Charon trailed her hand across his jaw as she headed for the new arrivals. Griffin headed back out into the heat of the day, and decided that while he was in town he might as well check his office. He walked the two blocks to the 1950s-era building, and by the time he arrived the back of his shirt was soaked with sweat as if he had been running a marathon.
The interior of the structure was cooler, though not by much. The building owners had installed central air conditioning a few decades back, but the old place hadn’t been built for it. Griffin took the stairs to the second floor and let himself into his office. The room held a musty odor that reminded him how quickly a place could deteriorate when no one was around.
He picked up what little mail was on the floor under the slot then crossed to the other side of the room and turned on the window unit air conditioner he had installed. While the room was cooling he sat at his desk and checked the mail. Nothing important. He’d had his mail forwarded to the house in Wellman once he had decided to stay, but the occasional letter still ended up here at the old office.
It had appealed to Griffin’s sense of the romantic to have an office in this old-style building. He figured he could sit with his feet on the desk as a private eye should and wait for some dame in trouble to wander in. Things hadn’t worked out that way of course. He was almost never here, even when he had lived in Gatesville. Still taking too many jobs in too many small countries no one had ever heard of. He had to decide what he was going to do about that eventually. Charon knew about his mercenary work, past and present. She didn’t say anything about it, but he knew she was concerned that one night he just wouldn’t come back.
Problem was, he wasn’t sure he was ready to give it up. The occasional job like Leslie Martin had allowed him to do the things he was good at, but those were few and far between. These days real private investigators spent most of their time doing surveillance, serving subpoenas, or hunting down deadbeats on the Internet. Griffin preferred being out on the edge, pitting his wits and his hard-earned skills against the odds. He didn’t know if he could give that up. What did that say about him? Griffin wasn’t sure he wanted to know.
CHAPTER SIX
On his way in Carl called for an amber alert on Amber Phillips. The information would hit the Internet, radio and television airwaves in a matter of minutes. There wasn’t much that could be done in a lot of situations – he often hated the rules for how long they were forced to wait on potential runaways, as an example, but at least the response time on obvious child abductions was much faster than it had been when he was growing up.
Despite his best efforts, Carl had to hit the office. He would rather have avoided any possible location where Tammy could find him. Like trying to avoid indigestion after too many helpings of spicy chili. But he could hope.
The Wellman County Sheriff ’s Department was part of a small cluster of government buildings off the main square in Wellman. It stood alone and was a red brick affair that looked like it was designed by somebody who didn’t much like anything that wasn’t functional. That was okay. Carl didn’t need all the extras.
Today, however, he got several that he could have done without. The first had been Tammy – who was now waiting outside of his office and looking just as contrite as she could manage. Next to her was Mike Lazenby, the District Attorney. Lazenby kept his hair perfectly coiffed, had stylish suits that were perfectly tailored, was showered pressed and clean every day and still managed to emit a quiet air of sleaziness. It must have been serious, because Mike almost never came over to Carl’s office.
Carl ignored Tammy completely. “What can I do for you, Mike?”
Mike looked away from Tammy, who he had been blatantly studying, and turned to Carl. “Morning, Carl. I needed to talk to you.”
“Figured that part out all by myself. Come on into my office.”
He unlocked the door and slid inside. As soon as Mike was through the door Carl closed it and locked it again. He did not like being disturbed.
There was a coffee machine on the counter next to his desk, and he wasn’t afraid to use it. As soon as the machine was bubbling and hissing he sat at his desk and looked at Mike. “What’s on your mind, Mike? You don’t normally come over here to chat me up unless there’s a reason.”
“Lament Blackbourne.” Mike’s blue eyes rolled toward the heavens for a moment and then looked back at Carl. “She’s planning on making your life a living hell, Carl.”
“We know that already, Mike.”
“Well, she’s gearing up with some serious lawyers, fellas from Atlanta, New York and Los Angeles.”
“I still have all the documentation, Mike. Everything. I made sure I even had extra copies made, so I don’t see what the problem is.”
“Earl is being, well, he’s being Earl. He wants this to go away.” Earl Perkins was the county commissioner. He was also a dick.
“Earl can’t always get what he wants, Mike. I know he’d like it if I somehow vanished, but I’m not gonna.” There was absolutely no love lost between the two men, and Mike was caught in the middle. Earl might not like Carl – and then again he might, Carl could never really get a feel for the man – but had to work with him. Besides, Carl made his life easier.
“Carl, you need to take this seriously.”
“Mike, I’ve had threats from the Blackbourne clan before. I will again. So she has lawyers? So do I. So does the county. I also have enough insurance to cover against any possible wrongdoings and as we’ve already had one run through by investigators that said I was clean and behaving myself, I don’t see where this is anything but more noise being made.”
“Lament Blackbourne isn’t like most of them, Carl. She’s smart and she’s connected. Not locally, maybe, but she has deep pockets and a lot of pull with the right people.” Mike looked like he was winding up for a long sermon. That was the thing about him that Carl normally didn’t much like. The man was good at his job, but he loved to hear himself speak a little too much.
