Chiefs (22 page)

As he approached the house, he slowed and walked carefully, wishing to make no sound that might disturb the dogs. Now he could see snatches of the house through the trees, log stacked on log, the garage to one side, doors open, truck inside. The trees ended in a clearing twenty yards from the house. The last yards before the clearing he moved stealthily, from tree to tree to bush, always keeping something between himself and the house. Near the edge he stopped and looked at everything again. Quiet morning picture, nothing unusual, smoke from the chimney, truck, garage. He sought to move around the perimeter of the clearing and looked down for a quiet footing. He stopped. Something wrong. Dirt on the leaves, on top of the leaves. He knelt. Red dirt, clay. Leaves undisturbed. He raked aside the leaves and dug at the earth with his hand. Black topsoil. Black topsoil under the leaves, red clay on top. All wrong. He looked around him. More clay, sometimes mixed with black dirt, scattered over several yards. He turned his attention to the clearing. There. Ten feet, maybe, into the clearing, the leaves. A large patch had been disturbed. He had to see.

The patch was well into the clearing. No shelter. He looked carefully from one window to the next. Nothing. He stood up, crooked the rifle in his arm, and walked, as casually as possible, toward the patch of disturbed leaves. From firm ground he stepped into a soft spot, in the patch. He looked at the house again. Still nothing. He raked at the leaves with his foot. Underneath, black soil mixed with red, tamped with something, a shovel. He forgot the house and raked more leaves away. An outline. Six feet long, maybe two feet wide. A hole dug, something buried, filled again, tamped with a shovel, extra dirt scattered into the woods to avoid a telltale mound, leaves raked back over the raw earth. New. This morning. He was too late.

In the house, Foxy, exhausted, was shaving. There was three days’ mail in town, and he had to be presentable when he went to collect it. He turned and reached for a towel next to the window and froze. Will Henry Lee was standing in the back yard, exactly on the spot, moving leaves with his toe, looking. Seconds passed before he could move. Then he dropped the towel and ran, barefooted, naked, into the living room, clawed at the .45 pistol on the wall over the fireplace, ran into the kitchen, working the pistol’s action, just to be sure, ran past the wet spot on the floor, scrubbed clean and drying, ran past the kitchen table, handcuffs, rubber garden hose, rope, ran to the kitchen door, threw it open, dropped to one knee, aiming. Gone.

The clearing was empty. He could hear Will Henry running through the woods, up the mountainside. He followed, running hard, past the disturbed leaves to the edge of the clearing, into the woods, stopped. He could no longer hear the steps. Lee had too much of a start, and he suddenly remembered, with the chill, that he was naked. He turned and ran for the house.

Will Henry moved quickly up the mountainside, running a few steps, walking fast, climbing, thinking. He had been too late. Too late. But now there was evidence to find, hard evidence in the cold earth. Out of his jurisdiction. He reached the car and tossed the rifle onto the back seat. He’d have to go to Sheriff Goolsby in Talbot County, tell him, convince him. Foxy’s friend. No matter. When he heard what Will Henry had to tell him he’d have no choice. A search warrant. He got the car started, turned around, and roared down the mountain toward Delano, unaware that Foxy had seen him.

Foxy reached the house, sweating in spite of the cold, grabbed clothes, shoes. He had to reach Lee before he could tell anybody. Had to. He snatched a rifle from over the fireplace and ran for his truck.

Will Henry unlocked the door of the station and hurried for the phone, impatient while the operator connected him.

“Sheriff’s office.”

“This is Chief Lee, in Delano. Let me speak to the sheriff, please.”

“Sorry, Chief. He’s in the judge’s chambers in a county meeting. Be in there the better part of an hour, I’d say.”

“Good. Who is this?”

“Deputy Simpson.”

“All right, Deputy. I’m on my way to Talbotton right now. I have to see both the sheriff and the judge, and I want you to be sure that neither one of them leaves until I get there, you got that?”

“Yessir.”

“You camp outside the judge’s chambers and tell them this is an urgent matter, all right?”

“Yessir. I’ll tell them as soon as they get out of the meeting.”

Will Henry hung up. Willis Greer was standing in the door. The city manager had a disgusted look about him. “Where’s my prisoner?” he asked.

