“Because,” Cletus went on, “you are not a highly skilled and expertly trained ex- operative of the federal guvmint.”
“That’s true,” Stitch said, “and I ain’t got no cowshit on my boots neither, dude.”
The laughter that swept the table was a little forced, but it was laughter, and it was better than nothing.
Small talk dominated the conversation for the next hour, as the group crunched on tacos and tried to find some semblance of elusive normalcy. Gradually everyone but Clete and Crockett drifted away. Cletus cleared their dishes, sat down, and sighed.
“Son,” he said, “we’re in some deep shit. You think you intimidated them Feebs enough they’ll stay the hell out of things?”
“Probably not. Them, the Secret Service, the BATF, Justice, the DEA, Homeland Security, and the rest of those types are all convinced they’re invincible. Hell, you know that. You were one of ‘em!”
“Yeah. It’s part of the mystique. Everbody’s gotta believe his gang’s tougher than anybody else.”
Crockett nodded. “I do think the fact that we didn’t roll over surprised ‘em a little,” he said. “Might make ‘em more subtle than just trying to muscle us around.”
“You can be damn sure ol’ Metzger knows what went down here by now.”
Crockett nodded again. “Yeah, but he doesn’t know where Carson is.”
“And we don’t know where he is,” Clete said.
Crockett smiled. “That’s kind of a negative attitude, doncha think?”
“Hell, yes,” Clete said. “I always git a negative attitude when I contemplate a situation where I might have to shoot a few FBI agents.”
Crockett looked at him for a moment. “You willing to do that?”
“This ain’t about what’s legal and what ain’t,” Clete said. “This here is about justice. Justice for poor ol’ Joe Beckner, strapped in that chair with a cut throat. Justice for Satin who just missed bein’ blown all to hell by that car bomb. Justice for you for damn near gittin’ your throat cut in a fuckin’ airport shithouse. Justice for Ruby, who paid for havin’ the guts to jump into the middle of somethin’ that had nothin’ to do with her, just so she could git cut down thirty or forty years before her time. She was the best Ruby we had, son! Goddamn these bastards, Crockett. Goddamn ‘em to hell. An’ if He fuckin’ won’t, then I guess it’s up to me!”
“Us,” Crockett said.
“Well, I know that!”
“Then why are you yelling at me?” Crockett asked. “You know I hate it when you yell at me.”
Clete smiled. “Why don’t you go to bed?”
“Why don’t you?” Crockett countered.
“’Cause I got first watch. Stitch is gonna relieve me in four or five hours.”
“When’s my shift?” Crockett asked.
“You ain’t got one. Hit the rack.”
Crockett dumped his coffee and headed for the elevator. Usually he took the stairs, but not tonight. He limped into his room to find Carson snoring lightly in the bed, occasionally trembling a bit. As gently as he could, he slipped in behind her. She snuggled up against him and released a slow breath.
“You’re here,” she whispered. “Safe now.”
Crockett stared into the darkness and listened to her even breathing.
Safe? Not now.
Maybe not ever.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Grady’s a Good Boy
When Crockett awoke the next morning, Carson was already gone. He remained in bed a few moments luxuriating in her scent, reluctant to go downstairs and return to reality. After staying in the shower too long, he could postpone the inevitable no longer. Dressing in baggy blue jeans and a lightweight gray pullover, he wended his way to the kitchen to find Carson and Goody chatting over coffee. Carson stood to give him a hug.
“Fair morning, lad,” Goody said. “Did you get some rest then?”
“Yeah. I fell into that black hole.”
“Ivy’s home,” Carson said.
“She is?”
“Aye,” Goody interjected. “Her ladyship awaits you in the library. The coffee is reasonably fresh.”
Not quite apprehensive, Crockett got a cup of coffee, noticed it was a little after ten, and walked to the library. The door was open. Ivy, impeccable as usual, stood when he entered.
“Ah, David,” she said, shaking her head and holding out her arms, “allow an old woman a hug.”
Crockett embraced her carefully and tenderly. She kissed his cheek and pulled back.
“And how is your heart, dear Crockett?” Ivy went on. “And your head, and your spirit?”
