Hope to Die

by James Patterson

  “And you keep telling yourself that, you hear?”

  It started to rain. Sampson turned on the wipers, and the slapping sounded like nails being pounded by one of those air guns. I closed my eyes, reached up, and started rubbing at that spot on the back of my head where the junkie had hit me with a piece of pipe.

  “Headaches still as bad?” Sampson asked.

  “Getting better,” I said, though that was an overstatement.

  “You need to get that checked out again, Alex,” Sampson said. “It’s been, like, six days and you’re still hurting. You should see a neurologist.”

  “Doctors said to expect the headaches,” I said. “Part of the healing process. They could go on for months. And right now? I don’t need another doctor to tell me the same thing.”

  My partner looked ready to argue, but then he spotted a sign ahead in the light rain that read Pritchard’s Farm: Specialty Pork.

  “There it be,” he said slowing and turning.

  We drove up a long dirt driveway bordered on both sides by trees that looked brilliantly green, all wet and new. It was spring, a time of rebirth. But it felt like November to me when we rolled into an orderly farmyard that reeked of a stench I can’t even begin to describe.

  As we climbed from the car, we heard a squealing din coming from a huge low-roofed building that sat on a bench of earth about a quarter mile from a picture-perfect farmhouse that looked recently built.

  “Pork bellies been good to someone,” Sampson observed.

  A weathered woman in her forties wearing a green rain jacket, rubber gloves, and calf-high rubber boots over her jeans came around the side of the house. She carried a pitchfork and revealed smears of soil on her right cheek when she pushed off her hood and brushed back graying hair to look at us.

  Sampson already had his badge out. “Mrs. Pritchard?”

  “You here about the skull and the bone?” she asked.

  “We are,” I said.

  “Expect you better talk to Royal about that, my husband,” she said, gesturing up the hill with the pitchfork. “He’s on up to the barn. It’s feeding time. That’s the reason he found them bones, feeding time, but I expect he’ll be wanting to tell you that himself.”

  CHAPTER

  14

  WE FOUND ROYAL PRITCHARD out on one of several catwalks that crossed above the industrial pigsty. There were thousands of young pigs, or shoats, jammed into a pit that was easily a football field long and a quarter again as wide. A short, stocky guy in muddy rubber boots and Carhartt work clothes, Pritchard had a lit cigar in his mouth as he worked a set of hydraulic controls bolted to the railing of the catwalk.

  Responding to the pig farmer’s manipulations, a long line of feeders crossed above the sty from left to right, dropping corn in a steady, drenching stream. The pigs were going berserk in response, all trying to follow the rain of food, squealing and grunting so loud that it changed the pounding in my head, made it like the inside of a bell that was tolling.

  Sampson got Pritchard’s attention, and the farmer shut down the feeding system, which sent the pigs into a howling, squealing rage that seemed to join with the gonging in my head, speeding it, amplifying it, until I just couldn’t take being in there any longer, and I ran blindly for the door.

  Five seconds later, I burst out of the pigsty and ran on out toward the tree line in the rain, trying to control the excruciating pain that crackled from the base of my skull up. But the pain wouldn’t stop, and I felt my stomach roll and thought I might be violently sick.

  By the time Sampson came out with the pig farmer ten minutes later, however, the rain had cooled me down. My stomach was feeling better, and the ringing in my head had softened to a distant pealing.

  “That smell takes some getting used to, even with a cigar to mask it,” Pritchard allowed, looking sympathetic. “No doubt ’bout that. But I don’t mind, you know? That’s the smell a’ money in there, sure as I’m standing right here.”

  “Pork futures are up, huh?” Sampson asked.

  “It’s the new white meat, ain’t you heard?” Pritchard replied. “Price a’ fatted shoats has doubled past three years.”

  “You found the skull and a bone?” I asked.

  The farmer nodded. “I showed your partner where. Wasn’t too far from where you was standing when you got to feeling kind of, well, piggish, what I call it.”

  “Tell him how you found the skull,” Sampson said.

