“We be there, Mist’ Will Henry,” Nellie said. “And we ‘predate you lettin’ him stay home.” But her eyes didn’t meet his, and her mind was somewhere else, in a dark and desperate place. From inside the house came a noise, a loud moaning. “I got to see to Jesse,” she said.
Will Henry drove back to the station slowly, his heart filled with pity for Jesse and Nellie Cole. After all their trouble, now this. And it all went back to the Spence boy. His pity changed to guilt, and, on top of the visit from the murdered boy’s parents, it was almost more than he could bear.
The telephone was ringing as he walked into the station.“Delano police, Chief Lee speaking.”
“Chief? T. T. Brown here.”
The salesman from the police equipment company. Will Henry had seen him regularly, twice a year, but Brown had never telephoned before. “How’re you, Mr. Brown?”
“Just fine, just fine. I’m due down there next week. Stop in and see you, if I may.”
“Well, yes, there are a couple of things I need.”
“Reason I called, though, we got an order from Delano last week.”
“I haven’t ordered anything.”
“I know. It’s apparently from a civilian. We get them from time to time, but we don’t sell to the public. If somebody wants something from our catalogue we tell ‘em to order through their local police department; that way we don’t have any problem.”
“I see. Well, who was it, and what did they order?”
“No name. Just got an order for two pair of handcuffs, with a money order for the correct amount enclosed and a Delano post-office box number for an address. Box eighty-two. Probably a child, we get that now and then. They want to play cops and robbers, and they save up some money and want the real stuff. Still, I thought you ought to know about it. We’ve already returned the money order with a letter telling them to go through you.”
“Well, thanks for letting me know, Mr. Brown, and stop in to see me when you’re down this way.” Will Henry hung up. He didn’t know why Brown had even bothered to call. The money had been returned, that was the end of it. He doubted it anyone would be coming to see him to place an order for handcuffs. He turned to other work. Anything to occupy his mind. There was a letter from some women who wanted a stop sign at their street corner. He marked it for the attention of Willis Greer at city hall and put it in his out basket so he wouldn’t forget to take it over.
At home that night he told Carrie about Willie’s arrest.
“Poor Nellie,” she said. “I’ll see her name gets on the list for a turkey. I’ll have a word with Frank Mudter, too, and get him to look in on Jesse. I’d go out and see her, but knowing Nellie, she’d be embarrassed. It took a lot for her to come to me when Hoss Spence threw them off his place. She doesn’t like asking for help, not even from Flossie and Robert. You know, I’m going to have to give some thought to finding some regular work that she can do. Or maybe something for Willie, though it won’t help when word gets around about this business at Routon’s. She’s tried so hard to keep him in school, and he’ll graduate next year, if she can just hang on. Flossie says he’s real smart. Head of his class.”
“I’ll mention that to the judge tomorrow; maybe it’ll help.”
They ate their supper and talked a little, but it was plain to Carrie and the children that Will Henry was again in the grip of his private demon.
Willie got ten days in the city jail. His mother testified that he had never been in trouble before and that he was a good student.
Will Henry testified that he had known the boy all of his life, that he was a good worker, and that his parents had brought him up properly. Willie himself apologized for his theft to Ed Routon, and Routon said he had no wish to punish the boy unduly. Justice of the Peace Jim Buce, who also ran the feed store, was sympathetic, but said that the boy had to be taught some sort of lesson. So it was ten days working on the streets under the supervision of the city manager. Will Henry turned him over to Willis Greer for work as soon as the court had adjourned. Robert drove Nellie home in the Lee’s car, and Flossie was designated by the chief to bring the prisoner his meals, for which the city would pay. He would be the only prisoner in the jail.
Will Henry made his usual rounds without thinking, in a torpor of depression. He returned to the station to receive his prisoner at six o’clock. “How did it go today, Willie? What work did Mr. Greer have you doing?”
“I clean leaves out of some drains under the street. It wudn’t hard. He say we do the same thing tomorrow.”
“Well, it’s only ten days. You’ll be all done the end of next week.”
