A Murder In Passing (26 page)

John Lang stared at his son and said nothing.

“But for me,” I said, “the heart of the solution to the crime is you standing here. I told you on the phone I thought the missing photograph might be where Jimmy was killed. Given the DNA report, you no longer have any reason to think the skeleton was your uncle's. It's an African-American. Or would you be more comfortable if I said it's just an African-American? No, you're here because of one reason. DNA or not, you know that skeleton was your uncle because you killed him, just like you killed Donnie Nettles.”

“Nettles?” John Lang exclaimed. “He was Willie's friend.”

“Yes. His pal Donnie Nettles left Fort Bragg for Vietnam on July 17, 1967. Three days after Jimmy was killed. And who was on the transport with him? His hometown friend Willie Lang. Nettles told me Willie said his uncle disappeared while he was in Vietnam. Nettles had no reason not to believe him. But when we told him the specific date was July 14th, Nettles knew Willie was still stateside because every soldier remembers the date he's shipped out for combat. What did Nettles do? See you at the American Legion Post? Tell you we knew the specific day Jimmy disappeared and the funny thing was you were still in North Carolina? You couldn't have him spreading that around. So, you showed up at his house late at night, he let his old friend in, and made the mistake of turning his back.”

“You've got no proof,” William said.

“I've got all the proof I need. You're here. A descendant of the Kingdom of the Happy Land. With the army records and a DNA match to the skeleton, you're toast. Because I'm going to burn you for Jimmy Lang, I'm going to burn you for Donnie Nettles, and by God I'm going to burn you for Jason Fretwell whether he lives or dies.”

The flashlight wobbled in John Lang's hand. I took my eye off William long enough to see it fall to the ground.

A blur of motion and suddenly William held a nine-millimeter Beretta in his hand. Not a compact but a full-sized weapon. He aimed it at my head. I'd made a gross miscalculation.

The muzzle flashed a split-second after the cane slashed down on William's wrist. The punch in my chest felt like a cannonball fired at point-blank range. I tumbled backwards, choosing to go for my Kimber rather than break my fall.

William shoved his father to the ground. Somewhere behind me I heard thrashing in the woods.

John Lang's flashlight had landed against the base of the chimney, shooting its beam up the length of the stone monolith. William stood alone, silhouetted against the gray rocks.

He raised the pistol again.

I fired two shots.

Only the chimney remained standing.

The world went black.

Chapter Twenty-seven

“Sam. Oh, God, Sam.”

I heard Nakayla screaming my name before my eyes could focus. I must have lost consciousness for a few seconds, maybe because the Beretta's slug knocked the air from my lungs, maybe because I forgot to breathe.

Then I saw the outline of her face, the most beautiful sight imaginable. I laid the Kimber beside me and wrapped my arms around her neck, pulling her close.

“Tell Nathan his Kevlar vest worked. Barely.”

She laughed and cried at the same time.

“Do we need to get him to a hospital?”

I recognized Detective Newland's voice.

“No,” I said. “It was only a nine-millimeter slug. A mere gnat bite.”

“He okay?” Deputy Overcash joined the little party. Newland had worked the stakeout with the Henderson County Sheriff's Department, he for Jason Fretwell's shooting and Overcash for Jimmy Lang's murder. I'd told them to position themselves at the far side of the pasture where they wouldn't be seen.

“Yeah,” Newland said. “He's laying down on the job. As usual.”

“What about William?” I asked.

“Dead.”

Overcash edged closer to Newland. “You want me to take the old man in, or do you want him?”

“You can have first crack. I have a feeling he knows more about his brother's death than the attack on Fretwell.”

Nakayla helped me to my feet. “I don't know,” I said. “Did you hear everything?”

“For the most part,” Newland said. “What we couldn't make out, we can enhance in the audio lab. It helped when you stepped closer, but that was a damn risk. That gnat bite could have been more severe.”

“I believe John Lang was genuinely shocked by what William said. He came here because the DNA report confirmed his fears and my phone call prompted him to think about the chimney. I'll be surprised if you discover any reason to charge him.” I looked at the old man hunched beside his son's body, his face buried in his hands.

