John Grisham - The Associate

The crack of a gunshot jolted him from his nap, and he swung the rifle around, ready to fire. He glanced at his watch — a forty-minute nap. To his left, in the direction of his father, he saw several white tails bouncing in a rapid getaway. Ten minutes passed with no word from John. He’d obviously missed with his first shot and was still in the stand.

An hour passed without a sighting, and Kyle fought to stay awake.

Thanksgiving Day. The offices of Scully & Pershing were officially closed, but he knew that a few of the gunners were there, casually dressed in jeans and boots and billing away. There were a few partners hard at work, all with deadlines screaming at them. He shook his head.

Sounds were approaching, footsteps unconcerned with making noise. John was soon near the elm. “Let’s go,” he said. “There’s a creek just beyond the field, a favorite watering hole.”

Kyle lowered himself carefully, and when his feet were on the ground, John said, “You didn’t see that buck?”

“Nope.”

“I don’t know how you missed it. It ran right in front of you.”

“The one you shot at?”

“Yeah, at least a ten-pointer.”

“I guess you missed it, too.”

They returned to the truck and went for the thermos. As they sat on the tailgate, sipping strong coffee from paper cups and finishing the last of the granola bars, Kyle said, “Dad, I don’t want to hunt anymore. We need to talk.”

HIS FATHER LISTENED calmly at first, then lit a cigarette. As Kyle plowed through the rape investigation, he expected an eruption, a series of sharp and painful questions about why he had not called his father. But John listened intently without a word, as if he knew this story and had been expecting the confession.

The first flash of anger came when Bennie entered the narrative. “They blackmailed you,” he said, then lit another cigarette. “Son of a bitch.”

“Just listen, okay,” Kyle pleaded and went full speed ahead. The details came in torrents, and several times he raised his hand to keep from being interrupted. After a while, John became stoic, absorbing it all in disbelief but saying nothing. The video, Joey, Baxter, the murder, Trylon and Bartin and the secret room on the eighteenth floor. The meetings with Bennie, Nigel, the plan to filch the documents and hand them to the enemy. And finally, the hiring of Roy Benedict and the appearance of the FBI.

Kyle apologized repeatedly for not trusting his father. He admitted his mistakes, too numerous to recall at that moment. He laid open his soul, and when he finished, hours later it seemed, the sun was well into the sky, the coffee was long gone, the deer long forgotten.

“I think I need some help,” Kyle said.

“You need your ass kicked for not telling me.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Good Lord, son. What a mess.”

“I had no choice. I was terrified of the video, and the thought of another rape investigation was just too much. If you saw the video, you’d understand.”

They left the rifles in the truck and went for a long hike along a narrow trail through the woods.

THE FEAST OF turkey, dressing, and all the trimmings had been prepared by a deli that sold the whole package to those who preferred not to be troubled. As John set the dining room table, Kyle left to fetch his mother.

Patty answered her door with a smile and a long hug. She was up, and properly medicated. She escorted Kyle through her apartment and couldn’t wait to show off her latest masterpieces. He eventually led her back to the door and down to his rental car, and they enjoyed a quick drive through York. She was wearing lipstick, makeup, and a pretty orange dress that Kyle remembered from his teenage years, and her hair was clean, neat, and almost white. She chattered nonstop with news about locals she’d known years ago, bouncing from one subject to another with a randomness that would have been comical under other circumstances.

Kyle was relieved. There’d been an even chance she would be off her meds and out of her mind. His parents greeted each other with a polite hug, and the small struggling family worked its way through the gossip about the twin daughters, neither of whom had been back to York in over a year. One was in Santa Monica, the other in Portland. They called both and passed around the phone. The television was on in the den, muted, a football game waiting to be watched. At the dining table, Kyle poured three glasses of wine, though his mother wouldn’t touch it.

“You’re drinking wine these days,” John said to Kyle as he sat the small turkey on the table.

“Not much.”

The two men served Patty, fussed over her, worked hard to make her comfortable. She prattled on about her art and about events in York that happened years earlier. She managed to ask a few questions about Kyle and his career in New York, and he made his life sound enviable. The strain from events in New York was palpable, but Patty did not notice. She ate almost nothing, but her son and ex-husband devoured the lunch as quickly as possible. After pecan pie and coffee, she announced she wanted to go home, to her work. She was tired, she said, and Kyle wasted no time loading her up for the ten-minute drive.

ONE FOOTBALL GAME blurred into another. Kyle, on the sofa, and John, in a recliner, watched the games between naps, and said little.

The air was heavy with things unsaid, questions that came and went, plans that needed to be discussed. The father wanted to lecture and yell, but the son was too vulnerable, too dependent at that moment.

“Let’s go for a walk,” Kyle said when it was almost dark.

“Walk where?”

“Around the block. I need to talk.”

“Can’t we talk here?”

“Let’s walk.”

They bundled up and put Zack on a leash. They were on the sidewalk when Kyle said, “I’m sorry, but I don’t like to have serious conversations indoors.”

John lit a cigarette with the ease of a longtime smoker, perfect coordination without missing a step. “I’m almost afraid to ask why not.”

“Bugs, mikes, nasty little twerps listening to conversations.”

“Let me get this straight. You think that my house might be bugged by these thugs?”

They were strolling along the street Kyle had roamed as a child. He knew the owner of every home, at least the owners back then, and every home had a story. He nodded at one and asked, “Whatever happened to Mr. Polk?”

“Dead, finally. Lived in a wheelchair for almost fifty years. Very sad. Back to my question. We’re not walking down memory lane here, okay?”

“No, I don’t think your house is bugged, nor your office, but there’s a chance. These guys believe in surveillance and have an unlimited budget. Bugging is easy. Ask me, I’m an expert. I could make a homemade listening device in half an hour with a few items from RadioShack.”

“And how did you acquire such knowledge?”

“Books. Manuals. There’s a great little spy store in Manhattan and I drop in occasionally, when I’m able to lose my tail.”

“This is unbelievable, Kyle. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re cracking up. You sound schizophrenic, like a few of my clients.”

“I’m not crazy yet, but I’ve learned to play it safe and have the serious conversations outdoors.”

“Your apartment is bugged?”

“Oh, yes. I know of at least three listening devices hidden in the place. One is in the AC vent above the sofa in the den. There’s one hidden in the bedroom wall, just above the chest of drawers, and there’s one in the kitchen in a door facing. I can’t really examine them, because there are also three tiny cameras, at least three, that watch me continuously when I’m in the apartment, which is not very often. I’ve managed to locate these devices by pretending to do all sorts of routine chores around the place, cleaning vents, washing windows, scrubbing floors. The place is a dump, but it’s pretty clean.”