The sheriff seemed less interested in his visitor as he turned back to the window. Ira and his mother were passing through a doorway under the sign for Jane’s Cafe. “Years ago, a damn schoolteacher pronounced Ira an idiot savant, and the words stuck to him. Most people shortened it to ‘the idiot,’ like they forgot Ira ever had a name. Bastards.”
He turned back to Charles, his mood more affable now. “We did have one other odd talent you might’ve liked even better. The late Babe Laurie was a born orator. He was preaching the gospel at the age of five. I’ll bet you’ve never come across a gift like that.”
Oh, but he had. In the prairie states, it was a talent as common as cornstalks. The rarer, more impressive gift was Ira’s. Charles had always been fascinated with savants. But he was even more intrigued with Ira’s connection to Mallory, his part in the chain of odd events occurring within the hour of Mallory’s homecoming.
Lilith Beaudare entered the room with a handful of faxes. She did not even glance at Charles to let on that they had met before. Now that was another odd thing, and he filed it away in his growing collection.
“The extradition on Mrs. Laurie has gone through,” said Lilith, setting the faxes on the sheriff’s desk. “She caved in and waived rights. The Georgia State Police say we can pick her up at the airport day after tomorrow. If you plan to hold her overnight, I have to call social services to take her son.”
“No need. I don’t plan to spend more than five minutes with Sally Laurie. I just hauled her back because she pissed me off leaving town that way.” The sheriff rustled the faxes and handed them back to her. “File these or burn ‘em.”
She hesitated, looking for something to say, but finding no way to prolong her presence here, she turned and left the room.
“And close that door!” the sheriff hollered after her. He smiled at Charles. “Babe’s widow left town with her kid the day of the murder. I tracked her down inside of a morning. Not bad for a hick sheriff, is it?”
Charles ignored this opportunity to flatter the sheriff with a predictable denial of the man’s hickdom. Mallory would not have approved of that tactic. ‘Never suck up’ was a Mallory constant. “So the dead man had a wife and child.”
“Well, the dead man’s widow has a son – that part’s a fact.”
“Not Babe Laurie’s son?”
“That’s the rumor. Babe and his wife have big blue eyes, and the boy’s got little slitty brown ones. Just by coincidence, Babe’s brother Fred has those same slitty brown eyes.”
“Well, you know, genetically it’s possible if there’s a factor of – ”
“No, it isn’t possible, Mr. Butler. This is too small a town to make room for hard science. The sign at the highway says population eleven hundred, but that’s pure bragging – more like nine hundred.”
And the stranger in a small town was always first to be suspected of a crime. Charles refrained from jumping to Mallory’s defense, though he did long to point out that, for many reasons, she was the least likely suspect.
“You must be under a lot of pressure, Sheriff.”
“Pressure?”
“The news media?”
The sheriff seemed to find that funny. “A man’s head connected with a rock. You can’t make the evening news with a murder like that. Those reporters are looking for
inspired
killing, real talent.”
“But he was a religious leader.”
“He was the freak headliner in a road show called the New Church. Babe’s only publicity is a mention in Betty Hale’s tour ramble for the guests at the bed and breakfast. Now that does sell a few souvenirs at the drugstore, and I’m sure Betty gets her cut.”
How embarrassing for Mallory to be embroiled in a mediocre murder. “I’d like to see this woman now, if you don’t mind.”
The sheriff accompanied him out to the reception room and handed him into Lilith’s care. Charles followed her up the stairs and broke the uncomfortable silence as she opened the door for him. “Aren’t you going to check me for dangerous weapons?”
Her expression was insulting, only because it obviously never occurred to her that he would know the barrel of a gun from its butt end. The deputy hung back by the door at the end of the cell block as he walked down the narrow corridor.
He had been prepared to see Mallory languishing in a cold impersonal cell; he had never imagined anything like this. On one wall was the print of a quaint landscape in a gilded frame, and a braided rug sat at the foot of a stuffed armchair. Her bed was decked with a colorful patchwork quilt, and fresh violets sat in a mason jar on a small chest of drawers. But for the iron bars of door and window, it was all rather charming.
How she must hate this.
Her own tastes ran to stark simplicity in her surroundings and superb tailoring in the blazers she wore with her blue jeans. That gingham dress must be humiliating. But when she looked up at him, she was only angry.
