Between the Lies Page 2

  Hick nodded toward the cell. “What have you got there?”

  The young deputy rose, reached into his shirt pocket, and pulled out a pack of chewing gum. Putting a stick of Beech-Nut into his mouth, he said, “This is Thaddeus Burton. Thad’s a good kid, but I reckon we all make mistakes. Sheriff Brewster says he killed a man outside of town.”

  “He’s awful small,” Hick replied. “How’d he do it?”

  “Hit him with a truck.”

  “A truck? Looks like he’s hardly big enough to work the clutch.”

  The young deputy said nothing as Hick walked over to the cell. “Your people got a truck?” Hick asked Thad.

  Without looking up, Thad shook his head.

  “He snuck out in the middle of the night and borrowed a truck from Grover Sutton,” the deputy said. “Sutton’s the farmer he chops cotton for.”

  “I didn’t take no truck,” Thaddeus mumbled to no one in particular.

  “You know how to drive?” Hick asked.

  Thaddeus raised his eyes to Hick’s face. “No, sir. I ain’t never drove no car.”

  “Now, Thad,” Deputy Adkins said, “we done been through this. Sheriff Brewster says you’re right smart. Ain’t nothing at all for a smart kid like you to figure it out.”

  Thad shook his head and stared again at his feet.

  Hick glanced out the window at the large pick-up truck beside the station. “That the truck?”

  “One and the same.”

  “I reckon that thing bucked and jumped like a son of a bitch.”

  Thad looked at him uncomprehendingly and Deputy Adkins asked, “What do you mean?”

  “I just remember my daddy teaching me to drive and how hard it was to let the clutch up just right. I reckon that truck must have a real easy clutch if this boy could figure out how to put her in gear all by himself.”

  Royal scratched his head. “Well, now you mention it, Sutton’s always complaining about the clutch being finicky.”

  “Seems a might strange a boy could teach himself to drive so well in such a short time that he figured out how to get around, in the middle of the night, in the dark, when he can barely see out the windshield.”

  Royal rubbed his hand along the back of his neck and let out a soft whistle. “Don’t know about all that. Sheriff Brewster says he done it, that’s all I know.”

  “You even know what a clutch is used for, Thaddeus?” Hick asked, turning to the young boy.

  Thad looked up at Hick and shook his head.

  “You know what them pedals on the floor are for?”

  “I reckon one makes it go and one makes it stop.”

  “What about the third one?”

  “What you need a third for?” Thad asked.

  Royal frowned and turned to Hick. “You don’t think he did it?”

  Hick pulled out a cigarette. “I don’t know. This is the first I’ve met Thaddeus, but you’ve got to admit it’s a little hard to swallow.” He let that hang in the air for a moment as he lit his cigarette and took a drag. “Like I said, I’m just paying a call. I’ll be on my way now.”

  “What’d you say your name was?”

  “Blackburn,” Hick replied. “Sheriff Hick Blackburn from Cherokee Crossing.”

  Royal went back to his desk and wrote the name down. “I’ll be sure and tell Sheriff Brewster you come to call and was making some good points.”

  “Do that,” Hick answered and stepped outside. He paused on the porch and watched the red sun sinking behind the distant tree line. If he wanted to look over the truck, he’d have to hurry.

  A quick glance at the vehicle confirmed that Brewster had gotten at least part of his investigation right. The truck had obviously been in a collision with a pedestrian, but now that Hick had met Thaddeus Burton, he knew there was no way he’d been the one driving. He paused before climbing into his car and glanced again at the Broken Creek station. The sunlight’s harsh reflection on the windows had been replaced by the soft glow of a desk lamp shining inside. He had planted a seed of doubt in Deputy Royal Adkin’s mind, of that Hick was sure. Now to wait and see what would come of it.

  3

  Friday, July 16, 1954

  Lights shone through the back windows of the house and illuminated the yard as Hick pulled into Dr. Jacob Prescott’s driveway. Jake had always been a fixture in Hick’s world. He had been his father’s best friend and for many years, Hick’s confidante. Jake was someone who seemed to have the answers Hick needed. And he needed answers—and guidance—now.

