The Rivers Webb (9 page)

“He was almost right.”

John nodded dumbly as he closed the door and walked into the library.

Inside, he was greeted by a prim, matronly woman in her late thirties who gave him a wide, bright smile. She was standing on the highest step of a rickety old stepstool, and John was certain that she would fall and break her neck any second. She seemed to handle the creaks and groans with an astonishing sense of ease, however.

“I'm so glad you decided to visit the library today…” she said, gracefully exiting the ancient deathtrap as though she were descending the grand stairway of an antebellum mansion.

“Unfortunately, we are getting ready to close, so I hope you can come again tomorrow,” she said sweetly. With that, she motioned him back toward the door. It probably worked with everyone, except that John was armed with both a steel resolve, and a gold shield.

“I appreciate that,” John said, flashing his badge.

“I'm under a bit of a timeframe, and it would actually help me a lot to look for what I need when no one is around.”

The librarian actually blushed.

“Well, of course! How excitin'. I can honestly say I've never been part of a police investigation. Whatever I can do to assist, please, just ask.”

“Thank you, Miss…”

If possible, the woman perked up even more.

“Miss Callahan. Nez Callahan, at your service.”

“Perfect. I'm looking for an obituary.”

“Well, that's quite simple.” Nez said, as she guided him over toward a side alcove where the old newspapers were kept. She was both coy and inviting at the same time, and made certain to direct the good detective by slight touches to his arm, shoulder, and chest. In any other situation, John would have at least been impressed at her ability to flirt.

“We have local papers goin' back over fifty years. And beyond that, we've got family histories datin' to the mid 1700s! If they're dead, you'll find 'em here, one way or another.”

She stopped by a large index catalog and opened a drawer at random.

“What's the name you're lookin' for?”

“Posey.”

Nez smiled kindly.

“I meant the full name.”

“That's all I've got. “ John said apologetically.

“Well, that's gonna make a challenge. Posey ain't exactly what you would call an uncommon name in these parts.”

“I know it's a woman, and I know she died around 1902 or 1903.”

“Alright, we're gettin' there, now,” she said with a lilt, “I don't suppose you would happen to know where this mystery woman was when she died?”

“No, I'm afraid…” then he stopped, as something Fred had mentioned suddenly jolted into his memory: “What I'm lookin' for doesn't exist in Coweta County. They wouldn't let it exist.”

“Sales City. She was killed in Sales City.”

“Are you certain?”

John thought once again to the look on Mr. Tibbs face.

“Absolutely.”

Nez looked at him dubiously, but John's mind was made up. Fred had mentioned how George was so determined to search through Pelham's newspapers because there would never be any mention of it in Sales City. He didn't catch it then, but the inference was clear. Whatever had happened took place in Sales City, and someone wanted all mention of it destroyed.

“…all kinds o' things to find right here in the old papers, and nobody ever thinks to look,” Nez was saying as she looked through the neatly ordered cards to find the papers they would need.

“But they're all right here, waitin' to be found. There it is! Sales City Register,” she said as she pulled out a single card.

John followed as she walked over to a particular shelf and thumbed through the stacks until she reached one particular section.

“Now, we'll just have to search through…” Nez stopped, looked through the stack again, then turned with a look of horror.

“Detective, we got us a problem.”

“What's that?”

“There's a whole section of the Register gone.”

John took a moment and let a long, aggravated breath out to steady his mood.

“Let me take a wild guess. The section we're looking for?”

“Everything from 1900 to 1905.”

Chapter 4

Sheriff's Deputy Dan Merrill was annoyed. After getting unceremoniously dropped off at the office by Webb, the good deputy did what seemed the logical thing to do: report in to the sheriff. The only problem was, the sheriff was nowhere to be found. He wasn't at the office, nor was he at the Rivers home when he called there. Similar calls all over town gave him the same result. Sheriff Rivers was completely unaccounted for.

Which meant he could only be in one place. The one place Dan knew he would not want to be disturbed.

Sitting at the manual typewriter that Dan insisted on using for his daily reports, he began filling out the details of the day's events. The sheriff and the other deputy couldn't understand why he was so adamant about the procedure, and he couldn't completely blame them, for the most part. There was rarely anything going on in Coweta County worth mentioning from day to day. But the idea of written daily reports had been drilled in to Dan when he was at the Academy, and he had never gotten out of the habit.

Usually, Dan found the exercise to be relaxing. It was a way to completely close the book on the day. This time, however, his report had the opposite effect. There were too many unanswered questions. In fact, looking over his own recounting, Dan realized that unanswered questions were the only things that had been produced.

Reverend Rivers, George, the letters at the murder scene, the man in the woods…even John Webb himself. All these things were mysteries with seemingly no answers.

Actually…

Dan stopped typing. He could get answers to one of those mysteries, at least. And it wouldn't take much more effort than a phone call.

Dan reached for the phone, wondering as he did if he was doing this to further the investigation or to satisfy his own curiosity.

“Edna,” he asked as the operator came on. “Get me an outside line, to the New York City police department…12th precinct.”

