T. Bunn - The Great Divide

“You were right all along.” Hamper Caisse sounded as worried as Randall had ever heard. “That Stanstead woman has another file.”

Perhaps it was the hour, but it took Randall a moment to recognize the cold hand that gripped his gut as fear. “Tell me.”

“She had dinner with Glenwood at her house. She told him there was more information. Not a lot, but some.”

“You searched her place.” It was not a question.

“And her office. Top to bottom. Nothing.”

“Then she’s got it hidden.” He sighed, wishing it was over, cursing the compilation of stupidities that had landed him in this situation. “This could be bad.”

“She said it isn’t much.”

“We can’t take a chance she was lying.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Stay on her. Try for an intercept. Something to lead us to where she’s got things stowed.”

“I could, well, stop her.”

“And risk letting the press find whatever she’s got hidden, and blow the horn even louder?” He emitted a puff of breath that fluttered his flaccid cheeks. “I’ll get to work on something at this end.”

Randall hung up the phone, rose, and headed for the bottle on the wet bar. He didn’t want another drink, but he needed it. He could already taste the burning smoke as it settled down and filled the hollow spaces inside him. Or at least numbed them enough to let sleep return.

Marcus’ weekend was given over to an exhaustive review of evidence and pleadings. His only time away from the growing clutter in his office was church on Sunday, and that was merely a two-hour review from further afield. By Monday evening he was so tired the stairs threatened to defeat him. He stripped and collapsed into bed, his final thoughts of a soft-edged blond woman and the mystery of why she so desperately wanted to be harsh.

He awoke to sunlight and voices and rumbles from downstairs. The nightmare was nothing more than a vague murmur at the back of his mind, like memories told by a stranger. The light was not the muted horizontal of dawn, but strong and closer to directly overhead. He glanced at his watch, and swiveled his feet to the floor. The dial read half past ten.

He dressed hurriedly and started down the stairs still knotting his tie, only to be halted midway by the sight of Oathell and Darren hauling his conference table through the front door. Marcus had picked it up at the same auction as the law books. In a previous life it had graced a formal dining room and seated twelve most comfortably. Marcus watched as Oathell snagged the carpet and almost tumbled.

“You watch where you put those big feet of yours!” A matchstick of a woman climbed into view carrying a lamp in each hand. Marcus recognized her as Fay Wilbur, Deacon’s wife. “You mess up this floor and you’re gonna be catching my business, you hear?”

“Yes, Aunt Fay.” Oathell’s normal scorn was nowhere to be found. And for good reason. Deacon Wilbur’s wife looked ready to hammer him with either lamp. “It’s heavy, is all.”

“Hmph. You don’t watch your step, I’ll give you heavy. I’ll give you so much heavy you’ll need all the angels in heaven just to carry that load.”

Deacon Wilbur grunted his way through the open door, carrying what was to become Marcus’ office chair. He glanced up to where Marcus stood, then looked away. But the one glance was enough.

Fay Wilbur swung around and showed Marcus a face like an angry washboard. “Just how long did you aim on living in this mess of a half-finished house?”

Marcus pulled his tie free and draped it over the edge of the banister. “Just until your husband gave the trim a final coat.”

“Deacon’s done. He’s been done.” She glared at the silk tie like she would a dead snake. “You aim on leaving your mess hanging there?”

Marcus whipped the tie free. “No ma’am.”

“That’s good. ’Cause I’m too old and too angry to be picking up your messes.” She eased the lamps to the floor, straightened up, and set knobby fists on her hips. With the squinty eyes and the jutting chin and tight frown, the arms looked cocked like two triggers. “Now you listen up. I don’t do windows, you hear what I’m saying?”

Marcus knew better than to argue. “Loud and clear.”

“Then you best be remembering as good as you’re hearing.” She paused long enough to watch the three men hustle back through the door. They were all sweating and puffing hard. “Y’all get a move on, now. We got lots to do ’round here.”

Marcus called out, “I’ll be right there to help you.”

“No you ain’t gonna do no such thing. You got yourself some lawyering to tend to. What you think brought me over here, my health? I got five children and fourteen grandchildren and a growing church making all the messes I’ll ever need. I don’t need to take on yours. No sir. Only reason I’m here is on account of my husband not knowing when it’s time to stop painting and start finishing.”

“Excuse me.” Netty appeared in the side doorway. She said to Marcus, “Randall Walker is on his way out.”

“Randall Walker is coming here?”

“Any minute now. I was just going to have Oathell go up and wake you.” Her tone was apologetic. “I thought you’d want to see him.”

“You thought right.”

“He said it was extremely important. And urgent.”

“It’s fine, Netty.”

“There, you see now?” Fay Wilbur had listened all she cared to. “You get on to your lawyering, you leave this shifting about to Deacon and the boys.”

Marcus said to no one in particular, “I need a cup of coffee.”

“Pot’s been cooking up all morning. Oughtta be just about right. Dropped an eggshell in it for flavor, just like your granddaddy liked it.”

Marcus stared at the wizened woman. “You knew my grandparents?”

“That’s for another time.” One bony finger rose in the air between them. “Right now I got just one more thing to say to you. I’ll come back ’round from time to time to help clean and give this place a woman’s touch. Can’t say when, can’t even say how often. I’ll come when I can. But on one condition.” The finger moved in closer. “Don’t you ever bring no outside messes inside this house. You do and I’ll quit ’fore I get started. You hear me?”

“Yes ma’am.” Marcus watched her heft the lamps and stump away.

His secretary gave him a satisfied smile and said, “About time somebody brought you in line.”

Marcus walked to the kitchen and was halfway through his first cup of coffee when Deacon huffed his way through the back door. “Marcus, I can’t tell you how sorry-”

“It’s fine.”

“No it ain’t. Fay’s not like this often, but when she is, there’s just no stopping her.”

“It’s better than fine. You want a coffee?”

Clearly this was not the reaction Deacon had expected. “Better not.”

“I was going to try to get Charlie Hayes and the Halls together and take them to a pig picking today. You want to join us?”

The old man’s eyes lit up. “Law, I do surely love a country pig picking.”

“See if Oathell and his brother will join us. I need to thank them for all this.”

“No, Oathell’s got to get on to his office and Darren’s got some piecework he’s picked up for this afternoon. That’s why we’re hurrying.” The concerned expression returned. “But all this commotion, and in your house while you were still upstairs-”

“It’s better than fine,” Marcus assured him. “It’s a gift.”

Marcus was on the phone with Austin Hall when his secretary showed Randall Walker into his newly appointed office. Randall did a slow sweep of the room as Marcus finished up with, “So you’ll pick up Judge Hayes and meet us here in an hour? Thank you, Professor, that’s great. Good-bye.”