by Scott Pratt
I think back to the day I went out to Hannah’s house, discovered she was gone, and then went back to the office and talked to Mooney. He was so emotional, such a skilled actor. What was it he said? Something about being protective of her, fatherly. And then he said, “That’s the way I felt about her.” He knew she was dead. He knew it.
“I can’t believe he’s going to get away with it,” I say to Bates.
“He ain’t gonna go to prison, but he ain’t gonna get away with it, either.”
“What do you mean?”
“I ain’t one to lie much, but I’m afraid I had to lie to him a little. I already mailed a copy of that DNA report to every newspaper and television station within fifty miles. In three days’ time, they’ll be on him like jackals. He’ll have to find him a cave to live in.”
“I wanted to kill him back there.”
“Can’t say as I blame you for that. At least you got a good lick on him.”
I look down at the back of my hand and clench and unclench my fist. The knuckles are bruised. It feels good.
“Don’t you want to know where we’re going next?” Bates says.
“I can’t wait.”
“You’re about to become the new attorney general of the First Judicial District.”
I turn and look at him. He’s smiling as if he just won the lottery.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Mooney’s out, which means somebody’s going to have to take his place. Now, since the attorney general is an elected state official, not a county official, his replacement is appointed by the governor. Under normal circumstances, an interim would be appointed, there’d be nominations, and the governor would choose whoever he thinks would benefit him the most come the next election. But these ain’t normal circumstances. Since me and the governor are such good buddies, I’ve already got the fix in for you, brother. We’re on our way to the airport to meet him right now. All you have to do is say yes.”
“You’re nuts. I’m not a politician, Leon. I don’t want to be the district attorney general.”
“Sure you do. It’ll be grand. You don’t even have to run for office. Instead of some dipstick making all the important decisions, you get to make ’em. You’ll make a hundred and fifty grand a year, and you know what the best part will be? You’ll have some real power. You can mess with the judges to your heart’s content.”
“I—I’m grateful. I appreciate the confidence. I really do. But this is too … It’s too quick, Leon. Too much responsibility.”
“What else are you gonna do, Dillard? Sit at home and twiddle your damn thumbs? You’re the right man for this job, and I aim to see you take it. Me and you will make a great team. If it turns out you don’t like it, don’t run for election when the term is up in four years.”
“You could have at least told me about this, given me a chance to talk to Caroline.”
“She’ll be glad to have you out of the house again. Besides, you really ain’t got no choice now. The governor’s already signed the appointment, and he’s flying all the way up here from Nashville just to meet you. His jet should be landing right about now. That’s why I asked you to wear the suit, brother. I wouldn’t want you to meet the governor looking like a heathen.”
“He knows about Mooney?”
“I told him everything.”
I lean my head back on the headrest and close my eyes. Despite my protests, I find the idea intriguing. I’ve always been critical of the men who occupied the position of district attorney general, and this would give me the opportunity to run the office the way I think it should be run—the right way. Ultimately, I’d control all of the decisions about whom to indict and what crime to charge in a four-county district. But what intrigues me even more is Tommy Miller’s situation. I’ll be in a position to make sure the same thing doesn’t happen to Tommy that happened to Brian Gant. And then there’s Caroline. If the evidence she destroyed ever comes up as an issue and if Anita White or Ralph Harmon or anyone else ever attempts to bring a case against her, they’ll have to get past me. I open my eyes and turn to Bates.
“Okay, Leon,” I say. “You talked me into it. Let’s go see the governor.”
55
The private jet that has carried the governor of Tennessee to Tri-Cities Regional Airport has been pulled into a hangar about a quarter mile from the main terminal. Bates pulls inside the huge opening slowly. Three men in suits—the governor’s security detail—are waiting. They talk to us briefly, wave wands over our bodies, and then lead us across the floor to a set of steps that ascends to the interior of the plane.
