't mind. She'd be glad someone was giving the pony attention.”

“You're right,” I said, trying not to tear up. “Please, if you know someone, ask him or her to come over. I'll tell Dad. I think he'll be relieved.”

Strange finished the last foot and stood, arching backward to relieve the strain of his job. “This here pony won't ever forget your girl. She's a part of him, like she's a part of you. But he needs someone to love him now.” He gathered his tools. “Animals got a lot more sense about dying than human folk. They know it's the cycle. Livin' and dyin', they're not so different, except for those of us left behind.”

“I wish I could believe that,” I said.

“It took me a while to get there, Carson. Maybe I believe it 'cause I have to to survive. I can only say I'm a more peaceful man since I came to that way of thinkin'.” He gave Bilbo's rump a gentle slap. “Turn 'em out now, and I'll be on my way.”

I pulled money from my pocket.

He shook his head. “No, I won't take the money. When my mama was dying, Mr. Lynch mixed up her medicine special. When we didn't have the money, he mixed it for her anyway.”

“The horses are my responsibility, not his.”

He gave me his sharp blue gaze. “It's one and the same and you know it.”

I was about to argue when I heard a vehicle pull up. I walked to the barn door and looked out, surprised to see Michael Batson walking toward me from his red vet truck.

“Carson!” he said, his face breaking into a wide smile. “What a surprise.”

“Michael,” I answered, knowing it was no surprise at all but my meddling mother. “What brings you here?”

“Spring vaccinations for the horses. Dorry implied you were having a conniption to get it done.”

“I see.” I realized that my sister now rivaled my mother in games of manipulation.

“Hey, Dustin, how's it going?” He held out his hand.

The men shook, then Strange gathered his tools. “I'm done here, Doc.”

Michael glanced down at Bilbo's feet. “I wish you'd come over and work out of my clinic. Folks could come to you instead of you having to drive all over tarnation.”

Strange shook his head. “I like drivin'. I like to look at the woods and think.”

Michael nodded. “Well, the offer stands.”

“Thanks, but I like it the way it is.” Strange inclined his head, then he was gone, his slender frame slipping out the barn door and casting a long, thin shadow across the patch of dirt in front of the barn.

“You called him Dustin,” I pointed out.

“I don't like the name Strange. Dustin's a little different, but if more people were like him, the world would be a better place.” He took Bilbo's lead rope and moved him so he could feel in his mouth. “Dorry said I should float their teeth, too, if they need it.”

“Dorry's mighty good at tending to everyone's business,” I said.

He laughed. “I thought this might be a setup. She asked me to lunch, too.” He released Bilbo's head and started toward his truck. “I brought a Biloxi paper. I figured you'd want to see the front-page splash you made.”

“Don't take it in the house,” I said.

“I wasn't going to.” He walked out of the barn and returned in a few moments with three vaccinations and a stainless-steel bucket containing a rasp to file the sharp points down on the horses' back teeth. “This won't take long at all.”

After we'd finished with the horses, Michael led Bilbo while I took Mariah and Hooligan out to the front pasture. We stopped at his truck and he handed me the newspaper.

Bridal Veil Killer Strikes After 24-Year Hiatus, the headline screamed across the top of the page. My stomach knotted. If I'd ever doubted Brandon's total disregard of responsibility, I didn't any longer. Right below the headline was my byline. Mitch and Avery would both know I had nothing to do with the way the story was played, but most people didn't understand that.

“You're making quite a name for yourself,” Michael said.

There was no criticism in his tone. Michael wasn't a man prone to panic, so he didn't see the potential damage such an article could do.

“It's a frightening situation, but this—” I shook the paper “—isn't going to help. My boss is an idiot.”

Michael put his equipment back in the truck. “I'm not staying for lunch, Carson.”

“Mother and Dorry will be disappointed.”

He touched my chin, a whisper of a caress. “I don't really care what they think.”

“I figured you'd want to be home for lunch with Polly and your daughter.” I held his hazel gaze.

“Polly's filed for divorce. She wants a husband who gets off at five and comes home smelling of aftershave and money instead of cow shit. I'm not the man for her.”

I had a jolt of memory. Polly was standing in front of Elliot's Jewelry Store on Main Street. It was a hot summer afternoon. We were eighteen, just graduated and wondering what the next fall would bring for us.

“I'm going to marry a rich man,” Polly had predicted. “Mama says you can love a man with money as easily as one without.”

June Tierce had been with us. June's future was set. She'd gotten a full academic scholarship to Ole Miss. She claimed the school was filling a quota for black females, but I knew better. June was brilliant.

“Money doesn't have anything to do with happiness,” June said to Polly.

“Of course it does,” Polly said with a grown-up snap in her voice. “Try being without money if you think it's not important. It's the only thing my mom and dad fight about.”