“Tell her to bring it. I’m ready if she is.”
Mike looked at him long and hard, trying to get a read. Carl tried to look like an open book, the better to get the man on his way. Apparently it worked. “Well, okay then, Carl.” He held his hands up in mock surrender. Carl might have felt he’d hurt the man’s feelings, but he knew better. Mike didn’t have feelings.
“I’ll see you on Tuesday for lunch, Mike. We’ll go over a few things.”
“See you then, Carl.”
Maybe it was his imagination, but he thought he saw a smirk of satisfaction on the man’s fat face as he held the door open for Tammy.
Old habits die hard. Carl rose from his seat when she came into the room. It was his only kind gesture.
“How have you been, Carl?” Tammy’s voice was a bit nervous. That was fair – he was armed, after all.
“What can I do for you, Tammy?” He kept his voice level and calm. His pulse was jackrabbiting and his blood pressure was high enough that it was singing in his damned ears, but he could fake it with the voice at least.
“I...” She looked away from him, down at the tile floor of his office. He made a note to talk to the janitors about maybe actually mopping just for shits and grins. When she looked up at him he could tell that she wanted to say something, wanted him to say something. He offered nothing at all.
After ten seconds – a few hundred years, something like that – he looked at his watch pointedly and then looked at her. Damn it, she was beautiful. He hated her for that. The idea was to tell her to get the hell out of his office and maybe write a letter. He might even promise to read it if she would just get the hell out of town that much faster. She hated Wellman. She said so often enough.
But damn it. He looked at her face and saw the soulful expression in her eyes and all of the good came rushing at him, wanting to creep back in when he wanted nothing to do with it.
> No. Not this time. Not again. Every damned time they got together she wrecked him.
“Tell you what. Write it down if that’ll make it easier.” His voice was colder than he expected. He was okay with that, too. She did that to him. He wanted to be there for her. He wanted to run from her. He wanted to send her packing. He wanted, he wanted, he wanted.
“It’s my dad, Carl. He’s sick.”
Tammy’s father was a down-to-earth man. He was a good man. He was also the coach of the football team back when Carl had played in high school. Despite all the fallout from Carl and Tammy over the years, he’d never had a bad thing to say or think about the man.
One gesture. One word, and they’d be back to talking. They’d maybe try to make amends and be friends again and from there, who could say what would happen?
“Yeah? Give him my best when you see him.”
He walked over to the door, doing his best to ignore the look of shock on Tammy’s face. She was shocked, too. She had to be, because it was killing him inside to say the words to her and he’d always been the one to break before.
He could feel Tammy’s eyes on his back as he held the door for her, carefully not looking in her direction. He felt her leave the room, smelled the faint scent of her damned perfume, the one that always made him want her so badly, and then closed the door to his office as soon as she was through the doorway.
Maybe she’d take the hint. Maybe.
And maybe he could remember not to answer the door when she knocked later. And maybe he’d check the caller ID when she called and not answer.
Yeah, because that always worked out so well.
“Damn. Just stay away from me. Do that for me, okay girl?” He spoke only to himself. He’d never have the nerve to actually say the words to her. She might listen.
* * *
Tammy walked through the blazing heat of the day to the car waiting outside for her. As soon as she saw the sleek black sedan, she heard the engine start.
It was a nice car, the sort she’d never be able to afford in a million years, and what she’d been aiming to buy for what seemed like almost that long. Some people knew how to handle money and some didn’t. Tammy most assuredly did not.
No one climbed out and opened the door for her, but Tammy slipped into the rear passenger’s seat of the oversized sedan and immediately sighed at the escape from the oppressive heat.
“How did it go with your friend?” The voice was soft and feminine. The woman who was speaking had a cultured accent that was hard to place. If forced, Tammy would have guessed somewhere in England.
She looked at the pale skin, the long hair, the creamy complexion and felt a flare of jealousy. Tammy knew she was an attractive woman; she certainly got her share of looks, but next to the woman she was facing she felt overweight and lumpy.
“He’s upset. I knew he would be.”
“Yes, well that was the idea wasn’t it?” The woman smiled. Even her damned teeth were perfect.
“Look, what’s the point of getting Carl upset?” Tammy needed to know. Much as she wished she could say this wasn’t screwing her up, it was. She loved Carl. He was her first, and they had a lot of history. There was nothing about the situation she liked.
The woman leaned toward her and put a hand on Tammy’s knee. Despite everything, she felt a tiny sexual thrill from the contact. “That’s not your concern. I have reasons for wanting your Sheriff Price distracted. Let’s just leave it at that.”
“You planning on hurting him?”
The woman leaned back and stared until Tammy finally looked away. Not a word was spoken. Instead the woman opened her purse and pulled out an envelope. “I’ll be in contact. In the meantime, if you see him try to keep him distracted. It’ll be better for everyone involved.”
Tammy took the money. She didn’t bother counting.
After a moment of silence the woman leaned forward. “Can we drop you somewhere?”
“Yeah. Just over at the hospital if you could. I need to see my father.”
