Page 121 of The Reformatory

“Henry Jackson,” Robert blurted. Haddock knocked his hat back on his head, unable to hide his surprise at hearing the name: Haddock knew him, of course! He likely had killed him.

“Go on.”

“His name’s Henry Jackson,” Robert said. “I feel him at the well, but… I might have seen him by the trees. He’s a grown man. He’s tall. About six foot.”

Haddock’s eyes shifted to Boone, whose face had gone slack, shocked instead of angry.

The buzzing of the flies from the dead hog rose nearly as loud as its dying shriek.

Robert glanced around to make sure Henry Jackson had not turned up in the watching crowd, that he wasn’t hidden behind the hay bales or a corner of the slaughterhouse shade.

Haddock looked around too, raising his hands slightly in readiness. Haddock didn’t want to show it, but he was scared. Soon the crowd was glancing around with murmurs, more afraid of Henry Jackson than they were of Haddock.

“You all hush,” Crutcher said, and everyone was stone silent again.

Two crows landed on the fence post nearest the hog. One made a caw that seemed like a warning. Could that be Henry Jackson too? Could he have come in the form of a crow? Why didn’t he fly to the well, then? Or had he already been?

“It may be,” Warden Haddock began, “that I remember a young man by that name. Do you remember that name, Boone?”

Boone nodded. “Yessir,” he said. “Went by Hank. Could sing pretty good.”

Warden Haddock nodded, snapping his fingers. “That’s right—Hank Jackson. He could sing sweet as Nat King Cole. Then that big dumb fool tried to run. Now, that was a sad day.”

Again he was staring straight at Robert. Redbone, beside him, went rigid. Robert was sure one of them was about to confess their plan to run away as Haddock’s pale eyes studied them. Not only did Haddock already seem to know the plan, he seemed to be trying to drive Henry Jackson’s spirit away. What haint would stay to hear his name mocked by his killers?

“Yessir,” Robert said. “He’s the one.”

Haddock nodded toward the well. “All right, then. I would love to help put him to rest.”

Boone pulled his leather pouch from his pocket. “Come on, then, boy. Tell me where to put it down just like before.”

Robert turned to Redbone, maybe for a sign that he should go to the cedar trees first and take a wild guess about the exact spot where he might have seen the haint. But Blue had said the well. Redbone gave him a small nod. Robert glanced around for Blue to see if he might show himself to give him a hint, but Blue only wanted to help himself, never anyone else.

“I might not get him on the first try,” Robert said. “But… maybe toss the dust inside?”

“You saw him way down there?” Boone snapped.

“No, but—”

“Then why you wanna drop my dust thirty feet down?”

Robert felt like he was swimming in the ocean, every limb weary and no land in sight. This was all just a wild guess, and Boone knew it.

“Put it on the cover,” Robert said, trying to sound firm. “Right in the middle.”

After giving him a glare, Boone followed Robert’s instructions, sprinkling the powder from his sack in a loose circle on the canvas covering the well. He looked back to Robert, and Robert nodded. Then they stepped back as if he had just planted dynamite. The crowd stepped back too, all of them craning their necks to see.

Nothing happened until a breeze blew some of the dust outside of the circle on the canvas and Robert’s heart raced with exhilaration until the dust settled again. The silence was eerie except the flies’ buzzing. The silence told Robert that Blue hadn’t convinced Henry Jackson to come to the well—might not even have tried to. But he’d come anyway, when Robert had called his name and stood out in the cedars—

“Maybe it’s been too long since he was at the well,” Robert said when he saw Boone’s angry lips start to move. “But I saw him by the trees today. One second and he was gone.”

Boone grabbed Robert by his collar roughly, yanking him close to his dark shaving bumps and whiskey breath. “Lemme tell you somethin’…,” Boone said. “I gotta drive all the way out to Jacksonville to get dirt from my grandmama’s grave. If you make me waste any mo’ dust, you’re gonna wish you was dead.”

After he let Robert go and pushed him away, Robert’s skin still felt knotted in Boone’s phantom grip. Boone was strong enough to snap his neck without a thought.

“He was there. I saw him. That’s how I know what he looked like.”

“Let the boy work,” Haddock said. His voice was quiet as the hot breeze.