“What?”

“Where’s my prisoner? I came to pick him up this morning, and he wasn’t here. You take him someplace? I tried to call you a while ago, but there was no answer.”

Damn Willie. “I let him sleep at home last night. He was supposed to be at city hall at eight this morning.”

“Well, he wasn’t. I hope he isn’t long gone, I sure need the extra help this week. All the storm drains have got to be cleared of leaves.”

“Well, look, Willis, I can’t fool with this right now. I’ve got to get down to Talbotton on some important business. I don’t think Willie would run off. He’s probably out at the house on D Street now.”

“Listen, Will Henry, I need him this morning bad. Can’t you go and get him before you go to Talbotton?”

Will Henry thought quickly. “Tell you what. It’s on the way, anyhow. You follow me out to Braytown, I’ll get Willie, and you can bring him back with you while I go on to Talbotton.”

Foxy got the truck started, roared down the road to the gate, turned left, and headed up the mountain. As he crested the pass he suddenly slammed on his brakes and pulled the truck to the side of the road. He tried to think clearly for a minute. Sweat was pouring off him, and he was breathing hard, his heart hammering against his chest. Not Delano. Talbotton. Lee would have to go to Goolsby in Talbotton. He started to turn the truck around, but something down the road stopped him. The Delano police car was turning off the road into Braytown, followed by a city truck. Foxy wrenched the pickup back toward Delano and Braytown. He made the turn into A Street in time to see the two vehicles turn right onto Bray Avenue. He followed at a distance and saw them turn left, again, into D Street. He approached the intersection cautiously. No one seemed to be about in the chilly weather. He turned into D Street and stopped. There were only two houses there, one on the corner, empty, and one at the end of the street. The two were separated by a long empty lot overgrown with brush. He drove a few feet into the street and pulled over. Up ahead he could see Will Henry Lee and Willis Greer getting out of their cars and starting for the house. He got out of the truck, taking the rifle.

In the house Nellie was sponging down Jesse’s forehead and face. He had had a bad night, but seemed quieter and more lucid now. She and Willie had had a struggle keeping him in bed, he in the grip of some delirium in which Hoss Spence apparently played a part, for Jesse would mutter or shout his name from time to time.

Willie was worried. He was nearly two hours late being at city hall, and he didn’t want to get the chief into any trouble. “Mama, he quiet now. I got to git to town.”

Nellie spun around. “No! No suh! You gon’ stay here where you needed!” She seemed half delirious herself.

“But mama—” They heard car doors slam outside. “They done come to git me, now. They gon’ put me
under
the jail.”

“Willie!” It was the chief’s voice.

Nellie started for the door. “You stay here an’ wash you’ daddy’s face. I’m gon’ tell him you ain’t goin’ noplace!” She walked out onto the front porch. The chief and the city manager stood at the bottom of the steps.

“Morning, Nellie,” said Will Henry, as pleasantly as he could. “I’ve come to get Willie. He has to go to work.”

Nellie was trembling with anger. “You ain’t gon’ take him. I needs him here. His daddy sick.”

“I’m sorry about that, Nellie. I’ll send Dr. Frank out here this afternoon. But Willie has to come with me, or he’ll be in a lot of trouble. You know that.”

Foxy worked his way through the brush in the empty lot until he had a clear view of things. Lee and Greer were standing at the bottom of the steps to the house, talking to a nigger woman. Foxy wondered if the chief had told Willis Greer anything. Probably not, Lee was talking to the woman about taking her boy away. That’s what Greer was doing here. He dropped to one knee and brought the rifle to his shoulder. He’d have to kill all three of them.

“No!” Nellie screamed at the top of her lungs. Inside, Jesse sat bolt upright in bed. “No! You ain’t gon’ take him. You jes’ like the rest of ‘em! You ain’t no better than Hoss Spence!” Jesse pushed Willie aside and started for the door.

Foxy raised his rifle and drew a fine bead on Will Henry’s right temple. The chief was standing stock still with his hands on his hips. It was an easy shot for somebody as good as Foxy. He took a deep breath and started to squeeze down on the trigger.

