Jake Walker's Wife (30 page)

Again, the rolling, lilting lamentation echoed over the farm, hovering
, wavering like thick, doleful fog.

The wolf was alone. Bess knew that much because there had been no response to
the call. Had that been the reason for the spellbindingly sorrowful notes of its song?

The mental picture of the wolf she'd seen all those years before in the heavy iron cage on the streets of Baltimore flashed through her mind. She saw, too, the face on the poster. What did they have in common?

Eyes as round and cold as ice that had, with one coolly level look, instantly permeated her mind, her heart, her soul. During the moments that their gazes and hers melded, she had read their thoughts, shared their emotions.

And concluded that they'd both wanted one and the same thing:

Freedom.

***

"It was an accident, Smitty, I swear...."

The deputy's cackling laughter bounced off the stone walls of the jailhouse. "I had a dollar for every time I heard that, I could buy me new horse." The iron bars of the cell rang like a piano tuner's fork when he slammed the door. With calm deliberation, he made a regular production of turning the big black key in its lock.

Tossing the key ring into the top desk drawer, Smitty paced back and forth in front of the bars. "You got some nerve, Preacher, I'll give you that."

Josh Atwood sat on the edge of the narrow cot, elbows on knees, head in his hands.

Stopping dead in his tracks, Smitty threw both hands into the air. "They was takin' W.C. to the gallows when that jail wagon overturned." He stared at his prisoner. "And you would-a let him swing for a murder you committed, wouldn’t you!"

Atwood only continued to stare at some unknown spot on the gritty floor between his boots.

Smitty's face crinkled, as though he'd just inhaled a dreadful odor. "Yep, you got some nerve, all right."

Shaking his head and muttering under his breath, he headed across the room and settled into the worn seat of the wooden armchair. Propping his boot heels on the corner of the desk, he helped himself to one of the
sheriff’s toothpicks. "You have two choices, Preacher," he said, leaning back in the chair. "You can tell me your story, or you can wait 'til the sheriff gets back."

Atwood, still holding his head in his hands, said nothing.

Smitty's feet hit the floor one at a time and he sat up. "Don't it just beat all?" he said again, weather-worn hands folded on the desk top. "The sheriff's out east, followin' up on a lead that might He'p him bring in poor ol’ W.C., when Horace's real killer has been here in Lubbock, right under his nose, the whole time." He shook his head again. "If a judge and jury don't kill ya, Carter likely will. You know how many times he's left his wife and young'uns to go on a wild goose chase to get that boy?"

Sitting back again, he grabbed a stubby pencil and a sheet of paper from the desk drawer. "So what's it gonna be, Preacher? You want me to write down your account of what happened that night? Or is the sheriff gonna do it when he gets back?"

Atwood didn't move, save to heave a deep sigh. "Didn't know you could read or write, Smitty," he said in a quiet, spent voice.

Another chuckle preceded the deputy's retort
. "There's a lot you don't know, Preacher." He worked the toothpick to the other corner of his mouth. "I've known how to read an' write goin' on seven years now. But then, I don't suppose I would-a noticed much these past ten years, either, if I'd framed my brother's son for a murder that—“

He was on his feet in a whipstitch, fingers wrapped tight around the thick black bars. "It
wasn’t murder, I tell you! It was an—“

"Pardon me if I sound a mite sharp," Smitty interrupted.
Then, in a high-pitched nasal whimper, he quoted Atwood: "'It was an accident. An
accident
.'” The steady ticking of the big round clock on the wall drew his attention. "I got fifteen minutes afore I have to make my morning rounds." Pressing the rounded pencil point against the paper, he said, "Now, start talkin'...."

***

"B'lieve me, Missus Pickett, I'm sober as a judge, an' I promise you, I wouldn't ring your bell if what I had to say wasn't important."

The reed-thin woman in the high-collared black dress hesitated a moment, then opened the door wider and cringed slightly as Joe Purdy stepped into her dimly-lit foyer.

