Текст книги "The Bone Tree"
Автор книги: Greg Iles
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Текущая страница: 28 (всего у книги 58 страниц)
“Why don’t you show me the house?” she said, not knowing what else to say. “I do want to see what you’ve done to it.”
“I thought you didn’t want to jinx it.”
“Oh, I was just being stupid. You’re right, we need to be reminded of normal.”
Penn laughed as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Then he put a big square-headed key in the lock and opened the door to what had once been her dream house. When he turned, lifted her effortlessly, and carried her over the threshold, she felt wings beating wildly in her chest. Passing through the door, she realized that the first time someone had done that in this house, Queen Victoria had been sitting on the throne.
Caitlin smelled new paint and plaster, lemon oil and varnish. Yet as Penn carried her deeper into the house, she had a sense that dreams and reality had begun to diverge at some inaccessible level where nothing could be influenced by human action. Whatever was going to happen had been determined at some point in the past—perhaps decades ago, or maybe only a few hours—but either way it was irrevocable. From this point forward, she sensed, choice was illusory. All they could do now was ride out the waves of consequence.
“What do you think?” Penn asked, his eyes filled with pride.
She blinked and tried to focus on her surroundings, but all she could think about was tomorrow’s rendezvous with Toby Rambin, the poacher who had sworn to guide her through the trackless swamp to the Bone Tree.
“I don’t want to think,” she whispered, recalling this afternoon at Penn’s house, when she’d used sex to stop him asking questions about the Bone Tree. Now she needed it to take her mind off the same thing, and to connect with the man she felt slipping away from her. “Is there a bed upstairs?”
“Of course. This is a wedding present.”
She looked up the long, narrow flight of steps that led to the third floor. “Can you carry me up those?”
Without a word he swung her in a circle and started up the stairs, his legs pumping as though they would never tire.
Caitlin shut her eyes like a little girl on a carnival ride, but inside she felt like a traitor.
CHAPTER 40
FORREST KNOX HAD not yet gone to Concordia Parish, as he’d told Snake he meant to do. After pulling back onto Highway 61, he’d decided to return to Baton Rouge and check on how things were progressing at headquarters without Colonel Mackiever, then go home to pack a bag and make sure his wife hadn’t been too rattled by the kiddie porn she’d seen on his desk. He also packed a briefcase with sensitive material he had removed from Valhalla, and to this he added certain files and digital media from his home. He would deposit the briefcase in a nearby storage unit that he rented under another name. Given that he was locked in battle with Colonel Mackiever, he could not risk a surprise search turning up material that could destroy him.
When his bags stood packed by his office chair, he began skimming the online edition of the Natchez Examiner for updates. He’d scarcely gotten through page one when his departmental cell phone rang.
The caller was the duty officer of the tech division at LSP headquarters, a man from Shreveport named Keith Caton.
“Sir, I’ve been going back over all the digital records on Dr. Tom Cage. His family, known associates, some patients—everybody we know about.”
“And?”
“On Monday, Dr. Cage made two calls to an attorney named Quentin Avery. Those were cell to cell. I’ve recently gotten the phone records of City Hall in Natchez, and I show a flurry of calls to Quentin Avery from there also, to three different numbers. One was to his cell, another was to his residence in McLean, Virginia.”
“And the third?”
“To a house in Jefferson County, Mississippi. Avery’s got a residence there also.”
Forrest felt something shift in his gut—a familiar sensation that always accompanied the discovery of a fresh track. “Who made those calls?”
“Some came from what looks to be the office of the mayor. This past Monday.”
“Quentin Avery must be Tom Cage’s lawyer,” Forrest thought aloud. “The Viola Turner case was just unfolding then. It’s natural that they would try to get hold of Avery.”
“Yes, sir. But I’ve also been analyzing the call patterns on the Jefferson County house, and also the Internet traffic.”
“And?”
“I can’t see the searches, but this morning about three A.M. somebody logged on to the Internet and stayed on for two and a half hours. That’s totally anomalous, relative to the normal pattern.”
