Close to the Broken Hearted (16 page)

Chris couldn't believe he'd just referred to killing a three-year-old boy as a “fiasco.”

“I see,” Chris said.

“That answer your question?” Eli Brown said, his eyes once again narrowing. He tilted back his head and looked down his nose at Chris.

“Yeah. That was it. Just the one.”

“Good.” With that Preacher Eli walked back into his house and closed the door behind him.

Chris angled into his squad car and backed out of Preacher Eli's yard onto Hunter Road. Just before he got to the bridge, he radioed Leah back at the office. “Well,” he said, “his idea wasn't half bad. He wanted to build an education complex. Basically provide a private school for Alvin that went from kindergarten to twelfth grade. Save kids having to take the bus all the way to Satsuma for high school.”

They talked a bit more about it. He told Leah about the grandson.

“What's the grandson's name?”

“No idea. You told me to ask about the institution he was buildin'. That's what I did. I ain't goin' back. The man gives me the willies.”

“Fair enough.”

When they were done talking, Chris added, “Oh, just before you go? There's somethin' you probably ought to know. Your son and his little friend are sittin' across the street in the woods from Eli's place with fir tree branches tied all over 'em with kite string. I think they're havin' a little stakeout.”

Leah didn't say anything for a good couple of seconds. “You sure it's my son?”

“Oh, I'm sure.”

“Dear God. Does Eli know they're there?”

“I don't think so. They actually did a pretty good job camouflagin' themselves.”

He heard her frustration right through the radio. “Okay, I'm on it.”

Chris set the radio back in its cradle and smiled. No, not much got past him.

T
he most exciting thing me and Dewey had spotted so far on our watch of Preacher Eli's place was Officer Chris Jackson stopping by for some reason. We had no idea why he was there, but we did see Preacher Eli whisper something to Officer Jackson and then make a point of coming out on the porch to talk to him.

We figured this was on account of the fact that someone else was over at the preacher's house. Some guy who looked like a teenager who happened to answer the door when Officer Jackson knocked. I didn't have any idea who the guy was. Now that I knew he was there, I was guessing the silver car parked out front of the house might belong to him since I didn't remember seeing it when me and my mother came here. I figured this way of thinking was how detectives did their work. I was probably a natural detective.

Luckily, me and Dewey were dressed as trees and hiding in the forest, because if Officer Jackson had seen us he'd probably have told my mother and she would likely have not thought my idea of spying on Preacher Eli was a good one. We didn't see eye to eye on some things. I figured spying on people fell into the category of being one of those things.

But Officer Jackson had left maybe fifteen or twenty minutes ago (I'd forgotten to check my watch) and, of course, hadn't seen us. So we were in no danger of my mother finding out we were here. And Preacher Eli obviously didn't know either, or he'd have undoubtedly told Officer Jackson about us. That made me feel quite a bit better.

Since then, we hadn't seen any sign of Preacher Eli or the other guy in the house. Wherever they were or whatever they were doing they were doing it in a room away from the front windows.

“They're probably makin' plans,” I told Dewey.

“What sorta plans?”

“Not good ones.”

But still, it would've been better if we actually got to
see
them from time to time.

In fact, I was starting to get the feeling this whole idea might not have been my best idea. Worse yet, the only good part of it might turn out to have been Dewey's invention of creating a method of making us invisible to anyone who happened by.

That's when a car stopped on the road right in front of where we were lying. I didn't recognize the car right away because I wasn't really bothering to look at it. After all, we couldn't be seen, so the car must be doing its own business and was of no concern to us.

At least that's what I thought.

Then I studied the car a little more closely as I heard the driver's side door open. I actually
did
recognize this vehicle.

It was my mother.

I gulped. Had she come to see Preacher Eli again? What was
she
doing here? Why hadn't she parked in his driveway?

Then, as she came around the front of the car, I found out.

“Abraham Teal! Get out of those woods right this instant!” She was nearly screaming. I wanted to shush her. Tell her to keep it down on account of she was going to attract the attention of Preacher Eli, but there was no shushing her. “How dare you do something like this?”

I looked at Dewey. He looked at me. I still wasn't sure she could see us, even though she seemed to be staring right at us. “You too, Dewey, get up! Come on! Now!”

