Quotes

sundown in zion
CHAPTER THIRTY

            Nelson and Charlie had breakfast together next morning in silence, each consulting his thoughts. As they finished, Charlie reached for the morning newspaper and began thumbing through it, cursing under his breath. He jabbed a story with his finger and said, “Bullshit.” After studying it, he moved to another, read it intensely and said, “That figures.”  Then he slammed the entire paper to one side an apparent disgust, saying, “Cocksuckers. All of them.”

            “Why,” Nelson said, “do you insist on reading something that upsets you so much?”

            “Keeps my heart rate up,” Charlie said. “Isn’t that supposed to be good for you?”

            Nelson shrugged. “I suppose so,” he said. “What news are you finding so therapeutic this morning?”

            “Says for the umpteenth time we’re going to start drawing down our troops from Afghanistan.” He made a grimace and moved his head up and down. “Now,” he said, “ain’t that the same thing they told you several years ago?”
            “Well,” Nelson said, “they did withdraw me. See what kind of success that brought.”

            “Then,” Charlie said, “there’s this story about how many miles the Mars Rover has traveled in its exploration.”

            “So?”

            “Don’t you find it odd that our country can’t subdue a stone-age civilization but can land a vehicle on Mars and begin subduing that poor place from this far away?”

            Nelson thought for a moment, then said, “We have always seemed to do better, of late, against countries or planets that don’t fight back.”

            “Fuckin’ A,” Charlie said. “That’s what I’m talking about.” He stopped and emitted a sigh. “Cocksuckers,” he said as he rose and began clearing the table.

            “What’s on your schedule to today,” Nelson said, “other than keeping your heart rate elevated?”

            “That’s about it,” Charlie said. “I plan to go to the gym at War Memorial Park and do some strength training.”

            Nelson looked him. “Know what? I could use a workout on the weights myself.”

            Charlie eyed him and the look bordered on the suspicious. “Oh?”

            “I have to run some errands this morning,” Nelson said, “but if you could wait until this afternoon, I’ll go with you.”

            Charlie turned his attention to running water into the sink. “Uh,” he said, “I’ve already made plans to go this morning. I have to go to the VA this afternoon.”  He squirted detergent into the sink and concentrated on watching the bubbles rise.

            Nelson studied Charlie for a moment. “It was just a thought,” he said. “Need in the shower?”

            “No,” Charlie said. “You go ahead.”

            Thirty minutes later, Nelson was heading across midtown to UALR campus. Reaching it, he parked his truck in the deck, exited, and started walking across campus, a leather briefcase in hand. Although it wasn’t a warm day, there was a hint of spring in the air and several students wore shorts. Most ignored him, but some gave him a smile and “hello” just in case he might be an instructor and, therefore, of potential value to them at a future date. Some talked excitedly on cell phones. Most simply stared at theirs, fingers working furiously. Nelson took in a deep breath, enjoying the clear morning air.

            Dr. Jackson Bartholomew was expecting Nelson and welcomed him in, with a “Good morning, my non-traditional student scholar. Please have a seat.” Before taking a seat, Nelson reached into his briefcase, produced a bulging manila folder, and handed it to Bartholomew.

            “Ah,” Bartholomew said, “our paperwork. I trust you enjoyed the drudgery and that it prepared you for all the term papers awaiting you.”

            Nelson laughed. “Fortunately,” he said, “my previous education taught me to deal with torture.”

            It was Bartholomew’s turn to laugh. “I ‘spect so,” he said. He thumbed through the file of papers. “I’ll look these over,” he said. “I’m sure they’re fine.” He leaned back and placed his fingers together. “Have you thought what courses you’d like to tackle first?”

            “Do you have anything that broaches Dostoyevsky? Maybe Crime and Punishment?”

            “Hmm,” Bartholomew said, “strange choice for a ‘Dickens Man’ I’d say.”

            “Well,” said Nelson, “I am an official lawman helping out on a murder case. I’m sure the Armistead County communication network has informed you of that by now.”

            “By way of Antigua in fact,” Bartholomew said. “That’s where the Judge and Uncle Millard are, or at least they were a few days ago.”

            “Would I be correct in guessing,” Nelson said, “that the news was patched through to the Caribbean from the vicinity of Barker’s store?”

            “You’ll make a good lawman,” Bartholomew said. “You have the instincts and I’m sure you have the backbone.”

            “We’ll see,” said Nelson. He paused, nodded as if talking to himself, then said, “To that end, may we leave the student-mentor state a moment and redirect our course to the investigative?”

            Bartholomew looked surprised. “How do you mean?”

            “Just a question,” Nelson said. Before Bartholomew could react, he continued. “Martin Barker loaned Abby Stubblefield his phone for a day just before she was killed. She lost hers and it hasn’t been found.”

            Bartholomew’s face grew stony. “That was …uh … as they say ‘mighty white’ of him.” He forced a faint smile. “And that prompts that question?”

