The Sign Painter

by Davis Bunn

  Amy set down the knife she had been using to chop the lettuce. Here it came.

  “Amy, I fell in love with you the instant you walked into my office.”

  Even expecting it, she was startled by his directness. “Bob—”

  “Everything since then has just given me the reasons for why I want this to work. You and me. Together. How you are with your daughter, how you’ve held it all together, how you’ve been since you arrived.”

  She felt as though she watched herself from a distance. She wiped her hands on a dish towel, then walked over and took Bob’s hand. She met his gaze, saw how he was already defeated, fighting his own internal struggle to be open and honest. “Thank you, Bob.”

  He nodded glumly. “I’m fifty-four years old.”

  About what she had expected. “I’m thirty-two.”

  “It’s too great a distance between us, that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “Actually, it isn’t.” Close up, the man’s craggy strength was clearer still, the light in his gray-blue eyes finely distilled. “I was thinking that what I’ve been through over the past two years has aged me so fast, the years don’t really count anymore.”

  “Will you tell me about it?”

  “Yes, Bob. It’s hard, but I will. I probably need to. For myself as well . . .”

  “As well as me.”

  She saw the light in his gaze tighten into a glimmer of hope. And knew she had to set the honest boundary. “Bob, I don’t know if I even can care for anyone again. Sometimes it feels as though the scar tissue is just too tough.”

  “Will you try?”

  She took one of the hardest breaths of her entire life. “I’m trying now.”

  Paul felt as though there had been a shift in the house’s winds since his last visit. He glanced at the others, wondering if anyone else noticed the change. But Granville and Dan were sharing a joke with Consuela as they stood on the front lawn, waiting for the chief to arrive. The two cops on sentry duty had joined them from the car. On the surface, everything looked pretty normal. Paul walked around the side of the house and saw Kimmie squealing with delight in the pool, while Bob Denton tended coals on the grill and watched her with a gentle intensity.

  Paul returned to the front lawn as the chief’s car pulled up to the curb.

  Bob’s neighborhood was old and settled; most of the homes were ranch styles similar to his. But his next-door neighbor had cleared away two lots and built a mega-mansion fronting the lake. The chief saw the direction of Paul’s gaze and said, “Home to the Orlando Magic’s star center. I went there once for a reception. He’s got a pool cage big enough to hold a basketball court. And an aviary.”

  “Wow.”

  “Nice guy. He sponsors the local Make-A-Wish foundation and does a walk-around at the children’s cancer clinic two or three times each year.” Sandra Burke gave Paul a full-voltage glare. “Still doesn’t mean I wouldn’t arrest him if the need arose. Or you and Granville, for that matter.”

  “We didn’t break any laws, Chief.”

  “You skirted the edge of half a dozen. Obtaining an order from a hard-nosed judge saved you. This time. You read me?”

  “Loud and clear.”

  The others had gathered behind him; he could feel their presence. But the chief did not budge. “Now tell me why you gave the bad guys Denton’s address.”

  “They’re still out there,” Granville offered.

  “My question still stands.”

  “We’ve got officers on twenty-four-hour watch. This development has a solid security detail, and they’ve been put on alert. Your force is doing hourly drive-bys. We need to find them, arrest them, and get them off the street.”

  “It’s a risk. Our job is to protect our citizens from danger. Not put them in the line of fire.”

  Granville interrupted, “Heads up, here comes the enemy.”

  They turned and watched the DEA’s special agent in charge rise from his car. Burke snapped, “That is not funny.”

  Ken Grant walked over. Up close he looked exhausted. “Washington is taking aim. And I’m not sure those deputy badges will protect you from the incoming fire.”

  Burke stepped between the others and the newcomer. “My team simply did what your boys should have done the day after you ID’d the house.”

  “Well, Chief, you are certainly free to have your own opinion.” Grant was about to say something more when his gaze latched on something behind him. Paul turned with the others to find Amy standing there, her arms crossed.

  She said, “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  Paul said, “This is Ken Grant, head of the regional office of the DEA.”

  Her features pinched up tighter still. “You’re the man responsible for letting that house stay in the hands of drug dealers?” Ken Grant waved a vague protest and opened his mouth, but Amy was not done. “I want you to come inside, Agent Grant. I want you to sit down at the table with my little girl, who is five years old and an angel. And I want you to explain to her why it is that federal agents allowed this scum to run us from our home and threaten the church that we hold dear.”

  Ken Grant protested, “I just stopped by to deliver—”

  Amy stepped back and pointed at the front door, her features crimped up tight. “Inside, mister.”

  They silently trooped through the home and out onto the patio. Bob Denton shook hands all around and played host while Amy took her daughter in and changed her into dry clothes. They were all seated around the patio table when Amy returned. She steered her daughter over and said, “Kimmie, this is Agent Grant.”

  “Why do we have so many police here, Mommy?”

  “They’re here to keep us safe. Isn’t that so, Agent Grant?”

  He had the decency to look genuinely ashamed. “Yes, ma’am. It is.”

