Hard Row dk-13 Read online

mediately pulled out a third disposable bowl and waved

  a plastic fork. “She got one for you, too.”

  “Thanks,” I said, unzipping my robe. “I meant to

  bring my lunch today, but Cal couldn’t find his spelling

  book this morning and I didn’t have time. Good to see

  you again, Dr. Allred.”

  She rolled her eyes at Portland. “When is she going

  to start calling me Linda?”

  “Probably when you stop hauling assholes up before

  her in court,” Portland said, and speared a cherry to-

  mato on the end of her fork. “Wonder if the baby’s al-

  lergic to tomatoes?”

  “Yes,” I said, and plucked it from her fork. Like most

  tomatoes this time of year, it had been picked way too

  92

  HARD ROW

  early and was almost tasteless, but the morning’s session

  had left me hungry and soon I was digging into my own

  salad.

  “So what were y’all laughing about?” I asked.

  “Tell her,” Portland urged.

  The professor smiled and an impish gleam lit her face.

  “It was outside the café where I picked up our salads

  just now. First this dilapidated wreck of a pickup with a

  crushed front fender and a closed-in topper slides into

  the curb and parks.”

  “In a handicap spot?”

  “Yep. And no, they didn’t have a tag.”

  “Are we to assume a tow truck’s on the way even as

  we eat?”

  Dr. Allred shook her head. “I didn’t have the heart.

  See, the driver’s door opens and a grizzled old man gets

  out. He’s got one foot in a cast and his arm’s in one of

  those rigid slings where his elbow is on the same level

  as his shoulder.”

  She demonstrated the awkward angle.

  “Then the passenger door opens and out comes a

  pair of crutches, followed by a woman with both legs

  in casts.”

  I laughed. “You’re making that up.”

  “Word of honor. They then help each other hobble

  around to the back, open up the door and a dog jumps

  out.”

  “Don’t tell me the dog’s wearing a cast?”

  “No, but it’s only got three legs.”

  “No way,” I protested.

  Eyes twinkling, she crossed her heart. “True story.

  Now how could I write those poor folks a ticket?”

  93

  MARGARET MARON

  “You’re all heart,” I told her.

  She laughed and finished off the last of her salad.

  “Gotta go. If you need any more data, Portland, just

  give me a call. Good seeing both of you.”

  I held the door for her, but more than that she would

  not allow. Fortunately the courthouse is completely ac-

  cessible and I knew that her van was equipped with full

  hydraulics so that she could manage easily.

  “What was all that about?” I asked when she was

  gone.

  Portland wiped a small dollop of mayo from her upper

  lip and handed me a manila folder. “She brought me a

  rough draft of the statistical analysis she’s doing on do-

  mestic violence. Especially as it relates to threats made

  and threats carried out.”

  I leafed through the graphs and charts and row of

  numbers that were meaningless to me.

  “Bottom line?” Portland said grimly. “Once physical

  violence accelerates, if the violent partner threatens to

  kill the significant other, there’s damn little the authori-

  ties can do to stop it. I plan to show these figures to Bo

  and Dwight and see if they can’t prove her wrong in the

  case of Karen Braswell.”

  94

  C H A P T E R

  11

  If all farmers were true to principle with respect to the dis-

  posal of their products, there would be less perversion of the

  good and useful.

  —Profitable Farming in the Southern States, 1890

  % Friday night found Dwight and me heading in op-

  posite directions. Uncle Ash had brought home a

  mess of rainbow trout from the mountains and Aunt

  Zell had invited us to supper, but the Canes were back

  in Raleigh for a home game, so Dwight said he’d pick

  Cal up and head on into town for a supper that was

  something other than pizza.

  “Did Portland talk to you about her client?” I asked.

  It was my afternoon break and I had caught him still

  at his desk, reading through reports.

  “And that ex-husband who keeps harassing her? Yeah.

  Like I told her though, there’s not much we can do if he

  decides to punch her out, but at least Portland doesn’t

  have to worry about him shooting her client. Judge

  Parker sent over an order for us to search Braswell’s

  place and confiscate any guns we found. We got a shot-

  gun, a .22 rifle and a .9-millimeter automatic. It’s too

  95

  MARGARET MARON

  bad though, that she and her mother can’t move to an-

  other state before he gets out next week.”

  “Why should she be the one to run?” I asked indig-

  nantly. “He’s the problem, not her.”

  “Hey, I’m not saying she’s at fault,” he said, holding

  up his hands to fend off my irritation. “I’m just say-

  ing we can’t provide round-the-clock protection and if

  the woman’s that worried . . . Be fair, Deb’rah. You live

  on the beach and you know a hurricane’s coming, you

  know you need to move to high ground till the storm’s

  over, right?”

  “I guess,” I said glumly.

