The Right Kind of Fool Read online

  Back in the office, Virgil looked like a man who just got word the bank was foreclosing on his farm. “Judge says every last one of us is to report to his chambers at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. He wants the kids there, too. Bud and I will drive out to the Hackers’ and pick ’em up early.” He glared at them all as if they’d eaten the last piece of his fried chicken. “You bunch get to spend the night right here.”

  “Now, hold on—”

  Virgil raised a hand to cut Hadden off.

  “Don’t think for one minute that I’m looking forward to hosting overnight guests. We don’t exactly have what you’d call appropriate accommodations. But we’re all gonna have to make do. Judge Kline doesn’t want to give anyone a chance to blab about what’s going on until he’s got the right of it, and Bud and I have been given the job of keeping a thumb on all of you.”

  “Are you saying we’re all under arrest?” Hadden asked.

  “No, but if that’s what it takes to keep you here, it can be arranged.” Virgil turned his attention to Delphy. “Ma’am, I’m real sorry about this. There’s a cot back there in the holding cell—that’s yours. The rest of us will make do out here.”

  Delphy gave Creed’s hand a squeeze and released it to step forward. “Virgil, if it’s acceptable—” she paused and glanced at Creed—“and if my husband agrees, you’d all be welcome to stay at the house tonight. I’m sure you and Bud could keep an eye on us there just as well.”

  Virgil raised his eyebrows and looked to Creed, who shrugged. “If Delphy’s game, then it’s fine with me.”

  The sheriff turned to Sam and Hadden. “Can I trust you two not to slip out a window?”

  Hadden swatted his thigh with the hat he was carrying. “If you’ll give my boy a fair shake, I’ll put up with whatever you say.”

  “I hope you know I will.” Virgil sighed. “Last thing I want is for a boy to be the one to take the blame.” Hadden gave a curt nod and slapped his hat on his head. Virgil turned to Sam. “What about you?”

  “I ain’t got a dog in this fight. And sure as shootin’ I’d rather sleep in a house than on this plank floor.”

  “Alright then,” Virgil agreed with a weary puff of breath. “Mrs. Raines, if you’ll lead the way . . .”

  “Why do you think Otto said he did it?” The three kids sat in a circle in the room Bernie had given them. There was one huge bed, and Loyal guessed they’d all sleep there, which made him feel kind of funny. He’d never shared a bed with anyone and wasn’t sure he was supposed to share one with a girl, even if her brother was right there, too.

  Rebecca elbowed him. “Why would Otto lie like that?”

  Loyal shrugged, but then he thought about it some more. He signed, Did Otto know? Rebecca squinched her face and made the sign for again that he’d taught her. He slowly spelled O-t-t-o and then touched his flat hand to his forehead while raising his eyebrows.

  “Oh, you’re asking if Otto knew that Michael shot that man.” She looked to her brother. “I don’t think so.”

  Michael shook his head. “I don’t see how. He was at the house messing with Dad’s dogs that afternoon. Maybe he really did think Dad did it and he was trying to save him.”

  “Will he be in trouble for lying?” asked Rebecca.

  “Maybe,” Michael said. He looked miserable. Loyal raised his eyebrows and signed scared, something he’d shown Rebecca weeks ago. She remembered and nodded.

  Moving closer to her brother, Rebecca tucked her arm through his. “The main thing is that you decided to tell the truth.” She smiled and looked at Loyal, then made the sign for proud. “Loyal already told you he’s proud of you, and so am I.”

  Michael ducked his head and almost smiled. “Thanks. I’m just hoping since I’m a kid and I didn’t mean to do it, whatever they do to me won’t be too bad.” He looked Loyal in the eye. “I sure am sorry I did it. I don’t think I’ll ever shoot a gun again for as long as I live.”

  Loyal nodded. Seemed like a good plan to him.

  twenty-four

  Virgil and Bud camped out in the living room, saying they’d take turns staying awake just in case anyone took a notion to do anything foolish in the night. Delphy gave Hadden the guest room, which she always kept tidy and pristine. Sam got Loyal’s room. That only left one place for Creed to spend the night since she didn’t have a doghouse to put him in.