Crockett sat across from her in a large leather armchair and put his coffee on an antique table beside the chair. “As well as could be expected, I suppose,” he said.
“I am so sorry for this dreadful sequence of events,” Ivy went on. “I know that you and Ruby were estranged. I also know that she was an immense part of your life and that you did, and do, love her. I know, too, that there is precious little I can do to help.”
“Your understanding offers respite, Ivy.”
“One should not outlive their children, Crockett,” Ivy went on. “I unsuccessfully resist the urge to think of both you and Ruby in that context. I am sorry. I did not, however, meet alone with you to elicit sympathy. I called you here to tell you of Ruby’s desires.”
Crockett sipped his coffee and looked at the old woman. “Okay,” he said.
Ivy stifled a small smile. “Some months ago, after Ruby had sufficiently recovered from her dreadful injuries to venture out into the world again, she went to see my, ah, household attorney, one Elihu Levenson of the firm of Levenson, Levenson, Birnbaum, and Peete, to put her affairs in order. In the event of her death, everything she had, with the exception of a couple of personal items left to you, is to be sold at auction. The proceeds from the auction, and all additional monies and property, is yours, David. That, of course, includes the yearly stipend paid to her by Cabot Industries.”
Crockett’s chest felt empty. “Oh, God,” he said. “Ivy, I don’t want it and I don’t need it.”
“In the event you felt that way, as Ruby assumed you would, it is to go to the battered women’s shelter where she volunteered her time. You are designated as the administrator of her estate.”
“Fine,” Crockett said. “Perfect.”
“Her body is to be cremated with no service or formality of any kind, her ashes to be scattered by you, at a time and place of your choosing.”
“Aw geeze.”
“All of this will be under the care of the lawyer. Your involvement is necessary only on the matter of the dispensing of her ashes, and a couple of signatures to dispose of her assets.”
Crockett stared at the floor. “Okay,” he said. “Whatever.”
“First Rachael, and now Ruby,” Ivy went on. “Such pain, Crockett. That is why I am going to, as I usually do, meddle. But only briefly. I am old, David. My years have provided me with perspective and insight that I prefer to consider as wisdom. A life that is ended before it is finished is a tragic thing, but it is well to remember that our lives are structured by the passing of others. I believe that if we could truly see the infinite matrix of which we are a part, we would truly know that there are reasons for everything that happens.
“I also believe that the dead are much more willing to forgive us than the living and, through our love for them, we can come to forgive ourselves. In addition to that, I am absolutely certain that we grieve for ourselves, and not for those that have gone on, for they are free of the encumbrance that so heavily weighs upon us. We are, I think, a bit jealous of that freedom, for somewhere in what is often called our soul, there exists an awareness of what it was once like for us, and we yearn for it again.”
Crockett had tears in his eyes. “Aw, Ivy,” he said.
“And,” Ivy went on, “once again you are being called on to be the warrior. To protect Carson and, I assume, avenge Ruby.”
“I have lots of help,” Crockett said.
“Yes, you do,” Ivy agreed, “but it is your will and power that draw to you what is needed. I celebrate you every day, David. But at times like these, I rejoice in you, for it is you who shall be the architect of our triumph.”
Ivy stood up and moved to the door.
“Rest your body and ease your mind,” she said. “For now at least, the dragon sleeps.”
Crockett watched her go, then fished his cell phone and Detective Montero’s number out of his pocket. Might as well get started.
The phone call to Montero went to voice mail but he returned the call a little before noon, as Crockett, dreaming of a cheeseburger, stood in the kitchen watching Satin and Carson create a lunch of shrimp salad and some mushy stuff that looked too much like wallpaper paste, designed to be eaten with something else that vaguely resembled tortillas.
“Montero here. You rang?”
“Yeah. Thanks for calling back.”
“No sweat. You get a visit from the Feebies?”
“We had a lovely chat.”
“Ha! I bet. Were you as nice to them as you were to me?”
“I was much nicer to you,” Crockett said. “You dress better.”
Montero laughed. “This a social call, or are you in search of information?”
“I’d ask you out to dinner, but I’m afraid people would talk.”
