Read Online Suspension by Richard E. Crabbe - Free Book Online Page A

chair, all the while holding her head, and with a soft moan she slid into it.
    â€œMe boy, me boy, me boy.” She sobbed, rocking back and forth, the chair creaking in time. Slowly Mrs. Bucklin let her hands drop to her lap, where they worked her apron into a ball. She hardly made a sound as her shoulders shook silently.
    A watery groan from behind the sheet took on a bubbling quality, and a
wracking, desperate coughing started. Tom knew that cough for the consumption. He had heard it often enough. From the sound of it, Mr. Bucklin didn’t have many coughs left in him. Tom heard him spit up with a final effort. Mrs. Bucklin didn’t seem to notice. She wilted into the old chair as if the life was draining out of her.
    Tom stood silent, and at last Mrs. Bucklin said, “So was there an accident at the bridge? Been too many men come to grief on that damned job. I’ve told Terry to be careful, but after Julia and the baby died I don’t think he cared anymore.”
    â€œNo, ma’am, it wasn’t an accident. We strongly suspect foul play.”
    â€œJesus, Mary, and Joseph!” Patricia came out of the chair like she’d been scalded. “Waddaya mean, foul play? Terry never had an enemy in the world!” Before Tom had a chance to answer, she raged on, her words rushing all in a flood. “Always seen the good in people,” she said, pacing around the small room. “Folks liked Terry, an’ they was sorry for his troubles, what with Julia and the baby gone to the angels. What kind of bloody monster would do such a thing?” she demanded, waving her arms at Braddock. “Do you have him, this murderin’ bastard?”
    Tom took a deep breath. “Ma’am, we don’t know much, just that your son was found in an alley, back of Paddy’s saloon, on Peck Slip. It appears he was hit from behind. The blow … was strong enough to be fatal. There weren’t any witnesses that we know of, but we’re investigating, and we hope to have a break in the case soon.” Braddock felt the urge to give them some hope, however slim. “I need to know more about Terrence, and I was hoping you could help me. Did he have any enemies or owe any money, that sort of thing?”
    As Tom said this, the sheet curtain was parted by a frail hand, pushing it slowly to one side. Mr. Bucklin rose from his bed. Tom could see the effort etched on his face though he tried to hide it. He looked like the life had been drained out of him. He was gray as a corpse. His clothes hung loose on his wasted frame. He shuffled slowly toward his wife, who silently moved to meet him in the middle of the room. They held on to each other in their grief, drawing what strength they could one from the other. The yellow afternoon light filtering through the dirty window framed them in a sort of halo. As Tom watched, it almost seemed as if the light was coming from them, shining out from their essential selves, the spiritual beings they really were. It seemed to Tom that he saw them in a younger time, before the age and the work, the troubles and the deaths brought them to this place. They were shining and luminous, tight-skinned … vibrant. The years had not touched them nor worn away their beauty. It was a vision as unexpected as it was fleeting. Tom blinked, and it was gone, leaving the old couple in its wake. But Braddock
knew what he had seen. He wasn’t one to doubt, or sneer, or pass it off as a trick of the light.
    They clung together like that for long minutes and Tom looked away. He noticed a tintype of a soldier on the dresser; his serious face, young and earnest, looked stiffly at the camera. It was Terrence. The markings on his uniform were those of the Sixty-ninth Regiment. Tom knew the Sixty-ninth and had admired their spirit on many fields. The great green flag they carried, the symbol of the country they left behind, always flew at the front. Many were the times when he had