  Pritchard shrugged. “One of them things. The hopper jammed out in the middle, and the corn was just pouring there, and every pig in the place wanted to be at the center. Anyway, I opened up the sides enough I could see the skull and bone there, plain as day, in the dung. Fished the skull out with a hook duct-taped to a pole. Sheriff’s deputies used a claw thing to get the bone.”

  “Nothing else? No other bones?”

  Pritchard’s cheek twitched. “Not that I seen, but hell, there’s three, maybe four inches of shit in there front to back. You’re welcome to come rake through it after the gold on the hoof’s up to weight and off.”

  “How long will that be?” I asked.

  “Twenty days.”

  I have never been the sort of man who flies off the handle, but for some reason, I thought about the possibility there were other bones in that pigsty, and I just lost it.

  “We’re not waiting fucking twenty days,” I shouted at him. “The fucker who dumped the body in there killed my goddamned wife! I’m getting a warrant and I’m getting those goddamned pigs out of there today.”

  “Christ, Detective,” Pritchard said, looking offended. “I’m sorry about your wife, Jesus knows I am. But you’re acting like I tossed a body in there.”

  “Did you?” I demanded.

  Pritchard said, “Hell no. What the—”

  I had seven inches and fifty pounds on the farmer. When I popped him in the chest with my right hand, he staggered backward and sat down hard in the gravel, shocked.

  “You know a guy named Mulch?” I demanded. “He related to you?”

  “Alex!” Sampson said.

  I ignored him. “Is he?”

  The farmer acted scared as he complained, “I don’t know no one named Mulch, no, sir, and that’s a fact.”

  “Mulch was raised on a pig farm,” I replied angrily. “He came here specifically to get rid of that body. Mulch has to know you.”

  “No, sir,” Pritchard repeated flatly. “Never even heard of that name. Go down and ask my wife. Ellie and I been together since high school, and she’ll tell you the same.”

  He looked at Sampson. “I called the sheriff second I fished out that skull. I could’ve just left it and it’d be fragments in the pig shit by now. Think on that.”

  It all went out of me then, and I realized what I’d done.

  My shoulders sank and I squatted down next to him, shaking my head before I said softly, “Mr. Pritchard, I was way out of line there. I apologize. My wife …”

  There was a moment of silence before he said quietly, “I understand, Detective. When my mom died, I wandered around in a haze for days.”

  I reached out my hand and helped him up. “Again, I’m sorry. I honestly don’t know what came over me.”

  Sampson put his hand on my shoulder, said, “Think we better leave Mr. Pritchard to his chores.”

  I nodded, apologized a third time, and then walked away from the pig farmer, unwilling to look at the barn anymore, unable to block out the sounds of the ongoing riot inside.

  Part Two

  CHAPTER

  15

  AT 4:12 THAT AFTERNOON—actually, 3:12 local time—Mitch Cochran downshifted the Kenworth T680 tractor-trailer pulling an empty container chassis into the CSX rail yard in east St. Louis.

  Sitting between Marcus Sunday and Cochran in the truck cab, Acadia Le Duc said, “Jesus, we’re cutting this close. I told you and Dr. Fersing told you we didn’t want to get anywhere near the outside limit, and we’re pushing right on it.”

&
nbsp; “Have faith, darling,” Sunday said calmly.

  They were supposed to have landed in St. Louis an hour ago, but thunderstorms had delayed them, and it had taken a while to get through the paperwork at the truck-rental service.

  “All I’m saying is if we have a catastrophe on our hands, I won’t take responsibility,” Acadia said.

  “If it is a catastrophe, we’ll call it an act of God and be on our way,” Sunday said indifferently.

  After expertly driving the tractor-trailer rig onto the scales, Cochran jumped out and went inside a steel office building with the necessary lading documents.

  Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen.

  “We’re not going to pull this off,” Acadia said, frustrated. “We are—”

  Cochran came running out of the building, climbed up into the cab, said, “They were backlogged.”

