He considered going to watch the parade and weighed the likelihood of unwelcome encounters with people he knew. His own hesitation made him think again about his father’s life in hostile territory all these years.
Jared turned toward the direction of the sound. At Main Street, people were lined rows deep along the curb, children in front dashing out to recover treats thrown from floats and cars. Many of the adults were bundled up on folding chairs while others stood in groups engaged in conversations more engrossing than the parade.
Little had changed. Jared leaned against the ledge of a store window, watching the Ashley Middle School band follow the local Kiwanis Club float. The paraders and the watchers seemed indistinguishable to Jared. This parade was the crowd—children, parents, friends, and siblings of Ashley, separated by a few feet of pavement and nothing else. The parade would unwind itself at the park; the onlookers would follow after, and they would all mix and reconnect again. What a living thing a small town was.
“Hi.”
It was Vic Waye. “Hey, Vic,” Jared said.
Vic joined Jared on the ledge. “That’s my son over there,” he said, extending a finger toward a small group of boys carrying a banner that read Ashley High Swim Team.
Jared couldn’t figure out which one Vic was pointing to. “Looks just like you,” he answered.
A few minutes later, Vic nudged his shoulder, cocking his head across the street and to their right. “That’s Verne Loffler,” he said, gesturing toward a man standing with a woman and an older boy.
Jared thought he looked unremarkable in a green pullover sweatshirt and jeans: just another neighbor or friend. As he stared, Verne looked back, and his head inclined in a slight nod. Jared returned the gesture, then looked back to the parade.
Jared heard the commotion before he saw it; turned to Vic as the veteran uttered, “Oh no.” Vic was looking across the street to the middle of the next block, and Jared followed his eyes.
It was a moment before Jared recognized the figure of Joe Creedy half a block away. His steps were uncertain, and he steadied himself with a hand on the side of a building. His meandering gait took him stumbling into the crowd with every other step.
Vic started across the road, weaving around parade horses, and Jared followed. Reaching the far curb, they broke into a jog. Vic was only a yard away when Joe Creedy finally stumbled and went hard to the pavement, just out of reach.
“Hey, come on, fella,” Vic said, putting strong hands under the man’s shoulder and arm and raising him up. Joe’s face was pummeled: blood bubbled from his nose as he came off the sidewalk.
Jared helped raise the farmer to wobbly feet. The man was dead weight. Seeing Vic sling one of Joe’s arms across his neck, Jared did the same.
“Vic, can I help?” someone asked from behind them.
“No, I got it,” Vic called, “but get someone to clean up this mess, will you?”
They dragged the farmer to the corner and up a street away from the parade—stopping half a block away, just as Jared’s burning thighs gave way under the weight. Following Vic’s lead, Jared helped ease Joe into a sitting position on a bench in front of the post office building. “Keep him here; I’m getting my truck,” Vic grunted and disappeared into the alley.
Joe’s alcohol breath was coming in fetid gasps, spitting blood still streaming from his nose and across his lips. Jared reached into his jacket pocket for a napkin that he pressed to the farmer’s nostrils. It was soaked in an instant. He put a hand to Joe’s chest and leaned him against the bench, easing his head back to staunch the flow.
The farmer’s eyes opened as his head rolled back and fixed, glazed and passive, on Jared. Recognition seeped into his stare. “Neaton,” he murmured.
Jared heard car tires crunching the leaves at the curb behind him at the moment that the farmer lurched to a sitting position, pushing Jared’s hand away. Leaning forward, he vomited a bloody spray onto the pavement at their feet.
“Go away, Neaton,” the farmer slurred. “Y’er killin’ this town. You and Larson, y’er killin’ everything. It ain’t gonna happen, Neaton. You ain’t gonna win that lawsuit.” He tried to rise to his feet but failed and collapsed back onto the bench.
Jared caught the sleeve of Joe’s jacket before he rolled from the bench onto the pavement. “Let’s get him in the truck,” Vic said over Jared’s shoulder. “I’ll take him home to Susie.”
Vic muttered an exclamation of disgust as they pulled Joe’s arms across their shoulders again. They eased him into the back of the pickup, wrestled him up into the bed, and then rested him on his stomach before Vic pulled a tarp across his prone body.
“Want me to go with?” Jared asked, wiping stains from his hands onto a rag Vic tossed to him from the cab.
“Probably not a good idea.”
Vic started to get into the cab, then called back to Jared.
“Hey. Don’t listen to Joe. He’s got a foreclosure problem, and he’s reading the newspaper too much. Only a few hotheads believe those articles about the bank closing. It’s no big deal.”
Jared nodded thankfully. As the truck pulled away, he thought about Creedy’s words and wondered what Vic’s “few hotheads” really added up to. He glanced up the street in the direction of the parade, then turned his back on it and began to walk home.
Jared took the basement steps as though he were descending into a tomb. At the base of the stairs, he took a single look at the few remaining boxes of unreviewed documents, shook his head, and trudged back upstairs to the kitchen.
He was still wearing his jacket when he walked into his bedroom, wondering if he could manage a nap. A white envelope was propped against the pillow.