He stood with his back to Lilith Beaudare, his body blocking her sight of Mallory. “Augusta Trebec has asked me to ascertain whether or not you’re the legal heir of Cass Shelley.” His hands said, “
I only want to help. Tell me what I can do for you.”
“Go
away,” Mallory said. And then her hands said, “Go
away.”
“I’d appreciate it if you’d at least hear me out.” He restricted his sign language to finger spelling to conceal the movements from the deputy at his back.
“Let me call Riker or Jack Coffey. They can do something.”
“No,” she said, and “No
way,”
said her hands and her angry face.
“Are you nuts? They’re both cops.”
“But, you’re a cop.”
Or was she? Though she had neglected to do the proper paperwork for separating from the police department, she had left her badge behind in New York City, along with the police-issue .38 revolver. She had always preferred to carry her own personal weapon, the cannon of a gun that so intrigued the sheriff. If she was not a cop anymore, then what was she?
The term “rogue” came to mind. The word suited her on so many levels.
“Just go away and leave me alone,” she said.
“
No, I won’t leave you sitting in a jail cell
.”
“
I won’t be here for long. Go away
.”
Aloud, he said, “I could hire an attorney for you.”
“I don’t need one. Get out,” she said, rising, walking to the bars.
“They can’t prove motive. But I think the sheriff might be working on that. He’s smart. Don’t underestimate him. I don’t.”
“Well, that’s high praise, coming from you.”
He handed her the garage bill for an oil change and the warranty on his car’s new transmission. “This is the paperwork on your estate. It’s an affidavit of inheritance. Will you please read through it and sign it?”
She put the papers down the front of her dress to free her hands for speech.
“You have to go now. You can’t help me. Everything will go sour if you stay in Dayborn.”
He knew what she meant. Mallory was predicting that he would botch every attempt at deception with the inexperience of an honest man. So she didn’t trust him to do anything base or even remotely shady, but he was not offended by her confidence in his good character.
“
I just put a lie past the sheriff,”
he signed hopefully, offering this act of gross wrongdoing as a sign of improvement.
Mallory winced, going beyond mere skepticism to near pain. She was probably wondering how much damage he had already done.
She handed the papers back to him. “I’ve read it, okay? Now get out!” She brought her face closer to the bars, her hands extending through them to touch his own hand, and then she signed,
“You haven’t asked me if I killed that man.”
In her expression, there was the slight suggestion that she might have done it. Perhaps it was that unwholesome smile of hers. And now there was a question in her eyes.
One would not say of Mallory, she couldn’t possibly do murder. However, because he took his friendships so seriously, if she had set fire to a school bus full of nuns and orphans and pushed it off a cliff, he would have assumed that she was merely having a bad day.
Charles was leaving the municipal building when he saw the woman emerge from the alley and stop a few feet from the stone steps. Her hair was what he noticed first. It was a black dye job gone awry and turned to purple in the highlights. The thin middle-aged woman revolved slowly, eyes wide with confusion, looking now to heaven for some sign to point her in the right direction. There was time to note that her slip hung below the hem of a dress that needed washing; that her face was wet with tears and deep etched with agony lines. Her mouth hung open in an eerie prelude to a scream as she bolted to the far side of the square.
A tall stocky woman, wearing an apron and carrying a covered tray, appeared on the steps of the municipal building beside Charles.
“Alma!” she called out to the running woman, but the purple-haired Alma never looked back. The stocky woman shrugged and carried her tray across the square to Jane’s Cafe, where Darlene had gone with Ira.
Charles turned back to the alley in time to see Henry Roth emerge. The mute was smiling at the running woman’s back, as though pleased with some handiwork of his own. Charles had the feeling of something gone terribly wrong with the universe today. In the face of that woman’s extreme distress, Henry Roth’s smile was unnerving. This was simply not in the artist’s character, or what Charles had surmised of it.
Henry discreetly signed his farewell to Charles and walked off in the direction of his truck. And now it was the sculptor’s back that was marked. His departure was followed by the eyes of the man on the bench, the one who so resembled the late Babe Laurie. This man now turned his gaze back to Charles, and with only a nod, he renewed his invitation to sit down and pass the time.
