by Kathy Reichs
“Worth a try.”
A man was waiting beyond security, holding a sign with NIGHT written in neat block letters. His suit, shoes, and cap were black. His eyes took in the scar, the ebony nails, but his expression remained impassive. He gave his name as Winton, then led me to a town car that matched his outfit. Kerr would have approved.
The drive took thirty minutes. Traffic wasn’t bad, but fog was moving in off the harbor and drivers were taking it seriously.
At 4:20 I was passing the same bed of peonies I’d passed on my first visit. The stems were more bowed, the blossoms hanging lower, as though burdened by the heaviness of the late-afternoon air. Or prescient of the news I was about to deliver. Other than that, Poesie Court seemed as satisfied with itself as it had back then.
The same woman answered the door. Miranda? Avoiding eye contact, she led me to the same terrace. Drucker was on the same sofa. With the same dog. Same lap quilt, same petunias overhead.
Drucker looked at me but didn’t speak.
“I tracked down your bombers,” I said.
“Sit.”
The dog opened its eyes, confused.
I sat.
“One succumbed to cancer,” Drucker said. “One was shot execution-style. One you killed. The fourth died in a shootout in L.A., according to Detective Capps. I’m afraid all I have is his word on that one.”
I showed her the phone shots of Jano in his luau shirt on the floor at Rose Avenue in Venice.
“Your work?”
“Indirectly.”
“I suppose you expect to be paid for all four.”
“Your call. But that can wait.”
“Who is the black man traveling with you?”
“An associate.”
“Perhaps a relative?”
I didn’t reply.
“I know who he is,” she said.
“So do I.”
“Have it your way,” she said.
“The bombing at Bnos Aliza was the work of homegrown terrorists,” I said. “They’re zealots and they’re ruthless and they’re planning more attacks.”
“On Jews? On schools?”
“The school was a mistake.”
“I don’t understand.”
I explained the real target on Devon Avenue. The backpack. Bowen’s fatal good deed.
“These maniacs also killed my Stella?” Stony.
“Maybe.”
“What is it you’re not saying, Ms. Night?”
“I believe your granddaughter may be alive. That her life is now in danger.”
“Because of my actions?”
“Because of me.”
“What is it you want?”
“I want to stay on them. I want to nail their leader, a xenophobic psycho calling himself Bronco.”
“Did this Bronco give the order to murder my family?”
“He ordered the bombing in which your family was killed.”
I scrolled to the photo of the red-haired girl with her wrists and throat in restraints. Handed Drucker the phone.
At last, the ice shattered.
One gnarled hand fluttered to her mouth. Sensing tension, the Pomeranian stood. The other hand pushed the dog down. Both were shaking.
“This Bronco is holding Stella?”
“And threatening to kill her.”
“Why?”
“To force me to back off.”
“Merciful God in heaven.”
I allowed a hiatus for Drucker to collect herself. She did. I think the dog helped.
“I want tickets to the Kentucky Derby,” I said, when the window-glass eyes again met mine.
“That’s an odd request.”
“I think Bronco is planning to hit Churchill Downs.”
I laid it all out. The Islamophobic fanaticism of Jihad for Jesus. The cells in Chicago, L.A., D.C., and Louisville. I described everything I’d done and learned since our last meeting. The ambush at the Ritz. The rendezvous at Foster Beach. Jasmine Kerr’s flight to L.A. Bronco’s allusion to an imminent attack. The shootout at Venice Beach. The bolt to D.C. Bronco’s “gifts” of Kerr, Tibby Icard, and Brian Harkester. The message containing the name Godolphin and the dates May 5 and 6. Godolphin stable’s entries in the Derby and Oaks. Infidel’s email to Kerr from Louisville. Kerr’s recollection that Bronco bought Derby tickets.
Drucker listened, fingers nervously stroking the dog.
When I finished, only canine wheezing filled the space between us. Finally, “Mary Gray and Bowen are dead. Their killers are dead. You say Stella may be alive. If so, I will do nothing to endanger her.”
