Just before the battle, the general heard a row.
He said, “The Yanks are coming, I hear their rifles now.”
He turned around in wonder and what do you think he sees?
The Georgia militia eating goober peas . . .
Chapter Seven
Tuscaloosa, Alabama
Present
Every inch of my skin tingled with adrenaline. I could hear my breath in my ears, shallow and staccato, a counterpoint to the melodic whir of crickets in the trees. I felt sure if I tried to run, my legs wouldn’t cooperate. The only parts of me that seemed to be working were my racing heart, lungs, and fast-constricting throat.
And my nose. I smelled cloying aftershave, not like anything I’d smelled on Griff. It was the kind old men wore.
The man chuckled, a wheezy, phlegmy expectoration that sounded more like a cough. “Get up.”
He shoved me toward the parking lot, away from the hospital’s floodlights and deeper into the shadows. I stumbled toward the line of parked cars, guided by the fist twisted in my hair. He stopped me between my rental and the silver BMW. The BMW’s back window was smashed, the glass webbed but still holding together. On the seat was an upended cardboard box. Dove’s things.
I must’ve shivered, because he assured me, “Don’t be scared, darlin’. I ain’t gonna hurt you. Not as long as you give me what I want.”
I still couldn’t see him, so I tried to focus on his voice. Had I heard it before? He didn’t sound like the people I’d just been mingling with inside, no slow drawl that dripped like honey. This guy’s accent was nasally, with a distinct Southern twang. He was from the country maybe. The mountains.
We were past the cars now and in the field. Headed away from the collection of buildings that made up New Pritchard and toward the woods. He prodded me along, and when we finally got far enough away from the hospital, he removed his hand from my mouth. The other remained twisted painfully in my hair.
“Scream and I’ll kill you,” he said.
“I don’t understand,” I whimpered, hating how scared I sounded. Hating that he could hear it too.
He spoke in a patient tone. “Dove Jarrod got to be pretty famous out there in California, but down here in Alabama, we weren’t fooled. We always known who that bitch was, and Lord, let me tell you, have I ever been waiting a hell of a long time to set things right.”
I tried to keep my voice level. “Just tell me what you want.”
He laughed again and I smelled tobacco. The minty kind people tucked in their bottom lips. “Two things, darlin.’ Just two things. The big Rs. Revenge and recompense.”
He stopped and leaned in close, his face pressed against mine. “I want to know where the Flowing Hair Dollar is. The one your grandmama stole from Coe after she murdered him.”
Even though his grip was tight, I momentarily forgot about it and shook my head in confusion. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. My grandmother ran away from this place when she was a kid. She went to California where she met my grandfather and started traveling with him. She couldn’t have killed anyone down here or stolen anything.”
He shoved me forward again. “Well, sure. Who’s gonna tell their own kin that they’re a murderer and a thief? But it’s true. The old-timers down here—the people who know the secret stories—they been talking about what your grandmama did since 1934.”
We were heading toward the far line of trees. Far enough away now that nobody would hear me even if I did scream. As we walked, I tried to formulate a plan, but my brain wouldn’t obey. All I could think of was what Danny would do if something happened to me. What Mom would do.
“She didn’t go straight to California,” the man continued in his wheezy hillbilly accent. “She stayed here in Alabama, for several years in fact. Made quite a name for herself here . . . in addition to killing a man and robbing him blind.”
I stumbled a bit but didn’t fall, because he yanked me up by my hair. I cried out and he pushed me onward in the darkness.
“She killed him, she robbed him, and after, she hid his body so everyone thought he wandered off. Then the bitch ran off with Charles Jarrod.”
My mind raced. None of what this man was saying fit the facts, at least the ones I knew. But I couldn’t think of one thing to say in Dove’s defense. It was like I’d gone blank inside.
He pushed me up a knoll, toward a filigreed iron arch. We passed under it, and I saw we were in a cemetery. A very old one. Moonlight spilled through the trees, bathing the ground and the rows and rows of iron crosses in watery silver. Then I saw what looked like a plastic milk crate sitting in the center of the graveyard. Terror rippled through me. I did not want to see what was in that crate.
He still held me by the hair, and pulling my head back, leaned close. His voice was a purr. “Down here, lots of folks fell for her pretty lies. God’s gonna heal you, just put your dollar in the bucket. Repent and follow the will of the Lord and you’ll be saved.” He clucked his tongue. “I say she could’ve prevented a whole heap of suffering if she’d taken a lick of her own advice.”
The man cleared his throat like he’d had his fill of reminiscing.
“But Dove’s dead and gone. And even though none of us can change the past, I believe you, darlin’, can improve my future. Now, if you find yourself in possession of such a valuable item like the coin she took, you basically got two choices. You can either sell it back to the person you stole it from. Or . . .” His minty breath was hot in my ear. “. . . you hide it.”
The man pushed me down to my knees. I landed with a thump, and he grabbed a fresh fistful of my hair and forced my head down toward the milk crate. Holding my breath, I forced myself to open my eyes and look. I was surprised by what I saw. A pile of bones with a dirty-looking skull sitting on top. I was oily with sweat and I needed to breathe. When I did, I could smell the bones—the stench of dank earth, decaying organic matter, and, oddly, motor oil. I felt myself sway to one side; the edges of my vision softened and blurred. I was going to pass out.
But the man held me fast. “Allow me to introduce you to Old Steadfast Coe, may he rest in peace. Dove Jarrod murdered him back in 1934, right in his very own bed, and then she hid the body so nobody could pin it on her.”
I gulped, trying to force down a retch. “These could be anybody’s bones,” I said faintly.
“They could be, but they ain’t. And I got a signed confession too. From Dove herself, admitting to the murder.”
I felt a scream rise up in me. And the overpowering desire to pummel this man with every bit of strength I had. My grandmother may have been a hustler, a showman, and a con, but this man wasn’t talking shell games. He was calling my grandmother a murderer.
Above me, he chuckled, a low, evil sound. “Sorry to break the news to you, darlin’. Sorry to knock that angel off her pedestal. But Dove killed this man right here, Steadfast Coe. And now you got three days to give me the coin she stole or the whole world is going to hear the truth about it. I’ll call you at this time in three days.”
It was Friday. He was giving me the weekend to find something that had been lost for decades.
“Monday at seven-thirty. I’ll call and tell you where to bring it. You understand? If you don’t hand over the coin at that time, I’m gonna take Old Steadfast here to the police and tell the whole wide world that Dove Jarrod was a murderer.”