Below the Surface Read online

  Also by Cynthia A. Graham

  Beneath Still Waters

  Behind Every Door

  Between The Lies

  Blank Slate Press

  an imprint of Amphorae Publishing Group LLC

  Saint Louis, MO 63116

  Copyright © 2020 Cynthia A. Graham

  All rights reserved.

  A Hick Blackburn Book

  Publisher’s Note: This book is a work of the imagination. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. While some of the characters and incidents portrayed here can be found in historical accounts, they have been altered and rearranged by the author to suit the strict purposes of storytelling. The book should be read solely as a work of fiction.

  For information, contact

  Blank Slate Press at 4168 Hartford Street, Saint Louis, MO 63116

  www.amphoraepublishing.com

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  Cover Design by Kristina Blank Makansi

  Cover Art: Shutterstock / IStock

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2020930300

  ISBN: 9781943075652

  For those left behind

  1

  Monday, September 5, 1955

  “Well, Hillbilly, you’ve really let yourself go,” a familiar voice said cutting into Sheriff Hick Blackburn’s dreamless sleep as he lay on the cot in the back room of the police station in Cherokee Crossing, Arkansas. His eyes fluttered open and for a moment he was confused.

  Carol Quinn, an attorney who now worked for the Justice Department in Washington, D. C. and one Hick had worked with last year on a corruption case in a neighboring town sat on the edge of his cot. Her legs were crossed and she was frowning at him.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked in a voice thick with sleep and tobacco.

  “The kid let me in,” Carol said, referring to Hick’s deputy, Royal Adkins. She lit a cigarette and handed it to Hick. He swung his legs around, took the cigarette, and sat on the edge of the cot. His back was wet with sweat and the air in the station was stale and heavy. He took a drag and coughed, then rubbed his hands roughly over his face.

  “You look like hell,” Carol said, scrutinizing him in the early morning light.

  “Thanks. Where’d you come from anyway?”

  “I came straight from Washington and I need your help.”

  Hick put his elbows on his knees and covered his eyes with his hands. The light bothered him. Everything bothered him now. “I already told your uncle. I’m not interested in working with you two in Washington for his Civil Rights Section. I can’t leave Cherokee Crossing … not now, anyway.”

  For a brief moment, something like sympathy flitted across Carol’s face, but her usual hardened expression quickly returned. “No one’s looking to hire you. To be honest, you don’t look like you’re up to it anyway.”

  Hick smashed the cigarette out in an ashtray and scratched his head with both hands. “Then what do you want?”

  “I told you … I need your help.”

  He rose from the cot and stretched his arms above his head. “Not interested.” He stumbled to the front of the station with Carol tagging behind. Royal Adkins had conveniently stepped out and Hick felt some irritation at being left alone. “Dammit,” he said, finding the coffee thermos empty.

  “Aren’t you even going to ask me what this is about?” Carol asked, hands on hips and an annoyed expression on her face.

  Hick slammed the thermos down. “It could be about a thousand things. It could be about that Emmett Till kid they found dead in Mississippi or the tanks they needed to use to desegregate the schools in Oliver Springs. It could be about Negroes being threatened for moving into the wrong neighborhood or a dozen or so different riots that seem to happen down here every night. I’m not going to ask because I don’t care.” He turned to her. “I don’t want to know. Like I said, I’m not interested.”

  “Jesus Christ, Hillbilly. Pull yourself together.”

  Hick strode to Carol and pointed his finger in her face. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

  Carol did not back down. “Well, someone needs to. Look at you. Is this what you’ve become? Is this what you want to be? What would Maggie say?”

  Hick’s face blanched and then reddened. He said through clenched teeth, “Don’t you ever say that to me again.”

  “Why?” Carol asked, her chin jutted forward and eyes flashing defiance.

  Hick felt rage pulse through his body and a vision of striking Carol Quinn filled his mind. His fists clenched and he turned away. “Get the hell out of here.”

