Chapter Thirty #3
“It’s true,” he says. “We have a witness. Listen, it don’t take a genius to figure out the problem Ezra mentioned was that his church was full of well-meaning folks hoping for a miracle from a con man.
He was getting everyone out so he could get inside without being seen.
I guessed that finger must be in the church so I sent Bart over to watch the place.
That way, when Ezra showed up, Bart could catch him on the way out, and get that goddamn finger back. And then—”
He starts coughing again, takes another drink, then waves his hand at Bart and manages to say, “Tell her what happened, Bart.”
Bart glares at him and Shepherd gives him a look that says Tell her, or else.
With a big shrug, Bart says, “Fine. I went over to the parsonage last night, jimmied the lock, and sat in there and waited. I figured that’s where he’d come in first. I waited all night, watching out the window.
First thing this morning, I saw all them folks head out, going up the hill, you included.
I made my way around the church and there he was: Ezra King, in the flesh.
I watched him go in. I couldn’t follow him straight.
I had to wait till he came back out or else I might not get the finger.
I was all set to jump him when someone else pulled in, went inside, and came running hell for leather out of there not a minute later.
You know the rest after that. You came thumping down the hill and went inside and that’s when I took off. ”
“You want the truth,” Joel Shepherd says. “We can give it to you.”
“Your deal’s no good,” I say. “I already know who killed Ezra King. It was the chief of police, Matthew Dishman.”
Shepherd and Bart both look stunned, as if I’d lined them up and slapped them.
“Shit,” Shepherd spits. “How’d you know?”
“I didn’t know,” I say, my voice angrier, more thick with emotion than I’d like. “Not for sure. Not until just now when I saw your face. Listen, I don’t need you to tell me who did it. I need you to tell a court of law. What I need, Bart, is for you to testify.”
My stomach roils with sourness, churning over the betrayal I feel.
Dishman could’ve just told me what happened.
He could’ve sat down in that church and waited for me to come back and told me.
And who wouldn’t understand? After all, it was only a punch.
And didn’t Ezra deserve a punch in the face?
After everything he’d set in motion? After all he’d done?
And yet, Dishman didn’t tell me. He let me believe, along with everyone else—including Diana Bradley and her daughter—that Roman Bradley killed Ezra.
And now he’s driving to Frankfort with the evidence.
He’s going to cover it up and just keep going.
Keep his job, his position, his power in the community. His kingdom.
If only he’d told me the truth. If only he’d trusted me.
If only I hadn’t trusted him.
Am I more angry with Dishman? Or myself?
“Hell. Fucking. No,” Bart says, pulling me out of my thoughts and back to the kitchen. “Lady, you’re crazy if you think I’m gonna testify and—”
“He’ll do it,” Shepherd says suddenly, his cool, level gaze traveling from me to Bart.
“You’ll do it. And if you do, everything I have besides Billy’s money is yours.
If you won’t, I swear to Christ, I will burn all of this to the ground—the contacts, the farm location, everything I’ve built—and I will sure as hell take you along with it. ”
“You’ll go right back to prison, old man!” Bart spits.
“You think I give a goddamn?” Shepherd says. Without warning, he slams his fist into the table. Madison jumps.
His brows knitted together, he stares me straight in the eye and says, “Do any of you think I want to be back here? In this … ruin of my life? We inherited this house from my granddaddy and we took care of it, put our hearts and souls into it. Me and Belinda. We had plans. Dreams. Our son was gonna be the first in our family to go to college. We were gonna be out of debt. Live a good life. Instead … what happened? I fucked up and all those Christmases and Easters, birthdays and—and funerals. I wasn’t here for any of it.
And Belinda? She died … agonizing and slow and ugly and I wasn’t there to hold her like I fucking promised. ”
He pauses, briefly, his jaw working as if holding back another coughing fit, and then he says, “Miss Gore, I stood in front of God and all those people and promised to take care of her and I didn’t and now she’s gone.
And so’s the rest of my life. I don’t want to be here.
In this house. I want to go back to prison.
Only, I want to take care of my great-grandbaby first. It’s my last chance to do some good before I shuffle off.
But this house is the last place I want to be.
This is just a reminder of all my failures. All my sins.”
Bart’s big jaw clenches, the muscles in his thick neck and jaw working overtime.
Eventually he says, “Fine, old man. Fine. I’ll testify.”
Shepherd looks at me. His eyes are watery, almost cloudy. He looks wrung out. As if his heart’s still beating only by the sheer force of his will. He rubs his hand over the tabletop and then, in a whisper, says, “So, Annie Gore, do we have a deal?”