Like sheep gone astray, p.27
Like Sheep Gone Astray, page 27
“Thank you, but that won't work. I don't have the papers with me. I was going to receive them from him tomorrow morning.” It wasn't exactly a lie. He wanted to see those documents that had been delivered to Sheriff Malloy. He just had not yet fine-tuned a plan to get them.
“I have a fax machine onboard. You're welcome to use it to get what you need.”
Kent looked up from his glass, his eyes peering over the rim at Clyde. He slowly set the glass back down. “Fax machine? That might work. That just might work indeed.”
It wasn't a bad trade-off. Getting a copy of papers that could possibly break the case in exchange for an early morning expedition with Jesus freaks.
“Well, praise the Lord! We'll count both of you in.” Evelyn clasped her hands together, smiling like an angel under her wavy auburn hair.
“Yes, praise the Lord!” Kent fished in his pocket for a lighter as he quickly spotted a nearby exit. He needed a cigarette break.
It was nearly four o'clock when Anthony finally got good news. The receptionist's sister called from a church friend's home, saying she'd checked her messages and would be happy to help the young man fill in his family tree. Her name was Hazel Groves and she gave instructions to meet her in front of the old schoolhouse turned vital records department in half an hour.
Anthony was relieved, jotting down driving directions with a quick hand. He'd spent the afternoon trying to waken Aunt Rosa's sleeping memory, but she refused even to be in the same room with him. After a while, the nursing director informed Anthony that he was welcome to stay, but would have to observe his great-aunt from another room. His presence was upsetting her too much. Anthony was heartbroken, but complied.
Driving down the South Carolina back roads was a therapeutic experience. The hum of dragonflies and the soft lull of wind swaying weeping-willow branches offered Anthony a soothing retreat as he drove with the radio off and the windows down. An occasional house, an occasional car were the only signs of human life in the scenic landscape before him. A right turn off the single-lane highway took him to a more developed area, developed in that the houses were only a few acres apart and not miles. He pulled into a gravel parking lot in front of a small, whitewashed building at a quarter to five. An old Cutlass Sierra in desperate need of a car wash was already parked beside it.
“You must be Mr. Murdock.” A wiry, thin woman with skin the color of used charcoal came out to greet him. Wrapped in a crocheted shawl, she gave him a hug as if he were her son come home from war. “My, you a handsome thing, but you could use a little more meat on those bones. Didn't you get some dinner yet?” A pair of black eyeglasses on a metal chain dangled over her flat bosom.
Anthony looked down at himself thinking he could afford to lose a pound or two, but he smiled back at her nonetheless.
“Thank you for your time on this glorious Lord's Day, Mrs. Groves. Yes, I did eat, and 1 don't mean to keep you from your dinner. I just need to get any information you may have about a Charles Anthony Murdock.” If he could just get some kind of vital statistic about his father, then maybe he'd be able to research his finances, his life. Right now, the only proof he had that the man ever existed was himself.
“Murdock? Can't say that rings a bell, but I'll check for you.”
Anthony was already getting a sinking feeling that only increased when he entered the musty wooden one-room structure. As his eyes adjusted to the decrease in light, he noticed that smoke damage and water stains discolored the rear wall.
“You had a fire here?”
“Yes, some years back. I was just about to get to that. Watch your head—the ceiling is uneven in spots.”
Anthony ducked as he followed her to a corner of the room partitioned off from the rest of the building. A large desk that looked like a discard from a school classroom filled up a tiny niche. Plants filled whatever space was left over and a small window spilled drops of sunlight in the otherwise darkened corner. A single flickering bulb overhead provided light to the rest of the building.
Hazel dug out a pencil and an index card while he looked around.
“It was a small fire so most of our records escaped damage, but there were a few that were destroyed. just tell me, what year was your father born?” She put on her glasses and waited with her pencil poised for action.
“I don't know.” Anthony looked around the small room. Rows of green metal file cabinets were topped with hand-printed signs.