  He heard Carol’s steps as they stomped across the station and the door swung open. “In case you’re wondering, your friend, Father Grant. He’s been shot. I thought you’d want to know. I guess I was wrong.”

  The door to the station slammed with enough force that a mirror slipped from its nail and fell to the floor, cracking in several places. Angrily, Hick stalked across the room and picked it up. The face staring back startled him. It was lined and gaunt, the eyes red, and the hair long and unkempt. More than one day’s stubble dotted his chin. In a fit of rage Hick threw the mirror onto the floor and crushed it with his shoe, leaving only shards to reflect the fractured morning light against the wall and ceiling. He stood in the middle of the room feeling broken and defeated. Father Grant had once told him no man was beyond redemption and, at the time, Hick believed him. But not anymore.

  2

  Monday, September 5, 1955

  “I cleaned up just for you, Mag,” Hick said, running his hand over his newly shaven face. “I even got a haircut.” Though he knew it wouldn’t bring her back, it had become a habit for Hick to walk to the cemetery every morning after the night shift and visit his wife’s grave. He knelt and pulled a few weeds from the base of the headstone and brushed off some sand. “‘Why?’ you ask. That lawyer from last year; you remember her. The one I left with to go to Broken Creek. Before …” Here he stopped and drew in a shuddering breath. “She came by the station today. Never thought I’d see her again. She seems to think you’d be ashamed of the way I am now.”

  He wiped his brow with his shirt sleeve, sat back on his heels, and gazed around the cemetery his glance landing on his mother’s grave. The sun directly overhead beat on the grass barely growing over the mound. He turned back to Maggie’s headstone and sighed. “Something tells me that lawyer’s right.” He shook his head. “You know, without you I never was much.” He rose and stood there as if his feet were frozen in that spot. He didn’t seem to know what to do with himself these days.

  “Sheriff,” a voice called. Hick turned to see Royal Adkins walking toward him through the graveyard, and he met him half-way.

  Royal handed Hick a pack of Lucky Strikes.

  “What’s this?”

  “A peace offering from Miss Quinn. Says to tell you she owes you from last year.” He took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair making it stand on end, and then replaced the hat. “She wants you to meet her at the diner.”

  Hick took the cigarettes. “I reckon I owe her an apology.”

  “I know it ain’t far, but I can give you a ride,” Royal volunteered.

  “Thanks, Royal. That’d be nice.”

  They climbed into the car and Royal asked, “Everything quiet last night?”

  Hick nodded as he lit a Lucky Strike.

  “I’d be happy to take a night shift once in awhile.”

  “It’s okay, Royal,” Hick told him. “You and Mourning are newly married. You need some time to adjust. And, besides, I don’t mind sleeping at the station.”

  Royal started to speak but seemed to think better and they c
ontinued the drive in silence. One year ago, Royal Adkins had been the deputy in neighboring Broken Creek, Arkansas and had helped Hick expose its corrupt sheriff, Earl Brewster. Because of this, when Royal came to work as a deputy in Cherokee Crossing the young man was immediately met with distrust as an outsider and snitch. Hick’s brother-in-law, Deputy Adam Kinion, had stepped into the role of older man and mentor for Royal, in much the same way he had for Hick. After several months, the town had warmed up to Royal Adkins. He was a hard man to not like.

  Hick glanced at Royal and felt ashamed of how little time he had spent with the young man and how little help he had been in helping Royal adjust to Cherokee Crossing. Royal had married Hick’s ward, Mourning Delaney, and was practically family. “How is Mourning?” he forced himself to ask.

  Royal smiled. “She’s fine. She asks about you every day.”

  “Tell her I’ll be by to see her soon,” Hick said, and then turned back to the window.

  After a few moments, Royal’s cheerful voice announced, “Here we are.”

  Hick turned and saw the worry poorly concealed on Royal’s face. It was the same expression everyone seemed to wear since Maggie died. But no one understood how grief, compounded with guilt and responsibility, was enough to break a man. He could never explain the devastation of believing the person he loved most in the world had suffered because of a mistake he’d made.

