A closer inspection of the iron gates at the front of the crypt revealed that they had been opened recently; the hinges showed signs of disturbed rust and moss. Something had gone into the tombâand closed the door behind it.
Fear could easily have prevented me from moving had it not been for the curse of curiosity. I had to know what was inside. Still, precautions had to be taken. I pulled out the walkie-talkie and made a loud noise, clearing my throat, then called in.
“Deputy Needle?” I said loudly into the thing. “I'm here at the Public Crypt as you instructed. How close behind me are you? Over.”
There was a pause. The thing in the crypt was deliberately still.
“Dev?” Skidmore's voice was uncertain, but he knew better than to ask questions. He'd heard the tone in my voice.
“Yes,” I answered more loudly, “I can see you now; the rest of the men are on their way to meet us here.”
“Good,” he said hesitantly. Then, an afterthought, “Don't go shooting off your gun, all right? I don't want any more disturbance up there.”
“Yes, sir,” I told him, “I won't shoot my rifle again. Sorry.”
“Good. Be right there.” Pause. “Andrews, you copy all this?”
Silence reigned.
Then: “Copy?” Andrews had clearly finished all the apple brandy. “Sure. I guess.”
“Bring the rest of the men and meet us up at the big crypt.”
“Under the Angel of Death,” I inserted quickly.
“Oh.” Utter bafflement filled Andrews's voice. “Okay.”
I thought there might be a back exit out of the crypt and I was half-hoping whatever was inside would find one and take it. Moving away from the gates, I took a vantage point slightly behind a nearby grave marker.
The sun dodged behind a fast-moving cloud; without warning it was twilight. A cold shot of wind speared through the yard; everything was animated for a moment. I looked down at the tear in my sweater. When I looked up, there was more noise from inside the crypt.
I ducked down behind the tombstone, trying to hold my breath. Then scraping sounds, like someone moving furniture, sang out. A human moan, I thought, rolled out from between the bars of the gate. Could have been creaking tree limbs in the wind.
I reached into my pocket and turned off the walkie-talkie. I had no intention of its scaring me or the thing inside. I squinted into the place, willing my sight to pierce the darkness. I thought I saw something, but it moved too quickly.
Suddenly there was a clatter from deep inside. I stood.
There is a back door,
I thought.
I shot around the side of the place before I could think.
The ground was level all around the crypt. When I got to the back
side I could see two high windows, thick stained glass. One was broken. And it was moving.
There was a hand at the edge of the window, clearing away the broken bits of glass. Then a voice sounded.
“Damn,” it said quietly.
The face appeared, and I burst out laughing.
Inappropriate laughter is often the result of released tension. In this particular case, enormous relief was involved.
I stared up at the face. “Able!”
He hadn't seen me and I frightened him. He jerked, startle response, and fell backward into the crypt.
Â
Able Carter lay on the floor of the crypt, barely conscious. Skidmore was kneeling beside him, making certain he hadn't broken anything. Andrews and I stood staring.
Though they'd met, Andrews had not recognized Able's face. It was haggard, covered with stubble, grim-eyed.
“I can't believe that's the same person I saw at the church just the other night,” Andrews said again. “He's aged ten years.”
“Let's just get him on his feet,” Skid said. “Don't appear he's got any broken bones.” He looked down. “You stand up, Able?”
Able managed a feeble nod.
On his feet he was still dazed, not quite understanding who we were, even his brother-in-law.
“Girlinda's been worried sick about you, boy,” Skid said gently, trying to revive him.
“Worried?” He looked around, trying to imagine where he was.
“Did he hit his head?” Andrews whispered.
“Got the breath knocked out of him,” Skid answered. “He'll come around in a minute.”
Able looked Skidmore up and down. “Am I under arrest?”
Skidmore started to say something, took in a breath, remained silent, darting his eyes to me for a second.
“We've been looking for you, Able,” I said calmly. “Your sister was scared something happened to you.”
“Sister?” He was still dazed.
I reached into my pocket for the small thermos. “This might help.” I handed it to Able.
“Hey,” Andrews objected, “you said that was gone.”
Able looked down at it.
“Coffee,” I told him.
He nodded slowly. I unscrewed the top for him. He sipped. He sighed. He finished the coffee in one or two more gulps.
I took the thermos back from him and watched his eyes gradually return to the present moment.
“Wow,” he said, “I fell.”
“You did,” Skid agreed, looking up at the high broken window.
“Am I under arrest?” Able repeated.
“Yes,” Skidmore said evenly.
Andrews and I kept still.
“Let me explain,” Able said, looking down; his hands began to tremble. “It wasn't my fault. I didn't do it on purpose. But I can see how it looks. And I almost got lynched by the Deveroe boys too, so I understand what everyone's got to be thinking.” He looked up, locked eyes with Skidmore. “I'm scared, boy. I'm really, really scared.” He was starting to shake all over.
“It's okay,” Skid said plainly.
“You have to take me into the jail, I get that, but you got to promise me the Deveroes can't get at me. Not until we straighten all this out.” Tears were in his eyes. “I loved her, Skid. You know that. Everybody knows that. We were going to be married. I swear to God. You have to believe me.” He closed his eyes.
“Able?” I took a step closer to him.
“It was an
accident,
” he snapped at me fiercely; a violent shaking overcame his body. “I could never murder Truevine. I loved her.”
