“Yours?”
Mary looked at Irene with wistful eyes. “Work got crazy. We caught a man called the Dance Hall Demon—a guy who was romancing older ladies out of all their money, then killing them after he’d bled them dry. We had him on one count, then the cops dug deeper. Ultimately I indicted him for four different murders.”
Irene whistled. “I heard about that. Wondered if you were in on it.”
“I didn’t work on anything else from last Christmas to Memorial Day.”
“And Jonathan didn’t like that?”
“He said he didn’t like the city, but I think he resented the hours and the pressure and the emotional ups and downs.”
“And?” Irene pressed.
“And he hated the evidence files on the dining room table. The depositions I had to read each night in bed.” She pressed her lips together and stroked Stella’s neck. “Mostly, though, he hated the filth that rubbed off on me.”
“Oh, Mary.” Irene reached over and squeezed her shoulder.
“It’s okay. I hung four murders on the Dance Hall Demon. Jonathan went out west and came back with a new girlfriend on his arm.”
“You’re kidding.” Irene looked as if someone had just presented her with irrefutable evidence that the world was flat.
Mary nodded. “Ruth Moon. A full-blood Cherokee from Tahlequah, Oklahoma. She’s pretty, she’s smart, and she’s trying to amend the Constitution to allow Native Americans in Congress.”
The reins fell slack in Irene’s hands. “I’m so sorry.”
“Me, too,” Mary replied softly and felt as bereft as she had the day she’d found Jonathan’s note, telling her he was going back home to Little Jump Off. She squeezed Stella’s reins hard and tried to think of something else.
“May I give you a piece of grandmotherly advice?” Irene leaned over and gently touched her shoulder again.
Mary nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
“Ride on,” whispered Irene.
“Ride on?” Mary looked at her friend.
“Just ride on. Your road isn’t close to ending. Who knows who you’ll meet along the way?”
“But . . .”
“It’s the only cure,” said Irene as she turned Spindletop around and urged him forward. “Trust me. I know.”
* * *
They rode the horses fast, then. Up through the woods, along the creek, finally around the whole perimeter of the farm. The warm sun on Mary’s shoulders did seem to push Jonathan far away and relegate her heartbreak at Little Jump Off to something that happened to her in the distant past. Like so many times before, Irene Hannah had known the balm to soothe Mary’s soul. As they rode down along the fence line that paralleled Lick Log Road, Mary saw two parked green vans with tinted windows. She grinned. She had no doubt that Daniel Safer was inside one of those vans, watching their every move.
“Hey, Irene,” she called, pulling back on Stella’s reins. “Look. There are your friendly local G-men.”
Irene slowed Spindletop to a walk as she eyed the vans, then her eyes began to sparkle with a devilish glee. “Want to show them what terrific horsewomen we are?”
“I don’t know that I’m so terrific. I haven’t ridden in a while.”
“I’ll ride up and do this trick Spindletop and I have been working on. When you hear my signal, ride up hard behind me. Think you can do that?”
“I’ll try.”
Mary watched as Irene turned Spindletop in a tight circle, then she began to race toward the van. When she pulled directly alongside it, Irene brought Spindletop to a skidding cow-pony halt. Faster than she could breathe, the horse reared up on his hind legs, his forelegs pawing the air. Mary looked on, astonished. It was the coolest move she’d ever seen anywhere outside a rodeo. Federal District Judge Irene Hannah on a rearing horse.
“Into the breach, my friends!” Irene cried as she waved at the vans full of Feds. “Charge!”
With that, Spindletop leaped obediently into a gallop, his tail flying out behind him as he sped up the hill. Mary followed on Stella. If she fell off now, she would be the laughingstock of every cop between here and Washington. Hunched over the saddle, she gripped the reins tightly while Stella thundered after Spindletop. When they reached the top of the hill, they stopped. Slowly the driver’s window of the second van rolled down. A single arm in a plaid jacket sleeve emerged, gave a brief wave, and then vanished back inside the vehicle. Mary and Irene began to laugh.
“I think they enjoyed that,” Irene said, delighted.
“Good,” Mary gasped. “Let’s not give them an encore. I’m not sure I could hang on.”
