"That's between them and me. And my lawyer."
"Your lawyer?" gasped Bill.
"I'm being investigated. I need a lawyer."
"But you didn't do anything."
"Don't be stupid, Billy. Innocent men have gone to jail before, you and I both know that. I'm entitled to counsel like everybody else."
They drove home together, Frank and Bill Maxwell in the back. Neither of them said a word the whole way.
Later, as Sean was leaving the Maxwells' house to go to his hotel, he told Michelle, "Why don't you watch your dad and I'll take the list of friends and try to hit some before the funeral?"
"No, I'll go with you. We can do it afterwards."
"But your family-"
"He's got my four brothers. I doubt he'll even miss me. It might be a good thing since we're not exactly hitting it off."
"Okay, I'm going to grab a few hours' sleep."
"Me too," she said.
Back at his hotel Sean raided the minibar, slept for four hours, then made some phone calls. Tuck Dutton had been discharged from the hospital. He called Pam Dutton's sister in Bethesda. Tuck had come and gotten his two kids and gone to a rental house, she told him. Sean had Tuck's cell phone number so he tried that.
Someone picked up on the second ring.
It wasn't Tuck.
"Jane?"
"Hello, Sean."
"I heard Tuck moved to a rental with the kids."
"He did, I'm helping them all settle in."
"Where is the place?"
"In Virginia. It's a townhouse near the Vienna metro. The FBI uses it sometimes to put up visiting agents. The Secret Service is here as well, of course."
"How're Tuck and the kids?"
"Not great. Have you made any progress?"
"Yes, can you put Tuck on?"
"Can't you tell me?"
"I really need to talk to Tuck about this."
Sean heard a noise come out of the woman's throat that made it clear she did not appreciate this slight at all. Still, a moment later he heard Tuck's voice.
"What's up, Sean?"
"Is Jane standing next to you?"
"Yeah, why?'
"You're going to need some privacy when you hear what I have to say. Find it."
"But-"
"Find it!"
"Uh, hold on."
Sean heard him mumble something, and then other noises came over his phone that suggested Tuck was walking somewhere, and then a door closed. He finally came back on.
"Okay, what's this all about?"
"I was in Jacksonville."
"Why?" Tuck snapped.
"I needed a tan."
"Sean-"
"I know it all, Tuck. In fact, I know way more than you do."
"I told you that-"
"I spent all afternoon with Cassandra the Exhibitionist. That is, after Greg Dawson finished paying her off."
Tuck shouted, "Greg Dawson!"
"Knock down the decibels, Tuck, I'm losing my hearing fast enough as it is. So here's the scoop. Dawson found out about you and Cassandra and now the lady is working for him in screwing you out of your big government contract. I'm sure they've got pictures and everything of you two together in the sack to entertain DHS with."
"That asshole. And that bitch!"
"Yeah. By the way, this is a real good lesson in why fidelity is the way to go."
"You didn't tell Jane-"
Sean broke in. "That's not my job. In my book you're a total shitbag for pulling this crap on your wife and the mother of your kids, but who cares what I think."
"She came on to me, Sean. I swear. She seduced me."
"Grow up, Tuck. Manipulators like Cassandra always come on to saps like you; that's what they do. And it's your job as a happily married man to tell her where to go. Hell, even I did when she flashed some ass at me, and I'm single! I could've jumped her bones without a guilty thought; luckily my good taste saved me. But I'm not a marriage counselor and that's not why I called."
"So why did you phone?" Tuck asked nervously.
"Cassandra said the two of you had a falling-out over the issue of Pam maybe having an affair. Is that true?"
"Well…"
"Either start telling me the truth or you can find Willa on your own."
"Yes. It's true."
"That would have been really nice to know before, Tuck," Sean said.
"I… I was confused about stuff, not to mention having my head knocked in."
"Cassandra said you overheard some conversations and you actually saw Pam with a guy."
"That's right. I couldn't believe she might be cheating on me."
"Yeah, can you believe the nerve of the woman? Okay, here's the next big question. I know your plane got in early. You said you never stopped, so where did you spend the extra hour or so you had between leaving the airport and arriving home?"
"How did you-"
Sean impatiently cut him off. "I'm an investigator, Tuck, that's what I do. We're wasting time and your kid is out there somewhere with some seriously violent folks. So where were you? And if you even think about lying to me I'm coming over there and, Secret Service protection or not, I'm gonna kick the shit out of you."
"I was outside my house," he said hastily.
"Outside your house?"
"Yeah. I was watching it. I thought if Pam believed I was still in Jacksonville, she and her 'friend' might get together. I wanted to catch them in the act. But nobody showed up, so I drove into the garage and went in the house."
"And if the guy did show, what exactly were you going to do?"
"Do? Um, I'm not sure. Kick his butt probably."
"And then what, confess to Pam your own infidelity and let her kick your ass?"
"Look, you asked and I told you. I don't need a sermon, okay?"
Something about this explanation was not adding up to Sean. "Your house is down a long driveway with woods on either side. Where were you watching from?"
