“I’ll take responsibility for his whereabouts. I’ll even stay here at the house if that’s what you want. Just don’t lock him up. It’s uncalled for.” Fred pushed his glasses up on his forehead, which was slick with sweat.
Joel leaned against the doorframe of the log cabin, his arm propped above his head. With a gesture, he declined Mrs. Huckabee’s offer of coffee. She moved on to the next man, undoubtedly thinking the same thing Joel was—that arresting Scott was over-reaching and calculated.
Detective Cleveland, usually so alert, hadn’t seemed too interested in anything Scott said but had merely rushed him through his account, taking no notes at all. Now he seemed to be done with the whole exercise and didn’t give Joel’s suggestions about Bullard any credibility. They’d made up their minds that Scott was somehow involved in a larger conspiracy long before they heard his testimony. They’d been sent to investigate Joel, but if they could wrap up an arson and assault on a sheriff, then that’d be another star in their crown. And if they couldn’t bag Fowler, Scott made an easy sack.
Officer Harrison fought against a yawn and lost. He took another drink of his coffee and with a casualness that had to break Fred’s heart, gave his verdict. “The boy is a confessed criminal. Criminals belong in jail.”
Fred’s inky hands tensed, but the strangers didn’t seem to notice. Mrs. Huckabee, whose bright eyes and sure gestures recalled her daughter, turned her back on Detective Cleveland, ignored his outstretched hand, and tossed the coffee into the basin.
Scott looked sickly, but he was true to his raisings. He stood. “Aunt Irma has my laundry done. Let me get a clean shirt.” He squeezed his aunt’s shoulder as he passed and left the kitchen to go to the loft in the low-ceilinged cabin.
For the first time in his life, Joel began to contemplate the consequences of doing something illegal. He didn’t trust these men. But surely the detective would be content with a fair trial. Joel had to lecture himself with the same stern warning he’d give Fred as he watched his son be hustled off to jail—trust the process, truth will prevail, an innocent man has nothing to fear. But hadn’t his own experience proven that wrong? Expediency coupled with a chance to further a career had convicted a host of innocent men.
“People are coming,” Calbert said. He stood and frowned at the window.
People? More than one? All Joel saw was trees, but then from the shadows emerged the horrifying but familiar shape of horned men on horses. Proof that Clive Fowler had not been idle in his threats.
“What the devil?” Officer Harrison shuddered. The detective’s throat jogged as he reached beneath his coat and loosened his gun.
Joel stretched a restraining arm across them. “Don’t shoot. Likely they’ve come to talk.”
“People don’t need masks to have a conversation.” A line of sweat ran down Detective Cleveland’s neck.
“Stay inside.” Joel pushed away from the window. “And don’t you dare fire. I’m the law here, and I’ll have your neck faster than the wire can tap out the message to Jeff City.”
He didn’t favor talking down the mob, but if bullets started flying, he wouldn’t have a beetle’s chance in a chicken coop of getting out unscathed.
Dear Lord, would he have the words to say? Would he have the wisdom to see everything through this encounter without more pain and more consequences? He knew he couldn’t do it, but God could. If only Joel could hear Him over the roaring of his own worries and inadequacies.
The doorknob was ice in his hand. He turned it and slid one hand out, palm up, before stepping gingerly into the open. The door swung wider, exposing his whole body to the gang’s drawn weapons. Slowly, he stepped forward and eased the door closed behind him. His throat jogged as the latch caught, leaving him cut off from any retreat. A slow scan showed that the whole gang had fallen out but with no giant at the lead. Fowler had remained in the cell.
“Who’s in charge?” Joel scanned the crowd, their horses billowing steam in the frosty air. A few men he recognized, and then with a drop in his stomach, he caught sight of a familiar mask—the same one that’d been in his office for the last few weeks. Combined with the small size of the rider, he knew it had to be Betsy. He’d asked her to come along to observe, but it still shocked him to see her consorting with the vigilantes.
A slender man near the edge of the forest walked his horse forward. “We all want the same thing. We want Scott Murphy.”
Joel’s stomach dropped. A lynch mob? They didn’t think Scott was guilty, did they? “What do you want the boy for?”