Mystery Walk

remembered happening in Hawthorne, and he was privileged with more gossip and inside information than even Sheriff Bromley or Reverend Horton. 'They had to take Hank Witherspoon to the hospital in Fayette,' he told them. 'Poor old man's ticker almost gave out. May Maxie told me Witherspoon heard the shots and went over to find out what had happened; seems he found Booker sittin' naked on his sofa, and the room was still full of shotgun smoke. Must've put both barrels under his chin and squeezed with his thumbs. 'Course, Hank couldn't tell who it was right off.' He let a blue thread of smoke leak from one side of his mouth before he puffed again. 'I guess the troopers found the rest of 'em. I liked Julie Ann, she always had a kind word. And those kids were as cute as buttons on a Sunday suit. Lordamighty, what a shame. . . .'

'Troopers are still at the house,' Leighton said, risking a quick glance at John. He didn't like that sonofabitch, who'd married a women more squaw than white; he knew the tales told about that woman, too, just as everyone around this stove did. She didn't come into town much, but when she did she walked like she owned the whole street, and Leighton didn't think that was proper for a woman like her. In his opinion she should be crawling to the church to pray for her soul. That quiet dark-skinned whelp of hers wasn't any better either, and he knew his own twelve-year-old son Duke could whip the living hell out of that little queer. 'Cleanin' up what's left, I suppose,' he said. 'What they're puzzlin' over is where the boy might be.'

'May Maxie told me they found blood in his bed, all over the sheets. But could be he got away and ran off into the woods.'

John grunted softly. May Maxie was Hawthorne's telephone operator, and lived attached to wires. 'Thank the good Lord it's over with,' he said.

'Nope.' Hiram's eyes glinted. 'It ain't over.' He looked at each man in turn, then settled his gaze on John. 'Whether Dave Booker was crazy or not, and how crazy he was, don't make no difference. What he did was pure evil, and once evil gets started it roots like a damn kudzu vine. Sure, there's been calamities in Hawthorne before, but now . . . You mark my words, it ain't over.'

The front door opened, jingling a little bell that hung over it. Lee Sayre stepped in, wearing his brown-and- green-splotched hunting jacket with stags' blood still marking it like a badge of honor. He quickly shut the door against the cold and strode back to the stove to warm himself. 'Colder than a witch's tit out there!' He took off his brown leather cap and hung it on a wall hook, then stood beside John and kneaded his hands as they thawed. 'I hear Julie Ann's mother came to town this mornin'. They let her go in there and she had a fit. It's a shame, a whole family killed like that.'

'Not a whole family,' John reminded him. 'Maybe the boy got away.'

'Anybody believes that can whistle 'Dixie' out his ass.' Sayre drew up a chair, turned it around so he could rest his arms across the back, and then sat down. 'Next thing you'll be sayin', the boy did the killing himself.'

That thought caused a sudden shock, but John knew it wasn't true. No, Will was either wandering in the woods or buried somewhere. He cursed himself for not seeing this before, in the rages of temper Dave had displayed sometimes when they were fishing. Once Dave had become infuriated with a tangled line and ended up throwing a perfectly good tackle box into Semmes Lake, then cradling his head and breaking into tears as John had nervously steered their rowboat back to shore. Lord, he thought, she was begging me to save their lives yesterday! He'd told no one that he'd been there; fear and shame had stitched his mouth shut.

'Yeah, it's a shame,' Lee said. 'But life's for the livin', huh?' He swept his gaze around at the others. 'It's time we talked about what's to be done with Preacher Horton.'

'Damned nigger-lover'—Ralph leaned over and spat tobacco juice—'I never liked that blowhard bastard.'

'What's to be done?' Lee asked the group. 'Are we going to have a regular meetin' to decide on it?'

'Lieutenants are all right here,' Hiram drawled. 'We can decide now and be done with it.'

Curtis said hesitantly, 'I don't know, Lee. Horton may be associatin' with the niggers, but he's still the minister He was awful good to my Louise when her mother took sick, you know.'

