The Hangman's Beautiful Daughter (21 page)

LeDonne knelt on the marker, and began to 314

brush the leaves away from Josh Underhill's grave. As he did, a sharp March wind swirled a new assortment of leaves in the wake of the old ones. He pushed those aside, and examined the earth beneath. It was tightly packed. No sign of disturbance. He turned to the parents' grave, and began clearing the leaves away, using his fingers like a rake. The leaves were cold and wet, and stuck to his hand like dead skin. He shook them away, and ran his fingertips through the dirt. There was no grass beneath this leaf pile, and the soil crumbled at his touch. He brushed more leaves from the plot, and saw that clumps of clay were still heaped near the slope of the hill. This was not last year's grave-digging, done by the cemetery workmen. The soil was newly disturbed, and hastily replaced.

LeDonne stood up, and brushed bits of red clay from his trousers. There was no need to go further just yet. He had probable cause now, enough to start asking questions. But not of the Underhills, not yet. He would have to do much more investigating before he was ready to confront them. This crime, this sign of mental disturbance, changed everything. Now the open-and-shut homicide case of last October was beginning to look much more complex.

Back in the car he radioed Martha that he had completed the 10-96. He asked her to phone the district attorney to say that he'd be stopping by in twenty minutes. Martha wanted more information, but he signed off, and drove out of the cemetery, feeling like a trespasser. 315

Sharyn McCrumb
*

After forty-five minutes of driving through the river valley, Taw McBryde's Oldsmobile passed through a row of well-kept white houses in a larger village. He slowed down, looking for signs. At a gas station and post office crossroads, a shield-shaped blue sign directed him to the interstate. After that, the scenery swept past in a featureless blur, punctuated by green road signs announcing the distance to the next three towns. Town number two was Titan Rock, home of a large and prosperous paper company. Taw speeded up to sixty-five, and even then the trucks whizzed past him.

It was after four when he took the exit ramp for Titan Rock, leaving the monotony of the interstate to the long-haulers and the commuters. In an hour it would be dark. He looked out over the dingy factory town, with its garish strip of fast-food joints and glass and neon filling stations. Everything in Titan Rock was either old and dirty or plastic, and towering over the crumbling town was the factory, a brown fortress straddling the riverbank. One mushroom smokestack was emblazoned with Titan Paper, as if there could be any doubt about it. Taw aimed the car for the smokestack, and followed the narrow streets to his destination. With one hand, he shook Tavy's shoulder. "We're there, old buddy."

Tavy was awake in seconds, alert. "Good," he said, peering up at the smokestack in front of them. "Let's go over it again."

Philip Withrow had been elected district attorney because there had been Withrows in Wake County since before the Civil War, because he was young and energetic enough to campaign for the post, and mostly because Wake County's other lawyers already had good practices and couldn't be bothered with the job. It wasn't as if the position would lead anywhere, except maybe to a job as a state senator a dozen years down the line. Meanwhile, it was a dreary term prosecuting drunk drivers, two-bit thieves, and assault cases. Like the sheriff, he tended to see the same people over and over, and he had come to the conclusion that crime ran in some families the way lawyering ran in his.

He still looked like a kid, despite his premature balding and his charcoal wool suit with the yellow spotted tie. There was a looseness about his clothes that made people think of a kid playing dress-up. He had been reading the Sharper Image catalog, trying to decide which electronic gadget he was going to give himself for Father's Day, when LeDonne showed up. He slid the magazine in his drawer, and leaned back in his red swivel chair, trying to look authoritative and calm. He didn't feel calm around LeDonne, though. He always suspected that there was a sneer lurking behind the deputy's impassive face.

"Hello, LeDonne!" he said in politician friendly. "How's business?"

"Steady," said LeDonne. "But not what you'd call predictable." The deputy ignored the leather captain's chair beside Withrow's desk, 317

and stood at parade rest, as remote from the attorney as he was from the people he arrested. "I need some advice about a point of law."

"That's what I'm here for," said Withrow happily. He had a wall filled with law books to get him out of this one. "What's your question?"

"It's two questions, really. The first one is, is grave robbing a misdemeanor or a felony?"