  “Jesus,” Acadia said, wiping at sweat on her brow.

  “Calm down,” Sunday said as the truck began to roll forward. “We’ve got a half hour.”

  “You don’t get it,” she snapped. “It may be over already.”

  “If it is, it is,” Sunday said. “And we’ll have a cleanup job to do.”

  Cochran drove into a long wide gravel parking lot that abutted the rail lines. He maneuvered the rig to a gantry crane next to the tracks, stopped, and set the brakes. Cables whirled, swinging giant electromagnets above the rust-red container fitted with the solar panels.

  The four magnets lowered. A worker positioned them. There was a loud clanking noise as they locked to the sides of the car, and then the cables began to retract. The forty-five-foot container lifted off the railcar as if it were no heavier than a box of Kleenex. The crane operator expertly swung the container and set it on the chassis behind them.

  “We have twenty-two minutes,” Acadia said.

  The magnets released, and Cochran started the engine, put it in gear, and said, “Where to?”

  “Get back on the interstate, go east to that truck stop we saw coming in.”

  “That’ll take too long!” Acadia said.

  Sunday said nothing. Cochran maneuvered through the city streets by GPS and had them back on the I-70 heading east in nine minutes. When they had twelve minutes left, he got off at State Highway 203 and turned north into the Gateway Truck Plaza. Cochran pulled over out back by a field of weeds.

  “Move!” Acadia said, holding a large duffel bag she’d retrieved from the sleeping compartment behind them.

  Sunday jumped down, stepped around the diesel tank, and got up on the fifth-wheel frame between the cab and the container. He put a key in the lock of the custom hatch on the front end of the freight car. It wouldn’t turn.

  Had that kid in the rail yard back in Philly bent the hasp? He tried again, then jiggled the lock and twisted a third time. He thought the key was going to break off in the lock. Then something gave, and the hasp released.

  He pulled it out, raised the bar holding the hatch shut. It swung open.

  “Ten minutes,” Acadia said, handing him the duffel.

  “I’m putting my money on you,” Sunday said and ducked into the pitch-black space.

  Acadia glanced up at the leaden sky before following him and shutting the door behind her.

  CHAPTER

  16

  WHEN THE HATCH OPENED twenty minutes later, they were both drenched with sweat. Acadia came out first, carrying the duffel, which was considerably lighter. Sunday had a large black plastic trash bag in his hands.

  “Told you we were good,” he said.

  Acadia got down off the frame, wiped at the sweat on her face, said, “It was touch and go there, I’m telling you.”

  “What you’re trained for,” he said, setting the bag down and turning to close and lock the hatch.

  “I left the field because I hated stuff like that. Still do.”

  “Sometimes we have to just push through the nasty tasks in life.”

  “That qualified,” she said, and went back to the truck cab.

  Sunday dug out a small plastic box filled with silicone earplugs. He mashed a chunk of one into the key slot so he’d know if it had been tampered with and then got down. Cochran had the engine going by the time he shut the door.

  Sunday looked at the driver.

  “Any visitors?”

  “Couple of pickups went by,” Cochran said, putting the truck in gear and pulling out. “Nothing to worry about.”

  Acadia said, “It’s five twenty-two. Well, four twenty-two here. We’ve got until Monday morning, same time.”

  “Gotta be at the dock by six.” Cochran grunted.

  Sunday looked at Google Maps, said, “Piece of cake.”

  After they’d gotten onto I-70, heading west this time, toward the Mississippi River, Acadia said, “Why are we doing all this, Marcus? I mean really. Deep down, is this just payback for Cross savaging your book?”

  Sunday looked at her sidelong for several seconds before flipping his hand dismissively. “If it was just that, I wouldn’t have bothered. I am proving to Dr. Alex that I was correct and he was wrong. But mostly, Acadia? I’m doing it because I can, and because this little project and the logistics involved intrigues and amuses me a great deal. Does it continue to amuse you?”

  He’d delivered the question in a hard voice.

  Acadia hesitated.

