Dream With Little Angels (25 page)

“It was a present from my Uncle Henry.”

“I remember your Uncle Henry. From what I know of him, he's a good man. And now that I think about it, haven't I seen him round town lately? He stayin' with you and your ma?”

I nodded. “And my sister. Just 'til this thing with Tiffany Michelle Yates gets solved.”

“That's good. Awfully nice thing of him to do. Like I said, he's a good man. Maybe you should ask
him
how he feels about Mr. Garner.”

I already knew the answer to that, but I didn't tell the reverend. Instead, I thanked him for his time, and me and Dewey headed off.

T
he next day was a Monday and school got out early on account of there being a teachers' meeting after lunch. Dewey's mother had to go into Satsuma for some shopping. She had insisted that an actual mall was in order (the closest thing we had to a mall in Alvin was a small strip of outlet stores along Old Highway Seventeen). Uncle Henry had gone down to Mobile for the afternoon to take care of something to do with renewing the mortgage on his property, so that meant one of two things. Either my mother let me brave the afternoon streets of Alvin home alone on foot, or she had to take time out of her day of suspecting farmers and come pick me up. I'm willing to bet the farmers were happy with the choice she made. I told her this as I climbed into her car.

“I was almost done anyway, smart mouth,” she said. “Do up your belt.”

I did. “Did you find anythin'?”

She frowned. “No. Nothin' worth mentionin'. Seems the farmers of this town are 'bout the most honest people in the whole place.” I thought about mentioning that Mr. Wyatt Edward Farrow not being a farmer tended to support her point as far as I was concerned, but I held my tongue.

“Which farms you got left to investigate?” I asked. The sun was a pale yellow today, not nearly as hot as it had been lately.

“A couple on the outskirts,” she said. “The Allen farm's up next.”

With a shiver, I remembered how that farm had loomed past my side of the car the night we drove out of town to threaten the life of Carry's boyfriend. Both Allen farmhouses, but particularly the old one—the one that burned up and killed nearly all of Jesse James Allen's family—had squatted there in the dark mist and felt as though it was staring back at me as we went past, its black insides like a gaping mouth ready to gobble up anyone who might dare go near it. I hoped my mother wasn't about to suggest we go together now and finish up that part of her investigation.

My hope dissolved fast.

“How 'bout we just take one small detour down Highway Seventeen so I can check on Jesse James and his grandpa before heading back to the station?” she asked. “Then you can wait with Officer Jackson while I file my paperwork. We might even make it home in time for me to wrestle up some burgers for supper.”

Burgers almost made any proposition worthwhile, for I certainly did like them. Especially my mother's, which she always fried with mushrooms and onions. “Okay,” I said. Besides, sometimes when Chief Montgomery wasn't at the station (and he just might not be if we showed up around suppertime), my mother and Officer Jackson let me sit in his office and watch satellite television. The screen wasn't very big or nothing, but the fact that I could watch over three hundred channels more than made up for that. It sure as heck beat what we had at home.

The drive to the Allen farm went much faster than it had that night in the dark. At least it sure
felt
like it did. I figured it was that way with lots of stuff. Nighttime, especially when it's dark and misty like it had been then, makes everything feel slower and scarier.

Soon we were on Highway Seventeen, driving past fields of cotton and corn. The pungent smell of manure filled the car as, outside my window, the corn broke into a field of cattle. Then there was the old Hunter barn tall in the center surrounded by all them cows. They looked hot, even on this autumn afternoon, swishing away flies with their tails while they stood and chewed.

There wasn't much left of the cotton crops going by on the other side of the street. Harvesting was now over. The fields passing by outside my window began to slow as my mother came up the rise connecting to the dirt driveway that led off into the Allen farm. Even in the daytime, the burnt-out husk of the original farmhouse gave me a bit of the willies. It sat very close to the road, but no longer had a driveway connecting it to the highway. The gate that used to be in front had been replaced by a stretch of fence continuing up to the new driveway that led through to the main gate of the farm.

Turning in, my mother pulled to a stop outside the gate and honked her horn. When nobody made any indication of coming out to open it for us, she stepped out of the car and swung it open herself. It wasn't locked. Then, after driving through, she got out once again, and closed it behind us. The wide, dusty lane beyond the gate took us to the new farmhouse that Jesse James and his grandpa had built all by themselves, not counting the help they got from them Mexicans.

My mother parked well in front of an old, red Chevy truck. It was caked with dried dirt and mud and parked facing toward the street.

