A Grant County Collection: Indelible, Faithless and Skin Privilege

by Karin Slaughter

  She opened her mouth to say something, then changed her mind and gave him a nod instead.

  As Jeffrey got out of the car, he could hear the buzz of an air-conditioning unit coming from the side of the house, its insistent whirring blocking out the crickets and birds, though the rushing white waters of the creek managed to compete with the fan. He glanced around, looking for power lines, guessing they were buried in the ground. That would've set Pfeiffer back a wad of cash. It was three times more expensive to bury lines than it was to string them across the sky. Jeffrey assumed the man had laid a phone line in the process and wondered how he'd managed to have a phone number that Nick Shelton couldn't trace. Maybe he had put it in his wife's name, or a family member's. Obviously, Al Pfeiffer had gone to some trouble to make sure he couldn't be contacted.

  Jeffrey put his hand in his pocket, trying to use the casual gesture to hide his trepidation. He felt the keyfob and realized he'd left Sara without any air-conditioning and no way to roll down the windows. He glanced back at the BMW. Sara waved and he nodded back.

  He continued up the path. The closer he got to the house, the more he could see that there was something too new about the place, a crisp whiteness to the vinyl siding, a too-clean look to the porch stairs, that gave lie to its plantation roots. Climbing the cement stairs, Jeffrey figured that the house had probably been constructed by a local builder who specialized in slinging up little Taras. This far out in the middle of nowhere, it couldn't have come cheap.

  Between the sheriff's pension, disability for his injuries, and whatever he had socked away, Al Pfeiffer was obviously living comfortably. This was certainly not the kind of place Jeffrey would choose for his retirement, but the isolation had its benefits, especially when you were the type of person to open your front door with a shotgun in your hand.

  'What do you want?'

  Jeffrey's hand had been raised to knock when the front door was flung open. The shotgun was pointed squarely in his face, about two inches from his nose. Now that Jeffrey thought about it, he'd heard the quick cha-chunk of the pump being jerked, a shell being loaded into the chamber, as he'd lifted his hand in the air. He had been just a few seconds off from registering the sound, though, and those few seconds could have meant life and death if the man behind the gun hadn't been more careful. Or maybe the man was just terrified. His eyes kept darting over Jeffrey's shoulder, checking to see if he was alone.

  Jeffrey still had his hand in his pocket. He found the keyfob and pressed the lock button, hoping to God the BMW was within reach of the signal.

  'You got to the count of three before I blow off your head and ask questions later.'

  'Are you Al Pfeiffer?'

  'Who the fuck else would I be?'

  'I've got my—' Jeffrey slid his hand out of his pocket so he could reach for his badge. He stopped when the man moved closer, firmly pressing the barrel of the Remington under Jeffrey's right eye.

  Saliva spit from Pfeiffer's mouth when he demanded, 'You think I'm stupid, boy?'

  Slowly, Jeffrey put both of his hands in the air. He wanted to look over his shoulder. Where was Sara? Was she safe? His heart was beating so hard in his chest that he could barely hear his own voice when he told the man, 'I'm a cop.'

  The weapon held steady, but the fear in the man's eyes was unmistakable. 'I know what you are.'

  'My wife is in the car. I don't want her to get hurt.'

  He glanced over Jeffrey's shoulder. 'I don't give a fuck who's in that car. She gets out, that's the last thing you'll ever hear.'

  Jeffrey looked down the barrel of the shotgun at Al Pfeiffer, saw the way he struggled to keep the tremor out of his hands. He also saw the damage from the firebomb. Mottled skin slackened one side of his face, his left eye nearly closed from scarring. He was wearing a short-sleeved dress shirt, white and finely starched, the grotesque scarring on his arms showing where the flesh had been burned off the bone. There were tears in his eyes, but Jeffrey did not know if this was from pain or fear. This close up, it looked like a combination of both.

  Jeffrey took a step back, away from the pressure of the barrel against his face. 'I'm the chief of police for Grant County.'

  Pfeiffer held the shotgun steady at Jeffrey's chest. 'I don't care if you're the fucking President of the United States. Get off my land.'

  'Why are you scared of another cop?'

