by John Hart
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Bonnie Busby had been the Raven County district attorney for seven years. Before that, she’d been an assistant DA for another twenty. Trim at fifty-one, she worked seventy hours a week for little money or appreciation. Still, she loved the job, and that emotion was not about politics or power or the joys of the fight. Bonnie was a law-and-order DA, plain and simple. She believed in justice and the power of the state. Satisfaction, for her, came from the efficient harnessing of that power to make the world safer for the good people of Raven County—emphasis on the word good. Were it up to her, every killer, rapist, drunk driver, dirty politician, crooked cop, burglar, thug, voyeur, trespasser, arsonist, jaywalker, and litterbug would be penalized to the full extent of the law. But that was not realistic. She had six ADAs, seven legal assistants, a budget.
Time was a problem, too.
She took the sheriff’s call in a hallway outside Superior Court. She was one recess away from closing arguments on a child endangerment charge where the girl’s mother had left her four-year-old on the side of a county road as punishment for talking back in the car. The kid had stood there—barefoot and bawling—until a bartender, on his way to work, stopped and called the cops. The kid could have died, disappeared; and Bonnie didn’t stand for that shit.
Closing arguments took an hour.
The jury took half as long.
“Call the sheriff.” Bonnie straightened files and watched bailiffs lead the mother away. “Tell him I’ll be there in five.”
Outside the courthouse, no one would look at Bonnie twice until they got close. Then it was all about the eyes and the focus. Even at one inch over five feet, she moved with more purpose than the six district attorneys who’d gone before her. People stepped from her path. Those who knew her nodded with sincere respect.
Two blocks from the courthouse, she rounded into the secure entrance of the building that housed the sheriff’s department and the county jail. A key card got her through the outer door. After that, she passed through a magnetometer and signed the log. “Where’s the sheriff?”
A uniformed deputy buzzed her through another door, then led her deeper into the labyrinth. She knew the gist of what was coming. She knew Clyde Hunt, too. He was one of the good ones.
Ten steps before the sheriff’s office, she put on her toughest face, and that was not just for Clyde’s sake. She had a dead billionaire—which was bad enough—but she had Johnny Merrimon, too, and that was a complication she didn’t need. Ten years had passed since he put Raven County on the map, but for people in her jurisdiction, it felt like yesterday: the warrior, the little chief. Except for the dustup with William Boyd—which was unfortunate but understandable—Johnny had kept his head down, and she respected that. But he still wore the kind of dark celebrity that would draw attention from coast to coast. Bonnie didn’t want to see her town in magazines or books or newspapers, didn’t want it on television again, or dissected in the news. She hated that kind of attention. It complicated things.
“Willard.” She entered the sheriff’s office the same way she entered every room, and he came to his feet like a puppet on a string.
“Bonnie. Thanks for making the time. You know Captain Lee, my number two.”
Tom Lee stood. He ran major crimes for the sheriff’s department, a sharp man with a genuine smile and a hand extended. Bonnie shook, but otherwise ignored the pleasantries. She took a chair opposite the desk. “My office tells me Clyde Hunt is here as well. Will he be joining us?”
The sheriff sat; so did Captain Lee. “Detective Hunt’s presence would be inappropriate.”
“Okay. Fair. How about you bring me up to speed.”
The sheriff did just that, keeping the story linear and simple and clean. “There’s no way he stumbled on that body, not in thousands of acres of swamp.”
“He owns the land. I assume he’s familiar with it.”
“If you saw the property you’d know that’s irrelevant. In places, you can’t see more than twenty feet.”
“What about the site itself?”
“The body was in grass, waist high. All but invisible until you get close.”
“Boyd was trespassing?”
“Hunting,” the sheriff said. “Just like the last time.”
Shit. Bonnie remembered the last time. She’d prosecuted the case. “That’s your theory, then? Johnny tried once to scare Boyd off—”
“Shoots up the camp, makes his feelings plain.”
“Then Boyd shows up again, and gets killed for the trouble. Decent theory. What about the witness?”
“James Kirkpatrick. He’s still not talking.”
“Rumor is he’s catatonic.”
