Charlaine Harris (21 page)

“He does,” she agreed. “I don't think orange is his color, though.”

“No,” I said. “No, it isn't.”

As all the people in the courtroom seemed to be sorting themselves out, Phyllis said, “While we have a minute, I'm just curious. Are you any relation to the Cameron Connelly who was abducted in Texas a few years ago? I'm only asking because when Art Barfield called me, he said you had grown up in Texas and you and the girl who vanished both have what could be last names for your first name. If that makes sense.”

“Yes, it makes sense,” I said, though I can't say I was totally focused on the conversation. “I was named for my father's mother's family, Cameron for my mother's mother's family. She was my sister.”

“I notice you use the past tense. Was she ever found? Once the media stopped covering it . . .”

“No. But someday I'll find her body.”

“Ah . . . okay.”

After a beat, I noticed the peculiar tone to the lawyer's voice. “You know,” I said more directly, “that when people are gone that long, they're dead.”

“There was that girl in Utah, Elizabeth Smart.”

“Yes. There was that girl in Utah. She turned up alive. But mostly, when people have been gone for more than a couple of days, and no ransom's been asked, they're dead. Or they wanted to go. I know Cameron didn't want to leave. So she's dead.”

“You hold no hope?” She sounded incredulous.

“I hold no false hope.” I knew my business.

The bailiff told us the judge was coming in, and we rose. A spare gray-haired man (in a suit, instead of a robe) took his seat before us. I wasn't surprised to recognize the man with whom Phyllis had been chatting earlier. The city attorney (at least I guessed that was what he was) was already in his seat facing the judge, a huge pile of files in front of him, and the proceedings began.

I'd been in court before, for this or that, so it no longer surprised me that it wasn't like
Perry Mason
reruns or the more recent
Judge Judy
. People wandered in and out. Prisoners were removed and brought in. Between cases, there was a low buzz of conversation. There was no reverential air, and there were very few dramatics. Justice was conducted as business-as-usual.

When their name was called, people went up to the podium in front of the judge's bench. The judge read out the offense, asked if the plaintiff had anything to state, then (after discussion) told the plaintiff what his fine was.

“Isn't this more like traffic court, or something? This doesn't seem serious enough,” I whispered to Phyllis. She'd been listening to the judge carefully, getting his measure.

“Those warrants were bullshit,” she said, just as quietly. “He's just going up for the taillight. This is unbelievable.”

It took an hour for the judge to work down the list to Tolliver. Tolliver looked tired. Every now and then he'd look toward me, and he tried to smile, but I could tell it was an effort.

Finally, the clerk called, “Tolliver Lang.”

Tolliver wasn't handcuffed or shackled, thank God. He went up to the podium, with one of the jail guards accompanying him.

“Mr. Lang, I see here that you were initially charged with outstanding warrants from Montana, and that you had a problem with a rear taillight.” The judge didn't seem to expect Tolliver to answer. The judge had a frown on his narrow face. “But the officer who gave you the ticket for the taillight—Officer Bledsoe? Is he here?”

“No, your honor,” answered the clerk. “He's on patrol today.”

“Amazing. He says now he made a mistake about the warrants?”

“Yes, your honor,” said the city attorney. “He apologizes for the mistake.”

“This is a very serious error,” said the judge. He frowned at the papers some more. “And very strange. What about the taillight?”

“He stands by the taillight, your honor,” said the attorney, with a straight face.

“How long was this man in jail?”

“Two nights.”

“In jail two nights for a broken taillight.”

“Uh, yes, sir.”

“You didn't resist arrest?” For the first time, the judge addressed Tolliver directly. I could see Tolliver's back straighten.

“No, sir,” Tolliver said.

“Have you ever been arrested in Montana?”

“Yes, sir, but the charges were dismissed.”

“That's a matter of public record.”

“Yes, sir. And it was over a year ago.”

“Mr. Lang, do you want to bring charges against Officer Bledsoe?”

“No, sir. I just want out of the jail.”