  Creed eyed his wife. She set her lips in a firm line and motioned for him to follow her. “You know the way,” she said. The room had once been theirs, but when they were inside with the door closed, Creed realized there was little of him remaining. The quilt was the same, though she’d added embroidered pillowcases, and there was a vase of zinnias on her dressing table. The chest where he used to lay out his shaving things and tin of Brylcreem now held a lacy doily with a china figurine centered on it.

  He cleared his thick throat. “You’ve changed things.”

  “And why shouldn’t I?’

  “I’m not saying you shouldn’t. Just, well . . .” He ran a hand through his already-messy hair. He hadn’t had time to groom it properly in days. “Doggone it, Delphy, I don’t know what to say or how to act. I know you don’t want me here.”

  The tenseness in her jaw softened and she settled on her dressing table bench like a bird fluttering down from a branch. “I’ve always wanted you here, Creed.” She twisted her hands together in her lap. “I’ve never stopped wanting you. Even when I acted like I didn’t.” He saw a flush paint her cheeks. “You’re the one who went away.”

  He wanted to kneel at her feet, to wrap his arms around her waist and rest his head in her lap. But he didn’t deserve to do that. What she said was true. “You’re right,” he said. He bent down to remove his boots, then took a blanket from the chest at the foot of the bed where, thankfully, she still kept extra bedding. He folded it and laid it out on the floor. “I’ll sleep here.”

  Her hand covered her mouth, but she didn’t speak. Just stood, blew out the hurricane lamp on her bedside table, and lay down on her bed in the dark. He waited to hear her breath grow gentle and even but must have finally fallen asleep. He never did hear the soft whiffle of breath he still remembered from before.

  Virgil drove Sam and Creed out to the Hacker place at first light. Now that he’d hiked in with Sam, Creed realized the house was positioned so it was almost impossible to reach except by the road. The path they’d come in on from behind was likely known only to the family. Creed was pretty sure he couldn’t find it again. That Clyde was fox smart.

  As the car pulled into the clearing in front of the house, Clyde stepped out onto the porch with the three children. It was like he’d known what time they were coming. Michael stood tall beside the wiry old man, while Rebecca and Loyal stood in front of him, his hands resting on their shoulders. Creed felt a jolt at how comfortable and right they all looked there together. Loyal fit right in—there was nothing to set him apart. So why was it Creed persisted in thinking of him as different?

  “You going to keep these young’uns safe?” Clyde asked. He had an unlit pipe clenched between his teeth.

  Creed stepped forward and met the older man’s steady gaze. “Do you have any doubt?”

  Clyde chuckled and lifted his hands to fish a kitchen match from his breast pocket. He flicked it into flame with his thumbnail and held it to the bowl of his pipe. Once he had a nice plume of smoke going, he nodded. “Nary a doubt in this world.” He patted Loyal on the shoulder. “This one’ll go far if you don’t hold him back.”

  Creed felt regret rise like the smoke from Clyde’s tobacco. “You’re right about that,” he said. Then he smiled at Loyal and held his arm out so the boy could tuck in at his side. “You ready to talk to a real-life judge?” he asked. Loyal grinned and signed yes. “Let’s do it, then.”

  Virgil and Creed sat in the front of the car while the kids piled in the back where they were unexpectedly quiet. As they bumped over the rough road, Creed waved a hand in front of his face. He’d c
arried Clyde’s tobacco smoke with him—a little puff of haze hung there. He blinked and rubbed his eyes. Or maybe his vision was going funny. Goodness knew he hadn’t slept well on his pallet on the floor last night.

  Shaking his head, he turned to Virgil. “What’s the plan?”

  Virgil glanced back at the kids. “Let these kids tell Wendell what they know.” He sighed and massaged the back of his neck with one hand. “He already knows what I could tell him. And he’s talked to Otto. I guess it isn’t exactly the regular way to conduct a trial, but Wendell’s been doing this for a long time. I trust him to make sense where all I can see is a muddled mess.”

  Creed felt a hand touch his shoulder. He twisted around and looked at the kids. Loyal—sitting right behind him—was the one who’d gotten his attention. He tilted his head to the side as though directing Creed’s attention to the Westfall kids. Creed eyed the pair. Rebecca had tears standing in her eyes, and Michael looked like a man on the way to a firing squad. Well, shoot, of course they were scared.