  'You wouldn't be here if you didn't already know the answer to that.'

  'I just want to talk.'

  'Do I look like I wanna talk to you?'

  'I need to know—'

  'You see this gun pointing at you, boy?' The man took a step closer, the barrel of the shotgun pressing hard into Jeffrey's chest. Pfeiffer was about half a foot shorter and twenty years older, but his voice was firm when he said, 'You listenin' to me, boy?' He paused, but not for an answer. 'I done told you I ain't got nothing to say to nobody. You hear? Nothing.'

  'I just—'

  'You go back and tell them that, hear? You tell them Al Pfeiffer told you to fuck on off back to the hell you came from.'

  'If you could just—'

  'You get off my property!' the old man screamed. 'You get into that fancy car of yours and if you ever come back, I'll chop you up and throw you to the gators. You got that?'

  Jeffrey knew better than to argue, especially since he was entirely confident that Al Pfeiffer was more than prepared to carry out his threat. 'I got you.'

  'Now, get,' Pfeiffer said, using the barrel to push Jeffrey away.

  Jeffrey walked backward, not wanting to turn his back on the man until he absolutely had to. Fury was something he could handle, but fear made people irrational. Jeffrey didn't want to be in range of that shotgun if Al Pfeiffer decided letting Jeffrey go scot-free wasn't the right course of action.

  Which, the moment Jeffrey turned around, is exactly what the man did.

  The first shot must have been fired into the air, but it was loud enough to make Jeffrey hunch his shoulders. He heard Sara scream, then the second shot cracked the air. This one was a more direct warning, scattering the gravel about six inches from where Jeffrey stood. He scrambled to get out of the way, slipping on the loose stone, falling hard on his palms.

  'Shit,' he cursed, making himself stand. It wasn't going to be like this, not with him biting dirt while some madman played target practice. Jeffrey held up his hands in the air, yelling, 'You're gonna have to shoot me in the back, if that's the kind of man you are.'

  The shotgun pumped again, loading another shell.

  'No!' Sara screamed, pounding her fists against the window. 'Jeffrey!'

  He walked toward the car, hands in the air, this time leaving his back as a clear target. He stared at Sara. Her fists froze mid-strike, inches from the window. There was a valet key in the center console. She had to know that. He had told her when he put it there and she'd made some joke about having to drive to Atlanta before they'd find a valet to use it.

  Sara's mouth moved. He read the words. 'Hurry, hurry, hurry ...'

  An eternity seemed to pass as Jeffrey closed the twenty feet between himself and the car. His back felt white-hot, more from the bull's-eye painted on it than from the blazing sun.

  While time had slowed down as he walked to the car, the clock started ticking as soon as he got behind the wheel. He fumbled with the keyfob, and Sara snatched it out of his hand, starting the car herself.

  'Go,' she begged. 'Hurry.'

  He threw the car into reverse and punched his foot on the gas. A quick look showed him that Al Pfeiffer was still holding his stance, legs spread, back straight, shotgun pointed into the air. The bastard had a smug smile on his face as he watched the retreat. Jeffrey let off the gas a little as he reversed out of the driveway, letting the man know he shouldn't get too cocky just yet.

  Jeffrey headed straight out the way they had come. The car bumped against the curve as he pulled back onto the main road. He chanced a look at Sara. She was clutching the door handle so hard that her kn
uckles had turned white.

  As soon as they passed the post office, she told him, 'Pull over.'

  Jeffrey slowed the car, afraid she was going to be sick.

  'Pull over,' she repeated, opening the door.

  He slammed on the brakes. Sara didn't even wait for the car to stop before jumping out.

  Jeffrey slid across the seats, following her. 'Are you—'

  She turned on him, slapping him square across the face. For a full ten seconds, Jeffrey was too stunned to react. She had never hit him, never so much as raised her hand.

  He rubbed his face, felt the inside of his cheek with his tongue. 'You wanna tell me what the hell that was about?'

  Sara paced in front of him, cupping her hands over her mouth. He knew that she couldn't yell when she was this angry. Her words got caught in her throat and her tone went so low that she could barely make a sound.

  'Sara—'

  'You asshole,' she whispered. 'You stupid, arrogant asshole.'

