If nothing else, walking between the gravestones and markers in Calvary’s only cemetery served to strengthen Henry Quinn’s resolve. Many was the time he and a crew of other inmates had been dispatched to clear stones and weeds from the further reaches of Reeves’s own makeshift potter’s field, an ignominious final resting place for those society no longer cared for. Simple wooden markers gave a prisoner’s name and number, no birth date, no date of death. Perhaps, somewhere within Reeves’s administrative system, there was a record of who they were, the term they’d served, their cause of death, their next of kin. Perhaps not. And that same scrubbed and featureless acreage would be where Evan Riggs would finally wind up; his marker would crumble and degrade in time; the records he’d made would be scratched or lost or forgotten, and there would be nothing remaining to remind the world of his existence. Except his daughter. Perhaps his daughter. Granted, it may not be fair to tell her now of her origin, but there was always the possibility that she knew, deep down, that she did not really belong to the family that had taken her in. Could such a thing be known by instinct, by some deep-rooted knowledge that those surrounding you were not of the same blood?
Just inside the entranceway was a memorial plaque to those of Redbird County who had fallen in the First War. Just as was the case with so many of the stones, it was covered in moss, its letters almost unreadable. There appeared to be no such memorial for those who had fallen in the Second.
“Hey,” Evie called from the far corner of the cemetery. “I’ve found the father.”
Henry walked across to meet her, stepping carefully between the stones and crosses, one or two of them draped with faded and weatherworn Confederate flags. Dead flowers lay everywhere, their blooms devoid of color and life.
Evie stood looking down at a moss-covered stone, the ground around it unkempt and neglected. There was no doubt as to who was buried there. WILLIAM FORD RIGGS, the stone read. BELOVED HUSBAND TO GRACE: DEVOTED FATHER TO CARSON AND EVAN.
Dates of birth and death were respectively given as July 8, 1896 and August 8, 1949.
“Short life,” Evie said. “Fifty-three years old. Fucking sad.”
“Accident, right?” Henry said. “That’s what your dad said … some kind of shooting accident.”
Evie didn’t reply. She was down on her knees, tugging clumps of weed from around the gravestone.
“What are you doing?”
Evie looked back at Henry. “Doesn’t seem right to just leave it such a mess,” she said. “Looks like no one’s been here for years.”
“Only person who could come is Carson,” Henry said.
“Another reason not to like him,” Evie said. “As if we needed one.”
“Come on. Let’s see if we can’t find anything about Sarah.”
Evie got up. She took a step forward and touched the uppermost edge of William Riggs’s gravestone. Henry didn’t ask, but he was sure she mouthed a couple of words. It was a touching moment, and it said something very clear about Evie’s sensitivity and compassion.
“So this girl,” Evie asked as she walked away. “She was born when?”
“November of forty-nine,” Henry said.
“She never met her grandfather, then,” Evie commented.
“Seems not.”
Had the girl died, and had she, in fact, been buried here, then hers would be one of the more recent interments. It seemed futile, so unlikely as to be beyond the bounds of reasonability, but it wasn’t long before Henry found something.
“Here,” he said. He knelt down, rubbed moss and lichen away from the letters.
“Wyatt,” he said. “Ralph Wyatt, loving father to Rebecca.”
He looked up at Evie.
“Look at the date of death,” Evie said. “August 8, 1949 … Same day as Evan’s father.”
Henry rubbed further, his hands now filthy, and there was no mistaking it. Ralph Wyatt, whoever the hell he might have been, had been born on the eleventh of November, 1892, and had died on the same day as William Riggs.
“Rebecca’s father?” Evie asked.
Henry shook his head. “Lord knows, but if so, then both of Sarah’s grandfathers died on the same day. That seems altogether too coincidental.”
“The shooting accident,” Evie said.
“Seems there’s a good deal Evan could have told me that he didn’t.”
“Seems there’s a good deal a number of people could have told us that they haven’t,” Evie said.
They kept on looking, wending their way back toward the crumbling stone arch that marked the entranceway of the cemetery, every once in a while pausing at some lichen-clad marker, kneeling to look closer, to ascertain whether or not their search for Evan’s daughter would end there. In some strange way, Henry half hoped that they would find something, if only to resolve the question of her whereabouts, but it was a wish without real substance. He did not want to disappoint Evan. He wanted to do what he said he’d do.
