washer the next morning when the phone rang.
“Oh good,” Dwight said. “You haven’t left yet. I’m
halfway to Dobbs and I just realized that I left some
papers I’ll need on the floor beside our bed. Could you
bring them when you come?”
“Sure,” I told him and immediately went to our room
to find them. When I circled the bed to his side, I saw
several sheets of paper on top of a manila file folder. I
picked them up and straightened them, and saw that the
top page was titled “Harris Farm #1: Workers on site as
of 1 January.” One name leaped out at me and I smiled
as I read it, then tucked the pages neatly into the folder
and placed it with my purse so I’d remember to take it
with me.
On my drive in, though, that name began to gnaw at
me. January? I thought about the blowup Mrs. Harris
had with her husband last spring, almost a year ago.
280
HARD ROW
Why would someone wait nine or ten months to
avenge a wrong if that’s when Buck Harris had done
anything worth avenging? And why chop off his arms
and legs in such a rage?
Unless—?
Unbidden came the memory of how Will’s wife, Amy,
had vented last Saturday when I helped her write her
grant proposal. Emma, too, when she and her cousins
were arguing with Haywood. I coupled it with what
Faye Myers had almost told me on Tuesday and a nebu-
lous theory began to form.
At Bethel Baptist Church on Ward Dairy Road, I
pulled into the churchyard to call my favorite clerk in
Ellis Glover’s office and ask her to pull a file for me.
When I got to the courthouse, I stopped there first.
It was as I thought. The original addresses were the
same.
Downstairs, Faye Myers was on duty at the dispatch
desk. I waited till she was off the phone and then asked
her to finish telling me what she’d started to on Tuesday.
“About what Flip told you when you were telling me
about Mike Diaz and Mayleen Richards,” I reminded
her.
“Well, I probably shouldn’t repeat it,” she said. And
of course, she did.
It was worse than I’d thought, but it clarified the
whole situation and I walked on down to Dwight’s of-
fice. He saw my face and his smile turned to concern.
“Deb’rah? What’s wrong, shug?”
281