“Going forward, these savages won’t be satisfied with Muslim grocers. They want to spread their message. To shock the world. To do so, they’ll take as many lives, destroy as many families, as they can.”
Drucker’s eyes moved over me, hooded. A long, wheezing minute passed. Then, “Your obligation to me is concluded, Ms. Night.”
“But—”
“You are to do nothing further to antagonize these people.”
“Mrs. Drucker—”
“Do I make myself clear?”
“We may be able to prevent the deaths of other innocents.” Chest fizzing hot.
“Do I make myself clear?”
“This is wrong.”
“You’re like a dog with a bone.”
“You have no idea.”
“If you disregard my wishes I shall alert the police.”
“That won’t improve your granddaughter’s life expectancy.”
“Rest assured.” Reptilian smile. “My report will have nothing to do with Stella.”
“You heartless witch.”
“Is there anything else you require?” I was being dismissed.
“I’ve left my belongings in Louisville.” Voice betraying none of the chaos in my chest. “I need to retrieve them as quickly as possible. Because of the Derby, every flight is full.”
“My plane will be at your disposal.”
“How generous.” Frosty.
“We made a deal. I honor my commitments. Winton will transport you to Mr. Crage’s office for payment. When the plane is ready, he will take you to the airfield.”
Miraculously, Miranda appeared. I stood and followed her toward the door.
“Ms. Night.”
I turned back to Drucker.
“I hope you understand. I prefer that my granddaughter not perish.”
“As do I.”
“I prefer that you not perish.”
I said nothing.
“You have a twin, correct? August?”
My molars clamped tight.
“Inform August that in the event you do perish I wish for him to contact me.”
What the hell? Did she suspect I had no intention of quitting?
Winton was at the curb, a dark upright beside a dark shape in the mist. During my brief visit, the fog had thickened and taken on the essence of a living thing.
Crage was waiting. He opened a large ledger and wrote out a check. Through the window, I could see nothing but swirling white. Far below, a blurred red point, maybe a traffic light.
Crage handed me the check. I put it in my purse.
“The fog is a problem,” he said. “The pilot can’t take off until visibility improves.”
“When will that be?”
“I am not a meteorologist. They speak of inversion and dew points and water temperature, things beyond my ken.”
“What about flying commercial?”
“Were seats available, which they are not, it wouldn’t help. The airport is shut down.”
My gut knotted. I felt trapped. Disconnected from Gus.
“Winton is at your disposal.” Disapproving? “Mrs. Drucker has directed him to drive you wherever you wish. If you provide your number, I’ll have him call when the pilot determines it is safe to fly.”
Reluctantly, I gave it to him.
Winton was where we’d parted. He opened the door. I got into the backseat.
“Where to, Miss?”
Beyond the tinted glass, nothing but nothing.
“Sullivan’s Island,” I said, black nails gouging crescents into my palms.
Two Nights
She catches his eye. Tips her head toward the shed at the end of the drive. Raises seven digits. Five and two, a referee calling a foul. A trembling referee.
He nods. At last she has convinced him.
He has promised to speak to her. To make her understand. To convince her to go with them. He is much more persuasive than she. More tactful. She doubts it will work. Still.
A light rain is falling when she slips out the back door. The air smells rich, earthy. The woods pulse with the sound of a million insects.
He is waiting when she arrives. 7:05 P.M.
They stand, heads together, the barest of shadows in the drizzly dusk.
Voices hushed, they review their strategy. She fights back tears. Denies the quaver in her voice. This is her doing. She must be as tough as the game she talks.
But she is terrified.
What do they know? They’ve seen the random newspaper, forgotten or carelessly tossed in the trash. A Chicago Tribune. A Charleston Post and Courier. A Montreal Gazette. Nothing recent.
They understand phones and television but haven’t used technology for far too long. They possess not a single number. Haven’t a soul they can call.
