Sharyn Mccrumb_Elizabeth MacPherson_07 (9 page)

Bridgeford squinted into the distance. “It's wagons, looks like. And saddle horses alongside.” He pushed Hawks's rifle barrel away from its aim. “Put that down. They're our people. I see a gray greatcoat in that first wagon. Don't suppose it serves a man well in this rain, though. Better than nothing, maybe.”

Hawks shook his head. “I reckon they're another swarm of fugitives separated from their lines. Poor Danville! They might rather be invaded by the Federals than these starving Rebs—at least they'd bring their own provisions.”

The somber procession tottered closer to the trenches. It was a sorry remnant of an army: walking skeletons shrunken inside their rags, wounded men barely able to stand and others on scarecrows of horses that looked as if they were walking their last mile. One soldier in oilskins clambered out of his trench and waved
down the battered wagon. “Where ye from?” he hollered at them. “What news?”

The rain pelted down, making creeks of the wagon tracks in the muddy road. From the wagon the gaunt faces stared back at them, showing no emotion but weariness. Finally the driver of the wagon, a chalk-faced soldier in the tatters of a uniform, looked down at the questioner with an expression that could have been grief—or disgust. “Guess y'all ain't heard,” he said. “We abandoned the lines near a week ago. Lee surrendered his troops today at Appomattox Courthouse. Somebody said the rest was here, so we come on.”

As the word spread from man to man, soldiers began to crawl out of the sodden trenches, congregating together on the road and questioning the ragged refugees, who seemed anxious to stagger on toward the town. “What must we do now?” they kept saying.

A newly appointed captain, formerly an officer on the
Virginia,
herded them back to their posts. “Our orders are to guard this town. The Federals may soon be coming after our president. We protect them until somebody tells us different.” He looked around at the men under his command. “Hawks! Bridgeford! Escort these fugitives into town and see that their news is reported to Admiral—er,
General
Semmes. Tell him that we await further orders.”

Still dazed from this thunderbolt of news, Gabriel
felt himself stagger out of the ditch like a stunned ox. He felt Bridgeford's hand steadying him as he teetered on the edge of the embankment. “Is the war over, Tom?” he whispered, blinking away the wetness from his eyelashes.

“Not for us,” muttered Bridgeford.

THE FLIGHT TO
Danville, Virginia, might have been relatively pleasant if it had started later in the day, and if they hadn't had to change planes in Pittsburgh. Still, it was too much to ask for a direct flight to such a tiny place, Kimball supposed. The possibility of arriving by turnip truck had crossed his mind. He had read all of
The New York Times
with more than customary thoroughness and had given up trying to find something worth reading in the in-flight magazine when the pilot made the landing announcement. Mr. Huff, who had slept fitfully for most of the journey, was still stretched out in the adjoining seat, dreaming with an unpleasant expression that suggested that he was playing the villain in his own nightmare. Kimball hated to awaken the sleeping dragon, but it had to be done. With some misgivings he nudged Mr. Huff gently and whispered, “We're coming into Danville, sir.”

With reptilian alertness Huff opened his eyes
and leaned over Kimball to peer out the window. “Call that an airport?” he growled.

Kimball longed to point out that Mr. Huff's own local airport, that of Westchester, New York, was about the size of a potting shed and contained tin-sheeted wooden baggage carousels that did not revolve, but he refrained from comment, rightly suspecting that the comparison would not be appreciated.

They gathered up their briefcases and made their way down the commuter plane's metal ladder onto the tarmac. A flight of steps took them inside the terminal to a small glassed waiting area, which was empty except for a blond young man, holding aloft a sign that read:
I TOLD YOU SO
. Nathan Kimball grinned, remembering Mr. Huff's insistence on being met with a welcoming sign. “I think that must be the sellers' attorney, Mr. MacPherson,” he said, nodding toward the sign.

John Huff scowled at the placard. “Well, how was I to know?” he demanded of no one in particular. Then he seemed to make up his mind to be charming, because he thrust out his hand and assumed a brisk smile. “MacPherson! Good of you to meet us. When can we see the house?”

A flurry of introductions later, Bill replied, “We've been asked to wait until two o'clock to view the house, so as not to disturb the owners. They'll be out this afternoon, but I think that I can answer any questions you might have.” He
consulted his watch. “It's just on twelve now. Why don't I give you a quick tour of the city. It's a rather historic place, you know. And then we can get some lunch at Ashley's Buffet.”

“Yes, I'm rather interested in history,” said John Huff. “I've heard of Danville.”

“Everybody has, thanks to Johnny Cash,” said Bill. “I can show you where the train wreck was, though of course it's all built over now. There is a historical marker.”

Huff stared at him. “Did you say
train
wreck?”

“Yes. The wreck of the old 97. It's a folk song. Johnny Cash recorded it a good while back. Isn't that how you heard of Danville?” Bill hummed a few bars of the song. “ ‘It's a mighty rough road from Lynchburg to Danville, And a line on a three-mile grade.' That's us.”

Nathan Kimball fought back giggles as he tried to picture Mr. Huff as a fan of country music while that austere gentleman himself seemed to be choking on unspoken comments. Their native guide, happily oblivious to the visitors' reactions, prattled on about Dan River textiles and pit-cooked barbecue. “And we do have one local celebrity. Have you ever heard of Wendell Scott?”

For the first time Huff looked interested. “General Winfield Scott of the Mexican War? I didn't know he—”

“No, sir, not him. Wendell Scott, the stock
car racer. Richard Pryor played him in a movie called
Greased Lightning.
He was from right around here, but I think they shot the film somewhere else. They usually do.”

