“Because you’re their dealer?” I asked.
She frowned, so did the bikers next to her. “Because I’m their friend,” she said.
I shook my head. “I don’t doubt it.”
“I ask because I don’t want a repeat of the same kind of crap your old man pulled. I won’t tolerate it.”
“What did he pull?” I asked.
“Is that why you’re here?”
“Partly.”
She looked at the two bikers. “It’s all right,” she said. They got up, huge men smelling of smoke and booze and sunbaked leather. One of them pointed at the bar and Sarah Yates nodded. “Sit down,” she said to me. “Want another beer?”
“Sure,” I said.
She caught the bartender’s eye, lifted the pitcher, and pointed at me. The bartender brought a clean glass and Sarah poured. “I don’t normally drink in the afternoon,” she said. “But your father put a kink in my day.”
I looked around. “Is this your regular place?”
She laughed. “Once, maybe.” She gestured with a finger, swept it across the room. “When your life revolves around ten square miles for as long as mine has, you get to know pretty much everybody.”
I studied the big men with whom she’d been drinking. They sat with their backs to the bar, feet on the floor like they could still cross the room in seconds. Unlike the others, they watched us closely. “They seem to care about you,” I said.
She sipped her beer. “We share a similar mind-set. And we go way back.”
“Can we talk?”
“Only if you take back the dealer comment. I don’t deal.”
“Then I take it back.”
“What do you want to talk about?”
In spite of the empty glasses, she did not appear to be drunk. Her face was soft and unlined, but a hardness underlay all of that, a metallic glint that sharpened the edge of her smile. She knew something about hard living and tough choices. I saw it in her measuring gaze and in the way she kept a thin line of contact with the boys at the bar. They watched and they waited.
“Two things,” I said. “How do you know me and what did my father want?”
She leaned back and adjusted herself in the chair. Fingers found an empty shot glass and spun it slowly on the table. “Your father,” she said. The glass twisted in her long fingers. “A stubborn, self-righteous, son of a bitch. A hard man to like, but an easy man to appreciate.” She showed small teeth. “Even when he behaves like the world’s biggest asshole.
“He didn’t want me talking to you. That’s why he came out to see me this morning. He rolled up like the Second Coming of Jesus Christ. Angry, cold. Started barking at me like he had the right. I don’t accept that kind of behavior. Our conversation got a little heated. Ken, poor bastard, tried to intervene when he should have known better. First, because I didn’t need it. Second, because your father won’t tolerate another man laying hands on him.”
“He hit Ken?”
“Might have killed him on a different day.”
“Why was he so angry?”
“Because I’d been talking to you.”
“You talk to Grace all the time.”
“That’s different.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re the issue, boy.”
I leaned back, frustrated. “How do you know me? Why does he care if we talk?”
“I made him a promise once.”
“I found a picture of you in my father’s desk. It was taken a long time ago. You were with Dolf and my parents.”
She smiled wanly. “I remember.”
“Tell me what’s going on, Sarah.”
She sighed and looked at the ceiling. “It’s about your mother,” she said. “It’s all about your mother.”
A pain detonated somewhere in my gut. “What about her?”
Sarah’s eyes were very bright in the gloom. Her hand fell away from the shot glass and flattened on the table. “She really was a beautiful woman,” Sarah said. “We were very different, so I couldn’t admire everything about her, but what she had, she had in spades. Like you, for instance. I’ve never seen a woman be a better mother or love a child more than she did you. In that way, she was born to be a mother. In other ways, not so much.”
“What do you mean?”
Sarah knocked back the rest of her beer and spoke over me. “She couldn’t get pregnant,” she said. “After you, she had seven miscarriages. The doctors couldn’t help. She came to me and I treated her.”
“Did I see you? You look very familiar.”
“Once, maybe. I usually came at night, when you were asleep. I remember you, though. You were a good kid.”
