Authors: Frederick Ramsay
A small crowd formed, muttering and gossiping outside the yellow crime scene tape. At first blush, the news that George LeBrun had been killed by a runaway truck made no sense, but as they all agreed that the news was all to the good. Most decided they didn't care how he'd met his end, only glad that he had. Ike turned Darla over to Blake and Mary Fisher temporarily, although it probably didn't meet Child Protective Services' protocols and he called Flora to tell her that her goddaughter had been found and was safe.
Billy put Feldman in the backseat of Charley Picket's cruiser and banged on the roof. Charley would take him in, book him, and let him cool off in jail. Whether or not Feldman would receive an appropriately long sentence or only a few years for aiding and abetting, one thing was abundantly clear: the likelihood that an ex-cop and child molester would survive more than a few months in jail was problematic. There is a code among inmates that requires that the judicial system's fuzzy decisions involving leniency in those areas be adjusted to a more stringent standard, particularly for ex-law enforcement officers who happened to stray. Feldman, as Billy predicted, was toast.
One of the EMTs sent to the crash handed Ike an envelope. “We found this on the front seat of the woman's truck.”
“You should not have touched it, son. This is a crime scene.”
“Sorry, Sheriff, but the chief was afraid the vehicle was about to blow. I don't think there are any other fingerprints on it but mine and they are on file.”
“Did the woman say anything before she died?”
“No, sir.”
Ike donned the obligatory latex gloves, which he hated and which now seemed superfluous, and pulled out a three-page letter. Leota Blevins had left a message. He scanned the neat librarian handwriting and then read it through.
To whoever finds this, please forward it to the proper authorities.
Where to begin? My life, it seems, has spun out of control. I didn't mean it to. I always thought of myself as a steady, rational person, at least lately, but events from the past caught up with me. Anyway, I write this hoping that no one will ever have to read it. But since I can't be sure how this mad journey will end and since Darla will need answers, should I fail, I feel I should at least write a synopsis of what I did and why I did it.
Like so many tragedies, it began innocently enough. I met with the caseworker overseeing Darla. I tried to explain to her how difficult it was to communicate with the child. That she seemed so withdrawn. The caseworker suggested I try what she called “photo therapy.” I was to elicit from Darla if there were any times in her past when she felt happy, or contentâpositive even. Once I knew that, I was to go to the places where those events took place and photograph them. I should then assemble an album and show them to the girl. Over time, the caseworker said, this would help her remember, not just the events, but how she felt. The theory, she said, was that emotions like joy and happiness, if suppressed over a long time, are often difficult to release and that Darla needed to practice them. I don't know if I believed the woman or not, but I thought it was worth a try.
I see that I am rambling here. So sorry.
I drove to the various areas where Darla had lived and began taking pictures. Outside Picketsville, for example, there is an old barn where she used to play hide and seek and a picnic area where she and her mother went often. That would be when she was very young but she did remember the place especially. I had just finished photographing it and planning my trip to Luray and the caverns when Ethyl Smut staggered through the woods. She didn't see me at first and it appeared she'd been hurt.
I need to back up. Before she appeared I heard a great deal of shouting and car doors slamming. I did not recognize the male voice at the time but now I know it must have been Mark Dellinger.
Ethyl knelt at the spring and washed what looked like blood from her side or somewhere, I couldn't be sure. Then she saw me. I confess that what happened next is a blur. We had words. Words about what she'd done to her daughterâthe sheer awfulness of it. And Mark's name came up, too. If you understand the expression âseeing red,' you will understand what happened next. I lost my temper; she came at me in what I assume must have been a drug-enhanced rage. I tried to fend her off but she would have none of it. Finally, I picked up a stick I found at my feet and hit her on the head. Somehow I must have hit her in the one place that would be fatal. I read about those blowsâa whack on the temple, leaving hardly any mark, but inevitably fatal.
I would like to think what I did was self-defense, but given the circumstances of our rivalry over Mark, I doubt a jury would agree. That thought was in my mind when I decided that the world would be a better place without her anyway, that no one would mourn or miss her, that doing anything other than removing her from this earth made no real sense. There was a shallow depression nearby and I scraped out enough dirt to fashion a grave and I buried her.
I thought I was done. I brought Darla back to the place a week or so later to see her mother's grave. I don't know if that was a good thing to do psychologically, but I thought closure was more important for her than the possible trauma the visit might create. She seemed relieved and asked if she could stay in town and visit her godmother for a while. She said she knew the way to her godmother's place and to just drop her off at the corner where the Cross Roads Diner was located. I did not get along with Flora so I let her go and drove back to Virginia Beach. Later, I discovered that George LeBrun had been released from prison and Darla might be in danger as he was one of the (many) men who had sexually abused her as a child.
