Weak Flesh (19 page)

His arms folded beneath his head, Tucker tried to relax on the large, pillared bed. He rarely felt the cold as others did, and the winter's breeze wafting through the curtains felt good on his fevered skin.

He closed his eyes and drifted off, Meghan Bailey's lovely emerald eyes and trim figure fixed in his thoughts.

#

Tucker crouched over the broken, bloody body, but he could not make himself stop the pounding of his fists into a face that was already a pulpy mess. Burly Sergeant Swift pulled him off, pinning his arms to his sides and holding him from behind in a giant bear's hug.

"Easy lad, 'tis finished. He's dead."

Swift dragged Tucker off into the thicket and pushed him down on the dirt and brush. He unstopped his canteen and held it to Tucker's mouth, the liquid trickling from his lips.

"Ah, Lieutenant," the sergeant sighed heavily. "'Tis a sad and sorry day, this is."

He drank from his own canteen and rested baleful eyes on Tucker who stared at his bloody fists as if he no longer recognized them as part of his body.

Tucker never wept, not then, not a year later, not when he was honorably discharged in 1900, given his pension, and bade farewell to the Army.

#

Gage jerked upright in a gasp of sweat. His heart thundered in his chest as his eyes swept around the room.

Still in the grip of the dream's horror, he reached for the glass of water, draining it empty. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and held his head in his hands.

Christ Jesus!

He waited long minutes until his heart slowed from a gallop to a brisk walk, then dragged one thin blanket off the bed and threw it on the floor. He removed his undergarments and lay down naked on the blanket, welcoming the hard floor beneath his back and buttocks.

He curled on his side and fifteen minutes later fell asleep.

Chapter 21

Meghan lay in her bed hours after she'd heard Papa lock up downstairs. She fingered the quilt her mother had sewn from discarded scraps of infant clothing. Worn by so many washings, the batting showed through the fabric squares in thin strips.

Sometimes when Meghan stroked the fine, soft material, she believed she could remember her mother, could see her lovely face with the high defined cheekbones as she bent over her quilting. She could nearly hear her mother whisper silly words in her ear, childish secrets they'd shared.

Reflecting on the dinner party tonight, she wondered what secrets Mr. Nolan and his wife were hiding. Was he guilty of treating his daughter harshly? Certainly he indulged in clandestine Klan activities. The hidden robes were proof of that.

The organization had been resoundingly rejected by most southern politicians, but Meghan was not naïve enough to think deep-felt prejudices fled overnight. She'd heard the underlying bias in the voices of many of Tuscarora's school children. Parents frequently did not understand how freely their offspring absorbed the morals and attitudes in the family.

Mr. Nolan was a secret member of the Ku Klux Klan. Or, at any rate, had been one. Why would he retain the robes if he'd given up his activities in the organization? And did Mrs. Nolan know of her husband's leanings?

Lying wide awake, she worried the problem for another hour.

She thought of Mr. Thomas, the school janitor, a wizened old Negro who knew every family in town. He'd been in his position when Meghan attended school as a child, and he'd been a freed slave long before Mr. Lincoln issued his proclamation. If secrets about the Klan were to be uncovered, Thomas might be able to tell them.

Frustrated, Meghan sighed heavily in the dark room. Gage was correct. What had all of Mr. Nolan's habits to do with Nell Carver? They might prove he was sinister, a degenerate, or a bigot, but they did not prove he was a murderer.

But someone was, she thought drowsily. Someone was a murderer.

Still feeling restless the next morning, Meghan tumbled out of bed, wrapped a robe around her, and made her way to the kitchen for a cup of hot milk. The grandfather clock she passed in the hall chimed six o'clock.

Although she'd promised Gage to be at the Station House by eight, she suddenly decided he could wait a bit. She'd speak with the elderly janitor at the schoolhouse first. Then when Gage tried to dismiss her vague uneasiness about Oliver Nolan, she'd be armed with further details.

As she slipped from the house an hour later before her father rose, the air hung heavy with cold mist from the Pasquotank. Meghan hugged her coat close to her body and hurried the several miles to the schoolhouse.