“He saved my life. William got the drop on me and went for a head shot. The confidence of an expert marksman. John knocked off his aim with his cane.”

Overcash shook his head. “All because Jimmy Lang wanted to marry a black woman.” His face flushed as he looked at Nakayla and realized what he said.

“No,” Nakayla replied. “It was more complicated than that. Marriage would not only cost the company business but also divide up its value. Lucille would have become an heir and Marsha would have been recognized as a legitimate child. Out-of-wedlock, she had little rights, but in North Carolina, marriage between the father and mother immediately legitimized their previous offspring in common. And Jimmy himself was just passing for white.”

“That was going to be Jimmy Lang's final plea to Lucille,” I added. “He withdrew money, he made a will leaving his estate to Lucille and Marsha, and he wanted to either come clean with his identity or leave town with them and start over elsewhere. I guess he thought the legendary treasure in the chimney would be both romantic and persuasive. The photograph was a symbol of their shared past, the ring for his proposal, and the handwritten will and money as the promise for their future.”

“And you don't think William knew about his ancestry?” Newland asked.

“No. I think Jimmy Lang told his nephew he was going to marry Lucille and he would bring her here for the proposal. The place had meaning for Lucille. That was no secret. And Jimmy knew his nephew was going back to war. I doubt he would say, oh, by the way, you're black. Though he might have been tempted given what I witnessed of William's racist attitudes. We'll never know the truth about that final conversation between uncle and nephew. It certainly left William angry enough to commit murder.”

“The irony never ends, does it?” Newland said. “Marsha and Lucille were employees, now they're part owners of the company.”

“That's a legal task for Hewitt Donaldson to tackle. He'll want those papers as soon as they can be released.”

We all looked at the oilskin illuminated by the back spill of John Lang's flashlight. A ring, a photograph, a will, and money. A denied past and an unfulfilled future.

***

Hewitt, Nakayla, and I spent Sunday afternoon in a meeting with District Attorney Noel Chesterson. He was all smiles, assuring us he would hold a press conference to personally attest that the fatal shooting of William P. Lang had been an act of self-defense. I restrained myself from ripping open my shirt to show him the grapefruit-size bruise in the center of my chest, evidence enough that Lang tried to kill me.

But, the meeting wasn't about me. Hewitt pressed Chesterson for a quick closure of the investigation, citing all that Lucille Montgomery had gone through and that she deserved to take possession of what Jimmy Lang clearly intended her to have so many years ago. Chesterson promised his full cooperation as soon as his office received the final report from the M.E. and the Sheriff's Department. In the meantime, a very happy Deputy Overcash provided us with photo-copies and photographs.

Monday morning, Hewitt, Nakayla, and I called on Lucille Montgomery. Marsha admitted us into the apartment. Her mother wasn't in her customary spot in the rocking chair. She sat at one end of the sofa, and, from the depression in the cushion next to her, I deduced Marsha had been sitting beside her. The elderly woman was obviously going through a tough time, and I wondered if Hewitt Donaldson's insistence that we see her had been a mistake.

He gave a slight bow before speaking. “Miss Montgomery, do you mind if I sit next to you?”

“You are welcome to sit anywhere you like, sir.”

Hewitt sat and rested a large manila envelope on his lap. “I'm sorry that we've confirmed Jimmy Lang was the victim Sam discovered.”

She nodded and stared straight ahead. “And that he was killed by the hand of his own nephew.”

“Yes, ma'am. That's also a grievous burden for everyone to bear.”

Lucille turned her head to look at Hewitt. “How is John faring?”

“I'm afraid not well. He had no idea what his son had done.”

“I lost my Jimmy, but I didn't lose who he was.”

“No, ma'am. One thing we do know, Jimmy Lang was true to his word.” Hewitt lifted the envelope and unfastened the clasp. “He was committed to you, Miss Montgomery.” He pulled the sheets of paper free. “You and Marsha. Here's what Sam found in the old chimney, the chimney from the Ulmann photograph. This is the treasure Jimmy planned to give you.”