By the time they reached the last handful of stones, they were certain that there was nothing further to be discovered there.
“Time to head back to Ector,” Henry said. “We need to know for sure if the Rebecca that Grace spoke of is this Wyatt girl. If she is, then it looks like we’ve found Sarah’s mother.”
“Who is also dead, right?”
“Died at Ector.”
“We only have Grace’s word to go on.”
“Most certain thing she said, though, wasn’t it? That she went up to Ector to visit Rebecca, that Carson got mad at her for visiting, and that Rebecca died.”
“I don’t know,” Evie said. “I don’t know what to make of any of it. I just know that the more we look, the more questions we find.”
“You gonna come with me?” Henry asked.
“What the hell you gonna do? Break into their records office?”
“I am gonna ask, that’s all,” Henry said.
“And if they won’t tell you?”
He shrugged. “Hell, I don’t know, Evie. Break into their records office, I guess.”
Evie hesitated for no more than a second. “Let’s go,” she said.
They followed the same route they’d taken only that morning. En route they stopped at a gas station and convenience store, bought flowers and a box of pastries. The receptionist was surprised to see them back, asked why they had returned so soon.
Evie smiled so sincerely that the woman couldn’t help but smile with her. “We just felt awful,” Evie said. “I mean, with no visitors for such a long time and Grace up there all by herself. It just seems so dreadfully sad, you know?”
The woman concurred. It was dreadfully sad, yes.
“I can let you up for a while,” she said, “but doctor’s rounds will start in half an hour, so you don’t have long. Then they’ll have lunch. Might be better if you came back in an hour or two, and then you could visit for longer.”
“What’s your name?” Evie asked.
“I’m Anne,” she said. “Anne Regis.”
“Well, Anne, we just wanted to bring some flowers,” Evie said. “And some pastries.”
Henry held up the box as evidence.
“Brighten the place up a little,” Evie went on.
“You are very sweet,” Anne said.
“I did have a question,” Henry said. “When we were here earlier, Grace mentioned someone called Rebecca. Said that she was here, and that she died. My wife and I were talking after we left, and her grandmother used to speak of another cousin called Rebecca.” Henry turned to Evie. “You never did meet her, did you?”
Evie shook her head, leaned closer to Anne. “Said she wasn’t well, you know? Hence, we wondered whether or not she might have ended up here at Ector.”
“I wouldn’t have the faintest idea,” Anne said. “Of course, all of that kind of information would be in records, but that’s confidential. I don’t go in there. That’s just for the doctors and the consultants and the directors and whoever.”
“Is there someone we could speak to about it?” Henry asked.
“Today?” Anne asked. “It’s Sunday. There’s just the medical and psychiatric staff here today, my dear. None of the senior people come in on a Sunday.”
“And how much trouble would we cause if we just went and looked?” Evie asked.
“Oh my,” Anne said. “You can’t do that. Those are peoples’ confidential medical records. I couldn’t possibly let you do that.”
“From what Grace told us, Cousin Rebecca died here,” Henry said. “Is there a record of deaths in the facility?”
“Well, yes, there would be,” Anne replied. “Again, somewhere in the same department, I guess.”
“And if that’s just a record of people who have died, then there wouldn’t be any harm in having a look for our cousin, right? I mean, it’s not going to tell us anything that isn’t on public record elsewhere,” Henry said.
“And if we found out that she did die here, then maybe we have a hope of finding out what happened to her, where she was buried and all that.”
“Do you think she might have been buried here?” Anne asked.
Henry frowned. “Here? What? At the hospital?”
“No, I don’t mean in the hospital grounds themselves,” Anne said, “but if someone dies in the hospital and there is no family to take care of everything, then they are given a plot in the county cemetery.”
“Which is where?” Evie asked.
“Well, the cemetery itself is about twenty-five miles away, but the administrative facility and the crematorium is about five miles west of here, right along the highway,” Anne said. “I’ve never been there, but I know that’s what happens when we have someone die and they’ve got no relatives.”
“That’s really good of you, Anne,” Evie said. “We’re gonna go see right now.”
“You’re not going up to see Grace again?”
