“Is this a basic emergency?” she giggled.
“It will be soon,” I laughed, “if you don’t take that shirt off.”
So she did take it off. Then I was all over her. She was so beautiful, so provocative. She was ready for anything.
Afterward we lay in an exhausted tangle and talked. About who we were, about what we’d done. About who we wanted to be and what we wanted to do. She told me about her family. It was a bad-luck story stretching back generations. They sounded like decent people, farmers, people who had nearly made it but never did. People who had struggled through the hard times before chemicals, before machinery, hostages to the power of nature. Some old ancestor had nearly made it big, but he lost his best land when Mayor Teale’s great-grandfather built the railroad. Then some mortgages were called in and the grudge rolled on down the years so that now she loved Margrave but hated to see Teale walking around like he owned it, which he did, and which Teales always had.
I talked to her about Joe. I told her things I’d never told anybody else. All the stuff I’d kept to myself. All about my feelings for him and why I felt driven to do something about his death. And how I was happy to do it. We went through a lot of personal stuff. Talked for a long time and fell asleep in each other’s arms.
SEEMED LIKE MORE OR LESS STRAIGHTAWAY THE GUY WAS banging on the door with the early morning call. Tuesday. We got up and staggered around. The early sun was struggling against a damp dawn. Within five minutes we were back in the Bentley rolling east. The rising sun was blinding on the dewy windshield.
Slowly we woke up. We crossed the state line back into Georgia. Crossed the river in Franklin. Settled into a fast cruise through the empty farming country. The fields were hidden under a floating quilt of morning mist. It hung over the red earth like steam. The sun climbed up and set about burning it off.
Neither of us spoke. We wanted to preserve the quiet intimate cocoon as long as possible. Arriving back in Margrave was going to burst the bubble soon enough. So I guided the big stately car down the country roads and hoped. Hoped there’d be plenty more nights like that one. And quiet mornings like this one. Roscoe was curled up on the big hide chair beside me. Lost in thought. She looked very content. I hoped she was.
We blasted past Warburton again. The prison floated like an alien city on the carpet of low mist. We passed the little copse I’d seen from the prison bus. Passed the rows of bushes invisible in the fields. Reached the junction and turned south onto the county road. Past Eno’s diner and the station house and the firehouse. Down onto Main Street. We turned left at the statue of the man who took good land for the railroad. Down the slope to Roscoe’s place. I parked at the curb and we got out, yawning and stretching. We grinned briefly at each other. We’d had fun. We walked hand in hand down the driveway.
Her door was open. Not wide open, but an inch or two ajar. It was ajar because the lock was smashed. Someone had used a crowbar on it. The tangle of broken lock and splinters wouldn’t allow the door to close all the way. Roscoe put her hand to her mouth and gave a silent gasp. Her eyes were wide. They slid from the door to me.
I grabbed her elbow and pulled her away. We stood flat against the garage door. Crouched down. Stuck close to the walls and circled right around the house. Listened hard at every window and risked ducking our heads up for a quick glance into every room. We arrived back at the smashed front door. We were wet from kneeling on the soaked ground and from brushing against the dripping evergreens. We stood up. Looked at each other and shrugged. Pushed the door open and went inside.
We checked everywhere. There was nobody in the house. No damage. No disturbance. Nothing was stolen. The stereo was still there, the TV was still there. Roscoe checked her closet. The police revolver was still on her belt. She checked her drawers and her bureau. Nothing had been touched. Nothing had been searched. Nothing was missing. We stood back in the hallway and looked at each other. Then I noticed something that had been left behind.
The low morning sun was coming in through the open door and playing a shallow beam over the floor. I could see a line of footprints on the parquet. A lot of footprints. Several people had tracked through from the front door into the living room. The line of prints disappeared on the bold living room rug. Reappeared on the wood floor leading into the bedroom. Came back out, through the living room, back to the front door. They had been made by people coming in from the rainy night. A slight film of muddy rainwater had dried on the wood leaving faint prints. Faint, but perfect. I could see at least four people. In and out. I could see the tread patterns they had left behind. They had been wearing rubber overshoes. Like you get for the winter up north.