I’m a bit startled by the luxury, and by the space, once we get inside. An attractive young woman gives us a brief introduction to the pilot, shows us the kitchenette and the bar and the soft, reclining leather seats—three on each side of the aisle. There’s a flat-screen television on the wall in front of the seats and two computer workstations behind. She leads us down a short hallway past the bathrooms to the back of the plane, opens a door, motions us inside, and closes the door behind us.
James Lincoln Donner III, the governor of Tennessee, is standing behind a sprawling oak desk. I’ve never met Donner, but I know he’s a multimillionaire from Nashville who made his money the old-fashioned way—he inherited it. Donner is the first Democrat to hold the office in sixteen years, but he wasn’t elected because of any noble ideal he represented or because of a rock-solid political platform. He was elected because the two Republican administrations that preceded him used the state treasury as their personal piggy banks. I remember reading a quote from Donner during his campaign in which he said corruption was so rampant at the state capitol in Nashville that his first order of business would be to go into the Senate and House chambers with a fire hose and clean them both out.
I’m surprised by the governor’s size as he walks around his desk to embrace Bates. He looks much bigger on television. Considerably under six feet tall, he’s wearing a tailored gray suit with white shirt and navy blue tie. His hair is chestnut brown and cut short. His cheeks are oddly hollow. His eyes are gray—like Lee Mooney’s.
“Leon, so good to see you,” he says as he pats Bates’s shoulders after he releases the hug. “Is this your man?”
“Sure is,” Bates says. “Joe Dillard, meet Governor Jim Donner.”
“Governor,” I say as he shakes my hand vigorously.
“A pleasure, Mr. Dillard,” he says, “or should I say General Dillard?”
“Call me Joe, please. I never made it past sergeant, anyway.”
“Yes, a veteran,” he says. “We’ve put together a file on you. Hope you don’t mind. It says you were a Ranger, combat experience, decorated with a Silver Star in Grenada.”
“That was a long time ago, sir.”
“Leon here tells me you’re as honest as anyone he’s ever met. Says you’re a helluva lawyer, too. Just the kind of man we need under these trying circumstances.”
“I have my reservations, to be perfectly honest, but I’m willing to try.”
The governor walks back around the desk and sits in a leather swivel chair. He motions to us to do the same, and I notice he’s looking down on us. He’s obviously installed a platform under his seat to make himself appear taller. I want to snicker or say something, but I know Bates will kick me in the balls if I do. The governor picks up a file in front of him.
“Let’s see here. Born in Johnson City, father was killed in Vietnam, raised by your mother. One sister, Sarah, who seems to have had some problems with the law.” He glances up at Bates and then back down at the file. “Graduated Science Hill High School. Then joined the army. Decorated, honorable discharge. Then graduated East Tennessee State University and the University of Tennessee College of Law. Practiced both as a defense attorney and a prosecutor. Married to the same woman for twenty-two years. Two children, both in college. With the exception of your sister, you’re perfect.”
“My sister won’t be a problem, sir.�
��
“Let’s hope not.”
He turns back to Bates.
“You’ve spoken to the outgoing district attorney?”
“Just came from his house, Governor,” Bates says.
“Any problems?”
“He was too drunk to give us any guff. I have his resignation right here.”
Bates hands the paper across the desk, and the governor reads it out loud.
“ ‘ I hereby tender my resignation as Attorney General of the First Judicial District, effective immediately. ’ Short and sweet, signed and dated. I wonder what he’ll tell his wife.”
“That’s the least of his problems,” Bates says. “By the time I get through with him, he’s gonna have to leave the state.”
“Republicans,” the governor says. “Just can’t seem to keep their peckers in their pants, huh?”
I want to say something—something about Hannah and what a beautiful human being she was, something to remind him of what this is really about. It isn’t about sexual misconduct. It isn’t about Republicans and Democrats. It’s about a public official being responsible for a murder, and I don’t appreciate his cavalier attitude. But this is Bates’s show. I keep my mouth shut.