Purdy held up a hand as she began moving toward the parlor. "Ma'am, I appreciate the invite, but I wouldn't want to spoil your fancy settee. If it's all the same to you, I'd just as soon skip the pleasantries and get on with it, right here in the hall."

Mrs. Pickett did not close the door. One pale, wrinkled hand remained on the brass knob as she said, "Very well, then, Mr. Purdy, state your business."

"W.C. Atwood did not kill your husband."

She lifted her chin a notch and exhaled a sigh of frustration. "You said you weren't drunk, Mr. Purdy. You gave me your word, and
I believed you."

"I ain't had a drop since
yesterday morning," he interrupted, standing a little taller. "The man who really killed Mr. Pickett is at the jailhouse right now, confessin' to the crime."

Her thin, graying eyebrows knitted in the center of her wrinkled forehead. "Are you daft? The killer is out
there somewhere…." With her free hand, the widow gestured toward the bustling street. "…on the loose, as he has been for—“

"
—ten long years," Purdy said softly, "for a crime he didn't commit."

She blinked, then blinked again as the weight of his words sunk in. "Someone has admitted it, you say?"

"Josh Atwood."

Lips taut, she narrowed her eyes. "You don't expect me to believe that Godly man could have committed cold-blooded mur
der!"

"He claims it was an accident. Said he never meant
for it to happen."

"An accident?" She closed the door and led the way into the parlor, where a teapot and two cups and saucers sat on the ornate
cherry wood table in front of the divan.

Purdy inspected the set-up. "You expectin' company, Miz Pickett?"

She blushed deeply, then bit her lower lip. "No." Sighing, the widow added, "I have always believed in being prepared, is all. Now, how do you take your tea, Mr. Purdy," she asked, lifting the lid of the gleaming silver sugar bowl, "one lump or two?""

Purdy perched on the edge of the arm chair across from her. "One, thank you kindly
, ma’am."

A lone sugar cube landed in the bottom of the cup with a tiny
clink
, and an instant later was drowned in steamy, rusty-brown liquid. "Cream?"

"No, ma'am."

"Relax, Mr. Purdy," she said as the barest hint of a smile lifted the corners of her mouth, "Despite what I'm sure you've heard about me, I don't bite...," she said, grinning, "...unless provoked."

He returned the smile, and with trembling hands, accepted the cup. "Ma'am, if I ain't learned nothin' else in life, it's that nobody is what they seem to be."

Balancing the delicate china on her knee, the widow took a deep, shaky breath. She stared off into space, eyes vacant, as if remembering the moment when they told her that her husband was dead. "It was his eyes, I think, that made it easy to believe that young man had...that he'd...." The widow cleared her throat. "So Pastor Atwood did it, you say?"

"No, ma'am. Ain't me who says it.
It's W.C.'s uncle, who says it. And if you don't believe me, you can ask him yourself." He gave a short, nervous laugh. "Smitty's got him locked up good an' tight down at the jail."

Daintily, Mrs. Pickett leaned forward and placed her cup and saucer on the gilded silver tray. "That won't be necessary, Mr. Purdy." Closing her eyes for a moment, she shook her head. "Now then, do tell me how
Mr. Atwood claims this so-called 'accident' happened."

Purdy put his cup down, too. "You sure you're strong enough to hear
?"

She sat up taller. "Mr. Purdy, my size and stature may make me appear weak and frail, but as
you so astutely pointed out, appearances are deceiving."

"Well, it's just that according to the preacher, Mr. Pickett wasn't entirely blameless...."

Shaking her head, she sent him a hard glare. "My husband and I had been together nearly thirty years when he was killed. I know what sort of man he was better than anyone in this town.” She leveled Purdy with a glare. “Now tell me what you know, or leave me in peace."

