something mean, like putting a frog down my dress or a blacksnake in my bed.
“I like you, Nellie. I mean, I love you like a brother, but I like you too.”
I picked up the last scrap of honeyed pancake, wiped it across the greasy, eggy plate, and popped it into my mouth. Chewed and swallowed, grinning at him the whole time.
“Your manners need some working on, but other than that I like you,” he said.
I chuckled. “I like you too, Sammie.” I hadn’t called him that in years and a peculiar warmth filled his eyes. Brother-love. All in all, it was a great way to end breakfast. “I gotta go.” I set the tray on the rocker, called out my thanks to Esther, and went to my car. I popped the portable beacon light on the roof and pulled out of the church grounds before I turned on the lights and siren. I drove with the windows down to decrease the stench clinging to me.
The drive to the address was fast. T. Laine would have said I was jacked up on caffeine. She would have been right.
THIRTEEN
I took 62, the old Nashville highway, through Wartburg and Lancing, through rolling hills, farmland, and woods, thinking about Cale Nowell and whether he was a victim or a murderer or both. My gut insisted he was innocent, but my gut was mostly emotion and no evidence.
My cell told me to slow when I passed a turnoff tertiary road I had marked as a landmark. I spotted the remains of the dilapidated chicken farm. A couple miles later, my cell told me I had arrived. I was the first member of Unit Eighteen on-site, but two Morgan County deputy cars were parked in the dirt drive out front and two uniformed officers were talking to a man in his thirties, all three standing at the side of the farmhouse I had noted on the satellite map. The man was wearing beat-up jeans, rubber farm boots, and a stained T-shirt, his arms bare to the growing chill. Three hunting dogs were sitting at his feet, tongues lolling, tails thumping with excitement.
I turned off the siren, popped the beacon back inside, raised the windows, and walked to the deputies, flipping open my ID and badge. “Special Agent Ingram, PsyLED,” I said. Two of the dogs leaped to their feet, but the civilian snapped his fingers and they both stayed.
“Sergeant Gunter,” the woman said and pointed at the other deputy. “Prince.” Both officers had the well-trained, fit, muscular look of young law enforcement, both were African-American, and both were clearly curious.
I put away my ID and nodded to the civilian. “Special Agent Ingram,” I repeated. “Your name, sir?”
“Holcomb Beresford. This is my land. I need to know what’s happening. Where’s Cale? Is he in more trouble?”
“Nothing I can say right now, sir. Can you tell me how long Cale Nowell has been living here?”
“I rented to him the day he got out of prison. Where is he? Is he in trouble again for the singer woman?”
Singer. Stella Mae . . . “Why would you think that, sir?”
He spat a stream of tobacco juice to the side. “She ain’t been nothing but trouble all his life.”
“Can you tell me if he has family?” I asked.
“He has a mama. I got her number, but I ain’t tellin’ you nothing until I know where Cale is.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said.
I tilted my head to my vehicle, silently asking the two deputies to meet me there. They followed and we formed a tight group at my driver’s door. I said, softly, “Sorry to not divulge more, but Nowell was involved in a single-vehicle accident last night. That’s all I can say. The county sheriff has been contacted by my up-line boss and I imagine we’ll be inundated with the brass any moment now.”
“I went to school with Cale. Holcomb Beresford too,” Gunter said, nodding her head toward the farmer. She smiled and there was an edge to it I didn’t understand. “Holy Bear ain’t bad, but he’s not exactly an evolved thinking man either.”
“Holy Bear?” I asked, thinking of a stuffed bear with a halo.
“Holy’s mama called him that in kiddy-garden and it stuck. Anyway, I knew Cale’s mama’s address from ten years ago, but I don’t know where she lives now. He was all-star in double A basketball the year we nearly won the state. Cale was a hero in high school.”
“He’s dead, isn’t he?” Prince stated, watching my face.