“Maybe not such a good idea, seeing as how the doctors are going on their rounds,” Henry said.
“Could you see that she gets these things?” Evie said.
“Flowers, yes, but pastries I’m not so sure,” Anne said. “I know they don’t much care to have their diets varied.”
“Then the pastries are for you,” Evie said, and she set the box on the reception desk.
“Er … er, thank you,” Anne said, somewhat surprised, by which time Evie and Henry were halfway to the door.
“Appreciated,” Henry called out to her, and then both he and Evie were gone.
The county cemetery facility was exactly where Anne Regis had told them it would be, little more than five miles west along the highway. Notwithstanding the fact that it was Sunday, it was staffed and receiving visitors.
Henry and Evie parked and surveyed the scene in front of them. A narrow path dissected a neat lawn, at the end of which sat a low-slung white stone building, the legend over the door reading ECTOR COUNTY CREMATORIUM. Beneath that it said C
OUNTY
R
ECORDS
D
EPARTMENT
and gave the opening hours.
Once inside, they were greeted by a dour-looking man in a charcoal-gray three-piece suit. His face was white and pinched, as if he and sunlight had been strangers for years. A brass plaque on the desk gave his title as chief registrar, his name as Mr. Langford Crossley.
“And how might I assist you?” Mr. Crossley asked Henry and Evie.
“Hello,” Evie said, and shot him her best smile.
Mr. Crossley didn’t respond in kind. Apparently, it was neither his job nor his predilection to demonstrate any degree of friendliness.
“We wondered if you might be so kind as to help us,” she went on. “We are trying to locate some details concerning a long-lost relative whom we think might have passed away at Ector County Hospital some years ago.”
“Her name?” Mr. Crossley asked.
“Rebecca,” Evie said.
Crossley smiled, as if humoring a child. “That’s very good,” he said. “And her family name?”
Evie laughed, somewhat embarrassed. Henry realized then that she was putting it on, giving Crossley the opportunity to assist this slightly backward young woman. “Oh, I’m sorry, yes. Wyatt. Rebecca Wyatt.”
“And your names?”
“Mary Wilson,” Evie said. “And this is my husband, John.”
Henry stepped forward, extended his hand. “How do you do, sir.”
Crossley merely grazed Henry’s hand with his own, as if the prospect of shaking hands with strangers was just a little too much to bear.
“And your relationship to Rebecca Wyatt?” Crossley asked.
“Well, it’s kind of complicated,” Evie said.
Crossley gave a weak smile. “I have time, my dear.”
“She was the daughter of my grandmother’s niece on my father’s side.”
“Very good. And when did she die?”
Henry stepped forward. “Well, we’re not exactly sure,” he said. “We’re sort of on a mission to find out whatever we can, and we’re following little snippets of information. So far we’ve learned that she might have died at Ector County Hospital, but her father was already dead, you see, so we thought that maybe everything was taken care of by the county. That’s why we’ve come to see you.”
“Why, indeed,” Mr. Crossley said.
“So can you help us, do you think?” Henry asked.
“I can do my best, Mr. Wilson. If you would care to sit, then I shall consult the ledgers and see if there is any record of your grandmother’s niece on your father’s side.” Once again, the slightly ingratiating smile, and then Crossley retreated through a door behind the desk and his footsteps receded into silence.
“Is it just me, or do you want to slap that smug expression off of his face?” Evie asked. “I mean, the guy sits in an office and checks records of dead people, for Christ’s sake. What the hell is the attitude for?”
Henry smiled. He reached out and took Evie’s hand, squeezed it reassuringly. “The less important you are, the more important you pretend to be. That’s just the way some folks are. Had it the same with some of the wardens in Reeves.”
“Asshole, plain and simple,” Evie said.
They waited in silence, and they didn’t wait long. A handful of minutes, and the footsteps could be heard once again. Crossley came through the door, in his hand a thin manila folder.
“Are you aware of any other details regarding the family?” he asked Evie. “Just as a matter of security, you understand. Though we are dealing with those who have passed away, there is still a certain degree of privacy and protocol that we have to maintain.”
“Well, Uncle Ralph was her dad. I mean, whether he really was an uncle or not is a different matter, but his name was Ralph, and he died …” Evie turned to Henry. “When was it, sweetheart?”