            “Not a question so much as a fact,” Nelson said. He leaned forward. “Martin made a list of numbers she called and printed me a copy.”

            Bartholomew’s face tightened again. “So?”

            “Your number was on the list and I recognized it.”

            “And that is of importance in what way?”

            “I have no idea,” Nelson said. “It’s just that you didn’t mention it when you shared information on Abbey last time we met.”

            Bartholomew leaned forward and placed his elbows on his desk. He placed one hand over the other and closed his eyes. After a few seconds, he opened them and spoke. “We have rules,” he said, “we sons of Ham, rules that allowed our survival for 300 years in this place.”

            “Yes,” Nelson said. “I’ve heard of the three rules.”

            “There are more,” Bartholomew said, “some ancillary, some minor, and some that we could term guidelines, more than rules.” Both men smiled. “And the one I particularly like applies to your observation.”

            Nelson nodded and said, “And that is?”

            “Don’t ever tell a white man everything you know about a subject the first time you meet him.” He nodded and smiled. “We have learned, over the years, the art of dribbling other things besides basketballs.”

            “So you did talk to her?”

            “I did indeed. I’ve knew her since she and Martin became close friends and we spoke on occasion.”

            “And,” Nelson said, choosing his words carefully, “would it be violating a sacred rule to share with me the gist of your conversation?”

            “Some small talk of the teen-aged girl variety, and other things,” Bartholomew said.

            “Teen-ager talk?”
            “Yes,” Bartholomew said. “She wondered if Martin might be attempting to escalate their relationship beyond the friendship level.”

            “Martin?”

            “Our boy. Seems he gave her an expensive neckless and she wondered if the giving of it implied more than friendship.”

            “Was it,” Nelson said, “a necklace involving her nickname?”

            “I think so,” Bartholomew said, “although she didn’t share the actual name with me. Do you know it?”

            “You said she had other reasons for calling,” Nelson said.

            “After I told her not to worry about Martin, yes.” Bartholomew said. She changed to a new topic.”

            “Can you share what it was?”

            “It was literary,” Bartholomew said, “and it concerned her friend Bridgette.”

            “Bridgette,” Nelson said. “The girl who ran away from the rehab center?”

            “Her friend Bridgette who disappeared from the Ransom Center,” Bartholomew said.

            “Did you know her as well?”

            “Only by reputation.”

            “As an athlete?”

            “That,” Bartholomew said, “and the reputation of being a person of uncommon beauty. That’s the extent of my knowledge about her.

            “I’m not sure I understand,” Nelson said. “If you didn’t know her, what could Abbey have sought from you?”

            “As I mentioned,” Bartholomew said, “it was literary.” He leaned back. “It seems that the two girls were in contact for most of the time Bridgette stayed at the Ransom Center. Then …,” his voice trailed off, “then it seems that a few days before she allegedly disappeared, communications ceased as if someone had taken Bridgette’s phone away.”

            “And the literary part?”

            “Abby was asking my help,” Bartholomew said, “as a teacher of literature and poetry.”

            “And?”

            “Bridgette’s last communication with Abbey was actually a text message delivered a few days before Bridgette disappeared.” He thought back. “Abbey thought the message sounded as if it might be a quote of some sort.” He smiled. “As a child of today, she first relied on the internet for help, but to no avail. Then, rather uncharacteristically for modern youth, she fell back on puny human resources.”

            “And you helped?”

            “Unfortunately, no. The quote rang no bells nor stirred no memory in my vast store of knowledge. Have you ever felt inadequate to the task before you?”

            “I was trained,” Nelson said, “to eliminate the word ‘inadequate’ from my vocabulary, but my short tenure as a lawman is beginning to bring it back.”

            “You know, don’t you,” Bartholomew said, “that the murderer in Crime and Punishment is revealed in the first few pages of the book?”

            “I’ve heard,” Nelson said. “That’s some murder mystery, huh?”

            “Strangely,” Bartholomew said, “one of the greatest in literary history.”

            Nelson reached for his briefcase and began to close it. “I’ll go now,” he said. “Maybe wander around campus for a while.”

            “She’s in,” Bartholomew said. “I saw her this morning and she doesn’t have class today.”

            “Maybe we should get you sworn in as a deputy,” Nelson said. “You seem to know things.”

            “I think literature is my life’s great mystery he said, “like a man staring into a volcano and wondering from where the heat comes.” He laughed, “Metaphors and similes,” he said, “I thrive on them.”

            “You are your uncle’s nephew, all right,” Nelson said. He closed the top of his briefcase, rose, shook hAands with Dr. Bartholomew and walked to the door. As he began to open it, he turned suddenly. “Oh,” he said, “one more question.”

            “Yes, Lieutenant Colombo?”

            “What was this mysterious quote Abbey sought? The last words she heard from Bridgette, or do you remember?”

            “I do indeed. They still haunt me.”

            “They were?”

            “The happiest ones are those who think that someday they might leave this world.”