“And I can understand that. You'll be released, no bail, just pay the fine for the taillight. You don't contest that, I guess?”

Tolliver was silent. I was sure he was debating about telling the judge that Bledsoe had broken it with his nightstick.

“No, your honor.”

“Okay, broken taillight, one hundred fifty dollar fine,” the judge said, and that was that. The jailer led Tolliver back through the side door where he'd entered, I assumed to return him to the jail and start the release paperwork. “Someone here to pay the fine?”

I held up my hand.

The judge barely glanced at me. “Through the door behind the clerk,” he said, inclining his head in the right direction. On shaky legs, I made my way to the back of the court and through the door, where I was faced by a phlegmatic woman in khakis and a T-shirt, and an armed Hollis in full uniform. The woman was sitting behind a small table holding a cash box. I guess she needed Hollis to guard the
money and make sure someone angry about paying a fine didn't decide to take it out on her.

“It all came out all right, then?” Hollis asked, looking genuinely relieved.

“Yes,” I said, handing over the papers the clerk had given me, along with one hundred fifty dollars in cash. She filed the money and stamped “PAID” on the papers, handing them right back to me. I wanted to say something else to Hollis, but I couldn't figure out what, and there was someone right behind me waiting to make her own payment. So I smiled at him, happy for the first time in days, and went back through the courtroom, which looked just as full as it had when the morning began. The lawyer was waiting for me outside in the cavernous hall.

“Thanks, Phyllis,” I said, and I pumped her hand.

Phyllis smiled at me. “All I did was show up and let the court know I was here,” she said. “If you were to ask me what happened, it sounds like someone told Bledsoe to back off, not to make an issue of what he'd done.”

“Maybe he did it on impulse, thinking he'd please someone, and then found out he hadn't.”

Maybe it was his cousin Paul. Maybe it was his boss, the sheriff. Maybe it was the lady who owned half the town, Sybil. Maybe . . .

“Let's go over to the jail,” Phyllis said. “I saw the van leave. I'll wait with you until they process him out, just to make sure.”

We went into the jail again, and I asked the woman behind the counter where to wait. She pointed at the chairs in the same reception area where I'd waited so nervously to see Tolliver the day before.

It took a long time to process out a prisoner, and Phyllis Folliette stayed with me faithfully. Of course, I knew she was billing me for her time, but most lawyers would have given me a pat on the back and sped on their way to their office. She pulled something out of her briefcase to study when I showed I'd rather be silent. I sat with my eyes closed, letting the world go by, and I thought about all the people I'd met in Sarne, how closely they all seemed connected, how the repugnant stereotype of uneducated, inbred, unsophisticated-but-surprisingly wise hillbilly was both mined for tourist money and denigrated by the people who lived here. What had begun as a way of life determined by geographic isolation and poverty had become simplified and mythologized and made fun of for the world's consumption. And all of the people we'd been dealing with had been living in this town for several generations, except Hollis.

I let the incidents of the past week flow through my mind, not trying to sort them out. I thought it might help to make a list. That would be our program for tonight, maybe.

Then I heard footsteps I knew, and I opened my eyes. Tolliver was coming toward me, and I jumped up. We hugged, hard and fast, before I introduced him to Phyllis, who was looking at him with some curiosity. Tolliver thanked her, and she again protested that she hadn't done anything at all other than show up.

“But you called the sheriff yesterday,” Tolliver said. I was eyeing him anxiously, but he only looked tired and in need of a shower.

“Yes, I did that,” she said, smiling slightly. “I figured it couldn't hurt for the sheriff's department to know that
someone from out of town was keeping an eye on the situation, someone with a little legal clout. Don't worry, you'll be billed for it.”

“It was worth the money,” I said, and after shaking our hands, Phyllis got back into her BMW and left Sarne. Lucky Phyllis.

While we drove to the motel, I explained to Tolliver about his room, and he said, “I don't care. I'm going to have a shower and some decent food, and then I think I'll sleep for a few hours. Then I'll get up and shower again and eat more decent food and sleep again.”