  Sandra Burke greeted the child with solemn formality. Kimmie liked that enough to ask to be seated next to the police chief. The small woman and the golden-haired child gave each other a grave inspection. Burke must have arrived at some internal decision, because she said, “You strike me as a very brave young lady.”

  “I’ve been scared. A lot. But not now.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “Mommy has good friends here. They want us to be safe. Isn’t that right?”

  “It sure is.” Amy blistered Ken Grant with a single look. “Sweetie, ask Chief Burke if she would cut up your meat.”

  “It’s Sandra, and it would be a pleasure.”

  Amy drifted back and forth from the grill to the table until everyone was served. When she and Bob finally took their seats, he said, “Why don’t I lead us in prayer?”

  Paul was slow lowering his head. He liked how Amy’s hand fit comfortably into Bob’s. He liked how Sandra Burke said Amen, how she asked about the church and the apartments. How the chief softened every time she looked at the child seated next to her. They ate mostly in silence, a few compliments passed up to the hosts, a few murmurs about how the day had cooled to a pleasant temperature. The atmosphere was not entirely easy, but there was a truce in the group, held in place by Amy’s quiet intensity. Paul hid his smile, though he was very pleased by how the woman had risen to the occasion. He caught Granville’s gaze across the table. The big man’s eyes tightened in shared secret mirth. Clearly, he thought the same. Paul was uncertain about a great deal in his life. But he was almost positive this woman and her little girl were going to make it just fine.

  Paul followed Amy’s gaze to Bob. The gentleman had sunk inside himself. Amy said softly, “What’s the matter, Bob?”

  Bob gave a teenager’s shrug. “Oh, nothing.”

  “Don’t be like that. What is it?”

  “I was thinking about my son.”

  She grimaced, and she reached out, and she folded his hand into hers.

  Bob stared
at the table. “The last time I had so many people over here, I’d come back from a trip to Detroit a couple of days early. Bob Jr. had broken in to the house. There were people everywhere. Six o’clock in the morning and they were still partying. There were drugs. I don’t know drugs, but I know people, and I know they don’t laugh like that or act like that unless . . .”

  Amy took a stronger hold on his hand, a comforting light to her features.

  Bob went on, “I told everybody to get out. They just laughed. I never felt so out of place, and here I was in my own house. I picked up the phone. I was calling 911 when this man reached out and told me to put it down. I didn’t even see the gun at first. Only how the woman he was with kept laughing at me. And my son was there in the background, grinning like it was all a great show.”

  Amy leaned back in her seat so fast and hard that Paul had the distinct impression that an invisible fist had rammed into her. She stared down the table, her eyes on fire.

  Bob did not notice. “I left the house and drove to the office. Stayed there all day. Asked Granville to come back with me.”

  “The place was a wreck,” Granville said softly. “But empty.”

  Paul seemed to be the only one to notice how Amy nodded to herself, with dark strength in her features as she stared at the table.

  “Three weeks later, Bob Jr. called and asked me for a loan. I refused. We argued. He said some terrible things. I hung up on him. We didn’t speak again until I showed up at the rehab center.”

  The cicadas hummed their feverish beat. A hunting bird gave a piercing cry. Otherwise the night was quiet. Until Amy said, “It’s not me they’re after.”

  Paul was the first to respond, because he had been half expecting something big. “Explain.”

  She kept nodding slowly. “A green Escalade. That’s what you said.”

  “Silver-green,” Dan Eldridge corrected. “Missing a rear bumper.”

  Paul said, “Amy, where are you going with this?”

  She turned to Bob. Spoke with a quiet gravity. “Something you said on the drive back from the rehab center. I should have thought of this before. But they attacked, and then it’s been one thing after another.”

  Bob must have read the news in her face, for he did not ask. He declared, “You think my son is involved.”

  The DEA agent cleared his throat. “Sorry, I’m not following.”

  Amy swiveled her head around with the slow deliberation of a tank turret taking aim. “That’s hardly any concern of ours, is it? Unless we’re all friends here at the table.”

  “I—”

  Granville took that up. “You’ve got a choice to make. You can take your leave. And go back to your games. Or you can join us. Be part of our team.”

  “Treat us like allies,” Paul agreed.

  “From this moment forward,” Granville said, “it’s your call.”

  Ken Grant took his time. Paul liked him for that. He drained his glass of Coke, rattled the ice, and said, “This could cost me my post. But I agree.”

  Sandra Burke revealed a truly beautiful smile. “Better late than never.”

  Paul asked Amy, “Will you explain what you’ve been thinking?”

  Amy scooped up Kimmie, stroked the golden head, and said, “As soon as I’ve put the little one down, I’ll tell you everything.”

  Most senior agents Paul had known and worked with were experts at the process called grandstanding, where everything that threatened their superiority was treated as an excuse to fight for the upper hand. Ken Grant proved to be an exception to that rule, for he opened his mouth only to ask for clarification of a few matters. By the time they’d cleared the table and Bob had made coffee and Consuela had carried out a tray of mugs, they were describing the attack after Bob and Amy visited the rehab center and the connection to the kid at the apartment block and the sighting of the same Escalade outside the day-care center.