“How come the new farmhouse is so much smaller than the old one?” I asked.

“Well, remember,” my mother answered, “Jesse James and his grandpa built this one all by themselves.”

“I thought you said they got help from them Mexicans?” I asked.

“I reckon they likely did,” she said, “but you just keep that tidbit of information to yourself, you understand me? Under no circumstances do you say such a thing in front of
anyone,
especially not Jesse or his grandpa. If they like people to think otherwise, that's fine and their business. You got that?”

I told her I did.

“Besides,” she said, “there are only two of them now. They don't need as much room as before.” She got out of the car and put on her hat.

“Can I come, too?” I asked.

She thought this over and decided it would be okay. I followed her across the dusty drive and then over the walkway that ran along the front of the farmhouse and up to the front door. The walkway was overgrown with weeds, wild grass, and bunches of wild flowers, including some of the tallest dandelions I'd ever seen; nearly all of them had gone to seed already. I thought about how it would feel to lose my whole family, or near on all of it—the way Jesse had—and another shiver twisted its way up my backbone.

“And,” my mother said, “I don't think they keep animals in the back the way they used to. They used to have goats and stuff.”

“They still have chickens,” I said, pointing out two hens that had come from around the side of the farmhouse. They stood at the end of the walkway, cocking their heads sideways as though trying to figure out who we were and what we wanted. I laughed.

“Chickens don't take much room, Abe,” my mother said. She knocked on the front door and waited for someone to answer. Nobody did, so she knocked again, only louder this time.

“That's strange,” she said, stepping back and looking up at the house and then over at the old Chevy in the driveway. “George Allen's truck's here.”

“It don't look much like it's been driven in a while, I reckon,” I said. “Look at the windshield, it's covered in dust. I doubt you could even see out of it well enough to drive.”

“Well, I don't reckon they do much drivin' no more,” my mother said. “ 'Cept maybe into town every now and then for food and supplies and stuff. They keep mostly to themselves.”

I almost told my mother about seeing Jesse James Allen in town that Saturday morning me and Dewey were following Mr. Farrow, but decided any recollection of that day was best left alone.

I followed her back around to where we was parked. She made a big circle, rounding the side of the red pickup farthest from the farmhouse. “Mr. Allen!” she called out, cupping her hands around her mouth. “Mr. Allen, are you out here somewhere? It's Leah Teal from the Alvin Police Department.”

The only response she got was the clucking of chickens. Maybe five or six more were on the driveway behind the pickup, pecking through the gravel and patches of dried grass while being led around by a rather stern cock.

“The place seems dead,” I pointed out. A small wooden shed had been built against the side of the farmhouse on the other side of the pickup. Probably it was full of things like chicken feed, axes, shovels, and other basic farming tools. It was much too small for the big equipment—the stuff they used for harvesting. That would all be stored somewhere else.

A slight breeze picked up, blowing from the back fields. It carried with it the unmistakable smell of farm. There were several varieties when it came to the smell and, living in Alvin, you got to know them all. Thankfully, the Allens didn't farm cattle. That one was the worst, by far.

From here, the acres of land owned by the Allens seemed to stretch on forever. All of the crops had been harvested, of course, but way off in the back (it may have been two hundred yards away, it may have been more; crops tend to throw off your sense of distance completely) the cornfield still did its best to stay standing. It waved in the breeze like the slight ripple of waves in a sea of bright green.

“How come the corn hasn't been harvested?” I asked.

My mother hushed me. “Maybe George Allen had to sell the columbine,” she whispered back. “Jesse and him don't have a lot of money.”

“You mean all them Mexicans harvested the corn by hand?”

She shushed me. I tried to figure out if I had said something racist.

My mother cupped her hands around her mouth. “Mr. Allen!” she called again.

“I reckon the only things here are the chickens,” I said. They hardly looked overly well fed. “And even
they
look hungry.”

“Mr. Allen!” My mother was hollering in all directions now. “George Allen? Are you out here
any
where?”

“They gotta be
some
where,” I said.

My mother cut me a sideways glance. “That's very astute of you.”

I had no idea what
astute
meant, but decided she had just called me smart. “Thank you,” I said. “Maybe Jesse and his grandpa walked into town?”

“Abe, George Allen's gotta be eighty-five if he's a day. I doubt he's walking much these days, never mind the two and a half miles it is each way into town. Especially not in this heat.”