But something was different. The man’s aspect had altered. Now the eyes were far from serene; they were alive with light. He wore the winning smile of a wild and handsome child. A lock of hair strayed over one eye, and he grinned to say he had a card trick Charles might like to see, or a secret he might want to know.
Come to me,
said the disarming face of a charming, barefoot boy of ten.
We’ve got games to play, places to go.
So compelling was this silent call, Charles was made young again, and he was moving slowly toward the bench.
Then he stopped, as though he had met with a wall.
This was no shoeless, artless boy, but a grown man with heavy boots and an agenda involving subterfuge. Here was a polished actor with at least two personas.
Charles thought he had done well against the sheriff, but elected not to press his luck with a man who made an art form out of guile. So he nodded an acknowledgment, shrugged his apology, and turned toward Jane’s Cafe.
Aboveground phone lines and power cables were tucked away at the rear of the building. No jarring reminder of modern times marred its historical character. Even the wavy distortions in the window glass of Jane’s Cafe were true to the period. Near this window, the mother and son were seated at a table laid with a wine-red cloth and sparkling white napkins.
Charming.
However, when Charles entered the cafe, he found himself back in the correct era. A giant coffee machine gurgled in time to the music of soft rock. A gleaming metal and glass counter lined the back wall. Deep stainless-steel wells were filled with an amazing variety of salads, breads and cold cuts to be loaded on trays and paid for at the electronic cash register. All the white napkins were paper, and all the red tablecloths were washable, late twentieth-century plastic.
He collected a broad array of sandwich makings, condiments and salad greens on his tray. After paying for it, he settled down at the table next to Darlene and Ira Wooley. The woman was speaking to her son in a soothing mother voice, but the young man wasn’t listening. He was absorbed in constructing a tower of food on top of a slab of rye bread.
In a soft-spoken, one-sided argument, Darlene pointed to the items that would set off Ira’s allergies, and then she pulled out the offending layers. The boy stared at the mutilated sandwich for a moment, and Charles braced himself for the screaming fit common to autism. But Ira was very calm as he quietly disassembled the sandwich and began again with a new slice of bread from his mother’s tray. He worked deftly, despite bandaged hands and the splints on two fingers. Charles determined that there was nothing wrong with any of the motor skills, as Ira laid a precise line of sardines across a bed of mustard-slathered bread.
Darlene Wooley was looking at Charles with the suspicion common to overprotective mothers.
“Forgive me for staring,” said Charles. “Sandwiches are my hobby.”
Ira looked up for a moment as Charles spread mustard on pumpernickel and then embellished it with stripes of red from a pointed squeeze bottle of catsup.
Ira reached into his mother’s salad bowl and carefully picked out the carrot sticks and arranged them in a Crosshatch over his sardines.
Charles made a perfect circle of croutons on his stripes of catsup. Ira noted this and added a squared slice of ham on top of his carrots. Charles laid down two slices of bright yellow cheese, one layered askew over the other to form an eight-point star. Ira countered with a dollop of cream cheese spread over the ham in the rough smear of a triangle.
Though Darlene Wooley seemed very tired, she was smiling at the pair of them as they engaged in this conversation of sandwiches.
Charles stacked his ingredients faster and higher. Ira took up the challenge, finishing his own design first and crowning it with a slice of white bread.
Charles applauded the winner, and Ira’s laughing mother joined in, taking unreasonable delight in the moment. It must be an oasis in her day. He noted her bitten nails, the red veins of her eyes and the vertical worry line etched between her eyebrows. All the telling signs of life with an autistic child.
Well, her son’s mind was certainly alive. Wheels were turning, and quickly. Charles wondered if Ira was articulate. Many autistic people were not. They were as diverse as snowflake patterns in their behaviors; few generalizations would hold for all.
Ira was again absorbed in his food, and never looked up when his mother exchanged names with Charles and introduced her son. Ira’s eyes were looking elsewhere, not fixed on any point in the immediate universe.
When Charles had explained his interest in autism, he learned that eating lunch in the cafe was part of Ira’s behavior therapy, and he approved. This daily exercise would account for the lack of stress, despite the babble of conversation, the comings and goings, and the company of strangers.
“There’s no local program for autism, so four mornings a week, Ira goes to a state school for the mentally retarded.”
