Fortunate Son
Page 26
McGee took the cup. “Thanks.” He took a sip and shrugged. “I’ve had worse.”
“You get hold of the family?”
He nodded. She couldn’t help notice how tired he looked. “Tyler’s father’s going to catch the next plane down. Glenda’s going over to sit with his mom.”
Chance looked at the door of the waiting area, out into the hallway where doctors and nurses were bustling by. “Any word?”
McGee rubbed his eyes. “Too early to tell, the nurse said. He’s lost a lot of blood. He may lose a few feet of intestine. He’s in surgery.”
“He’s young, strong, looked to be in decent shape. He’ll make it.”
“I hope you’re right.” He turned to her. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” She took a sip of her coffee. It was truly terrible, bitter, tasting as if had been scorched. She wondered if it was a bad sign that she was getting used to it. I am spending way too much time in this damn hospital, she thought. There was a brief silence. “So…Glenda’s your wife?”
“Yeah.”
“What did she think of you coming down here on this mission?”
He grimaced. “She thought…well, she probably thinks I’m a damn fool. She’s probably right. But she knew it was something I had to do.”
“Sounds like a good woman.”
He nodded. “That she is.” He took a sip of coffee. “Sometimes I don’t let her know that enough.”
“Well, you can do that when you get home.”
“Yeah.” He turned to her. “How about you? You got anyone in your life?”
For a moment, the question nettled her, but then she thought of what they’d been through together. And it was pretty clear he wasn’t asking the question as a prelude to a come-on. “No,” she said. “It’s kind of hard to maintain relationships in this job.”
He laughed. “Boy, don’t I know it.”
She smiled. “From the way you say that, there’s a story there.”
“Yeah. It’s a long one. Let’s just say I screwed up one marriage, and nearly screwed up this one. For the job.”
“Only nearly, though. Not completely.”
He shook his head. “I hope not.”
“Sounds like you have some work to do when you get home.”
“I do.” He looked at her. “Thanks again for being here. But if you need to get home, I can hold things down here.”
“Nah, I’m good. You need to know, though, there are a couple of detectives coming. They’re going to want to know what happened. Hell of a mess out there. They found another body inside. Bludgeoned to death. There are a lot of questions to answer.”
He frowned. “You in trouble?”
She shrugged. “No more than I can handle.”
“Well, you know I got your back.”
She nodded. “I do. And I got yours. Partner.”
He smiled and stuck out a hand. “It’s been an honor to work with you, Deputy Cahill.”
She took it. “Likewise, Sheriff McGee. But let’s not ever do this again.”
He laughed. “No problem. Next time I come down here, it’ll be for the food.”
“The music’s pretty amazing, too. I’ll take you and Glenda around to the good places. Look me up.”
“Will do.”
She finished her coffee and stood up. “Before the detectives get here, I’m going up to see Winslow. Let him know what happened. Want to come?”
“Sure.” McGee polished off his own cup. “Lead the way.”
Winslow was sitting up in bed, reading a paperback book. The IV was out of his arm and his color was much better. “Hey,” he said.
“Hey yourself,” Chance said. “You still lazing around?”
He grinned. “They’re discharging me today.” The smile slipped a bit. “Then back to work. That’ll be interesting.”
McGee spoke up. “You got wounded in the line of duty, Agent Winslow. You’re a hero. They’re going to have balloons and banners and shit when you get back.”
Winslow shook his head. “I got shot after getting my ass captured and losing not one, but two informants. And we didn’t get any closer to taking down Luther.”
“You don’t have to worry about that,” Chance said. “Luther’s dead.” She ran down the story for him. When she got to the part about the mansion, Winslow broke in.
“Cullen Landry. He’s been a supplier of Luther’s, or so we and ATF have been thinking. But we could never put anything together.”
Chance nodded. “Well, he may be off the board, too. He may be the one they found killed inside.”
The DEA man whistled. “Man. That’s going to create a vacuum for Gutierrez to fill.”
“There’s always another asshole, right?” McGee said.
“Yep. But that particular asshole has someone inside my agency.”
“Any ideas who it might be?” Chance asked.
Winslow nodded. “Some.”
“I hope you get him,” Chance said.
“Seconded,” Wyatt added.
“Thanks. Hey, Cahill, don’t be a stranger, okay?”
She put out a hand. “Okay.” He took it and looked at Wyatt. “And next time you come down here, Mr. McGee, I hope it’s as a tourist.”
McGee laughed. “We’ve already discussed that plan.”
As they left, they met a man coming down the hallway, dressed in dark suit and narrow tie. He was looking at the room numbers, obviously searching for a particular one. As they reached the elevator, Wyatt said “Deputy Cahill, did you notice something peculiar about that man?”