After that, things careened off the tracks, you could say. I heard from Mark D. and he was telling me that he'd had a set-to with Ethyl and it had been he who had taken her to the woods that day and that earlier he'd accosted LeBrun about what he and his cronies had done to his daughter. I am guessing about that part, but it fits. I don't know how many people know Darla was Mark's daughter. I am certain, though I cannot prove it, that LeBrun killed him and burned his trailer down to cover the murder. I believe I must have been on the other end of the phone when that happened. That was when I think I went completely crazy.
Then, Darla disappeared and I was frantic. I have since been following LeBrun, who I believe destroyed the lives of Ethyl, her daughter, and Mark DellingerâGod forgive me, the only man I ever loved. What I will do when the time comes I do not know, but I have my father's shotgun with me and I will, if I am given the chance, settle the score.
If someone happens to be reading this, you will know, then, that I tried.
Leota Blevins.
P.S. I hope, if the worst occurs, that some stable family will find it in their hearts to take Darla into their care and give her what she never had, a real home and hope.
L.B.
Ike folded the letter and replaced it in its envelope. “We're done here,” he announced. “Everybody pack up and head for home.”
***
“What happens now?” Ruth asked as Ike emerged from the shower.
“Now? Well, let's see. It's Sunday night.” He looked at the clock on the mantle. “Oops, make that Monday morning. We have just enough time to sleep a few hours, don our outfits, gather ourselves together, march smartly through our
faux
wedding ceremony, eat too much, drink too much, and set in motion the steps necessary to create a home for the girl. The last, by the way, is the really important thing to get going. That done, we carry on as usual.”
“No honeymoon?”
“Taken care of.”
“Someone asked what we were going to do.”
“I hope you told them that if the honeymoon was anything as successful as the rehearsal, it should be great.”
“You never stop, do you? Okay, no second thoughts about the girl and what that will do to our hitherto unsullied life together?”
“Define unsullied.”
“You know what I mean. There is a world of difference when it was just the two of us and we could do as we pleased. It's a wholly different situation with a young woman in our care, one who will require, as you pointed out, all kinds of attention and time.”
“When I was out at the trailer park the first time, when we found Darla's father dead, I heard the name Dellinger and I couldn't place it. You remember me saying something about that in Frank's last week. The intern had told me earlier that Darla had a father named Dellinger, and I completely lost it.”
“What has that got to do withâ¦what do you mean, you âlost it'?”
“I mean I have lost a step. There was a time when I could tell you something about everyone I ever met. I never forgot anything, at least nothing critical. Now, I hear Dellinger and a couple of hours later, I don't know who he is.”
“And that is important because?”
“Declining skill set, I think the psychological wonks would describe it. I am not getting any younger, Ruth. I could not survive ten minutes in my old profession and increasingly, I need help now, in this new one, you see?”
“I don't see. What has you getting older have to do with taking in Darla? I'm sorry as hell you are no longer James Bond but what the hell, you're not that old and who cares about your damned âskill set' anyway?”
“I do, but more importantly, it reminded me that we all have to grow up sooner or later. Darla does and, sad to say, so do we. It's time to move to a new place, mentally, I mean. So, as for Darla, nope, I have no qualms. It'll be a risk for all concerned, but one worth taking. It's just a damned shame someone wasn't there for her years ago. Flora Blevins may fight us on this you know.”
“No she won't, trust me, she will end up here, Ike.”
“You're certain.”
“A woman knows. So, what about the honeymoon?”
“Ask me tomorrow. Right now, I am beat.”
It didn't rain. Ruth's mother said it would. When confronted on her negativity, she declared the best way to insure something didn't happen was to bet that it would, tempt fate, sort of. Wash the carâget rain. She said it worked when Ruth was a teenager and it should now. No one believed her, especially the part about Ruth, but it did not rain. Ike's deputies put together a betting pool on the exact time Ike would actually marry the professor. Most people believed he would be late and the only issue was how late. Time slots in fifteen-minute intervals were charted out. Charley Picket won. He maintained a wedding would not happen at all. He won on a technicality. For those who actually paid attention to the words of the service, it soon became apparent that Ike and Ruth were already married and the service simply conferred a church blessing on it. Nobody really cared.
Food and drink were laid out on tables next to the church on the only grass available and guests, crashers, and two tourists from Pennsylvania who, since it was a weekday, thought they were witnessing an historical re-enactment of some sort, joined the celebration.
Townies performed a complex gavotte with the academics. Mutual suspicion and disdain seasoned with the grain alcohol Billy dumped in his mother's famous lemon-strawberry punch heightened the strain, but there were no fights. When enough of the spiked punch had finally kicked in, the mood shifted and one of the town's livelier citizens actually danced with the chairwoman of Callend's Philosophy Department. This was all the more remarkable as there was no music provided at the time and neither dancer seemed to notice.
“Okay, Schwartz, where is he?”
“Where is who?”
“You know. Where is your buddy and mega-trouble maker, Charlie Garland, spook, spy, and ruiner of weekends?”
“Charlie? Did you invite Charlie?”