  After looking over the damage to the truck, Hick had driven out through Broken Creek and down County Road 14 until he found the crime scene. The headlights of his squad car had shown clearly where the man lost his life, the blood-stains on the ground, the tire marks in the gravel. He understood the physical evidence on the truck and at the scene, but he hoped Jake could help him understand what was going on inside the mind of the perpetrator.

  A haloed moon shone down through the cool, humid darkness and the chirping of crickets filled the air. Hick climbed the steps, opened the screen door, and knocked, stepping back to avoid the moths banging against the porch light. As Jake aged, he seemed to sleep less and lately it had become common to see light spilling out at all hours. The sound of footsteps moved closer to the door and Jake’s face appeared on the other side. “Everything okay?” he asked, stepping back and letting Hick inside.

  Hick entered the dark front entry room and removed his hat. “Everything’s fine. I saw your light and knew you were awake. Just wondering if you have a minute. I have a couple of questions.”

  “Sure,” Jake said, leading Hick to the back of the house and into the study where he had evidently been reading. He put the book aside and picked up a glass, taking a drink of his regular evening tumbler of bourbon. “Can I get you anything?”

  “No, thanks,” Hick said, sitting in a leather armchair and lighting a cigarette.

  “Is Maggie feeling okay?”

  “Mag’s fine. She’s convinced this baby will be a girl,” Hick said, remembering the certainty with which his wife had made the declaration.

  Jake smiled and sat back, running a cigar beneath his nose before lighting it. “Women often have a sense about these things.” He puffed his cigar and studied his young friend. “So, tell me what’s on your mind.”

  Hick took a long drag of his cigarette then tapped his ashes in the nearby ashtray. “What do you know about panic?”

  Jake eyed him. “Panic? Why do you ask?”

  “A man was killed over in Broken Creek—run over by a half-ton truck. Brewster nabbed a twelve-year-old kid but there are a few things that just don’t add up.”

  “Like?”

  “They say this boy, probably not even as tall as Henry, panicked after he hit the man. The newspaper report said he wasn’t thinking straight and that’s why he didn’t report the accident.”

  “That makes sense. I’m sure he was frightened beyond reason.”

  “But tell me,” Hick said leaning forward, “would a kid, supposedly ‘frightened beyond reason’ have the presence of mind to walk home and fall into a deep sleep? If he was panicked would he simply have breakfast as usual, climb on the bus as usual, and go to school the next morning like all was right with the world?”

  “The little I know of panic makes me think he would not. It’s a fight or flight instinct. His adrenaline would be pumping. I doubt he could stop his heart from pounding and his mind from racing. Do we know he was asleep at home? Maybe he was tossing and turning, frightened he would be caught.”

  Hick stabbed his cigarette out. “Yeah, maybe.”

  “You don’t think he did it?”

  “Not for a second. He’s so small and that truck is huge and hard to drive. Owner himself had complained that the clutch was finicky and the kid didn’t even know what a clutch is. Thought all you needed was a pedal to go and a pedal to stop.”

  “Well, what about injuries to the child?” “What?”

/>   “How fast was he going?”

  “Judging from the skid marks on the gravel, pretty damn fast.”

  “Well, if he’s as small as you say, at the very least he would have sustained some sort of facial laceration upon impact.”

  Hick shook his head. “I saw him. He didn’t have as much as a hangnail.” He paused and stared into the distance, picturing Thaddeus Burton sitting behind the wheel of the truck. “You’re pretty certain the driver would be injured?”

  “Yes,” Jake replied. “The driver would certainly have sustained some sort of injury upon impact. They could have facial bruising from hitting the steering wheel or being thrown into the windshield, and wrist, knee, or ankle injuries, even broken ribs.” Jake took a long sip of bourbon. “But this happened in Broken Creek, not Cherokee Crossing.”

