Part 8 (1/2)
”Yes, ma'am. Just got here, an' he don't wanta miss church, so you better go on back.” He hitched up his pants with his forearms, then unlatched a half door and led us through a hall to the last room on the left. Giving one rap on the door, he opened it and said, ”They're here.”
He stepped back and held the door for us. We walked into the small room, most of it taken up by a desk with two visitors' chairs in front of it. File cabinets lined the sides of the room, and a map of the county was pinned to the wall behind the desk. I took all that in at a glance because my attention was drawn to the lean, craggy-faced man who unfolded himself from the creaky chair behind the desk. He was as far from the picture Etta Mae had conjured up as I was from a Hollywood starlet.
Etta Mae took a deep breath beside me as I realized I wasn't quite immune to his presence, either. There was an air of competence and confidence about him that was both attractive and off-putting-off-putting because he could be a formidable opponent. His hair had started out brown but was mostly white, as was his bushy mustache. He had sharp, piercing blue eyes that looked us over, then tarried on Etta Mae. His craggy face was lined like old leather, but the closer I looked, the younger he seemed. He certainly wasn't too old to appreciate a young curly-headed woman, which he was obviously doing.
”Ladies,” he said, holding out his hand, ”Sheriff Ardis McAfee. How I can help you?”
I shook his hand and introduced ourselves, adding that we were from Abbotsville, North Carolina, so he'd know we hadn't just walked in off the street, then we took seats in front of his desk. I gave him the same kind of once-over he'd been giving Etta Mae. He was wearing jeans-denim again-and a white s.h.i.+rt. A black sport jacket hung on a coat tree behind him. His black string tie was, I guessed, his concession to church-going attire.
”Abbotsville, huh?” he said, his eyes lazing around as if he were sitting on a porch watching the world go by. ”Near Asheville?”
”Fairly,” I said with a terse nod.
”I got a niece livin' down that way if she's not moved again. You know a place called Fairfields?”
”Why, yes,” I said, surprised at the connection. If we kept on, we might discover some kins.h.i.+p. ”It's a wealthy enclave about ten miles outside of Abbotsville. What's your niece's name? I might know her.”
”Cheyenne, last I heard.” His mouth twitched. ”Real name's Nellie McAfee, but who knows? She keeps changing it. One of them free spirits, I guess.”
”My word,” I murmured. Then, ”There're a good many of those around these days, but I don't believe I've met her.”
”You'd remember, if you had.” His eyes swiveled to Etta Mae again. ”What can I do for you ladies?”
”I understand,” I said, getting down to business now that the niceties were out of the way, ”that you have spoken with Sergeant Coleman Bates of the Abbot County Sheriff's Department, and from that conversation, he tells me that you may be holding a friend of ours, Mr. J. D. Pickens. We have come to take him home.”
The sheriff let a few seconds pa.s.s, then he said, ”Well, now, that may not be possible. For one thing, we're not holding anybody by that name.”
”But you are. You just don't know it. You told Coleman that you have a John Doe, and we think that's Mr. Pickens. He called me, you see. Or rather he called my husband, who wasn't home because he's on a Holy Land tour, and the call got disconnected. Coleman had to track it down, and it led right here. So we'll identify him for you and take him off your hands.”
”Well,” the sheriff said again, leaning back in his creaky chair and drawing one leg over the other knee so that I saw he was partial to Dingo boots, too. ”Fact is,” he said in a lazy sort of way, ”we got lots of problems here, which I won't go into. But because of 'em, I have my doubts that the man I have is the man you're looking for.”
”But didn't he tell you who he is? We've heard he has a gunshot wound, but it's not in his throat, is it? He can talk, can't he?”
”Oh, he can talk,” Sheriff McAfee said, rolling his eyes to the ceiling. ”And he's said aplenty, all right. Lot of ugly talk, not much of which I can repeat, bein' a church-goin' man and a gentleman to boot. But I wouldn't be much of a sheriff to just take the word of a stranger, stripped of any and all identification and found in suspicious circ.u.mstances. There has to be an investigation, which is ongoing. We'll get to the bottom of it sooner or later.”
”Sooner or later” didn't sit well with me, but I let it go for the time being and tried another tack. ”Is the man of whom we're speaking under arrest?”
