A Judgment of Whispers (7 page)

Whaley wondered if Butch wasn't trying to shut off the possibility of life without parole, but he said nothing.

“He's been like this ever since Teresa went into the light, so long before her time.”

“I see.” Whaley stepped inside the room to see a small security camera in the corner, its lens pointed at the door. On the opposite wall was another one, aimed at the window. A chill went down Whaley's spine. He imagined the bedrooms of the sickos who shot up schools and shopping malls probably looked a lot like this one.

“He watches those cameras on his cell phone,” said Janet Russell. “He trusts no one. Not even me.”

“So where is Butch now?”

She glanced at the red numbers of the digital clock on Butch's desk. “I imagine he's just left work. He's a security guard at the college. He likes to work the early shift, so he can get home before dark.”

“Seriously?” Whaley frowned. Janet Russell made Butch sound more like seventy-seven instead of thirty-seven.

She leaned toward him, spoke in a whisper. “Do you know he's never been married? Never even asked a girl out? He goes to work, comes home, and watches television with me! No wife, no sweethearts, no friends at all.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.” Stepping back, Whaley pulled a card from his wallet. “Tell him to call me at his earliest convenience. Mostly, we're just updating our files, but I would like to talk to him.”

“I'll see that he gets this.” With one hand Janet Russell made some kind of sign at the threshold of Butch's room, then re-closed his door.

“I don't suppose you have any new leads on Teresa, do you?” she asked as she followed him back down the hall. “Not, of course, that you'd tell me if you did.”

“Just updating our files,” he repeated as he again passed the picture of her with Two Toes.

“Well, Butch will cooperate, as always.” She opened the front door for Whaley to leave, then she put a hand on his arm. “Please find the killer this time. All this suspicion sucks the life out of people.”

“That's what we're trying to do, ma'am.”

“Then Godspeed.” Once again she pressed her palms together, jingling her necklaces again. “And peace.”

Whaley made his way back to his car, feeling a curious sadness for the families on Salola Street. Their lives had been blighted by Teresa Ewing's murder. One mother couldn't stay sober, another had become a religious nut, and yet another had turned into a jailer, keeping her kid under permanent house arrest. “Jack always said this street was cursed,” he whispered as he got back in his car. “Maybe he was on to something way back then.”

Nine

While Whaley was touring
Butch Russell's bedroom, Rob Saunooke was threading his way deep into the Quallah Boundary. Kenny Anderson, Two Toes's parole officer had told him that even though Two Toes's official address was Birdtown, he always met him at the Hartsville Burger King, because it was more “convenient.”

“More convenient, my ass,” Saunooke grumbled as he drove up the twisty road to Birdtown. “It's just safer. Anderson knows Two Toes won't slit his throat at the Burger King. There'd be too many witnesses.”

But Birdtown was not where Two Toes resided. After searching the little village for more than an hour, a withered old crone at a convenience store said she thought Two Toes might live in a trailer up on Lickstone Ridge. “He's got some kind of sweat lodge up there, but don't tell him I told you,” she said. “He might burn my store down.”

“Don't worry,” Saunooke assured her. “I won't tell.”

“
Geyatahi,
” she called after him. “Be careful. I hear he's become a witch.”

So Saunooke drove down the coves and up the ridges, looking for the thin threads of white smoke that would indicate a trailer or a cabin. So far he'd heard that Two Toes had become a minister, then a witch. He remembered the man's reputation from his childhood, when his mother would warn him,
Don't forget to say your prayers, and keep Two Toes away!
His father told him that was nonsense, that he would keep Two Toes away with his shotgun. Though Saunooke said his prayers every night, he always slept better when his father was home.

He drove to the point that he'd almost decided the old woman at the store had been mistaken, when the road dribbled down to just a grassy sward that was swallowed up by a low-hanging cloud. As he stopped to put the cruiser in reverse, he heard a chorus of dogs start barking off to his left. Following their yapping, he turned down the long, mashed-down grass. At the end of the path, an arch made of willow branches spanned the road. From the center hung a sign that read
Right Path Retreat
. Hoping the thing wouldn't fall on his cruiser, he drove under it. He continued a few hundred feet farther down the path, finally making a sharp turn to the left. In the middle of a small meadow a rust-streaked trailer sat on concrete blocks, surrounded by three teepees. A battered black truck was parked outside, next to a long, fifty-foot wire, to which four dogs were tethered. They looked like German shepherds, but with longer legs and thick, curly tails. Slowly he drove toward the trailer. With every turn of his wheels the dogs went crazier, saliva flying from their dark lips as they snapped first at their chains, then at each other. He realized that there was no way he could get out of his car and approach the trailer. The wire was not much stronger than a clothesline—if those dogs broke it, he'd be a dead man before he could draw his weapon.