  Jeffrey smiled because he knew that it would irritate the shit out of her. He had no idea what she was mad about, but he knew that if she slapped him again, there was going to be a real problem.

  He glanced at the road as a green pickup truck drove by, slowing for the show. They hadn't seen another car since they'd entered Dug Rut. This was probably the biggest thing to hit town since the stop sign had been installed at the end of Main Street.

  Sara waited for the truck to pass before asking, 'Why did you slow down?'

  'When did I—' He stopped. The driveway. He had slowed when he'd seen that smug look on Al Pfeiffer's face.

  'You couldn't let him get the best of you, could you? You just had to slow down and goad him on.' She shook her head, tears welling into her eyes. 'You're just as bad as Lena. You play these games with people, these glorified pissing contests, like it's not a matter of life and death.' She tapped her hand to her chest. 'My life, Jeffrey. Your death.'

  Jeffrey tried to shrug it off. 'His shots were wide. They were just a warning.'

  'Oh, you have no idea how consoling I find that.'

  'You can't let people like that know you're scared.'

  'You can't let people know you're scared,' she corrected. 'He had a gun, Jeffrey. A shotgun.'

  'We were out of range.'

  'Out of range?' she echoed, incredulous. She held up her finger to stop the words that were about to come out of his mouth. 'You locked me in the car. He put that gun in your face and you locked me in the car.'

  'I was trying to protect you.'

  'Who was protecting you?' she demanded. 'I'm not a child, Jeffrey. I'm not some scared little girl who needs her hand held to cross the street.'

  'And I am?'

  She didn't answer. Her focus had shifted from Jeffrey to something over his shoulder. The green pickup was back, slowing down for another look. The windows were tinted, but as he turned, Jeffrey could make out two figures behind the dark glass as the truck rolled by. It occurred to Jeffrey that maybe the driver wasn't looking for a show. Maybe he was looking to finish what Al Pfeiffer had started.

  He ordered, 'Get in the car.'

  Sara didn't argue. She walked briskly toward the BMW and Jeffrey followed. He climbed behind the wheel and started the engine, not bothering to look for traffic as he pulled back onto the road. He glanced in the rearview mirror, watching the truck make another U-turn.

  He told Sara, 'They turned around.'

  She slipped on her seat belt, clicking it into place.

  The BMW gave a slight jerk as he pressed the accelerator to the floor. The truck sped up as well. Sweat rolled down Jeffrey's back as he navigated the snaking road. Two minutes passed before the truck pulled off onto a dirt trail. Either the man had lost interest or he knew that there was no way he could take on the inline six.

  Or both Jeffrey and Sara were paranoid as hell.

  'They're not following,' he told her, though she had seen as much in the mirror on the visor.

  She pressed her lips together, stared out the window.

  He asked, 'Are you all right?'

  'Why did we come here?'

  'What?'

  'Why did we come here?' She was speaking in a regular tone of voice now, but he could tell he was still not off the hook. 'Why did we have to come to this place?'

  'I told you. I wanted to talk to Al Pfeiffer.'

  'To accomplish what?'

  'To see why he left town.'

  'He left town because someone tried to kill him and his entire family.'

  Suddenly, Jeffrey found himself longing for her silence. 'This is my job, Sara. I talk to people who don't want to talk to me.'

  'As far as I can recall, you've never been shot at by one of them before.'

  He let his lack of response concede the point.

  She asked, 'What does any of this have to do with Lena?'

  'I don't know.'

  'How does this help find out who was in the Escalade or why they were killed?'

  'I don't know that, either.'

  'Well,' she said, rolling down the window a few inches, letting in some air. 'You don't seem to know a lot of things.'

  Now the silence came. Jeffrey gladly welcomed it, staring ahead at the empty highway, counting off the mile markers. He found it difficult to swallow as he thought about the gravel spraying up, the gunshot ringing in his ears. Why had he slowed down the car? What primal instinct had made him take his foot off the gas, to push back at the man who had nearly pushed him into oblivion?

