T. Bunn - Winner Take All

He had to pause and swallow. “I feel like a yo-yo, swinging back and forth between what I want and what my mind is telling me I’ve got to do.”

“I know,” she whispered, “just exactly what you mean.”

A pair of shared breaths, then he asked, “Tell me you want me to come up.”

So much. “We can’t walk away from this.”

“I would, though.”

“Marcus, do you think we can work things out?”

“I’m not looking for perfection, Kirsten. I passed the point of thinking I deserved that a long time ago.”

“What are you saying?”

“Whatever you can give, whenever you’re ready. How does that sound to you?”

She bit her lip against the hunger. Then, “Do something for me.”

“Anything.”

“Run through the way all this started. What you haven’t told me before. I have the feeling what we’re looking for is right in front of us.”

“I’ve covered pretty much everything important.”

“The small things. The details.”

He expelled a long breath, pushing away what they both wanted to talk about. Then, “You were there for the first meeting with Dale. After that …”

“What?”

“I just thought of something.” Sharper now. Focused. “Sephus Jones.”

“The man who attacked me?”

“Yes. This might be the key.”

A young woman appeared from the back hallway, and was pointed over by the guard. “Ms. Stansted?”

She said into the phone, “I have to go, Marcus.”

“Come home.”

“Soon.”

“Now.”

She gave the young woman a one-moment signal. “You know I can’t.”

“This is turning very dangerous, Kirsten. What could be more important than staying safe?”

“Finding the child. I’ll call you as soon as I can.” She shut off the phone and rose to her feet. “Sorry.”

“Mr. Lloyd will see you now.”

Deacon and Fay Wilbur’s home was located two miles east of the church, out in an area that was one step away from pure country. Marcus climbed from his car and passed under an oak canopy so tall there was no real shadow, just a gentle veil of verdant green.

The Wilbur home was a single-floor brick ranch whose side porch was almost as large as the house itself. Fay had lined the painted concrete slab with tubs of hydrangeas and hibiscus, the flowers so tall now they formed a solid wall encircling their outdoor parlor. The roof had been extended over the patio, then broadened to where the edges almost met the highest blooms. Overhead four ceiling fans spun gentle circles. Fay had linked woven reed mats to form a tatami-style flooring. Even in late July, the room held to cool and serene shadows.

Marcus found Yolanda seated by the cast-iron table, a schoolbook opened in front of her. Her older baby played at her feet. The young mother’s eyes widened when she realized who he was. But before fear could push her away, Fay opened the screen door and said, “Marcus Glenwood, I’ve got a bone to pick with you.”

“Afternoon, Fay. How are you doing, Yolanda?”

“She’s getting along just fine. Ain’t you, honey. Got herself into summer school, teacher says she’s never seen a smarter lady.” Fay emerged carrying Yolanda’s younger child on her hip. “Listen up, Marcus. It’s been years since I’ve gotten you over here for Sunday dinner. You don’t like my cooking anymore?”

“It was three weeks ago and you know it.”

“That can’t be right.”

“I don’t want to be a bother, Fay.”

“Listen to you. Like another mouth at my dinner table’s ever been a bother.” She turned to Yolanda and said, “Honey, this child needs feeding. I’m gonna go heat him up a bottle.”

Marcus pulled another chair to the table. “Fay, do you ever sit down?”

“Got all the time I’ll ever need for sitting, once I find my place at heaven’s table. You want I should bring you a lemonade?”

“No thank you.”

“How ’bout you, Yolanda, you thirsty?”

“No thank you, Miz Fay.”

Fay waved a hand at the child by the table. “Honey, why don’t you come inside with me, let these grown-ups have a word. I think maybe I could scare you up an oatmeal cookie.”

When they were alone, Marcus asked once more, “How’re you doing, Yolanda?”

She frowned at the schoolbook. “This stuff sure is hard.”

“I need to ask you something about what you told me the day we brought you back from Raleigh.” He gave her a chance to object, then said, “You told me Hamper Caisse came around from time to time.”

“Unh huh.” Her face remained pointed straight at her schoolbook.

“Did you ever see another white man? Red hair swept straight back, pale gray eyes, almost no forehead at all, jailhouse tattoos across his knuckles.”

The half-hidden face creased with a grimace far older than her years. “Terrible bad smell.”

Marcus fought to keep his voice calm. “You don’t remember ever hearing a name, do you?”

“Of the red-haired man?”

“Yes.”

The young face scrunched up tighter. “Sephus?”

Marcus could not completely mask his excitement. “Did you ever happen to see him with the attorney who represented your former landlord?”

Fear hitched her voice up an octave. “You ain’t gonna make me say something in court?”

“Nobody can ever force you to testify against your will, Yolanda. I won’t let them. Think carefully now. This is important.”

She gave a fraction of a nod. “That lawyer fellow, he used to call Sephus his walkaround man.”

The one nice element to Kedrick Lloyd’s office was its window. Framed posters from previous galas only partly hid the water-stained walls. The ceiling bowed slightly above Kedrick’s desk. The carpet was time-grayed and stained. The furnishings were functional and cheerless.

Kedrick Lloyd was a cadaver in tailored summer blue. His lion’s mane of silver hair framed a face that had been sucked dry of all juices, all muscle, all tone. His skin slumped such that the edges of his eyes and mouth folded into constant disapproval. He did not rise at Kirsten’s entry. “Illness has a few benefits, Ms. Stansted. One is the opportunity to do away with many senseless courtesies.”

He was obviously expecting her to take offense, which is why Kirsten gave no indication she had even heard. As she crossed the carpet toward him, there was a knock on the door behind her. “A moment, Kedrick?”

“Sorry, Maestro, I have a visitor.”

Nonetheless the heavyset gentleman slipped inside. “A second, then. I am rehearsing the full orchestra. Stanley phoned me during our break. He needs to have a word with you about our new Tosca . He told me the most disturbing news.” He flashed a smile. “There, you see? A second and no more. All conductors must learn to count time with great precision.” He slipped out.

“Unlike the Met’s former leaders, this intendant has quite a rare appreciation for people’s schedules. Most particularly my own.” Kedrick Lloyd pointed her into a chair. “Evelyn insisted I give you a few minutes. The clock is now ticking.”

She elected to be equally blunt. “Could you tell me why you objected to Dale Steadman marrying Erin Brandt?”

His only indication of surprise was a lifting of his eyebrows. “A strange sort of question, seeing as how the parties are now divorced and one of them also happens to be dead.”

“But the problems related to their union remain.”

“Oh, very well. Steadman has far too much trust in human nature. I saw it as my duty to try and correct that fatal flaw.” He shrugged. “I failed.”

“You call him overly trustworthy, yet you bankrolled him out of a tight spot.”