“Such a good man,” said an elderly white woman with tears running down her face. “He was always looking to help others.”
Before I could ask the final question, Cyl pulled me away.
“It’s Jason Bullock,” she said.
CHAPTER | 18
Most of these storms describe a parabola, with the westward arch touching the Atlantic Coast, after which the track is northeastward, finally disappearing with the storm itself in the north Atlantic.
With Jason Bullock dead, there was no way to know whether Cyl and I were right about his reasons for killing his wife—anger over Lynn’s affairs, political aspirations, or a simple wish to be free of her without paying the price of divorce. The important thing was that once Dwight’s people concentrated on him, there was plenty of proof that he had indeed done it.
I was right about his cell phone bills. He’d called the Orchid Motel from the ball field twice, trying to make it look as if another man knew she was there. We still don’t know if he jogged over to the motel or drove. No witness has come forward to say they saw him do either, but there’s at least a half-hour gap when none of us can say positively that he was at the field.
They haven’t found the envelope Rosa Edwards gave Clara Freeman, but the bloody clothes he’d worn when he butchered her were in a garbage bag at the bottom of his trash barrel, so we’re pretty sure he’s the one who stole the envelope from my house. And as soon as Clara Freeman was well enough for Dwight to interview her, she described Jason’s car and identified his picture as the white man who ran her off the road.
When Reid eventually heard that Millard King’s tie tack had also been found in Lynn’s motel room, he theorized that she must have had a cache of souvenirs and that Jason had planted them to implicate the men who had slept with his wife. He was real proud of his theory and ready to run tell it to Dwight until I reminded him why this would not be a good idea.
“But I could get my pen back,” he argued.
“Forget it,” I snarled.
Dwight beat up on himself when all the other facts were in. “Last time I believe a lawyer about anything,” he said bitterly. “That night I went to tell him about his wife? If you could’ve seen it—table set for two, salad wilting in the bowl, steaks drying up on the drainboard—and just the right mixture of shock and anger. He played me like a goddamned violin.”
“Or a jury,” I said cynically.
* * *
Five hot and sweaty days later, power was still out over the rural parts of Colleton County, although phone service had been restored in less than forty-eight hours. Eighteen states had sent crews to help restore North Carolina’s electricity but over five thousand poles were down and at least three thousand miles of wires and cables needed to be replaced.
Every day reminded us all over again just how much we relied on electricity in ways we didn’t even realize. My family could be smug about cooking with propane gas but in this heat, we were having trouble keeping food fresh in our picnic coolers without a ready supply of ice. Robert, Andrew and Haywood had portable gas-run generators and were sharing them with Daddy and Seth every eight hours so that nobody lost a freezer chest full of meat and vegetables, but all the gasoline pumps at the local crossroads stations worked by electricity and for the first couple of days, lines were long at the few in-town stations that hadn’t lost power.
We had to recharge our portable phones at work, tell time by wristwatches, prise open windows that had been painted shut after the advent of year-round “climate control,” and swelter through long smothery nights without even a ceiling fan to stir a breeze. We had to think before flushing toilets and forget about showers. Candlelight lost its romantic novelty after two days and there was a lot of grumbling about spending the evenings without any electronic entertainments.
I cleaned out my refrigerator before it started smelling and put trays of baking soda on the shelves so that stale odors wouldn’t build up. Some of my perishables went to Aunt Zell’s refrigerator over in Dobbs. I started a compost pile with the rest.
Dobbs had gone without power a mere thirty-six hours, but our courts were still on half-session.
On Thursday morning, I heard a probable cause against a Norwood Love from down near Makely, who was represented by my cousin John Claude Lee. During the storm, the back of young Mr. Love’s hog pen collapsed, revealing an underground chamber beneath the barn it abutted—a chamber full of large plastic barrels and a stainless steel cooker, all set to start making bootleg whiskey.
According to the agent who testified that morning, it did not appear that the still had ever been in operation, but mere possession of such equipment is against the law. I agreed that there was indeed probable cause and set a trial date. Since Mr. Love had no record, though, I released him without bail.
Afterwards, I visited with Aunt Zell to pick up a couple of loads of laundry that she’d done for Daddy and Maidie and me.
“If Kidd wants to come up this weekend, he can stay here,” she offered, knowing how long it’d been.
I thanked her, but said I doubted he could get away.
Truth is, I wasn’t sure if he wanted to get away.
We’d spoken a couple of times. I called him that first day to say I was all right, in case he was worried, and to hear how he was. What he was, was . . . shall we say, occupied?
The storm surge at New Bern was more than nine feet and it had flooded his daughter Amber and his ex-wife out of their house. Last time I phoned, they were both staying with Kidd, whose cabin was on higher ground. So maybe that was the reason he didn’t sound anxious to come to me, and it was certainly the reason I couldn’t go to him.
When I stopped past the homeplace to give Maidie the folded laundry, I was surprised to see Daddy standing by an unfamiliar pickup.
It was an awkward moment as Norwood Love and I recognized each other from morning court. He murmured a soft, “Sorry, ma’am,” then cranked his truck and drove off.
“How do you know him?” I asked Daddy.
“I know a lot of people, shug,” he said.
“Did he tell you he’s waiting trial for owning moonshining equipment?”
“Yeah, he told me.” He gave a rueful shake of his head. “Reckon that’s why he come to me. Thought maybe I’d understand quicker than most folks how come he needs extra work. I said I’d hire him to clear out some of them trees blocking the lanes. Your brothers got so much on their plates, we can use another pair of hands.”
Daddy doesn’t often touch on his own past history of moonshining and he’s certainly never discussed it with me even though I’ve heard a lot of the stories from my brothers and a few others from SBI and ATF agents. As I’ve gotten older and heard more, I have to say that not all of the stories have been warm and funny. Some have a violent edge that makes me uneasy to think about.
* * *
There wasn’t a breath of wind blowing when I got back to my house and the air was so steamy that I planned to jump into the pond as soon as I arrived.
Cyl was waiting for me on the porch. It was the first time I’d seen her looking halfway like herself since the storm, but then she lived in Garner where there was hot and cold running water, air-conditioning and hair dryers.
“Want to go skinny-dipping?” I said as soon as I got out of the car.
“Not really.”
There was something different about her.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“I just came from my grandmother’s and I wanted you to be the second to know.”
“Know what?” I asked with apprehension.
“That I gave Doug Woodall my notice at noon today. I flew up to Washington yesterday to interview with McLean, Applebee and Shaw and they made me a very generous offer.”
The name was vaguely familiar.
“They’re one of the most effective black lobbyist firms in Washington,” she said. “I’ll be going back up this weekend to look for an apartment.”