“I don’t think the inability to keep the pecker in the pants is an affliction that’s unique to Republicans,” Bates says. “Ever heard of Bill Clinton? Eliot Spitzer? Gary Hart?”
“Ah, touché, my friend, touché.”
The governor turns to me.
“So, Joe, I understand you’re not particularly interested in politics.”
“My plate’s always been full just trying to make a living and raising my family,” I say. “I’m not really interested in trying to run things.”
“Well, you’re going to be running something now. The district attorney’s office. Do you have any plans to rehabilitate the image of the office after the public learns of Mooney’s demise?”
“I really haven’t had a chance to think about any plans, Governor. The sheriff just dropped all of this on me about a half hour ago. But I don’t think it’s rocket science. People commit crimes, the police arrest them, and the district attorney prosecutes them under the law.”
“So you’re a black-and-white kind of guy.”
“I guess I am, but the older I get, the more gray I seem to see.”
Governor Donner opens a desk drawer and pulls out a legal-sized piece of paper. He holds it up in front of him and stands.
“This is a copy of the appointment that will be filed with the Supreme Court in the morning. It makes you the new district attorney general. I’ve already signed it. Thought you might want to frame it. Congratulations.”
He extends his hand again. Bates and I stand, and I grasp it.
“Thank you, Governor. Thank you.”
“Thank Leon,” he says. “I have a file on you, but I really don’t know you from Adam.”
Bates and I turn to leave. Just as I’m about to clear the door, I hear the governor clear his throat.
“Mr. Dillard,” he says.”
I turn to face him. “Yes, sir?”
“Don’t make me regret this.”
56
A sound awakens me. I open my eyes in the darkened bedroom and look at the digital clock on the dresser. Almost three in the morning.
I hear it again, a low growl coming from the foot of the bed. It’s Rio. Something has startled him.
“Shhhh, Rio. Go to sleep.” I lay my head back on the pillow and close my eyes. I can hear Caroline breathing rhythmically next to me. I start to drift off, but Rio growls again, this time louder. I sit up and slide my legs over the side of the bed. I’ve heard him growl thousands of times. This one is different.
I flip on the lamp beside the bed and stand up. Rio has also gotten to his feet and is standing near the closed bedroom door. His ears are laid back flat against his head, and he’s quivering. I walk over to him and pat him on the shoulder in an attempt to calm him, but he ignores me. Something is wrong; definitely wrong. I take hold of his harness and look over toward Caroline. She’s sitting up now, rubbing her eyes. I put a finger to my mouth and open the bedroom door.
“Go get ’em!” I whisper, and I let go of the harness. The dog launches himself into the darkness beyond the door as though he’s been shot from a cannon.
I hear a deafening gunshot about three seconds later, followed by a pitiful wail. Caroline screams. The first thing that enters my mind is that someone from Brian Gant’s family has come for a little revenge. I dive across the bed and turn the lamp back off. I can hear the dog whining somewhere in the house. I grab Caroline by the arm.
“Be quiet,” I whisper, and I pull her toward the walk-in closet between the bedroom and bathroom. There’s a semiautomatic Remington twelve gauge standing in the closet corner. I always keep it loaded. My fingers find it immediately, and I flip the safety off.
I help Caroline down beneath the clothes and boxes and so that she’s facing the door. I hand her the gun.
“Stay here. It’s ready to go. All you have to do is pull the trigger. When I come back, I’ll say something before I get to the door. Anybody else comes through, blow them away.”
“Where are you going?” The whisper is almost desperate. She doesn’t want me to leave her.
“I’m going to go kill the son of a bitch who broke into my house and shot my dog.”
A quiet rage is building within me. This is my home. It’s the middle of the night. My wife is terrified. I’ll be damned if I’m going to let whoever has invaded us walk out alive. I creep back into the bedroom for the nine-millimeter Beretta I keep in the drawer with my socks. I ease the clip out, check it, and push it back in. The pistol is loaded and I’m ready, though my heart is thumping against my chest and my hands are trembling slightly. I take a few deep breaths and try to focus.