“You can’t see the actual searches that were done?”
“Not yet, sir.”
Forrest thought about this. “What do you know about this house?”
“I checked it on Google Earth. It’s very isolated. Practically a mansion, for that area. It’s sitting on eighty acres of forestland.”
Certainty clicked in Forrest’s mind like a trap snapping shut. He thought about Tom Cage’s last known position—dumping that stupid cop Grimsby in a northeast Louisiana cotton field. To reach Quentin Avery’s Mississippi estate, Cage would have had to pass through one of the roadblocks guarding the bridges over the river. Motorists had complained so much about the bottleneck those barriers had created that he’d finally had to take them down, but there were still the bridge cameras.
“Have you guys been working the relatives of Dr. Cage’s wife, like I told you to?”
“Yes, sir. Augustin handled that. He spoke to all the known relatives, then went home around fifteen minutes ago. He didn’t think anybody acted suspicious.”
Lazy prick, Forrest thought, marking his underling for later punishment. As he thought about the geography of Jefferson County, a new thought struck him. “Sergeant, I want you to find every vehicle registered to any of Mrs. Cage’s relatives, then see whether any have crossed the bridge at Vicksburg in the past twenty-four hours.”
“Not at Natchez?”
“Natchez and Vicksburg, but give Vicksburg priority. How long will that take?”
“I’m not sure. We’ve been having trouble getting the records of the camera data from Homeland Security. They say it’s a technical glitch.”
“Do you have the data now?”
“Let me check Augustin’s box. Yes, sir, it came in twenty minutes ago.”
“Run the plates.”
“Yes, sir. You want me to call you back?”
“I’ll wait.”
Forrest put the phone on speaker and got up from his desk. He didn’t know much about Quentin Avery, but he knew enough not to rule out the possibility that Cage had run to his lawyer’s house for sanctuary. The two men were close in age, and while Avery was a rich lawyer now, he’d been a civil rights activist in his youth. At one point the regular Klan had been hunting him across the state. Forrest remembered his father talking about it.
“Colonel, I’ve got it!” said the excited voice. “I got a hit.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“A plate belonging to a John McCrae crossed west to east last night at one twenty-two A.M. That’s the wife’s brother.”
Forrest’s blood quickened. “What kind of vehicle is that?”
“It’s not a vehicle, sir. It’s a horse trailer.”
Forrest smiled. “That’s it. Has it crossed back over into Louisiana?”
“Yes, sir. It crossed back in fifty-eight minutes after it left.”
“We’ve got him,” Forrest said softly.
“What was that, sir?”
“Forget everything you just told me, Sergeant. Sequester that data. We may need it, or we may need it to disappear. I want you to prepare for both eventualities. Understand?”
“Understood, sir.”
Forrest pressed END, then picked up his encrypted phone and called Alphonse Ozan.
“Hey, boss,” said the Redbone. “What you got?”
“I think I found Dr. Cage.”
“Where is he?”
“His lawyer owns a house in Jefferson County, Mississippi, near Fayette. It’s way out in the woods. I think he’s there. Deploy the Black Team.”
“What’s the mission? Snatch or terminate?”
“I’ll call you back. Just get ’em in the air and headed north.”
TOM HAD SPENT MOST of the afternoon and evening sleeping. He rested a lot better with Melba Price watching him. The knowledge that his nurse was awake and alert meant that he didn’t have to start at every unfamiliar noise, of which there were many in Quentin’s mansion. After enough sleep, a good meal of bacon, eggs, and toast, and a generous regimen of various drugs, he’d begun feeling human again. Melba had even gotten him off the couch to make several circuits of the house. Thankfully, he managed this without getting angina, and his shoulder pain had been dulled to an endurable throb.
