Дэвид Балдаччи - One Good Deed

Archer shook out a Lucky and lit the man up.

Shaw gratefully blew the smoke out and looked up at Archer with a bemused expression. “I wonder what happened to all that money in Lucas Tuttle’s safe?”

“Never could really figure that out. I thought maybe I knew, but I’m probably wrong.” He paused. “You gonna dig into that?”

“Archer, I catch killers. I don’t waste no time with people taking stuff from people who already got too much.”

“That’s good to know.”

“Thought you’d see it that way.”

Archer put out a hand for the lawman to shake.

“You let me know how you get on,” said Shaw.

“You can count on that.”

“Take care, shamus .”

As Archer walked out, he met a woman and three teens — two young men and a girl — coming down the hall to Shaw’s room. He figured he knew who they were and introduced himself to Shaw’s family.

“He thinks the world of you, Mr. Archer,” said Shaw’s wife.

“It’s mutual. Oh, and one more thing.” He took out the envelope and counted out half the money in there. “The folks in Poca City took up a collection for Lieutenant Shaw.” He handed her the money. “I wouldn’t mention it to your husband. I know how proud he is. Maybe you can use it for the kids’ education and such.”

“Thank you so much, Mr. Archer.”

Archer eyed the oldest boy. “Hear you’re going into the Army?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good man. You stay safe and make your parents proud.” He gave the young man a crisp salute and then headed on his way.

As Archer walked down the hall, the spring was fully back in his step.

The sea voyage was rough for much of the way because of gale-force winds clustered along the shipping channels. But it seemed the more hostile the ocean was, the more soundly Archer slept in his first-class berth. It was perhaps fitting that a man who had done his hardest fighting on land and even lost his freedom there could find peace in such chaotic waters.

He would venture out to the top deck from time to time to admire the vastness and calamitous pitch of the ocean, while most passengers and even some of the crew were below decks vomiting into buckets. For him, this trip symbolized many things. Yet chief among them was redemption. Not for him, though he could use a fair amount of it, he supposed. No, this journey was not about him. It was about others.

During the war, Archer had one chief goal: to survive. Wedded to that enterprise was his desire to survive with as many of his fellow soldiers as possible. In that spirit, one looked out for the other. Sometimes you risked your life to save another. Sometimes you succeeded and sometimes you didn’t, and sometimes all died in the collective effort. But there was profound risk in not trying. Then what sort of a world would one have? Not to be too mushy about it, thought Archer, but thinking only of yourself as you trudged through life was a lonely journey indeed.

He finally reached Brazil and immediately made his way inland to São Paulo. To an address that he had taken off the crate in Hank Pittleman’s warehouse and stuck in the Gideon Bible in his room at the Derby. It was a small house on a low rise of earth with expansive views just outside the city’s main footprint. It was painted a deep eggplant and had yellow shutters. There were exotic flowers in terra cotta pots thriving in the warm air and hot sun, in a place where rain bursts were plentiful and welcome.

Archer had purchased a new wardrobe; his three-piece suit was beige and made out of lightweight summer cloth that was comfortable for where he was right now. He wore a Panama hat and brown lace-up leather shoes, and his face was tanned and weathered from the ocean trip.

Archer walked up the steps to the front door and knocked. He almost instantly heard approaching footsteps.

When the door opened, he had to look twice to recognize Jackie Tuttle. Her hair was dyed blond, for one thing, and cut short in a gamine style, the peekaboo all gone. And instead of the clingy and expensive dresses he was used to seeing her in, she had on a pair of faded coveralls, like those the factory women would wear during the war. Under that was a loose-fitting blue cotton shirt. No gloves, hat, jewelry, or makeup in sight. On her feet were a pair of clogs.

“You don’t look surprised to see me,” he said.

“That’s because I’m not.”

She stepped back to allow him passage.

He walked through and into a small front room.

It had three chairs and a small settee resting on threadbare carpet. In one of the chairs was Ernestine Crabtree, looking as physically modified as her companion. Again, he had to look twice to make sure that it was her. Her blond hair was styled in an urchin cut and partially covered by a plum-colored beret. She was also dressed as plainly as Jackie.

He sat down with his hat perched on his knee and looked around. “You like it here?”

“It’s warm, sunny, and beautiful, and the people are friendly,” said Jackie as she sat next to Ernestine. “And we’ve got some money to live on — the remains of the cash my father paid on the debt to Hank. But I’ll have to get a job at some point.” She paused and eyed Archer with a bemused look. “Maybe I can find a Hank Pittleman down here.”

“How’d you come by this place?” asked Archer.

“This used to belong to my mother’s family. It passed to me when she died. I used to travel here with her when I was younger. I can speak the language, which comes in handy. And I’ve been teaching Ernestine.”

Archer nodded as he took this in and then looked at Ernestine. “I’m sorry for what happened to you back in Texas,” said Archer.

She glanced sharply at him. “How did—”

“I... saw your scrapbook,” he said. “And Mr. Shaw checked into some things.”

Staring down at her lap, she said, “When my father was arrested, he told me he would only go to jail for a few months. He had me and my mother move away and then he said he would come and join us.” She halted here, the tears clustering in her eyes. Jackie put a supportive arm around her. “And then... and then...”

“I know, Ernestine,” said Archer quietly.

She suddenly sat up straight and brushed away the tears. “I couldn’t believe it. I was so furious with them both. I didn’t care if my father told everyone what those men had done to me. I just wanted him to be with us. I... I didn’t want him to die on my account. And I said things to my mother, things I regretted.” She paused once more as her eyes filled with fresh tears. “And then she was gone, too.”

After she composed herself, Archer looked around and said, “So where’s the Royal typewriter?”

She glanced up and said quietly, “I... I have a little room in the back of the house.”

“For your scribblings?”

“She’s working on a novel, Archer,” said Jackie. “I’ve read parts of it. It’s really good.”

“‘A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction,’” said Archer, quoting Virginia Woolf.

“Y-yes,” said Ernestine. “So I believe, too.”

“Maybe you can take everything you had to endure in life and put it on those pages, Ernestine. And I think you’ll have a fine book. Because sometimes, you just have to be rid of it, and move on.”

A few moments of silence passed.

And then Jackie took a letter from her pocket and held it up. “You wrote to me here and asked me to come back and testify.”

“And if you did, I said everything would be okay, for both of you, and me. I gave you my word.”

“But why was that so important? You had Marjorie Pittleman dead to rights with that recording. And my father, too. He confessed to killing Hank and Sid Duckett. You didn’t need me to win your freedom.”