“Well, it’s miles better than no therapy at all,” said Charles. And it was common practice. A sympathetic doctor would alter the diagnosis of autism to that of retardation in order to utilize whatever program was available. “I imagine they use many of the same methods, learning skills through repetitive tasks?”
“Yes, and they do make a special effort with Ira. I tried to get him into a private program in New Orleans,” said Darlene. “But he couldn’t pass the screening test.”
Finally, the conversation turned to Charles’s business with the sheriff. “Augusta Trebec believes the young woman in custody might be Cass Shelley’s daughter. As the executrix – ”
“Well, who else could that girl be, Mr. Butler?”
When she became comfortable with calling him Charles, she recounted Mallory’s arrival in Dayborn on the day of the murder. “She stepped out of a cab in front of the bed and breakfast.”
Darlene had been sitting on the front porch, talking to her friend and neighbor, Betty Hale. “The girl was the very image of her mother. You couldn’t forget a face like that, even without the reminder of Cass’s angel in the cemetery.”
Babe Laurie had also seen Mallory, and reeled like a drunk, his eyes grown to the size of saucers. “So Babe sat there on the edge of the fountain while the girl was checking into Betty’s. Then his brother Malcolm came for him in the car. But Babe wouldn’t leave the square, and they got to arguing.”
Her son had slipped away and gone home to his house next door. “And then I hear Ira at the piano, and he’s playing this same little handful of notes, over and over. It drove Babe wild. He stormed into my house, with his brother right behind him. Well, I could not believe they had done that – just barged into my house. I was up from my chair and heading that way when the music stopped. And then my boy was screaming. The Lauries came out the door as I was going in. I found Ira at the piano with his hands smashed and blood running over the piano keys.”
Charles glanced at Ira to see how he was reacting to Darlene’s replay of a traumatic day. The boy seemed not to hear them. Charles surmised that Ira was shutting out the noise, not perceiving it as meaningful. His primary thoughts would probably be a cascade of images, not words. The perception of spoken words would require the concentration and effort of discerning a second language. Food was more alluring to Ira just now, but he might be responsive to music, another language more natural to him than the spoken word.
In the spirit of an ongoing examination, he turned to Ira. “Could you hum the tune you were playing on the piano?”
It was his mother who answered, “He won’t hold normal conversations with people anymore. He used to talk a lot when he was a little boy. But now he just repeats things. It’s called echolalia. That’s why he can’t pass the screening test for the program in New Orleans.”
Well, that was reasonable. An advanced program would make a prerequisite of communication skills. Though the echolalia sometimes passed for response to conversation, a kind of shortcut. “Perhaps
you
could remember the notes?”
“Oh, no,” she said, throwing up her hands in mock helplessness. “I got a tin ear. My boy has all the musical talent in the family. If you sit him down at the piano, he’ll play, but he won’t do requests. Just plays what he wants. And sometimes he’ll sing for you – if he wants to. He has the most beautiful voice you ever heard.” She looked down at her hands and their ruined fingernails. “You think that’s just a mother talking.”
“No, not at all. The sheriff spoke very highly of Ira’s talent.”
She smiled with some embarrassment and hid her hands under the table. “Sometimes, if the windows are open, every living thing in the square stops to listen to my boy when he sings. They just stand there, so still and quiet you’d think they were all in church. And I have seen people cry when Ira’s song is over.”
He could ask for no better corroboration. So the sheriff had given an accurate account of Ira’s gifts, and now Charles was doubly intrigued. This was something very rare, well beyond the odd case of multiple talents in the savant. The gift of song was unrelated to quirks and mysteries in the autistic brain. The origin of autism was unknown; its symptoms developed after birth. But song came from the egg.
Done with his sandwich, Ira stared at his hands and moved them in circles as he rocked back and forth in his chair. Charles knew the young man was using this activity to calm himself, but why? He had not been agitated a moment ago.
Darlene covered Ira’s rolling hands with her own, not touching flesh to flesh, but only threatening contact to get her son’s attention. “What’s wrong, honey?”
“What’s wrong,” said Ira, staring at the door.
Charles and Darlene both turned to see a figure standing in the doorway. It was the man with two faces, the artist of altered states, and he was smiling at Darlene, one hand rising in a greeting.
