“How?”
“That’s the part we haven’t figured out yet, since it kind of depends on how and when he’s killed. The first step is getting you to Watkinsville so we can see what the charges are and whether they’re going to set bail for Abel and Kiernan. They think Abel is your driver, so maybe they’ll release him into your custody if you say you’ll leave the state. I mean, he was trying to protect you.”
“Have you run that little plan by Grant?” she says disdainfully.
“He’s not optimistic.”
“Smart boy.”
“I’m not optimistic either, but the first steps are still going to be the same, right? We need to get back to Oconee County and see what we’re up against.”
WATKINSVILLE, GEORGIA
August 11, 1938, 4:32 p.m.
“You could drive around a few minutes, and we’d find it, Grant,” Delia says. “It’s not like this is New York or Atlanta or even Athens.”
“Or just stop, and I’ll go in instead,” I say. “My face hasn’t been punched, so I’m less likely to attract attention.”
Delia slumps down in the seat, shaking her head. “Right. A stranger asking where the jail is located in a tiny little burg like this won’t attract any attention at all.”
“We need gas anyway,” Grant says.
That ends the argument. It’s very likely that this Buick will be used as a getaway car in the next twenty-four hours, and a nearly empty tank would be a definite liability.
“If that’s the case, no one needs to get out,” Delia says.
That doesn’t make sense to me until Grant pulls into the tiny station on Main Street and a young man leaning against the wall hurries over to the driver’s side. “Fill ’er up?”
“Yes, please.”
Despite the fact that it’s late afternoon, it’s still horribly hot in the car, even with the windows open. A thermostat near the store’s door displays two bathing beauties seated on the Coca-Cola logo—one from 1886 and the other from 1936. According to the mercury, it’s ninety-one degrees. In the shade.
And I’m thirsty.
As soon as I open the door of the small store, three sets of eyes latch onto me. Two sets belong to the middle-aged man and woman behind the counter, neither of whom I’ve ever seen. Another man, slightly younger, is perched on top of a large red cooler at the back of the store. He was in the crowd earlier today, but I can’t remember which group he was in—the one trying to beat Abel to a pulp or the one doing nothing to stop it.
When I start moving in his direction, he hops up, walking toward the window, probably to get a better view of Delia and Grant. I take three sodas from the cooler and grab three Moon Pies and a bag of chips from a nearby shelf.
“Forty-two cents. You payin’ for the gasoline, too?” the woman asks.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Gonna have to wait a minute then, ’cause Dale ain’t done fillin’ your tank. There’s a bottle opener on the edge of the counter for the Co-Colas.”
I nod and pop off the caps before asking, “Could you tell me how to get to the jail?”
The younger guy has resumed his post on the cooler and says, “You drove in from Athens, right? Go back the way you come in, and take a left on Third, a few blocks down. Corner of Third and Water Street. Which fella you hopin’ to spring?”
“Both.” Even though I try to keep my voice neutral, it comes out sounding a bit defiant.
He grins, but it doesn’t feel friendly. More like he’s poking fun at me.
“Only reason I’m asking is ’cause one’s already out. You can prob’ly find him over at the Eagle. Don’t know if he’s stayin’ there or just gettin’ a bite to eat, but Mitchell and some other guy walked him over maybe fifteen, twenty minutes ago.”
“Thank you,” I say.
He doesn’t respond. The woman at the register says, “Three dollars gas, so that’ll be three forty-two.”
I hand her a five, and she counts back the change. “And a dollar fifty-eight makes five.” Then she pushes the paper bag toward me and adds in a low voice, “Y’all might want to finish your business in town in the next coupla hours, hon.”
“Frieda.” It’s the other man, who’s been so silent up to this point that I’d almost forgotten about him. There’s a note of warning in his voice, and his wife’s eyes narrow slightly, but she doesn’t say anything more.
I give her a quick nod of thanks, grab my purchases, and leave.
“The jail is a few blocks back, on Third Street,” I tell Delia and Grant as I climb into the car. “We drove right past it. But Kiernan’s already out. The guy inside said he was at the Eagle—sounds like it might be a hotel. He said across the street, but maybe he meant across from the jail. We should stop there first, in case he knows what’s going on with Abel.”
Grant takes his soda and gulps most of it down before starting the car. I glance back at Delia and see that drinking from a bottle is going to be a challenge for her. “Should I go back in and see if they have a straw?”
“I’ll manage.”
I take a sip of the Coke as Grant takes a left back onto Main. “If either of you are hungry, there’s food in the bag.”
I see the sign for the Eagle Tavern and Boardinghouse on the right about thirty seconds later. It’s an old building, and it looks kind of misshapen, as though sections have been added on over the years.
Kiernan is halfway to the door when I step inside, so he must have been watching for us. The right side of his face is swollen, both along the lower jaw and around the cut on his cheek, but someone must have found him a shirt. He pulls me into a hug and then leads me to a table with three coffee cups and three mostly empty plates in the center.
The place is small, and while it isn’t exactly packed, it looks like it’s doing unusually good business for a late Thursday afternoon. About half of the tables are full, and all of the stools at the bar are taken. Most of the occupants keep sneaking looks in our direction.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“I’m charged with disorderly conduct. The judge will rule tomorrow, but Mr. Peele, that’s the attorney I told you about, who handles stuff for the farm? Anyway, he has me out for now, but I can’t leave the county.”
“So why did you need me to go and get the money?” Thinking about getting the money brings his drawings to mind, and my face flushes. Did he even remember those drawings were in the envelope? Or maybe he wanted me to see them.
“I didn’t think about calling Peele until I reached the jail. And we’ll need the money anyway.”
“We got their stuff from the boardinghouse and also stopped by the bank to get their new papers and stuff from the safety-deposit box, in case they need to make a quick getaway. So Delia has some money now, too, if you need more for bail.”
He winces. “It’s not going to be that simple, I’m afraid. That’s what we were talking about here.” He nods over at the empty plates on my side of the table. “Peele’s willing to represent Abel, if need be, although he’s not exactly enthusiastic about it. Might have to reassess my choice of attorney at some point. I barely got to talk to Abel in the truck—just long enough for us to plan a cover story. They tossed him into a cell upstairs as soon as we got to the jail. The judge hasn’t set bail for him, last I heard. And even if we could get him out on bail, I’m not sure it’s a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“Did you see the crowd across from the jail?”
“No. We haven’t been there yet. We were on our way, but the guy at the Texaco station said you were here, so . . .”
He pulls my chair over a little closer to his so that I can see out the window. Across Main Street, a block down on the right side of Third, about a dozen people are gathered. Maybe a dozen more are hanging out in front of the courthouse directly opposite the Eagle.