Amy Greene - Long Man

It seemed James couldn’t admit that Gracie may have been taken by Amos. It seemed he would rather accept that anything else had happened to her. Amos had been passing in and out of town since before Annie Clyde was born. It was frightening to find Gracie in the cornfield with him, but she didn’t believe he was a child murderer, however certain she felt that he was keeping her daughter from her. Whatever Amos did to Gracie, as long as Annie Clyde got her back alive, it could be fixed. Annie Clyde could wash away any mark he left. As long as Gracie was found and returned with life still in her body, the one Annie Clyde knew every inch of as well as or better than she did her own, they’d be all right. Annie Clyde could love her child back from anything but death. If James was here beside her now she would have reminded him there was no coming out of that lake. Whatever it spread over was gone. Whatever the water took, it kept. But she could make Amos give Gracie back to them. All she had to do was get to him before the law did. Thus far she had managed to remain in motion, even with guilt crushing the breath out of her. It was her fault for not watching Gracie. There was no one else to blame. If she hadn’t been planning to leave her husband, she wouldn’t have been distracted. She had to be the one to make it right.

Annie Clyde was trying to get her bearings in the field when she heard a vehicle fishtailing down the track to the road, another band of men going off to look for her daughter. Around sunup a truckload had left with the only picture of Gracie she owned, taken last summer by a man who traveled around the countryside with his camera making family portraits. Annie Clyde had used money set aside for coffee and salt to pay him with, but it was worth the sacrifice. She hadn’t wanted to forget what Gracie looked like at two years old. Now she wanted her picture back. Her instincts told her it was as useless looking outside of Yuneetah as it was looking into the lake. It was the same waste of time. She thrashed her way between the rows and out of the field to see more cars and trucks parked in the knee-high grass of the lot fronting the house. One belonged to James’s uncle, the Packard she rode in on her wedding day. Wallace and his wife Verna had come from Sevier County, where the Methodist church was relocated. They’d been there after James lost his father in the flood of 1925 and now they were back to see their nephew through again. Annie Clyde didn’t know how they got word, or any of the others. She’d returned home sometime in the night to find Verna with the wives of men who came down from the mountains and from other counties making coffee in her kitchen. Her mouth grew dry thinking about it. She needed to have a drink of water and a bite of bread in her stomach. Maybe to sit and warm herself beside the stove for a minute, change into a clean dress and put on a hat. She had to get her head on straight if she meant to outwit the drifter and find his hiding place.

Emerging from the corn to cross the yard she nearly slipped again as she had at the riverside, the ground a leaching mouth that sucked at her shoes, patterned by treads from all those that had come and gone. There were footprints under the elm and the apple tree of every shape and size, the whole farm tracked over. If the one print she believed had belonged to the drifter remained it was mixed up among the rest. Walking with her eyes lowered to watch her own feet, she didn’t see the government man standing on the porch until she started up the steps. Right away she recognized him, from a month ago when their positions were reversed. He stood above her now under the pouring eave, his umbrella propped beside the front door instead of James’s gun. As if he had already taken possession of the place. He looked wrong with the unpainted door and the peeling clapboard of the house behind him. He seemed untouched by the weather, the slicker he wore over his charcoal suit the only evidence he’d come through it. He took off his fedora to reveal a head of dark golden hair. They looked at each other, his eyes very blue. “How long have you been here?” she asked, glancing over to see his black Dodge coupe near the end of the track as if he’d made it no farther, its wheels sunk into the marshy grass.

“Not long. I hoped you’d be back.”

“Who sent you?”

“Pardon?”

“Who made you come?”

“Oh. My chief sent me.”

“Why didn’t he come himself?”

“Well,” Washburn said, fidgeting with his shirt collar. “I volunteered. I was sorry to hear about your daughter. I came out here to see what I could do for you and your husband.”

“No, you didn’t,” Annie Clyde said.

Washburn stared at her. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“You came out here to run me off. Same as you did before.”

“Not at all, Mrs. Dodson. That’s not so. I came out here to let you know we’re doing everything we can to aid the law in finding your daughter. You can rest assured of that.”

“So I ought to go on and leave it up to you. Is that it?”

“No, ma’am. I didn’t say that.”

Annie Clyde forgot her chilled and aching bones, her shaky legs. She came up the steps onto the porch until they stood toe-to-toe. “I’m not going anywhere without my child. I don’t care if I have to row out of here in a boat. If Ellard tries to arrest me, I’ll shoot him. He’s a nice man, but I’m not above it. You go back and tell the bastards that sent you the same thing.”

“Please, Mrs. Dodson,” Washburn said. A lock of hair had fallen out of place on his forehead. He held his hat between them and she felt its crown against her belly. He seemed more human then, too much like her husband. She wished that he didn’t. “I want to be of service.”

“You mean to help me look for my little girl?”

“Yes,” he said. “I intend to help with the search.”

“You might as well not.”

He gaped at her dumbfounded.

“If you’re looking for a dead body floating in the water, you’re not going to find one. I’m telling you, she didn’t wander off and drown. She was taken. But nobody will listen to me.”

“I’ll listen to you. I’m on your side.”

“What do you think you can do for me?”

“I’ve spoken to Sheriff Moody. I’ll make sure he has whatever resources he needs at his disposal, and I’ll do what I can to get your little girl’s picture in the Knoxville newspapers.”

“You haven’t said her name. Do you even know it?”

Washburn glanced down at his fedora, sullied by her dress front. “Yes. I know it.”

“We named her Mary Grace, after both of our mothers. We call her Gracie.”

“I know her name—”

“What if her last name was Lindbergh?”

He blinked at her, speechless again.

“What would you do for her then?”

“Mrs. Dodson—”

“We read the newspapers. They come to us late, but we get them. Even way out here, we’ve heard about that Lindbergh baby. You think the Lindberghs have heard of Gracie?”

Washburn was losing his composure. “I sympathize with your situation, Mrs. Dodson. I’m asking you to cooperate with me, for your daughter’s sake. You need my help.”

“You’re not helping me,” Annie Clyde said. “You’re holding me up.”

“Please,” he said, and moved as if to touch her. She shrank from his hand, backing out of his reach. She felt weak. One finger laid on her shoulder might break her down. She stepped around him and made for the door. When she yanked it open she could smell coffee and bread. Her stomach seized with hunger. She was about to shut the door in the government man’s face when she saw the Winchester leaned against the wallpaper in the shadows at the foot of the stairs. James must have figured he wouldn’t be using it. Without hesitation she reached out to grab it, all thought of food and rest driven from her mind. Holding on to the rifle, she felt renewed somewhat. She felt like she could walk a piece farther. She took up the lightweight gun and turned to face Washburn again. “Gracie’s not dead,” she told him. “I’m going to find her.”