“Yassuh.”
Flossie brought Willie his supper and stayed to talk with him while Will Henry went home for his own meal. He left the cell door open, and reflected that Willie was probably eating a lot better than he would be at home. Driving back to the station after supper, Will Henry had the sudden notion that Willie would not be there when he arrived. But Willie was there, staring out the window, the cell door still wide open. Flossie had left. Will Henry wondered why he had doubted the boy.
“Everything all right, Willie?”
“Yassuh. You gon’ lock me up now?”
“Yes, you can settle in now. There’s plenty of blankets, and I’ll put some coal in the stove before I leave. You should be real comfortable.” Will Henry closed the door and began locking it.
Willie rushed from the window and grabbed the bars, his eyes wide with fright. “You ain’t gon’ leave me here by myself, is you Mist’ Will Henry? You ain’t gon’ do that?”
Will Henry reached through the bars and put his hands on the boy’s shoulders. “Now, son, I can’t stay here with you all night. You’re perfectly safe here. It’s all right.”
Willie grabbed Will Henry’s wrists, and he began crying.
“Oh, no suh, I cain’t stay here by myself! I’se skeered of it here! Please, suh, Mist’ Will Henry, don’t make me do it! Don’t leave me here all by myself! Please!”
Will Henry hesitated. “Now, Willie—”
“Please
, suh!”
Will Henry thought for a minute. He had a lot of leeway here. Nobody had ever questioned his disposition of a prisoner. He made up his mind. “All right, Willie, now listen. I’ll let you go home at night while you’re serving your sentence. You’ll come back here after work every day and let Flossie feed you, and then you can spend the night at home. But you have to promise me that you’ll be at city hall every morning at eight o’clock sharp to report to Mr. Greer for work. Now, will you promise me that?”
Willie nearly wept again, this time for joy. “Oh, yassuh! I sho’ will! Thank you, suh!”
Will Henry drove the boy home and watched him run up the steps and into his mother’s arms. He drove away feeling better than he had in days.
Chapter 29.
WILL HENRY was late to work the next morning, for the first time since he had taken the job. It was nearly twenty minutes past eight when he arrived, and there was someone waiting for him. A tiny old man with a pack on his back and a bundle under his arm stood on the steps and said, “Good morning to you, sir. Name’s Dooley. I do basketwork, itinerantlike. Whenever I come to a new town I always visit police headquarters first and offer my services. That way, when I start knocking on doors the police know I’m not out to steal the silver. Is there any caning I can do for you, sir?”
Will Henry smiled at the man. “Matter of fact, there is. Kind of nice to have somebody turn up just when you need them. Come on in.” He showed the man into his office and pointed at two sagging cane-bottomed chairs. “How much for the two?”
“I’d be pleased to do them for nothing but the good will, sir.”
“Suppose we call it a dollar for the both?”
The old man smiled and doffed his hat. “As you wish, sir.” He slipped out of his pack, tossed the bundle, which turned out to be strips of cane, onto the floor, and set to work on the chairs with a sharp knife, sitting on the floor as he worked, humming tunelessly to himself. The telephone rang. It was Skeeter Willis.
“Morning, Will Henry.”
“Morning, Skeeter.”
“Had a call from the sheriff of Fulton County last night, an old friend. Asked a favor. Friend of his wife’s had a boy run away Sunday after he got into a little trouble and took a whipping. Sheriff figures he might be headed for an aunt’s place in Florida and thought he might be hitchhiking down forty-one. He’d appreciate it if we’d keep an eye out for him. You still there, Will Henry?”
“Yes.” He had been thinking about another boy, on the road alone for the first time, gone home, finally, with his parents in a box on the back of a truck. “Got a description?”
“Sure. Name, Raymond Curtis; age, fifteen, but looks older; height, five feet nine inches; weight, one forty-five; hair, brown; eyes, brown; has a one inch white scar on his chin; stutters a little. Got that?”
Will Henry jotted down the information. “I’ve got it. When did you say he was last seen?”
