Authors: Susan Crandall
“Why?” Cora asked.
Good question. There really wasn’t much to it, not now that the army had deemed it surplus and sold part of the land to some plant-study program. The airstrip was only used for Reserves’ training now.
Gil said, “Victor Chapman was the first American pilot killed in the war. The first of many.”
Gil’s voice had a hint of envy that Henry didn’t like one bit. He felt even worse for his ill-concealed reaction to Gil’s arrival. The man needed looking after. He had a strange glasslike fragility about him now, worse even than upon his return to Mississippi.
A black car motored up and stopped nearby. A man wearing a bowler called through the open driver’s window, “Miss Haviland?”
“Yes?” She was smiling her publicity-photo smile.
Haviland. The man had called her Miss Haviland, not Miss Rose. That car, that bowler . . . Henry felt sick.
The man got out of the car. When he got close, he tipped the brim of his hat. “I need you to come with me, Miss Haviland.”
Henry edged closer to her.
We’re about to get the boot
.
As he opened his mouth to explain the fault was all his, Cora’s moneyed voice, the one she used to either intimidate or poke fun, surfaced. “Oh, you do, do you? Are you with the race organizers, then?”
“If you’ll just get in the car, please.”
“Not until Miss
Haviland
”
—
Henry hoped she got his message—“knows what this is about.” He took her arm, as if ready to get into a tug-of-war with the man over her.
“In the car,” the man said, then added an insincere “Please.”
“I will not.” Her chin came up. “Not until you tell me who you are and what you want.”
Gil, too, inched close to her.
The man pulled a leather wallet out of the inside pocket of his jacket. He flipped it open to an identification card. “I’m Edward Burrow with the Pinkerton Detective Agency.”
“If this is about yesterday—” Henry cut himself off. Didn’t make sense. Detectives investigated things, found people. Miss Haviland. Cora. He’d come for her.
So many thoughts took to flight, if they’d been crows, they’d have blocked the sun. None of them made sense.
“And what do you want with me?” Her voice remained authoritative, but Henry felt her muscles tense.
“I’m here to take you home, miss.”
“Sorry you made the trip.” She made a walking gesture with two fingers. “You can just turn yourself around and head back to wherever you came from.”
“I’m from the Chicago office.”
“Fine. Go to Chicago, then.”
Gil finally spoke up. “What’s this all about? Who are you working for?”
“The young lady’s fiancé, on behest of her mother.”
“Fiancé?” Gil sounded stunned. But Henry thought they’d both been fools thinking no one would come in search of a woman from a rich family, even if the money was gone. He wanted to speak up, but knew this was Cora’s mess to straighten out. Him talking would only make it worse—and draw attention to himself.
“You can’t be serious!” she said.
“I am. Quite. Now step away from these men.”
“Well, I’m not going. Both Mother and Theodore will have to adjust. I’m a grown woman and have made my decision.” Then she looked at the Pinkerton more sharply. “How did you find me?”
The pictures, Henry thought. Those publicity pictures for the Evie.
“It’s what we do, miss. Now, if you’ll come with me, you can get everything sorted out with your mother and your fiancé when we get to Chicago.” The detective moved closer, a hand extended.
“I turned eighteen months ago!” She drew away from his hand.
Henry had assumed her birthday was her nineteenth. He knew assumptions were as dangerous as lies.
She took a step farther from the detective. “You can’t make me do anything I don’t want to. And I have no intention of marrying Theodore, ever. So shove off.” The haughty voice had been banished by the real Cora.
The Pinkerton grabbed her and yanked her away from Gil and Henry.
Henry lunged toward the detective but was shoved from behind and hit the ground before he’d taken a step. Gil was on the ground beside him with a man’s knee in the middle of his shoulder blades.
Henry was too stunned to struggle. Too short of breath to argue.
“Stop!” Cora screamed. “What are you doing?”
“You’re safe now,” the Pinkerton said. “These men are headed to the Dade County jail.”