She raised her hand to the bartender, who delivered two shots as if she’d been waiting with them in hand. Sarah raised hers and inclined her head toward the other. I lifted it, tapped her glass, and swallowed liquor that burned all the way down. Sarah’s eyes had gone distant.
“But my mother . . .?”
“She wanted a baby so badly. She ached for it. But the miscarriages were wearing her down, physically and emotionally. By the time I got to her, she was already depressed. When she conceived, though, the spark came back.”
Sarah stopped speaking and studied me. I had no idea what she saw. “You sure you want to hear this?”
“Just tell me.”
“This one went to the second trimester before she lost it. But she did lose it, and lost a lot of blood in the process. She never got over it, never got her strength back. Depression ate her down to nothing. You know the rest.”
“And my father didn’t want me to know this?”
“Some business is between a man and his wife and nobody else. He came out today because he didn’t want me telling you. He wanted to make sure I remembered my promise.”
“Yet, you did tell me.”
Heat flashed in her eyes. “Fuck him for not trusting me.”
I thought about what she’d said. “It still doesn’t make sense. Why would he care that much?”
“I’ve told you all I’m going to tell.”
My hand came down on the table, hard. I didn’t even know I’d moved it. Her eyes grew still, and I saw that her friends were on their feet. “Careful,” she said softly.
“It doesn’t make sense,” I repeated.
She leaned closer, laid her hands upon my own, and lowered her voice. “Her complications stemmed from a difficult delivery,” she said. “Problems when you were born. Do you see it now?”
Some invisible hand twisted a wrench in my heart. “She killed herself because of me?”
She hesitated and squeezed with her fingers. “That’s exactly what your father did not want you thinking.”
“That’s why he wanted me to stay away from you.”
She leaned away from me, brushed her hands along the table’s edge. Whatever sympathy I’d seen in her disappeared. “We’re done now.”
“Sarah . . .”
She lifted a finger and her biker friends crossed the room and stood behind me. I felt them there, a wall. Sarah’s face was unforgiving.
“You should leave now.”
The day exploded on me as I walked outside. Sunlight drilled into the back of my skull and the booze churned in my empty stomach. I replayed her words and the look on her face. The cold, hard pity.
I made it to the car before I heard footsteps.
I spun, hands up. It was that kind of place. One of the bikers from Sarah’s table stood five feet away. He was six two, in leather chaps and wraparound shades. The white in his beard looked more like yellow in the sun. Nicotine streaks at the corners of his mouth. I put his age at sixty. A hard, brutal sixty. The handgun wedged in his pants was chrome-plated.
He stretched out a hand, a folded scrap of paper between two fingers. “She wants you to give this to the guy in jail.”
“Dolf Shepherd?”
“Whatever.”
I took the paper, a folded napkin. Handwriting stretched loosely
over three lines, blue ink that leeched into soft paper. Good people love you and good people will remember what you stand for. I’ll make sure.
“What does it mean?” I asked.
He leaned forward. “None of your fucking business.”
I looked past him to the door. He saw me thinking and dropped a hand to the pistol in his belt. Muscles twisted under his leather skin.
“That’s not necessary,” I said.
Yellow whiskers moved at the corners of his mouth. “You upset Sarah. Don’t bother her again.”
I stared him down, and his hand stayed on the gun.
“You can consider that a warning.”
I crossed the Salisbury line late in the afternoon. My head hurt and I felt emptied out. I needed something good, so I called Robin, who answered on the second ring. “Are you finished for the day?” I asked.
“Wrapping up a few things. Where are you?”
“In the car.”
“Are you okay? You sound bad.”
“I think I’m going crazy. Meet me for a drink.”
“Usual place?”
“I’ll be at the bar,” I said.
We’d not been to our usual place in five years. It was almost empty. “We don’t open for ten more minutes,” the hostess told me.
“How about I just sit at the bar?” She hesitated, so I said thanks and headed for the bar. The bartender had no problem starting a few minutes early. She had tall hair, a long nose, and poured with a heavy hand. I put away two bourbons before Robin finally showed. The bar was still empty and she kissed me like she meant it.