They don’t know the distance or direction to the nearest town. Its name. They don’t even know what state they’re in. From the heat and vegetation they suspect it’s Dixie.
They can’t drive. Know nothing about renting a hotel or motel room. Buying a bus or train ticket. Purchasing supplies. Getting jobs. Surviving in the world.
But they’re committed. They’re doing this.
They have a plan.
First, the money. She’s checked. It’s still in the basement. He’s found and hidden four backpacks. Three empty, one stuffed with food and water.
Phase one. Completed.
Phase two.
They will go that night, once everyone is asleep. They will meet in the cellar, grab as much cash as they can carry, leave enough so that, on a casual glance, the boxes look normal.
They have agreed upon signals. Green light. Abort.
Phase three.
They will travel by foot. While she’s confident she could figure out how to drive, they have decided against it. Stealing one of the vehicles would be too risky, too noisy.
They will head toward the blacktop on which they arrived. She’s sure they can find it by following the dirt track that leads from the house. They will walk the shoulder by night, stay to the woods by day.
They know about 911. They will call once they are safely away. Leaving tonight allows them a cushion. Enough time to get to a pay phone. Enough time for the cops to intervene and stop the massacre.
Phase four is vague.
They will not get caught.
“We’ve arrived.”
My head snapped up. My hand shot to my waistband. No holster. No gun.
“Poe’s Tavern, miss. That’s what you said?”
“Right.” Heart banging.
“Shall I wait?”
“No.” Blinking into the fog, seeing little with my good eye, nothing with my bad.
Winton started to open his door.
“I’m cool.” I held up a palm.
“As you wish.” He lifted a card from the console and handed it over the seatback. “My mobile number. Call when you need me.”
“Thanks.”
I got out, passed through the picket fence, and climbed to the porch, steps muffled in the warm, still air. Above me, a string of tiny white lights barely cut through the vapor. Behind me, Middle Street, normally buzzing at happy hour, was eerily quiet.
The door was wide open. I entered. Ahead, diners occupied wooden tables nicked and gouged by years of abuse, some of it mine. Poe’s was the first bar to serve me. Fake ID, expression far older than my seventeen years.
To my left, high tables to one side, bar to the other, two stools empty at the far end. I took the last in the row, orienting so I could see the whole room.
The bartender, a guy wearing a Hornets cap, a red golf shirt, and an apron tied over butt-sagging jeans, finished drawing a beer, then moseyed over. I knew his name was Sean. Sean and I exchanged comments about the fog. We both agreed it was a real pea-souper. I ordered a Palmetto draft and a Pit & Pendulum burger.
Agitated, I kept scanning, checking faces, body language. I recognized some locals. They looked content enough. Other patrons less so. Having one week away from Toronto or Saint Paul, tourists resent dirty weather disrupting their quest for the perfect skin-shriveling tan.
My beer came. I sipped. Relaxed not a hair.
Poe’s has changed little since my first adolescent suds. The smoky haze is gone, the perfume now a mix of stale booze, sweat, and salt air. The memorabilia remain—the knickknacks, portraits, posters, and framed letters. I know every kitschy piece. Over the years, I’ve spent hours on one barstool or another.
What keeps me coming back? Not Edgar Allan’s literary genius. I’ve read few of his works. The man’s personal story is the draw. In 1827, at age eighteen, Poe used an alias to join the army. Thirteen months at Fort Moultrie, then he left the island and cut short his enlistment to enroll at West Point. After one cadet year, he was booted with a dishonorable discharge. Not his first unglamorous exit from academia or authority.
Orphaned young, a screw-up his whole life, dead at forty. Oh yeah. I identify with the guy.
In addition to enshrining the master of the macabre, Poe’s Tavern has two other attributes that assure my loyalty. Proximity to home, and a few regulars with whom I don’t mind engaging.
