The Devil and the River (37 page)

“Hell, Nate, I haven’t a clue.”

“Maybe Gulfport.”

“Gulfport?”

“Sure thing. He gets a call from Maryanne Benedict yesterday. They were on the phone for half an hour. Seems your visit stirred her up some, and she was asking about Michael Webster, about the Denton girl, and about you.”

“Me?”

Ross shrugged. “Don’t ask me why she’d be interested in a broken-down deadbeat like you, but she was.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me about this?”

“Hell, John, you were dealing with everything else, with your mother, going out to Baton Rouge. I was gonna tell you, but maybe later today.”

“Tell Eddie that I want to know what she said when he gets back.”

“About you?”

“Yeah sure, Nate. That really is at the forefront of my attention right now.”

Ross raised his hand in a placatory fashion. “I’m just baiting you. I’m not serious.” He sipped his drink, cleared his throat. “So what brings you out here again?”

“Della Wade.”

“What about her?”

“You say she still lives up at the Wade house?”

“Last time I heard, yes.”

“I want to know everything you can tell me about her.”

“What have you heard?”

“Nothing, Nate. That’s just the point.”

“Well, she was a wild one, John, and she has been corralled by that family and brought back into line, but there’s a streak in that one that’ll never get tamed, no matter how long you lock her up.”

“Wild? How?”

“Well, there were a few years while she was in her twenties that she was forever causing some kind of trouble. Drugs, the whole bohemian lifestyle thing in New Orleans. I can only presume she was hanging out with the brother, the musician, Eugene. But then she got herself in some serious shit and Daddy had to bail her out. He brought her back here, and here she’s been ever since.”

“What serious shit?”

“Blowing the family fortune on Lord knows what. Parties, gambling, got herself pregnant on two separate occasions by two different guys. Aborted both times. Involved with women, you know, sexually and everything. Got in with a crowd of small-time crooks, one of whom ripped her off for about ten grand, which means that he ripped off old man Wade for ten grand. Anyway, she’s been back home for a good while now, and they have her on a short leash.”

“She goes out?”

“I would think so, yes, but you’re asking me specifics about something that I really don’t know one hell of a lot about. If you want the inside scoop on Della Wade, then you need to talk to a man called Clifton Regis.”

“And who the hell is Clifton Regis?”

“He’s the guy who’s rumored to have taken her for ten grand, but only for a short while.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that Della Wade got ten grand out of old man Wade, gave it to Regis, and then went back for more. Wade figured out what was going on, or maybe Matthias did, and as far as I know, that ten grand went back where it had come from pretty damned fast.”

“When was this?”

“This was just before they clipped her wings, maybe a coupla years ago. I don’t recall exactly.”

“But he’s not going to know the ins and outs of Della Wade’s life if he hasn’t seen her recently.”

“No, but he can tell you a great deal more about her than I can, and maybe that will give you an inside line on getting to her.”

“And why would he know anything about her . . . I mean, wasn’t he just trying to take her money?”

“No, not as far as I understand. What I heard, they were planning on getting away together. What happened in the end, I don’t know.”

“You know where he lives?”

“Used to live in Lyman, but whether he’s still there or not is anyone’s guess.”

“Appreciated, Nate.” Gaines got up to leave. He lifted his glass, drained it, turned toward the door. Reaching it, he paused, turned back, and added, “And tell Eddie that anything he got from Maryanne Benedict, anything of any use, would be appreciated, too.”

“Sure will, John,” Ross replied. “And you take care now. Always been my way to have as little to do with the Wades as I could, and I advise that course of action for you as well.”

“I’ll bear that in mind, Nate.”

F
riday morning, Gaines set to work finding Clifton Regis, and it proved to be a great deal easier than he’d anticipated. One call to the Lyman Sheriff’s Office, another to the County Records Bureau, and he had him located. However, Gaines’s task did not stay so straightforward. First and foremost, Clifton Regis was a colored man. That was the first difficulty. The second difficulty was that Regis was mid a three-to-five for burglary, and they had him up at Parchman Farm, all of two hundred and fifty miles northwest in Sunflower County.