He put the car in park and was reaching to announce himself with his siren when the door of the trailer opened. Saunooke held his breath, waiting to see if a minister or a witch or the devil of his childhood would emerge. He half expected someone wild-eyed, with their hair on fire. He was astonished when a barrel-chested man with long black hair came out, wearing nothing but a dingy pair of jockey shorts. The man yawned, glanced once at Saunooke, then began urinating off the front porch.

Saunooke got out of the car but stood behind the open door, his weapon drawn. The dogs went even more berserk.

“Elawei!”
the man barked at the animals. They went silent in an instant but kept watching their master with sharp, bright eyes.

“Are you Two Toes McCoy?” Saunooke called, thankful that his voice didn't betray his nervousness.

“I might be,” replied Two Toes. “Are you the
yonega
who pulls a weapon on an Indian with only his dick in his hands?”

Saunooke wanted to say that he wasn't
yonega
, he was Tsalagi. His was a family of chiefs and diplomats. But Kenny Anderson had warned him that Two Toes was clever with words. “Just stick to the facts,” he'd said. “If you don't ask him what you want to know, straight up, he'll have your head spinning in circles.”

“Approach the car with your hands raised,” Saunooke ordered him. “You have to answer some questions.”

“Can I put my
wadohli
back?” asked Two Toes. “Or do you want it for target practice?”

Saunooke didn't know what to tell Two Toes to do about his penis. “Take care of it,” he finally said. “Then come down here.”

Two Toes shook off his dick, then made his way down the steps. The dogs watched him silently, their ears pricked. As Two Toes came closer, Saunooke saw that his body was a landscape of his life. Knife scars crossed his torso, while both shoulders had the crater-like scars of old bullet wounds. Various tattoos decorated his arms—GWY for Cherokee, the old logo for AIM, the American Indian Movement, and some designs on his neck that looked like oddly shaped crosses. He'd apparently kept up the weight-lifting regimen of so many prison inmates. He had little old man flab, just bone and muscle. True to his name, he had only two toes on his right foot. The other three, rumor had it, had been bitten off by a wildcat, turning his given name of George forever into Two Toes.

He stopped even with Saunooke's front fender and held his arms out wide. “There,” he said proudly. “
Ecce homo
.”

Saunooke didn't know what to say. He didn't know what Two Toes was talking about.

“It's Latin. It means ‘behold the man'.” Two Toes explained, his dark eyes boring into him. “Jesus said it when they were crucifying him.” His eyes flickered over to Saunooke's gun. “You about to crucify me, boy?”

“I need to ask you some questions.”

Two Toes shrugged. “Ask away, then. I got nothing better to do than stand here in my panties and talk to you.”

Saunooke began, asking Two Toes his long list of questions. All his answers were predictable—no. No, he hadn't been to Hartsville since his last parole meeting; no, he hadn't been near
Undli Adaya;
and no, he hadn't smoked any cigarettes in years.

“This is about that little girl, isn't it?”

Saunooke decided to play dumb. “What little girl?”

“The little white girl they found underneath
Undli Adaya
.” Two Toes folded his arms, rocking back on his heels. “Back when you were sucking your mother's tit.”

Saunooke checked an impulse to plant his fist in Two Toes's face. “What would you know about that?”

“Which one?” Two Toes grinned, showing dark gums and incisors he'd filed into points. “The girl or your mother?”

Quivering with anger, Saunooke lifted his gun. “What do you think?”

“Considering the way your hand is shaking, I think I'd best say the little girl.”

“And what do you know about that?”

“Only what
unole
whispers at night.”

Saunooke frowned. This is what Anderson had warned him about. Two Toes talked, but like a rabbit. Hopping down one hole to pop up in another.

“Maybe you could hear
unole
better in Hartsville. In jail.” He glanced at the dogs. “Your dogs have no rabies tags, and it's illegal to keep them chained in Pisgah County.”

“This is not Pisgah County. This is Quallah.”

“The same laws apply.”

Two Toes pinioned him with a black stare for what seemed an eternity, then held out his hands in a gesture of giving. “I heard they found something to do with the girl. The cops are on it. I imagine that's why you're here.”

“How did you know that?”

“If you knew your people, you'd know
Undli Adaya
tells us everything that happens there.”

“Did the tree tell you who killed Teresa Ewing?”

He shook his head, slow and deliberate. “Not a Tsalagi,” he replied. “And certainly not me.”

Jack Wilkins was feeding his chickens when one of them came calling. He figured it would be Whaley on tamp-the-crank detail; he was pleasantly surprised to see the young sheriff emerging from a slick-looking black Camaro.
They must be taking me seriously
, he thought, puffing up with a little pride as he stood up from filling the chicken feeder with grain.
Or else they really do think I planted those underpants.