“That’s a fair statement.”
“Doctors?”
“Uncertain when or if he’ll come out of it. They’re saying it’s psychological.”
“How so?”
“Emotional trauma of some sort. Whatever the hell happened out there.”
Bonnie frowned again. Witnesses were like gold, but only if they could communicate. Considering the case from all angles, she shook her head. “It’s not enough motive—”
“Come on, Bonnie—”
“Do you really think he’d kill a man for trespassing?”
“If the man had trespassed before,” the sheriff said. “If he’d put Johnny behind bars for four months.” The sheriff leaned closer, ticking off points on his fingers. “The motive may be thin, but it exists. That’s one. The death happened on Merrimon’s land. That’s opportunity, and it makes two.” He bent another finger. “Merrimon has the means—”
“Let me stop you there. Do you have cause of death?”
“The body is with the medical examiner. We should have something preliminary by tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” The doubt weighted her voice, but she saw no reason to hide it. “This is premature. All of it.”
“Bonnie, listen—”
“You want to charge Merrimon before you have cause of death. Are you kidding me? If you’re even slightly wrong, it’ll be a circus.”
“Do you know how many calls we’ve received in the past two hours? Reporters. Investors. The mayor.” The sheriff leaned back in his chair, agitated. “A private jet landed ten minutes ago. Apparently it’s full of fund managers, estate lawyers, and relatives hoping to get lucky. There’s your damn circus. Tomorrow it’ll be worse.”
Bonnie studied the sheriff from behind lowered lids. She’d known Willard Cline for a very long time. He was a smart man, and a fine sheriff. Right now, he was hiding something. “What am I missing?”
The sheriff glanced at Tom Lee, and Lee shrugged. “All right, Bonnie.” The sheriff kept his voice level. “I believe Merrimon will talk if you let me keep him.”
“Explain.”
“He doesn’t handle confinement well. Actually, that’s an oversimplification. Johnny Merrimon handles confinement worse than any person I’ve ever seen. It’s psychological and physical, like withdrawal but times a thousand. You’d have to see to understand, but it’s deep and it’s real. Forty-eight hours, and he’ll break like a piece of glass.”
“We’re talking about Clyde Hunt’s son.”
“Stepson.”
“Doesn’t matter. Clyde is one of us.”
“No one’s forgetting that, but we’re talking about a dead billionaire, too. Normal rules don’t apply.” He paused a beat. “People will ask why Johnny Merrimon wasn’t charged with attempted murder the first time.”
“Because Boyd didn’t want us to bring those charges.” The DA came to the edge of her seat, angry. “He refused to testify. You know that as well as I.”
“Yes, I do. But the people of Raven County do not. By this time tomorrow, people will be asking if William Boyd had to die. They’ll wonder if you could have stopped it.”
“Damn it, Willard.”
“You know it’s true. When the kid shot up Boyd’s camp, you made a fair call. Victim didn’t want to testify;
didn’t want a trial. If Boyd were on a beach in Monaco, no one would question your judgment. But he’s not on a beach. He’s on a slab with half his face eaten off.”
Bonnie settled back in the seat. The sheriff shouldn’t be right, but he was. Money brought pressure, eyeballs, expectation. Bonnie took it apart, put it back together. She’d look bad, no matter what. “You really think the kid did it?”
“Pretty sure.”
“Hundred percent?”
The sheriff made a steeple of his fingers. “No way he found that body by accident.”
Bonnie looked at her watch. It was after five. “Can you push the medical examiner?”
“Trenton Moore has the case. He’s probably the only medical examiner I can’t rush.”
“It’s thin, Willard.”
“The kid will break.”
Bonnie drummed her fingers, thinking. She hated politics, but the politics were real. Johnny had shot at Boyd once, and now Boyd was dead. A confession would clean things up, shut down the circus before it got started. “It’s still not enough.”
“Forty-eight hours. He’ll break.”
She started to answer, but someone knocked on the door, interrupting her.
“Go away,” the sheriff said. The knock sounded again.
“I’m sorry, Willard.” Bonnie stood. “Unless you have more, you need to cut him loose.”
“How much more?”