“Information it is. Whatcha need?”
“Who were those guys?” Crockett asked.
“Well, two of ‘em were killed during Desert Storm.”
“Pretty active for dead men.”
“That’s what I thought. Got ID’s on two others, but that was all. Can’t find any personal history, surviving relatives, tax records, prison time, nothing.”
“Hard to hide all that stuff.”
“But evidently not impossible. The info is damn sure out there, but a lot of it is just plain blocked from a lowly county constable like myself. Our number five asshole, however, is a different story.”
“Oh?”
“Guy named Grady Harlan Hemphill. No wife or kids that I could find. His parents live outside a little town called Metamora, in Illinois. Unlike Grady, his mom and dad are both living. Harlan and Patricia Hemphill. Grady got himself an honorable discharge from the army in oh-four. Hit the VA up a couple of times for persistent headaches and night sweats, then just sorta dropped off the face of the earth. The address I got is a rural route, off of, uh, lemme see.” Crockett could hear paper rattle in the background. “Off of county road twelve hundred east,” Montero went on, “a little ways outside Metamora. Daddy’s retired from the big-assed Caterpillar Plant in Peoria. You got internet out at your place?”
“Yeah, but I have no idea what an Email address would be.”
“Find out and leave me a message on my cell phone. I’ll get all the pertinent shit to ya. By the way, we need to keep this on the down-low. I’m functioning a little outside my normal parameters here. It’s better if the county stays off my back.”
“Okay. I’ll ask Clete and get back to you with the Email stuff. You think Hemphill’s parents know he’s dead yet?”
“Nobody here notified ‘em,” Montero said. “The Feebs got the whole thing now. We’re out of it. My guess would be that nobody’s told Mom and Dad. You know how the FBI is. They’ll investigate every aspect they can for as long as necessary. They’ll wanna know the answers to any questions they might ask his parents in advance. Christ. Those guys would stake out a pay toilet for two weeks before they tried to borrow the price of admission.”
“So if we can get to them soon…”
“So if you can get to them soon, they might not know that sonny-boy is takin’ a dirt nap.”
Crockett smiled. “I thought you guys said ‘sleeps with the fishes’ or something like that.”
“Naw. Too old school.”
“I don’t care what anybody says, Montero. You’re all right. Thanks a lot.”
“Fahgedaboudit,” Montero said, and hung up.
Crockett was wrestling with his second bite of shrimp salad, now prepared to settle for a baloney sandwich, when Clete and Stitch entered the kitchen. He related his conversation with Montero.
“It’s the best lead we got,” Clete said.
“It’s the only lead we got,” Crockett said.
“I’ll call his phone and leave Montero my Email address so we can git what we need. How long from here to Peoria in the helo?”
“Gas up here,” Stitch said, “then about a hour flight time. Won’t need no more fuel for the round trip.”
“Figger in another hour and a half to rent a car and find the place,” Clete went on, “no more than a hour on site, another hour back to the airport an’ an hour home. How much is that?”
“Five and a half to six hours,” Crockett said, “depending on how long it takes to fuel up.”
“Make it seven hours at the outside,” Clete said. “Too late to go today. Tomorrow morning okay? Around six?”
“Dust off at oh-six-hundred,” Stitch agreed.
Clete nodded. “Great,” he said. “You guys have a nice trip.”
“You guys?” Crockett asked, his stomach battling with the shrimp at the thought of a helicopter ride.
“Yeah. I can’t go. At least one of us has to stay here. We’re still targets.”
“In that case, loan me your car. I’ll drive down. That way you and Stitch can be on hand in case anything happens. I’ll leave here about five in the morning, get to the Hemphill place around breakfast time.”
“You really fuckin’ hate to fly, doncha, dude,” Stitch grinned.
Crockett glared at him and didn’t answer.
“You’re still gonna have to fly,” Clete said.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yep. Stitch’ll fly you into the airport. Rent a car for the trip. When you come back, call an’ Stitch’ll come pick you up. We don’t want nobody tailin’ you from here to anyplace else. The helo’ll make sure that won’t happen.”
“Shit,” Crockett said.
