John Grisham - The Whistler

“I’m not going to ask how she’s doing.”

“It’s awful. She’s in the bedroom with the two oldest kids, and she can barely talk. Hugo’s mother is laid out on a sofa. Aunts and uncles everywhere. There’s a doctor with them. It’s just awful.”

“No sign of a cell phone?”

“No, he had it with him. He called her last night around ten to check on things. I asked her if he had a personal cell phone and she said no. He used the BJC phone for everything.”

Justin took a deep breath and said, “Thanks. I’ll see you around.”

Driving away, Justin called Michael with the update.

–

Early in the afternoon, Hugo’s body was transported by hearse to a funeral home in Tallahassee, where it was prepared for burial, though Verna had not yet been able to finalize the details.

Lacy remained in intensive care throughout the day. Her vitals were strong and her doctors were pleased with her progress. Another scan revealed a slight improvement in the swelling, and if all went well, the doctors planned to ease her out of the coma in thirty-six to forty-eight hours. Lyman Gritt wanted to talk to her but was told to wait.

–

After a restless night in bed, Michael went to the office at dawn Wednesday and waited on Justin. Still sleepwalking through the nightmare, he read about Hugo on the front page of the morning newspaper. There were two photos-one a publicity shot of Hugo when he played for Florida State, and one in a coat and tie taken for the BJC website. Michael read the names of his four children and felt like crying again. The funeral would be Saturday, three days away. He could not imagine what a nightmare it would be.

He and Justin left at seven and drove to the reservation. Lyman Gritt had inventoried the contents of Hugo’s wallet, counted the money, and photographed everything. He asked Michael to sign an inventory sheet, then turned it all over to him. Michael also left with Lacy’s handbag. They walked down the street to a small salvage yard with a dozen wrecked cars, a locked gate, and chain-link fencing all around. Without touching anything, they examined the two vehicles. The pickup still smelled like whiskey. The Prius was far more damaged, and there was so much blood that neither Michael nor Justin wanted to probe too much. Their friend’s blood, and it was still fresh.

“There will probably be litigation,” Michael said gravely, though he had no real knowledge of this. “So it’s imperative to preserve these vehicles just as they are. Is that a problem?”

“Of course not,” Gritt said.

“Plus the insurance companies will be involved and they’ll send out their adjusters.”

“We’ve been through this before, Mr. Geismar.”

“And you’ve searched everywhere for the cell phones?”

“As I said, we’ve looked everywhere and found nothing.”

Michael and Justin exchanged glances as if they were skeptical. They asked if they could take photographs and Gritt said he didn’t care. When they finished, they followed the constable to the county road where it happened. They looked around, tentatively at first, and were struck by the remoteness of the place. The perfect spot for an unwitnessed accident. They saw the Beale home in the distance, the old bingo shack not far away, and no other buildings.

Michael stared at the pavement and said, “No skid marks.”

“Not a one,” Gritt said. “She never had time to react. It looks to me like the truck crossed the center line and they hit right about here.” Gritt was standing in the center of the eastbound lane. “Her car was spun around and was facing that way. It did not leave this lane. The truck, which was of course much heavier, bounced over here and almost went into the ditch. Evidently, it veered quickly into her lane, before she could do anything.”

“Any estimate of the speed at impact?” Michael asked.

“No, but a reconstruction expert could get pretty close.”

Michael and Justin took in the scene and noticed the oil stains, the specks of shattered glass, the bits of aluminum and metal. At the edge of the asphalt, almost on the shoulder, they noticed what could only be dried blood. In the grass, there was a piece of cloth, also stained. One of their colleagues had been killed there and another had been grievously injured. It seemed like such an unfitting place to die.

They took some more photos and suddenly wanted to leave.

–

Frog Freeman ran a country store and filling station two miles north of Sterling. He lived next door in an old house his grandfather had built, and because he was always around, and because the store was his life, he kept it open until ten each night. For all the business he drummed up in rural Brunswick County after dark, he could have easily closed at six, but he had nothing else to do. On Monday night, he had not closed at ten because of a water leak somewhere in the beer cooler. Frog sold a lot of beer, most of it ice-cold. A malfunctioning cooler was not acceptable, and since he handled all repairs himself, he was hard at work wrestling with the cooler when a customer walked in looking for ice, rubbing alcohol, and two cans of beer.

An odd combination, thought Frog, as he wiped off his hands and went to the cash register. He had owned the store for over fifty years and was an expert in predicting what his customers were up to based simply on what they bought. He’d seen everything, but ice, rubbing alcohol, and beer was unusual.

Frog had been robbed three times, twice at gunpoint, and years earlier began fighting back. He had six surveillance cameras around the store. Four visible, so potential thieves might realize the perils of their planned robbery, and two hidden, including one above the front porch.

Frog stepped inside his tiny office behind the cash register and checked the monitor. White pickup truck, Florida license plates. A young man sitting in the passenger’s seat. Something was wrong with his nose. He was holding a cloth against it, and the cloth appeared to be stained. The driver stepped into view with the bag of ice and a small brown sack with the rubbing alcohol and beer. He crawled behind the wheel, said something to his passenger, then backed away.

“Boy’s been in a fight,” Frog said, and went back to his repairs.

Auto fatalities were rare in Brunswick County. The following morning, Frog’s coffee group was wild with rumors. Some black guy and a white girl from Tallahassee got lost on the reservation and a drunk hit ’em head-on. Stolen truck, and the drunk ran off. Just walked away. No sign of him yet. The notion of a drunk driver staggering away from the wreck, disappearing into the depths of the reservation, and emerging safely beyond its borders was a rich source of humor, speculation, and disbelief.

“He wouldn’t last an hour out there,” one coffee drinker said.

“Probably still going around in circles,” said another.

“Don’t worry. The Indians will screw it up,” said a third.

Later in the day, as the details accumulated, Frog began tying things together. He knew the sheriff well, and knew the sheriff had trouble with the Tappacola police. Because of their wealth, the tribe had built a police force twice the size of the county’s, and with far nicer equipment. Resentment was inevitable.

He called Clive Pickett, the sheriff of Brunswick County, and said he might have something of interest. Pickett stopped by after work and they watched the video. His first words were “That’s weird.” He said the county had been quiet Monday night, same as virtually every other night, said as usual the only signs of life had been at the casino. No one had called in about a fight, assault, Peeping Tom, or suspicious characters. Indeed, nothing was stirring until the two vehicles collided.