For a moment, confusion brought Davis’s brows together as she tried to place who the mysterious handsome associate that had been alluded to was.
Just as fast, it dissipated, realizing that the woman was referring to Deputy Adams.
The very same Deputy Adams that had a paunch, a receding hairline, and two kids at home.
“Don’t suppose there’s any form of office romance going on, is there?” Bannister asked. Reaching out, she tapped the back of her wrist against Davis’s leg, acting as if they shared some sort of inside secret.
As she did so, the front of the Lululemon top she was wearing sagged open, revealing far more than Davis would ever want to see.
“Um, no,” Davis managed, twisting her gaze to the side. Fighting to keep the revulsion she felt at the mere thought of such a thing, she managed to add, “He’s happily married.”
“Unfortunate,” Bannister said, sitting back and shaking her head, a look that bordered on wistful crossing her features.
Wanting no part of that conversation, Davis flipped open the spiral bound notepad she’d brought along, sliding a pencil out from the loops across the top.
“Ms. Bannister, I know you gave me a full statement yesterday about what occurred, but I was hoping to follow up with just a few more questions if you don’t mind.”
Again, Bannister waved a hand, inviting them to come forward as she sipped at her tea.
“How long have you lived here on Lake Edstrom?” Davis asked.
“Well, I say, more than twenty years,” Bannister replied. “My husband – God rest his soul – was pretty good in real estate. Started his own business in Knoxville, did well enough we were able to sell out and retire early.”
It was clear there was so much more she wanted to add, a full life story cued up and ready to go, just needing the slightest bit of prodding before it all came spilling out.
Prodding Davis had no intention of providing.
“So it would be fair to say that you know all the residents around here?”
Pausing a moment, long enough to signal she understood what had just occurred, Bannister nodded. “More than fair. With the exception of the Dianason’s across the way, I’ve been here longer than anybody, still help organize the socials we have each month.”
This too seemed to be a point she was all too eager to expound on, Davis jumping in before giving her the opportunity.
“So do you know the Bridgers?”
A crease appeared between Bannister’s brows as she thought on the name. “Who?”
“Joe and Nancy Bridger,” Davis replied, “the owners of the property.”
“No,” Bannister said, shaking her head, a dour expression finding her face, “but that isn’t too surprising. This place has changed so much around here the last five years.”
“How so?” Davis prompted, for the first time interested in more than just a surface response.
Turning her focus to the side, Bannister stared out toward the water. Releasing her grip on the teacup, she lowered her hand to Freddy’s head, his eyes rising up to meet her in response.
“Used to be, this was a place people wanted to live, to have a community, interact with their neighbors. Nowadays, it’s nothing but second homes and vacation rentals, playthings for people from Knoxville or Asheville, sometimes even as far away as Atlanta.
“You can imagine what that crowd looks like.”
Whether that was meant as rhetoric or was a literal condemnation on the demographics of people that arrived, Davis didn’t bother thinking on, not wanting to know the answer either way.
“Yes, I know you’ve made a few calls to us about noise in the last year,” Davis said. “Have there been any other disturbances? Anything that might be cause for alarm?”
To that, Bannister thought a moment, her mouth pursed out as she ruminated on it.
“Just...” she began, her words trailing off as she searched for an answer. “Just a general lack of respect. These people don’t want to be here, they don’t want to enjoy the nature or get to the know the neighbors.
“They’re up here to have a good time, to drink beer and play music and carry on until all hours of the night. Like this place is their own private resort or something. Like the rest of us don’t live here too.”
It was obvious that this was a rant that had been made on more than one occasion, the woman seeming to be gaining steam with each passing moment.
As she went, Davis considered pointing out that many would consider such activities the very definition of a vacation, though she let it go.
No way would that end up anywhere she wanted it to.
Using the tip of her ink pen, Davis scanned through the list, running over the items she had wanted to check on. Twice she scanned it, having hit most of the high points before stopping on the very last entry.
Looking at it for several moments, she exhaled slowly, letting her shoulders sag with the effort.
“Ms. Bannister, I don’t suppose the name Jessup Lynch means anything to you either, does it?”
Chapter Seventeen
The rental car in Chicago was just one more piece of the diversion, one final step to put as much distance as possible between myself and Lipski and her team. By the time I landed in the Midwest, there was no way they weren’t already aware of my move, or at least soon would be.
A pair of marshals waiting at the gate when I stepped off the plane was something I was fully prepared to encounter.
To my relief, there hadn’t been any, but that didn’t mean I was quite in the clear yet.
Taking the rental car, I fought morning traffic south through Chicagoland, the interminable sprawl moving in a wide arc away from Lake Michigan, extending clear down into northern Indiana. By the time I reached Fort Wayne and things fell away, opening up to wheat and cornfields, morning was already long past, sun beating down from above.
Promising that things were going to be much, much warmer than I had grown accustomed to in the Pacific Northwest.
