“A murder. What on earth?”
She had as many questions as George, and he could only tell her it was not Ted, whom he’d already accosted, and that Prentiss was still in the woods.
“I need to get word to the sheriff,” he said. “You keep him calm.”
She was trembling now. “And Caleb? What’s happened to Caleb?”
“You know as well as I do.”
“Heavens,” she said. “Oh, good God. Go.”
George fetched Ridley from his stable. He rode to the house of Henry Pershing, his nearest neighbor toward town, yet even though he could hear voices inside, not a soul came to greet him.
“Henry! Show yourself!” George shouted. “Your horses are stabled, I know you’re home.”
No answer arrived. The same was the case with Robert Cord. Blair Duncan peeked out the door but had no interest in his cause, owing to the conflict with the Beddenfelds’ supper party, and soon, to George’s dismay, it was apparent there was no one who would lift a finger in any pursuit he had authored, and that once-helpful neighbors—peers from grade school, neighbors his entire life—saw him as unworthy of so much as a favor.
He was nearly to town when he came upon a barefoot man who, upon closer inspection, was nothing more than a tall boy. He looked a bit like Landry, in fact. It was the first moment George felt overcome by the recent loss, and he could not muster any words.
The boy stared back in confusion.
“Sir?” he said, after an uncomfortable moment. “Can I help you?
George collected himself. He pulled a dollar from his pocket.
“I need a job done. I don’t care how long it takes, long as you see it through.”
Whether his plan would accomplish anything was uncertain, but the authorities must be summoned—that much was sure. The sheriff for the county, one Osborne Clay, was a rare sight. When he was around it was often to investigate the brothel in town—operations that lasted long into the night. But other than his nocturnal proclivities, he was known to be a decent man, and if there was any chance to discover more information about Landry’s death, they would have to hope that Osborne might live up to his reputation.
George hurried back to the farm but did not return to the cabin. He let Ridley carry him straight through the fields, to the edge of the forest.
Prentiss was no longer crying. He lay facing upward, with the back of his head on his brother’s chest, gazing at the sky, his eyes so red with grief that he looked possessed. His hands were interlocked upon his own chest.
George gingerly dismounted and rubbed his hip, clearing a clot of pain. He walked to Prentiss and told him he’d called for the sheriff: “I don’t know him well, but he is a good man, I’m told. He can help make this right.”
A small theater of flies circled the air above the brothers’ heads. Prentiss sniffed loudly and rubbed his nose with the back of his hand.
“Imagine the maggots will show up soon,” he said. “How long we got, you figure? Few hours?”
George thought it best to remain silent.
“Why ain’t you talking?” Prentiss said. “Of all the times for your mouth to run dry it’s gonna be right now?”
George conceded that he didn’t know what to say. His hope was that the sheriff might show and they could begin to piece the crime together.
“You think a sheriff’s gonna help.”
“If he doesn’t then we will find other means of recourse. We will work through this intelligently. Review the particulars. Prepare a timeline of events.”
Prentiss stood up so quickly that George stopped speaking. They stared at each other. Prentiss’s entire face was swollen with grief. His cheeks had the puff of a newborn. His hair was matted with the filth of his brother’s death.
“Prentiss, please.”
Prentiss raised his fist and George cowered from the pending blow, but Prentiss merely splashed a finger across his cheek. A smear of blood. George touched his cheek, instinctively ran the wetness between his fingers and thumb.
“You got all this,” Prentiss said, waving his hand about.
“And what is that?”
Prentiss stepped aside, and George’s gaze fell upon Landry: the bloodied cavity that had once been his cheek, the muddied swamp of blood that held his eyes.
“How’s that for particulars, George?”
As much as he wished to speak, George knew his words would offer Prentiss nothing. That to give an apology would be a vulgarity. The only compassionate act was to face the moment with nothing more than a pose of sympathy—to provide his friend the ministry of his company. They stood together for some time, neither uttering a word until Prentiss returned from his depths.