“Have you searched it?”
“I didn’t find anything that would tell me where he’s gone. And it looks like he was taken against his will. He left medicine behind. But if that guy was telling the truth, maybe he was just under stress.”
Lincoln peers deeply into my eyes.
“That’s all I know, seriously. I’d rather him be on trial for killing Viola than running from a thousand cops. Besides, you probably just saved my life.”
The silence that follows this statement is strangely awkward. While Lincoln stares at the blood on the grass, I search his face for similarities to my father’s, or even my own. I remember our conversation in CC’s Rhythm Club, the juke joint by Anna’s Bottom, and his promise to take a DNA test. If I had a Q-tip or a plastic bottle to store a twig in, I’d ask him to scratch a sample from his inner cheek right now.
“You followed me here, didn’t you?” I say at last. “You were hoping I’d lead you to Dad.”
Lincoln looks up the slope, toward the lake road, as though he’s considering leaving. “Yeah. But you don’t know shit, do you?”
I remind myself to be more careful the next time I visit Annie and my mother.
Lincoln cradles the shotgun and looks back at me. “All anybody’s talking about now is that dead reporter, Sexton. And Brody Royal. A couple of white men die, and my mother’s forgotten. No surprise, I guess. This is still Mississippi.”
“Do you really still believe my father killed your mother?”
“Nothing’s happened that would change my mind.”
“What about all the killings in the last three days?”
“What about them? I read the paper this morning. Don’t mean shit.”
“Did you read about Glenn Morehouse?”
“That old Klansman who talked to Henry Sexton?”
“He wasn’t a Klansman. He was a Double Eagle.”
“Same difference to a black man.”
“I think your mother was killed for the same reason Henry was. She knew too much about the Double Eagles, and they were afraid she was going to act on what she knew.”
Lincoln looks past me, back over the lake.
“Unless you killed her yourself, that is,” I add.
His face whips back to me. “What are you talking about?”
“I know my father a lot better than you. It was totally out of character for him to run rather than face the charges against him. He’d never do that to protect himself, only someone else.”
“He’s ashamed,” Lincoln says, “and his shame’s made him cowardly.”
“No. He has his faults, but cowardice isn’t one of them. He’s protecting someone. And maybe that someone is you.”
Lincoln looks as though I slapped him. “Why would he protect me?”
“He believes you’re his son.”
The black man’s eyes narrow, and for the first time he looks at me with serious interest. “You’ve finally accepted it, haven’t you?”
“No. But Dad has. I think your mother told him he was your father, and that was enough to make him believe it. I think she was trying to help provide for you after she was gone. I don’t blame her. And I don’t blame you if you tried to ease her passing with morphine.”
Lincoln’s dark cheek twitches.
“But if you made some kind of mistake and gave her that painful death by adrenaline—and then tried to blame Dad for it—then for that I blame you. Is that what you did? Did you have second thoughts and try to revive her?”
Immeasurable contempt radiates from Lincoln’s eyes. “If I’d done that, and Dr. Cage meant to protect me, why would he run? Why wouldn’t he just plead guilty and take his sentence?”
“I’m not sure. He probably figured her death would be recorded as natural, and there’d be no autopsy. He certainly didn’t expect any videotape. And he probably expected you to show some gratitude and keep your mouth shut. But instead you pushed for a murder charge. And Dad knows that both the Double Eagles and the Adams County sheriff would like to see him dead. I don’t think he was ready to die in a jail cell.”
“Why would I press charges if he was protecting me?”
“Bitterness. You clearly still hate him. You saw a chance to get some payback for the pain you believe you suffered at his hands, and you took it. It’s a human response. But things have gone too far now, Lincoln.”
He shakes his head as though he’s tired of dealing with a crazy man, then starts walking back to his truck.
“Aren’t you even going to deny it?” I ask.
“What’s the point? Even after everything that’s happened, you can’t admit to yourself that he might have killed my mother.”
“You haven’t given me any facts!”
Lincoln shrugs and gets into his truck. “The truth will out, my brother. Sooner or later. I’ll see you ’round.”
The big engine roars, Lincoln backs up, and then the white pickup climbs the slope and turns onto the lake road. The rumbling drone lasts half a minute and then fades to silence. Standing alone by the stained grass and the water, I wonder if it’s remotely possible that Lincoln Turner and I have the same blood flowing through our veins. It doesn’t seem so, and yet . . . it’s become clear over the past few days that the history I’ve believed was mine wasn’t nearly the whole story.