Liar's Bench (25 page)

A
week later, I sat on my window-seat bench seeking the quiet to reflect about everything and the last loose end—the ledger. Outside the window, a tree branch banged the pane, casting a fork across my arm like a water witch. I peered down at the ribbon and wished Mama had left more helpful clues. Maybe she had nothing more to tell me. Maybe someone else had scooped up that ledger. Without that ledger, the threat of retaliation from McGee and his good ol' boys hung over all of us like a leaky gray cloud.

Harper was still in the hospital and had lawyered up, though he would be facing a trial down the road on kidnapping and possible murder charges, Jingles had said. “But that could be a year or more from now, and if anyone wanted to bail him out, they certainly could,” Jingles added. I wondered if the senator would. I had no idea about the others, or if McGee was even in Kentucky, lurking, maybe waiting to spring out from behind the next cigar tree.

The screen door slapped me out of my thoughts. I jumped, something I was doing a lot of lately.

“Muddy,” Daddy called up the stairs, “Bobby's here to take you running.”

Coach Grider still wouldn't let us girls work out, but I knew the school track stayed open for the football players, and the boys' track team, and they didn't seem to mind if I used it.

Bobby had been sticking to me like glue ever since Harper. And Daddy let him—in fact, he encouraged it. Daddy had been so troubled, he'd taken to sleeping with his shotgun not a few feet from his bed, and keeping his Louisville Slugger kickstand'd against our kitchen door.

Jingles took away my .410 and said he would need to hold it a bit. Daddy protested, saying the .410 was only evidence against me, so why did he have to take it? I'd overheard Jingles funnin' to Daddy about my aim, “Harper will make it, but he'll be recouping for a long while. Meantime, I suggest you tell Muddy that when she gets her .410 back, to sight it in at least once in a while.” He'd winked at Daddy.

The next day, Daddy got a deadbolt for our front door, and for some reason that made me sad, like something else had been ripped away.

I tied my sneakers and hurried down the stairs. Bobby greeted me with a smile. “Ready, Mudas?”

“I am,” I said, wanting to kiss him, but not with Daddy hovering.

Daddy fussed over us, warning us not to dally too long afterward and to keep to busier town roads.

When I got to the bottom of the porch steps, I turned around. For a second I was shocked by what I saw. The last week's worries had road-mapped Daddy's normally smooth face and climbed right up around his eyes, making them gaunt and dull.

“Did you forget something, Muddy?”

“Uh . . . Yeah, I put the cabbage casserole in the oven and set the timer. Be sure and take it out when it goes off.”

“Can't wait,” he said. “It's been years since I've had that dish.”

I jumped into the passenger's side of Bobby's truck. He cranked the motor three times and couldn't get it going. “Sorry, the starter's going out,” he said sheepishly. He got out, looked under the hood, and shook his head.

“That's okay. You've been driving me 'round enough. My car won't be fixed 'til next week, but we can ask to borrow Daddy's.”

Under Daddy's watchful eye, I drove his Mustang slowly down the gravel drive, waiting until we reached the end of Summers Road before giving Bobby a kiss.

We pulled up to the side of the field and the track around it. Only a few cars and trucks were parked in the big lot. We'd been going late, when the birds took to the nest and the breezes lifted.

Bobby ran one lap with me and then moseyed over to the bleachers to chat with a boy from his shop class.

As my soles pounded out their rhythm, my mind went to places I could not control. Mostly back to Mama, the missing Rooster Run ledger, and other hard thoughts. But after I was done, it felt like the track had chewed them up until the next time.

On this fifth time out to the track, I saw him. He wore sunglasses and a ball cap, and field glasses hung from his neck. I couldn't make out his features. But I saw enough to know he was a stranger, not on his evening stroll. He just stood there looking out over the field and track, mostly at me. He always left when I did. His truck must've been the white one, because it was the only one that didn't look familiar.

I wish they'd find McGee and that ledger . . . I wish I could find it and put an end to this. I did two more laps, striding past Tim Jackson, Peckinpaw High's number-one running back, before Bobby signaled me it was time to go.