After they settled themselves on the living room couch again, Tom had told Melba she needed to think about heading back to Natchez. She’d done more than he had any right to ask of her, and he assured her that he was feeling better. But Melba wouldn’t hear any talk of leaving. She’d abandoned him the night before, she said, and he’d nearly died because of it. Tom pointed out that she might have been killed at Drew’s lake house as easily as he when the gunmen arrived. But Melba argued that the killers never would have sneaked up on Tom while she was there to keep watch.
After a few minutes, he took a rest from trying to persuade her and clicked on his current burn phone to see whether Walt had sent him any further messages.
There were none.
Melba got up and made a trip around the darkened interior of the house, peering out of each window until her eyes adjusted and she felt confident that no one was outside. Tom appreciated her effort, but Caitlin’s earlier visit by car proved just how quickly someone could appear at one of the doors. If Knox’s people showed up to storm the place, there’d be nothing he or Melba could do to stop them.
“Why won’t you leave, Mel?” he asked, after she’d returned to the sofa. “At a certain point, loyalty becomes foolish. Your first loyalty has to be to yourself.”
His nurse smiled wistfully. “A minute ago,” she said, “I probably couldn’t have told you why. But when you asked me just now, I realized the answer.”
“Will you tell me?”
“Back when Roderick left me—for that girl—and I sunk so low that I was just a shadow of myself . . . when I was drinking so much and thinking crazy thoughts . . . Do you remember that?”
“I remember.”
“That night you came to my house to keep me from doing something stupid? And I threw myself at you?”
“Oh, Mel, no you didn’t.”
She looked up sharply. “Hush. You know I did. We never talked about it after, but I never forgot it.”
“Mel—”
“Would you let me say my piece?” She folded her hands together and stared off into space, as though looking deep into the past. “Lord, that was back when I still looked good, and you were young enough to do something about it.”
Tom’s shoulder throbbed when he laughed, but he couldn’t help himself. “Those days are long gone, I’m afraid.”
“For you and me both, baby.”
“You’ve got some good living left, Mel.”
“Just be quiet, old man. That night, when I let you know you could have whatever you wanted . . . you were nothing but a gentleman. I don’t think many men would have walked away from me in that state, to tell you the truth. But you did.”
Tom recalled the night with perfect clarity. Melba had been a very attractive woman then. But her most alluring quality—to him—was that she’d reminded him of Viola. When she unbuttoned her robe and walked to him, trying to kiss him, for the briefest moment he’d relived the feeling of falling into Viola’s embrace. But then he’d smelled the reek of gin, and the memory evaporated.
“That wasn’t what you needed,” he said.
“I know. But I thought it was.” Melba reached out and laid a warm hand on his arm. “I knew about Viola even then. From what the older nurses had said. I think I wanted you to love me the way you loved her.”
Tom wanted to comfort her, but Melba raised her hand to keep him silent. “I don’t think you ever loved anybody like you did Viola. And I say that with all the respect in the world for Mrs. Cage.”
Tom sagged back against the sofa pillows, his mind drifting. “There are different kinds of love. That’s one thing I’ve learned in this life. I don’t know if concepts like more come into it.”
“Yes, they do,” Melba said earnestly. “Sooner or later, it always comes to a choice. My Roderick made his, and I learned what a fool I was.”
“Well, I made my choice, too.”
Melba’s luminous brown eyes and peered deeply into his. “Did you?”
Tom nodded. “I did. I don’t want to say more than that.”
“All right, then.”
Tom rubbed his eyes to break the spell of remembrance. “Are you planning to spend the night here or what?”
“I think we’re both legal,” Melba said, smiling again. “And it’s not like Quentin’s short of space. Are you sleepy yet?”
“Actually, I feel pretty good. Thanks to the drugs, the sleep, and your nursing.”
“How about we watch some TV then?”
“Fine by me.”
“What you want to watch?”
“Anything but a medical show. What about you?”
“Anything but the news or reality TV. I’d love to see one of them old shows that takes my mind off things, like The Rockford Files.”
Tom couldn’t hide his amazement. “The Rockford Files? You’re a fan of that show?”
