T. Bunn - The Great Divide

Marcus settled into his chair. “Run that one by me again.”

“Your car will not be safe for the drive today, oh very much no. You may call this Chung’s parting gift to his new friend.” Dee Gautam hung up.

Marcus set down the receiver and spent a long moment wondering at all the sharp-ended farewells the little man had been forced to make. Then he picked up the phone once more, but set it down again and rose to his feet. Darren would want to be awake when the sheriff’s deputy arrived to discover the bomb attached to their car.

They departed for Raleigh in Amos Culpepper’s official car. Darren was squeezed into the front passenger seat with his knees bumping against the dashboard computer, the radar gun, and the radio. He did not seem to mind at all. At Amos’ suggestion Marcus had spread a towel over the backseat before settling in. With every bounce the low-sprung seat gave off an aroma of sweat and sickness and fear. Marcus listened to Amos give Darren a guided tour around the car’s assorted toys, from the siren to the pump-action shotgun to the nightstick with its numerous dents and tooth marks. Marcus then drew out his cellular phone and spent twenty minutes talking strategy with Charlie Hayes. It was only when Darren hit the siren that Marcus felt obliged to explain why they were riding to work in a cop car.

Charlie heard him out, then demanded, “Did they find a bomb?”

“Attached to the starter motor. First place they looked. Said it was very professional.”

“Well, hey, that makes everything all right, then, don’t it. Long as you’re getting blown up by somebody who knows his business.”

“We’re okay, Charlie.”

“This time. How’d you find out about it, anyway?”

“Long story. I’ll tell you later.”

“If you live that long. You take care, son. I’m fine handling one witness at a time, but this is your trial, you hear what I’m saying? And it’s a big one.”

Scarcely had Marcus cut the connection when the phone rang again. As soon as he answered, Kirsten said in a rush, “We have to talk.”

Marcus sighed his way deeper into the seat, hoping the scents would not linger. “No we don’t.”

Of everything that he could have said, this was clearly what she had least expected. “I don’t understand. You said you had a lot of questions.”

“Not anymore, Kirsten. All I need to know is: Are you holding out anything that could have an effect on this trial?”

“No.” Solid and swift. “I’ve finished going through Gloria’s things. There were some more papers about the shipments from the Chinese factory, but that’s all.” A moment’s hesitation, then a much smaller voice asked, “You don’t care anymore, is that it?”

“No, not at all.” Her evident pain invited more of a response than that. Marcus glanced at the front seat, but the two men were deep into some quiet discussion and paying him no mind. “Kirsten, we all have our mysteries.”

“I don’t understand.”

“How can I demand that you tell me things when I have so much I don’t want to talk about myself?” An image of Suzie Rikkers and her baleful glare drifted in and out of focus. The only question for Kirsten he had at the moment pertained to Gary Loh, and even this was tainted by what he would soon be facing. “So long as you’re not withholding evidence we need for the trial, I’m out of bounds asking you anything at all.”

Marcus had a long moment of listening to the overpowered engine’s muted roar, the dull murmurs from the front seat, the hum of tires and wind. Then the same small voice asked, “What if I want to tell you things anyway?”

He felt his heart leap in his chest. “That is another thing entirely. But it will have to wait awhile. Today or tomorrow the press is going to attack, and I want you to handle them.”

The voice sounded childlike in its surprise. “Me?”

“Charlie and I have to prepare for next week.” As best they could, he amended silently. “You are to be the plaintiff’s appointed spokeswoman. Are Alma and Austin there?”

“Downstairs waiting for me.”

“Tell them what’s going to happen. Ask them if they want to tell the world their story. If yes, then print up some flyers giving their address, telling the press where and when to meet for daily Q-and-A’s. But if the Halls want their privacy, you need to arrange the meetings with the press downtown at the courthouse. The guards will let you in, we can arrange that.”

“I’m pretty sure they’ll want to be involved in this.”

“Call Netty, ask her to help with the flyers. Print a lot of them. Inform the police. They’ll need to station some people there at the house.”

A long pause, then, “How can you be so sure about this?”

“You’ll find out,” Marcus replied, “very soon.”

He cut the connection in time to hear Amos Culpepper say, “There’s room in our department for a few solid fellows like yourself, Darren.”

Darren’s head swung in slow surprise. “I d-don’t t-talk so good.”

“Shoot. We got men out there on the road, they don’t talk at all. You call them on the radio, they click one for yes, two for no. Only thing you ever hear. Lone Rangers, we call ’em. Get two of ’em chatting over the air, sounds like a party of grasshoppers.” When Darren did not respond, Amos pulled the car up in front of the courthouse and said, “You think about it, get back to me anytime.”

Marcus entered the courthouse to muted fanfare. Amos Culpepper had called ahead; Jim Bell was there with two other deputies, all wanting to know how he was, and how on earth he had discovered the bomb in time. A friend, Marcus said. And luck.

Jim Bell drew him over to one side and said, “My granny used to say there were people who lived a thin life. She meant they were just an inch or so away from death. I’d say that applies to you, Marcus.”

“I’m trying to be careful.”

“You need to do more than that. You need to be worried.” He lowered his voice a notch. “You understand, the judge doesn’t know I’m talking with you, and can’t ever know.”

Marcus studied the bearded man with his taut bearing and eyes that said one thing while his words said another. “I hear you.”

He patted Marcus’ arm, as though sealing a bargain. “The governor’s aide is upstairs in the courtroom.”

Marcus did not bother to search the faces. It would do no good. He was utterly unconnected politically and had no idea who to look for. He did nod to Kirsten, however, and was rewarded with a smile that he felt in his bones. It shielded him from the first sight of Suzie Rikkers’ glare, and the foreboding of all that was yet to come. He dropped into his seat and addressed the Halls together. “Did Kirsten speak with you?”

Alma answered for them both. “We’re going to shout this from the rooftops.”

“That’s your decision. Long as you both understand that you don’t have to say a word.”

Austin leaned over his wife, and said, “Yes, we most surely do.”

Alma asked, “What’s this I hear about a bomb?”

“The police are taking care of it right now. They say I should have my car back this evening.”

“That’s not good enough, Marcus. I’m going to speak with Deacon Wilbur at lunchtime.”

“I doubt he can do much about this, Alma.”

Her reply was cut short by the bailiff intoning, “All rise.”

Judge Gladys Nicols went through her morning ritual of greeting the jury with one eye on the defense table and one somewhere toward the back of the courthouse. She did not seem particularly pleased by either sight. But all she said was, “Plaintiff may call the next witness.”

Charlie rose to his feet and said, “Your Honor, at this time we’d like to call Professor Sara Seymour.”