Дэвид Балдаччи - One Good Deed

“I can fix that in a jiffy.”

She looked alarmed. “What? No, that’s all right.”

“Ma’am, I’m right here. Probably take me no more than a few minutes.”

“Archer, I wouldn’t feel comfortable letting you do that.”

“Ma’am, let me just say something.”

“All right,” she said, looking at him warily.

“I spent time in prison with the likes of Dickie Dill and others like him. They’re hard men, and some of them live right here. And one of them followed you home.”

“But I took care of that.”

“And one of them wrote you that nasty note. So you need to lock your doors — that includes your front door and your bedroom door. Because if they get the jump on you, well...”

She stared at him very deliberately for a long moment.

“I think you’re sincere,” she said at last.

“That’s because I am.”

She turned and led him inside.

The interior of the place was Spartanly furnished but it was neat and overly clean, at least to Archer’s mind. There were also a goodly number of books on the shelves. From a glance he could see novels by people named Faulkner, Brontë, Whitman, Wharton, Austen, Dickens, Twain, and Steinbeck. And there were quite a few legal tomes, too.

“Got a lot of law books there.”

“I actually wanted to be a lawyer once.”

“Pardon my ignorance, but can women be lawyers?”

“Of course they can! But I will admit, it’s unusual.”

“If you want to be one, then I say go for it. Sure you’d make a fine one.”

“Thank you, Mr. Archer,” she said, evidently pleased by his remark.

“You have relations who are in the law?”

“No, but my father—” She faltered.

“Your father was a lawyer?”

“No, he was—” She broke off and said, “Let me show you the door.”

Crabtree led him down a short, plain hall to her bedroom. She took off her hat, dropped it on the bed, and put her purse down on a dresser with a tilt mirror topping it.

“This is the problem, Mr. Archer.”

She attempted to close the door, but it caught on the floor.

“Okay, let me see this thing.”

He swung it back and forth until the door rubbed like before.

“It’s not the door. I believe the floor might be off a bit.” Archer took out a nickel and set it on one end on the floor, and they watched it roll right over to the closet door.

“Yep, I’d say the floor is definitely not plumb.”

He pointed to the door hinges.

“I think if I tighten the screws up enough on these hinges, it should clear the floor, warped though it is. You got a screwdriver?”

“Let me look. It might take a few minutes.”

“I got nowhere to be.”

After she left, he looked around and noted the perfectly made bed and the shade on the window that he had watched before she had cut the view off by closing the drapes. He looked in the corner and saw the pair of high heels that she had been wearing the night before.

As he glanced once more at the bed, Archer saw what looked to be the edge of a book poking out from under a pillow. He checked that she wasn’t coming back, and then hurried over to the bed. He had no right or business to be doing this, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. For Archer, more information was always better than less. And he just thought, at first, that it was a novel. But when he slid it out, he saw that it was a scrapbook. He turned the page and saw the old, yellowed news article. It was from a local newspaper in Amarillo, Texas.

It detailed the trial of Carson Crabtree, who had killed three men in separate encounters. There was a photo of Carson within the news article. It showed a huge man with a bald head and a fierce countenance. He had, surprisingly, worked as a police officer, and curiously enough considering his features and the crimes committed, had the reputation of being kind and considerate to all who knew him. Yet not only had Carson not blamed his actions on mental affliction, the report said, but he also had confessed to the murders. He had died in the electric chair leaving behind a wife, Jewell, and one daughter, Ernestine.

Archer flipped to the next page and saw the grainy image of Ernestine Crabtree, then only fourteen. She looked small, drab, and dour, and it was hard for Archer to believe that she had grown up into the tall, lovely woman he knew her to be. There were a few other stories about this incident, including ones about the three men killed. And their pictures were included, too. Archer studied the men, and then read about their backgrounds. Each was twenty and had been in and out of trouble with the law since their midteens. As Archer read down the list of crimes committed by them, one caught his attention.

Peeping Tom.

Each of the three men had been shot, their bodies left where they fell. The sidearm used was Carson’s police-issued one. There had been no trial, what with the man’s confession, and no deal worked to avoid the death penalty for that confession. And Archer wondered why.

He heard footsteps coming and he hastily slid the book back under the pillow exactly as it had been before and stepped over to the door.

A few seconds later she appeared in the doorway. “Here it is, Mr. Archer.”

He took the screwdriver from her. “I’m gonna loosen the screws first. When I say so, if you can, just pull up on the edge of the door. Use the knob to grip.”

She did so when he told her to, and he tightened the upper hinges. Then he got down on his knees and partially unscrewed the ones there.

“Just pull up as much as you can now.”

Crabtree let go of the doorknob, lifted her arms high, and gripped the upper edge of the door and pushed toward the ceiling, which raised the lower right edge of the door about a half inch.

“Just a little higher now. The holes are almost lined up where I need them to be.”

She went up on her tippy-toes and stretched out even more.

“Okay, hold it right there.”

He glanced over and saw that, with her efforts, the woman’s dress had ridden up some. And with him where he was, he had a clear sightline up her dress, revealing her stocking tops and pale thighs above them. He quickly looked away, feeling embarrassed for her. And maybe for himself, too. That was a new one for Archer.

My mother always said I would grow up at some point. And maybe Poca City’s the place.

“Okay, that should do it.” He got up off the floor. “Try it now.”

She did so, and the door swung freely. She smiled. “That’s wonderful, Mr. Archer. Thank you.”

“And don’t forget to lock it now. And you may want to sleep with that gun under your pillow, too.”

They went back into the other room, and Archer spotted a bottle and two glasses on a bureau. He picked up the bottle. “Rebel Yell. I hear they make it from wheat, not rye.”

“You’re not supposed to drink alcohol, Mr. Archer.”

“Oh, I know that. Number 14 on the list. I was just wondering. A man does get thirsty here. With all the dang dust.”

“Well, you did fix my door, and I guess one nip won’t hurt.”

She poured out two small portions, and they clinked glasses.

“I’m growing to like this town,” he said, taking a sip.

“Why’s that?”

“You have good people, for one thing. Like yourself. Trying to help others, like me.”

She smiled and nodded. “You seem to have come a long way since our first meeting.”

“So what does the J stand for?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Ernestine J. Crabtree. It’s on your office door. What’s the J stand for?”

“Oh, um, Jewell. It was my mother’s first name.”

“Well, it’s a pretty name.”

“Yes...”