When I fired up the truck engine, Cooter was dead to the world and is only just now rejoining us living as I steer us out onto Route 12. “How was Grampa feelin’?” he asks, cranking down the window farther, not that it’ll help. The air’s hanging like velvet.
I pass him the letter Miss Jessie left for me.
When he’s done reading, Cooter says, “He’ll like bein’ back in Texas, don’t ya think?”
“He will. He’ll like that a lot.” I wish I coulda gotten his Johnny Cash records and whittling knife to him ’fore he left. I hope that Houston is near a lake. He needs a lake. And his peach schnapps.
Cooter asks, “Where we headed?”
“Browntown,” I say, thinking we better get someplace safe ASAP.
“Tha’s maybe not the best idea ya ever had. Tha’s the first place they’ll come lookin’ for us. Didn’t ya mention something earlier about goin’ to get Billy?” he asks, rubbing on his leg. “Where’s he at?”
“He’s… ah… he’s at…” Where the heck did I leave him? Let’s see… we were at the cottage and then we saw that wart Sneaky Tim Ray and then we were talking about love and how our tummies were feeling all balled up and… that’s right. “Billy’s at Miss Jessie’s,” I say, making a quick turn onto Tanner Farm Road. “I know you didn’t kill Mr. Buster, by the way. I got the proof.”
“Ya do?” Cooter says, rousing himself.
“I do.” But when I reach back to my waistband to retrieve the snapshots that I boosted from the sheriff’s desk, the truck gets away from me and starts to drift and I slam on the brakes, but then forget about the steering part, and the next thing I know, we’re stuck in a ditch on a tilt. “Damn it all!” I shout, but I’m also thanking the Lord in all His glory that we made it this close to Miss Jessie’s place. If need be, I can fetch Billy to come help us. We landed soft, but I ask anyway, "Y’ all right?”
“Fine,” Cooter says, picking up the pictures that’ve slid across the seat. Even though Mr. Bob from Bob’s Drug Emporium can be a stinky little tattletale, he knows his way around a darkroom. Anybody can see those gaping holes in Mr. Buster Malloy’s heart. And the Geronimo rope dangling above the glistening sand. Clearly, the man is dead on Browntown Beach and NOT the dump. Cooter spends some time comparing the two shots I took. There is a close-up one. The other’s from far off. Mr. Howard Redmond advises in his chapter Using Your Tools:Two or more photographs are beneficial to lend perspective at any crime scene.
“Well?” I ask, proud of my photo-taking skills. “What do ya think?”
Cooter should be showing some relief that he’s holding proof of his innocence in his hands, but instead, he says with a lot of sadness, “Seein’ that rope…”
“Now, now, don’t start worryin’. We won’t let the sheriff hang ya. Me and the Kid got a plan.”
“It’s not that. The rope… reminds me of Georgie. He sure did love swingin’ into the lake. ’Member that, Gibber? ’Member how loud he’d shout Geronimo?”
Not exactly. What I do remember, though, is that those two boys? Cooter Smith and Georgie Malloy? No matter the color of their skins, they were blood brothers. Inseparable.
“Ya miss your Puddin’ and Pie?” I ask, calling Georgie by his pet name.
“Things seemed a whole lot better when he was alive, don’tcha think? Been a patch of bad road since he left us.”
Poor, poor Cooter. Maybe I should rub on his black fender hair. Or give his wide shoulders a deep massage. I got strong hands from riding every day.
“Not a day goes by I don’t wish I woulda stopped Georgie from goin’ out on the boat that day with Buster,” he says, running his finger down the picture.
It was me who found Georgie’s body washed up on Browntown Beach in almost the exact same spot where I found Mr. Buster’s. Something like that is real hard to forget. The lake flowing outta his ears. Eyes like tarnished quarters. “Are ya talkin’ about the day Georgie accidentally drowned?”
“That weren’t no accident,” Cooter spits out. “Everybody in town, they don’t say it out loud, but they all know that Georgie was murdered. Buster claimed Georgie dove into the lake to cool off while they was fishin’ and he got the cramps, and Buster, not being able to swim, couldn’t save him, but that’s nuthin’ but a lie.”
“WHAT?” Am I the only one hasn’t heard this? Or maybe I have and just don’t remember. “Why would Mr. Buster want Georgie dead? He was his own nephew!” I’m trying to recall and not having much luck what Mr. Howard Redmond says in his chapter entitled Why People Kill. Cooter’s gotta be wrong. Nobody could be so evil as to murder sweet Georgie. That boy sweat sugar. His death had to have been an accident. “Cooter? Answer me now.”
He’s quiet as a moose.
“I just broke you outta jail, I believe you owe me a little something for that,” I say, using what Clever would call a feminine wile. The laying upon of guilt. (Which I am not proud of, by the way, but a reporter has to do what a reporter has to do. I NEED to know this information for my awfully good story.) “I repeat, why do you think Mr. Buster killed Georgie?”
“Ya ain’t squeezin’ that outta me. I already said way more than I shoulda. ’Sides, we ain’t got time now for storytellin’. We gotta git. The sheriff and his boy gonna come lookin’ for us soon.” It’s the fourth time he’s checked out the back window. “You’s in as much trouble as I is, ya know?” he says, shouldering the truck door open.
“Wait for me,” I bark out. “Ya can’t barely walk.”
“If I gotta crawl, I’m gettin’ outta here.”
Cooter’s right. Deputy Jimmy Lee will’ve come to by now. Even dumb as he is, he more’n likely mentioned to the sheriff how I paid a visit to the station right before their prisoner went missing. I bet they’ve already started rounding up the dogs. Folks around here are always up for a good hunt. Throw in that reward money I heard Darlene squealing about on the hospital phone, they’ll be thrilled to track us down.
Oh, how I wish Grampa was here to take care of this situation. He’d call a town meeting, pass the pictures around of Mr. Buster dead on the beach. Explain everything in that easy-peasy voice of his. And when he was done, the men would smoke what they got and the women and children’d have shortbread and milk, and this whole mess would draw to a close. This Cooter mess anyway. There’s still the treasure map mess. The sheriff threatening to come after me mess. The Clever giving birth mess. And Grampa’s not here.
“Let’s take the paddock path up to Miss Jessie’s,” I tell Cooter. “It’s quicker.” Pushing on the driver’s-side door, I give it all I got, but it won’t move an inch.
“It’s gettin’ caught up in the mud. Get out this way.” Cooter reaches back through the passenger window for me. Our fingertips are barely touching when he gulps out, “Mercy,” and slides down the side of the truck out of my reach.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, scooting over the rest of the way. Leaning out the window, I can see him cowering in the ditch. “Your knee give out on ya? I’ll go get Billy.”
Cooter snivels, “Too late for that.”
“Whatta ya mean?”
I turn my head back toward the road where he’s pointing. Yes. It is too late. Those flashing red lights barreling our way can mean only one thing.
Sheriff LeRoy Johnson has come to do his job.