“Of course.” The woman nodded and a moment later they were in motion, heading down the road to the hospital where her father was getting his chemotherapy. Tammy closed her eyes and tried to put herself into a happier frame of mind.
The last thing she wanted was for her father to be upset. He had enough on his plate already.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Sandra called while Charon was having her lunch. “Hey Charon. How’s the good little witch girl?”
“Witchy as ever. How are things at school?”
“We’ve only been back for two weeks and I’m already dreaming of next summer vacation.”
“That good, eh?”
Sandra laughed. “It’s not really that bad. Always hard to get a new year started. Anyway, what were you calling about? I thought it might be important since you called during school hours.”
“It could be, Sandra,” Charon said. “Do you remember a while back when we were talking about Goth kids?”
“Oh yeah. We were discussing those two you saw in your store several times.”
“Right, and you said you knew who they were. One was Lynn Traylor, right?”
“That’s right. Is she in some sort of trouble? She didn’t shoplift something?”
“No, no. Nothing like that.” Charon thought it best not to say that the girl was missing. “I was actually interested in the other girl. I think her name was Irene?”
“Irene Chandler. Sad case there.”
“Sad? How do you mean?”
“Classic case of low self-esteem. Never seemed to fit in anywhere. I think she only became a Goth because the requirements were so low.”
“Hey now.”
“Sorry. I keep forgetting you were a little Goth girl once.”
“I still am in some ways. Nothing wrong with my self-esteem though.”
“True, you’ve got Moxie to spare. What did you want to know about Irene?”
“You remember my boyfriend, Wade Griffin?”
“Mmm, do I.”
“Down girl. Griffin thinks Irene might be able to help him with a case he’s working on. He was trying to get in touch with her.”
“Oh, that’s bad.”
“How so?”
“Well Irene didn’t return to school this year. No one seems to know why.”
Charon felt a chill. There were any number of reasons Irene might not have come back for the new school year. She could have transferred to another school or she and her family might have moved. Charon said, “Listen, Sandra. Could you get me Irene’s home address?”
“I don’t know, Charon. That’s against school policy and all.”
“It could be really important. I can’t tell you more without talking to Griffin, but he really needs to talk to her.”
Sandra let out a long breath. “I’ll see what I can do. But you can’t ever tell anyone where you got the information or it could mean my job.”
“I understand. I really appreciate the help.”
“You’d better. Talk to you soon.”
* * *
Fry tapped his palms on the top of the steering wheel as Jimmy Reed sang Big Boss Man. Fry never got tired of that one. It had a raw, old-school blues sound to it that he liked. Not quite as unrefined as Robert Johnson, but still bone-deep blues. Fry had the windows up and the AC blowing as he rolled along the nameless back road. Or maybe it had a name, but Fry hadn’t seen any signs in all the time he’d been driving it and that had been a while. He liked to cruise out here. Helped him think.
Nothing but tall grass and pine trees on either side of the road. The area was still too rocky for much in the way of building, Fry guessed. The midday heat shimmered on the high brown grass and danced on the asphalt, making mirage pools on the black surface.
Fry slowed as he reached the cro
ssroad. No road-name signs there either. There was a stop sign though, and Fry always obeyed stop signs. Best not to give old John Law a reason to pull you over. He rolled to a halt and turned the music up a notch as he began to dig through his stack of CDs. Thinking of Robert Johnson, it occurred to him that he ought to have a copy of Crossroad Blues somewhere in the car. Not the Clapton version but the old, old twangy Robert Johnson original. That was some serious shit.
The sound of a horn blowing brought Fry out of his blues induced reverie. What the hell? He was out in the middle of nowhere and this was his road. Who the hell was blowing a horn at him?
Fry glanced in his rear view mirror. Was that a fucking BMW? Damned if it wasn’t. Fry shook his head. Yuppies everywhere. Couldn’t get away from them. He reached up and put his car in park. Then he turned off the ignition, opened the door, and stepped out into the moist, hot air. Jesus, but it was hot. Whole damn summer had been a scorcher.
He put on his best ‘just folks’ grin and walked toward the BMW nice and slow. The driver was rolling down the window as Fry came. Perfect. Fry ran a hand through his hair in a practiced way. Just a good old country boy. Salt of the earth. No threat to anybody.
“What are you doing?” the driver said through the open window. “You’re blocking the damn road.”
Was that a northern accent? Yes it was, thank you Jesus. Fry could see some real estate signs in the passenger seat. Guy must be lost. Nobody had any land for sale anywhere near here.
“Hey, how you doing?” Fry said.
“I’d be doing a lot better if you’d move your mother fucking car,” the man said. Fry could see him clearly now. Not a yuppie. Too old. Early forties. A tad overweight. Nice, gray summer-weight suit. The jacket was in the back seat. Yeah, he was lost. Nobody to impress out here.
“Sure is a nice car you got there,” said Fry, all Gomer Pyle. Just let me get a little closer. Don’t think about being out in the middle of nowhere all by your lonesome.
“Thanks. Listen, guy. Sorry I spouted off. You don’t know where the Wickham place is do you? I think I might have made a wrong turn somewhere.”
Congregations of the Dead Page 4
