William Lashner - Falls The Shadow

“You think he’s talking about us?” I said.

“You maybe. He’s got no beef with me.”

“Don’t slight yourself, Horace.”

“Go ahead, try to push this all off on Horace T. Grant, you yellow-tie coward. But that dog won’t hunt. Any idiot can see I’m just along for the ride.”

“You know, Horace,” I said, “except for that you are a hundred years older than me and a foot shorter than me and black, except for all that, we could be twins.”

“I dress better.”

“That you do. Here they come.”

“Shouldn’t we drive away?”

“That would denote weakness.”

“Nothing wrong with denoting. I’m all for denoting. But if we’re not driving away, shouldn’t we maybe lock the doors?”

“I tried that once before, and it didn’t work out so well. Come on, let’s step on out and face the music.”

We both climbed out from the car and leaned against the hood in as close to a posture of nonchalance as we could muster while Reverend Wilkerson, with his graveyard hunch, crossed the street toward us. The man mountain in the leather coat stayed slightly behind the reverend as they approached, and he looked away from us, first down one side of the street and then down the other, not an ounce of concern on his face. As far as he could tell, we weren’t trouble, we weren’t even potential trouble, we were gnats on the wall.

“I expected you’d pay us a visit, Mr. Carl,” said Reverend Wilkerson with his usual broad smile, “but I didn’t think you’d move with such alacrity.”

“Horace was telling me about the good work you do here, Reverend. I was hoping you could give me a tour of your facilities.”

“That won’t be possible. We don’t allow uninvited visitors, and you most surely are that. No one likes a snoop, especially Rex. Isn’t that right, Rex?”

The big man, while still looking away, scrunched up his face and grimaced, showing a row of twisted teeth. “That’s right, Mr. Reverend, sir,” he said in a rich bass.

“And of course the remark comparing what we do here to Waco was rather frightening, seeing as that situation ended in fire and death. Did you mean that as a threat, Mr. Carl?”

“Not at all,” I said. “I merely used it as an example of how small misunderstandings between people of goodwill can sometimes spiral out of control.”

“But we don’t have a misunderstanding. You think you are doing good, but you are only a well-intentioned fool bound to leave behind nothing but pain and misfortune as you skip from one little project to the next.”

Ouch, I thought.

“I don’t want to have to clean up your mess,” said Wilkerson. “I’ve cleaned up enough in my time. Rex, take a good look at this man.”

“Don’t forget my friend,” I said, indicating Horace with my thumb.

“Right you are.” The reverend smiled at me. “Rex, I want you to take a look at these two men. They are not welcome here, not welcome in the hotel, not welcome anywhere near our work.”

Rex turned his attention to us for a moment, as if burning our visages into his distracted brain, and then looked away again. “Got it, Mr. Reverend, sir.”

“You better be off now, gentlemen.”

“We’ll be off when we are good and ready to be off,” said Horace, “and not one minute before.”

“What’s your name again, old man?”

“Horace T. Grant. My friends call me Pork Chop.”

“What does he call you?” said the reverend, indicating me.

“He calls me whatever he damn well likes.”

“So tell me, Pork Chop, what are you doing, going around town carrying his load like a caddie? Don’t you have any pride in yourself? You need the work so bad, come work with us.”

“There’s no shortage of pride in me, you smiling fraud, and I’d sooner pluck my eyebrows than work for you. And you might be drawing the wrong conclusion about who here is caddying for who. All we want to do is find that girl, and the more you stand in our way, the more suspicious we get.”

“You two better scoot,” said the reverend, “before an accident occurs.”

“Not till we’re good and ready. This is a public street.”

Wilkerson leaned forward, broadened his smile. “See, Pork Chop, that’s where you’re wrong. It’s not public, not public at all. Keep them company, Rex, until they leave us be.”

With that, Wilkerson spun around and headed back to the hotel, leaving Rex to stand close to us while not looking at us. Even without saying anything, he was quite a presence, his breaths were heavy, his body gave off heat. Finally, while still looking away, he dropped a meaty hand on my shoulder.

“Time to go,” he said, his voice deep as a Texas well.

“We’re looking for a small girl,” I said softly when Wilkerson was far enough away not to hear. “She’d be about seven. Her name is Tanya.”

Rex looked behind him, looked to the side. “Tanya?”

“That’s right, Tanya Rose.”

“What you want with Tanya?”

“Believe it or not,” I said, “I’m her lawyer. I just want to find her, talk to her, make sure she’s okay. Is she here, in the hotel?”

“Not anymore.”

“Where is she?”

Rex shrugged, looked down, kicked at the street.

“Who would know where she is?”

“The reverend.”

“Who else?”

“Miss Elise, maybe.”

“Where’s this Miss Elise?”

“In the hotel.”

“Can I get in to talk to her?”

“No.”

“Can I talk to her without it getting back to the reverend?”

“Hardly.”

“It’s like that between them, is it?”

“Time to go.”

“I need to talk to Miss Elise.”

“No you don’t,” said Rex, pressing down now with his hand. “You need to leave.”

“We’re not leaving till we’re good and ready,” said Horace.

Rex squeezed my shoulder.

“I don’t take orders from a fraud like that, I don’t care what he says,” said Horace. “We’re not moving an inch, not an inch, until we’re damn good and ready.”

Rex squeezed harder.

“We’re ready,” I said in a wounded screech as my knees buckled in pain. “We are so ready.”

Rex stayed right where he was, not watching me as I clawed my way back to my feet, not watching us as we jumped like thieves into the car, not watching us as we drove away. It was as if he was afraid to stare straight at us, afraid that we’d see something soft in his eyes.

“She was there,” said Horace.

“Yes, she was.”

“That boy knew her.”

“And he liked her, too.”

“She’s a likable young girl.”

“But still he wouldn’t talk to us.”

“He was afraid of something, afraid of Wilkerson. What do you think is going on?”

“I have no idea,” I said, “and that’s what frightens me.”

“So what are you going to do now?”

“I don’t know.”

“You better come up with something quick.”

“Yes, I better. But to tell you the truth, Horace, I think this whole situation has gone beyond my meager talents. I think it’s time we call upon a higher authority.”

“The police?”

“I don’t know if that would get us what we need. If she really is in trouble, and the police do show up asking all kinds of questions, I’m afraid of what these people might do to her to keep themselves off the hook.”

“What then? That judge?”

“No, higher.”

“The mayor? You know our skunk of a mayor?”

“Higher.”

“Who then? Who’s higher than a judge, who’s more powerful than the mayor? Who you got in your pocket that’s going to help?”

“My dentist,” I said.

Fingerprints and blood.

Dalton’s slow but steady presentation of evidence against François Dubé continued, day by day. After Gullicksen testified about the bitterness of the divorce proceedings and the allegations of child abuse, allegations that caused the jury to squint with disapproval despite the judge’s instructions and my stirring cross-examination, Dalton called a uniformed officer to the stand, the first cop to arrive at the crime scene. There had been no word from Leesa Dubé for a number of hours, he said. She hadn’t shown up to collect her daughter from her parents’ house in the morning as planned, he said. She hadn’t shown up for work. She couldn’t be reached by telephone. The police had been called and directed to the scene. The door had been locked, it was forced open. A scene of horror.