Page 12 of The River We Remember

Her face took on a look of deep, genuine concern. “How’s Marta?”

“I just came from talking with her,” Brody said. “She’s holding up.”

“Uncle Brody, can I have one of these?” Jack stood at the bulletin board where Brody pinned the wanted posters.

“Not any of those, but I’ll give you one of these.” Brody opened the bottom desk drawer and pulled out an old circular, one for a man named Albert Jenkins, a.k.a. Arthur Jenks, a.k.a. Anthony Jurgens, wanted for several armed robberies in small towns across the Midwest.

“Wow,” Jack said. “Is he dangerous?”

“Not anymore. He was killed last week in an exchange of gunfire with policemen in Waterloo, Iowa.”

“Have you ever shot anybody, Uncle Brody?”

“That’s not an appropriate question,” the boy’s mother said.

Brody answered anyway. “Not on the job, Jack.”

“In the war?” the boy persisted.

“Jack, that’s enough about killing.” Garnet smiled apologetically at Brody. “Will we see you at all today?”

“Probably not.”

Garnet looked down at the scuffed old floorboards and said quietly, “We hardly ever see you these days.”

“I’ll be by for Sunday dinner, as usual. Promise.”

“You promised to picnic with us today, too.”

“Can I see the jail?” Jack asked.

“I have someone in lockup right now. Another time.” Brody met his sister-in-law’s eyes. “Another time, promise.”

“Come on, Jack,” Garnet said, brightening suddenly. “Let’s get you back to the park. You can show everybody your poster. Tell your uncle thank you.”

“Thanks,” Jack said and was out the door.

Garnet gave Deputy Fielding a lovely parting smile and followed her son outside into the bright sunlight. In that old jailhouse, which, across all the years of use had seen every kind of imaginable befouling, Brody’s sister-in-law left behind only the overpowering scent of gardenia.

“You really skipping the festivities entirely?” Asa said.

Brody pulled his eyes from the doorway. “We still have Quinn business to see to.”

“Oh? What’s that?”

“We’re going to find his pickup.”

“What about Felix?”

Brody took the key ring from the desk drawer and turned toward the cellblock. Just then, Scott Madison entered the office carrying a covered tray and bringing in the enticing aroma of fried chicken.

“Mr. Klein’s dinner,” the kid said.

“Wait there,” Brody told him.

Felix, who’d been lying on his bunk, sat up and swung his feet to the floor. “Dinner?”

“Nope. I’m springing you.” Brody unlocked the cell door.