“Well”—she studied him once over as she spoke—“you look like you're, what, in your late twenties?”
“Yes ma'am. Twenty-nine, to be exact.”
“Uh-huh.” She pulled out a calculator. “And assuming your father was in his twenties, maybe early thirties, when he had you, that would put him in the 1940s birth-year range. Good.” She tossed the calculator back on the desk. “That narrows our search. Follow me.”
She walked fast despite the full head of gray hair and the fine wrinkles that lined her cheeks. Anthony stayed close behind as she stopped at a file cabinet near the back of the building.
“We have records dating back to the early 1800s, census reports; birth, death, marriage certificates; even slave schedules.” She pointed to different areas as she spoke. “Everything's alphabetized by last name and each file cabinet represents five years. The forties start right here.”
A spray of dust flew out of the first heavy drawer she pulled open. Together, they fingered through folders and yellowed papers, stopping only when they got to a file marked December 31, 1949.
“We can look through the late thirties that we have and the early fifties if you like.”
Anthony appreciated Hazel's willingness to help. They worked in a comfortable silence, the only noise coming from the rustle of papers and the squeaking metal drawers. Hazel went through file cabinets with dates well before and after the original estimated range. At eight o'clock she turned to him, an apologetic smile on her face.
“I'm sorry, Mr. Murdock, but it looks like we have no records of him. The only Charles Murdock I found was born in 1908 and died in a house fire in 1934. For some reason, his birth and death certificates were put in the wrong folder; otherwise I would have never even seen them. But it doesn't matter anyway. Both those dates were long before you came on the scene.”
Anthony blew out a long sigh, partly out of disappointment, but also because the dust particles floating freely in the air seemed to be choking his lungs.
“It's okay, Mrs. Groves. I believe that God will lead me to what I need to know when I need to know it. Thank you for your generous time. I did not expect to be here this long.”
“Oh, it was my pleasure. It's not often that I get to be near such a handsome young man like yourself. Your wife is a very lucky woman.” She looked down at his wedding ring. “If I was twenty years younger, and you were available, I'd take you home right now and bake you one of my rhubarb pies. That's how I snatched up my old Henry.” She grinned wide enough for Anthony to see two teeth missing from her smile.
Anthony let out a partial chuckle, unsure how to respond. But then his face became serious as hers suddenly did, her eyes looking deep into his, her mouth scrunched up like a question mark.
“You know, I can't put my finger on it, but something about you looks familiar.”
“My mother's family is from here. In fact my great-aunt, Rosa Bergenson, is a resident at Haven Ridge Nursing Home.”
“Yeah,” Hazel spoke slowly, “maybe that's what it is, family resemblances. I know some of the Bergensons. Good people. Even still…” She studied Anthony as he walked back to his car.
“Good night, young man.” She waved from the wooden porch, her other hand holding her shawl around her. “Be safe and come back again sometime. Sharen is your history, your home. You sure you don't want any pie?”
Chapter 15
Nikki couldn't stand being alone with him in his office. Here, she really did feel like a piece of work, another check mark on his to-do list. But it was Sunday, and the evening at that. Nobody would be around to see them here. His office, as much as she detested it, was safe ground.
“You need to stop ignoring me. You can't just treat me any kind of way. If it wasn't for me, your plans wouldn't be going half as good.” She snarled as she rebuttoned her shirt. Her eyes bored right into his, doing her best to hide her resentment, her shame. Maybe she really did deserve better than this.
“I'm sorry, Nikki, if you have been feeling ignored. You know how I feel about you, but it's been important for me to stay the course. We're too close to completion now. Don't mess this up.”
Nikki did not mistake the tone in his voice. Her gaze dropped as she mumbled her words.
“I'm sorry about everything I did yesterday. I wasn't thinking. I was just ...” A sigh ended her sentence. “Look, I gotta go. I left Devin with a neighbor this morning. She's probably wondering where I am.” She turned to leave, making sure to keep her head up high as she let her swaying hips escort her out of the room. She had her pride to keep.