“Me neither, actually. We can walk the horses back to the barn. Maybe in a little while I’ll bring those boys one of my pies.” She looked at Mary, then shrugged. “After all, it is Christmas.”
And so they walked, side by side, back to the old barn, Mary once again content to cast her sorrows on the hills of Upsy Daisy Farm.
* * *
Tommy Cabe did not wake up early on Christmas morning. He had no illusions regarding Santa Claus and not many more about goodwill among men. He did have, that morning, a profound gratitude for the twenty-four hours of Christmas liberty Wurth had given them, and he honored the holiday by spending the first part of it in warm, delicious slumber. Curled up on his cot, the scratchy wool blanket pulled to his ears, he floated through every Christmas he’d known—from the early, exuberant ones at his grandfather’s farm in Kentucky, to the leaner, but still happy ones with his mother in Cherokee. Finally he landed on this one, and thought of the previous day, when Willett had shown him his cave. It hadn’t been anything like he’d expected. True, it did smell a little bit, but it was also beautiful and mysterious. It’s cool inside, Tommy-boy. You can go flying inside your head!
At the memory, his eyelids fluttered open. Blinding sunlight shone through his window, high in a crystal blue sky. It would be a perfect day to spend outside—cold, but bright. He and Willett could go back to the cave. Sitting up, he turned toward the cot next to his. “Hey, Willett,” he called. “Wake up—”
Suddenly the words stuck in his throat. Willett’s bed looked empty. He fumbled for his glasses.
“Willett?” he repeated.
Though his friend’s bed was made up with the military precision Wurth demanded, Willett was gone. His battered Nikes were gone, his thin blue jacket was gone, even his Bulls cap, which he usually stashed beneath his mattress while he slept, was gone. Tommy Cabe peered down the long dorm room. All the rest of the Grunts still slept, each bed holding a boy deep in whatever dreams carried him away from Camp Unakawaya.
“Hey, Galloway! Young!” he called to the nearest sleepers. “Have you guys seen Pierson?”
George Young rolled over and groaned without opening his eyes. “Not since yesterday,” he muttered before he covered his head with his pillow.
“Maybe he flew away.” Harvey Galloway sat up and blinked sleepily at Willett’s bed. “That’s what he was always talking about doing.”
“You didn’t hear anything last night?” Cabe asked.
Galloway shook his head as he, too, settled back down to sleep. “Sorry, Cabe.”
Tommy looked at Willett’s bunk, stunned. They’d stayed up well past midnight, Willett alternately reading his airplane magazine and then rolling over to look out the window, goofily checking for Santa Claus. Wouldn’t it be cool if Santa Claus was real? he’d said, his face shining with the wonder of a four-year-old instead of a teenager of fourteen. Man, I wouldn’t ask for anything but a lift out of this shithole. I’d never have to go to Attitude Realignment again!
That was it, Cabe realized. Wurth had changed his mind. Wurth had decided that Willett didn’t deserve Christmas after all and had sent him to AR early.
“Fuck that!” Cabe cried aloud. Christmas was going to be Willett’s last day of freedom for who knew how long. The two of them had planned to have some fun.
Tommy threw off his blanket and got to his
feet. He’d talk to Wurth. He’d get Willett out of AR, even if he had to volunteer to take his place.
He dressed hastily, paying attention to the details Wurth held such store by. By the time Cabe reached the first floor of the castle, his cowlicks had been tamed, his teeth were gleaming, and his shirttail was well tucked in. Squaring his shoulders, he walked down the long hall to Wurth’s office, his heart thumping in his chest like a rabbit’s.
He lifted his hand and knocked on the door. Wurth answered immediately, his voice crisp with command. “What is it?”
Tommy opened the door. He’d been in Wurth’s office only once, the first day he came here, but he remembered it clearly. A big, ornate desk faced the door, with red leather chairs set around it. Various flags stood around the room, mostly weird versions of Old Glory. A wicked-looking Ninja-type sword hung on the wall in an ebony sheath, and from one bookcase leered a human skull with a bullet hole in the very center of the cranium. On this morning, Sergeant Wurth stood behind his desk with a bald man in a black leather jacket, both of whom looked up from some kind of blueprint. Wurth’s mouth drew down when he saw Tommy. “Yes, Cabe?” he snapped with impatience.