“They haven’t done anything!”
“Your mother said you were kidnapped by two men with an airplane. With that other murdered girl just two counties away, she feared the worst. You can imagine how relieved she was when we located you.”
“Jesus H. Christ!” Cora shouted. “I left home by myself, of my own free will, on my motorcycle—” She stopped abruptly.
Henry’s insides turned to water as his hands were handcuffed behind his back. His shoulder burned with the stretch. No one knew about the motorcycle. She’d been so forceful when she’d explained that her mother couldn’t do anything about her leaving, he’d made more than one disastrous assumption. The second being she’d actually informed her mother that she
was
leaving.
Why hadn’t he gone back to Indiana the very day he’d made the decision? Now it was too late.
“I left on my own! I caught up with them in Noblesville. They didn’t even want me with them. You can’t arrest them!”
“The sheriff is going to hold them until we get this all straightened out. We can’t take any chances. Especially with an unsolved murder. And the reward money is only to be paid if the kidnappers are taken into custody.”
“I was
not
kidnapped!” She looked at Henry with panicked eyes as he was hoisted off the ground. “I’ll go home.” She took the Pinkerton’s arm. “Right now. I’ll go. As long as you tell the sheriff to let them go.”
“Out of my hands now, miss.” He nodded for the sheriff and his deputy to take Gil and Henry away.
Gil said, “It’s all right, Cora. We’ll go. It’ll get straightened out. Don’t you dare go with him. He can’t force you. You have a race to fly in two days.”
Henry closed his eyes and had to struggle to keep from throwing up on his shoes.
So stupid!
He hadn’t told Gil about Indiana yet. He was already such a mess. And with the preparation for the race, Henry hadn’t found the right time, figuring he’d do it when they returned to Mississippi, right before he headed north.
If he argued against being taken in, against the logic of the truth setting them free, if he resisted, it would just make him look that much guiltier when the discovery was made.
Gil said again, “He can’t make you go, Cora!”
Her gaze sharpened. “If this man forces me to leave, he’ll be kidnapping!” she said to one of the deputies. “Tell him!”
The deputy looked uncomfortable. “If you’re eighteen, no, he can’t.”
She shook her finger at the Pinkerton. “If you touch me again, I’m pressing charges.”
The Pinkerton held his palms in the air, but his face didn’t show surrender. “Let these men do their work. Then we can talk.”
The deputy’s grip on Henry’s arm tightened and nudged him into motion.
He locked eyes with Cora. A single tear ran down her cheek. Her lips were quivering when she mouthed, “I’m so sorry.”
This was it. His last seconds before he was locked up, probably forever. He wanted to jerk free and kiss her one last time. But he just nodded and said, “Good-bye, Cora. Good luck in the race.”
The last thing he saw as he was put in the back of the police car was Cora arguing with the Pinkerton, her finger stabbing him in the chest. Henry kept his eyes on her until they turned behind the hangar.
Gil sat next to him. “Damn. Did you know she wasn’t eighteen?”
Henry shook his head, unable to speak around the wad of fear and disappointment in his throat.
“Well, don’t worry,” Gil said. “Plenty of people in Noblesville saw her show up on her own. She traveled alone on the motorcycle for weeks. People remember her. It’ll get straightened out.”
How long? How long would it take? He hoped like hell Gil was out in time to finish prepping the plane for the race. The spark plugs weren’t even in it. Henry had been setting the gaps when the shit started to fly. Cora deserved her shot.
And then he’d have to figure out a way to convince her to give up on him, to move on with Gil, the circus . . . her amazing life that lay ahead.
25
T
he police separated Henry and Gil as soon as they arrived at the Dade County jail, but had yet to officially arrest them. Gil’s ignorance of Henry’s true identity wouldn’t have to be faked, so Henry supposed that was one good thing that came from not yet telling the truth. He hadn’t met Gil until two days after Emmaline’s death, so they couldn’t link him to that in any way.
