The Sign Painter

by Davis Bunn

  Amy pulled up to the alert guards manning the center’s main gates. When Bob made no move, she rolled down her window and gave their names. The guard was buff and calm and professional. He asked for their ID’s, checked names on his clipboard, and directed them on.

  On the other side of the fence, Bob confessed, “I wasn’t going to come. We haven’t spoken since I refused to send him more money. He said some terrible things. He’s always been able to stab with his words. But somewhere along the way, I lost the ability to defend myself.” Bob shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “My wife had a gift for knowing just what needed saying. Somehow the gift got twisted up in Bob Jr.”

  “I’m so sorry, Bob.”

  “Thank you.” He sighed to his window. “He was such a wonderful kid.”

  Amy drove along a manicured lawn, skirted the center’s private lake, and parked beneath the shade of massive oleander. “I can come in. Or I can stay out here and pray. Which do you prefer?”

  “It’s too much to ask.”

  “Bob, look at me. I’m the woman who has a home and a job because of your good heart. Now tell me what you want.”

  He stared at the building’s front entrance. “I don’t want to go in there alone.”

  “Fine.” She reached for his hand. “Let’s say a prayer, then we’re off.”

  The building’s foyer fronted a broad hall that ran between two counseling rooms. A counselor came out and asked who they were. Bob’s voice was reduced to a metallic drone. The counselor turned to her, and Amy replied, “I am Bob’s prayer partner.”

  The counselor was young and bearded and had heard it all. “We limit these sessions to immediate family. No exceptions.” He pointed to benches lining the broad hall. “You can wait here.”

  Seeing Bob’s evident unease, she stepped in and hugged him hard. “I’m right here if you need me.”

  The counseling room’s glass partition was so thick that Amy could hear nothing at all. The room’s opposite wall held more big windows that framed a manicured lawn and the lake. A number of people wandered the cobblestone paths that meandered around the palms and the flower beds. Inside the counseling room, the visitors sat in padded chairs with their backs to the glass. Amy looked directly at the patients, nine in a loose row. At each end sat a counselor, one male and one female, both holding clipboards. Bob Jr. spent his time joking with the woman seated next to him. Amy thought she recognized the woman from television. Bob Jr. and the woman ignored the counselors as well as the family members seated across from them.

  A huge man sauntered down the hall toward her. He must have pushed the scales at four hundred pounds. His legs splayed slightly as he walked, as if the limbs had started to buckle from their load. But his face was friendly and his smile easy. “You family?”

  “Just a friend,” Amy replied, and pointed at the glass. “I didn’t want him to come alone.”

  “Hey, that’s cool. Can be a long hard trip out here on your own.” He pointed at the chairs beside hers. “Mind if I take a load off?”

  His face was placid and his voice calm. Amy’s street radar did not ping. “Go for it.”

  “Thanks. The name’s Hector.”

  “Nice to meet you, Hector. I’m Amy.”

  The two chairs groaned as they took his weight. “I don’t get my turn in there until this afternoon. The minutes go by slow, waiting. My sister’s coming up with my kids. Be good to see them, I guess.” He unrolled the sleeve of his T-shirt and extracted a rumpled pack of cigarettes. His upper arm was bigger than Amy’s thigh. “Smoke?”

  “No, thank you.”

  He plucked out a cigarette. “So who’s your friend’s weight?”

  She had not heard that term before. But she understood. The weight—the burden that held everyone down. “The guy with the lovely smile.”

  Hector lit up, dragged in a good third of the cigarette, then blew the words “Oh. Him.”

  “You know Bob Jr.?”

  “He’s in my counseling session. Goes by BeeJay around here.”

  Maybe it was the smoke that had flattened Hector’s voice, but Amy didn’t think so. “I’ve never met the man, whatever name he uses. And I never want to.”

  Hector eyed her as he dragged hard. The embers crawled up the cigarette. “You done time, Amy?”