Â
Skidmore wouldn't allow Able to speak another word until we were all back down the mountain, seated in his office. He'd called his wife, sent out for food, and warned Able of his rights before any of us were allowed to speak.
“All right, now,” Skid began, pencil in hand. “Tell me what happened.”
The walk back down the mountain had been a trot. Andrews kept starting sentences that were cut off by sharp looks from the deputy.
Skid placed Able, unhandcuffed, in the backseat. Andrews and I followed in my truck. Skid had tried to send us home, but he could see what a fight he'd have had on his hands, so he gave up and let us sit in a corner watching the strange scene.
Skidmore's office was colorless: off-white walls, acoustical-tile drop ceiling, Kmart window blinds. He sat behind his desk; five ancient office chairs surrounded it, the hollow-core door never completely closed. It was the office of a man who spent little time in an office. Papers were piled randomly, the floor was a little unkempt, but there was a clear space on the desk in front of him and the room did not seem entirely chaotic.
“Go on,” he urged Able.
“We had a fight, me and Tru,” Able began. “At the church Wednesday night meeting.” He looked around. “I don't even know what day it is now.”
“We all heard the fight; it was Thursday night last week, remember? They changed it.”
“That's right,” he answered vaguely, “in the new hall.”
“So that night,” Skid insisted, “after your argument?”
“She stormed off.” His voice grew distant, and he stared out the window. “I grabbed her arm. We were both pretty mad.” He shifted in his seat. “Tell you why in a minute, I reckon.”
“We think we know why,” Skid said, more gently than he had been speaking. “Harding appears to haveâ”
“Harding Pinhurst is a monster right out of a book,” Able interrupted with such force that Skidmore's head jerked back a half an inch.
“But we'll get to that in a minute,” Skid said soothingly.
“Okay,” Able agreed. “In a minute. So. She run off; I chased her. Lost her in the woods. Moon wasn't up yet.” He turned in my direction. “She run in the direction of your place, Dev. I thought I'd find
her there, maybe even talking to you. She likes to do that, did you know?”
“Please talk to me, Able,” Skid insisted.
Able's clothes were a wreck, torn, dirty. His face was thin; he had lost weight in the days he'd been gone. But he didn't seem to be suffering from the kind of deprivation or hypothermia he might have, especially considering he was still wearing only his church meeting jacket and slacks, brown and tan, no tie. Had he found food? Started a fire?
“She was out of her head. I finally caught up with her. I was out of breath, and still mad as a rooster. She saw me coming; her face was white as a sheet. Like she didn't even recognize me.” He lowered his voice. “She gets that way sometimes, out of her head. It don't happen that often.” He sighed. “Anyway, I could see she was scared, so I tried to calm myself. Calling her
honey
and all, but she just kept staring, eyes big as saucers. When I got right up close to her she just kept saying, âI'm sorry; I didn't mean it,' which I thought she was talking about our little fight, but she was way more upset than that, I could tell after a second or two. She just kept backing away from me. I tried to stop her. I didn't touch her, I swear to God.”
His body was more agitated; his voice was shaking.
“What happened then?” Skid asked methodically.
“She whomped me good with a big old tree branch. I don't even know where she got it from; it just kind of appeared in her hands.” Beginning tears came to his eyes. “I was out for a second or two, I reckon. When I got back up, I looked around for her; my vision was all blurry. I didn't see her at first.” His eyes brimmed. “Then I did. Still as a corpse. Down at the bottom of the ravine.”
Andrews jumped. I think he had suddenly realized what was also dawning on me.
Skid came to the same conclusion. “Truevine fell into the ravine up there close to Dr. Devilin's house?”
“Reckon she's still there,” Able answered; he could barely speak. “I started down to help her; she wasn't moving a muscle. And then I heard them coming.”
“Who?” Skid stopped writing.
“I reckoned it was the Deveroe brothers,” he said, barely audibly, tears brimming.
“You saw them?”
“Who else is out in those woods that late? I knew what they'd think. They don't like me one bit. I'm scared of them
all
the time, but that night, it was something else.” He squirmed again, searching for words. “Since then, Skid ⦠they caught up with me once.” He seemed unable to believe what he was saying. “They tried to
hang
me. I don't even know what happened; it's all like a dream. I just got away.” He shook his head violently, trying to clear it. “I reckon I been out of my head. Maybe I still am. I seen things.”
His breathing was labored and I was afraid he might have a heart attack.
“You think Truevine Deveroe fell into that ravine up there last Thursday night when she hit you,” Skidmore said carefully, “and before you could go help her, you ran away from her brothers?”
All Able could do was nod, unable to control his facial muscles.
“You have to tell him,” I whispered to Skid.
He drew in a long breath, nodded once, set down his pencil.
“Look, Able.” He let the breath out. “Truevine's missing, that's all. At the bottom of that ravine we did find a body. It was Harding Pinhurst. He's real dead. That's what you're under arrest for: his murder.”
Able's head rose slowly. “Harding's dead?”
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Our next stop was the emergency room, where Able was pronounced safe for incarceration, a formality Skid would not have entertained had he not been running an election campaign. It took over an hour after that for Skidmore to fill Able in on what had happened while he'd been hiding, including my bizarre attempt to save him from being hanged. He listened to it all, shivering in a blanket Skid had given him, holding on to a shaky Styrofoam cup half-filled with coffee.