  Ken Grant took his coffee and paced between the table and the pool. He asked them to go back over a couple of the points. He was still rehashing when Amy resumed her seat. The others were content to wait while he decided. “Tom Beeks has been taking aim in the wrong direction.”

  “No argument here,” Granville said.

  Grant ran a hand through what hair he had left. “What a total, utter mess.”

  Paul said, “Tell us about the man in the photographs we sent you.”

  Ken Grant slipped into the chair, stretched out his legs, and said, “His name is Lionel Abdul. He basically runs Cincinnati. His mother is Nigerian, his father unknown. The mother refused to put a name down in the birth records. He did the hash-mark scars on his own cheeks while he was inside. He’s never done business in Florida before.”

  Sandra Burke drew out a pen and pad. “But you’ve known he’s been involved with the house.”

  “Oh yeah. We knew.” Grant met the chief’s gaze. “As of this moment, my career is in your hands.”

  “Noted.” Sandra turned to Amy. “Mind telling me what was behind your earlier comment?”

  “Paul said the car that shot at us was stolen from the Cadillac dealership. Off the truck. Before an alarm could be fitted.” Amy asked Bob, “Your son worked at the dealership, didn’t he?”

  “I wouldn’t call it work.”

  She persisted. “You placed him there because he is part owner of that dealership, isn’t that right?”

  The chief and the federal agent shared an indrawn breath.

  Amy went on, “So Bob Jr. spends a few months grabbing a paycheck, wandering around the dealerships, making pals with guys who share his enjoyment of a good time.”

  “Building his network,” Paul said.

  Amy nodded, but her gaze was locked on Bob as if she were willing him to be strong. “Your son, he stands to inherit, doesn’t he?”

  Bob’s voice cracked. “He’s all I had in the world.”

  “So your son invites you out for the family encounter session. He doesn’t even bother talking with you while you’re there. You leave, and we’re attacked.”

  “And he’s got a perfect alibi,” Paul said.

  Sandra Burke rose. “I need to ensure he does not leave there.”

  Ken Grant asked, “Can my agents tag along?”

  The chief paused in the process of dialing. “We’re on the same team, right, Ken?”

  “From this moment on.”

  “Then absolutely. Always glad to have Washington’s assistance.”

  The exchange was lost on Amy, who had reached forward and drawn Bob’s head down to her shoulder. She stroked his gray hair and whispered softly into the man’s ear, “I’m so sorry.” Paul was too far away to actually hear the words. But he felt their impact. And counted the night as good.

  CHAPTER 32

  Amy awoke with the gasping shock that had punctuated too many of her nights on the road. Anything could set her off back then—a car horn, the scrunch of gravel under boots, a slamming door, a whimper from beyond the night. Now it was usually a nightmare. They were quick things, seldom much longer than a gunshot. Tonight it was a dream that lasted only a few seconds, just the long streak of taillights seen through a rainy windshield, the wipers flapping hard and doing little good, then the blare of a horn and slamming brakes, and she knew she wouldn’t be able to stop in time. That was all. But it was enough to draw up the old horrors, the closeness to losing control. All there. Inside. Waiting.

  Bob Denton’s guest room held an artificial silence. The carpet and the drapes swallowed sound. But these did not make up a home she could count on. No matter what Bob might say.

  She slipped into a T-shirt and shorts and opened the door leading to the living room. Then she went back inside and picked up her Bible. She checked on Kimmie and saw that she was sleeping comfortably. Amy walked through the living room and slid open the patio doors. The pool lights were
on, and insects buzzed against the screens. It was a beautiful setting, with the lake a dark, glistening surface that stretched out beyond the lawn. But all this was Bob’s. And she couldn’t claim it just because he offered it. To do so would make a falsehood of everything she had fought so hard to hold on to. The goodness, the simple rightness, of being who she was.

  The door slid open behind her. Bob asked softly, “Mind a little company?”

  She found herself glad he was there. And gladder still to find him carrying his Book. She liked the worn surface, the way the leather cover fitted to his hand. The reading glasses in his other hand suggested this was both a natural and regular part of his nights.

  He accepted her silence with the ease of an old friend. He pulled a chair next to hers and settled the Book in his lap. “I don’t come out here for answers. A lot of the time, I’m not even able to ask for comfort. But sometimes I go back to bed having found both.”

  “Or they’ve found you.”

  “Something like that.”

  “Would you read me something, Bob?”

  “Gladly.” He opened to Psalms. Amy listened and felt her heart grow calm. When he’d worked his way through two, he went quiet. She said, “I had a bad dream.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “It seems far away now, thanks to you. I’d like to keep it that way.”

  “Fine.”

  Later, when she was back under the covers in her too-quiet room, it seemed to Amy that they had been awakened for that very purpose. So they could sit there together and enjoy a moment’s peace. So she could gather herself for the next challenge. The ringing cell phone.

  The sound amped her heart rate to overdrive. She did not so much move to the phone as fly. “Yes?”

  Paul said, “They’re coming.”

  CHAPTER 33

  Kimmie did not like being woken up, not even a little bit. She was cranky enough to fight against Amy trying to dress her. “I don’t want to move again!”

  “I know, sweetie. I know.”