“Gimme one moment, hon,” came back the cheery voice on the line. “Connectin'.”

After a moment, the familiar ring sounded, and after just a few moments, a heavily accented New York woman answered on the other end.

“12th Precinct.”

“Officer Elijah Morton, please.”

“One moment. Is he expecting your call?”

“About two years now, come to think of it,” Dan said without thinking, then, to recover from his unprofessional response, he said quickly, “Just let him know that Dan Merrill is calling in a favor.”

There was a pause on the other end while the woman tried to decide whether to bother delivering the message or just hang up.

“Hold on,” she finally said. Dan waited for about five minutes while she searched out officer Morton. He could hear the sound of the precinct in the background as he waited. It was such a different kind of police work up there than what he was accustomed to. He wondered how his old friend from the Academy was holding up.

“Dan?” came the voice across the line, finally.

“Elijah, it's good to hear your voice.”

“Dan Merrill! I thought somebody was playing a joke on me. I haven't heard from you in ages.”

“I know, I know. Sorry about that. It's just been really hectic,” he lied. How do you tell someone that you haven't kept in touch because you were afraid they would think your life was boring in comparison with theirs?

“Oh, I'm sure, I'm sure. There seems to always be somebody out there doing something they're not supposed to, right?”

“Yeah…” Dan was finding himself distracted by Elijah's voice, which had all but shed its familiar southern lilt.

“Hope you don't mind me sayin', but it sounds to me like you've done a pretty good job o' blendin' in up there.”

“How do you mean?”

Laughing, Dan responded, “Hell, Elijah, if I didn't know diff'rent, I'd think you was just another northerner by the way ya' talk!” This drew a laugh out of his old friend as well.

“Try tellin' that to my partner. He still says I sound like I'm fresh off the farm.”

They both laughed at that, then Elijah decided enough pleasantries had passed.

“All right then, Dan, nice as it is that you called, I know it wasn't to make fun of my accent. What's up in Coweta County?”

“Well, we got us a visitor. Fella by the name o' John Webb. I was wonderin' if you might be able to tell me somethin' about him.”

“Love to help. Why would I know anything about him?”

“Well, maybe not you, specifically. But I thought you might be able to pass the word around. He's a detective from your neck o' the woods.”

“From this precinct? He doesn't sound familiar.”

“Well, alright, maybe not from your EXACT neck o' the woods…listen, all I know is that he's a homicide detective from New York City, and he's been dropped in my lap, and I don't know anything about 'im.”

There was a pause for a moment.

“It's gonna be hard without knowing what precinct he's from…”

“I'd appreciate any help you can give me.”

“Sure. I'll ask around. At least he's homicide, so I'll have a good idea of who to ask. It may take a day or so, though.”

“Whatever you can do.”

“Of course, of course. Hey, if you manage to get any more details, call me.”

“Sure thing. I'll talk to you later.”

Dan hung up the phone and immediately began to hate himself. What was he doing? Checking up on a cop who volunteered to come down and help? On a member of the Rivers family, no less? What was he hoping to find?

But he couldn't shake the bad feeling he had about Webb. From the start, he had the idea that the man was hiding something. Yesterday's little escapade by the bridge just added fuel to the fire.

Yesterday. There was something else about yesterday that had bothered him. With George's murder and everything to follow, he hadn't given it much thought, but…

“Fred, keep an eye on things. I'll be back in a little bit,” he called as he grabbed his hat and started toward the door.

The other deputy just nodded in response. Poor Fred. He didn't have Dan's expertise or training, nor did he have Roy's strong presence or natural powers of observation. He was a good man, and the people liked him, but he always felt like he was two steps behind.

Of course, the recent events made that even worse. With two murders, everyone had to be at their very best to meet the challenges that lay before them. Fred was starting to feel like he simply wasn't up to the task. Dan knew this, but there just wasn't a whole lot he could do for the man.

“If the sheriff comes in before your shift ends, tell him my report is on his desk, and I'm checking up on some of the crowd from the funeral.”

Dan left quickly, as though afraid that, should he take a moment to consider his actions, he would surely change his mind. He remained undeterred, however, and he got into one of the two remaining squad cars and drove towards Mulfry.

It occurred to him, as he passed the Mulfry Post Office, that he had absolutely no idea why he was really here. He didn't actually have any questions that pertained to the investigation. He couldn't think of one plausible reason to ask the burning questions he had.

Common sense told him to turn the car around and forget this stupid idea. And Dan would have, except for one thing. If common sense had opened its damn mouth earlier, he could have saved his gas. But instead—and here is where Dan parked in the gravel driveway—it decided to wait until he'd actually arrived before pointing all this out.

He got out of the car and walked to the front door and knocked.

“Come on in, Deputy. I just got a pot o' coffee on, so's we can set and talk a spell,” came the voice from inside.

Dan felt a shiver go up his spine. Sam Posey was a scary character without even trying to be, sometimes. He opened the door and walked into the kitchen. Sam was sitting at the table quietly.

“Doc,” he said in greeting.

“Deputy,” Sam replied in kind.