Whatever Philip Withrow expected, it was not this. His mouth opened and closed without uttering a sound, and for a second he stared at the deputy, waiting for the punch line. LeDonne was silent. "You're serious about this?" Withrow said at last. "Grave robbing? Oh, you mean Indian bones from an archaeological site? I think we can—"

"No, sir." LeDonne's expression did not change. "I mean robbing a grave in Oakdale Cemetery. I have reason to believe that one has been disturbed, and that bones were removed from the site."

"I think—Well, I'd have to look it up, but I think it's a misdemeanor. Teenage boys, you mean? It's like vandalism, isn't it?"

LeDonne shrugged. "That brings me to the second question. I have reason to believe that the graves were opened by the deceased's next of kin. Now, does that mean that the bones are the property of the heirs, and is it in fact not vandalism or theft at all in that case?"

Withrow leaned his head back and exhaled a long, loud breath. "Okay. Tell me who we're talking about and what has happened." When 318

LeDonne finished explaining in his precise, emotionless way, the district attorney sighed again. "I could look it up if you're dying to know, LeDonne. But all you really need to know is this: There's no way we're prosecuting on this one. Make it go away, you hear? Get them counseling. Get them to commit themselves. Whatever. I don't want to be the first east Tennessee D.A. to make the supermarket tabloids. Just make this one go away."

It was after four-thirty in the gathering twilight when the two old men stepped into the reception area of the Titan Paper Company. They were nicely dressed, with dark ties and suit jackets, and they were smiling pleasantly at Sarah Watkins, the receptionist, weary with the boredom of her undemanding job. She wanted nothing more than to beat the traffic out of the plant's parking lot, and get to Food Lion before nightfall. Visitors, at least, would take her mind off the second hand of the clock. She summoned up a smile. "Can I help you all?"

"I was hoping we might catch Roger," said Taw McBryde, returning the smile. "Mr. Sheridan, that is. I've got an old friend here who'd like to see him. We're just back from the doctor's in Charlotte." He nodded toward Tavy, inviting the receptionist to understand the finality of this visit. "We can't make the stockholders' meeting, but since we were passing through, we thought we'd drop in and say hello. Now don't tell me the old rascal is busy." He twinkled at 319

her, sharing the joke on self-important old Roger.

The receptionist looked doubtful for a moment, and her gaze wandered to Tavy, looking gaunt behind a bony smile, and clutching a paper bag to his chest. "Brought him a little something from home," he said hoarsely. "You don't reckon he's too busy for that, do you?"

Sarah Watkins grinned. "Well, he's by himself, anyhow, and his phone light's not on. Shall I announce you, or do you want to surprise him?"

By now Taw had spotted the hallway that she had glanced toward. There was no one else in the reception room. No guards anywhere. Not much crime in Titan Rock, he reckoned. "We'll sneak on back and surprise him," he whispered. "We can't stay too long, anyhow."

They hurried off down the corridor before she could think better of the unannounced visit. The walls were lined with pictures of old men in suits—the board of directors, maybe, or past presidents of the company. They look about the same age as Tavy and me, thought Taw McBryde. Maybe that's why the receptionist let us through. To a gal her age, all old men must look alike. He kept hustling down the hall as fast as he could without looking suspicious. If he stopped to think, he might realize the folly of their intentions. There was no use asking Tavy to reconsider, though. Planning this day had kept him alive for weeks now, while his skin faded to transparency with illness, letting the rage shine through him like an aura. They were 320

in it now. As they reached the door bearing Roger W. Sheridan's brass nameplate, Taw slid the pistol out of the pocket of his jacket.

The siege was accomplished in less than a minute. One moment Roger Sheridan was standing at his door, trying to figure out who his visitors were, and the next instant he had a gun in his ribs, as he spoke into the intercom telling Sarah that he wasn't to be disturbed.

"Who are you?" he asked, staring up at his captors. He was a short, stocky man in his early fifties, red-faced, with eyes like huckleberries. Droplets of sweat trickled down his shiny forehead, and his expression was a study in outrage mingled with terror. Taw didn't think Roger Sheridan was a good bet to make sixty-five, a fact that cheered him. His contempt for the pompous little man made it easier to hold the gun steadily and convincingly against his temple.

