“Jim Bateman! You used to be my doctor. I grew up around the corner, right over there. Your lab lady used to make me milk shakes sometimes, with that barium drink mixer.”
“Oh,” Tom said, vaguely recalling a chubby boy who used to hammer at the rear door until someone let him in. “Jim. Of course I remember you.”
“I’m right, huh? You were thinking about your old office here. Weren’t you?”
“I was,” Tom said softly.
“It’s just a regular house now,” Bateman lamented. “Don’t seem right to me. When you were here, this place was full of people. The whole block always felt so alive. Now it’s just a sleepy old house.”
“It is a little disorienting.”
Bateman looked at the paint peeling off the old clinic. “You know who I think about sometimes?”
“Who?”
“That black nurse you had. Miss Viola. She was so nice. All these years, and I’ve never forgotten her.”
Tom nodded in amazement.
“Whatever happened to her?”
“She moved to Chicago.”
“That right?”
He nodded dully.
“Well, you lost a good one there. You ever hear from her after that?”
Tom swallowed and tried to keep his composure. “She died, Jim.”
“Aw … don’t tell me that. When was this?”
“This morning.” For the first time the full weight of Viola’s death crashed down upon Tom. Not until this moment had he realized all that had passed from the world with her.
“What?” asked Bateman, clearly confused. “In Chicago you mean?”
“No.” Tom looked up at last, into the man’s dazed eyes. “Right here in Natchez. She was very ill. She came home to die.”
Bateman shook his head in wonder. “I’ll be dogged. That just … it makes me hurt inside. Kind of like when Hoss died on Bonanza. You know?”
“I know.”
“No wonder you’re out here.” Bateman patted him on the shoulder. “I’m sorry I bothered you, Doc. I’ll let you be. I talk too damn much. My wife tells me all the time.”
“No, I’m glad you stopped. It’s good to know Viola’s remembered. You take care.”
Bateman waved and slowly walked north up Monroe Street, looking from side to side like a man seeing where he lives for the first time.
Tom reached down and put the BMW in drive, then let his crooked fingers fall as he pulled away from the curb, steering with his left hand. For the first time in many years, he began to cry.
CHAPTER 6
HENRY SEXTON WAS sitting at his desk at the Concordia Beacon in Ferriday, Louisiana, when the receptionist transferred a call to him and yelled from the front desk that it was important.
“Who is it?” he shouted at the open door of the newsroom.
“The Natchez district attorney!” Lou Ann Whittington shouted back.
Henry frowned and laid his hand on the phone but did not pick it up. In two hours, he was scheduled to do the most important interview of his life. He didn’t want to risk anyone sidetracking him, particularly Shadrach Johnson, who never called unless he wanted something—usually publicity.
“Have you got it?” Lou Ann called.
Henry cursed and picked up the phone. “Henry Sexton.”
Without preamble, Shad Johnson said, “Mr. Sexton, it’s come to my attention that you recently interviewed a woman named Viola Turner. Is that correct?”
Henry blinked in surprise, then looked over at the sports editor, who was making a face at him. “That’s right. I spoke to her twice.”
“Could you tell me the nature of your questions?”
“I was questioning her in conjunction with a story I’m working on.”
“What’s that story about?”
Henry felt blood rising into his cheeks. “Without knowing more, I’m afraid I’m going to have to disappoint you there, Mr. Johnson.”
“You need to come to my office. Consider that a formal request.”
Henry’s chest tightened. “I’m a Louisiana resident, Mr. Johnson. You’re a Mississippi DA. Why don’t you tell me what this is about?”
“Viola Turner is dead. She was killed early this morning.”
“Killed?” Henry felt the dizzying disorientation that had grown more familiar as he aged; it came with hearing that someone you’d spoken to only a day or two earlier had died. “Are you sure? She was terminally ill.”
“I take the coroner’s word for that kind of thing, Mr. Sexton. She’s on her way to Jackson right now, for the autopsy. This isn’t for publication, but it looks like murder.”
A bone-deep chill made Henry shudder.
“I’d like you to be here in forty-five minutes, Mr. Sexton. I’ll be with the sheriff until then. But I must speak to you. Good-bye.”
“Wait! That timing’s a problem for me. I’ve got a critical meeting in two hours. Surely we can talk later this afternoon? I can’t see how I can possibly help you, anyway.”
“Sheriff’s detectives discovered a camcorder at the murder scene, Mr. Sexton. It’s marked ‘Property of the Concordia Beacon.’ Did you leave that in Mrs. Turner’s sickroom?”
“Uh … yes, sir.”
“That’s one of several things we need to speak about. Should there have been a tape in that camcorder?”
“I would think so, yes.”
“Well, there wasn’t. Nor anywhere else in the house. The camcorder was lying on the floor, and someone had knocked over the tripod. The remote control was found in the dead woman’s bed, however.”
Henry looked at his watch. Natchez was twelve miles away, just over the Mississippi River. “How long will I need to be there?”
“We should be able to finish in half an hour.”
Henry blew out a rush of air and rubbed his graying goatee. “Okay. I’ll be there in forty-five minutes. But I’m leaving a half hour after that. That’s nonnegotiable.”