One Lane Bridge: A Novel Read online

  J. D. was almost to the doorway when he turned back. Ms. Knicely, or whatever her name was, was just getting up from her desk when he said, “One more thing. What about the bridge? Do you have listings for bridges, when they were built, what kind?”

  “Not here. State highway department. I can give you a number.”

  “That’s okay. I can find it. Thanks for your help. And give your father my best.”

  Chapter Five

  Hello.”

  “Daddy?”

  “Hi, baby.”

  “Have I called you at a bad time?”

  “No, not at all. I’m downtown, just getting in the car.”

  “Is Mamma with you?”

  “No, I’m all by myself. Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. Well, better anyway. I guess Mamma told you what happened. It was really scary. The girl it happened to lives just over in West Hall. I can see her room from my window. She’s from Illinois, and she’s pretty much destroyed over the whole thing. I think she may even be leaving school for good. That’s the rumor anyway.”

  “Are you scared? And Angela, tell me the truth.” Ever since she was a little girl, she had tried to be brave beyond her years. She fooled most of her teachers, and her mother, too, with that false-security air, but there wasn’t much about his little girl that got past J. D. He knew when she was covering up her deepest feelings. When she was trying to convince him everything was all right, he could always see in her eyes when it wasn’t. On the phone, he didn’t have the benefit of looking into the honest blue depths of her eyes; he only had her voice, and he wanted to be sure not to misread anything that might be bothering her.

  “Not as bad as I was. There’s all kinds of security around now that wasn’t here two days ago. They’ve added extra guards, and the town police are riding through every hour. It’s not all that bad.”

  “You still want to come home this weekend?”

  “Well, that’s why I was calling. I told Mamma I did, but now I don’t. I don’t mean ever—just that I don’t want to come this weekend. Does that make sense?”

  “Ah, well … sure. You feel better about the safety issue up there, and you’re comfortable staying on campus?”

  “Yeah, well, sorta, yes.”

  “Okay, honey. Give it all to me in one sentence. What’s up?” This was one of those times he had to throw his parental instincts to the wind and demand, point blank, her honesty. This wasn’t an issue of integrity—just evidence of a youthful tendency to live for the moment.

  “They’re having a mixer … you know what that is?”

  “Yeah, I know what that is.”

  “Okay. It’s like a dance or a party. And some of the kids from other schools are coming, and I think I’d rather stay here this weekend if that’s okay.”

  “I got it. You’re still a little bit scared but not scared enough to come home and miss a party. How am I doing?”

  “I knew you’d get it, Daddy. Would you settle it with Mamma? You always know what to say to her.”

  “Well, maybe not always, but in this case I can assure you it’s in reliable hands.”

  “Thanks, Daddy. I gotta run. Gotta read thirty pages of English lit before three.”

  “You’ve got forty-five minutes, and you’ll never do it. But I love you anyway. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “Love you, Daddy. Bye.”

  As much as he wanted to see his daughter, J. D. felt something closer to relief than disappointment at her decision not to come home for the weekend. He knew Karlie would feel the same because they had so many other pressing things that needed to be dealt with. Certainly none of those things were more important than their only child’s safety, but whatever this was brewing in his mind and threatening his reality, he knew that he couldn’t ignore it and that Karlie wouldn’t ignore it.

  He needed to go back to the downtown restaurant and pick up Karlie. She had no other ride home if he didn’t. But she would be all over him about the doctor’s appointment she had probably already scheduled for him. He reached to his side and unclipped his cell phone, turned it off, and put it in the cup holder. With little recollection of driving there, he found himself turning onto Belmont Avenue. Did she say the last house on the left? And of all things, Belmont Avenue was a dead-end street.

  He walked to the door of the brick two-story house with dormer windows and cracked walkway and banged the brass door knocker three times. Someone from inside yelled, “Coming!” just before the front door swung open to reveal a small gray-haired woman in shorts and a sweatshirt. She smiled up at him and took full control of the conversation with, “Good afternoon. Who are you, and how can I help you?”

  “Are you Lavern Justice?”

  “I am.”

  “I’m J. D. Wickman, and I’ve come to ask you about some property you used to own.”

  “Well, J. D. Wickman, you don’t look like a serial killer, so would you like to come in?”

  J. D. smiled and took her invitation as a compliment to his appearance and a credit to his general comportment and followed her to the living room just inside the door and to the left.

  “Have a seat anyplace you like, J. D. Now what property are you interested in?”

  “Out in the county about eighteen miles on Route 814. Your father used to own it, and then you owned it, and now there’s a country store there.”

  “Okay.” Lavern inserted this word in the conversation not so much as an approval of what had been said, but as a nod to continue.

  “I’m interested in what was on that property before that store was there.”

  “Why?”

  “I beg your pardon?” J. D. wasn’t sure he had heard her correctly.

  “Why? Why do you want to know what was there before?”

  J. D. wasn’t expecting this question and wasn’t ready for it. He knew he couldn’t tell her the truth because even he didn’t know the truth. He looked this bright, friendly, no-frills lady in the eye and spoke.