When we reached the lot, Bobby cursed. Running up to the flat tire, he kicked it. “Slashed . . . damn.”

“At least they only got one,” I said, and looked over my shoulder and all around, but no one was there. The white truck was missing. My thumb lit into my fingers and swept across while Bobby got out the jack and spare.

When he finished changing out the tire, we climbed inside the car. “Guess they got startled and couldn't slash the others,” Bobby said.

We drove off in a worried silence. After a spell, Bobby said, “Want to grab a burger?”

“I was hoping you'd have supper with us,” I said, anxious to get home. “I made Mama's red cabbage casserole. It's really good.”

“That sounds better than a greasy plate from the Top Hat.” When we got home, I found Daddy in the side yard grilling on the ol' charcoal.

“Burgers and dogs tonight.” He frowned as he handed me a plate of cooked meat.

“What? But I made red cabbage casserole.”

“You
almost
made cabbage casserole.” He raised a brow and followed me inside.

“I can't believe it.” I set the plate on the table and opened the oven door and saw raw cabbage and apples.

Daddy chuckled. “You turned on the timer, not the oven. Seems like I remember someone doing that before,” he teased. He laughed fully, something I hadn't heard in a while.

Giggling, I opened the recipe box and dug out Mama's index card. “Yeah, she even reminded me. See?” I tapped the words Mama had written:
RED CABBAGE—HEAT. Don't forget the oven.
I pushed it under his nose. “Right there.”

Daddy grinned. “We'll enjoy it for breakfast, Muddy. Sit down and eat your burger.”

I lingered over Mama's words, smiling. Then I saw it. In the slant of the setting sun streaming through the windows, faint words came to life. I walked over to the kitchen window and raised the recipe up. Sure enough, brown words leaped from the page and thunder rolled through me.
Rooster Run Ledger—Penitentiary Hole.

“Daddy.” I motioned over to the table where he'd taken a seat beside Bobby. Mama's words slipped around my mind. “I think I hear Genevieve squirming around. Why don't you go get her up and put a change of clothes on her?” she'd said.

“Daddy.” I turned to him with my eyes filling. I held out the recipe.

“What is it?” He walked over to me.

I pointed to the words bolded in the waning light from outside.

Daddy rubbed his whiskers as he studied the recipe. “That'd be the ol' Penitentiary Hole out back, used in the Underground Railroad,” he said softly.

I found my voice, barely. “My time capsule's out there,” I whispered. “No one but Mama knew where we hid it. I wonder if she could've—”

“I suppose it's possible.”

“It's her message,” I breathed.

He studied the recipe again. “With the investigation coming to a head real fast, Ella probably realized she needed to hide the ledger and send me a message in a hurry, without Whitlock or anyone taking note.”

“The Tilley Bank pouch, Daddy! I put my things in the bank pouch. The one Mama used to bury my time capsule in long ago, right before you said the hole was off-limits.”

His eyes widened. “Well, what are we waiting for?” Daddy reached for the flashlights tucked inside a drawer and handed one to Bobby. “Muddy, show us where.”

We filed out the door, with me leading the way across the field.

Bobby caught up and grabbed my hand as we made our way around the pond.

“Whoa, y'all need to be careful. Watch your step,” Daddy hollered from behind, shining his flashlight toward the bank. A water moccasin slithered across the grass, slipping into black water, the trace of ripples dispersing into darkness.

“It'll be pitch-black soon,” Daddy announced. “Muddy, y'all best follow close behind me.”

Across the hills the maddening cry of coyotes bounced in short bursts, rattling my bones. Involuntarily, I shivered and we stopped to listen. After a moment, the noise faded and the last light of the day slipped behind the oaks. Daddy pressed on.

I nudged Bobby and we fell behind him, letting his flashlight lead the way. In the quiet country night, we weaved our way through a thicket of branches and brush. We stopped about ten feet from Penitentiary Hole. Daddy motioned for me to wait while he stepped up to the mouth of the cave.

