by Harry Dolan
Nick says, “Who are those guys?”
Jimmy didn’t think he was paying attention. Sometimes the kid surprises him.
“They’re trouble,” Jimmy says.
“What kind?”
“I don’t know yet. Where’s your gun?”
Nick pats his coat. “Right here.”
“Good,” Jimmy says.
“We gonna shoot them?”
“I hope not. But who can say?”
Nick goes back to his music and doesn’t ask any more questions. He’s been like that since they arrived in Knoxville. Quiet. Going with the flow.
It’s just as well, Jimmy thinks. If he had to explain what they’re doing, he’d have a hard time of it.
What if he saw Sean right now? What if he spotted him walking across the parking lot? He wants Sean dead, but could he do it here, in the daytime? Walk up to him and shoot him. One bullet to the head and it’s done.
Even if he could get away with it, would it be enough?
It seems too quick. Unsatisfying. He should say something to Sean before he does it, and he doesn’t know what he would say.
It bothers him, not knowing.
But not too much. Because Jimmy doesn’t really think it will happen here. He doubts Sean will come here, to the lawyer’s office. There are too many people around who might see him. He would feel out of control.
It’s more likely that Sean will arrange to meet the lawyer somewhere. Somewhere he can feel comfortable. That’s the real reason Jimmy’s here, to keep tabs on the lawyer. To follow him wherever he might go.
If Clinton and Reed follow the lawyer, too, Jimmy will have to deal with it. He can’t guess how it might play out; there’s no sense in trying to make a plan. Things never happen the way you expect.
He doesn’t know how he’s going to kill Sean.
All he knows is that he needs to be ready when the time comes.
27
Molly Winter
When they reach Lebanon, Kentucky, Molly is feeling optimistic.
She likes Sean’s plan, the one he worked out with Dalton Webber this morning. When she heard it, she approved it right away, except for the part where she was supposed to stay behind.
They argued about that, but not for long. Sean gave in when Molly made it clear that if he left without her she would find a way to follow him.
So they’re together, which is what she wants. And they’ve left the silver Camry behind, which means they haven’t had to worry about state troopers pulling them over.
They’re driving a pickup truck, a white Dodge Ram the Webbers lent them. All their stuff is in the cargo bed under a waterproof cover: their tent and sleeping bags and everything Sean brought with him from their house in Houston. There’s food back there too: a cooler full of sandwiches and drinks.
Sean is driving. Molly trimmed his hair before they left, and dyed her own with a kit Yvette Webber gave her. She’s honey blond now, like Yvette.
Little differences, but Molly feels like they’re making progress. They’re on their way to being different people. That’s the goal, after all. That’s why they’re going to Miami to find Steve Z.
They have a stop to make first. It’s out of their way but not too far. An hour’s drive on winding country highways takes them from Elizabethtown, where they left the interstate, to Lebanon. From there they drive south a few miles more to a lake that as far as Molly can tell doesn’t have a name. They park on the south shore on a lane overgrown with weeds and hike north and west into a forest of lindens and beech trees.
Sean is carrying a backpack and a folding camp shovel. He’s got his gun in its holster under his coat. Molly is carrying a bottle of water and wearing a denim jacket that Yvette gave her. It’s faded and comfortable. In the right-hand pocket there’s a nickel-plated thirty-two-caliber pistol. Another gift from Yvette.
Sean seems sure about the trail, although to Molly it seems barely there. She’s only been here once before, but there are markers she committed to memory. She sees one of them up ahead. It’s a beech with a trunk damaged from some long-ago storm: it’s split a few feet from the ground, and it bends like an arch.
Sean ducks under it, leaving the trail behind. Molly follows him, stepping over brambles. A dozen yards on, they come to a clearing with a cedar tree on its northern edge. Sean shrugs off the backpack, unfolds the shovel, and starts to dig.
Sean Tennant
Sean used to have a great-uncle who lived in Lebanon, so technically he’s violating his rule about staying away from people and places he used to know.