Jesse burst from the house, wearing only a pair of overalls, his eyes wild, a shotgun in his hands. Will Henry turned to look at him, his hands still resting on his hips. H<* opened his mouth to speak to Jesse, who ran across the porch and pushed Nellie out of the way. “Now, Jesse, you put—”

The shotgun roared.

Foxy watched in disbelief as Will Henry left his feet and flew backwards through the air. The black man, dropped the shotgun and ran, jumped off the end of the porch, and headed for the woods behind the house. A black boy ran out the door after him. The woman was screaming something.

Before he heard the noise of the shotgun, Will Henry felt himself being slammed backwards by something heavy against his chest, then everything slowed down. He left his feet and floated briefly through space, then struck the earth with his shoulders. He seemed to slide a long way, bits of gravel and dirt scraping against his shoulders as he landed. As he came to rest, the roar of the shotgun filled his head, then he was looking up at the sky, and the sky was filled with Willis Greer’s face. He struggled for what seemed like a long time to fill his lungs, which had been emptied by whatever had hit him.

Foxy changed his position, swung the rifle toward the running black man, took careful aim between the shoulder blades, then stopped himself. He had no reason to be here with a rifle. Besides, he had to find out if Greer knew. He started back toward the pickup truck, running low through the brush. The black woman was still screaming.

Willis Greer was on his hands and knees, bending over Will Henry. The center of the chief’s chest was a mass of blood and pulp, an expression of astonishment was on his face. He drew a long, gasping breath and heaved it out. Bloody bubbles popped through the wreckage of his chest, and he sucked in air again. Greer seemed in shock, didn’t know what to do. Foxy stopped his truck in front of the house and ran to them, pushing Greer out of the way. He bent over Will Henry, a strange expression on his face. “Can you talk, Lee? Can you speak to me?” Foxy’s voice was a soft purr.

Then the pain hit Will Henry, and he fainted.

In the woods Jesse stopped next to a small creek to catch his . breath, and Willie caught up to him. He grabbed Willie by the shoulders, gasping for breath. When he could speak he said, “Listen, boy, we cain’t stay together.”

“But, Daddy, you sick, you cain’t—”

“No! You listen. You go to yo’ Uncle Tuck in Columbus. He live at sixteen Camp Street. Say that to me.”

“Sixteen Camp Street.”

“He take care of you. I done kilt Mist’ Hoss, and they gon’ have the dogs after me fo’ long.”

“But, Daddy, it wudn’t Mist’—”

“Don’t talk no mo’. Ain’t got no time. Now you run up that creek, right up the middle, ‘til you get to the top of the mountain, an’ then you git to Columbus. Don’t take no rides from no white folks. You walk if you got to, and you go to yo’ Uncle Tuck. He know what to do.”

Willie nodded. “Yassuh.” Jesse held him at arm’s length for a moment, then crushed him in his arms. Willie hugged his daddy. Then Jesse was gone, running across the little stream in his bare feet and out of sight into the woods.

Willie watched him until he was out of sight, then turned and started running up the middle of the creek, up the mountain, away from Braytown and Delano, away, away.

.

Will Henry dove into the water, clean and straight. He opened his eyes and swam downward. Underneath him the thick weeds moved as if in the wind, and minnows darted here and there. He swam and swam, the cold water delicious against his naked skin, streaming over his shoulders and buttocks, stroking his penis, shriveling his scrotum. His lungs began to ache for new air, and still he swam. He stopped and looked around. Behind him the dog, Fred, was swimming, his four legs running through the water, churning it into bubbles. Will Henry laughed out loud, underwater, at the sight, expelling the air from his lungs. His feet found the weeded bottom, and he pushed upward, aiming at a point in front of the swimming dog. He broke the surface to his waist, gulping air, reaching for Fred.

.

He sucked in air and opened his eyes. Carrie’s fingers were in his hair, Frank Mudter was sponging at his chest, Willis Greer, hat in hand, looked on, wide-eyed, and Foxy stood at the foot of the examination table, tense, his jaw working, sweat pouring down his face.

Carrie was weeping, trying to do it quietly. It was all clear to him, every sound, every sob, every movement, every drop of sweat on Foxy’s face. He was numb, but when he inhaled the pain came in his chest. He tried to speak, but it got worse.