Black Light

“Well,” said Russ, a little nonplussed, “uh, yes, mistakes do get made. Uh, but you see if I wrote a book about Lamar Pye and what he took from people and where he came from, well, it has to start on the night of July 23, 1955. It all starts that night: Lamar’s life, and what became of it. Is it some genetic thing: like father like son? Well, maybe it is. Jim Pye was a criminal and a killer: his son was a criminal and a killer. On the other side, there’s Earl Swagger, war hero and man of honor. And there’s his son. War hero and man of honor.”

“My father was a man of honor,” said Bob. “I was just a marine.”

“But it all begins on that night. All of it: your life, Lamar’s life, what you did, what Lamar did. What happened to all those people in Oklahoma, people who never heard of Jim Pye—”

“Jimmy Pye,” said Bob. “They called him Jimmy.”

“Yes, well, anyhow, people who just walked into the fury Jimmy passed on to his son and died for it. It could be a great book. Too bad a great writer didn’t see it. But I’m the guy that saw it, and so I’m going to write it. I’m going to call it American Men. It’s a study of the life of Jimmy Pye and Earl Swagger and it’s the story of Jimmy’s son, Lamar, and poor old Bud Pewtie, the cop who ran into him and chased him down. The parallels are so unbelievable. Two bad boys just out of prison, father and son. Two state police sergeants. Two violent robberies. Gunfights, close up and scary and dangerous. It’s—it’s a great book.”

Bob just looked at him.

“It won’t have a thing to do with 1992 and what happened to you and the Time and Newsweek covers and all that,” Russ said. “It’s not about Vietnam. It’s about a legacy of violence handed down through two generations and the two lawmen who stopped it, who stood up and said, by God, no more, it stops here, tonight. Your dad who gave up his whole life and my dad who got his head all messed up because of it.”

Bob doubted that at any moment during their long and violent nights either sergeant had said, “By God, no more, it stops here, tonight.” That’s how the movies would have it. More likely, each man had thought, “Oh, Jesus, don’t let me get killed tonight,” but the movies never got that part right.

“Bob,” said Julie, “it would be so nice to give your father his due. He could have some measure of the respect and honor he deserved, even now, forty years later.”

“What do you want from me?” Bob said.

“Ah. Well, I suppose, fundamentally, your blessing. And in small ways, your help. I was hoping to interview you on the subject of your father. I was hoping you’d share your memories of him, not just of that night and the aftermath and what you remember or know of it, but generally, what sort of a man he was, that sort of thing. Then I guess there might be some documents you’d still have: photo albums, maybe some more articles, letters, I don’t know. Anything to build it up, to recall it, to help me re-create it.”

“Umh,” grunted Bob noncommittally.

“And finally, some kind of help, you know, in getting others to talk. I know how reluctant people can be to open up to a stranger, particularly a younger man from a different part of the country, though Lawton, Oklahoma, where I’m from, isn’t all that far from Blue Eye and Fort Smith. But a phone call, a letter of introduction. See, it has to be all oral recollection. One of the first things I learned was that in 1994 the Polk County courthouse annex burned down, and that’s where all the files and exhibits from the hearings were stored. The after-action reports, the medical records, all that. I have secondary sources from the newspapers but I want to talk to people. I even wrote the Arkansas congressmen and both senators and some other people in hopes of opening doors. I just got generic replies, but with Bob Lee Swagger helping me—”

He stopped. He was done.

“That’s it. That’s all I have. I’m finished. Uh, why don’t you, you know, think about it? Give it some thought. I’m no salesman. I hate selling things. I want you to be comfortable too.”

“Well,” said Bob. “Look, I could lie to you and say, yep, you let me think about it and we could play this game out. But here’s my answer, straight out: No.”

“Bob—”

“Julie, no, you let me talk. I can’t have it. That’s all over. I buried my daddy and went on and made my way. I can’t be talking it up into some tape recorder. Those memories—you don’t give them away for someone else’s book. It seems—indecent.”

The boy took it well.

“Yeah,” he said. “Well, you’re consistent, at least. Just let me say, I’d try to do honor to your father. To me he’s a hero. He never left his family. But going back is painful, what’s the point except to make some kid you never heard of a published writer? Okay. Uh. I’ll probably still go ahead, somehow. I’m sort of committed. I actually quit my job and I’m determined to take it the whole way. So … well, I’m sorry. I appreciate your time and your honesty.”

“I wish you luck, Russ. You seem all right. Your dad seems like a hell of a man. I’m sorry he did what he did.”

“Sure. Uh, I guess I’ll be going now.”

He stood and tentatively put out a hand, which Bob shook, and then turned and stepped out of the porch and began to walk up the road to his truck.

“Bob,” said Julie. “Are you sure—”

Bob turned and his wife saw something on his face she’d never seen before. It was, she realized, fear.

“I can’t go back there,” he said. “I can’t face all that. It nearly killed me then. It killed my mother. It’s better off forgotten.”

6

“O

h, God, Jimmy,” she said.

The voice came from far away but as Earl drew near he could hear it increasing in clarity and the familiar rhythms of the young man he’d watched grow up became evident.

“Honey, oh, God, I am so sorry,” Jimmy was saying, “I have made such a mess of things, oh, Lord, it just got out of hand.”

Earl hovered over Edie, feeling huge and helpless and enraged at what Jimmy was doing to her.

“Jimmy, please, don’t hurt anybody else.”

“I swear to you I won’t.”

Earl tried to fight his way through his anger: What should I do? What’s the smart move? He was always so certain, he always acted decisively and correctly, in every situation from a hunting camp to a battle to any of a hundred police dilemmas. But now he felt sluggish, stupid, lost. He tried to get his mind working.

This was almost a jail breakout, and in almost all jail breakouts, standard operating procedure was to wiretap the homes of those the escapee would most likely turn to, then raid them when contact was established. But would the department have had time to set up a wiretap? The robbery was around noon; it was now four, that was a few hours. He didn’t think so.

More to the point, though, Betty Hill, the operator, was known to listen in as she threw wires into jacks at the Polk County switchboard. She might be listening. And if so, who would she call, the sheriff? She might even call Earl himself!

“Find out where he is,” he mouthed to Edie.

“Jimmy, oh my God, where are you?”

“I’m at some general store up near Mulberry on the public phone. It’s around back, ain’t nobody can see us. We done dumped two cars and picked up another one.”

“Oh, Jimmy. They’ll get you. You know that.”

“Honey, listen. It’s all over for me. I got to face up to it, I’m finished, I’m over. You’re a free gal. I love you but you can’t stick to me from now on. Ain’t nothing in it for you. Honey, I crossed the line and can’t get back over.”

“Oh, Jimmy, Jim—”

“But listen here, the problem is Bub. Christ, that boy didn’t do nothing but what I told him. He’s out in the car