Out Of Time (37 page)

Eventually, Robert settled down in a chair next to Gail’s. Gail had spent most of the evening huddled in a far corner, watching her family with wary eyes. It was too much for her, I knew. Too much noise, too many lights, way too much touching and lots of unaccustomed laughter. I could tell just by looking at her that she felt rusty and not really part of it. It would be a long time before she could relax. A couple of times, I caught her staring at the tubs of iced beer, her eyes looking longingly at the bright metal cans. That was one monkey I hoped she could keep off her back.

Robert felt her isolation, I think, and went out of his way to help her get through the evening. He sat next to her f knex paor hours, talking earnestly, his body leaning close and his long face shining with concern. Slowly, Gail unwound. Once, I thought she even smiled.

This was now Gail’s life, I thought to myself, as I accepted the thanks of her female relatives and watched the men eat. I wondered how it felt to her to be back in it—and I wondered if they would give her the room to be someone new. A lifetime is a long time to be labeled a loser.

Brittany had arrived early to spend private time with Gail, and she now played with the other children happily, shrieking as they chased each other through the crowd. I saw her go up to Gail once and she received an awkward attempt at straightening her hair bow in return. But neither one of them seemed very interested in taking it further.

Several times after that, I spotted Brittany among the crowd, hugging a large woman I took to be her guardian. The woman was fat and jolly, with massive breasts. She crushed Brittany between them each time they met in the chaos.

After I saw how much the little girl was loved, I changed my mind about Gail’s decision to leave Brittany where she was. Maybe Gail wasn’t afraid to be a mother, I decided. Maybe she was brave—and smart—enough to let her daughter go. It would be difficult enough for Gail to live with her past; she was sparing her daughter the same burden.

The homecoming party gave me my first look at the Honeycutt men. They were a silent species, more interested in food than in conversation. They jostled each other around the food tables, heaping their plates high while conducting a strange form of communication that consisted chiefly of grunts, single syllable words and an occasional emphatic “Yessiree.” Not one of them said a single word to me the entire evening, but an odd thing happened when I was ready to go home. After hugging Nanny in the kitchen and bidding Gail farewell, I collected Robert, unearthed my coat from a bedroom and headed for the door.

The Honeycutt men blocked the way.

They stood silently in a long line that extended the length of the living room. As I made my way past, one by one, they shook my hand. I passed down the line and accepted each work-worn hand with the same solemn silence with which it was offered. By the time I reached the door, I was deeply gratified. It meant a whole hell of a lot more to me than a meeting with the governor.

“That was kind of weird,” Robert said as we made our way toward my car. I still hadn’t committed to buying a new one of my own and was driving around a 1964 Corvair I’d bought for four hundred dollars in the meantime.

“True,” I agreed. “But there’s a lot to be said for the strong and silent type. Unfortunately, men that are strong enough for me are seldom silent enough for me, know what I mean?”

Robert ignored me. He’d never dated Bill Butler, what did he care? He was humming as he fastened his seat belt. He was pleased with himself.

“What were you talking about to Gail for so long?” I asked.

“She’s going to think about coming to work for me,” he explained. “As a sort of receptionist. In return, I’ll give her a small salary and free relaxation sessions. I think it will help her start a new life while she waits for her friend Dolly to get out of prison. They’re going to share a house when she does. Sort of help each other get used to the real world. It will be good for them both.”

I looked at him curiously. “What color was Gail’s aura tonight?” I asked.

“The right color,” he said with a big smile. 

The case of Gail Honeycutt brought me in contact with a wildly different group of people that cut across traditional southern social and class lines. In the months that followed Steven Hill’s imprisonment, I found myself following the lives of everyone involved with an unseemly interest. It was fascinating sport.

