Only Robie had never envisioned driving halfway across the country alone.
In many ways he had been alone ever since.
He drove back into town on roads that had heat rising off them like mist from a warm pond on a cool morning. He cranked up the air-conditioning and let the cold air pound away at the sweat beads on his face.
There was still so much he didn’t know.
How Victoria had met his father and then married him. What her background was.
How his father had become the judge here.
How he could afford a place like the Willows.
He had no idea why Sherman Clancy had not been convicted. He didn’t know anything about the case against his father beyond the sketchy details Blue Man had provided. But he was hoping that Sheila Taggert would fill him in when they met at five o’clock.
He kept his car pointed back toward town and was there thirty minutes later. It wasn’t that far as the crow flew, but the roads here did not take the crow’s route. They were in poor condition and tended to ramble rather than run straight and true back to downtown Cantrell, as though the folks around here had all the time in the world.
And maybe they did.
He parked near Momma Lulu’s on Little Choctaw and started walking. He had a little time before he would meet Taggert and he needed a place to stay.
There had been a small hotel on Dubois Street when he was growing up here. He walked that way, his duffel slung over his shoulder. Dubois Street was still there, but the hotel wasn’t. In its place was a large hole in the dirt with a corresponding gap like a missing tooth in the establishments that ran the length of Dubois on both sides.
Robie stood in front of this gap studying the empty space and wondering what had happened.
“Burnt to the damn ground,” said a man’s voice.
He turned around and saw a stooped, elderly couple standing there. He was dressed like a farmer with coveralls, a denim shirt, and old brogans on his feet, but in an odd juxtaposition, a tweed cap was perched jauntily on his head. She wore a polka-dot dress with sandals and the thickest pair of eyeglasses Robie had ever seen. They looked to be in their eighties, or nineties. Or hundreds. Robie couldn’t be sure.
The woman looked at her companion severely. “Cussing is trashy, Monroe Tussle.”
Monroe looked at Robie and grinned, showing off finely sculpted veneers. “Sixty-nine years we’ve been married and she still calls me by both my names.”
“Got to, if I want to get your attention, like most men of a certain age,” she shot back. “Meanin’ any man that’s been married mor’n a year.”
“Why, you’ve had my attention ever since you accepted my proposal of marriage, Eugenia.”
Eugenia said, “Sweet-talkin’ men, nothin’ but poison!” But she patted his arm and looked pleased at his words.
Robie figured they had been making this same exchange for the last thirty years, maybe longer. They were evidently practiced at it. He pointed to the gap.
“So it burned to the ground. When?”
“Oh, ’bout, what Eugenia, say ten years ago?”
“’Bout that, yes. Lightnin’, they say.” She let her voice sink. “But I always said it was mor’n that.”
“Insurance money,” added Monroe with a knowing look.
She jabbed him in the arm with her finger. “I was tellin’ the story.”
“And they didn’t rebuild it?” asked Robie.
The couple looked surprised by this. Monroe said, “Never saw the point, son. If they had mor’n two paying guests at any one time, they’d be considered full up and hang out the NO VACANCY sign.”
Eugenia eyed Robie’s duffel. “You lookin’ for a place to stay, hon?”
“I am.”
“Rooms overtop’a Danby’s Tavern on Muley Road, you know where that is?”
“I do.”
Monroe squinted at him. “You from ’round here, son?”
“Not anymore,” said Robie. He thanked them and headed to Muley Road.
He reached it five minutes later.
Eugenia Tussle had not been entirely accurate. There weren’t rooms above Danby’s Tavern; there was just one room. It was empty until Robie rented it, paying in cash so he did not have to reveal his name. However, he was sure that by now pretty much everyone in Cantrell knew who he was. The owner of Danby’s, a large man with a rough beard and thick, muscular hands, passed him the key.
“Stayin’ long?” he asked.
Robie shrugged. “Not sure.”
He took his duffel up to the room, unpacked his few items into a rickety bureau, sat on the bed, and gazed out the window onto the street below.
Part of Robie, perhaps most of him, wanted to drive to Jackson and climb on a plane and fly back to DC. His father didn’t want to see him. Robie didn’t see any reason to be here. Yet he wasn’t going to leave.
He checked his watch. Nearly five.
He washed up in the small bathroom, changed his clothes, and left his room, locking the door behind him. He hurried down the steps, and his shoes hit the planks of the first floor of Danby’s Tavern.
There were three customers in the tavern now. They were all young men. And they were all looking at him from behind reddened eyes as their thick hands clasped nearly empty beer bottles. Behind the counter, a young woman glanced once at the men and then over at Robie. Her look told him all he needed to know.
She was afraid. For him.
Danby’s owner was nowhere to be seen.
That figured.
When he headed to the door, the three men rose as one and blocked his way.
They were all Robie’s size or bigger. Youngish, in their early twenties. He would have been gone from Cantrell probably before they were born. They wore jeans and T-shirts and were broadly muscular, smelling of sweat and beer. And testosterone about to be unleashed.
Robie looked at the one in the middle. His arrogant features and his positioning slightly forward of his two companions told Robie he was the designated leader, like the head wolf in a pack.
“Can I help you?” he said.
The man replied, “Will Robie?”
Robie said nothing but he answered with a slight nod.
“Your daddy is a killah.”
“Not until the court says he is,” replied Robie.
He had already positioned himself so that his angled silhouette provided less of a target and his weight was forward on the balls of his feet but still balanced enough to ward off an attack. As his gaze took in all three of his opponents, his hands and arms relaxed but his quads and calves were tightened, like a spring about to be released. If it came to it, he knew exactly how he would do this. The plan had formed in his mind without his really having to think about it.
He could tell they were amateurs, with no time even in the military. Otherwise, they would not be lined up in front of him like tenpins.
“He killed my daddy!” said the leader.
“You’re Sherman Clancy’s son?” Robie replied in a calm, level tone. He never chose to fight, and if he could defuse the situation he would.
“Damn right I am.”
“I’m truly sorry for your loss.”
The man snorted. “That’s right good comin’ from family of the man who killed him.”
“I’ve been gone a long time. I knew nothing about this until recently. But we need to let the court decide what happens to my father. It’s just better all around. It’s how it has to be.”
The man pointed a finger in Robie’s face. “You bein’ here ain’t welcome.”
Robie felt his patience start to slip a bit. At this rate, he might be here all night.
“I go to lots of places I’m not welcome.” This was one of the most honest statements Robie had uttered since being in the bar.