Where the Crawdads Sing(85)

“No. No, but we didn’t find any other fingerprints either, so . . .”

The judge leaned over. “Only answer the questions, Ed.”

“What about hair? Miss Clark has long black hair—if she had climbed all the way to the top and was busy on the platform, opening a grate and such, I would expect there to be strands of her hair. Did you find any?”

“No.” The sheriff’s brow glistened.

“The coroner testified that, after examining Chase’s body, there was no evidence that Miss Clark was in close proximity to him that night. Oh, there were those fibers, but they could have been four years old. And now, you’re telling us that there is no evidence whatsoever that Miss Clark was even on the fire tower that night. Is that a correct statement?”

“Yes.”

“So we have no evidence that proves Miss Clark was on the fire tower the night Chase Andrews fell to his death. Correct?”

“That’s what I said.”

“So that’s a yes.”

“Yeah, that’s a yes.”

“Sheriff, isn’t it true that those grates on top of the tower were left open quite frequently by kids playing up there?”

“Yeah, they were left open sometimes. But like I said earlier, it was usually the one you had to open to climb on top, not the other ones.”

“But isn’t it true that the grate by the stairs and occasionally the others were left open so often and considered so dangerous that your office submitted a written request to the U.S. Forest Service to remedy the situation?” Tom held a document out to the sheriff. “Is this the official request to the Forest Service on July 18 of last year?” The sheriff looked at the page.

“Yeah. That’s it.”

“Who exactly wrote this request?”

“I did it myself.”

“So only three months before Chase Andrews fell to his death through an open grate on the fire tower, you submitted a written request to the Forest Service asking them to close the tower or secure the grates so that no one would be hurt. Is that correct?”

“Yeah.”

“Sheriff, would you please read to the court the last sentence of this document that you wrote to the Forest Service? Just the last sentence, here.” He handed the document to the sheriff, pointing at the last line.

The sheriff read out loud to the court, “‘I must repeat, these grates are very dangerous and if action is not taken, a serious injury or even death will occur.’”

“I have no further questions.”





48.


    A Trip



1969

On October 28, 1969, Kya eased up to Jumpin’s dock to tell him good-bye, as promised, then motored to the town wharf, where fishermen and shrimpers as always stopped their work to watch her. Ignoring them, she tied up and carried a faded cardboard suitcase—pulled from the back of Ma’s old closet—onto Main Street. She had no purse, but toted her knapsack packed with books, some ham and biscuits, and a small amount of cash, after burying most of her royalty money in a tin can near the lagoon. For once, she looked quite normal, dressed in a brown Sears, Roebuck skirt, white blouse, and flats. Shopkeepers busied about, tending customers, sweeping the sidewalk, every one of them staring at her.

She stood on the corner under the Bus Stop sign and waited until the Trailways bus, its air brakes hissing, pulled up, blocking the ocean. Nobody got off or on as Kya stepped forward and bought a ticket to Greenville from the driver. When she asked about the return dates and times, he handed her a printed schedule and then stowed her suitcase. She held tightly to her knapsack and boarded. And before she had time to think much about it, the bus, which seemed as long as the town, drove out of Barkley Cove.

Two days later, at 1:16 in the afternoon, Kya stepped off the Trailways from Greenville. Now even more villagers were about, staring and whispering as she tossed her long hair over her shoulder and took her suitcase from the driver. She crossed the street to the wharf, stepped into her boat, and motored straight home. She wanted to stop by and tell Jumpin’ that she was back, as she had promised to do, but other boats were lined up waiting for gas at his wharf, so she figured she’d come back the next day. Besides, this way she’d get back to the gulls faster.

So, the next morning, October 31, as she pulled up to Jumpin’s wharf, she called to him, and he stepped out from the small store.

“Hey, Jumpin’, I’m just letting you know I’m home. Got back yesterday.” He said nothing as he walked toward her.

As soon as she stepped onto his wharf, he said, “Miss Kya. I . . .”

She cocked her head. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

He stood looking at her. “Kya, have ya heard the news ’bout Mr. Chase?”

“No. What news?”

He shook his head. “Chase Andrews is dead. Died in tha middle of the night while ya were over’n Greenval.”

“What?” Both Kya and Jumpin’ looked deep into the other’s eyes.

“They found ’im yestadee mornin’ at the bottom of the ol’ far towa with a . . . well, they say his neck broke an’ his skull smashed right in. They reckon he fell right off from the top.”

Kya’s lips remained parted.

Jumpin’ went on. “Whole town’s buzzed up. Some folks’re puttin’ it down as a accident, but the word is, the sheriff itn’t so sure. Chase’s mama’s all riled up, says there was foul play. It’s a sho’-nuff mess.”