"The driveway curves and there's a break in the treeline on the east side of the property. You have a clear line of vision to the front door as well as the garage side."
"It was night and it was dark."
"I had a pair of binoculars in my car."
"You just happened to?"
"Okay, so I bought them with that thought in mind."
"When you were watching your own house, did you notice anyone around who shouldn't have been there?"
"No. There was nobody."
"There was obviously somebody, Tuck. They weren't in the house while you were watching it or else you probably would have heard screaming. They had a surveillance zone set up before they made the hit, spotted you right away, and waited for you to go in before they slammed your house."
"But I would've seen them, Sean."
"No, you wouldn't. They obviously knew what they were doing. And you obviously didn't," he added.
"Shit," grumbled Tuck.
"What did you overhear on the phone calls? As detailed as you can."
"There were two calls. I just happened to pick up the same time as Pam did on one of them. I heard a guy's voice. He said something like, 'I want to meet. And soon.' And Pam wanted to do it later. That's all I heard before I got nervous and hung up."
"And the other time?"
I was walking past the bedroom. She must've thought I had already left, but I forgot my briefcase and had come back from the garage. She was talking in a low voice but I heard her say that I was leaving town in two days and they could meet then."
"And what happened?"
"I only pretended to leave town. I changed my flight and followed her. She went to a coffee shop about a half hour away."
"And you saw the guy?"
"Yeah."
"Hair color, build, race, age?"
"Big guy. About your height. I know that because he stood when she walked in. He was white with short dark hair that had some gray. Maybe about fifty. Real professional-looking."
"S
o what did you do?"
"I sat in my car for about half an hour. Then Pam came out and I took off."
"Why didn't you wait around for the guy to come out and then confront him?"
"I told you, he was a big guy."
"Is that the only reason?"
Silence.
"Tuck, talk to me!"
"Okay, okay. He was dressed in a suit. I could see them looking at papers. They never did anything lovey-dovey. So, I suddenly started thinking…"
"What, that maybe he wasn't her lover boy? That maybe he was a lawyer and Pam was thinking about divorcing your ass?"
"Or that he was a PI like you that she'd hired to check up on me."
That was probably what Pam had wanted to meet with me about.
"Wait a minute, if you thought that, why did you come back from Florida early, the night Pam was killed? You said you wanted to catch them in the act, maybe kick the guy's ass. But now you just admitted you took off before because he was a big guy. And you also admitted that you started thinking he wasn't her lover but maybe a PI. Stop the bullshit. I want the truth."
"This is embarrassing, Sean."
"Tuck, do you want to get Willa back?"
"Of course I do!"
"Then forget your feelings of embarrassment and tell me the truth."
Tuck blurted out, "I thought if I caught the guy coming out of our house, I could intercept him and maybe buy him off."
"Why?"
"The same reason why Dawson obviously did what he did. If Pam found out about the affair and went public the contract was down the crapper. I couldn't let that happen, Sean. I'd worked my tail off. It meant everything."
A big part of Sean wanted to reach across the ephemeral mist of cellular signals and flatten Tuck Dutton.
"Well, obviously it meant more to you than your marriage. And that story you and Jane fed me at the hospital? About your partner trying to force you to sell because you needed the money. That was all BS!"
"It wasn't exactly the truth, no."
"And Jane knew it wasn't the truth?"
"She was just trying to protect me, Sean. She always has. And I keep letting her down."
"Look, do you think Pam had anything written down that would lead us to this guy? Or maybe his business card if he was a lawyer or a PI?"
"Why? He's not connected to Willa and what happened to Pam. It must have to do with my fling with Cassandra."
"Tuck, will you pull your brains out of your crotch and stick them back in your head for just one damn second? This having to do with your fling with Cassandra is only one theory and a pretty implausible one at that. Think about it, okay? Why kill your wife and kidnap Willa over a government contract? Dawson was already set to screw you over with Cassandra, so why would he do it? Are there any other competitors out there willing to risk the death penalty for that contract?"
"Well, no, not really. Government contracting is brutal, but not that brutal."
"Great, thanks for employing some logic. Now, another take is that this guy had something to do with Willa's disappearance and Pam's death and it's totally unrelated to your mess."
"But how could that be? Why would he call Pam and then meet with her if he was going to do something like that?"
"Ever heard of meeting under false pretenses to gain some inside intelligence? You folks in the government contracting arena seem to have made a science out of it."
Tuck said slowly, "Oh, yeah, I guess I see your point."
"Have you told the FBI any of this? About Cassandra and the guy you saw with Pam?"
"Of course not. Wait a minute, do I have to?"
"Don't ask me, I'm not your legal advisor. And when I get back to town you and I are going to straighten some things out with your sister."
"Back in town? Where are you?"
"In Tennessee."
"Why?"
"A funeral."
"Jesus, I just remembered. We're burying Pam on Friday. Jane is taking care of all the arrangements."
"I'm sure she is."
"Will you be back by then?"
"Yes, I will. But guess what, Tuck."
"What?"
"I'll be there for Pam. Not you! Oh, and while we're being so truthful here, tell me this, was Willa the adopted child?"