Keeping the speedometer pinned two miles above the speed limit, I sliced a south/southeast path through the state, going directly to Indianapolis. There, I returned the car to the closest return counter and hailed a cab, paying cash to deposit me outside a shopping center on the south end of the city.
Having caught no more than a few hours of sleep on the overnight flight, my mind running much too fast to let slumber ever truly take hold, I found a Starbucks and ordered the largest, strongest coffee they had in the place.
Just that way, too, free from any mention of grande or latte or soy or any of the other stuff that passed for coffee these days.
A big cup of liquid caffeine, dark and hot.
Sipping it slowly, I took a seat in the corner staring out the front window and waited for more than a half hour, scrutinizing every car that drove by, every person in a bad suit or with a severe haircut.
By the time the clock was just nudging eleven, my focus and nerves were back up to full attention, my conscious eased that nobody was following.
Or, at least, they hadn’t followed me this far yet.
Slipping through the back entrance of the place, I caught a second cab two miles south to a used car dealership and stepped out, the duffel bag in hand, my emergency backpack slung over a shoulder.
Every part of me hated what I was doing, having to go through the paces, wasting precious time on such foolish endeavors.
At the same time, I knew they were necessary to gain me the bit of separation I needed.
Not yet was I quite ready to completely sever the connection, aware that I may very well need their assistance in the coming days.
In the meantime, I needed some space to do what I hoped would turn out to be nothing more than an exercise in exertion.
The sign across the front of the lot called the place Happy Happy’s Used Cars, the sign made from blue letters on a red background. Faded and cracked, it was stretched across the front of a small trailer in the center of a dusty expans
e, a window air conditioning unit humming loudly.
Spread around it sat a couple dozen cars, all of them bearing a thick layer of the same dust, their makes and models running the full spectrum.
Dropping the duffel bag along the front of the building, I kept the backpack in place and made a quick loop, immediately dismissing more than half of the rigs parked in the lot.
I might be on a tight timeframe, might have a somewhat limited budget, but I couldn’t take a chance on ending up along the side of the road somewhere in Kentucky. Even if I had no need for the vehicle again in a week’s time, I had to be at least somewhat careful about what I did.
At least one life could be depending on it.
Halfway through my second revolution of the place, I heard the metal springs on the front door groan. A moment later, it was slammed back into place, followed by the trio of metal stairs beneath it moaning in protest.
Keeping my back turned, pretending to have not noticed a thing, I waited as footsteps approached, maintaining my pose until they were close by before turning.
And fighting to keep the surprise off my face.
“Morning,” a rail-thin woman with white blonde hair said, lines forming around her mouth as she spoke. “Help you find you something?”
Expecting to have turned to see a bald middle-aged man in a bad sports coat, it took me a moment to place the person standing before me, to get past the mental image I had for how things were about to go.
“Uh, Happy?”
“That’s me,” the woman said, thrusting a hand my direction. Adding a half shrug, she said, “My parents were hippies.”
Rocking my head back slightly, I said nothing, taking in the woman before me.
“Help you find something?” she asked.
Giving a quick twist of my head, casting aside any previous surprise, I shifted. Extending an arm, I motioned to a Dodge Ram and said, “How many miles does the truck have on it?”
“Hundred and forty,” she replied, not needing to consult a single thing, less than a second passing before her response came.
“Hmm,” I said, shaking my head. If given my druthers, I would prefer a truck, though there was no way I was touching anything with more than one hundred on the odometer.
Seventy-five, if I could help it.
Taking a few steps to the side, I let my heels drag across the top of the lot, dust rising in a plume around my calves.
“The Silverado?”
Matching my pace, Happy fell in beside me, shoving her hands into the rear pockets of the jeans she wore. “If you didn’t want the Dodge, you damned sure don't want that.”
Unable to stop myself, I let out a small laugh, the first in I couldn’t remember how long.
At least she was honest.
Moving a bit further, my gaze landed on a low-slung Dodge in the corner, the front windshield free of the usual stickers and advertisements adorning the others in the lot. Somewhere deep within, a flicker of intrigue went up, my exterior revealing nothing.
“What’s the story on the Charger?” I asked, motioning with my chin.
“Just got that one in yesterday, haven’t even had time to finish processing the paperwork on it yet.”
“Hmm,” I said, nodding, taking a moment in hopes that she wouldn’t see every internal process I had lighting up simultaneously. Raising my arms, I folded them across my chest, staring at the black machine with orange racing stripes running down the middle of it.
“The count?” I asked.
“Eighty.”
“And the price?”
Beside me, Happy stepped into my periphery. Pulling her hands from her pockets, she raised one to her face, the other folded across her abdomen. “I paid seven-five for it. Considering no longer than I’ve had it, could let it go for maybe nine-five if you don’t mind waiting for me to process it.”
Keeping my attention on the car a moment longer, I slowly turned my gaze to land on her square.
“Would you take ten even and we forget about the paperwork?”