Cabe shuddered as he took two steps inside the room. It smelled of cigar smoke and coffee. Wurth looked at him with cold eyes.
“It’s W-W-Willett, sir,” Cabe said, mortified at the sudden girlishness of his voice.
“W-W-Willett? W-W-Willett P-P-Pierson?” Wurth mocked him.
“Y-yes, sir. He doesn’t deserve to be in AR, sir. He was just trying to help me get m-my words out yesterday.”
“And?” Wurth’s eyes glittered like a cat’s.
“And I was thinking maybe you would let me take Willett’s place in AR. The whole thing was my fault, anyway.”
“You’re absolutely right, Cabe. It was your fault. But what makes you think Pierson’s in AR?”
Tommy blinked. “He’s gone, sir. His clothes are gone and his bed’s made up.”
Wurth rolled up the blueprint he and his friend were studying before he replied. “Willett’s gone, you say? Well, isn’t that just too bad.”
Tommy frowned. He wasn’t understanding this. Wurth had sentenced Pierson to AR. Wurth must have sent someone to get him in the night. Upchurch, maybe. Or maybe David Forrester had returned. “Sir?”
“Mr. Cabe, boys come and go out of this camp all the time. Sometimes their pathetic excuses for parents manage to wrangle custody back, other times the DHS places them elsewhere. The order can come down at any time, and they can be gone, just like that.” Wurth snapped his fingers as if he were cracking a walnut.
“So DHS p-picked Willett up in the middle of the night? On Christmas Eve?”
“I can’t discuss that with you, Cabe. All juvenile records are confidential.” He planted his hands on the desk and leaned forward. “The only boy you and I can discuss, Mr. Cabe, is you.”
“C-can’t you even tell me where’s he gone?” Tommy heard his already ridiculous voice begin to quiver. Please, God, don’t let me cry now.
Smiling, Wurth shook his head. “Pierson is in much better circumstances, Mr. Cabe. Let’s just say Santa Claus came last night and brought him a present. Now, would you care to talk about you?”
Tommy stood there, stunned. Wurth had just told him all he was going to about Willett. Now the attack had turned toward him. Wurth was probably going to say more terrible things about his mother, in front of this stranger.
“No, sir,” Cabe answered meekly. “I’m fine, sir.”
“Very well, then, Mr. Cabe. Have a Merry Christmas. Spend it wisely. You’ve got some demerits to attend to, tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir.” With that he turned and walked out, trying to look like the Trooper he would never be. He closed Wurth’s door behind him, his hands shaking with frustration and terror. Willett was in AR, he knew it. Willett had no relatives to demand custody of him, and the DHS wouldn’t take a kid anywhere on Christmas Eve. Wurth had probably taken him to the basement early and just didn’t want to admit it in front of that man.
I’ll go down to AR right now, he decided as he hurried back down the hall, away from Wurth’s office. I’m sure as hell not going to let Willett spend Christmas down there all alone.
CHAPTER 15
“What time have you got?” Wurth asked.
Wayne Tallent looked at the clock on the truck’s dashboard. “Eleven forty-four.”
“Twenty-three forty-four, Tallent,” Wurth corrected. Would this boy ever learn the proper way to convey time? “Pick me up here at zero hours forty-five.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you know how long that will be, Tallent?”
“An hour, sir?”
“Okay. Get out of here.”
Wurth thumped the side of the truck as Tallent pulled away, leaving him alone on the mountain road. He watched the red taillights blink and disappear around a curve, then he slipped into a thick green bank of rhododendrons.
He walked carefully, aware that the Feds were patrolling the farm. He would have some hard questions to answer if they caught him sneaking up on Judge Hannah’s house camouflaged, his face sooted as if he were part of a minstrel show. Not that the Feds would be paying much attention to her upper pastures and the slender trail her horses had worn to the barn. The Feds stayed in their two snug vans over the hill, keeping watch on the one long driveway that led to her house.
Still, he slipped through the trees, silent as a shadow. Getting caught would be the worst possible thing that could happen. Getting caught would only prove Dunbar right.
