Final Justice (40 page)

"I mean that maybe I'll decide to leave here one day."

She was quiet for a moment, then murmured, "Well, I guess folks do what they've got to do, but I'd miss you."

Suddenly uncomfortable, he downed the rest of the beer, feigned a yawn, and got to his feet. "Well, for now, I'd better just leave from
here.
It's almost time for Rudy to get home."

She followed him to the car. "You go home and get some rest, you hear? You've had a really rough day. And I'll bet you haven't had time to eat supper, have you? Well, Alma probably saved it for you. So you eat, you hear?"

His chuckle was bitter. "She always has supper ready at six and throws it out if I'm not there by seven. She says she's got other things to do besides cater to my being so inconsiderate and maybe throwing it out will teach me to get there on time."

Emma Jean flared, "That's awful. I'd never treat you like that. I'd have a hot meal ready for you no matter what time you got home if you were my husband, Luke."

He had no doubt she would but was feeling more ill at ease by the second. Things were getting complicated.
Real
complicated. And thinking about how Sara now faced a lonely, bleak future after losing the warm, hand-holding kind of love that had been her breath of life since she was practically a child filled him with a strange kind of desolation.

Chapter 24

Dewey's coffin had been placed in the parlor of the farmhouse where he and Carrie had lived since their marriage forty years ago. Carrie sat nearby with her six grown children in a row of metal folding chairs that Hardy had brought from the funeral home. As a seemingly endless procession of people filed by to offer condolences, no one noticed Luke and Sara, who stood together in the shadowed hallway just outside. Casseroles and cakes covered the dining room table along with sandwiches and potato salad. A large galvanized tub, filled with fried chicken, sat on the floor. Another tub held ice and bottles of sodas.

Luke spotted Betsy Borden moving along the food line stuffing sandwiches and chicken into her large handbag. Betsy never missed a wake, and it didn't matter whether she knew the deceased or not. She came for the food, but no one ever said anything because there was always plenty to spare. Southerners, Luke knew, believed a balm for grief was having plenty to eat.

Sara made a face as Burch came in. Luke reminded her he was a deacon, and it was only natural he'd show up at the wake.

"But look at him," she said bitterly, "how he's shaking Aunt Carrie's hand and oozing sympathy. I wonder what everyone would think if I just marched right in there and told how he ran off and left poor Dewey to die."

"They'd be too busy wondering how you knew that to care."

"Well, I can't help it."

"You'd better try because I've got a plan to fix Burch's ass for all time, only you're going to have to be quite a little actress if we're to pull it off."

Her eyes flashed with interest. "Tell me."

"I will later. Meanwhile, just try to be friendly to him.
Real
friendly."

"Are you crazy? If I were Bette Davis I couldn't act friendly to that monster."

"You have to if you want revenge."

"It won't work. He knows I hate him."

"Maybe, but remember he never stopped to think you and Dewey loved each other. He figured your motive was money, and it's only natural you'd be looking for a new sugar daddy so you're willing to forgive and forget."

"That's disgusting."

"To you, but not Burch. So do as I say, and I promise he'll be so miserable he'll wish it was him instead of Dewey in that coffin."

She looked doubtful. "Well, I just hope he doesn't come near me tonight. God knows, I'm dying inside."

He gave her a gentle pat on the back. "Dewey would be proud of how you're holding together. I know I am."

She leaned into him. "I don't know what I'd do without you. It was bad enough all these years, anyway. Sort of like living between heaven and hell, having to sneak and lie, when all I ever wanted was to belong only to him, have his babies, wake up with my head on his shoulder every day for the rest of our lives. Now I can't even mourn him properly. I have to hide in the shadows like I'm ashamed of what we had, and I'm not. It was beautiful and good and..."

"You're on the edge, sweetheart," Luke spoke in her ear. "And you're making me have to stand too close to you in case anybody is watching to remind you of that fact, so calm down before you get both of us in trouble."

"I'm sorry. I really am. You just don't know what it's like."

"Oh, yes, I do."

He hadn't meant to say it, but he had, and she turned to look up at him with wonder splashed on her face. "Why, Luke, I really believe you do. I've suspected it, but I wasn't sure."

"And you still aren't, so forget I said anything." He glanced around to make sure no one was paying any attention to them. "Look, I've got some business to take care of. Are you going to be all right without me?"

"I think so."

He had turned away but paused when she called softly, "I'm happy for you, Luke. I really am."

He kept on going, all the while thinking what a big mouth he had, but he could trust Sara. If suspecting he had something serious going with somebody took her mind off her troubles, then maybe it was a good thing.

* * *

Cubby Riddle unzipped his trousers, took out his penis, and peed on the ground next to the back door. Janie Sue always bitched about him doing it, claiming it drew flies. He argued that her chickens dumpin' all over the place was what did it, not him taking a piss because he didn't feel like going inside and walking all the way down the hall to the toilet. Hell, he'd been pissing in the yard his whole life and no woman was going to tell him what to do, anyhow. He started up the steps, felt a hand close about his throat and immediately lost consciousness.

Luke quickly dragged him across the yard through the chicken droppings and behind the barn where he'd earlier managed to park the squad car without anyone hearing. He opened the trunk, tossed Cubby inside, and closed the lid.