16
THEY HAD COME FOR US IN THE NIGHT. THEY HAD COME expecting a lot of blood. They had come with all their gear. Their rubber overshoes and their nylon bodysuits. Their knives, their hammer, their bag of nails. They had come to do a job on us, like they’d done on Morrison and his wife.
They had pushed open the forbidden door. They had made a second fatal mistake. Now they were dead men. I was going to hunt them down and smile at them as they died. Because to attack me was a second attack on Joe. He was no longer here to stand up for me. It was a second challenge. A second humiliation. This wasn’t about self-defense. This was about honoring Joe’s memory.
Roscoe was following the trail of footprints. Showing a classic reaction. Denial. Four men had come to butcher her in the night. She knew that, but she was ignoring it. Closing it out of her mind. Dealing with it by not dealing with it. Not a bad approach, but she’d fall off the high wire before long. Until then, she was making herself busy tracing the faint footprints on her floors.
They had searched the house for us. They had split up in the bedroom and looked around. Then they had regrouped in the bedroom and left. We looked for tracks outside on the road, but there was nothing. The smooth tarmac was wet and steaming. We went back inside. No evidence at all except the wrenched lock and the faint footprints throughout the house.
Neither of us spoke. I was burning with anger. Still watching Roscoe. Waiting for the dam to break. She’d seen the Morrison corpses. I hadn’t. Finlay had sketched in the details for me. That was bad enough. He’d been there. He’d been shaken by the whole thing. Roscoe had been there too. She’d seen exactly what somebody wanted to do to the two of us.
“So who were they after?” she said at last. “Me, you, both of us?”
“They were after both of us,” I said. “They figure Hubble talked to me in prison. They figure I’ve told you all about it. So they think you and I know whatever it was Hubble knew.”
She nodded, vaguely. Then she moved away and leaned up near her back door. Looking out at her neat evergreen garden. I saw her go pale. She shuddered. The defenses crashed down. She pressed herself into the corner by the door. Tried to flatten herself onto the wall. Stared into space like she was seeing all the nameless horrors. Started crying like her heart was broken. I stepped over and held her tight. Pressed her against me and held her as she cried out the fear and the tension. She cried for a long time. She felt hot and weak. My shirt was soaked with her tears.
“Thank God we weren’t here last night,” she whispered.
I knew I had to sound confident. Fear wouldn’t get her anywhere. Fear would just sap her energy. She had to face it down. And she had to face down the dark and the quiet again tonight, and every other night of her life.
“I wish we had been here,” I said. “We could have gotten a few answers.”
She looked at me like I was crazy. Shook her head.
“What would you have done?” she said. “Killed four men?”
“Only three,” I said. “The fourth would have given us the answers.”
I said it with total certainty. Total conviction. Like absolutely no other possibility existed. She looked at me. I wanted her to see this huge guy. A soldier for thirteen long years. A bare-knuckle killer. Icy blue eyes. I was giving it everything I had. I was willing myself
to project all the invincibility, all the implacability, all the protection I felt. I was doing the hard, no-blink stare that used to shrivel up drunken marines two at a time. I wanted Roscoe to feel safe. After what she was giving me, I wanted to give her that. I didn’t want her to feel afraid.
“It’s going to take more than four little country boys to get me,” I said. “Who are they kidding? I’ve shit better opponents than that. They come in here again, they’ll go out in a bucket. And I’ll tell you what, Roscoe, someone even thinks about hurting you, they die before they finish thinking.”
It was working. I was convincing her. I needed her to be bright, tough, self-confident. I was willing her to pick it up. It was working. Her amazing eyes were filling with spirit.
“I mean it, Roscoe,” I said. “Stick with me and you’ll be OK.”
She looked at me again. Pushed her hair back.
“Promise?” she said.
“You got it, babe,” I said. Held my breath.