  But Cochran chortled in the driver’s seat, said, “I can tell you it’s kicking my ass, Marcus. Most fun I’ve had since Iraq by a long shot.”

  “Acadia?” Sunday asked, watching her closely.

  Acadia seemed to struggle before she shrugged in resignation. “Ma always called me a shooting star, born to burn bright and brief.”

  Sunday smiled, reached over, and stroked her cheek. “The hell with a shooting star, am I right? Why not ride a comet?”

  CHAPTER

  17

  ACADIA WAS GROWING INCREASINGLY uneasy about everything Sunday had gotten her into, but she said, “A comet sounds good too.”

  Rush-hour traffic slowed them, but within sixty minutes, they were pulling onto the scales at the new AEP River terminal north of the city on the Missouri side.

  The woman working the scales said, “She’s just fifteen hundred pounds?”

  “She’s riding empty while we test our experimental solar refrigeration and heating system,” Cochran said. “How fast will it go downriver?”

  “You’d be surprised. With the current up like it is, it’s two and a half days to Memphis, maybe less. Five days to New Orleans, maybe less. Double that coming upriver.”

  “We’d like to be able to inspect the container at Memphis and then again at New Orleans.”

  “Long as you’re there with the right papers, it shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “Can you make us copies?” Cochran said. “I’m always losing stuff.”

  “I can give you two.”

  “Thanks. What do we owe you, then?” Cochran asked.

  “Loading fee’s one fifty. You’ll pay the full freight at New Orleans.”

  Cochran handed her cash. She gave him the receipt and lading documents, said, “Pull on ahead. You’ll see the dock on your right.”

  “Gantry?” he asked.

  “New gantries aren’t up yet. They’ll be using the boom crane.”

  They drove to one of the freight docks on the bank of the river and pulled close to the Pandora, a container barge with a three-story white-and-blue wheelhouse at the rear. Cochran showed the crane operator and the barge captain the necessary documents. Cochran, Sunday, and Acadia watched as wide straps were run beneath the container and then hooked to the cable. The crane whirred. The container car rose, swung several times, and then was settled on the deck forward of the other fifty containers already stacked aboard.

  “There was a lot of movement,” Acadia said worriedly.

  “Everything inside is strapped down or bracketed in place,” Sunday reminded her before calling over to the captain, “We’ll see you in Memphis to make a
n inspection.”

  Scotty Creel, a hearty man in his early fifties, nodded, said, “Just have that paperwork with you, and you’ll have no problems getting through the gates. We’ll be tied up there three, four hours Monday morning.”

  Back in the Kenworth, Cochran drove them south toward St. Louis, said, “We got plenty of time before the flight. Let’s get something to eat. Ribs? Gotta be good here.”

  Sunday turned up his nose.

  Acadia said, “Marcus doesn’t do pork.”

  “Oh, that’s right, sorry,” Cochran said. “Steak?”

  “That’ll do,” Sunday said.

  “And Cross?” Acadia asked.

  Sunday glanced again at his watch.

  He said, “Mr. Harrow needs time to finish his business. I’ll wait until just before our flight leaves to have my first chat with Dr. Alex.”

  CHAPTER

  18

  I WOKE UP AROUND eight thirty that Friday evening, lying on the couch in my darkened office, my rain jacket over my shoulders, and my muddy shoes on the floor beside me. The headache that had tortured me the past six days had calmed somewhat.

  Good nap. Maybe that’s all I needed, I thought, before I fully awoke into the living nightmare again.

  If that was Bree’s body, what was I going to do with it?

  She’d wanted to be cremated and have her remains spread in the Shenandoah, somewhere near the river, where she’d spent the summers of her childhood. I owed her that, I—

  Captain Quintus flipped on the light, and I blinked and shielded my eyes.

  “Alex, why don’t you come on upstairs.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Just wanted to talk some things through with you.”

  “I got time for a shower? I haven’t had one in—”

  “Go ahead,” my boss said, then he slapped the doorjamb and walked away.