“Don't go all innocent with me, Bunky. He's here, isn't he?”
“Probably, but in spite of what you may believe, I did not invite him. He called and said he'd see me Monday, that is today, well before I could get around to it.”
“Then you were going to invite him?” Ike shrugged. “How'd he know we were doing this?”
“He's CIA. He knows everything. If you don't believe it, ask him. He even knew about the Budding Rose Wedding Chapel.”
“I hate him. So, where is he?”
Ike pivoted around and did a quick mental inventory of the crowd. He paused for a moment to watch the tourists from Pennsylvania. They were taking pictures and interviewing some of the guests, notebooks at the ready. The townsfolk were used to this “innocents from the north behavior” and, because of the spiked punch and the general gaiety of the moment, were busy helping them fill their notebooks with some completely fictitious Civil War minutia. Ike and Ruth's wedding would be described a week later on one of the visitor's blogs, as the annual celebratory re-enactment of Picketsville's savior, General Percival Frontain's marriage to Lucinda Lee Picket, great-granddaughter of the town's founder and hero of the Revolutionary War, Horatio Bellweather Picket. Several of his readers would bookmark the story and the reference would later appear in the footnotes of two term papers and the subplot for a bad historical novel.
“Charlie Garland is over there next to the cake entertaining your mother. Do you think we need to mount an intervention?”
“No. My mother can take her chances like everyone else. Who's that with him?”
“Umâ¦that is, if I am not mistaken, Harry Grafton.”
“And he is?”
“An associate of Charlie's and more you do not want to know.'
“The woman with him looks familiar.”
“She should. She graduated from Callend. Her name used to be Jennifer Ames. I presume it is now Grafton. I'm missing Armand Dillon. He would have loved this.”
Ruth sighed. “He would have and you're not the only one. Since his death, the University Development Office has to do actual work now to raise money.”
“No more picking up the phone and calling âUncle Armand' for seed money, matching funds, outright gifts?”
“Alas, no. Okay, I think we're done here, let's blow this joint.”
“We have to cut the cake first.”
“Okay, then let's cut the cake and then blow this joint.”
“Cut the cake. Right.”
“Should we should say something to Darla before we go?”
“We could, but we won't just now. She needs time to decompress. She has had a horrific week which topped off a horrific life. There may still be some, or a great deal of residual enmity directed toward police in general and me in particular. I don't want to spook her into running away again. The Rev is working with her. He's good at that stuff. Give him time with her. When we get back we will see where she is and if and when adopting her or whatever it is we do would be appropriate. It could be some time, Ruth, before that child is wrapped tight enough to deal with you and me.”
“And you and I with her, I suspect. You're right. I am used to receiving immediate results, I'm afraid. In this instance, I will have to wait.”
Ike was told that Darla insisted she be called Darlene Dellinger, not Darla Smut. They were her birth certificate names after all. She stood to one side between Mary and Blake Fisher in a very new party frock. Since she'd managed to escape her mother and the life she'd been forced to live, she'd worn nothing but slacks and jeans. She seemed uncomfortable in a dress. She held the front down with one hand and kept her feet together.
Vulnerable
would describe her best. The party ebbed and flowed around her. She didn't appear able to take it all in. So many happy people. Blake had spent the previous night explaining to her that the sheriff's office as she knew it had vanished absolutely and that the new sheriff had only her best interests at heart and had been trying to protect her from the LeBruns of the world. She'd given him a weak smile and he'd guessed it would take time before she believed any of what he said, but then she started asking questions about what had happened and what people were doing. Youth, given a chance, has remarkable powers of healing.
“By the way, O groom of mine,' Ruth said, bringing Ike back to the moment, “you said you would tell me where we were going when we finally do cut and run, pun intended.”
“Yes, I did. Thank you for reminding me. For the âunbridled' portion of this inspired Morris Dance, I have arranged for you to take a week offâ”
“A week? I can't take a week off. We just got back from too many weeks off already, Ike.”
“Nevertheless, with the skillful connivance of Agnes, your loyal and at the moment teary-eyed administrative assistant, I have managed to have you off the books for one whole week beginning today. This afternoon, we head out to Roanoke.”
“Roanoke! You want me to spend quality romantic time celebrating this matrimonial crash and burn with a week in Roanoke? Really?”
“Not the city, Miz President, the airport. From there we shall hop our way across the country and spend a rollicking week in Sedona, Arizona.”
“What's in Sedona, Arizona? Hell, aside from being in Arizona, where is Sedona?”
“Middle of the state, out of the worst of the heat and very pretty. We will have a week in a luxury resort, complete with a spa, mud baths, and cucumber slices on the eyes if that is your wish, crystal shops with New Age woo-woo, art galleries, good food, pink jeeps, red rocks, and energy vortexes.”
“Energy vortexes, you mean like a New Age filling station?”
“Um, yes that would pretty much cover it.”
“Right. So, what could possibly go wrong with that?”