“Nikki?”
She turned around for a second to see what else he had to say.
“Thank you.”
“My pleasure,” she said, imitating the deep, rich cadence of Reggie Savant's voice. Stupid fool. She so much wanted to come out on top, beat everyone at their own game. But now she wasn't sure how.
There was nothing else for her to do but pick up Devin.
The wait in line at the pharmacy had been more than excruciating. The wait standing over the narrow white stick on the bathroom sink was enough to push Terri over the edge.
“What's it say?” Cherisse called from the other side of the door. “Remember, one pink line means no and two pink lines mean yes.”
“I know, I know. I have the directions right here and you read them to me five times on the way back from the pharmacy.” Terri bit down on her lip until blood threatened to break through her skin.
“So? Are you pregnant or not?”
“Will you wait? Come on now, give this thing a chance to work. It's only been ten seconds, and the box said it could take three minutes.”
Ten more seconds passed by in silence and then Cherisse yelled through the door again.
“Anything?”
There was no response.
“Terri, talk to me. What are you seeing?”
Some more long seconds went by and then the bathroom door squeaked open. Terri was holding the stick away from her body as if it were radioactive material. She held up the two pink lines for Cherisse to see before flicking the pregnancy test into the bathroom waste-basket.
They walked back to Cherisse's den in silence. Terri collapsed onto the daybed, pulling her knees up to her body and laying her head on top of them. Cherisse sighed from the nearby armchair.
“There is no way I'm giving that man a child.”
“I know.”
“I've worked too hard and got too much going for me to be dragged down by dirty diapers. I don't have the time or desire to be cleaning up anybody's poop, Anthony's or his baby's.”
“I know.”
“I don't have a choice. I'm taking care of this tomorrow.”
“I know, Terri. I know.”
His best attire, a brown double-breasted suit, white shirt, and checked-print tie, were draped over the kitchen chair. A pair of brown loafers and wool socks sat outside the hallway closet door. Eric Johnson looked at the clothes, inspecting for any missed wrinkles or stains, and then smoothed out a sheet of crinkled paper. It was a speech he'd prepared weeks ago to present to the Shepherd Hills City Council. There was no point in throwing it in the trash, he assured himself, ashamed that he had resorted to that action earlier in the day. He may be the last one standing on his side out in the battlefield, but he was still standing. The war was not over yet.
Daylight had just slipped away from the Sunday evening. That gave him only a few more hours to perfect his presentation for the council. The vote for or against CASH's bid to build was scheduled for Tuesday morning, and Eric had one last chance to make a positive impression. He was scheduled to speak sometime during the Monday legislative session. If he was there alone, then so be it. But he would be there. God had brought him too far to quit.
He read and reread his speech far into the night, making notes, adding lines, crossing out words. A rapid knock close to eleven-thirty jerked him out of his concentration. It must be his neighbor, Miss Angelique, needing flour, or some eggs, or milk, he figured. She had a knack for showing up at his door all hours of the day or night, asking for a teaspoon of this, a cup of that. Eric quickly pulled on a pair of gray sweats and opened the door with a metal canister full of flour in his hand. A cop stood staring at him.
“Mr. Johnson, I need to talk to you.” Sheriff Malloy pushed his way past Eric into the small living quarters. His eyes glanced over the stacks of papers and brochures piled throughout the kitchenette and living room.
“Is there a problem, Sheriff? Any news about who destroyed my office?”
“No, I don't have anything new. Right now I'm working on a homicide that occurred around four o'clock this morning. Are you familiar with a Dontay ‘Snap’] Peterson?”
“I know who he is. Was.” Eric fought back the lump in his throat. Focusing on CASH throughout the evening had been enough distraction to keep his mind and heart off the shooting. Eric was not ready to revisit the heartbreak just yet. There were too many pieces.