”No, ma'am, he's not. But he is injured and can't get around too good. So while we're pursuing the matter, the hospital's the best place for him.”
”Etta Mae, here, is a nurse,” I said, with a nod in her direction as I elevated her status just a tiny bit. ”We can take care of him, don't worry about that.”
”Look, Mrs. Murdoch,” he said, sitting up straight while the chair complained loudly. ”My deputies found this man shot and in shock way up in the hills. There wasn't a smidgen of ID on him, nothing to tell us who he is or what he was doing out there. When we brought him in, he was cold and wet and not making good sense. Now I've got feelers and queries out, and we ought to get confirmation of who he is in a few days. Then we can talk about what comes next. If, that is, you want to stick around that long.” He cut his eyes toward Etta Mae. She ducked her head and blushed.
”But I can confirm who he is! I've known him for years.”
He shook his head. ”No'm, gotta be official. There's lots more going on than you know about, things he might be mixed up in. I can't just release a John Doe on your say-so.”
”Well,” I said, thinking furiously, trying to come up with something that would move this stubborn man. ”Well, what if I told you that's his name.”
”What?” he asked, a smile playing around his mouth. ”John Doe?”
”Well, we call him J.D. for short.”
Etta Mae's head snapped around and her mouth dropped open. Sheriff McAfee laughed. ”Got me there,” he said, ”but it won't wash. Listen, ladies,” he went on, his face hardening, ”you just be patient, enjoy our little town, do a little fis.h.i.+n' maybe, and give us a few days. We'll get this straightened out one way or the other, then we can proceed.”
”Proceed to what?” I asked.
”Well, I'll either arrest him because he's part of a crew we're roundin' up or I'll release him 'cause he ain't.”
”And meanwhile,” I said with some asperity, ”you're just going to keep him closed up in that hospital, far from his family and friends, while you go about your business.”
He nodded. ”That's about the size of it.”
”I think that's against the law, Sheriff.”
He shook his head. ”No, ma'am. He's injured. He needs medical care, and that's what we're giving him. Even if he turns out to be an innocent bystander, I'd be remiss if I didn't take care of a potential witness to a crime.
”Now then,” he said, standing up and reaching for his jacket, ”it's time for church, so I got to be going.”
”One last question, if you don't mind. We'd like to see if your potential witness is who we think he is. Would you tell the hospital to allow us to visit?”
”Can't do that,” he said, shrugging into his jacket. ”The only way to keep him safe is to keep him isolated. Can't have any and everybody going in and out over there, and I don't have the manpower to stand guard.”
That stopped me. ”You mean he's in danger?”
”Could be. Depending on what he saw and what he knows, and if he's not part of some illegal goings-on, he could be. Let's just say he's in our own homegrown witness protection program for his own good.”
None of it made sense to me, except one thing. ”What it comes down to, then, is that you don't believe a word he's said. You don't believe he's J. D. Pickens or that he's a private investigator or that he's as law-abiding as, well, you are. If you are.”
He gave me a frosty smile and opened the office door, indicating that the interview was over. ”Just waitin' on confirmation. Now, if you ladies will excuse me, I have to get to church. I got the scripture readin' this morning.”
Thinking to myself, I hope it does you some good, I stood, feeling completely stymied, and dejected because of it.
Etta Mae, who'd not said a word during the whole interview, sidled up beside the sheriff on our way out and asked, ”You a Baptist, Sheriff?”
”Church of G.o.d,” he said. ”Be happy to have you go with me.”
Etta Mae glanced down at her jeans-clad self, her pointy-toed Dingo boots peeking out at the bottom of her boot cuts, and said, ”Well, I'm a Baptist myself, and I'm not exactly dressed for church. Thank you all the same.”
”Looks fine to me,” the sheriff said, ushering us out of his office.
”Maybe another time,” Etta Mae murmured and followed me down the hall to the lobby.
”Whoo,” she said, fanning her face with her hand when we got into the car. ”What a man!”
”What a stubborn mule, you mean,” I said, slamming the door. ”All that slow, down-home country talk he was doing didn't fool me. We didn't get to first base with him, so we're right back where we started. Which is nowhere.”