Melba tucked her chin into her chest and fanned her face with her hand. “I love me some James Garner, now. That’s one handsome white man.”
Tom laughed so hard that he thought he might have to take another Vicodin.
“Go back and watch him in The Great Escape,” Melba said, “when he was young and pretty. Even my mama thought so.”
“Well, let’s see what we can find.” Tom picked up the remote control and clicked on the widescreen television.
Before he could press the GUIDE button, a news crawl at the bottom of the screen scrolled: Three-state manhunt continues for accused cop killers Walter Garrity and Thomas Cage, M.D. Both men are considered armed and extremely dangerous. Do not approach these fugitives or seek to apprehend them. They may appear elderly, but are suspected of murdering an armed Louisiana state trooper. If you have any information, contact the Louisiana State Police or dial 911 Emergency. . . . The crawl went on to announce a severe thunderstorm alert in northeast Mississippi.
“Dear Lord,” Melba said. “What you gonna do, Doc?”
Tom swallowed hard and made himself press the buttons on the remote. “Wait for Walt. That’s all I can do, at this point.”
“Do you really believe he’s still alive?”
“His message said he’s okay.”
“Are you sure that was real?”
Tom sighed and gave her a pleading look. “Please go home, Melba. You don’t have any business being here for whatever the next act is.”
“And you don’t have any business being here alone. Find us a TV show. I told you I didn’t want no reality.”
WALT GARRITY HAD NOW lain beneath the bed for so long he was worried about getting a blood clot. At some point he was going to have to try to get out, because it didn’t look like the Valhalla lodge was going to be empty for a long time.
He was about to switch on his burn phone to test for reception again when he heard a metallic thunk outside, and then the big turbo sitting atop the helicopter began to spool up. With painful effort Walt dragged himself out from beneath the bed and pulled himself up to the curtained window. This time he saw the scene he’d watched earlier played in reverse. Black-clad SWAT troopers ran from the far building to the chopper’s door, their German shepherd alongside them. Every man carried at least one assault weapon.
Gut-churning fear awakened in Walt. He saw no reason for this kind of action unless someone had located Tom. Every fiber of his being told him the time had come to bolt and find someplace with cellular reception, but it would be stupid to try before the chopper left. Worse, he could see the goddamn pit bull leaping and barking at the cops as they boarded the helicopter.
Walt rubbed his forehead and cursed quietly, thinking of his wife back in Texas. If he were ten years younger, and single, he would make his break as soon as the chopper departed. He’d kill the dog if it made a sound, and then rely on his wilderness skills to get him to his vehicle ahead of any pursuers. But there was no point kidding himself. He wasn’t that man anymore. He would have to make the best of the situation and the skills he still had.
And Tom would have to do the same.
CHAPTER 41
THE EMOTIONAL TRANSITIONS I’ve made today have left me shaky and hypersensitive to almost all stimuli, but the past few minutes have gone a long way toward healing that. Annie and I are eating sandwiches and watching TV in the bedroom she commandeered in our makeshift safe house, the Abramses’ old place on Duncan Avenue. My mother made the sandwiches: tuna fish with apple slices, like those she used to make for my friends and me when we were kids. Since Annie was unable to find an episode of Grey’s Anatomy or House, M.D., she settled on Logan’s Run, the sci-fi movie starring Michael York and a boyhood crush of mine, Jenny Agutter.
“How come they chose thirty to be the oldest you could get?” Annie asks, munching on a triangular half of her sandwich. “I mean, you turn thirty, and then you walk into this thing where they kill you?”
“The people in the bubble city don’t know they’re going to die. They think they’re going to be recycled, sort of.”
“But the people who run don’t believe that.”
“Right. The writer probably chose thirty because at that age you still feel pretty much like you did as a teenager. Also, there used to be a saying: ‘Never trust anyone over thirty.’”
Annie knits her brows. “Huh. Weird.”
Despite all I’ve been through today, I can’t help but laugh.