“The one in the suit? As a matter of fact, I did. He was sweating like he’d just run a mile in that suit.”
“And yet, they’ve got the air conditioning cranked down in this place.”
“It’s like a meat locker,” she agreed. Both had turned and started back down the hall toward Winslow’s room. As they rounded a corner, they saw the man in the dark suit going into the room. They broke into a run.
They entered the room to find the man in the dark suit standing at the foot of the bed. Winslow regarded them curiously. “Hey. You forget something?”
“Winslow,” Chance said, “do you know this gentleman?”
The man in the dark suit was looking at them, wide-eyed.
“Sure,” Winslow said. “This is Special Agent Kimball. He works for my boss.” He regarded the man quizzically. “Sort of surprised to see you here though, Kimball.”
Kimball smiled, a sickly smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Just, ah, bringing regards from everyone at the office.”
“Agent Kimball,” Wyatt said, “You look a little warm. Why don’t you take that coat off?”
Winslow was frowning. “What’s going on?”
“Yeah,” Chance said. “You look like you’re burning up.” Her voice hardened. “Take the coat off.”
Kimball looked around for a moment like a trapped rabbit, then bolted for the door. Wyatt caught him easily and spun him into the wall with an impact that knocked a cheerful picture of a flower vase onto the floor. “Let me go!” Kimball yelled.
“What the fuck, McGee?” Winslow shouted, jumping out of the bed in his hospital gown.
“Cahill,” Wyatt grunted. “Check his coat pockets.” He turned Kimball around so Chance could get to him. He kicked out at her, forcing her to jump backward. “What’s in your pockets, Kimball?” Wyatt said. “What?”
“Fuck you!” Kimball spat and snapped his head back, trying to butt Wyatt in the nose. Wyatt bobbed his head and avoided the blow.
Winslow stood behind Chance, shifting nervously from foot to foot. “McGee. Cahill. Stop this. Right fucking now. He’s a federal agent.”
“I think he’s your mole, Winslow,” Chance said.
“That’s insane,” Kimball said. He relaxed slightly, and when he did, Wyatt changed his grip and ripped the jacket off of Kimball’s shoulders. He tried to run again, and the sleeves turned inside out as Wyatt pulled it free of his body. Chance block
ed Kimball’s exit just as Wyatt dipped a hand into the inside pocket and came out with a syringe. The needle was capped with a small piece of cork. “And what is this, exactly?”
Winslow was staring at the syringe. “Yeah, Kimball. What is that?”
Cahill examined it carefully. “Whatever it is, I’m betting it’s not good for you, Winslow. I’m betting he’s supposed to come here and find out how much you learned about Gutierrez and especially how much you know about who’d penetrated the agency. Then, you were going to suffer a tragic relapse. Am I right, Kimball?”
Kimball stood in his shirtsleeves, panting with rage and fear. “I want a lawyer.”
“Oh, you won’t need a lawyer, Kimball,” Chance said. “You can just walk out that door.”
“What?” Wyatt and Winslow said simultaneously.
“Sure,” Chance said. “You walk out of here. But Gutierrez will know soon that you’re blown. And I bet there’s a lot in your head that he doesn’t want to come out. And the best way to make sure that it doesn’t…” She left that hanging with a smile.
“So,” Winslow said. “You ready to make a deal?”
Kimball’s bravado collapsed like a birthday balloon on the day after. “Yeah.”
An orderly had appeared in the door. What’s going on in here?”
“Call security,” Chance said.
“What?”
She fixed the orderly with a stare. “Did I mumble? Call security. We just stopped a murder here in your facility.”
“And don’t call the police,” Winslow said. “Call the DEA.” He rattled off the number. “Ask for Special Agent in Charge Hammond.”
The orderly stared at him for a moment, then disappeared.
“Winslow?” Chance said. “I think you’re going to need to be the one to make the arrest.”
“In this?” Winslow gestured to his hospital robe.
“Well,” Wyatt said, “strange as it may seem, you’re the only one here who’s actually still a cop on active duty.”