"What!" Tuck sounded shocked.
"The postmortem confirmed that Pam only had two C-sections and she couldn't deliver the normal way. You've got three kids, so which one was it? Willa?"
Tuck hung up the phone.
"Thanks for the answer," Sean said to himself.
CHAPTER 36
QUARRY SLID his fat key ring out, found the right one, and opened the four-inch-thick door that had been built almost two centuries ago. Atlee was a jumble of dynamics; part southern baronial, part white trash, and part American history. This last part was demonstrated by the room he was now stepping into. It was in the bowels of the main house, dug so far down into the earth that one could never escape the sickly sweet smell of damp, hardened red clay. It was in this room that Quarry's ancestors had sent their most unruly slaves for lengthy stays so as not to incite the rest of the "unfree" population. Quarry had removed the leg and wrist irons from the walls, and also the wooden partitions of cells that had separated slaves from each other lest they gain any strength in numbers. That part of his family history he could live without.
People had died down here. Quarry knew this to be true from the excellent records kept by his slaveholding family. Men, women, and even children. Sometimes when he was down here at night he felt them, thought he heard their moans, the tailings of their final snatches of breath, their barely audible farewells.
He closed the door behind him and locked it. He noted, as he always did, the long and deep scratches on the thick hand-sawn oak; the fingernails of folks trying to gain their freedom. If one looked close enough, one could see the lingering dark traces of old blood on the wood. From the records he'd seen, Quarry also knew that not a single one of them had been successful in escaping from here.
The walls were now covered with painted plywood. He'd studded and framed the walls and then used a sturdy hammer and his own strong arms to nail in the half-inch plywood that came in eight-foot-long sections. It was heavy work, but the sweat had been welcome to him. He'd always embraced projects that made him tired at the end of the day.
And set forth on the painted plywood was work that represented entire years of Quarry's life. There were chalkboards he'd salvaged from torn-down schools and magic-marker boards he'd gotten cheap from a company going out of business. These surfaces were covered with writing, Quarry's precise, homeschool-learned cursive. There were lines connecting to other notes, and still more lines intersecting with other collections of facts. Pushpins colored red, blue, and green were all over the place, each of them connected by string. It was like a mathematician's or a physicist's work of art. Sometimes he felt he was the John Nash of his little corner of Alabama. Except, he hoped, for the paranoid-schizophrenic part. One clear difference between him and the Nobel Prize-winning physicist was that there were no intricate formulas or numbers other than calendar dates on the walls. The bulk was simply words that still managed to tell a complex story.
It was here long night after long night that Quarry had pieced everything together. His mind had always worked in flows and movements, ever since he could remember. When he'd torn down his first engine, it was like he could see where the initial spark of energy ignited the fuel and then everything that followed as the internal combustion system worked its magic. The most complex schematics, or mechanical diagrams, while constituting unfathomable puzzles to most folks, had been as clear as water from the tap to him.
It'd been the same way with everything else; planes, guns, farm equipment so complicated and with so many moving parts that qualified mechanics would sometimes drink themselves into a stupor because they just couldn't figure something out from a million different possibilities. But Quarry had always been able to figure it out. He beli
eved he'd inherited this gift from his tongue-talking mother, because his adulterous, racist father couldn't even figure out how to jump-start a car. Quarry was one of a fast-disappearing breed of Americans. He could actually build or fix something.
As he surveyed the greatest work of his life, it occurred to him that it represented a definite slice of time, place, and opportunity, a treasure map of sorts that had taken him to where he needed to go. Made him have to do what he had done. And would do in the future. The near future.
In front of the walls were old battered wooden filing cabinets filled with the investigative work that had allowed him to complete the gaps on the walls. He had traveled to many places, talked to lots of people, and taken hundreds of pages of notes that now rested in those cabinets, but the fruits of that investigation were displayed on the walls.
His gaze started at one end of this "mosaic," where it had all started, and then drifted along to the other end, where it had all come together. One end to the other, the dots finally connected. Some people would call this room a shrine to an obsessive mind. Quarry would not have disagreed with that. But for him it also represented the only route to the most elusive goals in the world:
Not just truth but also justice. They were not necessarily mutually exclusive, but Quarry had found them immensely difficult to corral together. He had never failed at anything he'd ever really set his mind to. Yet his mind had often wandered over the possibility that he would eventually fail at this.
He moved around the far corner where there was a small space, and glanced behind a wooden partition at some heavy metal cylinders stacked there along with tubing, gauges, and other piping. There were also leftover rolls of lead sheathing on a wooden workbench. He patted one of the tanks, his wedding band clinking against its metal hide.
His ace in the hole.
He locked the door, walked up to the library, pulled on his gloves, slid the single piece of paper into his typewriter, and started hitting keys. As the inked words appeared in front of him on the page, there was no surprise or revelation in their substance. He had formed all that he was putting down a long time ago. Finished, he folded up the page, took a key out of his pocket, dropped it in a pre-addressed envelope along with the letter, sealed it, and drove off in his old truck. Two hundred miles later, now in the state of Kentucky, he deposited the letter in a mailbox.
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