"
All right, then.” Purdy coughed, and plunged in. “The preacher said he'd heard W.C. give your husband a dressing down for scarin' Francine. Said he heard W.C. issue a threat of his own: 'If I ever hear-tell of you threatening a woman again, I'll break your fat red neck.'" Purdy shrugged. "Well, that very night, the preacher and Mr. Pickett were, ah, well, let's just say they were in the same place at the same time when the preacher heard your husband threaten...let’s just say he threatened another woman."

"You needn't fancy it up for me, Mr. Purdy. He was with a
prostitute." Frowning, she stared at her hands, folded primly in her lap. "Wasn't he?"

The carriage clock on the mantle ticked five times before he said, "All I know for sure, ma'am, is that he was out back of the saloon when the preacher saw him."

Tears misted in her eyes and she managed a small smile. "You're very kind to try and protect me from the truth. But the fact is, we've been constant companions, Truth and I, from the moment I said 'I do' to that horrible man. Now please, do go on...."

He shook his head. "Well, the ladies, they
—“

"Ladies?" she interrupted, accenting the plural. "You don't mean to say that
the pastor was with one of those...that he'd been…upstairs the saloon, too?"

"Like I said, ma'am, all I know for sure is the two of 'em were out back, in the alley. What went on before they got there, I can't say for sure. But the preacher claims he saw Mr. Pickett slappin' the woman around, says he saw him shove her to the ground. Says she'd hit her head, that she was crying and bleeding when he stepped in to put a stop to the beating." Purdy hesitated. "Guess it went pretty quick from a shoving match to a fistfight...."

He took a deep breath before going on. "I reckon you know that the preacher wasn’t just younger than your husband. He was bigger and stronger, too." Another shrug. "Preacher says he gave your husband a good sock in the jaw, hoping to knock him out, so's he could get the girls out of the alley and back upstairs, where they belonged. Only...only he hit him harder than he intended and...."

"
…and when Horace fell," the widow inserted, "he broke his fat red neck."

Purdy nodded slowly. "Yes'm. Least
, that's how the preacher tells it."

She tidied the folds of her skirt, tucked a wayward tendril of white hair back into the severe bun at the nape of her neck. "Then it happened just that way. I'm certain of it."

And then the widow was on her feet, pacing back and forth in front of the marble fireplace. "That poor young man," she said from behind her hands. "Ten years on the run, and his own uncle, not only the accuser, but the killer!"She stopped so abruptly that her skirt whirled around her ankles. "But the pocket watch. The boy had Horace's watch in his possession when--"

"Don't rightly know how W.C. came by the watch they found on him, Mrs. Pickett, but it weren't your husband's. That much is for sure."

"How do you know?"

"Because tonight, when me an' the preacher were goin' at it in the alley, a watch fell out of his pocket. It belonged to your husband
. Atwood, he's had it all this time."

Eyes wide, she folded her hands beneath her chin. "But...but how can you be sure it's Horace's watch?"

"From the inscription under the lid." He scratched his bristled chin and frowned hard. "If memory serves, it went something like 'from this day forth, my husband, my own'."

Fingertips pressed to her lips, the widow Pickett slumped into the nearest chair. "Dear Lord in heaven, I'm almost as much to blame for that poor boy's fate as the pastor is," she whispered, shaking her head. "It never occurred to me to tell them to look inside the watch, because those
eyes
of his...."

"W.C. led a hard life, Miz Pickett, and it turned him hard long before that night."

"Yes, yes, I know...lost his parents in that horrible fire, and went to live with the pastor and his wife...." On her feet again, the widow resumed her pacing. "The watch! I remember someone telling me they'd need it for the trial...as evidence, you know? But afterward," she said, more to herself than to Purdy, "when I asked the sheriff if I could have it back, he said he'd given it to the boy, as a cruel joke, when they locked him into the jailer's wagon. Naturally I assumed...."With trembling hands, she lifted the teacup, took a sip, then returned it to its saucer with a clatter. "If only I knew how to get in touch with him, I could—“

"I know where he is
, ma’am."

"What?"

He shrugged. "I've been gettin' telegrams from nearly every city he's been in since leavin' here."