Sibley's Secret

for Jackson easily, so he continued, “I did some checking with some folks that have been around here since forever. One was the warden at the prison almost sixty years ago and had a small farm like many folks. He retired over twenty years ago, and I see him at the assisted-care facility where I play cards monthly with a group of old men who still have some of their marbles. It’s a fascinating group, listening to the local history and some of the scandals that went on when they were young.

  “Anyway, he said your farm had a history. He didn’t know who might own it, but eighty or ninety years ago, some guy was murdered there, or, at least, the murderer owned it. This old gentleman was just a grade-schooler then, but it was all anyone talked about then, a big story, probably the only murder ever committed in Jackson outside the prison. Back then, everyone knew your farm and would pass by just to look at the place and maybe get a glimpse of the notorious family.”

  She had left her apartment and was driving with her phone to her ear, in violation with state law, something the Chief should never do. She had to listen. “Oh, great, I own the Dillinger place.”

  “Not quite, but the locals back then probably thought it was more exciting than that.”

  “So, what happened to the murderer?”

  “He got the chair. They didn’t have long appeals back then, the jury ruled and the accused got cooked.”

  She cringed and scolded him, “I don’t appreciate the colorful metaphor, I’ve seen some results from chair victims, sort of defies the constitution’s restrictions against cruel and unusual.”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean. Anyway, there’s more to the story.”

  “How could there be more to top this?” She was dreading the rest.

  “Well, I guess the murderer’s family was destitute after he burned, sorry, I mean expired, ‘cuz the farm wasn’t productive yet, and the state made them take the body. I guess they just dropped the corpse at the front door back then.”

  The morbidity was just getting worse. “I hate to think about the rest.”

  He wanted to be careful how he said the rest. “The local scuttlebutt says that the man’s wife and kid buried the body on the property, maybe in the orchard.”

  “You mean I grew up in a graveyard!”

  “Could be, if you believe the old folks. There was another even older guy, probably close to a hundred, that said ‘yes’ all the way along while the story was being told.”

  She reflected, “I wonder if my dad ever knew anything about it? He never said anything. I don’t remember any kind of grave marker, but I never went into the orchard much. I didn’t go into the creepy buildings much either as a kid. Everything scared me. I mostly just stayed around the house or tended to the chickens, but nothing else. It really upset my dad that I didn’t like the farm as much as he did. I wonder if he knew?”

  He wanted to tell her the rest. “I don’t think anyone paid much attention after the fifties or sixties. Your father would have bought it in the seventies, and I don’t think anyone remembered much about it by then.”

  “So, you found out he bought it?”

  “No, nothing like that, but there might be a lead I’m following.”

  “Okay, what’s that?”

  “Well, I guess the farm couldn’t have been sold back in the twenties with its history and no crops yet, so I’m told it stayed in the family. The man had a wife and a son, and the old folks seem to remember that they both lived there for the rest of their lives. She would have run it until the boy took over. The boy could have lived until recently; he’d probably be around a hundred, give or take five years. No one seems to have been his friend. I guess they lived pretty lonely after the murder. Unless the son died prematurely, he would have probably been around when your father bought the farm.”

  “Did the son ever get married? Did he have a family? Did they live on the farm before Dad?”

  I don’t know Kiki, right now, I’m only getting stuff from the ‘20s and ‘30s, but it’s a start. It should be easier as I get closer to modern times.”

  The call ended after some discussion about Jim’s continued investigation on his own time. It didn’t escape Kiki that he was going beyond a casual interest in helping her.

  Confidence

  She sat directly across from him at the long library table where he had some old papers and his laptop open in front of him. She was careful to sit facing away from anyone that was close enough to hear. He had smiled as she approached, but before he could speak, she said in a whisper, “Evan, I want you to look hurt. Do not try to understand at this moment, just act hurt. I am explaining something to you and others may be watching. Do not look around! I am going to walk away now and I want you to look angry and confused. I will explain it to you by email, but you must now trust me.”

