Final Justice (39 page)

"Leave him to me, Sara," he said, teeth clenched. "Just leave him to me."

* * *

After dropping her off at the hospital, Luke checked in with Wilma on the radio as he headed back into the country.

"Looks like the worst is over," she said as Luke heard the mill whistle sound the all-clear signal. "We're getting the most damage reports from out where Sara was. Matt and Kirby have gone out there since we haven't had any serious calls from town."

"I'll follow the twister's path and see what I find," he said, setting the stage to discover Dewey in the old barn. As he neared the path leading back to it, he began to worry that he would not be stretching the truth, after all, because it appeared the tornado had moved in that direction. It had stopped raining, and a patch of blue was beginning to show at the ragged edge of the retreating storm clouds. The wind had died down, but the air was still thick and humid. It was impossible to drive all the way up to the barn because of all the debris blown around, so he parked and walked, finding that the cab of Dewey's truck was crushed, like Sara had said, but the barn was miraculously still standing.

Inside, he found Dewey and knew, without having to check for a pulse, he was dead. His lips were a grayish blue color, and his face had already taken on the waxy hue that death brings so quickly. His eyes were open, staring sightlessly at the cob-webbed rafters above. Luke would later close the lids and take pennies from his pockets to lay on top for weight to keep them shut. The first order of business was to get some clothes on him. Dewey could not be found naked.

Maybe it wouldn't have made any difference if Burch
had
gotten Dewey to the hospital, but that wasn't the point. He should have
tried,
damn it. So now Burch had two sins to answer for, by God, which meant the hammer was going to come down twice as hard.

* * *

He called in the death report to Wilma and told her to have the rescue squad transport the body to the funeral home.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," she wailed into the radio. "I always liked Dewey. He was a dear old soul. A lot of folks loved that man."

And so did Sara,
he sadly thought, and that was why he wanted to be the one to tell her, so she wouldn't go off the deep end and let something slip if she heard it otherwise.

He instructed Wilma, "Tell the rescue boys to keep it quiet till I can get word to the family."

"Will do, Sheriff."

* * *

When Luke arrived at the emergency room, Dr. Campbell had just finished stitching Sara's wounds, and she was resting on a cot in one of the treatment rooms. No one else was around. She took one look at his face and burst into tears.

He pulled her against him, his whisper at her ear harsh and rapid, "You've got to get hold of yourself and act grieved at the death of a family member and nothing more. And you have to keep telling yourself over and over it's how he'd want it."

She continued to cry but after a few moments finally drew back to tremulously ask, "Will you see me through it, Luke? I don't have anybody else to lean on."

"Of course, I will. I'm just sorry I let you down, honey. If I'd dealt with Burch when you first asked me to, maybe this wouldn't have happened. Now I've got to live with the guilt."

"Dewey wouldn't want you to feel that way, and neither do I."

"Well, Burch will pay for what he did, Sara. Count on it."

He saw how she stiffened and knew that rage was beginning to wage a war with grief and would eventually take over. That was good, for anger would make her strong. It sure as hell kept him going.

* * *

After breaking the news of her husband's death to Carrie Culver, who calmly reacted with the pragmatic declaration that it was God's will, Luke spent the rest of the evening checking on the tornado's aftermath.

It had not gone in the direction where Emma Jean lived so he was satisfied she would be okay. Still, he ached to see her.

Maybe it was feeling sorry for Sara that made him long to be with someone he felt close to, because he dreaded going home to Alma and her nagging.

It was still a couple of hours before Rudy got off work, so back in the privacy of his office Luke dialed Emma Jean's number and let it ring twice, the signal he was coming by, and hung up.

He was almost to the highway when Ned radioed with a report of suspected looting at Saulston's store. "Billy says somebody stopped by his house to tell him they saw some kids prowling around over there. He's scared if he catches 'em he'll wind up killing somebody, so he wants you to handle it. He thinks it's the Scroggins boys. He's had some trouble with them in the past."

"Who hasn't?" Luke fired back irritably. He wanted to see Emma Jean, not deal with smart-mouth punks like Rossie and Ollis Scroggins trying to steal cigarettes and beer.

He'd had run-ins with them in the past. The whole family was white trash. Old man Reuben Scroggins was a drunk and hell-raiser from way back and had been in and out of prison all his life for one thing or another. His wife, Nina Lou, was currently doing time at the women's penitentiary in Montgomery for stabbing a woman she had caught sleeping with Reuben. Then there were two teenage daughters who had never been married and had half a dozen kids between them and lived on welfare.

Luke arrived at the store just as it appeared the boys had gathered the nerve to go in and start loading up. Rossie was climbing through the same window Sara had cut herself on. Ollis saw Luke and yelled and tried to run, but Luke felled him with one blow from his flashlight.

"We ain't doin' nothin'," Rossie yelped as Luke jerked him down out of the window. "Just lookin' around, that's all. Makin' sure there ain't no damage. Tryin' to do a good deed," he added with a smirk, dusting the front of his shirt as Luke let him go.

"Yeah, that's right," Ollis said from where he was sprawled on the ground, blood oozing from a slight cut over his ear.

Rossie saw his brother's injury and roared at Luke, "Hey, what'd you do that for, you asshole? You didn't have to hit him." He turned toward Luke in menace, fists clenched.

Luke did not back away, merely slapped the flashlight rhythmically in his open palm. "You want some, too?"

Rossie backed off but continued to smirk. "You'd like me to jump you, wouldn't you? Well, when I do, you won't see me comin'. You can bet on that."

Luke nodded to the patrol car. "Get in."

Rossie demanded to know where Luke was taking them, angrily protesting that he hadn't actually caught them stealing anything and couldn't disprove their story of merely checking things out.