It had taken no more than half an hour to track him down, but Gaines—seated there at his desk, the notepad in front of him where he had scrawled the man’s details—spent twice that time figuring on how best to tackle this obstacle.

Being colored, Regis would more than likely be unwilling to countenance a visit from a white sheriff. Such a thing would become quickly known, and Regis would not fare well as a result. Discussions with law enforcement officials meant only two things—further charges, or deals being made. In either case, the prisoner would request legal counsel be in attendance. Gaines did not want any third party present at his intended conversation with Regis. And if Gaines did not go into Parchman in an official capacity, then there would be no reason for him to go in.

Gaines could now understand Wade Senior’s desire to have Della under his wing. The Wades were staunch Southerners, and their affiliation with Klan was inevitable, directly or indirectly, visibly or not. Nothing overt, nothing obvious, but financial support had surely made its way from some of those Wade-owned businesses into the hands and pockets of pro-segregation activists. So having Della Wade involved with the coloreds would have been out of the question, and to have his daughter scammed by Clifton Regis would have been an insult of the most personal nature. What had Nate Ross said—that the ten grand went back from where it had come pretty damned fast? Gaines could imagine the conversation that had taken place between Regis and a couple of Wade’s people. No kind of conversation at all, in truth. It was a miracle, in fact, that Regis was even alive to tell the story. And then the recalcitrant and troublesome Della had been returned to the fold, appropriately admonished by her father, perhaps Matthias, and there she had stayed. If it was in fact true that Della was maintaining a relationship with Regis, then Gaines hoped that some sour taste of resentment had remained on Della Wade’s lips, the kind of resentment that would see her wanting to inflict some vengeance on her father and her elder brother. But then Gaines could have it all wrong. Della could be the sweetest kind of girl imaginable, led astray by an ill-intentioned men, seduced into a life of drugs and debauchery, an unwitting pawn in their game. Perhaps the ten grand had merely been a precursor, something to test the water, and Regis’s intent had been to fleece the family for a great deal more. Anyway, whoever she was and whatever might have happened, the man she’d been involved with was no longer involved. He was up at Parchman, and Parchman was not a good place to be, regardless of who you were.

Parchman was the oldest prison in the state, the only one capable of providing maximum-security detention. Until the Supreme Court suspension, it was also the home for Mississippi’s death row facility, Unit 17. Up there in the delta, the Farm covered the better part of twenty thousand acres, and due to its location and the inhospitality of its surround, it needed no great and mighty walls to house its inmates. And then there were the Freedom Riders. That was a history all its own. Back at the start of ’61, a host of civil rights activists, both coloreds and whites, came to the South to test the desegregation of public properties and facilities. Within six months, more than one hundred and fifty had been arrested, convicted, and jailed in Parchman. Those activists were given the worst treatment possible, everything from issued clothes being several sizes too small to no mail. The food was barely edible, strong black coffee, grits, and blackstrap molasses for breakfast, beans and pork gristle for lunch, the same again for dinner, only cold. Freedom Riders were permitted one shower a week. Governor Barnett went down there a few times to enforce these conditions. The prisoners began singing. They sang their hearts out. Deputy Tyson, the man responsible for their containment, took away their mattresses and bug screens. They kept on singing. The cells were flooded, but still they went on. Eventually Tyson yielded, unable to maintain such harsh treatment. Most of the Freedom Riders were bailed out within the subsequent month. Then came the big civil rights violation lawsuit of 1972. Gaines could remember it capturing the headlines week after week. Four Parchman inmates brought a suit against the prison superintendent in federal district court, citing instances of murders, rapes, and beatings. But, as in all things, change came slowly and resentfully. Parchman was still Parchman, more than likely always would be, and whatever legacy it carried, it carried that legacy in the very earth upon which it stood. Parchman was still divided by race, and Gaines couldn’t see it changing within his lifetime, if ever. You didn’t need to say you were Klan to be Klan. You didn’t need to shout the Klan call-to-arms as you beat a colored man half to death with a Black Annie. Penitentiary inspectors and independent observers spoke of significant improvements at Parchman, but they saw only what the vested interests wanted them to see, and those reports were based on temporary and artificial showcase facilities. Parchman was the size of a town, several towns in fact, and those things that they wished to hide were more than amply hidden.