“We'd very much like to see the city,” said John Huff in tones of strangled politeness.

“Of course, if you're thinking of moving here, you probably have a lot of practical questions about the area,” said Bill. “What sort of business are you in, sir?”

“I am an investor, but American history is something of an avocation for me. I understand this house we'll be looking at has some historic significance.”

“Yes sir. It dates back to the 1840s, and as you know, it has been used as the Home for Confederate Women since the turn of the century.”

“May I know to whom it belonged before that time?” asked Mr. Huff. “Was it by any chance a Colonel W. T. Sutherlin?”

“No,” said Bill, looking surprised. “According to the information on the deed, the house was owned by a Mr. Phillips.”

John Huff smiled. “Even better!” he declared, and strode off toward the parking lot, leaving the two attorneys scrambling after him to wonder why he had suddenly seemed so pleased.

   A. P. Hill had never looked forward to a date with anything like the eagerness with which she
anticipated her twenty-minute interview with Tug Mosier. She felt a shiver of excitement at the prospect of defending someone against the most serious of charges: first-degree homicide.

She would have to keep reminding her mother that Tug Mosier was technically innocent until a jury said otherwise, because the word from southwest Virginia was that the Hill family did not think much of the idea of their little Amy associating with the likes of the defendant. In her excitement over her first major case, Powell had phoned home with the news, only to learn that murder cases did not fall under the heading of a godsend in her parents' estimation. There was even talk of having Cousin Stinky look into the matter, which Powell Hill definitely did not want, because Stinky knew so many good old boys in legal circles that he could probably get her taken off the case (“in the best interests of the accused”) in a New York minute.

The powers-that-be would be delighted to replace her with a Silverback, and they'd probably think they were doing Tug Mosier a favor. In fact, she had already had a similar conversation with the courthouse Silverback, and he had allowed her to keep the case, but his misgivings in the matter were evident. He had advised Powell Hill to plea-bargain, and to avoid a trial at all costs. That wasn't a decision she felt she could make yet, but one thing was certain:
she had better do a good job on this case. Her immediate future was riding on it.

A. P. Hill's client was hunched in a wooden chair, awaiting their conference without apparent interest. She looked at him appraisingly, trying to see Tug Mosier as a jury would. He would not do, she decided. She would have to see about getting Tug some presentable clothing before his court appearance; the jury and the press (not to mention her family) really would freak if they could see him in his present unshaven glory. He looked like the sergeant-at-arms for a biker gang. His shoulder-length brown hair seemed to have been styled with Quaker State, and a blue dragon tattoo peeped out from under the sleeve of his undershirt on a flabby arm the color of a fish belly. There wasn't much she could do about the close-set piggy eyes and his habitual truculent scowl, but a suit and a haircut might soften the effect. She wondered how to bring up the topic without offending him, and decided to start their conversation with a less delicate subject.

“How's it going, Tug?” she asked. “Are you getting enough to eat?”

He shrugged. “Not too hungry anyhow. Not with all this hanging over me.”

“The charges are very serious. The prosecution is saying that you killed Misti Lynn Hale and put her in the trunk, intending to take the body off somewhere and bury it. They say that
if you hadn't been put in jail on the bad-check charge, you'd have ditched the evidence, and maybe they wouldn't have caught you. You need to tell me your side of the story so that we can begin to build a defense.”

Tug Mosier put his head in his hands. “You won't believe me.”

“It's my job to believe you. It's the jury you have to worry about.”

“Okay, I'll tell you. What the hell. You know I've been laid off from my welding job; that's why I had trouble paying the bills. And those collection-agency people just kept calling and calling and nagging us about it and making Misti cry, so I wrote them dud checks just to get a little peace and quiet. Figured they'd leave us alone—at least till they bounced.”

“I can certainly see the temptation,” A. P. Hill agreed.

“I thought it would make me feel better, but I was still miserable, 'cause I knew it was just postponing the flak. So I got tanked up to try to put it out of my mind.”

His attorney raised her eyebrows. “Define tanked up.”

“I did some coke and some shine. I was with some old boys I been knowing for a long time, and by the end of the evening we were purt near blasted.”

Defendant used cocaine and bootleg liquor and admits to a state of complete intoxication,
A. P. Hill wrote on her yellow legal pad. She looked up and nodded for her client to continue.

“So I don't remember too awful much about that night at all. I know I went home. The next thing I knew, I was sort of coming out of it—somewhere between waking up and walking out of a fog—and there was Misti Lynn, laying on the floor, not moving.”

“Was she dead? Could you see any injuries?”

Tug Mosier frowned with the effort of remembering. “She wasn't moving. I couldn't see no blood.”

“All right.” There would have been no blood. Misti Lynn Hale had been strangled. “Was there anyone else present?”

Tug Mosier rubbed his scalp as if he were trying to massage his brain cells. He squinted at the bare green wall beyond the table. “That's the funny thing,” he said at last. “Seems like I sorta remember somebody going home with me. Helping me, like. 'Cause I wasn't in no shape to do much walking on my own. But when I came to and saw my Misti on the kitchen floor, there wasn't nobody around.”

“So what did you do once you realized that she was dead? Did you call anybody?”

Tug Mosier looked shocked at his attorney's naïveté. She probably would find a dead body on her floor and call somebody about it, his expression seemed to say. “No,” he said wearily.
“I didn't call nobody. I've had a run-in or two with the cops before, and I didn't think I'd have too much luck making them believe in my innocence.”