“No word on Dolf,” she said, then asked, “What’s wrong?”
Too much had happened. Too much information. I couldn’t try to spin it. “Everything,” I said. “Nothing I want to talk about.”
She sat and ordered one of what I was having. Her eyes were troubled and I could tell that her day had been no picnic either. “Am I causing you problems?” I asked.
She shrugged, but too quickly. “Not many cops share a history with two murder suspects. It complicates things. I’d forgotten how it felt to be on the outside. People are treating me differently. Other cops.”
“I’m sorry, Robin.”
“Don’t worry about it.” She held up her glass. “Cheers.”
We finished our drinks, had dinner, and went back to her place. We climbed into bed and pressed close. I was done, cashed out for the day, and so was she. I tried not to think of Dolf, alone, or of the things that Sarah had said. For the most part, I succeeded. My last thought before sleep came was that Jamie had never returned my call. After that, the dreams found me pretty damn quick. They came in staccato waves. Visions. Memories. I saw blood on the wall and a white deer that moved with the sound of crashing stone. Sarah Yates, faceup and smiling on a night as bright as day. My mother under the dock, her eyes on fire. A leather man with a silver pistol.
I woke reaching for the gun tucked under the biker’s belt, came halfway out of bed with a scream balled in the back of my throat. Robin reached for me in her sleep, pressed a smooth hot breast against my ribs. I took shallow breaths and forced myself to lie still. Sweat slicked my skin and hard, black air pushed against the windows.
She killed herself because of me. . . .
CHAPTER 25
It was still dark when Robin kissed my cheek. “Coffee’s on,” she said. “I’m out of here.”
I rolled over. Her face was a blur. I smelled her skin and her hair. “Where are you going?” I asked.
“I’m going to find Zebulon Faith.”
I blinked. “Are you serious?”
“Bad things have been piling up on us. We need something good to happen. I’ve stayed out of it because it’s a county case, but I’m tired of waiting for them to break it. I’ll do it myself.”
“You’ll piss off Grantham.”
“I’m starting to feel like you do. Screw Grantham. Screw the politics.”
“Do you think Zebulon Faith attacked Grace?”
“At first, I didn’t. Too obvious. Now, I’m not so sure. He has a lot of things to answer for. Bottom line, I want to talk to him. I tend to trust my instincts.”
“What about DEA?”
“They looked at the drugs we seized and confirmed that the cold meds were stolen. They’ll ask around, but they’re useless on this.”
I sat up in bed and looked at the clock. Five forty-five.
“He’s gone to ground,” she said, “but I don’t think he’s gone far. His son is dead, his drugs are seized, and he knows we’re looking; but he’s stupid and he’s mean and he still thinks there’s some way out of all this. He has thirty acres worth seven figures. He’ll be in some dark hole close by, at least until the power company’s deal is off the table. I’ll start with known associates. I’m not scared to squeeze.”
“Let me know,” I said.
Robin left and my mind raced until the gray light found me. At eight o’clock, I walked out under heavy clouds and found George Tallman sitting in a parked cruiser. He got out when he saw me. He looked like he’d been up all night. Wrinkles marred the perfection of his dark blue uniform. He watched me with bloodshot eyes. “Morning,” I said.
“Morning.”
“You waiting for me or Robin?”
“You.”
His face was meaty and pale under two days’ worth of beard. “How’d you know I was here?”
“Come on, Adam. Everybody knows. It’s the talk of the police department, probably of the town.”
“What do you want, George? It’s early.”
He leaned against the hood of his car, spread his hands on the paint, and looked suddenly grave. “It’s about Miriam,” he said. “She told me that you know.”
“About the cutting?”
He looked away, as if from the word itself. “Yeah.”
“There’s no bullshit in that, George. The issues that drive it . . . I can’t begin to guess what it all means. Can you handle it? Do you want to handle it?”