The problem of how to get in there and see Regis was considerable, and it preyed on Gaines’s mind for a while. The natural paranoia of the penitentiary governor and his deputies precluded any real possibility of negotiating an official visit. They would suspect that this was nothing more than further outside interference. Even after the
Gates v. Collier
case, Parchman was still believed to be running the penal farm system that was supposed to have been disbanded. Camp B, the main colored camp, previously up near Lambert in Quitman County, had been demolished, and all prisoners were now concentrated within the Parchman facility itself. Most areas had no guard towers, no cell blocks, no walls. There were merely double fences of concertina wire and high gun towers overlooking the compounds and barrack units. Local farmers and construction outfits used prison labor, unauthorized, unreported, and the governor and his lackeys took a hefty commission. Such arrangements were integral to the woof and warp of penitentiaries the country over, but not every penitentiary had been subjected to the legal scrutiny that Parchman had undergone. Hence, penitentiary officials were alert for covert inspections, un-announced visits, unwanted attention. But then, perhaps that very paranoia was the thing that would most assist Gaines. Corruption loved company, for it served to justify and vindicate itself. Criminals spent time with criminals because it confirmed their slanted view of the world. If a straightforward appeal to the responsible deputy in charge of visitations didn’t work out, then a suggestion of recompense might do the job. If Gaines then proved to be a fifth columnist, well, he would have ruled out any hope of reporting what he saw to his seniors due to the simple fact that he had bribed his way in there.

Gaines took a hundred bucks from the office petty cash fund, that fund provided for so generously by those who chose to pay on-the-spot speeding fines instead of opting for a ticket and a court appearance. He told Hagen where he was going and why.

“Best of luck to you,” was Hagen’s response. “If you get in there, you’re a better man than me.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt I’ll get in there,” Gaines said, “but whether I get to see who I’m after is a different matter entirely.”

Gaines went home to change out of his uniform. He left his gun behind, but took his ID and the hundred bucks. It was a little after eleven by the time he left the house, and he had a three- or four-hour drive ahead of him.

En route he tried to find some framework within which to put the previous nine days. Inside of little more than a week, the entirety of his life had been upended and scattered on the ground. That was how it felt. And then someone had come along and kicked through every part of his existence as if looking for something they believed was there. Truth was, there was nothing there. Not anymore. Now there was no family. There was just an empty house and a great deal of silence.

Perhaps that was the reason he felt so driven to speak to Clifton Regis, to find a way to get to Della Wade, to find out from Eddie Holland the reason for his visit to Maryanne Benedict in Gulfport. Not because he truly cared, but because he had to have something with which to fill his mind, to occupy his thoughts, to make the hours pass. Time was not a healer, not at all. It was merely the means by which ever-greater psychological and emotional defenses were erected against the ravages of conscience and memory. He felt guilty, but why? For his mother? She had been ill for a long time. Her death had been inevitable. He had lost count of the number of conversations he’d had with Bob Thurston, the questions he’d asked about what he could do to help her, what possible treatments there were. Save pain management, which she steadfastly refused to commit to, there was little else that could have been done. And there was nothing he had withheld from her. There were no words that he had wished he’d said. She had known he loved her. She had always known that. So no, he did not feel guilty about some omission relating to his mother. So what else was there? For the fact that both Judith Denton and Michael Webster were dead, even after the discovery of Nancy’s body? As far as they were concerned, he had been appointed to protect and serve, as he had all Whytesburg’s residents, and he had failed in both responsibilities. But what could he have done? He could not have predicted Judith’s suicide, and he was not able to stand watch over everyone. And then there was the illegal search of Webster’s motel cabin, the fact that he’d had no one else present when he interviewed the man, the fact that he’d failed to secure immediate PD representation for Webster. Kidd had been right when he’d said that Gaines had allowed his emotions to get in the way. That was a serious omission on Gaines’s part, and he knew it. He could neither evade nor escape that sense of having failed. It nagged at him relentlessly.