“Hell's bells!” Daddy's shout filled the quiet.

Bobby jumped in front of me.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Coyotes.”

I peered over Bobby's shoulder and captured the shadowy blur of a coyote streaking its way across the meadow. “Oh, yeah, there it goes.”

“Well,” Daddy said, “looks like those damn coyotes have set up their den in here again. I chase 'em over to Luke's property, and he chases them right back.”

Daddy and Bobby turned their flashlights to the cave. “All clear,” Daddy said with relief.

I ducked inside before he could snatch me back, stumbling across the rocks to the end of a jagged wall. As soon as I touched the cool rock, the memories of us burying my childhood time capsule flooded back.

Bobby and Daddy crowded behind me as I ran my hands along the stone wall, searching.

“Mama slipped my time capsule into one of these crevices, then wedged a big ol' rock in front of it,” I said.

They raised their lights. I clawed feverishly at the cracks, sending chunks of rubble flying at my feet. “Here, it should be here.” Lifting my foot as high as I could, I kicked hard, loosening a dark, weather-aged rock. Another kick and the stone sprang free, tumbling to the ground.

Daddy let out a low whistle.

“The bank pouch . . . It's still here!” I eased it out of the tight hole and unzipped it. My hands turned to butter as I tried to pull out the journal. I handed over the thick red book to Daddy and peeped inside the bag of childhood memories: coins, scrap paper, two pieces of Bazooka bubblegum, a turkey's wishbone, and pieces of fool's gold that my papaw had given me.

Daddy whistled again, softly this time. “Damn. Ella always told me if anything should happen, if she couldn't get me the information directly, she'd find another way. Never dreamed it'd be this way.”

Gold lettering on the front of the journal read,
Rooster Run.

We hurried back to the house. Daddy called the authorities, and within an hour the ol' screen door clapped greetings to all kinds of officials.

Close to midnight, the last lawman, an FBI Special Agent, left the homestead with the Rooster Run ledger in his grip. He told Daddy, “We talked to Harper again. When Harper was told we had the ledger and that we could work something out, maybe reduce his time in the pen for his testimony against McGee an' his cronies, he got a bad case of the loose lips. Said he'd lost some big cockfighting bets with McGee a while back and was still working them off. Harper's been his strong-armed flunky. Claimed he was just trying to erase his debts—needed to bring in extra cash for his growing family. It was almost ‘a relief' to be outed, he said, because he knew McGee would hunt him down and kill him anyway.” The federal agent paused.

I breathed a sigh of relief.

“Well, with that and the ledger here”—the agent slapped McGee's journal—“McGee, his thugs, and Harper won't see the light of day for a long, long time. We've picked up McGee in Nashville, and we've got him nailed tight for racketeering, gambling, prostitution, and accessory to murder.”

Daddy turned to me and winked with tired eyes. “That girl has sure made me proud, Daniel. A fine daughter for any father.”

His words thawed my heart.

Special Agent Daniel bobbed his head, and said, “There's at least one murder here we know about, maybe more.” He paused and looked at Daddy, as if he had maybe more to say. Then he said, “Ella's work's going to save a lot of lives. She had the back pages almost all deciphered. Got us some big names, even. They'll be going down river to the big hooscal.” Special Agent tossed me a reassuring smile.

Daniel nudged Daddy toward the door, leaned in close. I strained to hear them.

“Rainey Jefferson's been missing over by Wellsburg for a long spell,” the agent was telling Daddy. “And if that don't stripe the socks pink, the kid's name is on the Rooster Run list. Poor Jefferson, just a colored boy fishin' for catfish in a pond where he wasn't s'posed to.”

The lawman paused a moment. “They hung him, Adam, along with his pup. Out there in the Anderson slave cemetery, and McGee's Rooster Run ledger even tells us where they buried the boy. McGee had the Cooper brothers do it, says so right here. The Cooper twins . . . Who would've thought? Sons of bitches.”

Bobby turned and our wide eyes met, both of us thinking about the freshly notched tree we'd seen, and about how close we'd come to the same end like poor Rainey.