'What're you talkin' about, boy? Horton's tryin' to get niggers to come to white services! He's been hangin' around Dusktown, and Lord only knows what he's up to!' Lee lowered his voice conspiratorially. 'I hear he fancies some black tail, too, and he knows where to find it when he needs it. Are we gonna stand for that?'

'Nope,' Ralph said. 'No way in hell.'

'John, you're mighty quiet today. Guess I can't blame you, seein' what went on last night and you were Dave Booker's best friend and all. But what do you say about Horton?'

John could feel them waiting for him to respond. He didn't like to have to make decisions, and he hadn't wanted to be a lieutenant anyway but they'd forced it on him. 'I think we should wait until after the funerals,' he said uncertainly. He could feel Ralph Leighton's wolfish gaze on him. 'Horton's going to conduct the services, and I think we should show respect. Then . . .'He shrugged. 'I'll go with whatever majority vote is.'

'Good.' Lee clapped the other man's shoulder 'That's just what I was going to say. We wait until the Booker family is buried, then we pay a visit to Mr. Horton. I'll get things ready. Curtis, you start callin' everybody.'

They talked on for a while longer, the conversation turning back to the murders. When Curtis started going into the details he'd heard from May Maxie again, John abruptly rose to his feet and put on his coat, telling them he had to be getting home. The men were silent as he left the barbershop, and John knew all too well what the subject of conversation would be after he was gone: Ramona. Her name was never mentioned in his presence, but he knew that as soon as he'd gone they would turn their minds and tongues to the subject of his wife, and what they disliked and feared about her. He couldn't blame them. But he was still a son of Hawthorne, no matter who he'd married, and they were respectful in his presence; all except that fat pig Leighton, John thought as he walked to his car.

He slid into the Oldsmobile and pulled away from the curb. Slowing as he reached the Bookers' house— help me help me, Julie Ann had said—he saw two state-trooper cars parked out in front; a trooper was walking up in the woods beyond the house, poking a stick into the ground. Two others were methodically ripping up some of the front-porch boards underneath. Never going to find that boy, John thought. If he ran away he's so scared he'll never come out, and if he's dead Dave did away with the corpse.

Returning his attention to the highway, he was startled to see two figures standing on the roadside staring across at the Booker house. Ramona wore her heavy brown coat and clenched Billy's gloved hand; her eyes were closed, her head tilted slightly back. John screeched the brakes in stopping the Olds, and he had his window roiled down as he backed up and yelled, 'Ramona! Come on, both of you! Get in this car!'

Billy looked at him fearfully, but the woman stood very still for a moment more, her eyes open, gazing across the road at the house.

'RAMONA!' he thundered, his face flaming with anger. He was amazed that she'd ventured out from home in this numbing cold, because she rarely left the house even at the height of summer. But here she was, and he was furious because she'd dared to bring the boy. 'Get in this car right now!'

Finally they crossed the road and climbed in. Billy shivered between them. John put the car into gear and drove on. 'What're you doin' here?' he asked her angrily. 'Why bring the boy? Don't you know what happened there last night?'

'I know,' she replied.

'Oh, so you thought you'd bring Billy to see it, did you? Lord God!' He trembled, feeling like the sputtering wick on a stick of dynamite. 'Don't you think he'll find out quick enough at school?'

'Find out what?' Billy said in a small voice, sensing the sparks of a fight about to explode into flames.

'Nothin',' John said. 'Don't you worry about it, son.'

'He needs to know. He needs to hear it from us, not from those children at school. ...'

'Shut up!' he shouted suddenly. 'Just shut up, will you?' He was going too fast, about to overshoot his dirt driveway, and he had to fight the brakes to slow the lumbering Olds enough to turn it. Ramona had looked away from him, her hands clenched in her lap, and between them Billy had slunk down low with his head bowed. He wanted to know what those police cars were doing in front of Will's house, and why Will hadn't been at school this morning; he'd heard whispered stories from the other children, stories that made him feel sick and afraid inside. Something bad had happened, but no one was exactly sure just what it had been. Billy had heard