She glowered at him from the door. He looked away.
“Well, you better get your goddamn head screwed on right quick or we’re all gonna hang for this mess. You gave me your word you’d take care of this. You said you’d handle all of it.”
But Si’s voice sounded sleepy and satisfied, the way an adult reads a storybook to a child with no sense. As Arch smoked down the cigarette and knocked down the rest of the drink, Madeline looking through the refrigerator for a nighttime craving, he wondered if Si Garrett wasn’t gone forever.
“I’m coming to see you.”
“I’m coming to Texas. We need to talk. You gave me your goddamn word. What are you without your word?”
The phone line went dead, and Arch left it there buzzing in his lap for a long time, his face growing hot.
JOHN PATTERSON AND HUGH BRITTON MET ME AT THE sheriff’s office the next morning. I opened some of the windows behind my desk to let in some air. It took some work, because the sills had been painted over and the windows didn’t budge until I used a flathead screwdriver and a hammer. Finally, I got some air going and set a fan on top of the desk, where I sat on the edge and listened to Hugh Britton tell us both what he’d heard.
“Fuller is leaving town,” he said. “I hear it’s tonight. He’s waiting till it gets dark and then he’s gonna slip out past the roadblocks.”
“You know where he’s headed?”
“I don’t.”
“Can we hold him on anything?”
Patterson shook his head. “We could charge him with neglect of duty, but he’d be out within an hour. We’d need something that would stick, and let the judge set his bond high enough that he won’t be able to leave.”
“What about pimping?” I asked.
“You know anyone who’ll testify to that?”
I thought of the girl and then shook my head.
“This whole town is still scared to death of that sonofabitch,” Britton said. “But if y’all don’t do something, Bert Fuller will be sitting on a beach in South America and we’ll never see the bastard again.”
I lit a cigarette and tried to open another window. It was only early morning but hot and muggy, and the office smelled of old tobacco and sweat.
I reached into a desk and found what I wanted and tossed it across the desk. “Found this in the files last night.”
Patterson opened up little books of prints lifted from the Patterson Oldsmobile and handed them to Britton.
“I don’t know if these are duplicates. Can we get these sent up to Washington to go with the prints on your daddy’s car?”
Patterson nodded. He looked better than I’d seen him in a while. He was freshly shaven, wearing khakis and a light blue shirt. He stood up and helped himself to a mug of coffee from the pot we kept on the hot plate. His eyes clear and focused, black hair combed straight back. Not a single Democratic candidate had challenged him for the AG position, and he was already making plans to move to Montgomery come January.
Behind him, the gun rack sat empty. The only guns in the jail were on the Guard troops and the.45 Jack Black had given me. I had no uniforms. I had no deputies.
The file cabinet drawers were open and cleared, most of the contents being pored over by assistant state attorneys. One of the young boys – fresh out of University of Alabama law school – had brought the print book to me before I left my house.
“Where’d you hear this about Fuller?” I asked.
“A friend of his girlfriend,” Britton said. “She thinks he’s gonna skip out on her, too. She may be pregnant.”
“You want to take a visit?”
“Sure thing,” Britton said.
“I don’t want to see Bert Fuller till he’s in jail or sitting before a judge,” Patterson said. “I don’t trust myself with him.”
I grabbed my hat.
“Aren’t you gonna carry a gun?” Britton asked me.
I shrugged. “Not right now.”
“You got your badge?” Britton asked.
“He knows who I am.”
“I’d carry a badge.”
“I think it’s in my car,” I said. “Hugh, how’d you like to be my deputy?”
“How much you pay?”
I told him.
“Think I’ll stick to layin’ carpet, if it’s all the same,” he said.
As we left, John Patterson sat in my office in a hard wooden chair, staring out my open window.
SOMETIME AFTER OUR RUN-IN ON THE FOURTH, FULLER had decided to move into the second floor of Homer C. Cobb Memorial. The hospital was named in honor of the former mayor, mostly known for allowing gambling to run wild during the Depression to keep Phenix from falling into receivership, and the two major donors to the building fund had been Hoyt and Jimmie. It was one of the finest hospitals in east Alabama.
Fuller was in bed reading a Zane Grey novel. He wore a pair of red-and-blue-striped pajamas and smoked a cigarette, and when we entered the room he smiled weakly and reached out his hand to me.
“Congratulations,” he said. “I’m proud of you.”
I looked over to Hugh Britton and he looked back to me.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Fuller said, crushing out the cigarette in an ashtray that rested on his belly and setting down the book on a nearby food tray. “I’ve been meaning to thank you.”
“For what?”
“For helping me.”
He put out his hand again, but I still didn’t take it, and he smiled a little at that, fully understanding the situation.
“I was a sinner,” he said. “But I’m not a sinner no more.”
“That’s nice for you, Bert,” I said. “But I need to ask you some questions.”
“Won’t you pray with me?”
“Maybe later.”
“I love you, Lamar. I love you for what you done.”
I nodded and looked back to Hugh Britton. Britton was chewing a big wad of gum, and his jaw muscles flexed and worked as he eyed the big tub of guts in the bed. He just shook his steel gray head over what Bert Fuller had become.
“You want to tell me where you were when Mr. Patterson was shot?”
“Sure thing. It’s no secret. I was at the jail with Sheriff Matthews. I’ve already told all this to Mr. Sykes.”
“Well, tell me again.”
“I’m ashamed to admit it, but we were playing cards. But let me tell you something, that’s in my past. I don’t gamble, and my lips won’t touch a drop of whiskey. I am cleansed. Yes, sir. I just heard on the radio that Billy Graham wants to come to Phenix City for a revival. If that don’t beat all.”
“Bert, can you tell me how long you were at the jail?” I asked, pulling a little notebook from my shirt pocket. I clicked open a pen and took some notes.
“’Bout an hour,” he said.
“What time did you get there?”
“’Bout eight, it was gettin’ dark.”
“And when did you leave?”