I was about to point out that today actually wasn't really that hot when my mother walked over to the truck and ran her finger along the inside of the bed, examining the dirt on it afterward. Then she opened the door on the driver's side and carefully examined the seats, looking behind and underneath them. She even checked out the mats and the steering wheel. The last thing she did was pop the glove box, but all she found inside were the registration papers.

“Find anything?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Seems pretty clean to me,” she said.

A squawk drew my attention away as the cock decided to attack three of the straggling hens. I decided to teach it a lesson, so with a squawk of my own, I chased it around the back of the farmhouse, running through the unkempt grass that looked as though it hadn't been mowed in months. The cock fled as fast as it could, bobbing along on its tiny stick-feet. The falling sun intensified the splashes of red on its outstretched wings. Its beak opened in a way that made it look like it was screaming.

It looked so ridiculous I couldn't help but laugh as I chased it.

My mother was still examining the truck. “Abe!” she called out. “Please don't. This isn't our—”

But I didn't hear whatever she finished saying, because around the back of the farmhouse I discovered something that made my legs, my arms, and even my ears stop working. I skidded to an immediate halt, my heart racing so hard in my chest I thought it might burst right through my rib cage.

A wheelbarrow leaned up against the back porch, positioned so its bed faced outward. Like the cock's wings, the handles and bed of that barrow were red, only
completely
red, and even
I
could tell it wasn't paint I was looking at glistening under that pale yellow sun.

It felt like an eternity went by before I managed to regain control of my mouth. When I spoke my voice came out shaky and quiet. “Mom,” I said, “you better come here.”

M
y mother came around, both anxiously and cautiously at the same time. “Abe, what—” she started to ask, but stopped at the sight of the wheelbarrow. Without even looking down, her hand pulled her gun from its holster, something I had only seen her do once before.

“Mr. Allen!” she yelled, her fingers gripped tightly around her weapon's handle. “Mr. Allen, are you out here?” Then, lowering her voice almost to a whisper, she said, “Abe, go get back in the car. Right now! Get back in the car, and lock the doors.”

Three hens pecked the ground around the bloody wheelbarrow. “Mom,” I said, trying to keep things calm. “Maybe it's just animal blood.” I figured this wasn't such a bad assumption, considering we were on a farm and all.

My mother ignored me completely. “Abe,” she said again, her voice low and commanding, “listen to me. Get back in the goddamn car, right this instant. Lock the doors. Do it.
Now
.”

Grudgingly, I headed back to the car, slightly annoyed, but also a bit relieved. Annoyed because it was me who found the wheelbarrow in the first place, and I didn't see why a wheelbarrow full of blood meant I had to go wait in the car yet again. Besides, I really thought my hypothesis of animal blood was a good one. As I slinked away, I heard my mother unclip the walkie-talkie she had brought along for the day and call the station for backup. I made a wide turn toward the car so I could see everything as long as possible. Every two or three steps, I looked over my shoulder and watched while my mother scanned the entire farmyard slowly, her gaze locked on the horizon. Both her hands gripped her gun, which she had pointed toward the ground at waist height.

“Mr. Allen!” she yelled again, this time so loud it made me jump. “Mr. Allen, if you're out here, you must make yourself known now, before I make a mistake and accidentally shoot you!”

I stopped between the truck and the farmhouse as, far beyond the red pickup, the shadow of a figure emerged from the old burnt-out building. From the angle I was at, I don't think my mother could see me, but she did see whoever it was that had come out into the sunlight from the old barn's dark insides. She recognized him immediately. From the look of surprise and fear on his face, I don't think he had heard my mother yelling at all or had any idea we were here.

“Jesse!” my mother called out. “Is your grandpa around here somewhere?”

He shook his head, but said nothing.

“Where might I be able to find him?” she asked. I stepped back, cautiously sneaking another peek at my mother. She still held her weapon tightly at her side. It wasn't pointed at Jesse James Allen, but by her posture, she was anything but relaxed.

Jesse had yet to say a word. He just stood there. I could make out his face more clearly now. It was filled with fear and confusion. From here, he looked pretty near exactly as he had that morning on the street. I didn't think a comb had touched that mess of hair at any point in time in the interim.

“Jesse!” my mother said. “I need you to tell me where your grandpa is, and I need you to do it
now
. Jesse, I have a gun in my hand. Do you understand that?”

I returned to my position just far enough around the edge of the house to be out of my mother's line of sight. Only, Jesse James Allen
did
see me. His head turned and looked dead straight at me. Something in his eyes threw a chill through my blood I doubted I would ever forget. I took two steps back, putting myself between the red pickup and the tool shed.

