John Katzenbach - Just Cause

Cowart saw that she had her pistol in her hands and was holding it down but ready, as she maneuvered toward the corner of the house.

'You paying attention, Cowart?' Brown asked. His voice seemed to fill some hollow spot within the reporter. 'You getting all this?'

'I'm getting it,' he replied, clenching his teeth.

'Where's your notebook?'

Cowart held up his hand. He clutched a thin reporter's notebook and waved it about. Brown grinned. 'Glad to see you're armed and dangerous,' he said.

Cowart stared at him.

'It's a joke, Cowart. Relax.'

Cowart nodded. He watched the policeman as his eyes fixed on Shaeffer, who'd paused at the corner of the shack. Brown was smiling, but only barely. He straightened up and shook his shoulders once, like some large animal shaking sleep from its body. Cowart realized then that Brown was like some sort of warrior whose fears and apprehensions about the upcoming battle dropped away when the enemy hove into view. The policeman was not precisely happy, but he was at ease with whatever danger or uncertainty rested inside the shack, beyond the fragile morning light and curling gray mists. The reporter looked down at his own hands, as if they were a window to his own feelings. They looked pale but steady-He thought, Made it this far. See it through. 'Actually, he replied, 'that's not a bad joke at all. Given the circumstances.'

Both men smiled, but not at any real humor.

'All right,' said Tanny Brown. 'Wake-up call.'

He turned toward the shack and remembered the first time he'd driven up to the house searching for Ferguson. He hadn't understood the storm of prejudice and hatred he was unleashing with his arrival. All the feelings that Pachoula wanted to forget had come out when Robert Earl Ferguson had been taken downtown for questioning in the murder of little Joanie Shriver. He was determined not to live through that again.

Brown set off swiftly, pacing directly across the hard-packed dirt of the shack's front yard, not looking back once to see if Cowart was following him. The reporter took a single deep breath, wondered for a moment why the air seemed suddenly dry to his taste, realized it wasn't the air that was dry at all, and moved quickly to keep stride with the police lieutenant.

Brown paused at the foot of the steps to the front door. He turned to Cowart and hissed, 'If things go to hell fast, make sure you stay out of my line of fire.'

Cowart nodded quickly. He could feel excitement surging through his body, chasing the fears that reverberated within him.

'Here we go,' said the policeman.

He took the stairs two at a time, in a pair of great leaps. Cowart scrambled behind him. Their feet made a clattering noise against the whitewashed old wooden boards, which added creaks and complaints to the sudden sounds that pierced the morning silence. Brown gathered himself to the side of the door, just off-angle, motioning Cowart to the other side. He swung open a screen door and grasped the doorknob. He twisted it carefully, but it refused to move.

'Locked?' whispered Cowart.

'No. Just jammed, I think,' Brown replied.

He twisted the knob again. He shook his head at Cowart. Then he took his empty hand, balled it into a fist and slammed it three times hard against the blistered wooden frame, shaking the entire house with urgency.

'Ferguson! Police! Open up!'

Before the echoes of his booming voice died away, he'd grabbed the screen door frame and wrenched it aside. Then he stepped back and raised his foot, kicking savagely at the door. The frame cracked with a sound like a shot, and Cowart jumped involuntarily. Brown gathered himself a second time, aiming carefully, and kicked again.

The door buckled and opened partway.

'Police!' he cried again.

Then the huge detective threw his entire bulk, shoulder first, against the door like some crazed fullback smashing toward the goal with the game on the line.

The door gave way with a torn, splintering sound.

Tanny Brown pushed it viciously away and jumped into the front parlor, half-crouched, weapon raised and swinging from side to side. He yelled again, 'Police! Ferguson, come out!'

Cowart hesitated for a moment, then, swallowing hard, stepped in behind him, his thoughts jumbled, the noise from the assault on the door ringing in his ears. It was like stepping off a cliff's edge, he thought. It seemed as if wind was rushing by his ears, screaming velocity.

'Dammit!' Brown called out, as if starting another command, then he stopped short, his words sliced, as if by a razor.

Robert Earl Ferguson stepped out of a side room.

For an instant, his dark skin seemed to blend with the gray morning shadows that crept about the interior of the shack. Then he moved slowly forward, toward the hunched-over police lieutenant. The killer wore a loose-fitting navy I-shirt and faded jeans, hastily tugged on. His feet were bare and made small slapping sounds against the polished hardwood floor. His arms were raised languidly, almost insouciantly, as if in a surrender of irony. He stepped forward into the living room and faced Tanny Brown, who straightened slowly, cautiously, keeping a static distance between himself and the killer. A false grin worked the sides of Ferguson's face, and his eyes swept around quickly. He fixed for a moment on the burst door, then on Matthew Cowart. Then he stared directly at Brown.

'You gonna pay for that door?' he asked. 'It wasn't locked. Just a bit stiff. No need to break it down. Country folk don't need to lock their doors. You know that. Now, what you want with me, Detective?'

There was no urgency or panic in the killer's voice. Simply an infuriating calm, as if he'd been waiting for their arrival.

'You know what I want with you,' Brown said. His teeth remained clenched tightly, and he trained his weapon on Ferguson's chest.

But the two men kept distant, looking across the small room toward each other, warily.

'I know what you want. You want someone to blame. Always the same thing,' Ferguson said coldly.

He eyed the pistol pointing at him carefully. Then he looked directly at the policeman, narrowing his gaze so that it seemed as harsh as his voice.

I ain't armed,' he said. He held both hands out, palms forward. 'And I ain't done nothing. You don't need that gun.' When Tanny Brown didn't move the pistol barrel, Cowart saw a single moment of nervousness and doubt flit through Ferguson's eyes. But it disappeared as rapidly as it arrived. Ferguson sounded like a man standing just beyond range. Cowart glanced over at Brown and realized, He can't touch him.

The killer turned toward Cowart, ignoring the policeman. He turned the corners of his mouth up into a smile that sent a chill right through the reporter.

'That what you're here for, too, Mr. Cowart? I been expecting the detective to show, but I figured you'd come to your senses. Or you got some other reason?'

'No. Just still looking for answers,' Cowart replied hoarsely.

'I thought our little talk the other day filled you up with answers. I can't hardly imagine you got any questions left, Mr. Cowart. I thought things were pretty clear.'

These last words were spoken in a soft, slow, harsh voice.

'Nothing is ever clear,' Cowart replied.

'Well,' Ferguson said carefully, gesturing at Brown, 'there's one answer you got already. You see what this man does. Kicks in a door. Threatens folks with a gun. Probably getting ready to beat my ass again.'

Ferguson spun toward Brown. 'What you want to kick out of me this time?'

Tanny Brown didn't reply.

Cowart shook his head. 'Not this time,' he said.

Ferguson scowled angrily. The muscles on his arms tightened into knots and the veins in his neck stood out.

'I can't tell you nothing' Ferguson replied, anger soaring through his words. He took a single step toward the reporter, but then stopped himself. Cowart saw him fight for some internal control, win, and relax. He leaned up against a sidewall. 'I don't know nothing. And say, where's your partner, Lieutenant? You gonna beat me again? I miss Detective Wilcox. You gonna need his help, huh?'