While a young Farrah Fawcett welcomes Michael York to a plastic surgeon’s office, Annie says, “This no-school deal is pretty sweet.”
“Don’t get too used to it.”
“I know. But I miss talking to my friends. Are you sure I can’t call anybody? Just for a couple of minutes?”
“I’m sorry, babe. You can’t risk it.”
She stares at me for several seconds without speaking, then turns her attention back to the movie. Soon she’s lost in the drama of Sandmen chasing Runners, and my mind wanders back to the brief conversation I had with my mother when I arrived.
Despite the drama of the confrontation at Edelweiss, what dominated my mind after reaching the safety of this house was my memory of the Ford Fairlane my parents owned when I was a toddler. The more I thought about that gleaming car, the more I realized how incongruous it was, given my mother’s tales of penny-pinching frugality and part-time jobs during the early years of their relationship. While Annie went upstairs to find us something to watch, I sat Mom down in the banquette in the corner of the Abramses’ kitchen and asked where she and Dad had got “the old Ford that’s in all the family pictures.”
“The Fairlane?” she asked.
“The car with the tail fins.”
“Oh, Lord. We got that when we were in New Orleans.”
A wave of heat flashed across my neck and shoulders. “Really? I thought you only got it after you got back from Germany.”
“Oh, no. We needed a car long before that. And back then the army would carry your car over on a ship. I’m so glad we had it overseas. I’d have never made it to the hospital to have you without that car.”
“So where did you buy it? That was a pretty flashy car for that time. You didn’t get it new, did you?”
Mom’s eyes widened. “New? Lord, no. But it was only a year or two old, and in really good shape. I think it was a 1957. Maybe a ’58. That’s one of the few great deals Tom ever made. He actually saved his money without telling me, and then one day he brought it home as a present. It was our anniversary, I’m sure of it. 1959.”
“The anniversary you told me about last night? When you guys went to that Italian restaurant?”
“Yes!” A smile of authentic pleasure revealed her still-white teeth. “Oh, that was such a grand time. You don’t know what something like a car really means until you’ve been poor and had to walk everywhere, rain or shine.”
I could scarcely keep my mind on what she was saying. All I could see was squat, saturnine Carlos Marcello with his arms wrapped around them both at Mosca’s, asking how they liked the spaghetti with clam sauce.
“You know what I remember most?” she asked, her voice laced with nostalgia. “In Germany they told us never to let our gas tank get below half full, in case the balloon went up and the Russians invaded.”
“Wow,” I said dully. “That must have been scary.”
“Oh, your father wasn’t scared. He said his army unit had nuclear artillery shells, and they could stop the Russians. But I didn’t believe that. Neither did the Germans. If you even said the word ‘Russian,’ those women would shiver.”
“So you don’t know where Dad got the car?”
“I guess I don’t.” Her smile faded into concern, then worry. “Why are you so concerned with that car?”
“I don’t know.”
Mom watched me in silence for a few seconds. “Is it something to do with Carlos Marcello?”
“Why do you ask that?”
“Because you were asking about him last night. But he didn’t have anything to do with that car. Tom saved up and bought it.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’re right. Forget about it.”
But I knew she wouldn’t. No more than I would.
Before I went upstairs—while Annie helped Mom make the tuna fish—I walked into the backyard and made two phone calls on my burn phone. The first was to Dr. Homer Dawes, a Natchez dentist who’d been in dental school in New Orleans while my father attended med school. They became good friends, and later, by chance, ended up settling in the same town. After Dr. Dawes’s wife brought him to the phone, I told him I was working on a novel and needed to know what Dad’s salary might have been for working in the Orleans Parish Prison in 1959. Dr. Dawes laughed and said he knew exactly how much that job paid, because he’d been the dental extern for the prison in 1958. “Most of our compensation was room and board,” he said. “Beyond that, they gave us a stipend of fifty dollars a month.”
Fifty dollars a month. A month.
