T. Bunn - Winner Take All

Kirsten careened off the end of the bed and across the room.

Marcus said, “We both know you need to go.”

She searched blindly for a door handle she could not find. Dale finally opened the door and ushered her out.

Deacon stared at the door and murmured, “Lady’s got some ghosts screaming at her, sure to goodness.”

Her absence was a sudden vacuum. “Somebody needs to get Charlie home.”

Deacon’s gaze contained such sorrow Marcus had to turn away. “Listen to you. Flat on your back, eyes drifting in the wind, and still you got to worry about all the blessed world.”

Strange how the pain could reach him, even though fatigue gummed his words. “If we don’t find some witnesses willing to speak on Dale’s behalf, we’re doomed.”

“You just hush and rest now.” Deacon’s gentle bass sounded in harmony to slumber’s symphony. “I’ll see if I can’t help the gentleman come up with something.”

Monday morning Marcus awoke to find that Charlie’s family had already come and gone. He could not decide whether this was a blessing or yet another wound to his lacerated spirit. Dale had driven back to Raleigh with Kirsten, there to see if he could stir up answers. Deacon helped him through the torment of rising and preparing for departure. Marcus called his office, assured Netty that he had all his bits and pieces intact, and pretended he had not hoped for word from Kirsten.

The hospital checkout required over an hour and much of Marcus’ strength. The doctor pronounced him as fit as anybody he had ever seen who had just been blown up. He let Marcus go with a smile and a pack of Percodan. Marcus resisted the desire to flee into codeine’s sweet embrace, and instead dozed while Deacon drove.

He opened his eyes to find they had stopped by a red-brick church. A mammoth black gentleman with the eyes of a merry inquisitor greeted Deacon with a long and vigorous embrace. He then turned to where Marcus still sat inside the car and extended his hand. “Reverend Cleve Samson. Deacon here says you’re the young fellow who lit up Motts Channel yesterday.”

“I’m not feeling so young right now.”

“I know that’s the truth.” He showed a pastor’s ability to share deepest sorrow with a look, a touch, a very few words. “Charlie Hayes was a saint. His passage leaves a lot of people ’round here feeling much poorer.”

“Thank you.”

“Deacon tells me you’re in need of our help.”

“Not me, but a client.”

“Any friend of Dale Steadman is a friend of most everybody down this way.” He started toward a massive old town car. “Y’all can follow me, the Biggs don’t live more’n five blocks from here.”

The Biggs residence was down a tree-lined street, a bastion of peace triangulated by the Wrightsville Beach Highway, the hospital, and the ruins of the old port. Deacon parked behind the reverend’s Lincoln. Together they followed him up the drive.

A woman in a faded print housedress stood with arms linked beneath her ribs. “Reverend.”

“Hello, Ida. I believe you know Deacon Wilbur.”

“Nice to see you again, sir. Welcome to my home.”

“And this is the gentleman I told you about.”

Ida Biggs showed Marcus a face shut tight as a vault. “Y’all best come out of the heat.”

The screened veranda ran the entire back end of the house. Ida’s husband, a clean-shaven gentleman with the tensile strength of a willow, rose to greet them. “Good to have you come around, Reverend.”

“How you keeping, Tyrell?”

“Can’t complain.” He did not wait for the pastor to introduce them. “Deacon Wilbur, as I live and breathe.”

“Mr. Biggs.”

“And you must be that lawyer fellow I heard so much about, the one took on New Horizons.”

“Marcus Glenwood.”

“Always wanted to shake your hand. Yessir, took on the giants of this world with one little stone, ain’t that right, Reverend?” Tyrell Biggs was dressed in pleated cotton slacks and a coffee-colored shirt, one shade lighter than his skin. “How about I go fix everybody a glass of lemonade. Ida made some up fresh.”

“Lemonade would be fine, sir. Thank you.”

“Mr. Glenwood’s got some questions he’d like to ask you about Dale Steadman, Ida.”

“Don’t see as how I can talk comfortable about what’s gone on inside somebody else’s house.”

“That’s why we’re here, Ida, me and Deacon both. To tell you this ain’t just right, it’s important. Now sit yourself on down and see if you can help the man help Mr. Steadman.”

Marcus eased himself into the padded chair. Nothing hurt in an excruciating manner. But all his aches bonded together, forming a fabric that stretched and tugged with every motion. “Actually, I need to ask you about his former wife as much as I do about Dale himself.”

Tyrell called through the house’s open door, “It’s all about Benjamins with that lady.”

His wife sniffed. “No it ain’t.”

“Yessir, all about those Ben Franklins. All about big money.”

“What you talking about?” Something in her tone suggested Ida Biggs was actually glad her husband was speaking, as it released her from what was probably a tight and constant reserve. “You never worked in that home.”

“Who’s living with you then? Who’s watched you talk every day ’bout how hard it was to be in the same house with that lady. Who’s heard you fretting day in and day out over the baby being in that lady’s care?”

Marcus asked, “How long did you work for Mr. Steadman?”

“A year and some change. Ever since they moved into that house he built her.” But her eyes remained upon her husband, who was going around now with five glasses on a metal tray. “Listen to you talk.”

“I saw that woman more than I ever wanted to.” He handed his wife a glass, then seated himself beside her. “I watched them have words right there on my doorstep.”

His wife sipped from her glass. “Mr. Dale is a fine gentleman.”

“Did I say anything against that man? No I did not. Not one word. I’m talking about the lady.”

“The lady didn’t care nothing about money.”

“But she cared about her singing, didn’t she. She cared about her career. That was her pieces of silver.” He leaned back, satisfied. “Tell me I’m not right.”

“Go turn on the fan so we can get us some air.”

Tyrell set down his glass and rose from his chair. “Her singing was her obsession. Same sin, different currency. Ain’t that what you say, Reverend?”

Marcus asked, “You think Erin Brandt kidnapped the child because of her career?”

“She didn’t do it out of love, I know that much.” Ida Biggs looked straight at him for the first time, and Marcus realized the only reason she was talking to him at all was because of the baby. “One thing I can say for certain about Miz Brandt. She wouldn’t know love if it grew fangs and bit her on the backside.”

They made two further stops after the visit with Ida Biggs. The meetings proceeded at a country pace, which meant it was almost dark before they finally left Wilmington. Marcus dozed the entire way home. His sleep was never deep enough to dream. Every now and then the mournful note he had heard upon awakening in the hospital drifted through his heart, and he would sense anew the burden of unshed tears.

When Deacon pulled up in front of the house, Marcus opened his door and eased himself upright. He could not help but watch his front door. He knew Kirsten would not be there, but hoped just the same. “Would you come to court with me tomorrow?”

“You still plan on taking that lawyer Caisse to task?”

“You heard what I said to Dale. We don’t have any choice. Ida Biggs might be more comfortable on the stand if you were there to greet her.”