  “No. But I lived hard. Two years.”

  “Then you know.”

  She glanced back through the glass. “Oh, yeah. I know.”

  Hector told her anyway. “BeeJay claims he’s in because the judge gave him the choice of graduating from rehab or doing hard time.”

  “He ‘claims,’ ” Amy repeated. When Hector responded with a slow nod, she asked, “Why would you question what he said?”

  “Some guys, they just come in for a while. Their habit takes the upper hand, they got to scale back and can’t do it on their own. But that’s not a cool thing to confess to, you know?” His smile held a sad edge. “Voice of experience and all.”

  “So this is what happened with BeeJay?”

  He dragged on the cigarette, squinting through the glass. “Hard to say. But my gut tells me nothing that comes out of that guy’s mouth is the truth.”

  Amy was thinking hard now. “Is this place expensive?”

  “Look around, girl. What do you see?”

  “The best of everything.”

  “Exactly. Me, I got a trust fund. What I don’t put up my nose, I spend keeping these places open.”

  Amy found herself liking the man despite herself. “Sort of like time at the spa.”

  “There you go.” He mashed his cigarette in the ashtray, plucked out another, lit up again. “Why you asking, you want to check in?”

  “BeeJay’s father isn’t paying his tab,” Amy replied. “It got me wondering.”

  His gaze had gone street-hard. “Somebody fronts him the cash for this place, there’s bound to be some serious people involved.”

  “I’m just curious,” Amy said.

  He heaved himself up and said, “Bad thing, curiosity. Look where it got the poor cat.”

  CHAPTER 24

  When Bob emerged from the session, Amy greeted him with the same fierce support he had offered the previous night. The counselor thanked Bob for coming, his smile robbing the words of significance. “Your son’s formal assessment is in five days. We’ll see about setting a release date at that time. Should we contact you then?”

  When Bob did not respond, Amy said, “That would be great.” She gave the number for Denton Chevrolet. “Come on, Bob.”

  She kept her arm around him until they reached the car. She waited until he was seated, then shut his door and slipped behind the wheel. She started the car, adjusted the AC, and pulled from the lot. She did not see Granville’s car but was not concerned. She assumed he had opted to wait for them beyond the front gates.

  When they had passed the security point, she said, “I’ve been asked to stop by the Brentonville police station. If it’s too much for you, I could—”

  “I don’t want to go back to the office.”

  “That’s fine, Bob.” She turned onto the main road and looked around but still could not find Granville.

  “Amy.”

  “Yes?”

  “Thank you.” Bob released his tension with the words. “I needed to do this. I couldn’t . . .”

  “I understand, Bob.”

  He continued, “I couldn’t do it on my own. I knew what I was going to find in there.” He turned his gaze to her. The hollow void was gone, replaced by a sad wisdom. “I needed to say good-bye. I’ve tried my best to do right by my boy. Now we’re done. And I needed a friend’s strength to help me close that door.”

  She slowed enough to study the man. Bob was a remarkable mixture of flexibility and fortitude. He bent, but only so far. His features were strong, yet his gaz
e held a gentle light even now, when he was so burdened. “You’re welcome, Bob. I’m glad I could help.”

  They passed through an orange grove, and the AC blew the perfume of a million blossoms. Beyond the grove stretched pastureland where cows grazed. Other than a farm truck behind them, the road was empty and glistening in the afternoon heat. The silence was interrupted by the ringing of her phone. She handed Bob her purse. “Will you answer that, please?”

  He looked at her. “You’ll let me paw through your things?”

  She liked having a reason to smile. “I think we’ve moved beyond sharing a few secrets, don’t you?”

  He looked at her with an intensity that suggested he wanted to tell her something. She redirected her smile at him. “What?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing.”

  “Answer the phone, Bob.”

  Bob kept glancing at her as he pulled out her phone and answered. He listened, then said, “Granville is behind us. He says we’re being followed.”