I thanked Dawes and got off as quickly as I could, assuring him that Dad was doing fine and his “trouble” would soon be straightened out. Then I called Rose, my secretary, and asked her to find out how much a 1957 or ’58 Ford Fairlane would have cost in the year it was made.
“Daaad,” Annie almost whines. “You’re not paying attention, are you?”
She’s right, but a quick scan of the TV screen and my memory tells me where we are in the movie. “The central computer just changed Logan Five’s life clock to flashing red early. Now he has no choice but to become a Runner himself.”
“You’re right. But doesn’t he kind of like that Jessica Six girl enough to run anyway?”
“I think he probably does, yeah.”
Annie’s eyes settle on me. “Are you sure I can’t call my friends?”
“Sorry, babe. It’s only for a few days, hopefully. Is there somebody you really miss talking to?”
“All my friends, really. But something happened just before you pulled me out of school, and I want to know what the teachers did about it.”
“What happened?”
“Somebody stole Jody Campbell’s cell phone. I think it was Haley Winters, the meanest girl in my class. But when the teachers finally went through the lockers, they found it in Maria’s locker.”
“Maria Estrada?”
Annie nods. “She’s the only Mexican girl in our whole school. I think Haley put it in her locker to get Maria in trouble. I think that’s the whole reason she took the phone.”
“Do you have any proof?”
Annie frowns and sighs angrily. “No.”
“Did somebody tell you Haley did it? Or did she brag about doing it?”
“No. I just know Maria wouldn’t have done that. She doesn’t have a cell phone, but she’s not stupid. She’d know she couldn’t use it without getting caught, even if she would steal it—which she wouldn’t.”
“Does Haley Winters have a cell phone?”
“Please. She’s got every gadget a kid can have. She’s spoiled rotten. That’s just it. She knew nobody would suspect her because of that. See?”
“Oh, I see.”
“I just hope Maria’s not in trouble.”
“Tomorrow I’ll call somebody on the school board and check on it.”
Annie smiles. “Good. Thanks.”
Having rid herself of this psychological irritant, Annie returns her attention to the movie. I try to do the same, but I cannot. Something about her story has disturbed me, like a fish displacing sediment at the bottom of a pond. While Michael York leads Jenny Agutter down a long tubular corridor that reminds me of a gerbil cage, a blast of pure instinct hits me.
“Will you excuse me for a couple of minutes, Boo? I need to make a phone call.”
“Noooo. You’ll miss the movie. There’s no PAUSE button on this old TV.”
“I’ve seen this one enough times to know what happens.”
Annie folds her arms and pouts. “Well, how come you get to make calls if I don’t?”
For this question I have no answer she will accept. “I know it’s not fair, but it has to be this way for now. I’ll be as quick as I can, I promise.”
Out on the landing of the staircase, I speed-dial Walker Dennis, and he answers on the second ring.
“Make it fast,” he says. “I’m busy as hell, still out at Frogmore. Looks like it was precursor chemicals that blew. Definitely arson, though.”
“Nobody hurt this time?”
“Thank God.”
“Who owns that warehouse?”
“A front corporation, but Leo Spivey had a part interest.”
“Can you connect it to the other Eagles at all? The Knoxes maybe?”
“Tough to do with the courthouse closed. Why’d you call, Penn?”
“To save your ass, maybe.”
“What?”
“I’ve been thinking about the Eagles agreeing to come in for questioning tomorrow. Kaiser’s right. It makes no sense that they’d do that. Not while they’re safe in Texas. They know you lost two deputies today and you’ll be loaded for bear.”
“I don’t have time to second-guess those assholes.”
“You’d better make time, buddy. The Knoxes know I spent time with Brody Royal last night. And they know from Caitlin’s articles that Royal confessed some things before he died. They also know Caitlin and I spoke to Henry before he died, and Henry spoke to Morehouse before they killed him. Plus they’re scared of what Dad might know, because he was treating Viola at the end, and I could be in contact with him. Finally, they know I’m working with you. Bottom line, there’s no way they’re walking into your office tomorrow like steers to the slaughter.”