A half mile away she saw lights glimmer from the two-room building and the white curl of smoke from the chimney. Good, Mr. Thomas had already arrived and begun his chores. Her head down, her handbag clutched tightly, she bustled along, aware of the desolate, empty streets and her boots thudding on the wooden planks.

A sound like the swoosh of an object slicing through the thick drizzle caught her attention. She turned quickly. The glare of the rising sun dazzled her eyes and she saw only an indistinguishable shape looming tall and black mere feet from her.

As Meghan gasped, the Reverend Jolly reached out to grab her, his fingers digging hard into her forearm. "What are you doing out so early, Miss Bailey?"

Her heart leapt into her throat as she jerked her arm away. "I might ask the same thing of you! What's a man of God doing roaming the streets at this hour?"

Jolly hesitated as though the anomaly hadn't struck him. He took a step closer and bent down to peer into her face. The sharp acrid odor of liquor assailed her nostrils.

"You've been drinking," she accused.

Jolly swiped an arm sleeve across his mouth. "You'd drink too if you'd seen what I have, heard what I've heard," he growled. "Done what I've done," he added. "Give up your infernal inquisitiveness, Meghan. If you continue to stick your nose where it doesn't belong, you'll get the smell of something ugly."

"What – what are you talking about?"

He shoved past her in the direction of the mercantile store, but suddenly stopped and spun around to face her. "What did Madeline say to you? Did she tell you something?" The edge of panic hung on his words.

"Madeline?"

He grimaced as if in pain. "My wife, you stupid girl!"

Meghan hadn't known Mrs. Jolly's first name. How remiss of her, she thought weakly.

"What did she say to you?" he shouted.

Meghan drew herself up, her arms still hugging her purse to her body. "That's confidential, Mr. Jolly. You'll have to speak with your wife about it. You won't learn anything from me."

"Foolish woman," he muttered.

Meghan didn't know if he referred to her or his wife.

He took a step back toward her. "She's fanciful, you know. You can't believe anything my wife says."

"She seemed to have all her faculties," Meghan argued.

"There's darkness and evil out there." He swept his arms broadly in the direction of the Swamp. "Bad things happen to curious people. You'd best remember that."

Meghan watched as he turned and staggered past the Station House toward the park and the edge of the Pasquotank River, muttering incomprehensibly all the while. She shivered violently, chilled to the bone with cold and apprehension.

What craziness went on in the Jolly household? Had Mrs. Jolly told her husband what she'd seen months ago? If not, why? Was she afraid of who the mysterious man might be? Surely she didn't think her own husband had hurt someone?

A man of God? It wasn't possible, was it?

#

His muscles cramped and his bones ached when Gage rose the next morning, but at least he'd slept through the night. One of those doctors in the relatively new field of psychiatry would certainly have a great deal to say about Gage's strange behavior.

Of how he could not sleep in a soft, comfortable bed without having harrowing dreams of Sugar Point and the slaughter that took place there. Of how he only slept soundly when he punished his body. Likely they'd throw him in an asylum.

He briefly thought of the ancient monks who flagellated themselves to purge their sins. Was he punishing himself for real or imagined transgressions? Trying to annihilate the horrific memories of what he'd witnessed, of what he'd seen and done all those years ago?

He quickly made his bed, shaved and dressed. By eight o'clock he was at the Station House. Since he expected Bailey to arrive shortly, he spent the time updating paper work, notably the coroner's report on Nell's autopsy and his interview notes with her various boyfriends.

"Sergeant Henderson," he called to the desk duty officer. When the man appeared at the office door he explained he wanted to be informed the moment Miss Bailey came in. "And send Pruitt and Longhouse to pick up James Wade."

Henderson's round, florid face lit up. "Are you arresting him, Marshal?"

His senior deputy had long claimed Wade was the most likely suspect in the disappearance of Nell Carver. As a family man, he took a personal dislike to Wade and his philandering ways.

Wade might be a womanizer, Gage thought, but not necessarily a murderer. Gage's take on the man was all bluster and no action.

"Not yet," he answered Henderson. "We need to jail him for his own protection."