Chapter Eighteen
The air was damp and raw, just as it had been for the past three months, just as it would be at least until the 4th of July. Having grown up in the Pacific Northwest, it was something Deputy Marshal Abby Lipski was intimately familiar with, the tug of the breeze on her suit jacket barely even registering with her.
It had been her hope when joining the U.S. Marshals to be posted somewhere warm, someplace that maybe had a little more summer and less of the other three at the very least, but now fifteen years into her career, she had accepted the tertiary benefits that came with it.
Her parents weren’t getting any younger, nor were her children. Never once had she had to worry or juggle things to be there for any of them, her life in the western suburbs of Portland as perfect a snapshot of Americana as could be expected.
She just got to wear a gun and tell people she had a cool job in the process.
Regardless how far from the truth that often seemed.
Resting her coffee thermos on the top of her SUV, she slung a shoulder bag over an arm and locked her car. Taking up the smooth metal container, she walked across the front lot, more than half of the spaces already filled.
It being Tuesday, it had been her turn to put the kids on the bus, meaning she was a few minutes later than usual arriving.
Moving fast for the front door, she passed through a set of glass double doors and through a burst of warm air, feeling her hair lifted from the nape of her neck. Just as fast, she pushed on through a secondary door, leaving the blast behind, replacing it with the cool exterior of the lobby.
Underfoot, her heels clicked against a marble floor, an inset of the U.S. Marshals insignia passing beneath them. A square space more than fifteen feet in either direction, a series of postings hung on one side, plaques and honorariums on the other.
Directly in front of her was a waist-high desk measuring six feet across, open doorways standing to either side of it. Seated behind it was a young woman with blonde hair and a blue dress shirt, an earpiece plugged into one side of her head, a microphone extended down over her cheek.
“Good morning, Deputy Marshal Lipski,” she said, her voice and the smile on her face not exactly lining up.
“Good morning, Maddie,” Lipski replied. “How are you today?”
“Excited to be here,” the young woman said, this time her tone matching the eye roll she added perfectly.
“Aren’t we all?” Lipski said, aiming for the left opening, not once breaking stride. On more than one occasion, she had made the mistake of getting drawn into conversation, the young woman not quite understanding the subtle nuances of office small talk.
And by subtle, it was clearly meant that if a marshal was walking by with coffee in hand and their gaze aimed at the ground, keep it as small as possible.
Making it as far as the corner, her focus already on the doorway, on her desk down the hall and the work she had lined up for the day, she was pulled short by the sound of Maddie’s voice.
“Hey!” she called, pulling Lipski up just short, her face clenching slightly in a cringe before falling away as she turned back.
“Yeah?”
“Marshal Burrows was looking for you earlier this morning,” Maddie replied.
Feeling her brow come together, Lipski asked, “Did he say what it was about?”
The right side of the girl’s face scrunched as she tried to recall the details, her eyes lifting toward the ceiling. “Something about a phone call...?”
Chapter Nineteen
I’ve never been much of a car guy. My high school years were spent grabbing the occasional drive in Uncle Jep’s farm truck, having never had a vehicle of my own. From there I went into the service, didn’t so much as touch a steering wheel for a decade.
In the six years since, I’ve had a sedan that the program set me up with and last year got my CDL and started driving a truck, but it’s not like the thing was a high-performance machine.
The Charger, on the other hand, felt like the real deal.
In every way.
The route taken from Portland east hadn’t been the most efficient, but it had been necessary. Long past were the days of having a marshal assigned to me full-time, but I did know they still kept a fairly tight watch on my whereabouts.
The visit from Lipski last night just being the most recent example, one more prod to let me know that my life wasn’t really my own.
As if I needed the reminding.
Had I had it my way, I would have taken the red eye all the way to Atlanta. From there, I would have rented a car or caught a commuter flight up to Knoxville, depending on how the schedule played out.
Casting a glance to the dashboard, seeing the time creeping up on noon, I couldn’t help but think that I should already be there. Should be stepping up onto the familiar front porch I knew so well, walking through that front door with the crooked wooden frame and the metal screen with the vertical runs in it.
Instead, I was sitting on a stretch of highway across the middle of Kentucky, several more hours to go.
The more prudent part of me thought maybe I should have just gone to Lipski. Called over and told her my concerns, asked if they could have someone go and check on things.
The larger portion knew it wouldn’t have done a damn bit of good. At this point, the government got what they needed from me, the shooter and everything he represented all locked away.
Years removed from the trial, I represented very little value to them, nothing but another hanger-on they now had to keep a watch over.
A fact that I could practically feel rolling off of Lipski every time we interacted. Asking her to help me would have been a fool’s errand, the sort of thing that would have just made her laugh, if not worse.
Having witnessed our relationship deteriorate to the point of open animosity, that wasn’t the part that bothered me.
It was more the fact that even if they did as asked, went and checked on him and found something was wrong, there’d be no way for me to get there. Tipping them off would only return the ring around me back to the levels it was when I first went in, unable to go anywhere without some guy in dark shades and an earpiece magically appearing.
The Subway Page 6