Her face was rigid as she quickly gathered up her purse and her son and departed with a strained goodbye.
The man engaged Charles’s eyes as Darlene and Ira passed by him. Walking toward the table, he extended his hand. “My name is Malcolm Laurie. But you call me Malcolm.” This was stronger than a suggestion. “May I join you?”
“Of course.” Charles reached out to grasp the proffered hand. “I noticed your resemblance to Babe Laurie.”
“He was my brother.” Malcolm Laurie sat down with a comfortable attitude, as though he were in his own personal dining room.
“My condolences on your loss,” said Charles.
“Thank you, Mr. –?”
“Butler.” He neglected to mention his given name, as he usually did, for he felt the need of polite distance. As Malcolm leaned forward, Charles was mentally backing up, saying, “I understand your brother toured the country as an evangelist.”
“We all did. The road show is a family enterprise.” The winning smile was back. Perhaps the man sensed that this was the face that elicited the most favorable response. “Ever seen a real tent show?”
“Yes, when I was a child – ” Charles stopped himself from mentioning his summer with Maximilhan’s Traveling Magic Show, but he could not have said why. “I expect they’re all gone now. All the evangelists have television shows.”
“Not all of ‘em. Our family still tours with a tent. Bought it off a bankrupt circus when Babe was a little boy.”
“A circus? So it’s one of the
great
tents?” He had not seen one of those beauties since he was a child. “How big is it?”
“Biggest you’ve ever seen – I guarantee that. It’s going up tomorrow for Babe’s memorial service. No girders – all single shafts and raised with muscle and line. It’s a thing to behold. If you wanna see that tent raising, you’ll have to get out to the fairground early. Round eight in the morning?”
“I’ll be there.” Charles was elated. He would have given anything for this chance. He had never expected to see such a sight again. “Thank you, so much.”
“My pleasure.”
Though it could not be true, Charles had the impression that Malcolm never blinked. His eyes were bright and riveting. Charles felt self-conscious for staring into them. The other man seemed to sense this and pulled back with his body, leaning into the slats of his chair, and perhaps his eyes had pulled back on their brilliance, for now they were merely the color blue.
“I understand you have some business with the prisoner,” said Malcolm.
Was that her name now – the prisoner?
“If she’s a friend of yours, I want you to know I’ve forgiven her for murdering my brother.”
“Jumping the gun, aren’t you? She hasn’t been charged with murder. She’s being held as a material witness.”
And now Charles realized that he had given this man something of significance. It was clear by Malcolm’s surprise.
Charles cast his eyes down. It was surely no great secret he had given away, or the sheriff wouldn’t have mentioned it. However, he
had
violated Augusta Trebec’s caution not to give any useful information to the opposition, and this man was surely not a supporter of Mallory’s. In an effort to lead the conversation away from her, he said, “I’m not familiar with your religion. Is the New Church close to Baptist?”
“No, you’re confusing your southerners, sir. This part of the map is wall-to-wall Catholics. We tour with the biggest damn crucifix you ever did see. Now that bleeding, twisting torture on the cross, that’s the Catholic stress on His dying for our sins. The Protestants like to see an empty cross as a reminder that He rose again.” Malcolm shook his head in amused reproval. “No passion. Those Protestants are real boring – no offense if that’s your poison.”
“So the New Church is a Catholic sect?”
“I’d say we’re a bit of one thing and another, a little something for everybody. Come see for yourself. Gonna be a big turnout for the show tomorrow night, but I could save you a front-row seat.”
“Thank you, I’d like that. So, exactly what sort of ideology do you practice?”
“Awareness. When you learn to see things as they really are, you can participate in the energy flow. You follow the New Church steps to awareness, and soon you begin to notice that everything that happens to you was meant to happen. Each event, however small, is moving you closer to your destiny.”
Charles recognized the corrupted, reworded prophecy of a hippie philosopher from the early seventies. The original work had been recently appropriated and regurgitated by an ungifted author on the bestseller list.
“I’ve seen the destitute led to riches and the weak led to power.” And now Malcolm shifted to a poor man’s version of Zen from another bestseller. “You don’t even have to work at it. The less you strive, the closer you come to getting what you want – everything you want, and everyone.”