Gone to Ground (18 page)

My brother's face twisted. "Don't cry, Deena." He sounded so plaintive, like he used to when we were young and some boy would break my heart. Stevie had always been there to comfort me.

"Why?" I had to say the word twice before he could hear.

"Because I don't want you to cry."

"No, Stevie. Last Tuesday night.
Why
did you do it?"

Indignation flitted across his face. He straightened. "I'm tired of bein picked on."

"What did she do to you?"

His face shuttered. He leaned a forearm on the shelf in front of him and shook his head.

"
What
, Stevie?"

"She says things about me. About . . . what I can't do as a man." Dark red flushed his cheeks. "Like
she
would know. And then she made such a mess. I had to clean it up. I was scared I'd get in trouble. And then the blood got on my clothes . . ."

My brother hunched over and dropped his head in his hand.

What would I have done if the glass wasn't between us? Hug him? Hit him? My stomach churned and my body felt hot. Stevie's life was over. Mine too.

I stared at the gray shelf until it glazed.

A thought rose in my brain. "Did you take her ring?"

"What ring?"

"The one Erika always wore on her little finger. A band of small diamonds."

His mouth firmed. "I didn't take nobody's ring!"

"Okay, okay."

"I didn't! Why are you accusin me of that?"

"I didn't. I just asked—"

"I'm tired of people accusin me of things I didn't do." He jabbed a finger at the glass. "I'm tired of it!" He yanked the phone from his ear and slammed it into the receiver. Jumped to his feet. He was still yellin, but I heard only the muffle of his voice.

A jailer appeared, tryin to calm Stevie down. Which only made him madder. My brother slapped the man's hands away. A second man leapt into sight. The two jailers forced Stevie up against wall, yanked his hands behind his back and snapped on cuffs. They dragged him away.

I sat frozen, the deadened phone still to my ear. It had happened so fast.

Next thing I knew, I was outside, bright sun ablaze on my head, my feet stumblin toward the car.

I couldn't wait for the weekend to be over.

Mike and I weren't talking much. Oh, I made him supper and washed his clothes. Other than that I tiptoed around him, scared to death. I tried to cling to hope. Steven Ruckland had been arrested for Erika's murder. Cherrie Mae said Mayor B killed her.

So why couldn't I believe one of them was guilty?

Sunday afternoon I sat propped against pillows on the couch, my feet up. At the Methodist Church Erika's funeral had started. Mike hadn't even mentioned it. My eyes were fixed on a TV rerun, not seeing a thing. Mike was outside, cleaning his ratty boat. Said he wanted to go fishing when he was done. Again. Well, good. Better than him being here.

I kept thinking about Cherrie Mae, telling me to go back to my parents'. Like a puppy with her tail tucked between her legs. I couldn't imagine it. How does a grown daughter—a
pregnant
daughter—go back to live with her parents like a marriage never happened? Plus, Mike would never stand for it. He'd break their door down to get to me. Get himself thrown in jail.

Maybe that wouldn't be so bad.

When the baby came things would be different. At least I'd have another person to think about. A cushion between me and my husband.

The front door slammed. Mike strode into the living room, scowling. The front of his shirt was wet.

I tensed. Muted the TV. "What's wrong?"

"You, that's what."

I couldn't answer.

He pointed toward the street. "I been out there, thinkin the whole time how you ain't hardly said two words to me since Friday night. Then Jeff comes over."

Jeff Gridley from across the street. A day worker at the factory, about five years older than Mike. I never liked the man.

"And guess what he tells me." Mike stuck both hands on his hips.

The tingle started at the back of my neck—the feeling that warns me I'm in trouble.

"We're talkin about Stevie Ruckland's arrest and the town meetin, and Jeff mentions he saw you there."

"I told you I was there. I wanted to hear what was happening."

"You didn't tell me you sat next to Stevie's sister. Or that you followed her out to the parkin lot afterward."

The tingle grew stronger.

"What could you possibly have to say to Deena Ruckland?"

I cringed. "Nothing. Just that I felt sorry for her."

"That all?" Mike's head tilted. He looked at me from the corner of his eye, daring me to lie to him. "Jeff said you looked like you were in a deep conversation. And some black woman was with you too. Jeff didn't see who it was."

"We were both just trying to comfort Deena."

"Who was the black woman?"

"I don't remember her name."

"That so."

I forced myself to look at Mike. My heart rattled against my ribs. He moved closer, his jaw jutting out.

"Funny you don't remember her name, seein as how you got in a car with her and Deena and drove away."

Heat rocketed down my spine.

"You told me you came straight home from the meetin, Tully. I'm givin you one more chance to tell me the truth. Where'd you go with those people—and why? And
who
was the black woman?"

Fear and defiance ballooned in my chest. Both were deadly. I struggled for an answer.

"
Don't
you lie to me again."

"It was nothing! Deena felt terrible, that's all. And I was telling her I felt bad for her. Then the other woman came up—it was Cherrie Mae." Mike shouldn't mind that—everybody loved Cherrie Mae. "We ended up going to her house for a little while to comfort Deena. Then Deena drove me back to my car, and I came home."

Mike's mouth twisted. "When have you ever been to Cherrie Mae's house in your life?"

Not until last night. I kept quiet.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Do I have to tell you
every
conversation I have?" The words jumped off my tongue before I could stop them.