“Sunday afternoon, late. If he’s headed for Florida he’d be past you already, this being Wednesday, but keep an eye out for him, all right?”
“Sure, be glad to.”
“And Will Henry, if you come on him call me instead of Fulton County, if you would.”
Skeeter wanted any credit coming. “Sure Skeeter.” He hung up.
He sat, elbow on desk, hand over mouth, like a man about to throw up, frozen, staring across the room. It couldn’t happen again. Why did he feel this way? Just a runaway boy. Then he realized he was looking at something familiar, something from a long time ago. His eyes focused on what the little man, Dooley, was doing across the room. Dooley’s hands were flying about a chair, quickly weaving a seat of cane over the frame. The other chair, stripped of its seat, stood next to him bare, horribly naked, beckoning some memory. He went to his desk and heaved open the heavy bottom drawer, dug into a pile of papers, extracted the file he wanted. Setting the photographs aside, he turned to the neatly typed report. It was there, in bare detail: “… horizontal and vertical bruises, approx. eight-nine inches in length, one inch wide, on buttocks …” But there was something not in the report; something in Frank Mudter’s dining room after an uneaten supper; something said. Dr. Carter Sauls’s deep voice came to him: “He was tied to some sort of seat, something like an old-fashioned toilet chair with nothing in the middle… .” And now he remembered. His first visit to Foxy’s house … nobody there … in the kitchen, chairs being recaned … one still bare. The dog had frightened him at that moment, when she and her puppies had made their appearance through the slot in the kitchen door, scaring him half to death, obliterating the memory of the chairs. He hadn’t remembered when Sauls had brought it up. Something else Sauls had said: the boy’s hands were tied or, perhaps, handcuffed. He picked up the phone and spoke a number into it.
“Post office, Pittman speaking.”
“George, this is Will Henry Lee.”
“How you doing, Chief?”
“Fine. Tell me something George, who has box number eighty-two?” He already knew the answer.
“Foxy Funderburke. Got it last year. We’ve got a waiting list, you know.”
Will Henry thought for a moment. “Does Foxy pick up his mail every day, George?”
“Never misses. In here every morning as soon as I’ve got it put up. Except—”
“What, George?”
“Well, it’s funny, but Foxy … hang on a minute, will you?
Will Henry waited, tapping his foot, knowing what was coming, frightened.
“Yeah, just like I thought. Foxy hasn’t picked up his mail since last Saturday. Hope he isn’t sick or something, up there all by himself on that mountain.”
“Thanks for the information, George.”
“Sure, Will Henry, but what’s this all about?” But the chief had hung up.
Will Henry took a dollar bill from his pocket and handed it to Dooley. “Would you mind finishing up over in the fire station? I’ve got to lock up for a while.”
“Not at all.” Dooley gathered up his things and moved out the door. Will Henry locked the door and started to get into his car. The telephone rang. He hesitated, then got into the car and drove away.
With some effort he kept himself from driving fast through the town. No need to disturb people. Once past the last houses, he accelerated up the mountain, climbing fast until he reached the crest of the pass. There he stopped, forced himself to be calm, to slow his breathing. He had faced Foxy twice on the occasion of murders and got nowhere. This time he would do it differently. Instead of taking the road across the mountain toward Foxy’s, he turned right, onto the Scenic Highway, and drove along the mountain’s ridge until he saw smoke rising. He pulled over to the side and got out. A few hundred yards down the mountainside he could see a part of the roof of Foxy’s house. A puff of wind blew the chimney smoke in his direction. Good. He would be downwind of the dogs. He started away from the car, then went back. He unlocked the trunk, took out a 30-30 rifle and loaded it. If it was still going on down there he might need it. He pumped a round into the chamber, eased the hammer down to half-cock and started down the mountain.
Chapter 30.
HE MOVED DOWNWARD through a riot of color, trees at the peak of their autumn, shimmering gold and flaming red, a carpet of the same hues under his feet. He did not notice the beauty which surrounded him, thinking only of what horror he might find at the end of his walk down the mountain.