“Carson, are you okay?” Michael touched my arm, and I left the past to return to the barnyard and my former lover looking at me with open concern.

“I'm fine. I was just thinking of Polly.”

“She's still a beautiful woman. She'll find someone who gives her what she wants.” He shook his head. “I was foolish to think she'd—” He broke off. “Anyway, tell your folks I send my regrets. The truth is, I've got a herd of cows to vaccinate over in Vinegar Bend. It's going to be a long day so I'd better get after it.”

 

I headed home before lunch, telling my parents that I had work. No one questioned me, but no one believed me, either. Greene County was dry. At one time my parents kept liquor in the house, amber and clear liquids for an afternoon highball or the frequent visitors who came to play cards or have dinner. It was only recently that the cut-glass decanters had been emptied and not refilled. I was the cause of that.

Almost home, I stopped at a small joint tucked away in the piney woods of Jackson County. The state blue laws had once dictated that liquor could not be sold until noon on a Sunday, but with the arrival of the casinos, times had changed for the Gulf Coast. I asked the bartender for a screwdriver, and she handed it over without even blinking.

When I got home, Mitch had called, tersely asking for a meeting Monday morning. There was also a message from Brandon, hyperventilating about the next big story. The sound of his voice made me want to do something violent. The last call on my machine I returned.

“Jack,” I said. “Those were good stories on the Dixie Mafia.”

“It's easy to dredge up history. Your piece on the murders was well written and restrained.”

“Except for the headline.”

Jack barked a laugh. “You should've seen Hank and Brandon go at it.”

I felt a twinge. Hank had a bad heart, and he had no business arguing with Brandon. I took what comfort I could in knowing that if it wasn't my story they fought over, it would be something else. “You said you needed a favor?”

“I'm in a little bit of a jam.” Jack's voice was thin, as if he were having to force the words out. “Could I borrow five thousand dollars until Friday?”

“Sure.” I didn't hesitate. Money was one thing I had. When Daniel and I had sold our property in Miami, we'd made a lot of money. Daniel had been more than generous. “Want me to run it by?”

“No!” He took in a deep breath. “I'll come get it now. Thanks, Carson.”

“Don't worry about it, Jack.” I could run up to the ATM and get some cash, since it sounded like a check wouldn't do. “Come on by.”

The bank was only five minutes away, and I was sitting on my front porch when Jack pulled in. The fact that he wouldn't meet my gaze told me a lot. I put the envelope on the seat of a wicker chair.

“I'm glad to do this, Jack. It's the first time I've felt useful in a long time.”

He still didn't look at me. “I'll pay you back.”

“I know. Don't be in a rush about it.”

He was a proud man, and whatever circumstances had forced him to borrow money from me was not my business unless he wanted to talk. Obviously he didn't. I stood up. “I'm going to make a drink. Would you care for one?”

“No.”

I left the door open when I walked inside. His footsteps sounded on the porch, and then the screen door slammed. He was gone.

I
got to the newspaper at 8:18 Monday morning. My arrival earned a sarcastic whistle from the police beat reporter, who rightly felt the Bridal Veil killings should have been his story. I ignored him as I walked by, but he couldn't let it go.

“What happened? They close the bars early last night?” he asked, pointedly looking at his watch.

I turned slowly to face him. “What happened to put you in such a nasty mood? Your wife refuse to let you wear her garter belt and stockings?” I understood his anger, but it was directed at the wrong person. Brandon should be his target, not me.

Jack gave a loud laugh and there were a few twitters around the newsroom. I was disliked because of Brandon's treatment of me. The police beat reporter was disliked because of how he treated others.

I lost interest in the newsroom when I saw my office door standing ajar. I'd left it locked.

“Nice comedy routine.” I stepped into my office. Avery was sitting in the chair in front of my desk, and I had no idea how long he'd been waiting.

The Biloxi detective wore a black suit that was indistinguishable from his other black suits. Or, perhaps he had only one. It fit him well, the pants creased and sharp. His shirt was crisply ironed, his shoes polished. He was a detail man; it stood to reason he was good at his job. “I gather this isn't a social visit,” I said, trying to disguise the fact that I was flustered. I didn't know Avery well, but I knew him well enough to know he wasn't in the habit of paying social visits to reporters. “How'd you get in?”

“Brandon opened the door with his master key.” He didn't bother hiding his amusement at the heat that jumped into my face.

“He's such a jerk.”

“Yeah, this business—” he waved a hand around my office “—seems replete with 'em.”

“Why are you here?” I didn't want a fight.

“Mitch sent me. For some reason he wants you to be part of the investigation. He gave me some hogwash about how we needed the newspaper with us on this case.”

“He's right,” I said. “You have five bodies, four of them girls killed in 1981. The fifth is unidentified. And now you have a current body.” I paused for effect. “Without any real leads. I'd say the newspaper could be a very powerful ally.”