She sighed a ragged sigh. Pushed off the wall and stepped over. Tried a brave smile. The crisis was gone. She was up and running.
“Now we get the hell out of here,” I said. “We can’t stay around like sitting targets. So throw what you need into a bag.”
“OK,” she said. “Are we going to fix my door first?”
I thought about her question. It was an important tactical issue.
“No,” I said. “If we fix it, it means we’ve seen it. If we’ve seen it, it means we know we’re under attack. Better if they figure we don’t know we’re under attack. Because then they’ll figure they don’t need to be too careful next time. So we don’t react at all. We make out we haven’t been back here. We make out we haven’t seen the door. We carry on acting dumb and innocent. If they think we’re dumb and innocent, they’ll get careless. Easier to spot them coming next time.”
“OK,” she said.
She didn’t sound convinced, but she was agreeing.
“So throw what you need into a bag,” I said again.
She wasn’t happy, but she went off to gather up some stuff. The game was starting. I didn’t know exactly who the other players were. I didn’t even know exactly what the game was. But I knew how to play. Opening move was I wanted them to feel like we were always one step behind.
“Should I go to work today?” Roscoe asked.
“Got to,” I said. “Can’t do anything different from normal. And we need to speak with Finlay. He’s expecting the call from Washington. And we need what we can get on Sherman Stoller. But don’t worry, they’re not going to gun us down in the middle of the squad room. They’ll go for somewhere quiet and isolated, probably at night. Teale’s the only bad guy up there, so just don’t be on your own with him. Stick around Finlay or Baker or Stevenson, OK?”
She nodded. Went to get showered and dressed for work. Within twenty minutes, she came out of the bedroom in her uniform. Patted herself down. Ready for the day. She looked at me.
“Promise?” she said.
The way she said it was like a question, an apology, a reassurance all in one word. I looked back at her.
“You bet your ass,” I said, and winked.
She nodded. Winked back. We were OK. We went out the front door and left it slightly open, just like we’d found it.
I HID THE BENTLEY IN HER GARAGE TO MAINTAIN THE ILLUSION that we hadn’t been back to her house. Then we got in her Chevy and decided to start with breakfast up at Eno’s. She took off and gunned the car up the hill. It felt loose and low after the upright old Bentley. Coming down the hill toward us was a panel van. Smart dark green, very clean, brand-new. It looked like a utility van, but on the side was a sign in fancy gold script. It said: Kliner Foundation. Same as I’d seen the gardeners using.
“What’s that truck?” I said to Roscoe.
She wafted through the right at the convenience store. Up onto Main Street.
“Foundation’s got a lot of trucks,” she said.
“What is it they do?” I asked her.
“Big deal around here,” she said. “Old man Kliner. The town sold him the land for his warehouses and part of the deal was he set up a community program. Teale runs it out of the mayor’s office.”
“Teale runs it?” I said. “Teale’s the enemy.”
“He runs it because he’s the mayor,” she said. “Not because he’s Teale. The program assigns a lot of money, spends it on public things, roads, gardens, the library, local business grants. Gives the police department a hell of a lot. Gives me a mortgage subsidy, just because I’m with the department.”
“Gives Teale a lot of power,” I said. “And what’s the story with the Kliner boy? He tried to warn me off you. Made out he had a prior claim.”
She shuddered.
“He’s a jerk,” she said. “I avoid him when I can. You should do the same.”
She drove on, looking edgy. Kept glancing around, startled. Like she felt under threat. Like someone was going to jump out in front of the car and gun us down. Her quiet life in the Georgia countryside was over. Four men in the night up at her house had shattered that.
We pulled into Eno’s gravel lot and the big Chevy rocked gently on its soft springs. I slid out of the low seat and we crunched across the gravel together to Eno’s door. It was a gray day. The night rain had chilled the air and left rags of cloud all over the sky. The siding on the diner reflected the dullness. It was cold. It felt like a new season.