  “That priest asked me to look into it. The one that tried to help Abner Delaney.”

  Jake took another sip and stared over his glass at Hick. “But what can you do?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe nothing.” Hick stood to leave.

  “Before you go …” Jake moved to his desk, picked up a pill bottle, and held it out to Hick.

  “What’s this?”

  “Water pills for Maggie. She’s not due for another appointment for a while, but I saw her in town and she’s awful swollen.” Jake took his handkerchief and wiped his neck. “It’s probably this blistering heat.”

  “Thanks Doc.” Hick held the bottle up to read the label. “I’ll see she gets these.”

  “Give her my best, and tell her to take care of herself,” Jake said, as Hick stepped out onto the porch. “Doctor’s orders.”

  Hick said goodbye, climbed into the car, and lit another cigarette. He took a drag, and put the car into gear. Thad Burton might be completely uninjured, he thought, but someone in Broken Creek was not.

  He turned off the headlights before pulling into the driveway and opened the door as quietly as possible. Inside, he sat the car keys on the kitchen table beside a note that read, “Dinner’s in icebox. Wake me when you get home. Love, Mag.” He crossed the room and grabbed a chicken leg from the icebox, then crept to the door of his sons’ room and peered inside. The kitchen light slanted into the room revealing two little boys. Jimmy rested peacefully, but the youngest, Jake, named for the doctor, mumbled something in his sleep, his arms flung wide open, one leg over the side of the bed, his dark hair contrasting against the white pillowcase. They both lay outside the sheets, trying to stay cool in the July heat that bore down on the house even at night.

  Hick closed their door and tossed the chicken bone into the trash before entering his own room, carefully avoiding the boards he knew would creak. He had just taken off his shoes when Maggie rolled over. “What time is it?”

  “It’s late.” He hung his pants over a chair. “Go back to sleep.”

  “Did you eat?”

  “Yeah.”

  She pushed herself up into a sitting position and plumped the pillow behind her. “Well, where have you been?”

  Hick draped his shirt over the chair back and crept across the room. “Just needed to give someone some professional advice. We can talk about it tomorrow.”

  “I’d rather talk about it now.”

  “I’ll be here in the morning. Can’t we talk then?” Even as he said it, he regretted it. He sat on the bed knowing full well it was his fault they had trouble communicating. And that his reluctance to share details about his work—and about his often-conflicted feelings about all sorts of things—only caused her to be even more persistent. Owning this responsibility did nothing to lessen his irritation.

  “Why are you so late? What were you doing?”

  “I had to see someone in another town. A friend just asked me if I’d take a look at a case.”

  “A friend? Why doesn’t he talk to the local sheriff?”

  Hick let out a reluctant sigh. “It’s Brewster.”

  Maggie’s eyes narrowed. “Earl Brewster?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Hickory, whatever it is, you can’t get involved in it. That man is crooked and dangerous.” Hick figured she was thinking of Brewster’s testimony at the Smith trial seven years earlier. Maggie understood enough about Brewster to realize he enjoyed making others look bad and would resent any interference. Especially from the young upstart, Hick Blackburn.

  “I went over to see that Catholic preacher, the one that tried to help Abner Delaney.”

  Mourning Delaney, Abner’s daughter, was like family. She had moved in with Hick and Maggie after her mother died four years earlier, and was completely devoted to Maggie. Maggie’s love of Mourning and her respect for the man who had tried to help the girl’s father softened her attitude. “What did he want with you?”

  “Brewster’s locked up Father Grant’s secretary’s little brother. The kid’s Henry’s age.” He slid his legs under the sheet. “Just twelve-years-old.”

  “What on earth do they think he did?”

  The light from a full moon streamed through the window and heightened the pallor of Maggie’s once bronze skin. Her face was puffy and swollen. The last thing Hick wanted was for her to worry. Why wouldn’t she let him stay in his own world and not demand to be part of it? Why did she want to trouble herself with details that would do her no good? He hesitated, but knew ignoring the question was not an option.