Mrs. Rollins, Peyton Tillman’s ancient secretary, enjoyed a brief flurry of fame when she wrote a letter to the editor of the News & Observer blaming the local Democratic Party for Tillman’s fall from grace and subsequent death. Her defense of her prized former student was eloquent, if a little confused: Tillman came across as a sort of modem-day Robert E. Lee who could have gone on to build a new vision of southern justice if only those double-dealing, money-hungry cowardly Dems had stood by their man. She was written up locally and landed an on-air interview with a Raleigh morning radio talk-show host, during which she blasted the hypocrisy of the people in power who had let Peyton Tillman go down in defeat for minor moral transgressions when their own closets were “stuffed full of skeletons.” Not since Jeannie C. Riley sang “Harper Valley PTA” had the world heard such a stirring indictment of two-faced behavior. Her fifteen minutes of fame came late in life, but Mrs. Rollins made the most of it when her time arrived. On a personal note, she also sent me a thank-you card for my work on the case. Her perfect handwriting gave me the shivers.

Ham Mitchell, the puffed-up prosecutor who had originally sent Gail to jail, lasted less than a year in his position and never did get a shot at his dream of state attorney general. He was caught on videotape before a press conference suggesting that North Carolina deal with a recent rash of property crimes by following Iran’s example and cutting off the hands of thieves. If only he’d suggested similar treatment for child molesters, he might have gotten off scot-free. As it was, his secretary, Donna, got her front-row view of his public fall from grace. He was replaced as Wake County district attorney by the female capital-crimes specialist who had taught Brenda, Gail’s sister, everything she knew. Brenda went on to take her place as the state’s specialist in capital punishment, and she occupies that position today. She’s working to standardize the jury instruction and sentencing kd sd heard phases of capital trials, in hopes of reaching a fairer application of the law, which is sort of like trying to teach manners to a bunch of chimpanzees. I don’t think she’ll get very far, but it’s nice of her to try.

George Carter’s wife got on with her life. She filed a civil suit against Steven Hill for wrongful death and one day, many moons from now, his ill-gotten gains may send George Jr. to college. In the meantime, rumor has it that Chief Robinette stops by her house often to see how she and the little boy are doing. He’s not married, but no one in Durham thinks that he’ll stay a bachelor for long now. I was pleased with this news. After all, someone’s got to get the barbecue stains out of his shirts. He’s the chief of police, for god’s sake. And he’s turned out to be a good one. One of the first things he did was to shut down the Lone Wolf for serving liquor by the drink without food. I figure Johnny, the bar’s owner, is impersonating Frankenstein at Halloween parties for chump change these days.

I haven’t heard from the Chatham County sheriff yet. I’m sure he’s saving up his favor until he needs a really big one. In the meantime, I watch my speed very carefully when I drive through his kingdom. Hell, I don’t even neck inside his county line these days.

Sylvia Bennett, Peyton Tillman’s fiancée, calls me every now and then to say hello and float an invitation for drinks. I’ve managed to decline so far. In my opinion, she’s one cook who should stay off the sauce. She’s doing okay. All her money seems to bore her and she’s redecorated her house twice in the past year alone. Her one hope for a meaningful life was taken from her when Peyton Tillman died, and I don’t think she has the strength to find another reason to really be someone this time around. But her maid is staying out of jail and helping Sylvia stay out of the mental hospital. That’s something, at least.

Slim Jim Jones surprised me and landed in the public eye that fall. A troop of Girl Scouts got lost up on Black Mountain in October, and Nip and Tuck were the first to find them, huddled around a campfire bravely enduring the horrors of eating s’mores without the marshmallows. To thank them for their actions, the governor awarded medals to Slim Jim and the boys during a widely publicized live press conference. The governor’s aids figured that the dogs would be good for his image. Tuck had other ideas. He lifted his leg on a Louis XIV sideboard during the ceremonies, prompting the governor’s wife to kick him in the stomach. Nip lived up to his name by retaliating on her right ankle. The whole debacle was captured on camera by Channel 5 and played over and over during the Thanksgiving weekend when 1.2 million North Carolinians were glued to their couches and television sets, due to the aftereffects of mass gluttony. By Monday, ten times more protesters than had ever showed up for Gail Honeycutt arrived at the gates of the governor’s mansion. In the end, the governor’s wife had to volunteer at a local animal shelter for a solid week just to silence her critics. I hope they made her clean the cages.

