Кроха - Dedication

When she came to the next fork, she could see a small sign. When she brightened the headlights, a thrill touched her: the hand-carved letters read wilson. This was it. She wasn’t lost. Far ahead through the pine woods, scruffy open fields still held evening light. She turned off the headlights, moved on up the dirt road. She could smell the stink of chicken houses, smell them before she saw them. Bumping along, she came to the turnoff that led, maybe a quarter mile, to the long rows of corrugated metal buildings rusted and sour with chicken dirt. A cottage stood between the road and the metal structures, its two front windows faintly lit, enough to light her way—a raw wooden shack with a weedy vegetable garden along one side. A wide front porch ran across the front, complete with rocking chairs. She could smell woodsmoke and could smell meat frying. Before turning into the long dirt drive she paused at the mailbox.

The name and numbers were nearly invisible. robert clive wilson. She pulled along the rutted drive to a small stand of red-leaved trees. She decided the ground was hard enough that she wouldn’t get stuck. Carefully she backed into the shadows between the spindly trunks. She didn’t get out of the car but sat waiting for full dark. Finding the house cheered her, had put her back in charge again. She sat watching the windows as darkness closed in, feeling the car rock when the wind picked up. She’d say she was looking for a Timmie Lee Baker. Any name would do, she’d say she was lost. She could repeat road names from the map and from the few nearly illegible signs; that was all she needed to get her foot in the door. When it was dark enough and with the wind pushing at her back, she stepped out of the car, the loaded .357 heavy in her jacket pocket as she approached the house.

36

Late-evening sun shone through Wilma’s dining room windows into the large new cat cage she had set up there. The bedroom quarters had grown too small for full-time use. Now Dulcie and the kittens, and Joe Grey, too, had room to sprawl for a nap in the sunshine. The ringing phone woke Joe.

The babies didn’t stir, they slept deeply, their tummies extended and full. Nor did Dulcie wake, worn out from the kittens crawling over her in their attempts at rough-and-tumble. The babies’ eyes were open and their tiny ears unfurled. It was less than two weeks and Joe was proud of them; John Firetti called them precocious and waited eagerly for their first words. They all waited, trying to think how to keep them from talking at the wrong time, in front of the wrong people.

Wilma answered the phone on the second ring. Joe heard her desk chair squeak.

“Oh, yes, I’d love that. What can I do?” By the smile in her voice he could tell it was Charlie, she had a special tone for her niece. “Are you sure? Is Max . . . ?” She was quiet, then, “Yes, that sounds fine.” Hanging up, she looked across into the dining room. “Charlie’s on her way over with a shrimp casserole, a last-minute potluck. Ryan and Clyde are bringing a salad. Max will be along, he’s at the station waiting . . .” She paused, watching Joe. “Waiting for a callback from Georgia.”

Joe came to full attention.

She said, “Looks like they’ve got Tekla!”

He leaped out of the pen and headed for the cat door. Wilma watched him disappear. She couldn’tnot have told him, nor would she have stopped him.

Joe, racing from peak to peak, was hardly aware of clouds darkening toward evening. Almost thundering over the roofs, he hit the courthouse tiles, raced their length and dropped down the oak tree to the station. He slid in through the glass door behind a pair of teenage girls. Across the lobby, Detective Davis was headed down the hall toward Max’s office. Joe fled past the counter, hoping to avoid Evijean, but a familiar voice stopped him.

“Yes, sir, Captain. I’m still waiting, I’ll put it straight through.” Mabel Farthy’s voice—Mabel was back. There she was, his blond, pillow-soft friend standing at the counter beside sour-faced Evijean Simpson, a stack of papers and files between them. Was Mabel catching up on the cases at hand? Was this Evijean’s last day? He was torn between racing to Max’s office or leaping to the counter.

He leaped—Mabel grabbed him up in a warm and smothering hug. “Oh, my. Look at you. Where’s Dulcie? But Davis said she had kittens? Oh, my! Imagine. Kittens! You’re a father, Joe Grey, and don’t you look proud.”

He tried not to look too proud. He rubbed his face against her shoulder; he nuzzled her face and smiled. She petted him until Evijean cleared her throat loudly. When Mabel turned to frown at Evijean, Joe slipped from her arms, dropped from the counter and fled. He didn’t want to get Mabel in an argument with Evijean on her first day back.

Life was good, leave it that way. Evijean would soon be history.

Slipping into Max’s office, he hoped that somewhere on the East Coast, Tekla was resting her heels in the cooler, and that would top off the day.

Juana and Dallas sat on the leather couch, sipping fresh coffee and looking pleased. Max lounged behind his desk, his feet up on the blotter, waiting for Mabel to put his call through. Whatever was coming down, all three were smiling. Joe flopped down on the deep Persian rug and tried not to look curious. He rolled luxuriously, then had a little wash. Nothing so distracted a human from a cat’s true intention as to watch the cat bathe. A little cat spit, a busy tongue licking across sleek fur, and most people would relax as if hypnotized. Maybe they could feel the comforting massage in their own being, a kind of reflex contentment. He looked at Max, at ease behind the desk, and a sense filled Joe that indeed all was right with the world. Slipping up on the couch beside Juana, he waited, as the officers waited, until the phone’s open speaker came to life—until Mabel said, “Sheriff Dover is on, Captain Harper.” The call from Georgia law enforcement was not from the GBI as Joe had expected, but the deep, slow voice of Pickens County Sheriff Jimmie Roy Dover.

When Max answered, Dover said simply, “We lost her.”

“Lost her?” Max barked, envisioning as Joe did that again Tekla had given them the slip.

But Dover didn’t sound dismayed. In fact there was a smile in his voice.

“When she disappeared, and every deputy out helping the rescue crews, the best we could do at the moment was put out another BOL and alert Meredith Wilson. This wasn’t one big tornado, Max. Narrow, slicing ones hit all over the state, scoured the low places between the hills. At the lake here, wiped out nine cabins and the motel. That low wind roaring along the cleft between the hills, screaming like a banshee, struck through half a dozen of these valleys, uprooted trees like mown hay, flattened buildings. Couldn’t tell where it would hit next, never seen anything like it. Local police and highway patrol and us, we had every man out looking for the dead and injured.

“Twenty-four hours, the storm began to ease up. No word on Tekla. Phone lines were down, but we got Meredith Wilson on her cell. All was quiet at their place. We sent two deputies out there as soon as we could spare them, but no sign of Tekla.

“About then, GHP got a call from a citizen with a police band, said he’d spotted the car Tekla was driving, just north of Waycross. Blue Honda Civic, he didn’t get the plate. Headed for Florida. Lone woman driving, blond hair that looked like a wig, he said, kind of crooked on her head. County sheriff deputy made her and pulled her over.

“It wasn’t Tekla,” Dover said. “This woman checked out, she had family in Florida. Officer fingerprinted her but no match, and sent her on her way.”

On the couch beside Davis, Joe had to hide a smile. These law enforcement guys from the South, they were talkers, they liked to string it out. Well, that was okay, southerners were storytellers, it was in their blood. Wilma said some of the best writers came from the South. She had described for him and Dulcie southern families sitting on their deep, covered porch in the warm evenings, rocking away, watching the fireflies, weaving family stories and ghost stories and their traditional tales.