Walker barks an order to someone, then returns to our call. “I figure they’ll be lawyered up and ready to post bond on any charges I might make. They gotta be thinking I’ll be forced to show ’em my hand, maybe jump the gun on charges, like Kaiser’s worried about.”
“I don’t think that’s it.”
“Well, shit. What do you think?”
“I think they’re buying time while they hunt Dad down and push Mackiever out of his job. And I think Forrest has figured a way to take you out of the equation. If he can do that, the state police can take over the investigation. And Forrest might well be running the state police by tomorrow.”
“Take me out how? You mean kill me?”
“They could, but I’d bet it’s more subtle than that. Forrest may have some way of making you look incompetent, or even guilty of a crime. If he could do that, maybe someone in your department that’s loyal to him could be appointed in your place.”
“Yeah. I didn’t like the way Ozan was talking last night.”
“Exactly. I think they’re planning to sandbag you, buddy.”
“But how?”
“Well . . . I was watching a movie with my daughter, and she told me a story about something that happened at school. One girl framed another, purely out of meanness. If I were Forrest Knox, and I wanted you out of the way, that’s what I’d do.”
“Spill it, man.”
“Have you got a K-9 unit?”
“Sure, yeah. My cousin’s old dog.”
“Okay. If I were you, I’d get that dog and run him through my house, my yard, and any other property I owned, like a storage room or fish camp.”
The silence that follows this is absolute. “You think they’re gonna try to plant something on me?”
“They’re in the meth business, bud. And it sure would be an easy sell, wouldn’t it? A parish known to have meth problems turns out to have a sheriff that’s neck deep in the trade? Especially with the recent history in your department.” I pitch my voice like that of one of the old bench-sitters at the farming co-op. “‘Well, I reckon old Walker was always as dirty as the rest of ’em. It just took longer to smoke him out.’”
I can almost see Dennis snap to attention in the flame-streaked darkness over Frogmore. “Christ, Penn, I’m twenty miles from home, with nobody there but my wife and boy!”
“Take it easy, man. Just send a deputy you trust to watch your house, then head this way and pick up that drug dog.”
“I will,” he says, his voice tremulous. “Goddamn, this is a hell of a note.”
“You’re going to be okay, Walker. We’ve been a step behind these guys up till now, but maybe this time we’re one step ahead.”
“Are you home or what?”
“No comment. I’ve got my burn phone with me. Call if you find anything.”
“Count on it. Hey, should I take a deputy with me on the search? As a witness or something?”
“No.” My answer came out of instinct, not legal analysis.
“Well . . . you’re the lawyer. I’ll call you back.”
“I hope I’m wrong, Walker.”
“If you’re not, I’m going to break some heads tomorrow.”
“Just keep cool, man. This is a chess game now, not a street fight.”
“That’s where you’re wrong.”
Dennis hangs up.
I start to walk back into Annie’s bedroom, but as I slip my burn phone back into my pocket, it bumps my BlackBerry, and I decide to check my e-mail. There’s some risk in doing it, but I want to know if Rose has answered my query about the Fairlane.
As soon as I open my inbox, I find her reply.
In 1957, Ford made several models of Fairlane, and the price would depend on various options. But if the car wasn’t a convertible, figure $2,000 being the minimum price. If it was a ’58, up to $2,500 is possible for a nonconvertible sedan. Hope that helps. If you give me more specific details, I can get closer to the actual price.
Two thousand dollars, I think, switching off my BlackBerry. On a salary of fifteen dollars per week? My mother was teaching then, but by her own admission she knew nothing about the car, so she wasn’t helping save for it. Some very quick math tells me that, even allowing for some depreciation, it would be like buying a forty-thousand-dollar car on a salary of a thousand dollars per month. That’s a serious stretch, especially given the proposition that Dad somehow saved up that money without Mom feeling the pinch and realizing he was up to something. And I know from my father’s stories that none of my grandparents ever helped them buy a car or home.