  Hick climbed out of the car and stood before the diner. When he’d left Carol Quinn in Broken Creek, Arkansas the previous year, the world had been full of hope and promise. Carol’s uncle, Arthur Vance, the head of the Civil Rights Section of the Justice Department, had offered both him and Carol jobs in Washington, D.C. Hick had a wife, two boys, and a baby on the way. In one year’s time everything had changed, and it was as if hope and promise no longer existed.

  He walked into the diner and saw Carol sitting at the counter, deep in thought, stirring a cup of coffee. Her legs were crossed and a high-heeled pump dangled from her toes. She turned at the sound of the door and her expression changed from anxiety to relief.

  Hick sat beside her and asked the waitress for a cup of coffee. The diner, like so many other places in Cherokee Crossing, was another reminder that he would never feel his wife beside him again. It brought to mind her face as she handed him a cup of coffee every morning from behind the counter, her brown eyes warm and inviting. It was, yet another place where he felt her absence. And, Hick usually avoided those places.

  “I wasn’t sure you’d come,” Carol said, cutting into his thoughts.

  He held up the pack of Lucky Strikes. “I’m here.”

  “I see that,” she said, and cocked her head. “You look better already.”

  The waitress brought Hick’s coffee and he splashed some cream in it. He took a drink, sat the cup back on the saucer, then crossed his arms and leaned back on the stool. “So what happened to Grant?”

  “He was found shot in the rectory next to the church after Mass Saturday night. The house had been set on fire.” She hesitated then said, “He was burned badly on top of losing a lot of blood. He’s heavily sedated due to pain and blood loss. From what I gather, his burns are pretty extensive. It’s touch and go.”

  Hick frowned. “I hadn’t heard of any incident in Broken Creek.”

  “He was transferred to another church about a month ago. Birch Tree, Arkansas. It’s in the Ozark hills.” She took a bite of toast and continued with a full mouth. “Since desegregation, the diocese in Little Rock is closing a lot of the colored Catholic churches and integrating the parishioners. Grant’s new parish is larger than the one he had in Broken Creek. I’ve been in contact with the sheriff there and, from what I gather, there haven’t been any problems. It’s a close-knit community.”

  “Was it a robbery gone bad?”

  “No. All those things made of gold—the chalice, the monstrance, all that stuff—were still in the church, untouched. There wasn’t much cash, but it was all there.”

  “So what’s your connection? Why’d they call the Justice Department?”

  A smile flickered in Carol’s eyes and Hick realized she was slowly reeling him in. She leaned toward him and her cheeks flushed as she told the story. “A man by the name of Nicodemus Skaggs walked into the sheriff’s office in Birch Tree and told them the ‘preacher’s house’ was on fire and he hoped the men inside would burn in hell’s flames as hot as they were burning in that house.”

  “Men?”

  “Father Grant had company. A man by the name of Ernest Kelly, an attorney who worked for the Justice Department with me.” She paused. “He was my friend.”

  “Was?”

  “Ernest died at the scene.”

  Hick took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I’m sorry, Carol.”

  She shrugged, but Hick noticed a subtle reddening of her eyes. “There are few men at the department who treat me as an equal. Ernest was one of them.” She cleared her throat and then sniffed before continuing, “As the sheriff and his deputy started out the door, this Nicodemus Skaggs said, ‘If you get them boys out of there, you’ll find a bullet or two in ’em and they come from this.’ With that he laid a gun on the deputy’s desk. The Sheriff told the deputy to arrest Skaggs, but Skaggs waved them off. Said to go on, he wasn’t going anywhere, and they could arrest him when they got back. The deputy stayed behind and the sheriff got the fire department, went to the church, and found two victims inside the house, shot, just like Skaggs said.”

  “So you have a confession?”

  “Skaggs not only confessed, he was proud of himself.”

  “Sounds like an open and shut case to me.” Hick wrapped his hands around the coffee cup and stared into the dark liquid.