He figures it’s safe, because he only visited his uncle once, with his mother when he was seven, and the man was ancient even then. He must be dead by now.
Sean remembers coming to the lake during that visit, his uncle towing a motorboat on a trailer. Backing it into the water. There were five or six other boats on the lake that day, cruising around in long loops, from the south end to the north. Some of the people driving them were reckless, tearing past the others, seeing who could leave the biggest wake.
Yahoos, his uncle called them.
Sean has a very clear memory of sitting in the back of the boat in an orange life jacket. His mother wearing sunglasses and a wide-brimmed hat. His uncle bringing the boat around in a sharp turn, laughing over the sound of the motor.
When they were back on land, Sean asked his mother if his uncle was a yahoo.
“He is,” she said. “But we mustn’t tell him.”
Sean thought of the lake years later, when he needed to hide the cylinder seals. He didn’t want them all in one place; he thought it would be safer to spread them out.
Now he’s digging in the clearing at the foot of the cedar tree. He’s got the fourteen seals from Houston, and there are another fourteen here. He shouldn’t need twenty-eight of them to pay off Steve Z., but he doesn’t know what will happen when he gets to Miami. It’s better if he has them. He doesn’t want to have to come back here.
Almost six years have gone by since he buried the cylinder seals, and he can’t remember the exact spot. He has dug two holes already, eighteen inches apart, with nothing to show. The sun’s going down. He jabs the blade of the shovel into the earth between the two holes, bears down on it with his boot.
A minute later he finds what he’s searching for: a cigar box wrapped in a plastic bag. With a little more work, he pulls it clear, but it’s too late. He should have been faster. Everything might have gone differently if he had been faster.
Molly touches his shoulder. Says, “Sean.”
He looks up as they step into the clearing: two hunters, one in jeans and one in camo pants, both wearing fleece jackets with orange safety vests over them. Hard to guess their ages: somewhere in the twenties. One is stocky, one thin; both have patchy beards.
“You lost?” the stocky one says. He’s carrying a bow and a quiver of arrows. The other one has a shotgun resting on his shoulder.
“They ain’t lost,” the thin one says. “They’re digging.”
“Digging for what?” says the stocky one.
Sean stands up, leaving the box on the ground. He holds on to the shovel.
Molly says, “We’re geocaching.”
“Come again?” the stocky guy says.
“Geocaching. Somebody buries a package and puts the location online. Latitude and longitude. Then other people can come and find it. It’s like a game.”
“Like digging for treasure?”
“Sort of,” Molly says.
The stocky guy steps closer, intrigued. The other one does, too, but he seems distracted. He’s staring at Molly. Sean doesn’t like the look of him.
“What’s in the package?” the stocky guy says.
“Could be anything,” Molly tells him. “Sometimes it’s a book, and you can sign your name to show that you were here.”
“It’s a game, huh? You play it a lot?”
“All the time,” Molly says.
The stocky guy is looking d
own at the box, which is still wrapped in the plastic bag.
“Let’s open it up,” he says.
The thin guy hasn’t stopped staring at Molly. “Where are you from?” he asks.
“Elizabethtown,” she tells him.
“I feel like I’ve seen you before.”
Molly smiles. “I don’t think so.”
The stocky guy pokes at the box with the toe of his boot. “Open it up,” he says again.
“Go ahead,” Sean says. “You do the honors.”
“Oh, I’ve definitely seen you,” the thin guy says, laughing suddenly, showing his teeth. “You changed your hair.”
He looks from Molly to the box and back. Sean watches him, tries to guess what he’s thinking. It’s not hard. The thin guy doesn’t seem smart, but he seems cunning. He’s not exactly sure what he’s stumbled into, but he’s searching for a way to turn it to his advantage.
Sean knows what the thin guy is going to do before he does it. He’s going to bring the shotgun down from his shoulder.