"Who are we?" Tavy repeated. "We live downstream from your paper company, that's who." He looked around at Sheridan's show-place office. A well-carved Thomasville desk and bookcases gleamed with furniture polish, and the red-and-gold fabric of the tapestry sofa matched the drapery material covering a Pal-ladian window. Sheridan was sitting at his desk now, while Taw stood beside him, holding the gun. Tavy sank down in the visitors' chair, holding the paper bag between his knees, breathing a little heavily from the exertion and excitement.

Sheridan was still trying to make sense of the 321

intruders. "What do you want? Is this a robbery? Did you used to work here?"

"No," said Tavy. "It's not a robbery. We don't want your money. And I wouldn't work here for any salary, including yours. I wouldn't want this place on my conscience. We came to talk to you about your plant's water pollution, Mr. Sheridan."

The company president blinked. "You're environmentalists?"

"Not really," said Tavy. "Didn't used to be, anyhow. I'm just a man dying of cancer, and I wanted to tell you a few things about your paper mill." He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the Carter Biological water analysis. "Did you know that you are releasing into the Little Dove River mercury, dioxin, sulphur, and cadmium? Did you know that you are exceeding federal EPA levels for each of them? Did you know that three of those substances are cancer causing?"

Sheridan shrugged. "That is not my area of expertise. I have engineers who take care of that sort of thing. And lawyers."

"But they report to you. You have to sign the papers for the EPA reports. You have to know what you're putting into that water."

Sheridan turned to stare up at Taw, impassive behind the gun. He seemed to be trying to decide which of his captors to reason with. The dying man had nothing to lose; maybe this one. . . . "It's a very complex business," he said, trying to sound friendly. "Lots of confusing government regulations; highly technical infor-322

mation from many departments. I'd be happy to get someone to talk to you about this. They'd know more than I." He ventured a smile. "Look, fellas, I have grandchildren. I don't want to mess up the world any more than you do."

Taw did not respond to his smile. The gun did not waver.

"We don't need information," said Tavy in a harsher tone than before. "We came to tell you that the stuff you put in the river causes cancer. What are you going to do about it?"

Sheridan's smile was as oily as a politician's. "Our studies do not confirm that allegation," he said smoothly. "Of course, we are concerned about the environment just like everyone else, and my engineers have assured me that the emission levels of this plant are perfectly safe and legal. Now, I understand how you might feel, having cancer and looking for someone to blame. Do you smoke, by the way?"

"No," said Tavy. "I used to fish, though. So you're telling us that the Little Dove is not a health hazard?"

"That's right," said Sheridan. He started to stand up, but Taw pressed the muzzle of the gun against his temple, and he slid back into the leather chair, glistening with sweat. "The river is perfectly safe," he finished weakly.

"Well, for your sake that's mighty good news," said Tavy Annis with a bitter smile. "Mighty good news." He set the paper bag down on Roger Sheridan's shiny mahogany desk, and took out a mason jar filled with murky brown liquid, the color of tobacco spit. 323

Titan Paper's CEO stared up at his interrogator, nervously licking his lips. "What's that?"

"Why, Mr. Sheridan, that's a jar of harmless Little Dove River water," said Tavy. "Now, drink it."

Sheridan's mouth dropped open, but no words came out. Finally, he said, "You're joking!"

Taw touched the muzzle of the gun to the captive's sweaty temple. "You heard him," he said. "Pick up the jar and drink, or we'll blow your goddamn head off."

Tavy picked up the jar, sloshing the liquid a little, as if it were a snifter of brandy, and held it out to the gasping man. "Go on, now. Drink it all. Chugalug."

Roger Sheridan summoned up a trace of his old authority. "You can't do this to me!" he spluttered. "I'll have you arrested for this!"

"Really?" Tavy grinned, motioning for him to drink.

Sheridan brought the jar to his lips, inhaled, and jerked his head away as the reek of dead water slammed into his nostrils. "I'll get you for assault!" he whispered. "I'll have you charged with attempted murder."

Tavy Annis nodded pleasantly. "Please do, Mr. Sheridan," he said gently. "Please take us to court, and say that making you drink a quart of Little Dove water is attempted murder. I want that statement to be a matter of public record."