Gaines had already decided not to speak of the photo album to Wade. If Wade knew of its existence, then perhaps he had wished it to burn in the fire. If he was unaware of it, then Gaines would keep that card close to his chest as long as possible. Perhaps Wade had bailed Webster out for the very reason he suggested: to give the people of Whytesburg a chance to see justice done in their own way. Webster’s behavior could easily have swung him an insanity plea, and what would have happened then? Five or six years in the fruit farm, a few chats with some anal-fixated shrink, and then he’d be back home and able to implicate Wade. But then again, if Wade was involved in the Nancy Denton murder, and Webster had known of this, why had Wade not killed Webster back then? Because there was nothing to connect Wade to the girl’s death? Because the only evidence that existed would identify Webster as her killer, and Wade wanted him alive to take the fall if it ever came to light? No, that made no sense. The simplest thing to do would have been to dispose of Webster way back when, get him out of the picture altogether. In that way, people would have put the Denton murder to rest. In the absence of answers, any answers would do. People wanted closure, and Webster’s death would have given them that, just as it would give them closure now. There were few people who would be happy to hear that John Gaines was pressing for further details on the Denton case, especially now that Judith was dead. There were too many questions, too few answers, and though Wade might not have had all of them, he had a handful, for sure. If nothing else, Gaines was certain of that.

“And then there’s always the possibility that Judith was the one who exacted revenge on Webster,” Wade added. “And then she killed herself as she could not face the possibility of going to prison for murder.”

“A woman alone? And she removed Webster’s hand and decapitated him?”

“Maybe she had a friend to help her.”

“I think that’s very unlikely, Mr. Wade. Did you even know Judith Denton?”

“No, sir, I did not.” Wade made a small performance of looking at his watch. “So is that all, Sheriff?”

“You still haven’t answered my question, Mr. Wade.”

“And what question would that be?”

“What happened after you left the Sheriff’s Office yesterday afternoon? Where did you take Webster?”

“I took him to a bar, Sheriff. I took him to a bar called Blues and Beers outside of Whytesburg.”

Gaines knew the place, a rundown dive where most of the drugs available in Whytesburg could be sourced.

“And what time was that?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe three thirty, three forty-five. I don’t remember the exact time we left your office.”

“It was five after three.”

“Then it must have been about three thirty. Your office to the bar is no more than twenty minutes or so.”

“And how was Webster?”

Wade smiled. “Talkative, but most of the stuff he said was nonsense to me. He seemed a bit crazy, you know?”

Gaines looked down at his shoes. He knew that Wade was lying. The lie was right there in his eyes, as obvious as those military spokesmen who smiled all too easily and told the press corps how the United States was winning the war in Vietnam.

“And you left him at the bar and you didn’t see him again?”

“That’s right, Sheriff.”

“And your whereabouts for the remainder of the day?”

“You’re asking me if I have an alibi, Sheriff?”

“I am, sir.”

Wade smiled, and in that expression was an air of condescension and dismissal. “I was here, Sheriff. Ask my father; ask the help. Ask whoever you want.”

“And you’re not going to give me any explanation as to why you were willing to risk five thousand dollars to bail him out of jail?”

“You just don’t seem to be able to accept the simplest answer to that question, do you? Why can’t you just consider the possibility that I might be a social-minded citizen, like I said before?”

“Because it doesn’t make sense, sir, and it doesn’t ring true. I think you’re holding something back here, Mr. Wade. I really do.”

Wade dropped the cigarette butt and lit a second. He inhaled deeply, held the smoke for a while, and then sighed. “You seem defeated, Sheriff.”

“Frustrated perhaps, not defeated.”

“Frustrated by the lack of answers you’re getting?”

“Frustrated by the apparent unwillingness of those who know the truth to do anything more than try and hide it.”

“You know what they say?”

“They? Who’s they?”

“Folks in general, I s’pose.”

“No, why don’t you tell me what folks in general say?”

“They say the real strength of a man is in recognizing when he’s beat.”

Gaines smiled, almost to himself. “Guess I must be a weak man, then, Mr. Wade.”

“You said it, Sheriff. You said it.”

“I did.”

“Well, it’s been good chatting with you, Sheriff, but I have things to do.”

“As do I,” Gaines replied.

“Until we meet again—which, I hope, won’t be for a long time and will be under more favorable circumstances.” Wade turned toward the house.

“Something here is awry, Mr. Wade,” Gaines said. “I know it, and you sure as hell know it, and I want you to understand that whichever way this goes, you’ll not get away with it.”

Wade smiled patiently. “You think not?” He took a moment to straighten a crease in the sleeve of his jacket. “Well, Sheriff Gaines, you just watch real careful while I do exactly that.”

34

Gaines believed that the fundamental difference between the good and the bad was one of self-interest. There were those who made choices that incorporated a consideration of others and those who made choices that did not.

The meeting with Wade had disturbed him greatly. He was certain that Wade knew a great deal more than he was saying and yet had set himself to defy Gaines. Whytesburg had three dead, and Gaines was none the wiser regarding the circumstances of any of them. Even the possibility that Judith Denton’s suicide was more than just suicide loomed large on the horizon of his fears. A distraught woman—discovering that her daughter was dead, had in fact been dead for twenty years while she’d yet lived with the distant hope of her eventual return—could so easily have been convinced to take her own life. Matthias Wade had said he did not know Judith Denton, yet if he had spent so many years of his childhood as Nancy’s friend, how could he have not known her? And he had also commented that suicide might very well have been at the forefront of Judith’s mind. Why would he have ventured such an opinion when not called for? It was an old legal adage that offense was the best form of defense. Was Wade preempting any possibility that he might be accused of facilitating or encouraging Judith Denton’s suicide by remarking upon the possibility of it to Gaines?

The predominant omission now prevalent in Gaines’s mind was knowledge of the Wades as a family. He knew of them, but not about them, and he knew precisely where to start asking questions. Once he had some kind of background on them, then he would best get busy looking into the original disappearance of Nancy Denton. He told Hagen to dig up any reports that might have existed from the time.

“Ahead of you on that one,” Hagen told Gaines. “I already looked. Apparently, she was last seen on the evening of Thursday, August 12, 1954. Sixteen years old at the time, best friends with someone called Maryanne Benedict, and the pair of them used to hang around with Webster and the Wade children. I say children, but Matthias was twenty-one at the time. There were four in all—Matthias, Catherine, Eugene, and Della, the last three eighteen, sixteen, and ten respectively. There aren’t any reports, not as such anyway, because there was never really an investigation. But there are a few notes that Bicklow made. He questioned all of them, also Judith, a couple of other folks who knew her, but it was assumed that she was a runaway. No indications of foul play. Nothing like that.”