Luke said not to worry, he was only giving them a neighborly ride home, and, hearing that, they both tried to get out of the car, but they were locked in.

"You can't do that," Ollis cried. "If our old man is there, and you tell him you think we was gettin' ready to loot Billy's store, he'll beat the shit out of us."

"And if he's drunk," Rossie added in rising panic, "He'll do worse. You let us out of here, you bastard."

Rossie saw how that needled Luke and zeroed in to twist the knife even deeper, "Bastard," he repeated. "That's what you are, for sure. Your momma didn't even know who your daddy was. My momma said so. She said..."

Luke flung his right arm out to slam the flashlight against the wire cage, and they recoiled like monkeys in a pen. "If you don't want me to stop this car and beat you myself, you'd best keep your mouth shut, boy."

Ollis jabbed Rossie with his elbow, and Rossie reluctantly leaned back in sullen silence. A few moments later, Luke turned into a yard void of grass and littered with beer cans, whiskey bottles, and old tires. In the middle of all the trash sat a rusting, dilapidated trailer, most of the windows broken out, and a bent television antenna hanging over the side.

The trailer door opened with a bang, and Reuben Scroggins, bare-chested and wearing stained trousers, appeared. He was holding a beer and swaying from side to side as he wondered what the law was doing in his yard. Then he saw his sons in the back seat and bellowed, "You little shits. What've you done now?"

He began tugging at his belt as he stumbled down the steps.

Rossie hissed at Luke, "I'm gonna get you for this, you bastard. I swear I will. You're gonna pay."

Luke got out of the car and opened the back doors. The boys took off running, but Rossie slipped and fell. Before he could scramble to his feet, Reuben brought his belt zinging down across his back. Then, holding him down with his foot, he angrily demanded of Luke, "Tell me what they done, damn it."

Luke explained that while he had caught them about to loot Billy Saulston's store, he didn't have enough evidence to arrest them but wanted Reuben to know about it.

Reuben stomped on Rossie's head and whacked his buttocks with his belt. "I told you I ain't puttin' up with that kind o' shit. I ain't raisin' no thieves..."

Rossie screamed and railed at Luke, "You son of a bitch..."

Reuben Scroggins whacked him again. "Shut your mouth. The sheriff's just doin' his job."

But Rossie kept on yelling. "Maybe I'll just go piss on your whore-momma's grave, sheriff."

"I'll beat you till you bleed, boy." Reuben hit him again, this time across his face.

Rossie shrieked and grabbed Reuben's ankle and twisted, knocking him off balance, then scrambled to his feet to escape to the woods with his brother. Luke got back in the car and drove away.

Rossie and Ollis would eventually get the beating Reuben intended, and Matt and Kirby could finish checking out the storm damage. He had more important things to do, like get to Emma Jean's to spend the precious few hours before time for Rudy to get off work.

* * *

Emma Jean was waiting when Luke turned into the yard, and since it was dark and no one could see, she threw herself in his arms the second he got out of the car. She would not let him go, even when he tried to unwrap her arms from around his neck.

"Just kiss me," she laughed, pressing her mouth against his.

He obliged till they were breathless, then held her tight against his chest, his chin resting on top of her head. He wanted to feel her warmth, smell her sweetness, and, most of all, experience the wonder of having someone who cared about him so very, very close.

Emma Jean had never known him to act that way and finally pulled back to ask, "Is something wrong, Luke? You seem so... I don't know... so sad, somehow."

He admitted he was and told her why, knowing he could trust her not to tell anyone and confident Sara would not mind that he had if she knew how things were between them.

Emma Jean was horrified. "Oh, that's awful. Just awful. Oh, Lord, Luke, after all these years of them loving each other, and she's got to act like he's no more to her than her uncle. I feel so bad for her."

"I probably shouldn't have told you, but..."

"Stop it." She pressed a finger against his lips. "I want you to always tell me when you're troubled, Luke. We're best friends, remember? We tell each other everything. Lord knows, I've cried on your shoulder plenty of times."

She was wearing shorts and a blouse with the hem knotted under her bosom. Her hair was braided into pigtails with bows, and he thought how sometimes she seemed like just a little girl, all baby powder and ribbons, yet he knew she was a woman who could satisfy him like no other ever had.

Only it was not desire he felt for her this night. It was closeness and friendship and all the wonderful things that make a relationship between a man and woman mean more than sex. It was what made life tolerable, that special feeling that somebody else gave a damn.

"I've got us a beer hid under the sink. It's not cold, but..."

"It doesn't matter. We'll drink it, anyway."

So they sat on the back steps in the dark and shared a warm beer and listened to the constant churr-churr-churr of the tree frogs, watched fireflies dancing, and slapped at mosquitoes, all the while reveling in the joy and contentment of just being together.

"Look!" Emma Jean suddenly cried, pointing skyward. "A shooting star. Did you see it?"

Luke had caught the tail end of it. "Yeah, I sure did. That's one thing I always liked about Alabama—the falling stars."

"We're supposed to wish on it." She closed her eyes briefly, brow furrowed in deep concentration, then opened them and said, "You tell me your wish, and I'll tell you mine."

"We aren't supposed to," he said, not about to confide his wish that he never had to go home, that this was actually their house, and he had the right to take her inside to bed and make love to her and fall asleep afterwards and wake up in the morning with her head on his shoulder.

When he did not say anything, she prattled on, as was her way. "I think I know what Sara must be feeling, because I'd be the same if anything happened to you. I mean, what would I do if some crook shot and killed you? I'd have to do my grieving in private or else Rudy would figure out why I was so upset. Then he'd kill me, and you wouldn't be around to help me, and..."

"I may not always be around, anyway, Emma Jean," he felt the sudden need to make clear.

"What do you mean?" she asked, frowning as she absently tugged at one of her pigtails.