“Detective?” Though Cochran was out of uniform in jeans and a plaid sport shirt, he still showed his respect by addressing Jack with his old title. Jack would have done exactly the same, had their positions been reversed.

“Nice to see you, Sheriff.” Jack let himself out of the chicken pen and extended his hand. Cochran's handshake was firm, collegial. He smiled over at Lucky, who was tethered to a tree, wagging his tail. “How's the dog doing?”

“Real well. Gave him a bath, got him a new collar. I'm keeping him tied up for a few days, till he figures out the girls here aren't dinner.”

“Good idea.” Cochran looked at the six speckled hens pecking at their feed. “You get a lot of eggs?”

“More than enough for the two of us,” replied Jack. “Wyandottes are good layers. My wife thinks they're pets. She says nobody can stay sad watching chickens.”

Jack smiled, knowing Cochran had not driven all the way out Azalea Road to discuss the antidepressant quality of chickens. This was all about those underpants and that tree. “Get anything back from the SBI yet?”

“As a matter of fact, we did,” said Cochran. “The underpants were made around the time of Teresa Ewing's death. The plastic bag was made in 2011.”

“Teresa's pants,” said Jack. “In a new bag.”

“Right.”

“Get any prints? Any DNA?”

“They haven't finished all the tests yet. The bag and the cigarette were clean. Somebody knew what they were doing.”

“And you're thinking maybe that somebody was me.”

Cochran just looked at him, one eyebrow lifting.

He knew this was coming, knew the minute the dog dug that thing up, he'd be on the griddle. But that was okay. Maybe his twitching thumbs meant he was supposed to be there. On the other hand, maybe he was just an old man at loose ends with his wife away from home. He didn't know what to think anymore. He looked up at Cochran. “Would you like to see everything I know about Teresa Ewing?”

Cochran gave a solemn nod. “I sure would.”

“Then follow me.”

He unhooked Lucky from the tether and led the dog and the sheriff inside his house. They walked through the kitchen and into the spare bedroom that served as his office/junk repository. Jan would be mortified at him bringing a stranger into such an ill-kept room, but he didn't care. The sheriff wasn't here to give him the Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval.

He crossed the room and turned on the lamp, illuminating the framed commendations on his wall. As Cochran and Lucky watched, he unlocked the bottom drawer and pulled out the five red notebooks that had almost cost him his marriage.

“This is everything I know,” said Wilkins. “I left the department copies of all my files on the day I retired, ten years ago.” He held up two more notebooks. “This is what I've gathered in the years since then. Have a seat if you'd like to look at it.”

“Don't mind if I do,” said Cochran, sitting down in an old rocking chair.

“Would you like some coffee? A beer?” offered Jack.

“Coffee would be nice,” Cochran replied.

“Then you read and I'll go brew a pot.”

He cranked up the Mr. Coffee using the special gourmet blend his daughter had sent him from Minneapolis. As Lucky's toenails clicked on the floor behind him, he got cups and saucers, found half a bag of Oreos in a cabinet, and put them on a plate. A few minutes later, he and Sheriff Cochran were eating cookies and drinking something called Bonecutter Brew.

“Whaley tell you I was obsessed?” he asked as he turned his desk chair to face Cochran.

“Whaley said you were a good cop who'd let this get under his skin,” replied Cochran.

He nodded. “That's true. It's gnawed at me for years. My wife almost left me over it.”

“Really?”

“Almost. Then I came to my senses. Realized that I had taken my best shot at that case, and it was time to move on.”

“Where's your wife now?” asked Cochran.

“Up in Minnesota. Our daughter just had our fourth grandchild. A little girl.”

“Congratulations.” Cochran smiled. “Little girls are awfully sweet. I have one myself.”

“Then you might understand how a case like Teresa Ewing can get to you.”

“Is that why were you there poking around that old tree yesterday?”

He shook his head. “I just woke up early—couldn't go back to sleep. Weather was too bad to play golf,” he said, leaving out the part about his twitching thumbs and strange sense of dread. “Beyond that, I can't say. I just wanted to see that tree again. Pay my last respects, I guess.”

“Your last respects?”

“It'll be different once they start putting those new houses up. I know that tree's important to the Cherokees and they're building a little park around it, but it won't be the same. New people will move in—people who will never have heard of Teresa Ewing.”

“And you think that's a bad thing?” asked Cochran.

“I don't know what I think. All I can tell you is that Logan and Whaley and I did our damnedest to find out who killed that child. It seemed her little life ought to have counted for something.”

“So who do you think did it?”

He shook his head. “Logan liked Big Jim McConnell's boy, Devin. Whaley liked the retarded kid. I can make a good case for any of them. And we're not even talking about Arthur Hayes or Two Toes McCoy.”

Cochran said, “But you must like one more than the others.”