  “Well, she needs to get out of his way till he gets

  over her. Give him time to get interested in another

  woman or something. And that’s what Bo and I told

  Portland.”

  I could just imagine what her response to that had

  been.

  When I got to Aunt Zell’s that night, I found that

  she had taken pity on my cousin Reid and invited him

  to join us. He claims not to know how to boil water and

  he’s always glad to accept the offer of a home-cooked

  meal. The grilled trout were hot and crispy and Aunt Zell

  had made cornbread the way Mother and Maidie often

  did it: a mush of cornmeal, chopped onions, and milk

  poured into a black iron skillet after a little oil’s heated

  to the smoking point, then baked at 400º till the bottom

  is crusty brown. Turned onto a plate and cut into pie

  wedges, it doesn’t need butter to melt in your mouth.

  Uncle Ash is tall and slim. Like his brother, who is

  96

  HARD ROW

  Portland’s dad, he had the Smith family’s tight curly

  hair, only his was now completely white. He had

  brought home a copy of the High Country Courier be-

  cause it carried a story about a murder that had taken

  place when I was up there last October. One killer had

  been sentenced to twelve years after pleading guilty.

  The other was going to walk away free.

  No surprises there.

  We caught up on family news. Uncle Ash’s whole ca-

  reer had been with the marketing side of tobacco and he

  was i
nterested to hear that my brothers were going to

  tread water by growing it on contract for another year.

  “But if they’re really interested in doing something

  different, the first cars ran on alcohol, you know,” he

  said with a sly grin. “Kezzie say anything about y’all

  maybe distilling a little motor fuel?”

  “Oh, Ash,” said Aunt Zell, who is always embar-

  rassed for me whenever anyone alludes to Daddy’s for-

  mer profession.

  “Now, Uncle Ash, you know well and good that my

  daddy wouldn’t do anything illegal like that,” I said,

  unable to control my own grin. “Besides, to run a car,

  it’d have to be a hundred-and-ninety proof, almost pure

  alcohol. I don’t think he ever got anything that pure.”

  “Would they really legalize the home brewing of

  something that potent?” asked Reid, helping himself to

  another wedge of cornbread.

  “If gas keeps going up, who knows?” said Uncle Ash.

  “Soon as you mention alcohol, though, lawmakers get

  nervous. It’s like when they made farmers quit growing

  hemp about seventy years ago.”

  97

  MARGARET MARON

  Industrial hemp was one of Uncle Ash’s favorite

  hobby horses and he was off and riding.

  “We spend millions importing something that we

  could grow right in our own country, right here in

  Colleton County. You can make dozens of useful things

  from it—paper, food, paint, medicine, even fuel. And

  they say that hemp seed oil is one of the most balanced

  in the world for the ratio of omega-sixes to omega-

  threes. It’s friendly to the environment, doesn’t take a

  lot of water or fertilizer to grow, and it’s easy to harvest.

  But those spineless jellyfish who call themselves states-

  men? Soon as they see the word ‘hemp,’ they’re afraid

  their voters will see ‘cannabis.’ ”

  “Ash, dear, you’re raising your voice again,” said

  Aunt Zell.

  “Sorry,” he said sheepishly and got up to help her

  make coffee and bring in the pecan pie I had seen cool-

  ing in the kitchen earlier.

  “So what’s with you and Flame Smith?” I asked Reid

  as I set out coffee cups.

  “You know her?”

  “Not me. Portland. She ran into us at lunch yester-

  day. Just before you got there. Please tell me you’re not

  putting the moves on your client’s girlfriend.”

  His blue eyes widened innocently. “It was strictly

  business and excuse me, Your Honor, but should we be

  having this ex parte discussion?”

  I hate it when he scores a legal point off my curiosity.

  I was home by nine and immediately switched on the

  hockey game. Amazing how much easier it was to fol-

  98

  HARD ROW

  low now that I’d attended an actual game. During the

  commercials, I managed to wash and dry two loads of

  laundry and had piles of folded underwear on the couch

  beside me by the time Dwight and Cal returned. The

  game had been a blowout. Unfortunately, it was the

  Canes that got stomped.

  Aunt Zell had sent the rest of the pie home for them

  and Cal had taken his into the living room to watch

  WRAL’ s recap of the game when Dwight’s phone rang.

  He listened intently, then said, “I’m on my way.”

  I quit pouring his milk. “What’s happened?”

  Dwight reached for his jacket with a grim face. “They

  just found another damn hand.”

  99

  C H A P T E R

  12

  While money making is one of the great desiderata with

  most men, it is not the chief good in life, neither does it con-

  stitute the sum total to earthly happiness as men, by their

  lives, seem to regard it.