  “I think my grandmother used to live in a house out there, and I was just wondering if you might remember her.”

  “What’s your grandmother’s name?”

  “She was Nettie Wickman.”

  “She could have. Lots of people lived out there before my time.”

  J. D. decided to get right to the point. “Wasn’t there a house right near where Stan’s shop is now?”

  “I have no idea, young man. I haven’t been out there for years.”

  “Well, there was a house out there when you sold it, wasn’t there?”

  “Can’t be sure of that either. I was only ten years old when my father died and all that land was divided between my brothers and me. My name wound up on the deed, but it was all done by Daddy’s law partners. I knew nothing about the sales or the property until I came of age and got the profits. I don’t go out that way much anymore. Why are you researching where your grandmother lived?”

  “It’s just … ah, that, I’m doing a family tree. And just, you know, interested in my roots.”

  “Do you think there’s some buried treasure out there, J. D.? Just what are your motives?”

  “Motives? What do you mean?”

  “What exactly are you looking for?”

  J. D. was perspiring. This woman had an effect of authority on him—like an old schoolteacher or a strong mother figure. He wasn’t comfortable lying to her and certainly wasn’t comfortable confiding in her. But he had taken the deception too far to turn back. “I’m just researching all the different places she lived in the area. Putting a little booklet together for posterity.”

  Lavern Justice’s eyes were stone, yet her smile was strangely warm. “Did your grandmother die there, Mr. Wickman?”

  “Ah, no, I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t know where your grandmother died?”

  “Ah, yes, I do, and no, it wasn’t there.”

  “Mr. Wickman, I’m seventy-one years old. I’ve been around the block and down a fe
w alleys, and I have a natural, built-in lie detector. And it’s flashing red lights all over this room. You may not be a serial killer, but you’re not on the level.”

  J. D. stood up and said, “Miss Justice, I thank you for your time. If I could tell you more, I would. And when I can, I will. For now, it’s been a pleasure.”

  As J. D. turned around in her driveway, he could see her standing at the picture window watching him pull away. He didn’t wave, but he did take note that the next time he turned into a street with a bright yellow rectangle sign that said “Dead End,” he should pay closer attention.

  Chapter Six

  J. D. walked into the downtown Hanson Dining Club at five thirty and realized he had not eaten all day. Karlie had realized it too, because in the back booth where they both often sat and did daily receipts and read the local paper, she had a plate set for him. She was just placing his coffee on the table when he slid into the booth.

  “Have you been to the doctor?”

  “I could lie and tell you I have.”

  “No, you couldn’t because I’ve already called his office and asked.”

  “So the question was just to see if I’d lie to you?”

  “No, the question was to let you know just how worried I am about you.” She smiled, reached across the table, and rubbed his face. “I knew you wouldn’t lie to me. How do you feel?”

  “I never felt bad.”

  “J. D., now you are lying to me. You haven’t been yourself for weeks. The headaches and those cold sweats in the middle of the night—and you don’t even eat half the time anymore.”

  As if the issue had been settled and agreed upon, J. D. changed the subject abruptly to one he could be sure would trump the one at hand. “I talked to Angela this afternoon. She’s not coming home this weekend.”

  Karlie dropped her hands to her lap, looked off at the wall, and sighed heavily. “I thought she was scared and just had to come home. Yesterday she even wanted to quit school for good.”

  “Well, that’s old news. There’s a party and she’s a-stayin’.” J. D. shrugged.

  “Are you all right with that?” Karlie asked.

  “You know, I am all right with it. I think she’s dealt with it and she feels good about it all. She feels safe. And to be honest, honey, I don’t need anything else to worry about right now.”

  “Well, let me give you one more thing or one less thing. Depends on how you look at it. I called Bobby Caywood, and he’s coming down tonight to mark the bills, and then he’ll be here in the morning with the three search warrants—and maybe by tomorrow at this time at least one of our problems will be over.”

  J. D. stopped eating and looked at his wife, torn between relief and anger. Relieved that she had finally seen it his way and angry because the last thing he told her this afternoon when she got out of the car was to do it her way.

  “Honey, that’s not what …”

  “I know. That’s not what you said to do earlier today, but I’ve been thinking, and I think you’re right. This is how we should handle it. So there, I gave in to you on that one. Now will you give in to me on the next one?”

  “Not if the next one is going to the doctor. You’ll have to call in your debt on something else.”

  They ate in silence. A couple customers walked over to say hi, and one of the waitresses came by to ask a question, but there were no words spoken between them until they finished eating and J. D. broke the awkward silence.

  “I rode around for an hour just before I came over here, and I’ve come up with an idea, something I have to try. But you have to listen to me and let me finish. I want you to let Bobby Caywood in tonight and mark the bills. I may or may not be here.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I said, let me finish. I’m going back out to the one lane bridge. I know you’re thinking there is no one lane bridge. But I’ve got to be sure of something. Don’t ask me to say too much because the more I say, the crazier I’m going to sound. Just trust me and let me have this freedom, and I’ll tell you what I find when I get back tonight.”