Henderson nodded, but disappointment showed in his face. "Folks are getting pretty upset now that Nell's turned up dead. Lots of agitation and wild rumors running about. They want answers."

Gage nodded and went back to work, muttering, "Don't we all."

He couldn't control the excitability of Tuscarora citizens, but at least he could assure the safety of the accused man. If the solicitor charged Wade at a later date, the man might have to be moved to a more secure jail.

The next several hours slipped by with no more incident than Pruitt and Longhouse bringing Wade in and locking him in the farthest jail cell from the Station House entry. No need to book him, Gage explained. Not until Westin made a formal charge.

Wade blustered a bit at being detained, but eventually calmed down and appeared to actually enjoy the time off from his work at the saw mill.

Thinking of the saw mill reminded Gage of the bloodied board Tracker Thompson's dogs had discovered at the Narrows. He believed the sawed-off two by four – similar to hundreds found at the saw mill – was the murder weapon. Although the laboratory in Charlotte had not yet sent the results, he was sure the sample would indicate human blood.

However, that still didn't prove Wade was the one who'd picked up the board and struck Nell on the head. Not at all.

When Gage's stomach rumbled in hungry protest, he became aware Bailey hadn't come into the Station House at all. Damned woman! What was she up to now? Wandering off on another wild tangent, he'd wager. She'd be the death of him yet.

She'd interviewed more townspeople than he had, he thought grumpily, but with a mild amusement at her perspicacity. He'd have to go to the Bailey home to speak with her, he supposed, when what he really wanted to do was turn her over his knee and spank her soundly.

The image of that was disturbingly sensual.
Good God!

"I'm going out for lunch," he told Henderson shortly, as he grabbed his Stetson and jacket and came out of his office. He hesitated at the top of the stairs. "Take care that nothing happens to Wade."

He walked down to the schoolhouse first, on the off chance Bailey was there, but it was locked up as tight as a drum. Hitching up his gig, he drove the few miles to the Bailey residence. Although he easily could've walked the distance, he figured his horse needed the exercise.

Gage knocked on the door and waited. When no one answered, he banged loudly again. He heard a faint curse from round back and found Dr. Bailey bent over his winter vegetable garden, pulling weeds.

He knew the man hated gardening and felt a twinge of sorrow that his friend was reduced to a retired life he had no liking for. If Gage had been consulted, he'd have kept Dr. Bailey on as county coroner after his retirement.

"Hello there, Tucker." With a relieved look, the doctor rose to shake his hand, clearly happy for the distraction.

"Bailey didn't come by the Station House like I asked her," Gage said without preamble.

"Oh? Well, she likely went to the school first and then forgot about your appointment." He smiled fondly. "You know what our Meggie's like."

"No sir, she wasn't at the school either. Can you think of anywhere else she might've gone?"

A worried frown puckered the man's brow. "No," he said slowly. "I heard her moving around quite early this morning. I assumed she'd gone to see you."

Sudden alarm covered the older man's face as he threw down his gardening trowel. "Good God, Tucker, you don't suppose something's happened to her?" Dr. Bailey clutched Gage's arm in a grip far stronger than one imagined a man his age would have.

Gage didn't want to worry him, but a chill of unease began to creep through his bones. Bailey was usually annoying, often irresponsible, but she'd never do anything to cause her father grief or concern.

"Don't worry." He patted Dr. Bailey's arm with more assurance than he felt. "I'll find her. I'm sure she's simply gone off visiting again." He gave a specious laugh. "She's interviewed more persons than I have, you know."

Dr. Bailey forced a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "She's determined to help your investigation."

"Remain here, sir," Gage admonished, "while I search further. Meghan will likely return home any moment. You'll want to be here when she does."

Dr. Bailey merely nodded.

"When she arrives, send someone to fetch me. Sergeant Henderson at the Station House will know where to find me."

Gage sat for a moment before urging his horse on. No doubt Bailey walked the distance from her house to the school on Main Street. As she was a strong proponent of exercise and a brisk walker, she would've made the distance shortly before eight if she left her home after seven, as her father indicated.