“Cause of death. A coherent witness. A better motive. One or more of those would be helpful.”
“Bonnie, wait.”
The sheriff stood, almost begging. When the knock came again, he lost his temper. “What, goddamn it? What?”
The door opened a crack. Bonnie saw a uniform, the face of a white-haired deputy with creased skin and pale blue eyes.
“I’m sorry, Sheriff. I don’t mean to interrupt—”
“What is it?” the sheriff asked.
“I just thought, you know. With the DA here and all—”
“What is it, man? Spit it out.”
“Um, there’s a Luana Freemantle here.” The deputy hooked a thumb down the hall and looked apologetic. “She says she knows why Johnny Merrimon killed that billionaire, William Boyd.”
* * *
In a space of minutes, everything changed. Attitude. Body language. It moved like a wave, and Jack saw it first. “Something’s happening.” He motioned, and Clyde stood, too. Beyond the glass, people spoke in low voices and looked their way. No one smiled. No one met Jack’s eyes. “Something’s wrong.”
Bonnie Busby carried that truth on her shoulders, and in the lines of her face. She moved like a warship into the dead space beyond the glass, where she paused for a final word with the sheriff, then made for the lobby beyond the metal door. Jack glanced at Clyde and saw his worry reflected. Clyde knew the DA. He would know the face. “What? What is it?”
“Just wait.”
Jack did, but it was hard. When the DA buzzed through the door, she looked at Clyde and only Clyde. “We’re charging Johnny with the murder of William Boyd.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“The sheriff thinks he’s a flight risk. I think we have enough to charge. I’m sorry.”
Jack took the words like a slap in the face, and Clyde felt the same way. His mouth dropped; the light drained out of his eyes. “Bonnie, please—”
“I’m informing you as a courtesy, Clyde. I can’t tell you any more.”
“Can you tell me if it has something to do with the plane that just landed at Raven County Airport?” Bonnie’s mouth pinched, and Clyde nodded understandingly. “Yeah, I know about that. Big money. Big pressure.”
“You’re wrong about me.”
“Politics is a damn dirty business. Am I wrong about that?”
The DA looked away from Clyde, and saw Jack as if for the first time. “Who are you?”
“Johnny’s lawyer.”
“Hmmm.”
She was dismissive. Jack didn’t like it.
“I’m sorry, Clyde. I know he’s been like a son to you.”
“Not like a son. A son. He wouldn’t do this.” Her mouth pinched again. She was small in his shadow. “Help me understand.”
She looked at the glass, the empty room. “How long have we known each other?”
“Twenty-five years.”
“In all that time, have you seen me lie, cheat, or play dirty politics?”
“I shouldn’t have said that. No.”
“Then tell me this, Detective. Does Johnny love that land he owns?”
“You know he does.”
“Would you say he loves it dearly?”
“More than most,” Clyde said.
“And therein lies the problem.” She found his eyes, and held them. “William Boyd was trying to take it away.”
* * *
To Jack it made sense. Luana Freemantle was poor. Boyd was funding her appeal with plans to buy the land if she won. He could do it cheaply, too, for a lot less than thirty million. What would she take to sell? Ten million? One? Johnny was the only one stupid enough to turn down real money for six thousand acres of swamp and stony hills. All of which begged the larger question.
Why did Boyd want it in the first place?
What made the Hush so goddamn special?
The thoughts drew Jack from the hard edges of the room. He was in the Hush, at the water’s edge, and something cold was moving.
“Jack, did you hear me?”
Jack blinked, and focused on Clyde. The DA was gone. They were alone. “I’m sorry. I’m tired.”
“I’m going to see the medical examiner. Are you coming?”
“Do you think he can help?”
“I don’t know, but I have less than two hours before Johnny’s mother gets home. I’d like some answers by then.”
“You go ahead. I need to see Johnny.”
“Don’t let him talk.”
“I won’t.”
Clyde vacillated, big hands fisted. He wanted to see Johnny, too. Jack felt it. “Tell him I love him,” Clyde said. “Tell him we’ll make it right.”
“I will.”
“And, Jack.”
“Yeah.”
“You’re a good friend.”