Jared picked it up and wandered back to the living room. His father was standing there, his hair still twisted from the gusting wind outside.
“What’s that on your jacket?” Samuel exclaimed. Jared looked down at the spray pattern of blackened crimson spots across his chest and shoulders. He gingerly removed his jacket and dropped it on the floor.
“Nothing,” he said, sitting on the couch.
His father watched closely, working himself up to say something. When Jared laid his head back and closed his eyes, his father began to speak.
“Jedee, I’ve been meaning to have a talk with you.”
The old familiar words induced a groan in Jared.
“Jedee, I know you don’t want to hear from me—on this or anything—but how far are you willing to take this thing?”
“What thing,” Jared murmured.
“The case. This lawsuit against the bank.”
Jared looked at his father through one eye. “Have you been talking to Jessie again?”
His father stayed silent. Jared wished he had the vigor to engage but was too weary to raise his voice above a monotone.
“Dad, this is my business. I know what I’m doing.”
“Do you, Jedee? Because I know you’re nearly out of money. You’re a zombie most days. And you’re about to lose a terrific employee and friend who cares about you and your business.”
“She tell you that?”
“No. But you’re about the only person who doesn’t see it.”
Jared roused himself enough to lean forward and open his eyes. “She works for me, not the other way around.”
His father shook his head in the negative. “It doesn’t matter. When someone who cares about you plans to leave because of your behavior, you’d better take stock.”
The fire was starting to kindle at last. “You’d know something about that, wouldn’t you, Dad.”
“Yes, I would,” he answered without flinching.
When Jared didn’t respond, Samuel sat down on the chair opposite him. “Is this about the money? The . . . ‘breakout’ case?”
“ ‘Breakthrough’ case.”
“All right, breakthrough case. Tell me you’re not emptying your bank accounts or putting your career at risk just for the money, son.”
&nbs
p; How much had Jessie shared with his father? Jared felt the blood pumping in his temples.
“You’re off base, Dad. Drop it.”
“Because that’s what Jessie thinks,” Samuel went on.
Of course that’s what Jessie thought. Jared hadn’t even tried to explain everything at stake for him in the case. She couldn’t understand, and it would only make her more adamant he should drop this.
Before he could speak, Samuel went on.
“Jessie thinks it’s about the money, but I’m not so sure. You know, winning this case for Paul and Erin: it won’t fix anything about us, Jedee.”
Jared looked his father in the eye. “At least Erin wouldn’t have to wonder for ten years why her own father betrayed his family, his town, and everything he claimed to stand for.”
He saw his words had wounded his father. He expected him to growl back like he used to when confronted, but his eyes reflected back only apprehension.
“All right, Jedee,” Samuel responded softly. “But even if that’s worth the fight, you’d better figure out where your limits are, where you’ll draw a line in this case. No matter how important you think this is, if you can’t see any line you wouldn’t cross for this, then I’m telling you, eventually you’re going to be no different than me.”
“No. I’m not you,” Jared said. “I’ve spent the past ten years making sure of that.”
With these words, the last life drained from his father’s face. Samuel remained immobile for a minute more, then put his hands on his knees and rose slowly to his feet.
“You’re right, son,” he said before he turned away. “You’re not me. You’re a better man than I was and my last source of pride in this world. All I’m asking is . . . try to stay that way.”
30
Monday morning Jared entered the living room, passport in hand. He was packing light, and his single backpack was already in the car trunk. The flight left from Minneapolis-St. Paul International at two o’clock; if he started driving now, he should arrive in time for a quick lunch at the airport before boarding the plane.
On the couch lay the unopened envelope he’d dropped the afternoon before. He was about to open it when he saw a rusty Volkswagen pull to the curb outside.
A young girl emerged from the driver’s door, short-cropped blond hair peeking from beneath a ski cap pulled down across ears and forehead. She swung a briefcase in her left hand.
Did he know her? It came back to him: this was the girl from Mort Goering’s office who helped him gather Erin’s file when he first drove up to Ashley. The law student saving money to finish her Hamline degree.
He opened the door. The girl smiled up at Jared, uneasily, he thought. Maybe nerves. She held out a hand that shook slightly in the cold.
“Rachel Morrow. I met you at Mort Goering’s office. Jessie called and said you needed some help.”
It was nearly one a.m. when Mick’s phone rang. The ringtone must have gone on for three or four cycles before he roused himself enough to reach for it. The numbers didn’t focus through his sleep-weighted eyes so he just punched the Answer button.
“Yeah,” he groaned.
“It’s Rachel.”
Not her. What was she doing calling at this hour? Was she going to try to shake him down for more money? Was she that stupid?
“What do you want, Rachel?”
He thought he heard a tremble in her voice.
“I just got hired by Jared Neaton’s firm to work on the deposit slip case.”
Had he heard that right? “Seriously?”
“Yes.”
Mick’s thoughts tumbled toward full consciousness. Could this really be true? They couldn’t be that lucky.
“I’m not sure I want to do this,” she went on.