Avery didn't like being pressed into a corner, and it showed in his expression. “Mitch is the boss. If he wants you in on this, you're in.” He stared into my eyes. “I'm just a little curious. Mitch has never felt the need to buddy up with the press before. Maybe he wants a date.”

“Would you like some coffee?” I decided to ignore his misplaced antagonism. “I have some questions about the investigation.”

He thought about it. “Sure. Black.”

I went to the coffee kitty, put in a five-dollar bill and poured two cups of strong black coffee. When I got back to the office, Avery took his, and I closed the door.

Once I was settled at my desk, I opened my notebook and flipped through the pages. “I searched through the back issues of the paper. That's where I got the names of the missing girls. But there wasn't a fifth girl. At least not one that I found.”

“There's not a missing-person report on the fifth victim, either.”

That would save me some long hours of eye-straining work. Avery didn't want me in this investigation, but he was going to do what Mitch said. “Thanks for telling me that.”

He shrugged. “Aside from the headline, your story Sunday was good. Accurate. Not blown out of proportion. Well written.”

“Thanks.” I was surprised. Avery had paid me a compliment. “So what do you have on the fifth body?”

He frowned. “We're checking missing-person reports from around the Southeast.” He hesitated and his discomfort was clear. “Have you talked with Pamela Sparks's family?”

“I was going to do that today, and then follow up with an interview of the families of the other dead girls.”

He nodded. “We sent a couple of officers over to the Sparkses', but the parents got upset. I went by there myself, but they won't talk to the police. Mitch said this was your forte—that you could get anyone to talk to you.”

I leaned forward onto my desk. “Why won't the family talk to you?”

“Pamela's dad did a stretch in Parchman for a burglary he says he didn't do. He doesn't trust the police for any reason. He says he's going to find Pamela's murderer himself.”

 

If Highway 90 is considered the Gulf Coast main drag, then d'Iberville is the backstreet. The homes fronting the beaches are lovely. Except for the blight of condo and fast-food development, there's no squalor or poverty. That can be found in d'Iberville.

Of course there are lovely neighborhoods in the Back Bay area, so called because of the way the Bay of Biloxi cuts west, creating an elongated inner waterway. It's a perfect natural harbor for the fishing vessels that were once the lifeblood of the coast.

Pamela Sparks's neighborhood was not one of the lovely ones. The land was low and had the smell of poor drainage, a nightmare for mothers during the summer when mosquitoes could savage an unprotected child in thirty seconds or less. Especially worrisome now with West Nile virus.

The address was a double-wide trailer in a park of some thirty other manufactured homes, as it was now politically correct to call them. Pamela had lived here with her parents, her four-year-old daughter and two younger siblings. I pulled in the drive and got out. The trailer and yard were neatly maintained. Latticework had been put up around the trailer, and there was a nice porch with steps and a railing surrounded by shrubs and well-tended flower beds. Yellow-and-white daffodils held center stage in the bed, but red tulips were budding.

A curtain at the door fluttered, and I knew I'd been spotted. When I knocked, the door was answered immediately. “We aren't talkin' to anyone,” a woman with red, swollen eyes spoke through a small crack.

I introduced myself. “I'm sorry for your loss,” I said, the words like dialogue off a cop show. Keep it impersonal, I warned myself. I didn't want her to see my pain. She carried enough.

Mary Sparks came out on the porch, pulling the door shut behind her. “My husband can't talk.” Her own eyes filled and the tears spilled down her cheeks. “He can't stop crying. Pamela was his baby girl. The boys are younger, but Pamela was his girl.”

“Where was Pamela going Friday night?” If I didn't get into the questions fast, Mrs. Sparks would fall apart. So might I.

“She said she had an errand. I figured she was going to buy some things for the party. Her friends were coming over Saturday to plan a shower for her. She was getting married in two weeks.” She leaned against the porch rail, her back sagging and her head bowing. “This is too hard.”

I wanted to comfort her, but I didn't touch her. It would have been wrong, somehow. False. I was there to get information, not act as a friend. “Her fiancé was…?”

“Joe Welford. He works up at M&N Motors. He's a mechanic.” She shook her head. “He was over here Saturday, and I thought I'd have to bury my Bob and Joe both.”

The muscles in my jaw tightened involuntarily. To get the story, I had to keep pushing. “Could you tell me the names of Pamela's friends?”

I wrote them all down, including addresses and phone numbers. Mary Sparks was a mother who knew the details of her daughter's life.

“Did Pamela have a bridal dress and veil?”

“No. She was gonna wear a regular dress. She said she'd rather save the money for a down payment on a house. When she was twelve, we lived in a normal house. That's when Bob got arrested for that burglary he didn't do. He went to jail, and we lost the house. Pamela wanted a real house so much.”