“Where neither lark nor, ah, eagle flew, man,” Stitch offered.
Crockett slid his shrimp salad away and looked toward the pantry. “We got any donuts?” he asked.
Clete met Montero at an Applebee’s mid-afternoon and picked up the necessary information, along with the pistols that the deputies had confiscated during the initial investigation. Montero grinned and explained how the FBI had neglected to ask for them, and how he had failed to correct their oversight. He’d get the SA-80’s back to them in a week or so.
Clete and Stitch, still saddled with night duty, took late afternoon naps. The staff continued to be restricted by Ivy from returning to the house, so Carson fixed dinner, a wok constructed conglomeration of chopped pork and chicken in the company of various chunks of veggies and water chestnuts, coated in sundry sauces and served over rice, that initially made Crockett suspicious, but tasted wonderful.
He turned in early, needing to be alone. Even Nudge sensed it, vacating the bed upon Crockett’s arrival. He awoke to an alarm a little before four AM, took a shower, dressed in his number two suit, a tan lightweight wool with a single breasted jacket that was cut to assist in hiding the seven-shot 686 Smith & Wesson perched just in front of his right kidney. The gun was heavy, bulky, and restricted his movements somewhat. It felt good.
He tiptoed into Carson’s room, but she wasn’t there. She was, however, in the kitchen with Stitch when Crockett arrived, wearing a hideous flannel robe that looked great on her, sitting, Indian-style, in a chair too small for such contortions as she munched a piece of cinnamon toast. A faint milk mustache graced her upper lip. She smiled at him.
“You weren’t in your room,” Crockett said. “Thank God I’ve found you. What are you doing out of bed, young lady?”
“Starting my day with a balanced breakfast, and waiting to see you off. Coffee?”
“Sure.”
“Eggs?”
&
nbsp; “No.”
“Pancakes?”
“No.”
“Oatmeal?”
“No.”
“Chili?”
Crockett grinned. “God, no.”
“A loving embrace?”
“Sure.”
“You two want some whipped cream with that?” Stitch asked.
The flight to the airport made Crockett glad he’d passed on food. Less than two hours later, driving a dark gray Chrysler 300, he crossed the Illinois River passing through the guts of Peoria, a town supported by, and tied to, the fortunes of Caterpillar Tractor.
He drove northeast on Route 116 to Metamora, took Route 89 to County Road 1600 North, then proceeded to County Road 1200 East. From there it was only a quarter of a mile north or so to his first possible right turn, a gravel road graced by a mailbox with Hemphill stenciled on the side, less than a hundred yards from the intersection.
The home was a common two-story farmhouse, probably close to a hundred years old. It was worn and weathered, sitting on a low rise, battered by endless bouts with Illinois heat and cold, wind and rain. He stopped the car next to an open gate in a rusty chain-link fence, and was greeted by a cautious, but not threatening, black and white Australian Shepherd. He spoke to the animal and got a wag in return. The dog accompanied him to the small front porch.
His knock was answered by a raw-boned man in work clothes, slightly over six feet tall and at least seventy years old. Like the dog, the man was cautious, but not threatening.
“Mister Hemphill?” Crockett asked.
“Yow. Hep ya?”
Crockett held out his badge and commission. “Mister Hemphill, my name is Dan Beckett,” he said. “I’m with the United States Department of Justice. If I can, I’d like to speak with you about your son, Grady.”
Hemphill looked at him for a beat, then took a step back. “Yessir,” he said. “C’mon in.”
The living room measured about fifteen by twenty feet and was populated by various examples of worn furniture perched on a fairly new room-sized rug. Hardwood flooring shone in a foot wide strip around the perimeter of the space. The walls were holding on to old flowered wallpaper and the woodwork was heavy with paint, the latest addition a yellowing off-white. The ten-foot ceiling, also papered, was water stained. On one sidewall stood an ancient woodstove. The rear wall contained a doorway to what was obviously a kitchen. In that doorway stood a short, elderly woman with tightly curled gray hair leaning toward blue. She wore a white apron over a blue calico housedress, sensible black shoes, thick glasses that appeared to be dirty, and was fifty pounds overweight.
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