  “Give me the phone, please.” She pushed the speaker button, then set it next to the gearshift. “Granville, can you hear me?”

  “Black Escalade, tinted windows, hugging the truck’s rear bumper. See it?”

  It was hard to catch sight, but Amy finally spotted a shadow trailing the farm vehicle. “Yes. Are you sure it’s following us?”

  “They picked you up as you left the dealership. Waited by the rehab gates until you left. I’ve asked Consuela to run the plates. Hold on, she’s calling.”

  When the phone went silent, Bob asked, “Who is Consuela?”

  “Our contact on the Brentonville police force.” She surprised herself with how easily the word emerged. Our contact.

  The Escalade slipped into the other lane. It looked like a polished tank. Through her closed window, Amy heard the motor roar. The Escalade powered past the truck and launched itself at her. From farther back, Amy heard a horn blow and assumed it was Granville trying to warn her. She didn’t need a warning. Amy was as alert as she had ever been.

  She mashed the gas pedal to the floor. The Malibu’s six cylinders produced a higher pitch than the Escalade, but the car showed a remarkable amount of zip. “Hold on, Bob!”

  The Escalade responded with a ferocious bellow and raced to catch up. Bob glanced back and said, “They’re gaining!”

  Amy’s foot was flat against the carpet. She was flying a lot faster than she was comfortable with on a narrow country road. But the Escalade grew ever closer. She heard the pounding beat of the other car’s music, like shots that had not yet been fired. As the car pulled up alongside her, Amy risked a glance. She spied a window powering down and a barrel coming into view. “Gun! Gun!”

  She did the only thing she could think of, which was to veer hard over, straight into the Escalade. The two cars came together with a mighty crash. Behind her, Granville’s horn was blaring full on, and his lights flashed as he raced up. A split second later, Granville slammed into the Escalade’s rear.

  The attackers might have been expecting Amy to swerve, but Granville’s maneuver caught them completely off guard. The shooter’s head snapped hard against the chrome window frame. The gun fired, but his aim was off. The shot scarred a noisy groove along Amy’s roof.

  She shifted her foot off the gas and jammed down hard on the brake. The side of her car shrieked as the two vehicles parted. The Escalade kept moving, shoved forward by Granville. The Chevy’s engine roared with rage as it forced the Escalade on, like a silver caboose moving a reluctant engine.

  Suddenly, the Escalade burned rubber and peeled off, pulling Granville’s bumper partially free as it raced away.

  They gathered in the station’s bullpen. There wasn’t room for all of them to be seated around Consuela’s desk, but Amy preferred to stand. She paced a tight circuit, releasing her tension with each step. Paul showed up soon after they did with the wounded MP in tow. Dan Eldridge was a craggy warrior who wielded his crutches with the same impatient disregard that he did his years. Paul and Dan had been returning from the hospital when Granville phoned with the news.

  A few minutes later, Consuela ushered them into the office of the police chief, Sandra Burke, a small woman who carried herself with oversize potency. Her features were carved with mannish edges, and her short hair was dyed a metallic copper. She accented her hard blue eyes with matching frames. The woman examined them with arctic intelligence. She ordered Consuela to bring in extra chairs but made no objection when Amy remained standing.

  When the introductions were completed, Chief Burke asked the former MP, “Why are you here?”

  “Because Paul Travers saved my life.” Dan Eldridge looked haggard and in no mood to be pushed around. “I’m looking for a chance to repay the favor.”

  “As long as that doesn’t include taking unnecessary risks,” Burke responded.

  “I didn’t make it this far acting like a green recruit. But whatever comes next, I’m going to be there.” He jutted out his jaw, ready for a quarrel.

  Burke merely smiled, a thin slice of approval. Then, “Somebody tell me what just went down.”

  Amy resumed her tight pacing as Granville recounted the events with a pro’s terseness. When he was done, the chief demanded, “What do we know about the Escalade?”