Winslow thought about that for a second, then spoke to Kimball: “Agent Kimball, you’re under arrest for attempted murder of a federal agent. You have the right to remain silent…”
NINE MONTHS LATER
THE REDHAIRED WOMAN came in at 2 p.m. every day, sat at the same table on the terrace with a view of the beach, and ordered the same thing: bourbon, straight up, water back. She sat and sipped and watched the waves, sometimes for hours. She rarely spoke except to order and say “thank you” when the drink was delivered. From time to time, men would approach her and try to strike up a conversation. She was, after all, an attractive woman. All of them came away baffled. A few would ask Ignacio, the proprietor and owner of the beachfront restaurant, what her story was. He’d just smile and shrug. “She owns a house in town,” he’d say. “She lives with her daughter. That’s all I know.” He kept to himself the rumors he’d heard: that she’d bought the house with cash, that she was the widow of some drug kingpin in America. Sometimes, Ignacio heard from his cousin Mariel, who worked as her housekeeper, she had red eyes in the morning, as if she’d been crying all night. Or drinking, Mariel snickered. And the girl, Mariel said, she has an entire farmacia on her bedside table. Ignacio kept that to himself as well. A bartender was like a priest. He should keep his patrons’ secrets to himself.
Today was different. Today, she left her seat on the terrace and came into the bar. It was still early, and the place was empty. She took a seat at the bar.
“Buenas dias, señorita,” he said. “The usual?”
She nodded. As he poured the whiskey, she looked at the clock on the wall. “Hey. Can you turn on the football game?”
He assumed she meant American football. He had no real love for the sport; it lacked the beauty and grace of fútbol, and it stopped too often for commercials. But with the American tourists and expats who came in, he’d finally invested in a satellite TV system. “Which game, señorita?”
“UNC and LSU.” As he turned on the set over the bar, she clarified. “The University of North Carolina. Playing Louisiana State.”
“Ah.” He scrolled through the channels until he found the correct one.
As he turned the sound up, she said, “Today is my son’s birthday. My oldest.”
“Sí?” Ignacio said. “Well, feliz cumpleaños a él.” He lifted his own water bottle from behind the counter and offered it in a toast.
She clinked her own glass against it and drained it in one gulp. Ignacio frowned. She was usually a sipper. When she put the glass back down, she said. “He died. My son, I mean.”
“Aiii…I am truly sorry,” Ignacio said, and meant it. He had two sons of his own, and the thought of losing them was too much to bear. “No parent should outlive their child.”
“No,” she said, and motioned for another. He poured a double.
“You said your oldest. You have another son?”
“Yes. He…doesn’t live with me.”
“Ah.” He saw the pain in her face and didn’t inquire further. She watched the game in silence for a few minutes as he wiped down the bar. Suddenly, she leaned forward, her face seeming to light up. Ignacio glanced at the screen. The camera was focused on the bench, where a group of young men, helmets off, were standing and cheering a play on the field. The camera cut away, and she leaned back.
He could see the tears glistening in her eyes, and he understood. “Your younger son?”
She nodded, the tears spilling over. She picked up a napkin from the holder on the bar and wiped the tears away. After a moment, she spoke. “He could have been first string. But he got…hurt…his senior year. Still came back and made the team as a walk-on. But he’d spent so much time out…” Her eyes shone again as she polished off her drink. She held out the glass.
He paused for a moment, then poured. “He sounds like an extraordinary young man. Perhaps next year…”
She only nodded. He knew there was more to the story, but he didn’t pry. “I hope your daughter is a comfort to you.”
“She is,” the woman said. “She’s actually my daughter-in-law. Sort of. She and my son were engaged. The one who died, I mean.”
“Still. She is family, yes? There is family you are born to, and family you choose.”
“Yes.” She took a sip.
“And there is nothing greater than family.”
“No,” she said. “No, there isn’t.” She raised her glass and tipped it toward him. “To family.”
He touched his water bottle to her glass again. “To family.”
Read other works by J.D. Rhoades
This is one of the toughest books I’ve ever written. But then, they all are. Thanks to my editor and publisher, Jason Pinter, who I’m pretty sure really wanted another Keller book right away, but who always lets me write the book that wants to be written. Thanks as well to Toni McGee Causey and her husband, Carl, of New Orleans, Louisiana, who provided invaluable fact checking on that amazing city. Toni also went way above and beyond the call and provided other insights that helped make this book 100% better. Thanks, Toni.
And, as always, thanks to my wife, Lynn, for her love and unwavering support.
Born and raised in North Carolina, J.D. Rhoades has worked as a radio news reporter, club DJ, television cameraman, ad salesman, waiter, attorney, and newspaper columnist. His weekly column in North Carolina’s The Pilot was twice named best column of the year in its division. He is the author of five novels in his acclaimed Jack Keller series: The Devil’s Right Hand, Good Day in Hell, Safe and Sound, Devil and Dust, Hellhound On My Trail as well as Ice Chest, Breaking Cover, and Broken Shield. He lives, writes, and practices law in Carthage, NC.
The following is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in an entirely fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 by J.D. Rhoades
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ISBN: 978-1-947993-11-2
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First hardcover publication: August 2018 by Polis Books LLC
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