tortured the boy. We…” He didn’t want to remember about the burn marks. “And he raped the girl before he killed her. Mutilated the body. I think that’s what really got him the death penalty. The jury looked at pictures of that smiling girl with the big calf’s eyes, and then at what was left of her in the crime scene photos…” He shrugged.
He took a deep breath and wished he hadn’t started talking about the case, because he had tried hard to forget what he had seen that day. He didn’t want to picture the remnants of bodies he’d found at that campsite. He hadn’t had that nightmare in a long time. And now he would.
“I don’t remember this,” said Martha. “What were their names?”
“Her name was Emily Stanton. I can’t remember his.”
Martha shook her head. “The name doesn’t mean anything to me. I sure do remember the Harkryders, though. They were memorable, every single one of them. How many were there? I lost count.”
Spencer smiled. “Seemed like dozens, though some of them were cousins of the other ones. Nobody talked family with the Harkryders. If you were kin to them, you wouldn’t claim it. Tom was the one in our class, wasn’t he? I don’t think he started out with us, though. We caught up with him.”
“Mean as a striped snake. Which doesn’t say much to distinguish him from the rest of the litter. Which one was Fate?”
“Lafayette Harkryder. The youngest. There isn’t much to say about him. He was only seventeen when it happened. I guess he’s been in prison now longer than he was out in the world. Funny, in my mind, I still see him as a skinny teenage boy. He must be middle-aged by now, at least in prison years. You age fast in there. I probably wouldn’t know him if I saw him.”
“And you arrested him back then?”
Spencer nodded. “My first murder case. I was a deputy for Nelse Miller, and the bodies were found late one night on my watch… Fate Harkryder… I’d almost forgotten about him. I fretted over it enough at the time, though. I guess I never thought it would come to this.”
“Well, I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you,” said Martha. “In the first place, I’m sure he has it coming to him, and in the second place, the way they mollycoddle criminals these days, I doubt very much that he’ll keep that date with the executioner. He’s probably got a roomful of lawyers writing appeals on everything they can think of. Trust me. An execution hasn’t happened in Tennessee in thirty-some years, and it won’t happen now.”
“Maybe you’re right, Martha.”
“Of course I am. Now, I have to get back on patrol, so I’m going to leave. You’re sure you’re all right?”
He nodded. “Just a shock to the system, that’s all.”
“But I worry about you being stuck up here on this ridge all alone. Thank the Lord it’s not winter. Is there anything I can bring you?”
“Yes,” said Spencer. “I’d like you to bring me the case file on Fate Harkryder.”
Martha sighed. “You’re going to wear yourself out worrying about this thing, aren’t you?”
“No. I promise I’ll go easy. I just want to refresh my memory. And, Martha-one other thing. Have you ever heard of Frankie Silver?”
The old woman stood on the side of the road clutching the letter. She waited there until the pickup truck swirled into dust below the brow of the hill before she took a step toward the small iron gate bordered by tiger lilies. The white frame house at the end of the path sat like a pearl on a seashell, poised as it was on the ridge above the patchwork of fields and river far below. The beauty of the scenery did not gladden her heart, though. She looked warily at the prim little house, knowing that for all the urgency of her visit, she was in no hurry to open that gate.
Nora Bonesteel lived here.
Not that anybody ever said a word against old Miz Bonesteel. She was still a handsome woman, who wore well her seventy years, and she never asked favors of a soul. She stood faithfully in her church pew every week, and she kept to herself, but for doing what had to be done: food taken to the sick, and fine things knitted and sewn for the brides and the babies of the parish, but still… Still.
Nobody wanted to have much to do with Nora Bonesteel. She knew things. People said that when you came to tell her the news of a death in the valley, the cake for the family would already be in the oven. The Sight was in the Bonesteel family; her grandmother had been the same. The Bonesteel women never talked about what they knew, never meddled in folks’ lives, but all the same, it made people uneasy to be around them, knowing that whatever happened to you, they would have seen it coming.
The old woman looked down at the letter from Nashville. Would she know about that, what with the letter coming from so far away? With a sigh she bent down to open the gate.
When she looked up again, the tall, straight figure of a woman in gray stood on the porch, silently watching her. She clutched the mason jar of peach preserves tighter against her belly. She had brought a gift. She would not be beholden to this strange old woman.
As she neared the porch, she called out, “Afternoon, Miz Bonesteel! I’ve come to sit a spell.”
Nora Bonesteel nodded. “You’re Pauline Harkryder.”
“I am.” She held out the jar of preserves, but the burden of the letter from Nashville was too great for the pretense of a social call. “I’ve got a letter here,” she said. “It’s about my nephew Lafayette, down at the state prison in Nashville.”
“You’d best come in.”
They sat down in Nora Bonesteel’s parlor with its big glass window overlooking the river valley and the green hills beyond, but Pauline Harkryder had no time to spare for the glories of a mountain summer. She had seen more than fifty of them, and they had not given her much. Each summer reminded her that the world stayed young, while she wore herself out doing the same old thing year after year, with nothing to show for it. She handed the letter to Nora Bonesteel.
She waited, twisting her hands in her lap, while the old woman read the few typed lines announcing the scheduled execution of Lafayette Harkryder in a few weeks’ time.
When Nora Bonesteel had finished reading the letter, she set it down on the table. “You’d better have some tea,” she said.
Pauline Harkryder shrugged. It was all one to her. She couldn’t remember whether she’d eaten anything today or not. “They say they’re going to kill Lafayette,” she called out. Nora Bonesteel was in the kitchen now, setting the copper kettle on to boil. It made her easier to talk to, Pauline thought, if you didn’t have to look at those blue eyes staring through you.
A few moments passed, and there was no answer from the kitchen. Pauline tried again. “Do you think they will? Kill him, I mean.”
Nora Bonesteel appeared in the doorway. “I don’t know,” she said. “I’ll pray about it.”
“But-what I came to ask… If I could just know for sure… Miz Bonesteel-
They stared at each other in silence. At last Nora Bonesteel said, “Do you need me to tell you that?”
Pauline Harkryder covered her mouth with her hand. “I’ve never said anything,” she whispered. “In all these years I never did. Is it too late?”
Nora Bonesteel sighed. “Do you have any kind of proof that would convince a judge?”
“No.”
“Then let it be.” Behind her the teakettle screeched and rumbled, breaking the silence.
“It’s hard to know what’s best to do,” said Pauline. “He was a sweet young ’un,