“And this, after being in jail all of thirty-six hours! What if you'd had to stay in all week?”

He made a big production of shuddering. “You wouldn't believe how bad that jail is. I think they're trying to feed the prisoners on a dime a day, or something.”

“You've been in jail before,” I said, a little puzzled by his violent reaction.

“I wasn't worried about you getting hurt then, and I wasn't worried the whole town was in on some kind of conspiracy.”

“You feel that?”

“I would have felt better if the most prominent lawyer in town and the sheriff hadn't been big buddies, and both involved in the deal that brought us up here. I couldn't sleep in the jail; the guy in the cell with me was brought in extremely drunk, and he snored and stank. I lay awake so long I convinced myself that something would happen to me in there, and they'd say I'd slipped on a bar of soap and banged my head, or accidentally tripped with my head in a noose. And then they'd get you.”

“Phyllis says we don't have to stay in Sarne.”

“Then we're leaving in the morning.”

“That's fine with me.”

Tolliver rummaged around in his suitcase for clean clothes and stalked off to the bathroom. I went out to get him some food. I even went through the drive-through so I wouldn't have to get out of the car. My paranoia was running high; although I had to admit that I had gotten nothing but good treatment from the people of Sarne I'd run into in impersonal capacities. The drive-through girl was polite and cheerful, the woman who took my money at the gas station was civil, and the judge had been businesslike and brisk. No question but that I was getting a skewed picture of Sarne and its people.

So be it,
I thought.
We're outta here
.

I ate the food I'd gotten for myself with a better appetite than I'd had in days. Then I lay down and snoozed. I distantly heard the water shut off and then Tolliver eating. The paper bags made rustling noises, no matter how quiet he tried to be. Just as I was really drifting away to sleep, I heard the creak of bedsprings as he lay down on the other bed. Then there was peaceful silence, underlined by the drone of the heating unit.

I didn't nap as long as my brother, because I'd had some sleep the night before. I parted the curtains to peer outside and looked at the sky, gray with impending rain. It was about four in the afternoon, but it would be full dark within an hour. I brushed my teeth and hair and put my shoes on, and then I sat at the little table with a sheet of motel paper and a pencil. I like to make lists, but there's seldom any need for me to do so; I don't go to the grocery store much, and most of our errands are undertaken on the road.

I decided to list all the facts I could recall and see what shook out.

1. Sybil and the sheriff were brother and sister.
   
2. Sybil and Paul Edwards were lovers.
   
3. Sybil's son had been murdered.
   
4. Sybil's son's girlfriend had been murdered at the same time.
   
5. The girlfriend, Teenie Hopkins, was sister to the murdered wife of Deputy Hollis Boxleitner.
   
6. Sally (murdered wife) had been killed after she cleaned the study of . . .
   
7. Sybil's husband, victim of an untimely heart attack, while he was examining . . .
   
8. Medical records of his son (at that time alive) and daughter and himself.
   
9. Also murdered—Helen Hopkins, mother of Teenie Hopkins and Hollis Boxleitner's wife.
   
10. Helen had been the cleaning woman for Sybil's family for years, until she began drinking heavily and had an episode of violence with her ex-husband, Jay Hopkins.
    
11. Her attorney in the case against her ex-husband, and her attorney in the much earlier divorce, was Paul Edwards, also Sybil's attorney and lover.
    
12. Terry Vale recommended my services to Sybil.
    
13. Hollis had wanted to know for sure what had happened to his wife.
    
14. Paul Edwards had been glad to pay us.
    
15. Someone inflamed teenager Scot to the point where he accepted money (or maybe just followed the suggestion) that he lie in wait for me and beat me up.
    
16. That same someone, or possibly someone different, took a shot at me in the Sarne cemetery.
    
17. My brother went to jail on trumped-up charges; possibly to leave a shooter free to make a try at me, possibly just to shake us up enough that we would leave no matter what the sheriff had told us.