Page 136 of The River We Remember

Charlie understood now why Noah Bluestone would not plead one way or the other to the charge of murder. A guilty plea or even a plea of nolo contendere might cast a deep shadow of doubt on everything when the real evidence was eventually presented. And a plea of innocence might result in the truth coming to light too soon and Marta being put on trial. Better to hold to silence.

“Would you really let Noah go to prison, Marta?”

The sunlight was shattered by the branches of a great elm in the front yard, and Marta stared at the bright, broken pieces. “What time I have left, I would like to spend with my children.”

Yes, it was selfish, but in Marta’s place, Charlie thought she might well have made the same choice.

“Mom.” J.P. was on the porch again.

“We’ll be there in just a minute,” she said.

“No, Mom. Look.” He pointed toward the barn.

Marta and Charlie turned and saw what had so alarmed J.P. Standing in the shadow cast by that great structure was a man. Because of the distance and the darkness of the barn shade, Charlie couldn’t make out who it was at first. She figured it must have been Able Grange. It took a moment to realize that she was wrong.

“Tyler Creasy,” she said.

“That’s a shotgun he’s holding,” J.P. said.

Creasy stood looking their way, as if trying to make a decision.

“Go inside,” Charlie said to J.P. “Call the sheriff, get him out here.”

The young man vanished with a slap of the screen door.

Charlie stood up and stepped to the railing, and that movement seemed to push Creasy to action. He began walking toward the house.

“Tyler,” Charlie called to him. “The sheriff is on his way. The best thing for you to do now is just turn around and go back where you came from.”

He cradled the shotgun in his hands the way Charlie had seen hunters do when they were watchful for the flight of quail or pheasant. She heard the springs on the door squeal at her back and felt the boards on the porch quiver, then J.P. was beside her, a rifle in his own hands.

Marta said, “No, Son. No.”

“That’s far enough, Creasy,” J.P. hollered.

The man stopped.

The screen door opened again, and Marta said, “Girls, back inside.”

Colleen said, “We’re staying with you, Mama.”

Charlie glanced back and saw the daughters huddled against their mother.

Creasy considered them all a long time. Then he took another step forward. J.P. raised the rifle to his shoulder and fired a shot, aimed high.

“The next one won’t miss,” he called. “You go on and get out of here. Now!”

Creasy slowly lifted the shotgun as if preparing to return fire, then lowered it. He stared awhile longer, finally turned, and walked back the way he’d come. But he didn’t go away. He disappeared into the barn.

“Inside, girls,” Marta said. “You, too, Patrick.”

“I’m staying out here,” her son said. “I want to make sure he doesn’t come back.”

“I’m staying, too,” Colleen said.

“And me,” Bridget chimed in.

“Better all together,” Charlie said to Marta.