It was then that I noticed the smell. A horrible smell, like the one that used to come out of the old mink farm that had been in operation down Old Mill Road before the townsfolk signed a petition to get them to shut it down. Only, this smell actually seemed worse, something that, until today, I wouldn't have thought possible.

The smell confused me, and it took a good couple seconds for me to pinpoint the source of it. Then I figured it out. It was coming from the tool shed. The shed had a pair of double doors, with a fairly thick chain threaded several times through the hasps of each door. Normally, the chain was secured with a padlock, and the padlock was there now, but it was open. I took a step closer, holding my breath as best I could, unsure whether I really wanted to know what was creating that horrible stench. Part of me, that eleven-year-old-boy part, knew I
needed
to find out, or I would forever regret not knowing.

I glanced back to Jesse, seeing his attention rapidly alternate between me and my mother. The color was draining from his face.

“Jesse, I need you to put your hands in the air and walk slowly toward me,” I heard my mother say. I knew she was too busy to pay me much attention, so I lifted off the lock and carefully slipped the chain from the hasps in the doors. The whole time, I did my best not to breathe through my nose, but breathing through my mouth only made it worse because, whether or not it was actually true, I imagined I could now taste that smell.

When the chain was free, I set it quietly on the dusty ground and swung open the wooden doors. At that moment, I saw exactly where that smell was coming from.

Propped up on the slated wooden floor was the decaying remains of Jesse's grandpa. There wasn't much left of him—his body looked nearly skeletal. Maggots covered near on all the skin he had remaining, and my stomach churned so hard I had to look away before I got sick.

“Mom!” I called out.

“Abe! I thought I told you to get in the goddamn car and lock the door?” she asked. “You're getting worse than your goddamn sister!”

“But, Mom,” I pleaded, “you really need to see this.”

I heard her slowly start stepping around in my direction. “Jesse, put your hands up, do you hear me? Put them up
now!
”

My mother came up beside where I stood, walking sideways, her back to the farmhouse, her gun now aimed directly at Jesse James Allen just the same way I'd seen it aimed at Stephen McFarren, only now I realized that night with Carry and her boyfriend had been just an act compared to the real thing. “Why aren't you in—” She made a fast shoulder check, glancing into the shed, and I watched the second it took for her brain to throw it all together. “Jesus Christ.”

That's when Jesse James began running toward the back fields where the cornstalks were doing their best to keep standing. “Abe, I'm
begging
you. Get in the car now! I'm seriously not kidding around.” She took off on foot after Jesse, running as fast as I'd ever seen anyone go. A few hens in her way quickly scattered as her boots left the dusty driveway and hit the dead wild grass of the outlying farmland. “Jesse! Stop right now, or so help me God, I'll shoot you!”

But Jesse didn't stop. My mother did, though. She stopped and carefully took aim before pulling off a shot. I could not believe how loud it was. My ears were still ringing as I watched it miss, hitting the hard ground right near Jesse's foot. The dirt beside his shoe flew up in an explosion of dark brown powder.

My mother started off after him again, still gaining fast, especially once Jesse hit the cornfield. The stalks slowed him down substantially and, since it was so late in the season with harvest over and all, the corn gave easily to his weight, leaving an open trail behind him. When my mother wasn't more than thirty yards away, she stopped again, yelling, “Jesse, I'm givin' you one last chance. Stop, or you
will
be shot.”

I guess Jesse James Allen didn't believe her, because he kept trudging as fast as he could through that corn, and this time my mother did not miss. Even though I was somewhat more prepared for the thunderclap of sound made by her gun, I still jumped as she pulled the trigger and got off her shot, putting a bullet right in the back of Jesse's leg. Jesse James Allen went down, falling into a clump on the tilled ground, amidst a cradle of green stalks all on their way to dying or going to seed.

While this all happened, I had stood frozen, not even noticing the smell from the shed anymore. Something about it captivated me. It was like watching a movie, only different on account of it was real life with my very own mother in the starring role.

Strange feelings swept through me that I hadn't felt before, but I was starting to get used to that. Maybe this was part of becoming a grown-up.

Seeing Jesse lying there, all crumpled up in the dirt, made me wonder if my mother might have killed him, but I figured it was probably unlikely anyone could die from a bullet wound to the back of the leg. At least not right away. At least my mother didn't think he was dead. I heard her yelling at him over and over while she patted him down: “Where is she? Where is she?”

When Jesse James Allen answered, his voice was strained and the words seemed to come out in a flood of pain.

“The old farmhouse,” he said, and once again fell still.