The Secrets on Chicory Lane: A Novel(69)

EDDIE





30


It’s ten minutes to six on Friday, and the ceremony is about to begin. At the very same time, on the other side of the state, Eddie Newcott is about to be put to death.

I was at the scene yesterday longer than I wanted. It was a very difficult couple of hours for me, but Jim Baxter smoothed the way with the authorities—he knew everyone there. He had me report the crime with my cell phone, and then he waited with me until the officers arrived.

While we sat inside my car, Baxter told me he was sorry. “I should have been smarter,” he said. “I should have realized that Donner and Mayor Alpine and the chief had made a deal.”

“What do you mean?”

“That Gordon Alpine would confess to the kidnapping and murder of your brother in exchange for no charges or mention of the child pornography crimes. That’s surely what happened. I wasn’t in on it. I wish I could have stopped it. Then maybe we would have learned the truth.”

I didn’t know what to say.

In a half hour, Chicory Lane had become a circus for the third time in five decades. Medical examiners, forensics teams, and the media crowded the street. Luckily, I sat in the back of a patrol car and avoided the frenzy without the press being aware of my presence. I called Billy, got hold of my attorney, phoned Mr. Crane, and felt a little more secure by the time a detective by the name of Hodgkins interviewed me. I told him what I knew, holding it together long enough to talk rationally about the history of the case and my knowledge of what had happened. With the understanding that we would talk in more detail before I returned to Chicago, he let me go back to my hotel so I could have a breakdown in peace and quiet.

It now made perfect sense—Eddie’s pedophobia. His own guilt for accidentally killing Michael had given him a lifelong fear of babies. He never wanted to have any children of his own. I recall the times he always made sure I was using contraception. I remember his reactions when we were around babies in public. And it was why he killed Dora Walton and their unborn child. And it’s why he believed evil emanated from the hiding place in the bomb shelter—it was the place where he had buried the source of his guilt.

The tears flowed from anger, certainly, and a little from the painful feeling of betrayal. Mostly it was the guilt. My own. It was irrational, perhaps, but real. What was my role in this horrible tragedy? Not locking the goddamned front door? Or was it more than that? I had been intimate with the boy who had done this, as well as with the man he grew up to be. Throughout my entire life, there had been a fatal connection between Eddie and me. Could I forgive him? Could I forgive myself? That was something I didn’t think I could answer until some time had passed.

Of immediate concern was how I was going to stand at the dedication ceremony. It didn’t seem right that they were naming a park after me. There had to be a change of plan. With my hands still shaking, I dialed Mr. Bennett, my contact for the parks commission. I made my request, and he said he’d reach out by phone to the board members and other folks in charge. Bennett promised to call back, which he did today in the early afternoon. It was a unanimous decision to back my wishes, which I suppose is a little compensation for what I’d been through for the past two days.

I had also spoken to Robert Crane earlier today. He had told Eddie that I’d discovered the contents of the shelter hiding place. There was little response, only a nod and what Crane perceived to be an “acceptance.” “I think a great burden was lifted from Eddie’s shoulders,” Crane told me.

“Well, I think he could have removed that burden a long time ago,” I said. “His deathbed confession didn’t do me any favors.”

“No, I suppose not. I’m sorry, Shelby. Of course, you know these new revelations are not going to help his cause to avoid the death penalty. I’m sure the governor won’t step in at all at the last minute.”

“No, I wouldn’t expect he would.”

Before we hung up, Crane promised to let me know if Eddie had any last words before the administering of the lethal drugs.

Now, at five minutes until six, I envision Eddie strapped down on the table, the IV already connected to his arm. Witnesses, if any, besides his attorney, are seated in the observation room, watching him through a window. The warden is present and ready to give the go-ahead.

I try to focus my attention on the crowd of people at the park that holds so many memories for me. Of course, it looks completely different today than it did in the sixties. Receiving a new name is a good thing. It will help mark a delineation between the past and the future. And then, once the ceremony is over, I plan to go back to Chicago and never return to Limite. My parents are buried here, but would it matter if I traveled to West Texas just to stand at their gravesides? Will they know or care? I don’t need to stand beside a mound of dirt and read their names on tombstones to remember them.

But perhaps I’ll feel differently once some time has passed.

The gathering at the park consists of maybe a hundred people. More than expected, but the news yesterday probably attracted the curious. Jim Baxter is here, as well as Detective Hodgkins. I don’t recognize anyone else. There are several fans holding books, hoping that they will perchance receive a signature. I’m not in the mood to give out autographs, but I suppose it’s my duty at such an occasion. I’ll grin and bear it, and then take my heavy heart with me and quietly disappear.