Yeah, that’s why she was calling. “No. You do want to do this, Rachel,” Mick answered gently. What was the name of her fiancé? Blair. “Blair and you set a date yet? I’m sure some more cash could come in handy for your wedding preparations, Rachel.”
He listened to the silence.
“What do you want me to do?”
Mick let out his breath. “When do you start?”
“I met with Mr. Neaton this morning.”
Unbelievable. “Good. I’ll call you back tomorrow to set up a schedule to talk.”
“All right,” she said resignedly.
Mick smiled, but left the triumph out of his voice. “Cheer up, Rachel,” he said solicitously before hanging up. “You and Blair are gonna be very glad you made this call.”
31
Marcus lifted his office phone off of the cradle, cutting off the speaker system.
“So where is she?”
“Athens.”
“Where . . . in . . . Athens?” Marcus asked softly, trying to master himself.
He heard the concern in Mick’s voice as he responded quickly, “They don’t know. Probably a youth hostel. Neaton left on a plane yesterday afternoon.”
Mick could clearly sense Marcus’s anger, and his voice faltered. “I can let you know as soon as Neaton calls his assistant,” he went on. “Or I can go to Athens if you want.”
“And do what? Follow him around the city?”
Was it too late? For the first time since this all started, Marcus felt a cold fist of real alarm grip his bowels. Calm, he reproached himself, regretting his outburst toward Mick. Fear was a sign of weakness—and contagious.
“No, Mick. Keep close to your contact working up in Ashley. Keep me informed of what they’re doing. Especially, I need to know what they learn if they actually meet up with the Spangler girl.”
Mick grunted his acknowledgment.
“Oh, and Mick. I need the number again for your New York man, the one we talked about last winter. I’ve misplaced his contact information.”
“Marcus, I’m not sure that’s a good idea. . . .”
“Mick,” he snapped, “just give me the name.” He caught himself again and exhaled, then spoke more calmly. “And anything I need to share with him so he’ll be willing to talk to me.”
As Mick relayed the information, Marcus wrote it down on the yellow pad atop his desk and eased the phone back into the cradle.
“I don’t know you,” the voice on the phone said again.
It was late Tuesday morning when Marcus made the call to New York. With Neaton already in Greece, there was no time to waste.
“Yes,” Marcus answered, “but as I explained, we have mutual friends. That’s where I got the information I needed to contact you.”
“Yeah. You said that. But I still don’t know you.”
Marcus remained silent.
“Are you calling from a cell?” the contact asked.
“No, a landline. I used a prepaid calling card.”
“My clients know better than to call me. I do these things face-to-face.”
“There’s no time for a meeting. As you can tell, this is an emergency.”
Pause. “So what you’re saying is you just want to dissuade. Nothing more.”
“Yes.”
“Twenty-five thousand. Plus expenses. Make it thirty thousand.”
Marcus nearly dropped the phone. “You’re kidding.”
“Not at all. You say you want me to frighten this lady off. If it was that simple, you’d do it yourself. No. What you want is someone between you and this lady, who’ll take the risk of getting caught. And that’s the other thing, you see. I never get caught. I make sure of that. Do you understand me?”
“I heard. You never get caught.” Marcus felt a wave of doubt.
“Whatever I have to do, it’s not your call.”
“I understand,” Marcus answered without conviction.
“All right. Take this down.” Mick’s contact rattled off an account number, followed by some additional instructions. When Marcus said he had it, the contact went on. “Text and email the information I need for the job to this phone, and wire the money to the account I just gave you. Then you can throw both numb
ers away, because neither one’ll be working again. I’ll get ahold of you next time. Since this is a rush thing, I’ll start making arrangements—but I’d better have the information and the money by tonight, at the latest, or this lawyer will have your witness sewn up and I won’t be able to help you. If so, I keep the money.”
Marcus said he’d comply and hung up.
Well, that could’ve gone better.
He reached across the desk to the phone and unplugged his digital recorder—the device on which he had just recorded his telephone conversation with Mick’s man. Insurance was common sense, he thought, when dealing with someone like the man on the other end of his phone call.
There was a sound at the door. Surprised, Marcus looked up and saw that the door was open a crack. How long had it been that way?
“Come in.”
Franklin appeared. He held a legal digest in one hand, and his eyes looked worried. “What’s going on, Marcus?”
“What do you mean?”
“Marcus, I heard your phone call. What’s this about Spangler being in Greece? And who is this guy you were talking to? What are you planning to do?”
To keep denying would sound stupid. “Frank, you’ll have to trust me.”
The junior partner’s face stayed unresponsive. “What’s going on?”
Marcus silently debated his options. “I meant, Frank, you’ll have to trust me for a little while longer.”
“How long?”
Marcus suppressed his fury at the tone. “Tomorrow morning, Frank. We’ll talk tomorrow morning.”
It was late afternoon and the last half hour had been miserable. Marcus had contemplated not telling Sidney Grant about Neaton finding the Spangler girl. In the end, he decided that wasn’t a choice.
Marcus held the phone inches from his ear as Grant continued his tirade. He let the banker rant on for another ten minutes. As he began to slow, Marcus pushed on to the next difficult topic.
The Deposit Slip Page 19