  “They say he ran over someone with a truck.”

  Maggie took his hand in hers and squeezed. “Did they die?”

  Hick let his head sink into the pillow and stared up at the ceiling. “Yeah.”

  She let go of his hand and draped her arm across his chest, pulling him to her. “Tell me.”

  He stroked her arm and took in a deep breath. “Brewster says this boy, Thaddeus, stole the truck from a farmer he works for and then ran down a hobo.”

  “And the priest doesn’t think he did it?”

  “Honestly, Mag, the whole damned thing stinks to high heaven. The kid is shorter than Henry and it’s a huge pickup. The boy doesn’t even know how to drive.”

  She propped herself up on an elbow and looked down at him, a wisp of hair falling across her face. “Hickory, what are you saying?”

  “I’m saying I think it’s obvious this kid couldn’t have done it. I’m saying I don’t think Brewster really thinks the kid is guilty. I think he’s using him as a scapegoat.”

  “Oh my God,” she whispered. “Why?”

  “Because Thad’s easy pickin’s, that’s why. He’s colored and his family’s uneducated. They got no money, and he’s got no way to defend himself. He’ll get a court-appointed attorney who will take the path of least resistance because a colored boy ain’t worth much effort. Brewster’s trying to convince the family that Thad should plead guilty. He’ll go to juvenile and be out at eighteen. And whoever really did this will get off scot free.” He realized his voice had risen and his entire body was tense, angry. He forced himself to relax and looked up at Maggie’s face. There was pain in her eyes, pain she all too often pretended wasn’t there. “You need to get some sleep,” he ran a finger along the side of her face, pushing a tendril behind her ear.

  “So you went to see Brewster?” she persisted.

  “I made a call to the Sheriff’s office to check on the boy. Brewster wasn’t there, but I talked with his deputy. Thad is fine, but scared. After that I took a quick look at the truck. There was blood spattered on the grill, dented bumper and hood, busted headlight. Went to the place it happened. Whatever the hobo had with him is gone. I guess Brewster impounded all his belongings. That doesn’t really matter because I have no reason to doubt that a man was run down by this particular truck right where they say it happened. It’s not the place or cause of death I question. It’s the driver.”

  “And you’re sure the boy couldn’t have done it?”

  “There’s skid marks in the gravel for a couple of hundred feet. And the truck was found in the ditch.”

  “And?”

&
nbsp; “I went to see Doc, and he says the driver would have some sort of injury from the impact, that he would have been afraid and frightened and not thinking straight.” Hick shook his head. “And yet somehow Thad was in bed, sound asleep the next morning, without a scratch, and went on to school without a worry in the world. It doesn’t add up.”

  “So what can you do?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll talk to Adam in the morning, but I don’t know how much help he’ll be. I’m sure he won’t want me to get involved. He didn’t want me to go visit the priest in the first place.”

  “Well, you won’t be making any friends and that’s a fact. Brewster’s dangerous, and it could cost you your job.”

  “I know,” Hick agreed. He turned to her, acknowledging what it might cost her as well. “What would you have me do?”

  “Do you really need to ask?”

  4

  Saturday, July 17, 1954

  “What can you do?” These were the first words to cross Hick’s mind as soon as his eyes opened the next morning. Both Doc and Maggie had asked the question and he had tossed and turned most of the night trying to answer it. Now, the sun was up and Maggie’s side of the bed was empty. The smell of percolating coffee wafted through the doorway, and yet the same questions that troubled him the night before were still spinning through his mind.

  What could he do? What was Brewster’s angle? An unidentified victim insured Brewster was not being pushed for a quick resolution by any family members, so why the rush? And why Thaddeus Burton? Father Grant had said he was never in trouble and excelled in school and even the deputy in Broken Creek knew the family and liked the boy. The eyes of Thaddeus Burton, filled with a curious mixture of desperation and resignation loomed before him.