“And the veil?” I prompted.

“No veil. I don't know where the one came from when she was—” She turned away and leaned against the trailer. “I can't talk anymore.”

The trailer door cracked open and a young girl with blond hair and blue eyes came outside. She took Mary's limp hand and hid behind her leg.

“Memaw, when's Mama comin' back?” she asked.

My eyes burned and I had to fight to stabilize my voice. “Hello,” I said to the child. “Who are you?”

“Megan.” She didn't smile. There was a shadow in her blue eyes. “Where's Mama?”

“Go tell your uncle Timmy to get a video for you,” Mary said. “I'll be inside in a minute.”

“And Mama?” she asked, reluctantly going inside the door as Mary gently pushed her. She turned to look over her shoulder at me. “Do you know where Mama is?”

“I'll be there in a minute.” Mary closed the door and faced me. “Megan doesn't understand that Pamela won't be back. We tell her, but she doesn't understand.”

“I'll check the information you gave me. If I find anything, I'll let you know. One more thing, Mrs. Sparks. Who is Megan's father?”

“Pamela never said. She was eighteen.” She took a long breath and put her hand on the doorknob. “When Bob gets hisself together, he's going to find Pamela's killer. He might go to prison for murder, but it's what has to be.”

I put my hand on her arm, in caution not comfort. “No, it doesn't. Please, Mrs. Sparks, don't do anything foolish. Megan needs both of you now.” The words were ashy in my mouth. I'd heard them before, directed at me. Daniel had needed me, but I'd had nothing left to give him. Mary Sparks was only a few years older than me. Her face was worn and lined from hard work, but there was substance there. She wasn't going to cave. She would pull her family back together and do what was necessary.

My hands were shaking as I backed my truck out of the drive. Instead of going to the paper, I went to the Ruby Room, a small restaurant in the Back Bay run by Garnett Roper. Garnett was my age, unmarried and a fine Southern cook. Her menu varied from day to day, but she always had the best fried chicken, homegrown vegetables, iced tea and, on demand, alcohol. I ordered a Bloody Mary and sat at a table on the patio. She came out to serve me herself.

“You okay?” she asked, putting the drink in front of me and taking a chair.

It was only ten, too early for her lunch regulars, so the place was quiet. I looked at the still waters of Back Bay. The morning was undercut with the cawing of the gulls around the shrimp boats.

“Tough interview,” I finally said. “The mother of the dead girl.”

She put her hand on mine, and her fingers were warm. “I'm sorry, Carson. I know that brings up a lot of stuff.”

Garnett Roper, née Dupree, was also from Leakesville. We'd been friends since the first grade, when I'd punched Robby Caldwell for trying to steal Garnett's new box of eighty-four Crayola crayons.

“A lot of my customers knew Pamela one way or the other,” Garnett said as she straightened the sugar packets. She had lovely hands, long and graceful. Even in grammar school her hands had fascinated me. They were never still.

“What's the talk?” I asked. Garnett's restaurant was the meeting place for almost every faction on the bay. The fishermen came in early for breakfast and a packed lunch for the day. The businessmen and housewives rolled in at lunch. If there was talk, Garnett would have heard it.

She frowned, the harsh cut between her eyebrows the only line on her lightly tanned face. “She made a mistake and got pregnant, but she had the baby. From what I hear, she never even told the father. He must have been someone from outside Back Bay. Anyway, she had the kid, stayed with her folks, worked to earn a nest egg and started going to junior college last year. She was engaged to be married.”

“In two weeks,” I added.

“Shit.” Garnett's hands flattened on the table for two seconds, then busied themselves rearranging the condiments on the far corner.

“Do you know the guy? Joe Welford.”

“Yeah. Joe comes in every Saturday morning with Pamela's dad. He's quiet, but in a shy way not a psycho way.” She shook her head. “He didn't kill Pamela.”

“People are capable of anything,” I said, looking at the last swallow in my glass.

“You used to believe they were capable of kindness, too. And love.” Garnett's brown eyes were sad.

“I used to believe in a lot of things.” I drank the last swallow. “Heard any talk about the fifth body in the grave?”

“Lots of talk, nothing I'd consider to be even a half-cocked theory. Let's see, it's the killer's sister or mother, going with the assumption that she was the first victim and that she drove him to do the others. An Anthony Perkins kind of thing. And—”

“Wait a minute. So everyone is certain the victim is female and the killer male?”

“That's the consensus. Why? Do you think differently?”

“No, that's pretty much what I think. Maybe he killed someone in Louisiana or Alabama and brought the body here.”

“I've heard that one, too, and that's the one I'd put my money on. The thing that's really got folks buzzing is Pamela's murder. I mean is it a copycat? Or is the guy back?”