Slowly, we stood from where we were lying, both of us covered in fir tree branches tied to our body with kite string. “Oh my God! You look ridiculous! What the
hell
are you doin'?”

“Watchin' Preacher Eli,” I said quietly, still hoping not to be overheard across the street.

“Chris was right. You
are
on a stakeout. Well, guess what? Your stakeout just ended. Where's your bikes?”

Dewey pointed to the ditch, down a little ways.

“Nice,” my mother said. “You threw your bikes in the ditch. Go get 'em!”

I started walking toward the ditch on the outside of the woods, but she stopped me.

“Take those things off you first,” she said. “You look absolutely ridiculous.”

I couldn't undo Dewey's knots. He had to take my branches off and then, using the garden shears, I had to take off his. Then we went and got our bikes. Dewey carried the shears. Halfway there, he turned around.

“What are you doin'?” my mother asked him.

“I left the roll of string in the woods,” Dewey said. “I need to put it back in my dad's shed.”

My mother let out a deep breath. “Go get it. But do it fast. You're ridin' home. I want you on your bike and down that hill in the next five minutes. Abe, you're comin' with me. Bring your bike up to the car. I'm throwin' it in the trunk.”

“Why can't I go with Dewey?” I asked, climbing into the ditch. It was a very wide and deep ditch and getting my bike out wasn't easy. Luckily, there was no water in it on account of all the sun we'd had lately.

“Because I said so. Why do you have to spy on people?”

I thought this over, but before I could answer she told me it was a rhetorical question. Then she clarified: “That means I don't expect you to answer it. I expect you to
think
about it.” I didn't really understand, but I knew when to keep my mouth shut.

After four or five attempts, Dewey got his bike out of the ditch. By then, mine was already in the trunk. “Bye, Abe,” Dewey said with a wave. “Bye, Miss Leah.” And with that, he kicked off and headed down the hill toward the Blackberry Springs Bridge and his home.

“Get in the car!” my mother snapped.

I got in the car. She got in her side and slammed her door. Turning the key to start the ignition, she told me, “If I ever catch you doin' somethin' like this again . . . so help me. Didn't we go through all this once before?”

I knew what she was talkin' 'bout. She was talkin' 'bout Mr. Wyatt Edward Farrow, just like Dewey had been on the phone this morning. But just like I'd told him, this was all different on account of Preacher Eli actually having shot a kid and gone to prison for it. I was about to tell her just that when she turned her face to me and I saw that look in her eyes that meant it was best to just keep my thoughts to myself. I'd learned that over the years you didn't mess around when she gave you that look.

So instead, I asked, “Where're we goin'? This isn't the way home.” We'd just driven by the turnoff to Cottonwood Lane.

“I'm still workin'. Now you're stuck comin' with me.”

“Comin' with you where?”

“Just mind your business.”

She kept driving down Hunter Road, heading toward Main Street. Soon, the silence seemed to become too much for her because she broke it. “So. I decided to call that Addison woman back and tell her we'd drive into Georgia next time I had a day off. Meet these grandparents of yours. How do you feel about that?”

It was like dozens of lightning bugs suddenly swarmed up into my chest. “That's great!” I said.

We turned left onto Main Street and drove right past the library where me and Dewey had sat with my aunt Addison that morning it was so hot. The marble steps still looked bright white this afternoon, but a scattering of green leaves covered some. They'd blown from the maple trees planted beside them. “I'm hopin' your sister thinks it's great, too,” my mother said with a slight worry in her voice.

I frowned. “You don't think Carry'll wanna meet her grandparents?” I found this a very odd thing to be figuring on. Surely, everyone wanted to meet their kin.

“It's tough to call how Carry will react to things sometimes. Your sister can be”—she searched for the word—“complicated.”

“How do you mean—complicated?”

“She's just . . . never mind. She's a
girl
. You can't expect to understand 'em. Especially at your age.”

I didn't say nothing, just watched the businesses sail by on either side of the road, while trying to guess what our destination was. Finally, I asked again. “Where are we goin', anyway? Seems like we're headin' all the way to the other end of Main Street.”

“I
told
you,” my mother said. “Mind your business.”