Jack nodded, but Clyde was already turning. Could the ME help? Maybe. What about Johnny’s mother? She’d lost a daughter already. Could she lose another child and survive?
“Sergeant.” Jack rapped on the glass. “I’d like to see my client.”
* * *
When they took Johnny from interview room three, he was already in the dimness. The halls were gray tunnels, the elevator down, a black shaft. That’s where they took him, to the lowest floor and the deepest room, the darkness beyond the darkness.
“What’s wrong with him?”
“He was like this last time. Don’t sweat it.”
Johnny heard the guards, but the guards were barely real. The world was concrete and weight, the faint etchings of life beyond the door. He tilted his head, but even the jail was fading. He heard the guards breathing, the jangle of his restraints, the door when it closed. He stood, but was unsteady. His hands were out like a blind man’s. Closing his eyes, he felt concrete, bedrock, nothing.
“Hello.”
Even his voice was gray.
I knew this was coming.
But it had seemed easier in the warm light of the Hush. He could feel movement there, the turn of the earth. He’d forgotten what it was to be buried alive.
“Just till tomorrow,” he said; and it echoed in his mind.
Tomorrow …
Sorrow …
Johnny laughed, but it was broken.
Already, the seconds were hours.
* * *
Jack wasted thirty minutes with the sergeant. He raised his voice, made a scene. Eventually, the sheriff got involved. “What are you doing here, Counselor?”
He moved slowly through the metal door and wore a pained expression. Not intolerant or angry. Just
worn out. Jack didn’t care. “You can’t question my client outside of my presence.”
“No one is questioning your client. He’s tucked in and safe.”
That caught Jack by surprise. He’d imagined good cop–bad cop, cigarettes and bright lights and videotapes. Problem was, he knew so little about criminal law. He was a numbers guy, and the sheriff understood as much. It was in the soft eyes, the quiet voice.
“Why don’t you go home, Mr. Cross? It’s been a long day for all of us.”
“I think I should see my client.”
“I’ve placed him in protective isolation.”
“What? Why?”
“He’s not adjusting well. That makes him a danger to himself and others.”
“That’s absurd.”
“Yet the decision is entirely at my discretion. Your friend is not my only prisoner.”
“But—”
“You’re new at this. Okay. I get it. This is frustrating, but it happens.” The sheriff frowned knowingly and put a hand on Jack’s back, guiding him to the door. “Come back tomorrow, okay? I’m sure you’ll be able to see him then.”
The civility stole Jack’s fire. How could he rage at a turned back, a quietly closed door? In the silence, alone, he pictured his friend. Was he really a danger to himself? Jack couldn’t see it. But could he be a danger to others? Jack worried about that. Life was on the wrong side of a bad slope. Johnny’s life. Jack’s. There were things about his friend he didn’t know. Bad things, maybe. Troubling ones.
Leaving the sheriff’s department with a heavy tread, Jack stepped onto a sidewalk devoid of people. The sky was dark, but not completely. Cars moved slowly past. Crossing the street, Jack sat in his car and checked messages on the cell. Two were from lawyers who’d consider the case but wanted to talk fees. They’d call back tomorrow. Three calls were from an assistant at the firm. One was from Leslie Green. The message was simple, the voice throaty.
Call me, Jack. Call me as soon as you can.
Jack didn’t call her. She’d want the story, the details. For an instant he imagined what she might offer in exchange, but that second was as filled with self-loathing as it was with the memories of pale skin and movement.
Cranking the engine, Jack turned across traffic and drove for the east side of town. He’d never been to the medical examiner’s office or the morgue, but thought it was in the basement of the old hospital. He was right about that. Signs led him from the parking lot to the emergency room, then down a hall and through a small door, painted beige. An inoffensive color, Jack thought, for a wholly offensive place. The stairs beyond the door took him into the bowels of the building, to a hall with low ceilings and a brushed-concrete floor. Lighting was dim in the first hall, and dimmer in the second. Halfway down its length, a glass window broke the expanse of cinder block to reveal a wall of small metal doors beyond which the bodies were kept cold and silent. Jack felt that silence as he walked.