He handed her an eight-by-ten picture of the modest diamond ring. To Deputy Overcash's credit, he'd removed it from an evidence sleeve and placed it on a pale blue cloth.

Lucille smiled, though her lower lip trembled. “I wonder where he got that?”

Marsha stepped closer and Lucille handed her the photo. Hewitt passed Lucille three pages clipped together, photo-copies of Jimmy's handwritten will. “We'll go over this later, but Jimmy wrote that you and Marsha were to be the heirs of his estate. He also acknowledged Marsha as his daughter. That wouldn't have been an issue if you married, but he wanted to insure Marsha's wellbeing in case you still refused him.”

Lucille briefly glanced at the document before rubbing her fingers over the text. It was the familiarity of the handwriting that attracted her attention, not the meaning of the words.

“What does Mother do with that now? There's no estate.”

“I believe you have a clear claim to half of Lang Paper Manufacturing.”

“But John built that company,” Lucille said.

“He's in no shape to run it. There's no reason it too should be sacrificed.”

Mother and daughter looked at each other.

“Jennifer,” Marsha said. “We need Jennifer to come back.”

I smiled. A new family was being created before my eyes.

“The missing Ulmann photograph was also in the chimney,” Hewitt said. “It's safely under lock and key with the sheriff. And then there's the money,” he added. “The ten thousand dollars Jimmy withdrew. The sheriff will give it and everything else to you as soon as the case is closed.”

“The money should go to you,” Lucille said. “If it's sufficient to cover your fee.”

Hewitt shook his head. “No. We were working for John Lang. That money belongs to you.”

Lucille frowned. “But will he pay you?”

“He's Jimmy's twin, isn't he?”

Lucille reached over and clasped Hewitt's hand. “Yes. And like Jimmy, and like you, Mr. Donaldson, John's a man of his word.”

***

The sky was gray with small patches of blue peeking through the thinnest parts of the cloudy shroud. Beams of sunlight broke through, and I thought of Jason Fretwell. Earlier that morning I'd been at his bedside. The doctors were confident it was safe to start bringing him out of the medically induced coma.

I grabbed Captain's arm and helped him guide his walker up the slope through the open cemetery gate. Nakayla walked on the other side of him.

Harry Young's casket was already in place atop the knoll of the historic Newton Academy Cemetery. The small graveyard was little more than two acres and lay less than a mile from my apartment. I never knew it existed.

We passed markers so eroded by time that the epitaphs were no longer legible. Some had been supplemented by newer marble stones, particularly those of the Revolutionary War veterans. Small flags graced the graves of all war veterans in anticipation of Memorial Day now less than a week away.

We might be witnessing the last grave to be dug on this quiet hill. At a hundred and five, Harry Young might be the final descendant whose immediate family had been interred here. A trustee for the foundation overseeing the care of the cemetery agreed to have Harry laid to rest beside his father, a man who died in 1919.

The chaplain who conducted the ecumenical Christian service at Golden Oaks Retirement Center stood beside the simple wooden casket, watching our approach. His Bible was already open.

“Thank you for bringing me,” Captain said. “This spot is perfect for the Mayor.” He chuckled. “Harry will definitely be the new kid on this block.”

We stopped across the open grave from the chaplain. Just the four of us. The men from the attending funeral home stood farther away, yielding the space to us, Harry's designated loved ones. And we were.

The chaplain began slowly reading the Twenty-Third Psalm. “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.”

My mind drifted from the familiar words as I thought about all that Harry had seen and experienced in his lifetime. My eyes caught sight of a row of Confederate battle flags marking the stones of unknown Confederate dead. “CSA 1861-1865” was all that summarized their lives.

“Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies.”

A few yards below them, a row of U.S. flags marked the graves of unknown Union soldiers. Nameless enemies sharing the same hillside. Forever.

Maybe here is where the ironies end.

Loving versus Virginia. The very name summarized another conflict—the power of love versus the power of the state.

“And I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”

Harry Young was in the house. So were Jimmy Lang and Donnie Nettles.

The chaplain closed the Bible.

Captain saluted.