As they were led to different rooms, Gil dredged up a semiconfident grin and said, “Don’t worry, kid.” His assurance made Henry feel even guiltier, but he’d responded with a nod, wondering if he’d ever see Gil again. Maybe it would be best if he didn’t. Then Henry wouldn’t have to see the disappointment in Gil’s eyes.
Or maybe he wouldn’t be disappointed at all. Maybe he’d welcome Henry’s removal from their trio. Gil’s face when he’d said he didn’t want to intrude had told Henry he’d just undone the last piece of twine holding Gil together. With Henry gone, maybe Cora would be able to retie it. He hoped so. Maybe that would make up for the betrayal and misuse of Gil’s friendship.
The small room had no clock. Henry sat on a metal bench attached to the wall, his hands cuffed behind his back, waiting. And waiting. A peculiar calm overtook him. After months of balancing on the knife edge of dread, tasting uncertainty, smelling of fear, he couldn’t believe that all he felt was quiet relief; colorless, tasteless, and odorless. This life was over. The decision had been yanked from his hands. He was finally done running.
He sat there long enough that he sweated through his shirt and his ass got numb. The strangest thoughts passed through his head.
Will I be buried next to my family? Will someone make a fifth crooked cross out of fence pickets for me? Do they have a special place they bury executed murderers?
I can’t remember my mother’s face.
Did Gil know the right spark gap setting for the Evie?
I don’t know Cora’s favorite color.
Finally, the door opened.
A man in a loosened tie and limp shirt with the sleeves rolled up pulled a chair in from the hall and sat down across the room from Henry, well out of kicking range, he noticed.
“Sorry to keep you waiting. It took some time to get the young lady calmed down.”
So Cora was here. A flash of longing came and went like lightning.
Then he wondered, who was meeting Evans? Who was making sure no one walked off with the loose parts of the Evie? “She needs to leave.”
“She’s not your concern any longer.”
“We didn’t kidnap her.”
“I see. Maybe we should back up and start with the basics. He took a pencil and small pad from his pocket. Your name?”
Point of no return. “Henry Schuler.”
To lie would just confirm both his stupidity and his guilt. But he wasn’t going to answer any questions about Emmaline’s murder. They’d have to ship him back to Indiana for that, so he could at least be where there was a possibility of convincing them to investigate.
The man’s eyes snapped to Henry’s face.
“Henry Schuler,” Henry repeated. “From Delaware County, Indiana.”
The man got up and left the room.
Henry was left waiting again.
J
ust before sunrise, Henry was led from the jail in handcuffs. The deputy flashed a piece of paper so quickly Henry could only read the
largest print across the top:
WARRANT.
Henry only asked one question: What had happened to Gil?
“Released.” That one word made it so Henry could put one foot in front of the other. Gil was free. He could look after Cora.
When they took him through a back door and loaded him into a waiting car, he supposed he was headed to Delaware County. The city was deserted but for a truck leaving off bundles of newspapers and a milk delivery wagon. Peaceful. He watched the palm trees lining the streets pass by with detachment, as if he’d already left this place of water and unnatural weather.
They pulled up to the train station just as the sun was inching over the horizon, a spectacular display of pink and orange that he soaked in as if it were the last he’d ever see. As he and a grumpy deputy boarded a northbound train, Henry wondered if Cora was asleep in her tent or if she’d been too restless and was watching the sunrise. He wondered if Gil was busy putting the engine back together. And he wondered about Frank Evans. How did he take the news that Henry had been hauled off to jail?
The deputy unlocked Henry’s handcuffs and relocked them in front of him so he could sit in the train seat more easily. A man across the aisle frowned, got up, and moved to a different seat, offering the same look of loathing people had given Henry throughout the war. It no longer held the same power.
