John Hart - Down River

I rolled over. Her face was a blur. I smelled her skin and her hair. “Where are you going?” I asked.

“I’m going to find Zebulon Faith.”

I blinked. “Are you serious?”

“Bad things have been piling up on us. We need something good to happen. I’ve stayed out of it because it’s a county case, but I’m tired of waiting for them to break it. I’ll do it myself.”

“You’ll piss off Grantham.”

“I’m starting to feel like you do. Screw Grantham. Screw the politics.”

“Do you think Zebulon Faith attacked Grace?”

“At first, I didn’t. Too obvious. Now, I’m not so sure. He has a lot of things to answer for. Bottom line, I want to talk to him. I tend to trust my instincts.”

“What about DEA?”

“They looked at the drugs we seized and confirmed that the cold meds were stolen. They’ll ask around, but they’re useless on this.”

I sat up in bed and looked at the clock. Five forty-five.

“He’s gone to ground,” she said, “but I don’t think he’s gone far. His son is dead, his drugs are seized, and he knows we’re looking; but he’s stupid and he’s mean and he still thinks there’s some way out of all this. He has thirty acres worth seven figures. He’ll be in some dark hole close by, at least until the power company’s deal is off the table. I’ll start with known associates. I’m not scared to squeeze.”

“Let me know,” I said.

Robin left and my mind raced until the gray light found me. At eight o’clock, I walked out under heavy clouds and found George Tallman sitting in a parked cruiser. He got out when he saw me. He looked like he’d been up all night. Wrinkles marred the perfection of his dark blue uniform. He watched me with bloodshot eyes. “Morning,” I said.

“Morning.”

“You waiting for me or Robin?”

“You.”

His face was meaty and pale under two days’ worth of beard. “How’d you know I was here?”

“Come on, Adam. Everybody knows. It’s the talk of the police department, probably of the town.”

“What do you want, George? It’s early.”

He leaned against the hood of his car, spread his hands on the paint, and looked suddenly grave. “It’s about Miriam,” he said. “She told me that you know.”

“About the cutting?”

He looked away, as if from the word itself. “Yeah.”

“There’s no bullshit in that, George. The issues that drive it… I can’t begin to guess what it all means. Can you handle it? Do you want to handle it?”

“It’s like I said the other day, Adam. Miriam needs me. Fragile, beautiful.” He held the imaginary teacups again, then opened his fingers like a conjurer. “She’s got issues. Who doesn’t? She has the soul of an artist, and that doesn’t come without cost. She feels pain more than most of us would.”

He was clearly shaken, and I sensed the depth of his feeling for her. “Do you know why she does it, George?” I was thinking of Gray Wilson, and of how she mourned over his grave.

He shook his head. “She’ll tell me when she’s ready. I know better than to push.”

“My father should not be out of the loop on something so important.”

“He can’t help Miriam. I love him, but he can’t. He’s a hard man and she needs a soft touch. He’d tell her to grow up, be strong, and that would just make it worse. She cares what he thinks. She needs his approval.”

“Janice can’t handle this on her own.”

His feet clicked pavement. “First of all, Janice is not handling this on her own. I’m dealing with this, too. Miriam sees a counselor in Winston-Salem. She goes to inpatient treatment three or four times a year. We’re taking care of her, doing what needs to be done.”

“Just make sure you pay damn close attention.” He started to speak, but I cut him off. “I mean it, George. It’s no game.”

He rose up, indignant. “Do you even realize the nerve it takes for you to say that to me? Where have you been this whole time? Off in your big-city life, living large on your father’s money. I’ve been here for her. I’ve picked up the pieces time after time. I’ve held her together. Me. Not you.”

“George-”

“Shut up, Adam, or I will shut you up myself. I will not stand here and be judged.”

I gave myself a few seconds. He was right. “I’m sorry, George. I’m out of touch, out of the loop. I just worry. She’s family. I love her, hate to see her in pain. I have no right to judge how you and Janice are handling the problem. I’m sure that she’s seeing the best people she can.”

“She’s getting better, Adam. I have to believe that.”

“I’m sure you’re right, and I apologize again. What can I do for you, George? Why are you here?”

He took a deep breath. “Don’t tell your father, Adam. That’s what I’m here to ask you. We haven’t slept. She cried all night long.”

“Miriam’s asking?”

He shook his big head. “She’s not asking, Adam. She’s begging.”

I tried to call Jamie from the car and got his voice mail again. I left a message, and doubted that my voice sounded kind. He’d been unusually scarce and I guessed that he was either drunk, hungover, or avoiding me. Miriam was right, I realized. The family was tearing itself apart. But I couldn’t worry about Miriam now, or even Grace. I had to concern myself with Dolf first. He was still in jail, still not talking to any of us. There were things that I did not know, things going on, and I needed to get to the bottom of it, preferably before Grantham did. Today, I told myself, and Candace Kane was a good place to start. I found her apartment at eight thirty.

It was an old development, two stories high, redbrick, with a balcony running along the facade. It filled a skinny lot a block away from the college: thirty units, mostly blue-collar local. Forty years’ worth of broken beer bottles had been ground to powdered glass under ten thousand tires. The whole lot looked like spilled glitter when the sun hit it right.

Candace’s apartment occupied the back corner, second floor. I parked and walked. Rough concrete grated beneath my shoes as I hit the stairs. From the balcony, I could see the tall spire of the college chapel, the magnificent oak trees that stood above the quad. The numbers were off the door, but I saw a trace of the number “sixteen” in the discolored paint. Desiccated tape covered a drilled-out peephole. A corner had folded up in the heat, and I saw where someone had packed the hole with tissue before taping it up. A plastic garbage bag leaned against the wall, smelling of sour milk and Chinese takeout. I knocked on the door, got no answer. A minute later, I tried again.

I was halfway to my car, sun finally breaking through, glass shards lighting up on the tarmac, when I saw the woman cutting across a parking lot two hundred feet away. I watched her: mid-twenties in pink shorts and a shirt too small to contain either her breasts or the penny-roll of fat around her waist. I thought of Emmanuel’s description: White. Kind of fat. Trashy. Looked about right. She had a paper bag in one hand, a half-smoked cigarette in the other. Bleached hair straggled out from under a baseball cap.

I heard her flip-flops.

Saw the scar on her face.

She pulled up when we were ten feet apart. Her mouth opened into a small circle and the eyes went wide, but the expression didn’t last. Her face closed down and she changed the line of her walk just enough to miss me. I cut the corner and said her name. She narrowed her eyes, rolled up on the balls of her feet. Up close, she was prettier than I expected, even with the scar. Clear, blue eyes framed a slightly upturned nose. Her lips were full, skin clear. But the scar hurt her. It was tight and pink, glossy as a vinyl skirt. Three inches long, it had a jagged kink in the middle that spoke to me of emergency room surgery.