  “J. D., if the house wasn’t there this morning, why do you think it will be there tonight? Do you realize how insane this sounds?”

  “No one realizes it more than me. But, Karlie, I think something tripped. I don’t know what. But something tripped, and I think if I go out there at the very same time as I did last night and everything is the same, then maybe whatever tripped will trip again. I know that probably doesn’t make sense. It barely makes sense to me. Just trust me when I tell you I’m all right, and I’ll come home tonight and tell you everything I know.”

  Karlie Wickman sat for a long time, minutes maybe, and looked at her husband with what he recognized as love in her eyes. He sensed she wanted to give him words of encouragement and support, but none came. There was nothing she could say that would make a difference right now. So she nodded, smiled, got up, and cleared away the dishes.

  J. D. watched the odometer and the digital clock in the dashboard as he rounded the curves on the country road. One read seventeen miles; the other read 7:17 p.m. He couldn’t be sure, but he strongly felt that the time of day had something to do with the mysterious appearance of the one lane bridge. It was twenty minutes after seven when he first came upon the bridge. The sun was in the exact same place, and now there was only one more mile to go until the road curved to the left. Around that bend he would come upon either a wide, two lane crossing with low concrete sides or a large, old-fashioned steel-trestle one lane bridge. He was prepared to be shocked either way.

  And he was.

  The one lane bridge towered before him as he stopped in the middle of the road. He was almost afraid to cross it. He was fearful it might not support him, that it might disappear just as he was in the middle of it. But he crept across at five miles per hour, watching the land and the stream on all sides. As he drove slowly down the small grade where the bridge ended and the county macadam resumed, he saw the dirt driveway to his right—the same driveway that this morning had been a paved parking lot in front of Stan’s One Stop. His head hurt and his eyes were watering, but he made himself turn up the dusty little lane marked by weeds and vines on both sides. The muffler scraped on the loose dirt and gravel, but he hardly noticed. He was focused on the old frame house that was quickly coming into sight.

  J. D. parked the van near an old tin cistern that looked like it was still in use. He sat for a moment before getting out, collecting his thoughts and preparing himself for whatever greeting, good or bad, he might face. As he closed the car door, the kitchen door opened, and Paul Clem stepped out on the porch. He looked shorter and thinner than he had yesterday and strangely older. The lines in his face were deeper and darker, and he was bareheaded. His hair was gray and thinning. When he spoke, his voice didn’t have the friendly greeting it had yesterday when he had said, “Can I help you?” But J. D. had no reason to expect that same friendliness today. He had offended the man’s sense of dignity and was now back standing in his yard, totally at his mercy.

  “Mr. Clem. How are you doing, sir?”

  “I’m fine. Do I know you?”

  “Yes sir. My name is Wickman. John Wickman. I was here yesterday evening.”

  “You were? I don’t remember you. You got the right house, young fellow?”

  J. D. opened his mouth to offer a reply but suddenly realized he had none. He looked at all his surroundings to make sure he was at the right place because with all that had happened in the past twenty-four hours, he couldn’t be certain. But of course he was. And this was the same man. Paul Clem. How else would J. D. have known his name?

  “You are Paul Clem, aren’t you?”

  “That’s right.”

  J. D. remembered the groceries in the back of the van and said, “I don’t want you to take this wrong, but I have some food I brought that I want you to take.”

  “Are you from the church?”

  “The church?”

  “Yeah.
The holy rollers down at New Park. They bring stuff up here all the time. If you are, thanks. And if you’re not, thanks. I’ll help you put ’em in the kitchen.”

  Paul ran his hand slowly over the fender of the van as J. D.’s breath quickened at what might be going through the old man’s mind. They made the necessary repeat trips from the vehicle to the kitchen until all the groceries were stacked on the kitchen table.

  J. D. saw a light shining through the beaded doorway that led into the parlor. He asked in a low voice as he set a final bag of canned goods on a kitchen chair, “How’s your wife, Mr. Clem?”

  Paul Clem looked at him with a quick jerk of his head. “What did you say, boy?”

  “I said, how is your wife? Is she feeling any better or about the same?”

  “Oh, she’s feeling better, son. She’s feeling a lot better. Ada’s been dead for two years.”

  The stun from the words and the sting from Paul Clem’s sarcastic attitude left J. D. dumbfounded. Was there some sort of misunderstanding? Was the woman from last night not his wife? Had he misconstrued who she was? No. He distinctly remembered him saying, “That’s my wife. She’s bedridden.” What fresh hell was he going through now? He was about to turn and rush out the back door when someone called from the front parlor.

  “Who is it, Daddy? Who’s here?”

  “Somebody from the church, honey. You go on back to sleep.”

  J. D. recognized the voice coming from the other room. And he knew he couldn’t leave this house again with so many mysteries hanging thickly in the air. He looked at Paul with a sternness he had no right to express and said, “Who is that in there?”

  “That’s my daughter, if it’s really any of your business.”

  “Your daughter, Lizzie?”