When he’d imagined this day, he’d thought the train ride would be interminable, with panic clawing his gut and his mind racing. But as soon as the train pulled out of the station, Henry fell asleep with relief coursing through his veins. The deputy awakened him to change trains. Henry refused the food the man purchased at the station. The deputy smiled for the first time as he took Henry’s sandwich and added it to his own dinner. Henry was back asleep before the man had finished half of it.
Union Station in Indianapolis was filled with people when they arrived. Neither the deputy hanging on to Henry’s arm nor the handcuffs seemed to draw attention. When they walked out of the building, the
biting wind slapped Henry in the face. The sky was a sharp blue that hung over Indiana only in the deepest of winter. He welcomed the cold, even though coatless. The deputy shivered in his uniform jacket and grumbled about having drawn the short straw and being forced to travel north in January.
Out on Illinois Street, people did notice the handcuffs, and the deputy’s tight hold around Henry’s upper arm. They sidestepped to give wide clearance, as if Henry were an unpredictable wild animal that might spring. Maybe they were right.
The deputy hustled Henry along north, straight into the wind. His eyes watered with the cold, yet he still tried to slow down. He’d never seen Indianapolis before. But the shivering deputy kept them moving. Henry wished there were ice, a thick coating that made it so a man couldn’t keep his footing no matter how he shuffled.
Unsure where they were headed, he didn’t ask. The end destination would be the same, no matter the path to get there.
When they crossed Market Street, Henry looked to the right and saw the famous Circle with the tall Soldiers and Sailors Monument in its center. When he turned left he was looking at the front of the Indiana statehouse a block away. He dragged his feet to get a longer look at both, but the deputy jerked him along. Ice would indeed have been welcome.
They’d only gone about three blocks when they entered the Traction Terminal. Apparently the electric interurban car would take them the last leg to Muncie. The waiting platform was bright and warm. When they passed the large newsstand, Henry wondered if the headlines last May had contained his name. There would have been no photograph because he’d never had one taken . . . until that Hollywood newsreel. Oddly, that footage had not been the vehicle of his demise. Instead it had been the search for Cora, probably led to them by the publicity for Evans’s new aircraft. Disaster had a nasty habit of sneaking up on your blind side. He’d known it all along.
The Delaware County sheriff met them in the traction shed as they descended from the car at the Muncie terminal and promptly arrested
Henry for the murder of Emmaline Dahlgren. He’d been expecting it. He didn’t know why the words echoed in his ears and his equilibrium left him. If not for the sheriff’s having a grip on his arm, he might have listed to one side like a sinking ship.
This sheriff wasted no time in asking all of the questions that the Dade County sheriff had not. Henry answered each one the same: “I’ll be happy to answer all of your questions after I speak to Anders Dahlgren. And I would like a lawyer.” After three separate and equally fruitless attempts at questioning, the sheriff gave up and put him in a jail cell. As the lock was turned, the sheriff said, “He may not be willing to see you. Then what?”
“He will,” Henry said with false confidence.
“I’ll call him. Too late for him to come today.”
Henry nodded and then stretched out on the thin mattress. Dinner was served by the sheriff’s wife. He ate with a surprising appetite.
The next morning passed with no Mr. Dahlgren. The farm was only an hour away; Henry was starting to worry. He met with his appointed lawyer at eleven in a small room with a table and a chair tucked on each side. The handcuffs stayed on. The man introduced himself as Xavier Thornburg in a voice so soft Henry had to strain to hear it. Thornburg was probably forty, short, and slight of build, barely coming up to the middle of Henry’s chest. Even though it was cold out, the lawyer had a sweaty handshake.
He shuffled some papers. “I see you’re charged with . . . oh!”
“Murder.” This was not an auspicious start. Henry thought about Cora’s claim that any lawyer provided for him would be uninvolved and careless. Right now, he’d be happy to have one who’d read the charges before he came in the room.
Thornburg cleared his throat. “Yes, I see. How do you want to plead?”
“Aren’t you supposed to be telling me?”
The lawyer looked surprised. “Well, anything you tell me is confidential. So I suppose we should start with your version of what happened.”