  “I just got a call from Orlando police,” Sanchez replied. “It’s been left in airport parking. Stolen plates.”

  “Did you get a look at your assailants, Ms. Dowell?”

  “Just the shooter. He was black. I think there were scars on his cheeks below the sunglasses.” Amy shuddered at the flash of the recollected image. “Big. He had to lean down to aim through the window.”

  The chief did not so much speak as bark, staccato bursts from a blue-eyed pug. “We’ve got to assume there’s a hit out on Ms. Dowell. Which leaves us with three immediate aims. First, protect the lady and her child.”

  “The church apartment complex has too many access points,” Paul said.

  Bob spoke for the first time since entering the station. “She can stay with me. I’m in a gated community.”

  “Which one?”

  “Wildwood.”

  “Top-flight security.” The chief nodded. “A number of sports stars live there. That work for you, Ms. Dowell?”

  “Is this really necessary? My daughter is just getting settled.” The others simply waited, granting her time to see the obvious. “I suppose we have to.”

  “It would be good to help out,” Bob said. “Plus, I’ve got a whole guest wing just sitting there.”

  “All right, Bob. Thank you.”

  The chief nodded and moved on. “Second, we need to determine who the assailants are and why they’ve targeted Ms. Dowell.”

  Consuela said, “It all comes back to the house.”

  “Forget the house,” Paul said. He related the morning’s conversation with Ken Grant. “They’ve moved on. We have to do the same.”

  “Which leads us to the third point,” the chief said. “Who is leading the opposition, and how do we take them down? We need better coordination with the feds. I’ll make some calls.”

  Granville said, “The only connection we’ve got is the dealership.”

  “Which means we need to keep Mr. Denton in place and beef up security. Consuela?”

  “On it.”

  Amy said, “Bob had the idea of having me go through old records, seeing if I can find a pattern that might hide money-laundering. Maybe point the finger at certain salespeople.”

  Bob protested, “I don’t want you going back there—”

  “I am not sitting this out,” Amy declared.

  “Mr. Denton has a point,” the chief said. “We have to assume there’s no longer any subterfuge. They attacked, we defended. They could try again.”

  The thought chilled Amy, but not enough to hold her back. “T
his is my church and my friends and my job. No one is taking this away from me.”

  The chief liked that enough to offer another tight smile. “Then we’ll just have to keep you safe, won’t we?”

  Granville said, “Sooner or later, the DEA is going to come down hard, blaming our frontline people for getting in the way, alerting the opposition to their presence.”

  “Not on my watch, they won’t.” The chief unlocked a lower drawer and pulled out a pair of shields. “Mr. Denton, Ms. Dowell, do you have any objections to being deputized?”

  Amy stared at the shield, amazed at how far she had come, and let Bob answer for them both. “Not if it will help move this forward.”

  The chief was noting the badge numbers on an official sheet when Granville suggested, “Add another for Paul.”

  Dan Eldridge cleared his throat. “If you’re passing them out, I wouldn’t mind having one of my own.”

  Sandra Burke hesitated only a moment, then slapped another two shields on the desk. “Everybody raise your right hands.”

  CHAPTER 25

  As Amy left the air-conditioned station, the heat had a cloying impact. The police station’s odor seemed strongest out here. Amy could still taste the astringent smell from the unseen cell block.

  Bob wanted to take her straight home. Amy had different plans. “I told you inside, I need to go by the dealership.”

  “It’s late, Amy.” He hesitated, then added, “I’m tired.”

  Bob Denton looked more than tired. He looked aged by the day. She explained, “This is a new job and new people. They saw me leave with you. They’ll be watching to see what happens next.”

  Bob nodded slowly. “I guess that makes sense.”

  “Plus, I need to explain to Kimmie.” Amy worried how her daughter was going to take to the idea of pulling up roots again, even if it did mean moving to a big fancy house. “She really likes our little home.”