Let them come to you. Whoever it is has come this far; they’ll come the rest of the way.
I crouch on the floor next to the dresser for a couple of the longest minutes of my life and listen. I hear a thump, then mumbling. It’s coming from the kitchen. He’s run into the counter or the island.
After another moment—an eternity in the dark—I hear what I think is a creak in the floor. Screw this. I can’t wait any longer. I go down, flat on my belly, and slide toward the sound. Once my head is around the corner I can just barely make out a pair of legs, two dark shadows on the far side of the kitchen table, but nothing else. If I stand, I’ll expose myself. I wait just a couple of seconds to make sure he’s alone. I ease my elbows out onto the floor in front of me and aim through the legs of a chair. He’s mumbling again. He’s maybe fifteen feet away.
The muzzle flash is blinding, and the explosion rattles my eardrums. He screams and falls in a heap. I hear his gun clatter against the tile as it skids away from him. I leap to my feet and run toward the intruder. I reach out and flip on the kitchen light as I pass the switch. His gun is lying near my feet, and I kick it away. He’s on the floor on his side, groaning, his face away from me. Both of his hands are wrapped around his knee, and blood is running through his fingers. A strong urge grips me, an urge that tells me to stick the barrel of my gun next to his temple and pull the trigger. I take a couple of steps toward him. I raise my foot, plant it in his shoulder, and roll him onto his back.
“You!”
I turn my head toward the bedroom and yell, “Caroline, come out here!”
She appears in a couple of seconds, carrying the shotgun, and walks tentatively toward me. She looks at the man on the floor and her mouth drops open.
“Are you capable of shooting this piece of shit if he moves?”
She nods her head. By the look in her eye, she means it.
I turn and walk into the hallway near the stairs that lead down to Jack’s room. Rio is lying a couple of feet from the door. A small pool of blood has formed beneath his chest. I kneel down beside him. His breathing is slow, but his eyes are open. I stroke him between the ears, and he moans.
“It’s okay, buddy. It’s okay.”
I examine him quickly. The bullet looks to have entered at the shoulder and broken his leg. I need to stop the bleeding. I remove my T-shirt and wrap it tightly around the wound. The bleeding slows, but I still need to get him to a vet.
I stand, and he whimpers.
“I’ll be right back, big guy. You just stay with us.”
I run back through the kitchen where Caroline is still holding the shotgun on the intruder. I pick up my cell phone off the bed and find Dr. James Kruk’s number. He’s been taking care of my animals for years, and he’s accustomed to being awakened. He answers after the fifth ring, and I tell him what’s happened. He says he’ll be right over.
I walk quickly back to the kitchen. The man has rolled onto his side again, but now he’s facing toward me. His hands are still wrapped around his left knee. Caroline is standing over him with the shotgun pointed at his head.
“I’m bleeding,” Lee Mooney says quietly. I can smell the strong odor of liquor in the air. He was trashed earlier. He must have kept drinking, the effects of which eventually led to the irrational decision that I needed to die.
“I don’t care if you’re bleeding,” I say.
“I needa … go … ta hospital.”
“How about the morgue?”
I kneel next to him and hold the barrel hard against his forehead. His head moves with the trembling of my hand. “You couldn’t just leave it alone, could you? All you had to do was crawl into a hole somewhere.”
“You don’t unnerstand,” Mooney says in the whiny voice I’ve heard more times than I care to remember, now thick with drunkenness. His dilated pupils look like black holes.
“You’re the one who doesn’t understand,” I say. I feel something I’ve never felt before, and I realize it’s indifference. I don’t care about him. I don’t care that he’s bleeding. “You broke into my house, you son of a bitch. You know the legal standard for defending yourself in your own home, don’t you?”