  “Judge Kline’s one of the best, most honest men I’ve ever met,” he said.

  Virgil darted a look in the rearview mirror, and light dawned in his eyes. “Sure is. Nice fella too. Got eight or nine grandkids now. Takes ’em fishing every chance he gets.”

  Michael opened his mouth, and a squeak came out. He flushed and cleared his throat. “Will he put me in jail?” he asked.

  “I don’t know about that,” Virgil said over his shoulder. “Mainly he just wants to get everyone together and see if he can’t hash out what’s going on. It’s not every day people get in line to confess to shooting somebody.”

  “Will I have to get up in a courtroom and swear on a Bible?”

  “Not today,” Virgil said. “Wendell just wants to talk to you. Otto’s trial was supposed to start today, but what with Earl raising a stink and witnesses going missing”—he shot the kids a hard look in the mirror—“he decided to delay it.”

  “Where’s our father?” Rebecca asked.

  Creed did his best to offer a comforting smile. “He’ll meet us at the judge’s office. Bud’s driving him.” The information didn’t seem to put the kids at ease—if anything, it wound Michael tighter.

  “Does he know . . . what I did?” the boy asked.

  Creed rubbed his chin. “He does. Although I’m not sure he believes it.” He’d meant the doubt to be comforting, but Michael’s face twisted.

  “Of course he doesn’t. He doesn’t think I can do anything.”

  “Except you can,” Creed said. “I saw that camp you made. The way you taught your sister and Loyal how to tie knots and break camp. You did a real good job out there in the woods.”

  Michael appeared to grow before his eyes. The boy sat up straighter and lifted his chin. “You think so?”

  “Sure do. Guess your dad just doesn’t realize what all you know.”

  Michael slumped back down a notch. “He’s too busy. Doesn’t really care what I do so long as it doesn’t make him look bad.” He turned to stare out the window at the blur of green and spoke low. “Guess me shooting someone might make him look real bad.”

  Creed didn’t know what to say to that. He’d wanted to comfort the boy—give him hope. Maybe he should tell about how Hadden slugged him when he heard Michael confessed. But if he really had killed a man . . . Even if that man had been doing something wrong, it wasn’t the kind of wrong that justified killing and there was little comfort in death. He reached over the bench seat and patted Michael on the knee. It felt awkward, but the boy didn’t pull away.

  Turning back to look out the windshield as Elkins came into view, Creed felt anger against Hadden Westfall stir in his belly. The man had been too busy to give his son the attention he needed—the attention he deserved. What kind of father was he?

  With a jolt, Creed realized exactly what kind of father Hadden was. The same kind as himself. He wanted to turn and look at Loyal but didn’t dare. Instead he stared through the windshield until they reached the courthouse.

  Loyal felt the strangest combination of fear and excitement as they walked toward the massive stone building with its towers and arched entrance. To the left of the steps, a column stretched to the second story with a carved statue of a woman standing on it. She wore some sort of draped dress and held scales high in the air. In her other hand she held a sword Loyal wished he could borrow. The building looked like a castle, and he felt like a knight riding in to face a dragon. He glanced at Rebecca and smiled. Maybe she felt like a princess. Michael? Well, Loyal had no idea how he might be feeling, other than scared.

  Bud and Mr. Westfall joined them, and they passed through the double doors with stained glass above them. Inside, a short set of steps led to a wide marble entry hall. To their right, the stairs leading up to the second floor had a railing with a swirling gold design. The whole place was grand. It was also cool and dim inside, and Loyal sensed a stillness as though everyone were being extra careful as they moved around. Rebecca stepped closer and slipped her hand into his. He felt a jolt of surprise, then clasped her hand more firmly. It felt right and he smiled at her, trying to keep the fear and wonder out of his eyes.

  The sheriff escorted them up the stairs, and Loyal ran his free hand along the smooth, glossy wood topping the railing. He wanted to lean down and press his palm against the floor to see if it was as cool as it looked but he didn’t dare. Reaching the second floor, he caught a glimpse of a huge room with rows and rows of seats facing a massive desk sitting behind a short fence. He guessed that must be where they had trials. It sure looked fancy.