“Peterson was in that phone booth by the basketball court down the street. You can see it out of your window.” The yellow tape and chalked outline was an easy view beyond the chipped windowpane that separated the living room from the sleeping area. “According to phone records, Snap was in the middle of a call when he was gunned down. Those records indicate your phone number as the one he dialed. Do you live alone, Mr. Johnson?”
“Yes.”
“So it's safe to assume that Snap was talking to you when he was gunned down.”
Eric paused a moment before answering yes, unsure where the conversation was headed.
Malloy must have picked up on Eric's hesitation, for he quickly added, “I just want to know if you heard anything right before he was killed. You are our last contact with him, so you may be able to help us in our search for the killers. We know that it was a drive-by. Were you looking out the window as you spoke to him?”
“My phone cord is too short to reach the window.” “I see. Did you hear any voices or peculiar noises during your conversation with him, or did he say anything that led you to believe that he thought he was in imminent danger?”
Eric shook his head. “Everything happened so fast. Snap was ... He sounded a little on edge, but that's not uncommon for him. He was somebody that always seemed to be watching his back. As far as voices or sounds go, the only thing I heard was the screech of the tires right before the gunfire and the shots themselves. I don't know how much help I can offer you beyond that.”
“Okay.” The officer scribbled some notes in a pad and then looked back up at Eric. “Thanks for your time. I'll probably be contacting you again soon.”
Eric walked him to the door. “I hope you're able to find out who did this. Snap had his issues, but I believe—I know—he had the potential to do and be better.”
“Yeah, it's a shame.” Sheriff Malloy was on the top step of the landing before he suddenly turned back to ask Eric one more question.
“Tell me, what were you and Snap talking about? Why was he calling you so early in the morning?”
“Personal problems.” Eric left it at that, not wanting to divulge more information than what he knew himself.
“His? Or yours.” There was no question in his final two words.
“Snap and I talked a lot. I tried to be there for him, and in his own way, he was there for me.” Eric saw the change in Malloy's eyes. Any hint of friendliness had iced into a steely blue.
“Have a good week, Mr. Johnson.”
Eric watched as Sheriff Malloy descended the steps and then looked out his window to see him leave not in a squad car, but in a dark-colored Thunderbird.
“What was that about?” Eric wondered aloud as he picked up his speech again.
Anthony searched for a place to lay his head on the vast stretch of highway before him. He did not know what had made him think he would be able to begin a ten-and-a-half-hour journey without getting some shut-eye. He finally found a small motel, the Vagrant's Inn, about a two-hour drive outside of Sharen. He checked in and collapsed onto the double-sized bed, afraid to pull the frayed green comforter down for fear that he would have to get back in his car to find another motel. The room was about the size of his garage with a bathroom that made him want to use the Spot-A-Pot across the street at a construction site, but he was grateful to have some time to catch up on both sleep—no matter how uncomfortable—and his own investigation.
It wasn't a bad trip. It had been worthwhile, he assured himself. At least he'd been able to see Aunt Rosa, although she'd had no clue who he was. And he had eliminated stones to turn over in the quest to research his father. He would just have to start picking up pebbles, sift through sand if necessary, to get the information he needed.
Anthony firmly believed God was nudging him to learn about his father and his finances. He was sure his feet were being directed as he kept his mind in a state of prayer and seeking. It all had to come together somehow.
Before he closed his eyes, he offered up a prayer of thanksgiving. “Thank You, Jesus, for loving me enough to forgive my shortcomings and giving me a chance to pursue what is right and honorable before You. I know that however this ends, I'll be closer to You on all accounts. I long to stay in a place of transparency with You so I may know that my heart reflects Yours.
“Lord, whatever else I need to know, whatever else I need to learn, I know it will get me to the place You want me to be. Father, as a new generation of the Murdock family enters this world, I pray that any seeds of unrighteousness that have been planted throughout our family line will be exposed and uprooted so we can have a family tree that is fruitful and pleasing unto You.”
