Free No Way Home by Patricia MacDonald Page B

wagon’s license plate as it pulled away. Jordan got out of his car and walked to the top of the dirt road. He hadn’t expected to find all these cops and rubberneckers. Seeing it angered him. He had a sudden impulse to go up to people and shove them back, tell them to stop staring at the place where his daughter had been killed. At the same time he realized that he had become too used to New York, where murder came and went with the frequency of a newspaper. You cleaned up after them quickly, to make room for the next. People did not stop to linger and consider such a thing as a young girl’s murder for long.
    The deputy who had been copying the license number shoved his pad in his pocket and started past Jordan down toward the bridge. He glanced over at Jordan.
    “Is the sheriff here?” Jordan asked.
    Wallace nodded. “Down yonder.”
    Jordan thanked him and walked down the road. In the clearing near the bridge he saw Royce Ansley and Bomar Flood. Both men looked up at his approach. Bomar reached a skinny hand out and Jordan shook it.
    “Well, Jordan Hill,” Bomar said as he pumped Jordan’s hand. “It’s been a long time.”
    Royce just stared at him with tired gray eyes.
    “I didn’t get a chance to speak to you at the funeral,”
    Bomar went on. “How are things going for you up in New York?”
    “Fine, thank you,” Jordan said grimly.
    Bomar still gripped his hand. “Such sad, sad circumstances that bring you home, though,” he said. Bomar’s eyes twinkled with tears as he looked out across the shallow muddy river. Jordan had known Bomar all his life. He was a foolish, sentimental old busybody who was also one of the shrewdest, most capable businessmen in the county.
    Jordan managed to free his hand and turned to Royce. “You found her,” he said in a flat voice to the sheriff.
    “Over there,” said Royce. A huge weeping willow tree hung low over the bridge, its long slender fronds nearly touching the water’s surface. The sheriff indicated the space between the tree and the bridgehead. “She was lying there.”
    Jordan looked at the spot. A deputy was squatted down there, using a flashlight to search the loamy riverbank beneath the willow.
    “They’re still looking for the weapon,” Bomar offered helpfully.
    “I see,” Jordan said evenly. “Have you found anything else? Sometimes fibers or hairs and such can be useful…”
    “We know about lab analysis, Mr. Hill,” the sheriff said sarcastically. “The twentieth century has arrived down here in little old Cress County, Tennessee.”
    “That Ronnie Lee Partin,” Bomar said nervously, shaking his head. “We knew he’d gone bad, but this…”
    The sheriff looked sharply at the pharmacist. “Don’t be adding to these rumors about Ronnie Lee. People are getting all worked up and we’ve got nothing that says it was him that did it.”
    Jordan looked at the sheriff in surprise. “You don’t think he did it?”
    Wallace Reynolds ambled over to where they stood and looked out across the river. Beside the young deputy, Royce looked haggard and weary even though, Jordan calculated, he was only in his mid-fifties. He was a far cry from the clear-eyed, broad-shouldered lawman Jordan had romanticized in his youth.
    “She wasn’t raped,” said the sheriff. “That’s the only reason I know of that a jailbird on the run would stop to bother about a young girl. Otherwise he’d just keep moving.”
    “That makes sense,” said Jordan.
    Wallace frowned at the sheriff’s words. Then he said in a quiet, stubborn voice, “Well, I think he did it.”
    “A lot of folks agree with you on that, Wallace,” Bomar said.
    Royce sighed. “One thing’s for sure. We better find that boy before he gets himself lynched.”
    A silence fell over them. Bomar turned to Jordan. “So, how long are you staying around with us?”
    “I’ll be here until next week,” said Jordan.
    “I heard you’re going to give a little talk over at the high