“My version?”
“Yes. The county prosecutor already has their version lined out.”
“Which is?” Henry was curious to discover what they assumed had happened and how they supported their theory. It might help him dredge up more memories.
“Defense counsel isn’t privy to their case at this point in the process. In due time, they’ll have to turn over a list of witnesses they plan to call, evidence filed, and the like. Our plea at this point is simply for the arraignment.”
“Arraignment?”
“Where we go before the judge and the charges are read. And then you plead guilty or not guilty. I don’t advise guilty. If you’re going that route, we can declare it later and use the leverage for sentencing. Not guilty gets us on the trial docket. And we go from there.”
“I already told the sheriff that I don’t want to discuss anything until I speak to Anders Dahlgren in person.”
“Oh, yes. The sheriff told me to tell you that Mr. Dahlgren has refused to come. So, shall we begin with your version of the events?”
For the first time in two days, real emotion gripped Henry. Mr. Dahlgren was so convinced Henry had killed his daughter that he wouldn’t even speak to him. It pained him more than he could say, but he couldn’t blame the man. If Henry had been in Mr. Dahlgren’s shoes, he would probably feel the same way, brokenhearted, disgusted, disappointed, furious. He’d never seen that man angered. He couldn’t imagine what it would look like.
At that moment, he understood how much hope he’d been pinning on Mr. Dahlgren’s belief in him. How much he’d counted on Emmaline’s father to demand further investigation—once he’d heard Henry’s explanation.
Now what chance did Henry have of convincing anyone to ferret out the truth of what had happened? Without a clear memory, what did he have to offer as incentive? For one panicked second he thought about telling Thornburg that he was going to enter a guilty plea if the death penalty was removed as a possibility.
But it didn’t
feel
as if he could have killed anyone. Shouldn’t that change a person in some fundamental way—whether you remembered it or not? Or was that just his own form of denial, of self-preservation?
Henry recounted to Thornburg what had happened on the day of the murder. For the first time, the tremors that always started deep in his bones did not come.
“That’s it?” The lawyer sounded disappointed. “Amnesia is a tough sell to a jury.”
Good God, the man missed the point entirely. “I’m not trying to
sell
anything. I told you what I know.”
“I’m not sure what you want me to say.”
“I want you to help find out the truth, isn’t that your job? I want someone to at least look into other possibilities than me killing her. Something was going on with her before that day. Didn’t anyone else notice? Is it possible that she just fell? Maybe I did, too. Maybe I didn’t see her and tripped over her. There has to be a reason for my own head injury.”
“My job is to present the best defense for your case. Investigation is left to the police.”
“Then get the sheriff in here.”
T
he sheriff listened to Henry’s story. When he reached the point where his memory went blank, the sheriff’s interested look shifted to impatience.
“Hear me out,” Henry said. “I want the truth, too. I’ve done everything I can to remember details that might help fill in the blanks of what happened on that riverbank. I must have hit my head, been hit . . . I just don’t know how it happened.” If he shared the possibility that his own rage had blinded him, that would be the end of it here and now. Answers would never come. “It’s true Emmaline and I didn’t get along. But it had been that way from the first. I’d lived with it for over four years. Why I would have done something about it last May? Nothing was any different between us than it ever had been.” He explained the
head injury he’d sustained, probably the reason for the blank spot in his memory; Violet’s appearance had spurred his panicked decision to flee. “I’m not an idiot. I know what it looks like. And I don’t expect you to believe that I was planning on turning myself in. I don’t know what your investigation has uncovered so far, but since I’m sitting here under arrest, I’d say not much other than Violet’s statement. All I’m asking is that you take what I’ve said and look at the case again.”
The sheriff crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair, his face a blank mask. “I’ve known Anders for a long time. He’s a good man. He deserves justice. That girl deserves justice.”
“I couldn’t agree more. I just want justice to be just and not because I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I’ll face up to what I did when I know for a fact that I did it.”