Dan let the silence settle in for a while. If this man were really clairvoyant, he thought, then he would already know what questions he wanted answers to. And he could just save old Dan a lot of awkwardness.

“I'm not much a one for formality, Deputy. So, if y'er waitin' for an invitation to sit, please don't think me discourteous. Consider yourself invited,” Sam chided, reminding the deputy that he was just standing there like an idiot.

“You knew I was coming?” Dan asked, taking a seat across from the old man.

“I knew you would be. Though I'm a little surprised it took you this long.”

Dan eyed the man. Was he trying to suggest something that Dan wasn't catching? He could never tell with the man.

“I hope I'm not intruding…I had though about just calling you on the phone…”

“Oh no, you did not,” Sam chided. “You couldn't ask what you need to ask without seein' my face, Dan. It's as simple as that, and you know it. You needed to look into my eyes, see the little twitches and tics that tell you when I'm nervous or hidin' something. You needed to SEE what I was THINKIN'!”

Dan didn't even try to hide his surprise. His natural gifts of observation had helped him a lot over the years. And that was exactly how it worked. The thing is, he never told anyone. Not even Roy. He felt that it added to the effect if nobody knew how he could “guess” at little details that people revealed without realizing it.

“How did…”

“I've often thought that what you and I can do are very similar, Deputy. You see things that everyone else sees, but don't know it. That's kinda' how it works with me, I think.”

He looked like he was about to say more, but the coffee percolator made its announcement, and Sam smiled broadly as he got up to fetch it.

As he poured coffee into two ceramic cups, he switched gears for a moment.

“Reverend Rivers talked with me about three weeks before he died, you know. Dropped by, just like you did today. It was kinda' strange, now that I think about it. Not that he stopped by—that's nothin' unusual. He and I been friends ever since…” Sam stopped himself quickly, as though he had nearly parted with some secret piece of information. Dan noted it, but decided to let it pass.

“We been friends for a long time. Naw, what was strange was that he asked me somethin' that he never bothered with in all the time I known 'im.” Sam looked at the coffee cups in his hand, apparently searching for his next thought in their murky depths, before announcing, “He wanted to know where my visions come from.”

“What did you tell him?” Dan asked, without really knowing why.

“Well, Dan,” he replied, as he put a mug in front of him. Dan noticed it had just the amount of cream that he liked, and he somehow knew that when he tasted it, it would have just the right amount of sugar. Creepy. Very creepy. “I wasn't sure what to tell him, 'cause I don't rightly know myself. Back when I was younger and still workin' the carnival circuit, I met a pasty-faced evangelist that told me that they come from hell itself, and that ev'rytime I see somethin', I'm givin' power to the devil. Didn't make much sense to me, on account a' mostly I see where someone dropped their pocketknife or when a woman's baby's gonna be due…plus, I never look for visions, they jest kinda' come. So if the devils gettin' some kinda' power off'n that, ain't much I can do about it.”

“Later in years, though, I come acrost a young feller with wide eyes and a Bible as big as my truck, and he told me my visions was a gift from God, so's I can do somethin' to serve Him. 'Course, that don't make no sense, neither, since everything I read in the Bible—and don't think I ain't read it, cause I have—says that, when God wants you to do somethin', he darn well tells you. Seventy odd years now, and I ain't heard a peep.”

Sam took a sip of his coffee as if to emphasize the point.

“Then, about four years ago, this jittery fella come knockin' at my door, sayin' he drove all the way down from Chicago, on account o' he heard stories about me. He asked all kinds o' questions that I couldn't make heads or tails of, tried to tell me that I was drawin' some sort o' psychic energy, then asked me what I used for a ‘focus.' I told him, truthful enough, that as long as I got a bit o' coffee in the morning, then I was pretty well good and focused for the day. I guess he didn't like my answer, cause after that he left in kind of a huff. Said he was from some kinda' special society of some-such thing, but I'll tell ya'…wherever he come from, that fella' just weren't right.”

Dan sat, listening. He wasn't quite sure what to do with himself. He knew that Sam Posey was no man to rush. If he felt it was necessary to tell a long, drawn out story, then Dan knew there was no point in doing anything but sitting back and letting him. He only hoped that he would eventually get a chance to ask the man about the funeral. He absent-mindedly drank his coffee. Sure enough. It was just right.

“The thing is, Deputy, there always seems to be someone who knows for absolute certainty where these things I see come from. But I'll be danged if old Carl wasn't the first one to actually ask ME. I really wished I coulda' told him, too. 'Cause it seemed real important to 'im. We talked for about two hours that day. And you know, it was one of the kinds o' talks that sticks with ya'. He told me that he had just heard some bad news, but couldn't talk about it. Rather, I should say he wouldn't let hisself talk about it. But whatever it was, it was eatin' away at him—the way that guilt does. I know, it just don't seem right sayin' such a thing about Carl. It don't seem likely that you could accuse that man o' bein' guilty of anything but preachin' a little too long now and then. But that was the feelin' I got from him that day. There was somethin' just killin' him inside.”