The stocky guy is bending to reach for the box. Oblivious. Not a threat.
Sean steps between Molly and the thin guy and brings up the camp shovel. He slams the flat of the blade on the knuckles of the thin guy’s right hand before he can bring the shotgun to bear. The guy howls and Sean drops the shovel and wrenches the shotgun away from him. He sweeps the stock of the gun across the guy’s jaw and then jams the butt hard into his sternum. The guy falls backward onto the ground.
Molly Winter
When Sean makes his move, Molly focuses on the other hunter, the one with the bow. He’s picking up the box. Molly pulls her gun from her pocket just as he straightens up and turns to see what all the commotion is about.
She levels the gun and tells him not to move, but her voice is soft. He’s not paying attention to her. He drops the box, takes his bow in two hands like a club, and moves toward Sean.
Molly shifts her aim and fires a shot. It’s meant to go over the hunter’s shoulder, to warn him, but it comes a little closer than she intended.
Sean Tennant
Sean hears the shot and spins around. Watches the stocky guy drop his bow and raise a hand to his neck. There’s blood, but it’s a trickle, like he cut himself shaving. He gets some on his fingers and stares at it.
Molly has him covered with her pistol. “Sit down,” she says.
The stocky guy looks bewildered. “What the fuck? You shot me. I didn’t do anything.”
“Sit.”
The guy sits on the ground with his back to the cedar tree.
“Are you good?” Sean says to Molly.
“You bet,” she tells him.
Sean collects the cigar box and stows it in the backpack. He does the same with the camp shovel. The thin guy is lying on his side groaning and rubbing his jaw. Sean nudges him with the muzzle of the shotgun.
“You never saw us,” Sean says.
When the guy doesn’t answer, Sean nudges him again. “Say it.”
“Never saw you,” the thin guy mumbles.
“You’re gonna stay here for twenty minutes,” Sean says. “If you come after us, we’ll kill you.” He turns to the stocky guy. “Understood?”
“I ain’t goin’ anywhere,” the stocky guy says.
Molly picks up the bow and carries it with her as they leave the clearing. Sean is alert for the sound of following footsteps all the way back along the trail to the truck. He stashes the shotgun behind the driver’s seat. Molly leaves the bow in the weeds at the side of the lane.
Sean can feel his heart racing as they drive away from the lake, heading for Lebanon so they can get back on the highway. As he passes through the town, he can feel himself getting things under control.
When he turns to look at Molly, she’s staring straight ahead. She’s breathing through her nose. Slowly, deliberately.
“Are you okay?” he says.
“I’m fine.”
He finds a place to pull over, kills the engine of the truck. He reaches over and lays his fingers against her neck. Finds her pulse. It’s throbbing fast.
“Did I do good?” she asks him.
“You were perfect.”
He gets free of his seat belt and unclips hers, and she leans into him and he holds on to her, rubbing her back.
“Perfect,” he says. “Perfect.” Over and over.
He remembers what Dalton Webber told him: A lot could happen between here and Miami.
Sean has just seen a sample. And it could have been much worse, because if he hadn’t had the shovel in his hand, he knows what he would have done. He would have drawn his gun and blasted those two yahoos.
He weighs it all out over the course of a few minutes while they’re parked at the roadside and he’s listening to Molly breathe. There’s a thousand miles to cover between here and Miami, and when he gets there he might find that Steve Z. isn’t interested in cylinder seals, that he doesn’t want to be paid in anything but cash.
There’s Rafael Garza, the detective from Houston, who says he’s willing to make a deal if Sean turns over the seals. The idea seems more attractive now than it did before.
If Sean were on his own, he might keep the deal in mind as a last resort and take his chances with Steve Z. But he’s not on his own.
He strokes Molly’s hair, kisses her cheek.
“I made a mistake,” he says.
He draws away so he can look into her eyes.
“We shouldn’t be here. What just happened shouldn’t have happened. You should never have had to go through that.”