  They entered a room with tall bookshelves lining the walls. It looked like this one room might have as many books as the library at school. A desk sat in front of a window. An old man in a white shirt with the cuffs folded back and his collar open sat there reading one of the books. He was holding a ruler against the page. He ignored them at first, then must have finished what he was reading because he looked up.

  “At last.” He picked up a cigar, thumbed open a heavy brass lighter, and flicked a flame to life. He held it to the cigar. His cheeks sucked in deeply as he puffed. Once he seemed satisfied with the pillar of smoke rising from the tip, he leaned back in his chair and looked at them like he was measuring them for new clothes. “So, these are the young rapscallions causing such a to-do in my court.”

  “The very ones,” Virgil said.

  Loyal released Rebecca’s hand and rubbed his sweaty palm on the seat of his pants. He almost felt grateful that he’d have to talk to this white-haired man with the sharp eyes through an interpreter. Or maybe in writing. Everyone looked at him. He closed his eyes. He must have made a sound. Sometimes he did that when he was nervous or scared. Father’s hand settled on his shoulder. Loyal shifted closer. He was still sorry Father had told about the gun, but right now he just wanted to feel safe.

  A door Loyal hadn’t seen before opened to his right, and a man in uniform brought Otto inside. The young German had handcuffs on his wrists and looked serious.

  “Everyone take a seat.” The old man—Loyal thought he must be Judge Kline—waved them toward a long table with eight chairs around it. They sat while the man in uniform stood behind Otto. Loyal tried smiling at the older boy, but he wouldn’t meet his eyes.

  The judge stood and unrolled his sleeves, working cuff links into place. He buttoned his top button and came to stand at the head of the table, behind the sheriff. He left his cigar in an ashtray on his desk—smoke curling in the stillness of the room. Loyal kind of liked the smell, earthy and pungent. Although it wasn’t as nice as Father’s sweet pipe smoke.

  “It’s rare that I’m in a position to pick and choose from a slate of murder suspects,” the judge said. He looked at Loyal. “I understand you read lips. Can you tell what I’m saying?” Loyal nodded. He could, although it was wearing him out with all the big words the judge used. “Good. I’ve sent for someone who can use sign language, but he’s been delayed. We’ll make do in the
meantime.”

  Loyal nodded again. He held up his flat left hand and made a motion with his right like scribbling on a piece of paper.

  “Good idea,” the judge said. He went back to his desk and returned with a long yellow notepad and a pen that felt as cool and heavy in Loyal’s hand as the marble floor looked. He tried it out by drawing a line on the paper. It was wonderful. He added a swoop and a swirl just to feel the easy flow of ink. He smiled and nodded to show his appreciation and saw an answering smile flash in the old man’s eyes.

  “Take those handcuffs off that young man.” Judge Kline gestured toward Otto. “I don’t believe he’s either dangerous or a flight risk.”

  The uniformed man did as he was told, and Otto rubbed his wrists. He glanced up then, and Loyal read confusion in his eyes. Well. He wasn’t the only one wondering what was going to happen next.

  The judge wore suspenders. He hooked his thumbs under them and stared at them all in silence for a few moments. “There’s nothing regular about this situation,” he began. “A man has been shot to death. Two men who aren’t much more than boys claim to have pulled the trigger.” He looked at them all until it began to feel uncomfortable, even to Loyal. “Someone is lying,” he said at last. He unhooked his thumbs and leaned on the table. “Maybe more than one someone.” Loyal wanted to scratch his nose but felt like he shouldn’t. He glanced at the others and saw that they were getting twitchy, too. Hearing people often hated silence, and the judge seemed to use it like his own sword.

  “Alright then.” The judge clapped his hands, and Loyal saw Michael flinch. “Who wants to tell me the truth?”

  twenty-five

  Creed had heard about Judge Kline before. The old man had a reputation for being tough but fair. He also had a reputation for not always following the rules. Creed suspected this meeting wasn’t how judges usually handled murder cases. He wondered if he should say anything—should explain how he’d failed to press Loyal about what he’d seen the day of the murder . . .