Mother Lode by Carol Anita Sheldon

men shuffled off, but not before Flem
spat his wad within an inch of Earl’s boot.
    He found his customary seat occupied, and
chose another as far away from anyone as he could.
    When Mik brought him his usual porridge and
coffee, Earl countered his “Good morning, Sheriff,” with, “I didn’t
ask for that. I want three eggs, a rasher of bacon and a
scone.”
    Mik looked at him like he was listening to
one of the Finns speaking his native tongue, but finally managed,
“Yes, sir, we’ll get that right up.”
    That afternoon the judge summoned Earl. He
was holding the petition Buck Boyce had passed on to him.
    “You think Jorie Radcliff murdered his
mother?”
    “It’s not for me to say, George. But I think
there’s sufficient reason to have a hearing. You see, he—”
    “Don’t have time to hear it now, Earl.”
George McKinney clipped the end of his cigar. “That’s what hearings
are for.”
    Earl took that for agreement, but bristled
that George had once again found reason to school him in his own
line of work.
    He was never sure when his audience with the
judge was over. “If that’s settled, then, I’ll see you tomorrow
night.”
    “Bring money.” George McKinney grinned as he
held the light to his cigar.
    Earl left, scratching his elbow. His
psoriasis was back, ever since this whole debacle started. He
didn’t look forward to reading more of the diaries, and he didn’t
relish his next task either—going down to the jailhouse.
     
    Jorie awoke, sat up
abruptly on the edge of his cot. There was that dream again, of
walking through the blizzard with his mother, drowning in the
snow. Why were they out in that
storm? He knew at least part of the dream
was true. He had taken his mother for a ride, and they had walked through the
snow in the woods. Yes, he’d reported all that to Mr.
Foster.
    People were saying he’d
murdered his mother! Why would he do that?
He loved her! They’d had arguments—mostly
about where he was going to college. She wanted him to stay at home
and go to the mining college in Houghton; he wanted to go the
University of Michigan in Ann Arbor. And he would, too, as soon as
he got the money his father had promised.
    Mr. Foster said he’d gone
to see a lawyer named Olsen. Yes, he remembered that now. But why?
There was more, there had to be. What recesses of his mind were
holding this information? What happened that day in the woods? He
willed himself to remember. Yes, some of the fog was clearing. He’d
found a man on the road, and together they went back into the woods
with the lantern, looking for her. Yes, he had tried to find her, he knew he
had!
     
    Mostly housing disorderly drunks from both
sides of the lake, the jail hadn’t been designed with murderers in
mind. Probably it wouldn’t be too hard to escape, Earl mused.
    It was dusk when he descended into the
bowels of the courthouse. Fetid odors came to him as he took the
keys off the peg on the wall— a combination of urine and cleaning
solution. The formula varied from one day to the next. Sometimes it
was the smell of feces that dominated. Or vomit.
    He found Jorie’s cell door open, the boy
lying on his cot.
    “O’Brien, where the hell are you?” he yelled
down the hall.
    The jail keeper, wounded forty years ago in
the civil war, loomed out of the darkness and limped toward the
cell.
    “Just dumpin’ the prisoner’s chamber pot,
sir.”
    “The door of his cell is open!”
    “I was only gone a minute. He was
sleepin’.”
    “Never leave an occupied cell unlocked.”
    “No, sir.”
    Jorie sat up when Earl entered.
    “You weren’t asleep?”
    “No, Mr. Foster.”
    “Did you know you could have run right out
of here?”
    “How far would I get?”
    Earl straddled the only chair, resting his
arms on its back. “Were you thinking of leaving here?”
    “No, sir.”
    “What were you thinking about?”
    Jorie’s blue eyes pierced Earl’s. “Just now?
I was watching that spider in the corner