As always, moving through darkness invigorated him. The cold air tingled the back of his neck and amplified the tiniest sounds to thunder in his ears.
He thought of Irene Hannah, sleeping as he grew closer, unaware that she was now drawing the last breaths she would ever draw. How many targets has it been, he wondered as he neared the edge of the tree line that overlooked the pasture. At least a hundred in the past ten years. And how many boys have I instructed in my ways? Two for every state, at least. And Dunbar was worried that they had no control. Shit, David Forrester had simply gotten excited. And he paid for it, too. Wurth thought of the boy lying dead, his legs twisted like a doll’s. Someday Dunbar was going to pay for that.
Cheered by that prospect, he looked down at the pasture below. The trail that ran along the tree line led all the way to the barn. Though the remnants of last week’s snow had melted in the day’s bright sun, he would have to be careful. Even the Feds could follow tracks in soggy mud.
Irene Hannah’s house sat above the hollow in which the barn nestled. Neat and compact, it bore the look of a household snuggled down against winter—windows shut tight, no lights shining from within. A patio spread out along the back. Wurth nodded. Perfect, he thought. I’ve got cover and a household sound asleep. I can get this done fast and be waiting when that moron Tallent shows up.
Feeling suddenly buoyed upward by the chill breeze, Wurth slipped from behind the tree and onto the path the horses had carved, keeping to the shadows of the overhanging bushes as he crept toward the barn. The air was heavy with moisture, and once or twice his footsteps crunched when he stepped in a slushy puddle. Reaching the back side of the barn, he forced himself to slow down. Since Judge Hannah worked a farm, she might also sleep like a farmer—oblivious to storms, but keenly alert to any sound from her livestock. He did not need a barnful of neighing horses right now.
He kept low, easing beneath the stall windows, then turned the corner and looked up at the house. It remained a dark little cottage on the hill.
Thrusting his mind and body into a mode that had, over the years, become second nature to him, he padded forward, his noiseless strides more lupine than human. He reached the gate, slipped through it, then on up the hill, his passing marked only by a shadow on the ground. All the snow had melted up here. In one heartbeat he reached the edge of the patio; in the next he stood at the back door.
To her credit, the judge h
ad installed two dead-bolt locks, but dead bolts did not trouble him. He had tools for dead bolts. He had tools for everything. He withdrew a slender steel instrument from his pocket, and in less than thirty seconds he’d turned them both. He smiled thinly as he eased the door open.
A warm breath of hickory-scented air caressed his face. Embers glowed orange from a fireplace, illuminating a bottle of Irish whiskey that stood on the table. Dishes—more dishes than one person could possibly use—were drying in a drainer by the sink. The judge had feasted mightily this holiday, Wurth decided. God had not let this merry gentlewoman be dismayed in the least.
Without a sound he made a swift tour of the downstairs, rifling through the papers on her desk, the Cherokee egg basket that held her outgoing mail, the pages of her appointment calendar. After deciding that she must spend most of her time working here, he headed up the broad, uncarpeted stairs, shifting his weight effortlessly to the balls of his feet as he climbed up to the second story, careful never to linger on one board too long. When he reached the top step he paused. The upper floor consisted of just two rooms, divided by a hall. A bathroom door stood ajar at one end. Judge Hannah would be sleeping in one of these rooms. Who, he wondered, might be sleeping in the other?
He slid his knife from his belt and crept down the hall until he stood between the two closed doors. One seemed no better than the other, so he turned left, remembering one of his teacher’s old maxims—Go in the way other men do not. At worst, you will only be mistaken. Turning the doorknob, he cracked the door open by millimeters, lest a sudden rush of cool air wake the sleeper.
When his eyes accustomed to the light, he saw a single figure sleeping under a quilt. As he moved closer, his eyes settled on a 9mm Beretta dangling from the bedpost, holstered in the kind of brace women wore under their clothes. A bodyguard, he thought, smiling with surprise. Private? Or sent by Uncle Sam? He moved closer to the sleeper and gently lifted the covers with the point of his knife. The moonlight fell on a young female face. Her lustrous dark hair was tousled against the pillow; firm young breasts lifted the sheets. A jolt of desire shot through him. What a Christmas surprise this was! Did he dare?
A Darker Justice Page 11