Detective Anne Morrow continued to kick butt on McDowell Street. One day, I predict, she’s going to run the entire Raleigh Police Department. We meet for lunch every now and then. It’s a new experience for me to have a girlfriend. I’m trying to get used to it because I figure it’s good for m k’s ething,y soul. We talk about girl stuff, like what’s the most reliable handgun and if the choke hold should be outlawed or not. I could learn a lot from Anne Morrow. I ran into her a few months ago when she was out on a date with the great-looking new basketball coach at a local college. I took one look at how happy they seemed and decided that I wanted her life in its entirety, right down to the makeup in her medicine chest. But I suspect she’s not willing to hand over any of it. That is one lady who knows what she wants and knows how to go out and get it.

Bill Butler caught his serial rapist. It turned out to be a cook at the Krispy Kreme Doughnuts around the corner from Peace College. I was shocked and appalled that my favorite establishment would be cast in such a nefarious light. I was forced to respond by making numerous trips to the store for boxes of warm doughnuts. I felt it important that devoted customers show their solidarity for the rest of the hardworking Krispy Kreme employees.

My show of loyalty cost me five extra pounds, but I worked them off lifting my elbow at a new bar that opened up around the corner from my apartment. Cops hang out there, and, one time, late at night, I heard them talking about how I had caught Steven Hill. They had no idea that I was sitting at the end of the bar, listening to their tales. They also apparently had no idea of the real facts of the case. But it made a great bar story and I loved to think that I would live forever in the lore of the Durham P.D. My career at the bar was short-lived, however. Tony, the dishonest bartender I’d help to have fired, showed up there for work one night, and I decided to find another clean, well-lighted place.

I don’t know yet if relaxation massage will lead to love between Gail and Robert. But, believe me, stranger couples have happened. Bobby D. and every one of his many girlfriends is proof. I figure if a wedding invitation ever arrives, then I’ll know for sure that their auras were compatible.

Bobby D. returned to work with a rejuvenated ticker and never even knew I had borrowed his car. I confessed to the use of his Smith & Wesson, but he was more pissed that I had eaten two of his French bread pizzas.

“I depend on those to take the edge off my hunger,” he complained the day that I confessed all. He’d been back in the office for a week and the steady supply of girlfriends bearing welcome home dishes had finally abated. Empty Tupperware containers littered the front office, and I estimated that Bobby had already put back on half of the twenty-two pounds he’d lost.

“A small price to pay for victory,” I reminded him. “I’m looking forward to that check from Nanny Honeycutt.”

His face lit up. “It’ll be a honey, all right.” He hummed happily as he contemplated the cartons of French bread pizzas he could buy with his proceeds.

“I hate to dash your dreams,” I reminded him, “but you did say I could keep the entire fee as thanks for saving your life.”

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His face fell. I’m not sure he thought his life was worth it. As always, though, Bobby rallied to look on the good side. “No matter. I’ll still profit from the publicity. We’re getting more respectable every day.”

“Hey,” I corrected him. “I’m getting more respectable. You’re just getting fatter.”

“Someone has to be the brains behind the operation,” he said cheerfully as he peered into a plastic pan and dug out the remains of some homemade fudge with a chubby finger.

“You keep eating that stuff and you’ll have another heart attack,” I warned him.

“That’s what I’m hoping for,” he confided. “Then you’ll have to lock lips with me again.” He wiggled his eyebrows at me.

I looked at him for a minute, the memory fresh in my mind, then turned and walked away.

“Where ya going, Babe?” he called after me.

“To brush my teeth,” I told him.

Life slowly returned to abnormal. Keisha finished cleaning up the office for us eventually, and she continues to come in every now and then to bring order to our chaos. Bobby pays her very well. He has to—she’s seen every one of his confidential files. Her little boy got his special glasses and then some. Hell, she could buy him the Hubbell telescope with what she’s earned by now.