Read Online The Cutting Season by Attica Locke - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Attica Locke
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about screams?”
Morgan shook her head.
Lang closed his notepad. “Okay, then.”
From the seat of a nearby folding chair, which was serving as a makeshift desk, he lifted a thin sheet of sketch paper. On one side was a pencil drawing, the smudged lines of which suggested an image made in haste. The mouth was closed, and the eyes had been brightened by the artist’s rendering . . . but it was her all right, the woman from the grave. Her eyes were small, set close to the bridge of a thin, pointed nose, and there were soft, feathered lines around her eyes. There was a single star-shaped earring in her left earlobe. She was young, much younger than Caren, in her twenties maybe.
“You seen this woman before?”
“Huh-uh.”
Lang looked at Caren next. She shook her head. “No.”
“Okay, then.” He stood, still holding the picture.
Detective Bertrand was waiting just inside the doorway to the schoolhouse, texting on his cell phone. Lang held out his right hand to Morgan, who seemed unsure of what to make of the gesture from a grown man, a cop no less. She gingerly shook his hand, barely making contact. “You be sure to let your mom know if you think of anything else.” Then he nodded to Caren, motioning her into a private conference, out of her daughter’s earshot. She patted Morgan’s leg before standing to follow him, wanting her daughter to know that she did well. Caren was glad this part of it was over. She crossed the old schoolhouse, the heels of her boots sinking on the loose boards of the plank floor. The building had originally been used as a chapel: a house of worship for the master’s family and a temporary sanctum for any traveling preachers wandering through the parish. It earned its current name sometime after the Civil War when the Freedmen’s Bureau ran a school for ex-slaves, during the years when the federal government held brief ownership of the land. Colored schoolteachers, earnest, mostly unmarried women devoted to uplift and a life of learning, came south in droves. There was a pretty schoolteacher at Belle Vie in those days, a Miss Nadine something or other, as Caren’s mother had often told the tale. Next to the kitchen, Helen Gray loved the old schoolhouse best of all. Men had learned to read in this room. Men like Jason. Using their laps for a desktop, they practiced their letters, struggling with a whole new set of tools. Nadine taught them to make the marks that make the letters that make the words. It was a system, like the making of sugar from cane.
Lang stopped near the table that held the play’s programs. He put his hands on both hips and sighed heavily. “We need to get a hold of that young man.”
“Donovan?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Unfortunately, we’ve had no luck so far with the numbers you gave us.” There was a faint hint of accusation in his voice, as if he thought it was altogether possible that Caren was shielding the boy.
“Those are the only numbers I have, his cell phone and his grandmother.”
“Well, I imagine there are ways of getting him on the telephone,” Lang said, lowering his voice some. “Say, if you left a message for Mr. Isaacs about some trouble with his paycheck, I imagine he wouldn’t waste any time calling you back.”
“The state pays his checks, not us.”
It was a plain statement of fact, but Lang took it as an inclination toward noncooperation. “Well,” he said, “it was an idea.” He stared at her for a long while, trying to read something about her that wasn’t immediately clear to him. Caren could smell his musky cologne, mixed with the scent of stale coffee and hair grease. He was nearing sixty, she guessed, his skin a tawny Cajun hue that was hard to date.
“Let me ask you something, ma’am,” he said. “Did you happen to know of Mr. Isaacs’s legal troubles before you hired him?” He pinched his lips together, waiting on her answer. He appeared to be rolling something over in his pocket, coins
Morgan shook her head.
Lang closed his notepad. “Okay, then.”
From the seat of a nearby folding chair, which was serving as a makeshift desk, he lifted a thin sheet of sketch paper. On one side was a pencil drawing, the smudged lines of which suggested an image made in haste. The mouth was closed, and the eyes had been brightened by the artist’s rendering . . . but it was her all right, the woman from the grave. Her eyes were small, set close to the bridge of a thin, pointed nose, and there were soft, feathered lines around her eyes. There was a single star-shaped earring in her left earlobe. She was young, much younger than Caren, in her twenties maybe.
“You seen this woman before?”
“Huh-uh.”
Lang looked at Caren next. She shook her head. “No.”
“Okay, then.” He stood, still holding the picture.
Detective Bertrand was waiting just inside the doorway to the schoolhouse, texting on his cell phone. Lang held out his right hand to Morgan, who seemed unsure of what to make of the gesture from a grown man, a cop no less. She gingerly shook his hand, barely making contact. “You be sure to let your mom know if you think of anything else.” Then he nodded to Caren, motioning her into a private conference, out of her daughter’s earshot. She patted Morgan’s leg before standing to follow him, wanting her daughter to know that she did well. Caren was glad this part of it was over. She crossed the old schoolhouse, the heels of her boots sinking on the loose boards of the plank floor. The building had originally been used as a chapel: a house of worship for the master’s family and a temporary sanctum for any traveling preachers wandering through the parish. It earned its current name sometime after the Civil War when the Freedmen’s Bureau ran a school for ex-slaves, during the years when the federal government held brief ownership of the land. Colored schoolteachers, earnest, mostly unmarried women devoted to uplift and a life of learning, came south in droves. There was a pretty schoolteacher at Belle Vie in those days, a Miss Nadine something or other, as Caren’s mother had often told the tale. Next to the kitchen, Helen Gray loved the old schoolhouse best of all. Men had learned to read in this room. Men like Jason. Using their laps for a desktop, they practiced their letters, struggling with a whole new set of tools. Nadine taught them to make the marks that make the letters that make the words. It was a system, like the making of sugar from cane.
Lang stopped near the table that held the play’s programs. He put his hands on both hips and sighed heavily. “We need to get a hold of that young man.”
“Donovan?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Unfortunately, we’ve had no luck so far with the numbers you gave us.” There was a faint hint of accusation in his voice, as if he thought it was altogether possible that Caren was shielding the boy.
“Those are the only numbers I have, his cell phone and his grandmother.”
“Well, I imagine there are ways of getting him on the telephone,” Lang said, lowering his voice some. “Say, if you left a message for Mr. Isaacs about some trouble with his paycheck, I imagine he wouldn’t waste any time calling you back.”
“The state pays his checks, not us.”
It was a plain statement of fact, but Lang took it as an inclination toward noncooperation. “Well,” he said, “it was an idea.” He stared at her for a long while, trying to read something about her that wasn’t immediately clear to him. Caren could smell his musky cologne, mixed with the scent of stale coffee and hair grease. He was nearing sixty, she guessed, his skin a tawny Cajun hue that was hard to date.
“Let me ask you something, ma’am,” he said. “Did you happen to know of Mr. Isaacs’s legal troubles before you hired him?” He pinched his lips together, waiting on her answer. He appeared to be rolling something over in his pocket, coins
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