I figured since I now seemed to be working with her it
was
my business to know where we were going, but I found out soon enough. It actually
did
turn out to be pretty near all the way down at the end of Main Street. She pulled her car to a stop right in front of the Alvin Courthouse. At first, I figured that was our destination, but it turned out we were headed to the public records office right beside the courthouse. I think the records office actually was part of the courthouse, but we entered through the front from the outside, so it seemed like a separate building. Compared to the courthouse it was small and squat.

Inside, it wasn't even as big as it looked from the outside. The room was filled with a musty smell, like the pages of old books. Sunlight shined through the three main windows along the front wall. The rest of the room was lit with fluorescent lights.

Bookshelves separated the room into sections, making it almost like a maze. Most were floor-to-ceiling shelves packed with spines of all sorts of books. There were also catalogs and files like we have in our school library explaining which books had what information in 'em so you could find what you were looking for. Maps and old photographs hung on the walls.

“I'm Detective Leah Teal from the Alvin Police Department,” my mother told the clerk working behind the small pine desk tucked away in the back corner. “I'd like to check out your property records, if I may.” The clerk's desk was stacked with papers, making it appear even smaller than it was, so it suited the room. The stacks were so high, some of them rose taller than the woman, who was a brunette with short, curly hair and large round glasses. The stacks made her appear even smaller than she turned out to be once she stood up.

“Oh, absolutely,” she said, seemingly impressed with the fact that my mother was a detective. Her eyes fell to the sword at my side. Then they went back to my mother.

“This is my son, Abe,” my mother said, explaining. “I reckon he believes he's Peter Pan.”

The clerk laughed. I didn't find it very funny. My mother had just made a joke at my expense.

The clerk escorted us through the maze of shelves right across the room to the other side, where the thickest of the white-covered books packed a series of shelves on the back wall. I had never seen books so tall. Each one had to be nearly two feet in height. “You'll find all of the properties in Alvin and the outlying areas listed here. Each volume is categorized by location. You can refer to this map.” She pointed out a map on the back wall that was broken out into squares.

My mother thanked her and set about tracing her finger up the map, northward. At first, I thought she was heading toward Eli Brown's new place, but she wasn't. She was following Fairview Drive, but instead of veering left like Fairview did, she let her finger curve off right and continue around the bend where it turned into Bogpine Way.

“Goin' frog huntin'?” I asked, with a laugh.

“Mind your business,” my mother told me again, not taking her eyes off the map.

I thought I was being funny. Bogpine Way wraps around a dense forest that opens onto Beemer's Bog, a place known to get overrun with toads in late spring. Nobody goes near it on account of the smell and all the noise.

She stopped her finger about a third of the way up the Bogpine bend and tapped. “What street number do you reckon this is?”

I looked behind me to see if the lady clerk was still standing with us, but she wasn't, so I figured my mother must be talking to me. I didn't have a clue what she meant. “I don't know. How would you ever tell?”

“I guess you just estimate. This says one hundred down here and three hundred up here. That's about two inches between them. Would you say this is around another inch and a little bit? I'm looking for four-oh-five.”

“I guess.” I didn't rightly know an inch from an inchworm, to be quite honest. But I didn't want to sound dumb.

“Okay, that puts us in square zero-seven-C,” she said, reading the numbers from the side and top of the map. “See if you can find that volume.”

I started looking at the white books on the shelves. It took me a moment to realize they had numbers and letters on their spines. Unfortunately, it appeared the only ones low enough for me to see were from the letters E to T. “I reckon it's in one of the top rows,” I said.

“I reckon you're right.” My mother scanned the top three shelves. It took her a minute before she pulled one of the books from where it sat. It turned out to be even larger than I expected, at least half as wide as it was tall. These books were massive and thick with pages full of information.

My mother laid the book on a table under the map and carefully opened it to the back where an index listed the addresses by street number and page. She quickly flopped the pages back to the page she wanted. I found myself looking at a detailed map of a bit of road with some forest on the right of it. She flipped ahead the next five pages; every one showed a bit more of the road and the trees as it went farther up and curved right into the forest. I realized I was looking at one big parcel of land.

In the bottom right corner of each page was a square with writing inside it:

My mother stared at that square a long while.

“What is it?” I asked.

“I dunno,” she said. “It don't make no sense to me.”

“What don't?”

“The land's sat there this whole time untouched. Nobody's developed it. The old farmhouse and barn are just rotting away. I don't understand why there ain't no owner listed. I thought the state would be listed as owner, or at least the county.”