We went in. The place was empty. We took a booth and the woman with glasses brought us coffee. We ordered eggs and bacon with all kinds of extras on the side. A black pickup was pulling into the lot outside. Same black pickup as I’d seen three times before. Different driver. Not the Kliner kid. This was an older guy. Maybe approaching sixty, but bone-hard and lean. Iron-gray hair shaved close to his scalp. He was dressed like a rancher in denim. Looked like he lived outdoors in the sun. Even through Eno’s window I could sense his power and feel the glare in his eyes. Roscoe nudged me and nodded at the guy.
“That’s Kliner,” she said. “The old man himself.”
He pushed in through the door and stood for a moment. Looked left, looked right, and moved in to the lunch counter. Eno came around from the kitchen. The two of them talked quietly. Heads bent together. Then Kliner stood up again. Turned to the door. Stopped and looked left, looked right. Rested his gaze on Roscoe for a second. His face was lean and flat and hard. His mouth was a line carved into it. Then he moved his eyes onto me. I felt like I was being illuminated by a searchlight. His lips parted in a curious smile. He had amazing teeth. Long canines, canted inward, and flat square incisors. Yellow, like an old wolf. His lips closed again and he snapped his gaze away. Pulled the door and crunched over the gravel to his truck. Took off with the roar of a big motor and a spray of small stones.
I watched him go and turned to Roscoe.
“So tell me more about these Kliner people,” I said.
She still looked edgy.
“Why?” she said. “We’re fighting for our lives here and you want to talk about the Kliners?”
“I’m looking for information,” I said. “Kliner’s name crops up everywhere. He looks like an interesting guy. His son is a piece of work. And I saw his wife. She looked unhappy. I’m wondering if all that’s got anything to do with anything.”
She shrugged and shook her head.
“I don’t see how,” she said. “They’re newcomers, only been here five years. The family made a fortune in cotton processing, generations back, over in Mississippi. Invented some kind of a new chemical thing, some kind of a new formula. Chlorine or sodium something, I don’t know for sure. Made a huge fortune, but they ran into trouble with the EPA over there, you know, about five years ago, pollution or something. There were fish dying all the way down to New Orleans because of dumping into the river.”
“So what happened?” I asked her.
“Kliner moved the whole plant,” she said. “The company was his by then. He shut
down the whole Mississippi operation and set it up again in Venezuela or somewhere. Then he tried to diversify. He turned up here in Georgia five years ago with this warehouse thing, consumer goods, electronics or something.”
“So they’re not local?” I said.
“Never saw them before five years ago,” she said. “Don’t know much about them. But I never heard anything bad. Kliner’s probably a tough guy, maybe even ruthless, but he’s OK as long as you’re not a fish, I guess.”
“So why is his wife so scared?” I said.
Roscoe made a face.
“She’s not scared,” she said. “She’s sick. Maybe she’s scared because she’s sick. She’s going to die, right? That’s not Kliner’s fault.”
The waitress arrived with the food. We ate in silence. The portions were huge. The fried stuff was great. The eggs were delicious. This guy Eno had a way with eggs. I washed it all down with pints of coffee. I had the waitress running back and forth with the refill jug.
“Pluribus means nothing at all to you?” Roscoe asked. “You guys never knew anything about some Pluribus thing? When you were kids?”
I thought hard and shook my head.
“Is it Latin?” she asked.
“It’s part of the United States’ motto, right?” I said. “E Pluribus Unum. It means out of many, one. One nation built out of many former colonies.”
“So Pluribus means many?” she said. “Did Joe know Latin?”
I shrugged.
“I’ve got no idea,” I said. “Probably. He was a smart guy. He probably knew bits and pieces of Latin. I’m not sure.”
“OK,” she said. “You got no other ideas at all why Joe was down here?”
“Money, maybe,” I said. “That’s all I can think of. Joe worked for the Treasury Department, as far as I know. Hubble worked for a bank. Their only thing in common would be money. Maybe we’ll find out from Washington. If we don’t, we’re going to have to start from the beginning.”
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