Mike strode over and slapped me. My head snapped against the back of the couch.

I raised my hands. "Stop it, Michael!"

"You'll tell me anything I
ask
you to tell me, got that?
I'll
decide what's important. And right now I want to know why you went off with two women you hardly know. What do you care about Deena Ruckland?"

I pressed against the pillows, hands in front of my face. "I just felt sorry for her, that's all. That's
all.
"

"Why? Cause you think her brother is innocent? Cause you think
your husband
killed Erika?"

I shook my head.

"You do, don't you?" Mike smacked my hands away and grabbed my chin. "You still think I did it."

"No I don't."

"Then why aren't you talkin to me? Why're you treatin me like some kind of criminal?"

"I'm
not.
"

His fingers dug deeper into the sides of my jaw, pushing my mouth in. I whimpered.

Michael leaned down until his face was inches from mine. His teeth clenched. "I. Didn't. Kill. That. Girl. You hear me? I
did not
kill her."

I tried to nod, but his hand held me too tight.

"If I hear anything about you tellin people you think I killed Erika . . ."

"I won't." The words came out muffled. "I haven't."

"Good. Because you will be mighty sorry if you do."

He pushed my head back and let go. Straightened up to glare down at me.

I turned away, his eyes blazing into my back. Sudden anger burst in my chest. I imagined pushing off the couch and screaming it all out—his meanness, my empty heart. How he'd snatched away my whole life, and now I was going to have his baby, and I was
trapped
.
And I
hated
him.

The rage blew shrapnel into my lungs. I clamped my mouth shut and held my breath, praying for it to stop.

"You got somethin to say, Tully?" Mike's breaths came out hard.

I shook my head.

"You know what I think? I think not workin's no good for you. Too much time on your hands."

I lay still.

"From now on I don't want you goin
anywhere
, you hear? You stay in this house till the baby's born."

Then what? Little Michael and I would both be his prisoners?

"Wh-what about the doctor? And errands?"

"I'll worry about buyin groceries. And you just went to the doctor, so you're set for awhile."

Mike could only be doing this because he'd killed Erika, and he knew I knew it. He'd have to spend the rest of our lives scaring me enough to keep quiet.

The rest of our lives.

"You hear me, Tully?"

The words caught in my throat. "I hear."

Mike grunted and swiveled on his heel. "I'm goin fishin. Have supper ready when I get back."

The front door slammed. I lay on the couch and cried.

http://www.pulitzer.org/works/2010-Feature-Writing

2010 Pulitzer Prize

Feature Writing

The Jackson Bugle

Gone to Ground

What happens to a small, quiet Southern town when evil invades in the form of a serial killer?

By: Trent Williams

October 29, 2010

(Excerpt)

Six months passed in Amaryllis—then came victim number four, Alma Withers. At 48, Alma was the youngest so far, and the third white woman. She was eccentric, almost a recluse outside of her work as a librarian in Bay Springs. Her neighbors knew her as "Miss Alma," a woman who'd never married and loved books more than people. Or perhaps she was simply more comfortable around the printed page. One of Miss Alma's eyes wandered, giving her the appearance of looking through people rather than at them. "That eye of hers is what made her shy, I think," says her next-door neighbor of twelve years, Beth Ackler. "She and I did have our conversations once in awhile. Mostly she perked up when I mentioned what book I was reading. You wouldn't guess it, but Alma loved to read mysteries. Agatha Christie was her favorite. Now—what a thing to happen." Beth shakes her head. "Miss Alma's part of a mystery herself."

African-American Carla Brewster, age 64, is the most recent to fall prey to the Closet Killer. Like Sonya, Carla attended Victory Baptist Church, serving as a Sunday school teacher for over two decades. She was a tiny woman with a high voice that earned her the nickname "Squeaky" as a child. But she radiated energy.

"Did you know what a prayer warrior she was?" Her long-time friend Selma Raddlers folds her hands in the ancient pose of supplication. "That woman heard from the Lord. God answered her prayers, yes He did."

Selma lets her hands fall, her forehead wrinkling. "I just don't know where He was on the night she was killed."

MONDAY

APRIL 25, 2011

The little camera sat heavy on me.

I'd worn a loose pair a pants with a big front pocket to hide it, and a long shirt to hang down over. Wasn't the way I typically dressed to clean. Musta looked a sight. "A slovenly dress denotes a disorderly mind," said Don Quixote. I could only hope my mind wasn't too disorderly. I hadn't exactly been sleepin well the last two nights.

Well hidden camera or not, as I lugged my cleanin supplies out a my car at the Bradmeyers' house, I was sure the thing glowed like neon in a swamp at midnight.

My plan hadn't changed. I aimed to set bout doin my work till Mrs. B left to help Cory and the Baptist crew weed at the cemetery. Then I'd have plenty a time to get the pictures. And I was prayed up. Weren't so much that my task was hard. I just wasn't used to playin detective—and knowin lives rode on it.

I rang the front bell. Mrs. B took a long time answerin. She was dressed in a summer housecoat, hair all mussy and no makeup. Her eyelids drooped. My heart did a flip.

"Hi, Cherrie Mae." Her voice came out croaky.

I gaped at her. "You sick, Mrs. B?"
No, Lord, not today.