“It’s like I said the other day, Adam. Miriam needs me. Fragile, beautiful.” He held the imaginary teacups again, then opened his fingers like a conjurer. “She’s got issues. Who doesn’t? She has the soul of an artist, and that doesn’t come without cost. She feels pain more than most of us would.”
He was clearly shaken, and I sensed the depth of his feeling for her. “Do you know why she does it, George?” I was thinking of Gray Wilson, and of how she mourned over his grave.
He shook his head. “She’ll tell me when she’s ready. I know better than to push.”
“My father should not be out of the loop on something so important.”
“He can’t help Miriam. I love him, but he can’t. He’s a hard man and she needs a soft touch. He’d tell her to grow up, be strong, and that would just make it worse. She cares what he thinks. She needs his approval.”
“Janice can’t handle this on her own.”
His feet clicked pavement. “First of all, Janice is not handling this on her own. I’m dealing with this, too. Miriam sees a counselor in Winston-Salem. She goes to inpatient treatment three or four times a year. We’re taking care of her, doing what needs to be done.”
“Just make sure you pay damn close attention.” He started to speak, but I cut him off. “I mean it, George. It’s no game.”
He rose up, indignant. “Do you even realize the nerve it takes for you to say that to me? Where have you been this whole time? Off in your big-city life, living large on your father’s money. I’ve been here for her. I’ve picked up the pieces time after time. I’ve held her together. Me. Not you.”
“George—”
“Shut up, Adam, or I will shut you up myself. I will not stand here and be judged.”
I gave myself a few seconds. He was right. “I’m sorry, George. I’m out of touch, out of the loop. I just worry. She’s family. I love her, hate to see her in pain. I have no right to judge how you and Janice are handling the problem. I’m sure that sh
e’s seeing the best people she can.”
“She’s getting better, Adam. I have to believe that.”
“I’m sure you’re right, and I apologize again. What can I do for you, George? Why are you here?”
He took a deep breath. “Don’t tell your father, Adam. That’s what I’m here to ask you. We haven’t slept. She cried all night long.”
“Miriam’s asking?”
He shook his big head. “She’s not asking, Adam. She’s begging.”
I tried to call Jamie from the car and got his voice mail again. I left a message, and doubted that my voice sounded kind. He’d been unusually scarce and I guessed that he was either drunk, hungover, or avoiding me. Miriam was right, I realized. The family was tearing itself apart. But I couldn’t worry about Miriam now, or even Grace. I had to concern myself with Dolf first. He was still in jail, still not talking to any of us. There were things that I did not know, things going on, and I needed to get to the bottom of it, preferably before Grantham did. Today, I told myself, and Candace Kane was a good place to start. I found her apartment at eight thirty.
It was an old development, two stories high, redbrick, with a balcony running along the facade. It filled a skinny lot a block away from the college: thirty units, mostly blue-collar local. Forty years’ worth of broken beer bottles had been ground to powdered glass under ten thousand tires. The whole lot looked like spilled glitter when the sun hit it right.
Candace’s apartment occupied the back corner, second floor. I parked and walked. Rough concrete grated beneath my shoes as I hit the stairs. From the balcony, I could see the tall spire of the college chapel, the magnificent oak trees that stood above the quad. The numbers were off the door, but I saw a trace of the number “sixteen” in the discolored paint. Desiccated tape covered a drilled-out peephole. A corner had folded up in the heat, and I saw where someone had packed the hole with tissue before taping it up. A plastic garbage bag leaned against the wall, smelling of sour milk and Chinese takeout. I knocked on the door, got no answer. A minute later, I tried again.
I was halfway to my car, sun finally breaking through, glass shards lighting up on the tarmac, when I saw the woman cutting across a parking lot two hundred feet away. I watched her: mid-twenties in pink shorts and a shirt too small to contain either her breasts or the penny-roll of fat around her waist. I thought of Emmanuel’s description: White. Kind of fat. Trashy. Looked about right. She had a paper bag in one hand, a half-smoked cigarette in the other. Bleached hair straggled out from under a baseball cap.