  He was genuinely confused and hurt, he didn’t need to act, “Wha ... ”

  “Don’t talk!”

  She stood and walked to a distant table in the archives. She made a routine effort to go to the information desk after setting her portfolio and computer in a space, indicating that she planned to take the entire table. Minutes later, she opened a book she had requested and booted her laptop. To avoid curiosity, she stayed off the internet until she was satisfied with the message she had typed on the screen. She copied it and pasted it to her new Gmail account. She sent the message to Evan, then closed the website as quickly as she had opened it, after deleting the text.

  “Evan, some bad people are watching us, you and me. You could be in danger for helping me. I will explain later when it is safe, but for now, continue working alone while I leave. Do not acknowledge me further. I will contact you.

  Love, Karina.”

  He was perplexed and alarmed, but also not going to show it. He knew enough from her body language, which he had studied every day as they worked together, that it was a deadly serious matter. He had to play along. She could be in danger, too, and he would help her. For now, though, he would follow her directions. He did not watch her leave the museum.

  Dread

  Sarah Albrecht ran from the porch when John drove Hicks’ touring car past the house to the barn. She screamed after her him, “John, what are you doing!” He didn’t stop as he pulled through the opening, then quickly exited, sliding the massive wood door closed. She was facing him with tears gushing down her face as he approached and put his hands around her arms, then hugged her without speaking. “Carter told me you shot a man!”

  He held her tightly. Their son had been nearly hysterical himself when he told his mother. John said in a low voice, “I didn’t have a choice, Sarah. He was going to shoot me.”

  She whimpered, “What are we going to do?”

  Honestly, he had no immediate idea. His world, their world, had changed when Hicks stopped him on the road. He’d shot the man by reflex when looking down the barrel of a large handgun. Hicks, you asshole! He didn’t want to think, but his actions now could change their lives forever. It already had.

  After the gun was fired, Hicks had lain unmoving on the rough tar-soaked road for several seconds, lifeless. The world had stopped turning for John Albrecht. He’d been a soldier again for that brief instant, fighting for his life. The cool morning breeze and the sound of birds waking with their morning calls no longer registered, everything was silent and unmoving. He looked at the body without registering his son’s words, not knowing even if he was answering. His knees were weak. He’d killed the man in front of him. No matter that he had hated him in life, that didn’t mean anything now. He had been a living being, a human being, and John had killed him. He felt sick.

  Then Hicks cried out and rolled to his side in a fetal position. His arms crossed the gaping hole in his stomach as he gasped for air. His eyes were closed and his mouth opened unnaturally wide, trying to breathe or cry out, but there was no sound. John no longer saw him as an enemy, he was wounded prey, just like the deer he’d wounded as a boy and later
watched his father shoot to death to end its suffering. John could never hunt again, but now there was a man lying in front of him, badly wounded, just like the deer. For a split second, he thought of ending Hicks’ misery, not because he had a desire to see him dead, but because he was in extreme pain. The notion passed as quickly as it came. He became the Sergeant again, the combat veteran, the man who had helped his wounded comrades countless times.

  “Carter, help me carry him to his car.” They hefted the smaller man, each under one arm as Hicks cried out. His Overland touring car was about fifty feet ahead on the road with its top down. John opened the back door and they hefted Hicks onto the bench seat. There was no way to shield the man’s eyes from the rising sun. It would take valuable time to raise the top, which John knew they didn’t have. “Now boy, I want you to drive the truck back to the farm. I’ve got to get him to a doctor.”

  Carter was in tears. He’d never seen anyone or anything so injured before, not as his father had. John told the boy to hurry and to collect the guns and get back home: he could see a draught wagon less than a mile away on the road. The boy obeyed immediately, while John started the car using its new 6-volt battery starter.

  He had two options. There was a hospital about six miles away in Jackson, or he could go to Doc Fletcher’s house where the old man