they were saying. I don’t know if it was the tone of James’s voice or Lester’s that drew the three of us into the foyer to see what was going on, but I knew something terrible had happened the second I saw James’s face.
The first thing I thought was that it was one of our kids, or maybe Mama or Daddy. Then Lester, who’d had his back to us, turned around. Right away, I knew. So did Barbara Jean.
Lester’s skin had gone gray and I could see him wavering on his feet like he was standing in the center of a whirlpool. James, who was wearing his Indiana State Police uniform, stood in the doorway with another trooper, a big white guy with a smooth red face who kept his eyes focused on the floor in front of him. James reached out and held on to Lester’s shoulder to keep him upright.
Barbara Jean said, “Lester?” Tears began to fall from Lester’s eyes as he stood supported by James. Barbara Jean turned to James and asked, “What’s happened to Adam?”
It was Lester who answered her: “He’s dead, Barbie. Our boy is dead.”
And then Barbara Jean screamed. She screamed like she was trying to cover up every other sound in the world. I had never heard anything like that, and I hope to God I never will again. She started to stumble backwards, her feet losing traction and her arms flailing like she was suddenly standing on ice. The white cop stepped forward to keep her from falling, but I had her already. We fell back together against the wall and then slid down to that elegant parquet floor. She stopped screaming and started making a low, pained moan while I squeezed her against my body and Clarice knelt beside us stroking Barbara Jean’s hair.
I heard Lester asking, “Where?” I heard James answer, “North end of Wall Road.”
Lester protested that it had to be a mistake. Like all the black children in town, Adam had been warned. He’d been told, time and time again, that bad people drove on that part of Wall Road. It couldn’t be Adam.
But James shook his head. “There’s no mistake. It’s him, Lester. It’s him.”
Lester stood up straight and knocked James’s hand from his shoulder. “I have to go see,” he said. Then he started for the door.
The white trooper tried to stop him. “Mr. Maxberry, you really shouldn’t. This isn’t something you want to see.” But James pulled a windbreaker from the coat tree near the door—it had started to sprinkle outside—and handed it to Lester, saying, “I’ll take you.” The men left while the three of us huddled on the floor.
By the time Lester and James came back, Barbara Jean was in her bedroom, lying with her knees drawn up to her chest. We lay beside her in the bed, me clutching her hand and Clarice praying, while Barbara Jean gasped out Adam’s name over and over like he’d hear her wherever he was and come on home. When she heard the sound of the front door opening, Barbara Jean hopped out of bed and ran downstairs, chasing after the one last bit of hope that it had all been a mistake and she’d discover pretty little Adam standing in the front hallway waiting for her.
We found James and Lester in the library. James stood by the fireplace watching his old friend and former boss pace the room and strike his head with his balled fists. Lester’s face wasn’t gray anymore; his light brown skin was purple with anger.
Lester said, “You know he did it. You know he killed my boy.”
James tried to calm him. “Lester, please just take a breath and sit down. They’re over at his place right now. I promise we’ll get to the bottom of it. I’m telling you, it’s not like it used to be.”
Lester snorted. “There’s nothing to get to the bottom of. You know he did it. If you cops won’t do something, I swear to God I’ll take care of it myself.”
James said quietly, “Lester, please don’t let anybody but us hear you say that.”
Lester turned to Barbara Jean, his voice almost unrecognizable in his grief and fury. “Desmond Carlson murdered our Adam. He hit him with his truck on Wall Road. Hit him so hard our baby got tossed against a tree.” Lester started hitting himself in the forehead again as he croaked out his words. “His neck snapped, Barbie. That fuckin’ redneck piece of shit