  —Profitable Farming in the Southern States, 1890

  Dwight Bryant

  Friday Night, March 3

  % Ward Dairy Road again, but this time it was not a

  dog or a human who found a body part.

  It was a buzzard.

  “Damnedest thing,” said the man who had called

  them. “My wife and I were running late this morning

  and as we headed out to the car, there were some buz-

  zards over there in those weeds at the edge of the field.

  One of them flew up with something when I started

  the engine and then I heard a clunk on the top of the

  car. Sounded almost like a rock, only not as heavy,

  you know? My wife saw it bounce way under the holly

  bushes over there but we didn’t have time to stop and

  see what it was. After work, we went out to supper and

  a movie, but as soon as we got home, my wife wanted

  100

  HARD ROW

  me to take the shovel and find whatever it was before

  we let the dogs out and they got into something nasty.

  They’re bad for rolling in roadkill.”

  He had left his find on the shovel by the holly bushes

  and their flashlights showed a large and presumably

  male left hand, much the worse for wear. It seemed

  to be frozen solid, yet flesh had been pecked from the

  bones and several finger joints were missing. If the third

  finger had ever worn a wedding band, there was no sign

  of one now. Dwight was surprised the buzzard hadn’t

  come back for it. Unless there was something else out

  there beyond their flashlights?

  They would have to wait for the ME’s determination,

  but it looked to him like the mate to the first hand they

  had found exactly one week ago.

  A full week and they were no nearer an identity.

  The man indicated the general area where he had first

  seen the buzzards and they approached gingerly, sweep-

  ing the ground before them with their lights. They saw

  nothing of interest in the weeds and nothing on the

  shoulder of the road, but when they walked in the op-

  posite direction, shining their flashlights in the ditches,

  Detective Jack Jamison noticed that water had ponded

  up and frozen solid behind a clogged culvert. He started

  to walk on, but something seemed to be embedded in

  the dirty ice.

  “I think it’s the other arm!” he called.

  The others quickly joined him on the edge of the road.

  Three flashlights focused on the ice, and the shape was

  so similar to what they hoped to find that it took a poke

  with the shovel to confirm that the object was only part

  of a tree branch that had broken off and lodged there.

  101

  MARGARET MARON

  Disappointed, they walked on.

  “At least it’s on a line with the other parts,” Deputy

  Richards said. Despite a red nose and cheeks, her cold

  seemed to be drying up and she had turned out when

  Dwight paged her, even though technically not on

  duty.

  There was something different about her tonight,

  Dwight thought. She wore jeans instead of her usual

  utilitarian slacks and the turtleneck sweater peeping out

  of her black suede jacket was a soft pink. And was that

  perfume drifting o
n the chill night air?

  He gave himself a mental kick in the pants. Of course!

  Friday night? Young single woman?

  “Sorry for messing up your evening,” he said.

  She shrugged. “That’s okay. Goes with the job,

  doesn’t it?”

  And that was something else new. Heretofore, when-

  ever he addressed a personal remark to Richards, she

  usually turned a fiery red. He realized now that it had

  not happened in the last few weeks. She was a good of-

  ficer, but he had begun to think she was never going

  to be able to join in the department’s easy give-and-

  take, yet she had finally adapted and he had not even

  noticed.

  Just as Dwight was ready to call it a night, Jamison’s

  light caught something amid a curtain of dead kudzu

  vines that entangled a clump of young pines growing

  on the ditchbank. He thought at first that it was an old

  weatherstained cardboard box. Nevertheless, he walked

  over to check it out.

  “Oh dear Lord in the morning!” said Richards, who

  102

  HARD ROW

  had crossed the road to shine her own light on his

  find.

  There, hidden from casual view was a naked torso

  that was armless, legless, and headless as well. Because

  it was lying on its back, it took them a moment to ori-

  ent themselves, to realize that the three black stumps

  nearest them were probably the neck and what was left

  of the upper arms, which meant that the opposite end

  should have been the sex organs. It was probably male

  like the earlier parts they had found. There was a mat of

  hair between the flat breasts, but nothing was left in the

  genital area except a dark ugly gouge.

  Denning drove the crime scene van down to the site

  and set up his floodlights. As he surveyed what was left

  of the body before taking pictures, he shook his head

  and said to Dwight, “You know something, Major? We

  got ourselves one pissed-off killer.”

  Every man in the group felt a painful twinge of sym-

  pathetic horror as they gazed down at the mutilated vic-

  tim. Dwight, too. Once again, he thought of the church

  sign where they had found the first hand.

  With what measure you mete, it shall be measured

  to you again.

  What the hell had the guy done to wind up like this,

  with his personal parts strewn across the county?

  At the other end of the state, Flame Smith turned off

  the main highway and shifted to low gear. The engine

  protested against the steep climb ahead and her tires