I’d been there maybe ten minutes when one of them strode through the door. Six foot two, one seventy, shaggy blond-gray hair, couple days’ stubble. Montgomery “Gum” Sweet, profession unclear.
I watched, not watching, as Sweet executed the same three sixty I do upon entering any new space. His gaze snagged on me briefly before completing its journey. I tracked him in my peripheral vision. To the stool beside mine.
“This taken?” Sweet wore hiking boots, faded cargo shorts, and an overlaundered tee that hinted at serious rippling beneath.
“Nope. Still there.”
“Buy you a beer?” Voice dusky and rough, unused for a while.
“Got one.” Lifting my mug.
“How’s it hanging?” Sweet balanced his ass on the edge of the stool. A very fine ass. I knew. I’d seen it.
“Rosy.” My anxiety-amped brain was offering inappropriate flashbacks.
“I can’t complain.” As though I’d asked.
“You never do.”
“That a complaint?”
“Could be.” Looking Sweet straight in the eyes. Which were gray flecked with green and cornered by pale starburst creases.
Before he could answer, my mobile buzzed. Roy Capps.
“Gotta get this.”
“Suit yourself.”
“You took your time,” I said, once out on the porch.
“File a grievance. Where are you?”
“Charleston.”
“I heard Louisville.”
“Did you.”
“What’s happening in Charleston?”
“Fog.” Which appeared to have rolled up its sleeves for a very long siege.
“Got some names,” Capps said.
“I’m listening.”
“Your boy Bronco’s a loser from Milwaukee name of Kenneth Noel Dickey. Failed minor league outfielder, failed motivational speaker, failed salesman—long list of flops.”
“Dickey have a record?”
“Just a reputation. Nothing ever stuck, because the family has sauce.”
“Yeah?”
“Ever hear of Ball and Dickey Tool?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“What? You in heat?”
“Tal
k.”
“Dickey senior started the business with a guy named Sheridan Ball. The two played football together at Wisconsin, were a big deal back in the day. Long story short, Ball went on to become a city councilman.”
“What’s Dickey junior’s story?”
“Five years back, Daddy canned him for decking an assembly line worker. The deckee declined to press charges, so little Kenny skated. No record of employment since. No permanent address. When Bronco left Milwaukee he went off the grid.”
“To rely on the kindness of nitwits like Jasmine Kerr.”
“Here’s an interesting factoid. Dickey’s older brother was killed in the Madrid train bombing in 2004.”
“Al-Qaeda.”
“Some suspected Basque separatists, but that was the verdict.”
“Might explain Bronco’s hatred of Muslims.” Yeah. I’d stick with Bronco.
“Bronco’s muscle is a guy named Landon Crozier.”
“Landmine.” The Hawaiian ape at Venice Beach. “The goon who boogied from the hospital in L.A.”
“Former army infantry, did stints in Iraq and Afghanistan, said sayonara in 2012 after reupping three times. Another Milwaukee boy. Parents dead, no siblings, wife, or kids. No criminal record. The apartment in Dupont Circle was rented under the name L. Cozen. Landlord says Cozen looked like a mountain with legs.”
“I’m guessing something bad happened to Landmine in the Middle East.”
“Something bad happens to every grunt in the Middle East.”
“Anything on Jano, the guy Landmine killed?”
“Jano’s not in the system. LAPD is working on him.”
“Selena?”
“Clegg’s working on her. And L.A. And D.C.”
“Kerr says the stiff in your morgue is named Lewinoski.”
“You’re telling me now?”
“I just learned it. Any progress with the monk?”
“Who?”
“The second asshole who tried to burn me at the Ritz.”
“John Scranton. Still in Winnetka.”
“Doing what?”
“Bingeing Bones with Mama.”
“What’s your plan?”
“Bust him the second he steps out and drops gum in the park.”
“Did you toss the apartment on Argyle?”
“The place was rented furnished. Kerr left nothing but tofu, toothpaste, and toilet paper.”
“No laptop or cellphone?”