He waited a moment to make sure no lights came on inside the house, then took the car out of gear and pushed it all the way out to the road before jumping in to start the engine and drive away.

All the preparations had been made early that morning, just before dawn. Now it was nearly midnight, and he had been waiting for two hours for Cubby to come home from playing poker and boozing with his buddies. He had signed off to Ned. Alma thought he was working, and Ned knew better than to tell her he wasn't if she called looking for him. He had decided the logical place for Cubby's confession should be at the Klan's meeting place in Coosa County.

The Klan burned a cross at every rally, igniting kerosene-soaked rags that had been wrapped around the wooden cross bars. But they never let it burn completely to the ground, probably, Luke figured, because they didn't want to go to the trouble of building a new one for the next gathering.

That morning he had brought a saw and cut the cross down, leaving a six-inch base, which was where Cubby would awaken to find his penis pressed tightly and held firmly in place by a thin chain. He had positioned Cubby with his legs straddling the base, ankles tightly tied to stakes. His left arm was bound to his side; his right was free.

Luke sat cross-legged on the ground approximately twenty feet away, holding the end of a rope that ran along the ground to the base. Both rope and base had been soaked in kerosene.

First, Cubby began to twitch, then he groggily lifted his head to glance about in the darkness, wondering where he was and what was going on. He tried to move, then realized his arm was the only limb not secured at the exact same instant Luke struck a match to the small torch he was holding.

"Evenin', Cubby," he said lazily.

Cubby's eyes went wide. "What the shit?" Then, anger rising, "What's goin' on? How come you got me hog-tied, and..." He looked down and saw his shackled member, a nail pounded into each end of the chain to hold it down. "Hey, what have you done? You let me go, damn you..." With his free hand, he tugged at himself, only to shriek in simultaneous pain and rage to realize it was no use. He was held fast.

"Shut up and listen, Cubby."

Cubby beat at the air with his fist. "You let me go. I'll have your badge, you asshole. Who the hell do you think you are trussin' me up like this? You hurt my dick, and I'll kill you, I swear..."

Luke smiled. "Smell anything?"

Cubby sniffed and unleashed a fresh round of screams. "Oh, God! Kerosene! You done soaked me in kerosene!"

"Not
you,
Cubby. Just the base of the cross you creeps use so profanely, as well as the rope tied to your ankles. All I've got to do is light the end I'm holding, and..."

"Don't. Oh, don't. Please, Sheriff. Don't light it. What'd I ever do to you that you want to kill me? I've never give you no trouble, ain't never done nothin' to you..."

"That's right," Luke said matter-of-factly, "You've never done anything to me, Cubby, but you did something real bad to a friend of mine the other night."

"No. Not me. I ain't done nothin'..."

"You and your friends dressed up in your sheets and hoods and paid Ocie Rhoden a visit, only it wasn't a neighborly visit, was it?"

"No. I didn't. You got it all wrong."

Luke held the torch closer to the rope.

Cubby yelped, "Don't do it, Sheriff. Don't..."

"Is that what Ocie said to you when you set fire to his house? Did he beg you not to do it? And what about his arm when you busted it? Did he cry and beg like you're doing now?"

"Oh, you got it all wrong. It won't me. I won't there. It was the Klan, all right, but..."

"You're lying. And it always pisses me off when somebody lies to me, Cubby."

Luke touched the flame to the end of the rope. He had carefully chosen a hemp that would burn slowly.

"Oh, no. Don't. Don't do it. I'll burn to death."

"Not if you tell me what I want to know. I know you were there, Cubby. Ocie recognized your voice," Luke added the lie.

At that, Cubby surrendered in a panic, his eyes on the smoldering rope. "Okay. Okay. I was there. But there were others. It wasn't just me."

"I want names."

"There was... there was five of us."

"Names, Cubby. Give me names, and I'll give you a chance to save yourself. I'll turn the others over to the FBI for prosecution and leave you out of it."

Cubby's eyes were transfixed to the rope, which had burned about two inches so far.

"Talk to me, Cubby."

Luke was deliberately not asking who had given the order. He did not want Buddy Hampton mentioned. Otherwise, Cubby would think it odd when he was not eventually charged. He might even say as much to Buddy, which would put him on guard.

Sure, Luke knew he could put Buddy away for his Klan involvement, but time in prison was not enough. He had bigger things in store if his suspicions about Murline holding information back proved true, and, so far, his intuition regarding her had been justified. While he had no idea what he would ultimately discover, his gut instinct told him to hold on, that bigger rewards were in store if he were patient.

"But they'll know I told," Cubby whined.

"You can leave town. You won't have a home anyway, once the Klan figures out you turned them in. They'll likely burn you out like they did Ocie. So you'll have to run fast and far, but it's up to you. You can stay here and burn to death instead."

Cubby hit the base of the cross with his right fist as tears streamed down his cheeks. The fire was creeping ever closer, and he knew he had no choice. He would squeal on his friends, then run home and pack what he could in his truck and take off. All he had to do was quickly fire off four names. "Hank Pugh, Rooster Grice, Mackie Coombs, and Wiley Wooter. Now let me go, damnit."

Luke calculated that it would take about three more minutes for the rope to reach the kerosene and engulf Cubby in flames.

He stood and took a knife from his pocket. "I didn't say I'd let you go. I said I'd give you a chance to save yourself."