When Ghosts Come Home(54)

“Jesus Christ Almighty,” Bellamy said. He pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket and took his glasses off and cleaned the lenses.

“You know as well as I do that Bradley Frye is an asshole,” Winston said. “He’s always been an asshole.”

“Yeah,” Bellamy said. “He was a little asshole back in high school when he was loading up white boys to drive up to Wilmington to jump Black kids in the parking lot at the junior high school. He was an asshole when he was throwing eggs at our houses and cars and burning bags of shit on the front porch.” He finished cleaning his glasses and passed the handkerchief over his forehead and then stuffed it back into his pocket. “But he’s a man now, and he might still be an asshole, but he’s an asshole with a gun and a truck and a rebel flag and a whole bunch of other assholes who’ll do anything he tells them to do.”

Winston attempted to say something, but Bellamy held out his hand to stop him, and he continued.

“And here’s what he’s telling his people, Winston, the people he’s convincing to vote for him: he’s telling them that my son was flying drugs into the airport, that Black people in this county are responsible for every bit of crime or violence or drugs that goes on here. And he’s terrorizing the people in the Grove to try to get us to do something stupid, and, Winston, I’m ready to do it.

“You know he’s developing that land on the water that backs up to the Grove. That’s what this is going to end up being about. If he can terrorize us, turn people in this county against us, force us to sell our land and move, he’ll be sitting on a whole lot of land, and when he uses this to get you voted out, he’ll be sitting on a whole lot of power.”

Winston’s vision narrowed to the fine point that Bellamy was making, and he knew without reflection that everything Bellamy was saying was true. As a kid, Bradley Frye had reveled in the racial violence that trickled south like a poisoned stream from Wilmington, where there were fires and shootings and attacks on Black students and Black communities. It had been a war, and many of the battles had been waged by Bradley Frye and his buddies right here in Brunswick County. For people like Frye, angry boys who’d grown into wealthy men, the war was still raging, but now it was being fought with checkbooks and votes instead of fists and baseball bats.

“A deputy came out to your house last night?” Winston asked. Bellamy nodded his head yes. “You remember his name?”

“No,” Bellamy said, “and I don’t think he told me, even though I asked for it after the bullshit he pulled.”

“And you called here today?” Bellamy again nodded his head. “And you spoke with Vicki out there, and you told her about what happened last night.” Another nod. “Excuse me,” Winston said.

He stepped around Bellamy and opened the door, and then he closed it softly behind him. He knew Vicki was back at her desk; he could hear her moving papers around as if she had suddenly become as busy as she had ever been. Winston walked down the hallway, turned the corner, and stopped at the open glass window in front of her desk.

“Vicki,” he said. She paused in her work and raised her head slowly. They made eye contact for a moment, and Winston could not recall ever looking at her as clearly or as seriously as he looked at her now. She sighed and sat back in her seat as if knowing a long conversation was about to unfold. Winston finally spoke. “Ed Bellamy in there says he’s been calling all morning, Vicki. Is that true?”

Vicki moved her hands into her lap, and Winston saw her interlock her fingers. She crossed her legs. She leaned her left elbow on the arm of her chair.

“You’ve had some calls, Sheriff,” she said. “I was planning to give you all the messages. All of them too, not just the ones from him.”

“Who else called? You told me Marie called when I came in. Who else called?”

Vicki dusted something off her lap. She repositioned herself and looked back up at Winston. “No one,” she said.

“Let me see the messages.”

“What?”

“The messages from Ed Bellamy,” he said. “The ones you were going to give me.”

“I didn’t write them down yet,” she said.

Winston sighed and stepped away from the window. He put both hands in his pockets, his fingers moving through his keys and loose change. He kept his eyes on the floor, the linoleum catching the glow of the fluorescent lights above him.

“Vicki,” Winston said, his voice coming out quiet and even. He didn’t know if he was speaking this way so that Bellamy would not hear him or so that Vicki would understand his seriousness. “This isn’t just some other case.” He looked up and stepped closer to the desk.

“That man just lost his son. He’s devastated. And now he has Bradley Frye out there trying to terrorize his family and his community.” He took his hands out of his pockets and put them on the counter. “When someone calls about something like that, Vicki, especially when they call three, four, five times, I need to know about it, okay?”

It seemed that Vicki did not even think about what she said next, and Winston knew that the words that came from her mouth were the purest expression of who she was.

“No law against driving around, Sheriff.” She held Winston’s stare, breaking it only to unfold her hands and scoot her chair closer to her desk. When she looked at Winston again there was something cold and final in her eyes that he had never seen before, but he understood that what he was seeing had always been there, had always been a part of Vicki and her life and her view of people like Ed Bellamy and her opinion of men like Winston who believed they deserved justice and equity. It was clear to Winston that his certainty was and had always been an affront to Vicki and people like her, and even more than surprise, Winston felt foolish for believing differently.