  Pfeiffer had been carrying a Remington Wingmaster, the kind of shotgun used by most law enforcement officers. Jeffrey had lied when he'd told Sara that they were out of range when he took his foot off the gas. If Pfeiffer was a good shot, and his nearly fifty years toting a badge indicated he probably was, the man could have taken out Sara or Jeffrey with a twitch of his finger.

  He had to get Sara out of here. She was right that he was like Lena, but they were alike because they were both cops. There were certain people in this world that you couldn't show your weak side to. As far as Jeffrey was concerned, Sara was his weak side. Her safety had been the first thought that came to his mind when he'd seen that shotgun. He had locked the doors because he didn't want her running to the house and getting her head blown off. He could not worry about his own safety so long as she was in jeopardy, and the only way to remedy the problem was to send Sara back to Grant County.

  But, then, why had Jeffrey slowed the car? Why had he kept Sara in range of the shotgun just to prove a point? He could have gotten her killed.

  At least half an hour of driving passed before his chest stopped feeling like a rubber band was around his heart, and it took another half hour for him to realize that the reason his hands were sticking to the wheel was because the side of his left palm had been ripped open on the gravel driveway.

  Jeffrey coasted into the first gas station he saw.

  Sara looked at the gas gauge on the dash as if to check up on him. That hadn't been why he'd stopped, but the needle was halfway down to the E, so Jeffrey decided he might as well fill up the tank. If Sara noticed the blood on his hands and the steering wheel, she didn't say anything.

  Jeffrey's gun and holster were still tucked under his seat and he clipped them onto his belt as he got out of the car. He fumbled with the gas cap, fingers stiff from being wrapped around the steering wheel, and managed to get the nozzle in the tank before walking to the little convenience store. When he opened the glass door, he had to duck at the last minute to avoid a cowbell hanging from the jamb.

  'Sorry about that,' the clerk apologized, though the smirk on his face said watching unsuspecting customers get smacked in the head was one of his favorite pastimes. 'Gotta move that thing one day.'

  Jeffrey glared at the young man as he made his way to the back of the store. Inside the bathroom, he looked at himself in the mirror, saw his hair was damp with sweat, that dirt had splattered his shirt when the gravel scattered. His hands were a mess and he used a paper
towel to turn on the faucet so he wouldn't leave blood all over the fixture. The cold water stung like hellfire, but he kept his hands under the stream, trying to clean the debris out of his wounds.

  'Jesus,' he muttered, glancing into the mirror again. He shook his head, trying to think through what had happened. His intention had been to talk to Pfeiffer cop to cop, have a little off-the-record conversation about the situation in Elawah so that Jeffrey could figure out what exactly Lena had gotten herself into. Was he dealing with skinheads? Would Jake Valentine be any help? Could anybody left in the sheriff's department be trusted?

  Pfeiffer had been firebombed out of town, so Jeffrey doubted seriously that the man wielded any true power. Smug attitude aside, the ex-sheriff had obviously been terrified to find Jeffrey at his front door. A cop was only afraid of another cop for one reason: corruption. The question was, who was crooked in Elawah's sheriff's department? Jeffrey wouldn't put Jake Valentine at the top of his list, but you never knew. And of course there was always Deputy Donald Cook, who Nick had easily pegged for taking something under the table. Cook certainly wasn't happy with his job. He'd made no attempt to hide the fact that he thought his boss was an idiot.

  But all of this kept bringing him back to Sara's big question: what did any of it have to do with Lena?

  Nothing. It was all a bunch of loose threads that may or may not tie together. Skinheads trafficked meth, Hank Norton used meth. Ethan Green was a skinhead, the thug in the white sedan was a skinhead. Al Pfeiffer was terrified of cops, Lena had escaped from the cops.

  Someone had died in Lena's presence. There had to be something out there that Jeffrey was missing, some piece of information that would pull it all together. There had to be a reason Lena had left that hospital without talking to him first. She could be ball-breakingly stubborn about so many things, but she was not stupid. There had to be a logical explanation.

  Using one of the flimsy paper towels from the dispenser, Jeffrey washed his face as best he could, patting his neck and chest to clean off the dried blood. His hand was still throbbing, but he tried to ignore it as he walked back through the store.

  'What's the damage?' Jeffrey asked, pulling out his county credit card.