  “You’d think so.” Carol sat back on the stool and lit a cigarette.

  He glanced up. “But?”

  “But there’s something that’s not adding up. My Uncle Arthur is busy trying to get the Civil Rights Section of the Justice Department recognized as a division and thinks it’s a waste of time to investigate this. Ernest was on vacation and Uncle Arthur’s convinced it was just an unfortunate coincidence that he happened to be at the church when Nicodemus Skaggs arrived.” She shrugged. “I’ve been working for Uncle Arthur for a year now and I try not to take advantage of the fact that I’m his favorite niece, but in this case—”

  She looked Hick fully in the face. “Let’s be frank here, Hillbilly. I have few friends, and there are not many people I respect. Ernest happened to be one of those people. I talked Uncle Arthur into allowing me to come out here and collect Ernest’s personal effects and arrange to have his body sent back to DC. The federal marshals will be by Wednesday morning to take Skaggs to Little Rock for further questioning. But before they do that—”

  “Careful you don’t overstep your bounds.”

  Carol stabbed her cigarette out in the ashtray with some energy. “I don’t give a good god damn about my bounds or about Skaggs’s rights. Ernest was a friend. A good friend. And something is not right here. I don’t care what my Uncle Arthur says. I have a hunch.”

  Hick turned a questioning glance on her.

  “I think Skaggs was put up to it by someone else.”

  “Why?”

  “According to the sheriff in Birch Tree, Skaggs shot Grant because Grant converted his daughter to Catholicism. Evidently, to that stupid old clodhopper that’s the same as trying to seduce her into the fires of hell or something. Like Uncle Arthur, the sheriff thinks Ernest Kelly was just at the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “Sounds reasonable.”

  “Perhaps. I have no inkling why Ernest was in Birch Tree or with Father Grant. He was a defense attorney in Arkansas, but not anywhere near Birch Tree, and to my knowledge he wasn’t a religious man. Why he would be with a priest is beyond me. But I do know this much—according to the sheriff, Skaggs’s daughter claims Grant never proselytized her at all. She told the sheriff that in all the time she worked as a housekeeper at t
he rectory, neither Grant nor the previous priest ever tried to force their religion on her. And,” she continued, leaning toward Hick, “the daughter says her father never spoke to Father Grant or her about it. So where did this notion come from?”

  “I don’t get it. If they never talked, why would he think she’d been converted?” Hick asked with a frown.

  “That’s what piqued my interest. There is no explanation. Skaggs confessed and said he’s got nothing more to say. Says he reckons he’ll be out in a day or two, and he’s already told them all they need to know.”

  “Why’s he so sure he’ll be out?”

  Carol smiled and tapped a finger on the counter. “Now you’ve come to the crux of the matter. That’s why I think he’s been coached. There’s no other explanation for a man to commit murder in the first degree and then think he’ll somehow not be charged. I think someone has convinced him he’ll be okay and told him exactly what to do, what to say, and what to expect.”

  “But, who?”

  “I won’t know until I do some digging.”

  Hick’s gaze drifted to the mirror behind the counter and he stared at it without really seeing anything. “Grant was chaplain at the Pinewood Prison Farm, and he witnessed a lot of abuse and corruption there. I wonder if he and Kelly knew each other back then. With them both working with convicts, it’s plausible they were acquainted.”

  “I wasn’t aware that Grant worked at a prison,” Carol said. “It could be an interesting connection.” Her voice trailed off in thought. “According to the sheriff in Birch Tree, the church secretary said Ernest did not make an appointment and she has no idea what he was doing there. And I have no idea if Ernest knew Father Grant or not, but I aim to find out.” She took a drink of coffee. “I plan to take a peek at Ernest’s personal effects before I go back to Washington to see if they hold any hint as to what brought him out here.”

  Hick flipped open the lid to his lighter and spun the flint-wheel, watching it spark and feeling drawn in despite himself. “Normally someone would burn a place to hide evidence. Why would Skaggs set the place on fire if he was going to confess anyway?”