“Sean—”
“I won’t let it happen again.”
“I’m fine,” Molly says. “I told you.”
“I know.”
“I can handle a lot worse.”
Sean touches his forehead to hers. “I know you can. But I don’t want you to. This needs to end. I’ll talk to Garza. I’ll take whatever deal he offers.”
She sits up straight, traces her thumb over his chin, takes a long look at him.
“You’re forgetting something,” she says.
“What?”
“We’re in this together. We’ll talk to Garza.”
He smiles. “Okay.”
“And we’ll be smart about it,” she says, reaching for her handbag, rooting around. “We’ll talk to a lawyer first.”
She finds the card and holds it up for him to see: HOWARD FRAZIER, ATTORNEY-AT-LAW.
28
Jimmy Harper
It’s after seven o’clock when Frazier leaves his office.
Jimmy is by himself in the rental car. Nick was whining about being hungry, so Jimmy gave him twenty bucks and told him to get something. That was ten minutes ago. No sign of him coming back.
Frazier’s blue Mercedes drives out of the lot, and Clinton and Reed follow in the black Ford Explorer. Jimmy starts his car and trails after them.
He phones Nick as he goes. “Frazier’s moving.”
“Shit,” Nick says.
“Don’t worry about it,” Jimmy tells him. “Go back to the hotel.”
Frazier takes the same route he took the day before: west for eight miles on I-40, then north to his house on Wesley Road. Clinton and Reed handle the tail professionally. They hang back, giving Frazier plenty of room.
When Jimmy reaches the house and drives past it, he sees the garage door closing on the blue Mercedes. He finds the spot where he parked before: north of the house on the opposite side of the street. Clinton and Reed take up their position to the south.
It’s dark and getting darker. Jimmy settles in for a long night of nothing. Around eight thirty there’s movement at the side of the house, but it’s not Frazier. It’s a woman, presumably his wife. All she does is walk out to the mailbox and back.
At ten o’clock, Jimmy starts to get restless. He holds out until ten thirty, then takes a fifteen-minute stroll. He doesn’t run into anyone. Nobody’s walking their dog.
He’s barely back in the car when h
e sees headlights coming up the road from the south. A white pickup truck slows as it approaches the Frazier house. It swings into the horseshoe driveway and comes to a stop.
The driver’s door opens, and Sean climbs out.
Tom Clinton and Lincoln Reed
“Would you look at that,” Clinton says.
Reed whistles beside him.
Molly’s out of the truck now on the passenger side. She joins Sean and they walk to Frazier’s front door. After a few seconds, it opens to admit them.
“Bet you’re glad I’m here about now,” Reed says.
Clinton doesn’t answer him.
“Because I had the foresight to bring ski masks.”
Clinton sighs. “We’re not using the ski masks.”
“Are you going in without a ski mask? ’Cause I’m not.”
“We’re not going in,” Clinton says.
Reed clicks his tongue against his teeth. “What would Adam say? You think he’d want you sittin’ on your ass? Are we gonna observe and report?”
“I know he doesn’t want us shooting up a lawyer’s house.”
“Might not have to shoot if we do it right.”
Clinton turns to him, eyes narrowed. “Do you believe that? Really?”
“No, I don’t,” Reed says. “You know why? Because I’m a sensible fuckin’ man. I know when I’ve been given a job that’s impossible to do. When are you gonna figure it out?”
Molly Winter
The Fraziers have been expecting them. Molly called Howard Frazier when she and Sean were still an hour and a half from Knoxville.
Frazier greets them at the door in a red cardigan sweater that makes him look like Mr. Rogers. He ushers them into the living room. There’s a wood fire burning in a big stone fireplace.
Frazier’s wife comes in from the kitchen. Theresa. She has auburn hair and tortoise-shell glasses. She’s wearing an apron over a blue cotton dress. She’s been baking cookies: chocolate chip. There’s a plate of them set out on a long mahogany coffee table.
