T. Bunn - The Great Divide

Randall watched him set down the phone and said, “That wouldn’t happen to be old Charlie Hayes, now, would it? I thought he was dead.”

Randall Walker stood waiting to be recognized and ushered into a chair. But because of Randall’s lofty probing to discover if Charlie had spoken of their conversation, Marcus tossed his manners aside with his pen. “What do you want, Randall?”

The smile vanished. “And I suppose the Professor refers to Dr. Austin Hall.”

Marcus leaned back in his chair, liking the way it creaked and settled under his weight, and waited.

“Quite a nice spread you’ve got yourself here.” Randall gave the room another slow inspection. “Lot nicer than I expected, I got to admit.”

Marcus had to agree. The room was spacious and lit by a brass chandelier that once held gas lamps. Tall sash windows spilled late-morning light. A grand sycamore and the oldest dogwood he had ever seen stood lookout. The oak flooring shone ruddy and ancient. His desk was battered old solid mahogany that reeked of Fay Wilbur’s application of linseed oil. The air was redolent with the odors of a newly completed house. It was a good place to work and live, and Randall Walker’s presence was a bane on this new start. Marcus repeated quietly, “What do you want?”

Randall accepted the question as the only invitation he would receive, and slid into the hard-backed chair opposite Marcus. “I came out here to make your day.”

Marcus settled his hands across his middle and tried to ease the knot of sudden tension.

“No. Scratch that. Make your entire year, is more like it.” Randall offered his full-wattage beam, the one that had melted the hearts of a thousand female jurors. “You know our firm.”

“I know of it.”

“ ’Course you do. Retired governor, two senators, Congressman Hodges, all partners. Nationwide reputation. Why, we’re even thinking of opening an office in London, England.”

Marcus realized the man had paused because he expected a response. “Long way from Rocky Mount.”

“Now you’re talking.” If anything, the smile broadened. “How’d you like to run that office for a couple of years. Leave all this mess and baggage behind.”

“Are you offering me a job?”

“More than that, son. More than that. I’m offering you a future . A chance to start over. We’ve been watching you. Saw how you almost collapsed, watched you recover. Not many men could come back from what you’ve faced.” The smile was gone, the mask now showing deep concern. “You’re a strong man, Marcus. A good man. We want you on our team.”

Marcus reached for his pen, his hands suddenly restless. Listening to words about his past slip from between those lips filled him with a homicidal urge. “I’m honored.”

“Well, you oughtta be.” The benign smile returned. “Yes sir, honored is the absolute right response.”

Marcus studied his opponent. Randall Walker’s suit was navy mohair, his shoes handmade. His hair was as precisely cut and fitted to his head as his smile. The skin of his cheeks and neck flowed over his starched collar. “What’s behind the offer?”

“That’s simple enough.” Randall was not the least bit shaken by Marcus’ query. “The legal world is full of, I’ll scratch your back, you scratch mine. Successful lawyers learn early and well to do one another favors. But you know all this, don’t you. ’Course you do. Life its own self is built on finding how everybody wins.”

“You want me to throw the Hall case.”

“Well, now, it’s hard to tell sometimes just how good a job a lawyer’s done.” The smile tightened, a thin line cut across pasty features. “You can always blame a negative verdict on the judge or the jury. Or the wind.”

Marcus nodded slowly, as though taking it all in. Finally he said, “Release the girl and we drop all charges.”

The smile slipped away unnoticed. “You can’t be serious.”

“Deadly.”

“Son, we’re talking a lifetime career opportunity here.”

Marcus leaned across the desk. “I want Gloria Hall.”

“Do you now.” The words hardened. “Shame I don’t have the first idea what you’re talking about.”

Marcus met the man and his glutinous gaze head-on. “Then we don’t have anything to discuss. Do we.”

“If I wasn’t the gentleman I am, I’d say something about your landing in over your head.”

“Thanks for stopping by, Randall.”

“Well.” The man rose to his feet. “Glad I had one final chance to meet you, Marcus.” He tapped the desk lightly. “Don’t bother to get up, I can show myself out.” Another tap. “You just go on sitting there. Enjoy the place just as long as you possibly can.”

They left Rocky Mount just after midday, heading east. Marcus drove. Austin Hall sat beside him. Charlie Hayes and Deacon Wilbur took the backseat and argued over directions with the good-natured banter of old friends. Occasionally Marcus glanced over to see if the dispute was bothering his client. Austin remained silent and still in the manner of the stiffly bereaved.

There was a reason to be cautious with directions, as their destination had no name and shifted location every second or third autumn. Marcus left the highway for a county road, and that for a long thin strip that cut an asphalt swath through tobacco fields and time-washed farmhouses. The journey became a withdrawal from worry and the world for all save Austin Hall.

They knew they were drawing near when their car joined a convoy. Most of the other vehicles were pickups with rifles in the rear window and kids and dogs jumbled in the back. Leathery arms rose in languid salute to other mud-spattered pilgrims. Everybody was headed in the same direction.

The parking lot was a newly plowed field. Close up to the road sparkled a few Buicks and Cadillacs, their owners not wanting to muddy up a citified shine. Marcus followed the pickups down a red-clay track and stopped by an ancient tobacco barn. A long-forgotten painting advertised Redman chewing tobacco in letters washed of all color. Below that, just beside the door, was an almost invisible ad for Burma Shave.

Charlie Hayes was talking as they walked the hard-beaten clay path and joined the swift-moving line. “Back there used to be the Columbia Road.”

“Naw, Judge,” Deacon corrected. “You got that wrong. That road led down to New Bern.”

Charlie looked affronted. “You saying you know this region better than me?”

Deacon’s grin creased his face worse than the field they had just crossed. “Reckon I am.”

Charlie turned to the man in coveralls in front of them. “Mister, you know this area?”

“Cropped ’baccy not five miles north since I could walk.”

“Then set this gentleman straight on where this road is headed.”

“Like to, but I cain’t.”

“Why’s that?”

“ ’Cause he’s right and you’re wrong.” The man aimed a brown stream and a well-chewed plug at the stained paint can by the door. “Can’t make it no plainer than that.”

“Well, I’ll be …” Charlie threatened to toss his cane away. “Never thought I’d live to see the day I’d stand sandwiched between such ignorance.”

Argument was halted by the line moving them inside. The barn’s interior was just slightly cooler than a blast furnace. The air was thick and cloying with the smells of tobacco and sweat and pork. Two men worked a tall brick oven; one tended the wood-chip fire and the other turned a huge iron handle. Through the cast-iron door Marcus could see three entire hogs roasting and dripping fat. A third man used a razor-edged machete to carve off hunks that fell onto a wooden spatula he gripped in his other hand. He cut and caught and turned and deposited the steaming pork onto a paper plate, then wheeled back. Marcus set down two twenties for the four plates, one price for all they could eat. No one lingered long inside the barn.