David Baldacci - Divine Justice

"How'd you end up here?" Stone asked, resigned at least for the moment to play the casual conversation game so as not to make the judge suspicious.

"Complete coincidence. Drove through on my way back to New York after my wife died, and my car broke down. By the time it was fixed a few days later, I'd fallen in love with the place."

"And lucky for us he did," said Tyree.

"The town has reciprocated," said Mosley. "It certainly helped me get over my poor wife's passing." He added, "Are you going for a walk too?"

"To Abby's actually. She has some work out at her house she wants me to do."

"A beautiful place that is, A Midsummer's Farm."

"Is that what she calls it?" Stone asked.

Mosley nodded. "A variation on the Shakespeare play. A dream, you see. I guess in a way all of us up here are living a dream, isolated as we are from the rest of society."

"Not such a bad thing," Tyree noted. "The rest of society isn't all that great. Divine is just what it sounds like, at least it is for me."

Mosley passed by them and continued on down the street.

Tyree took off his hat and swiped his hair. "Well, you have a good one, Ben. Don't work too hard."

Tyree went inside the jailhouse and Stone continued on his way to Abby's.

Or A Midsummer's Farm.

Or a dream.

Or a nightmare.

AS STONE PASSED DOWN the main street of Divine, he quickly observed that the shops seemed prosperous and the customers happy-looking. It was hard for him to reconcile this image with that of broken-backed, gnarled-handed, dirty-faced miners with the coal-caked lungs having breakfast in Rita's Restaurant. And then his thoughts refocused on what he'd seen on the TV.

Leads. People of interest. Ties between the two murders.

As he glanced through one storefront window he saw it. Ubiquitous for so many decades, it was now rare to find one anywhere, at least one that worked. Yet Divine apparently was a bit slow in following the rest of the country's lead.

He slipped inside and looked at the payphone on the wall and then at the sign behind the front counter: "Appalachian Crafts." The store's shelves bulged with sculptures made from wood, stone and clay. On the walls were paintings and photos of mountains, valleys and little tin-roofed shacks clinging to the sides of hills. Behind the counter a large, red-faced woman was pecking keys on her computer.

She looked up and smiled. "Can I help you?"

"I just wanted to use the phone. Do you have change for a five?"

She gave him the money and he retreated to the rear of the store and loaded the quarters in the phone's slots. He dialed the one person he knew had a truly untraceable phone number: Reuben. This was because he didn't have a phone in his own account but rather used minutes of piggybacked phone time from hundreds of different people. Stone had always assumed it had been something Milton had shown him how to do.

The big man answered on the second ring. He nearly shouted when he heard it was Stone. After telling Reuben that he was fine and that he would not under any circumstances tell him where he was, Stone asked him about the investigation.

"Guy named Joe Knox from CIA has talked to everybody but me. Real bulldog apparently. He knows you and Carr are one and the same. He knows you're on the run. If they find you you're not going to trial, Oliver."

"That had already occurred to me, Reuben. How is everyone holding up?"

"Okay. Alex is being a shit about all this, though."

"He's a federal agent, Reuben. He's caught right in the middle."

"Well, he did tell Annabelle to burn the letter you left behind. I guess I should give him some points for that."

"Tell him I appreciate that. I really do."

There was a brief pause and then Reuben said, "Oliver…"

"I'm not going to tell you that I did it, Reuben. That would do no good at all. I just want you to know that you were a better friend than I deserved. All of you were. And I'll be watching the news. If it even looks like any of you will be harmed because of this, I'll turn myself in."

"Listen to me, we can take care of ourselves. They can't touch us. But if you turn yourself in to the cops, CIA will swoop in, scream national security, and your ass will disappear."

"Let me worry about that. And I know it doesn't do you justice, but thanks for everything."

Reuben started to speak but Stone had already hung up, replacing the receiver with a smack of finality. It's like I just cut off my right arm. Good-bye, Reuben.

He glanced up to see the shopkeeper staring curiously at him. He had been speaking so low that there was no risk of being overheard.

"Call go through okay?" she said pleasantly.

"Just fine. Thanks." She kept staring at him so he finally said, "You have some nice pieces." Pointing to a painting on one wall, he added, "Who did that one?"

The woman's face fell. "Oh, that would be Debby Randolph."

"She's talented."

"Yes." She added quickly, "I'm Wanda. Haven't seen you around here before."

"I just got here. Came in late last night with Danny Riker."

"Danny?" she said, startled. "Heard he'd left town."

"Well, he's back, but I think it's just temporary. So how's business?"

"Really good, especially on our Web site. Lot of folks like the Appalachian stuff. Takes 'em back to a simpler time, I suppose."

"I think we could all use a bit of that. Well, thank you."

"Hope you come back. Got a sale on black bear cubs sculpted from chunks of coal. Makes a right fine paperweight."

"I'm sure."

Stone walked out of the "feel-good" shop feeling like he was navigating the last few yards to his own death. He really was all alone again.

THE ASPHALT ROAD gave way about a half mile out to macadam. Stone passed by a stone church that had a small steeple with a dry-stack stone wall encircling the property. Next to this house of worship was a graveyard. The former graveyard caretaker Stone took a moment to walk through the burial plots. The same family names kept popping up on the headstones. Stone saw the grave of Samuel Riker. He'd died five years ago at the age of forty-one.

There were many Tyrees also sprinkled around. One tombstone, darkened by age, was the resting place of Lincoln Q. Tyree. He'd died in 1901. Stone thought it must be a bit disconcerting to pass by a graveyard with a marker already bearing your name, but perhaps the good sheriff didn't come this way often.

Two graves still had fresh flowers on them and the mounds of dirt looked new. Rory Peterson had died a week ago. The name on the other grave made Stone do a double take. Debby Randolph had gone to her Lord a day after Peterson had died. That's apparently why the woman at the shop had acted a little strangely. Peterson was forty-eight while Debby had only been twenty-three.

Stone walked on, turning left at a fat oak with thick sprawling branches that resembled more Atlas holding up the world than a mere tree. Hanging from one of the branches was a sign that read "A Midsummer's Farm" with an arrow pointing to the left. He went on for another hundred yards down a crushed gravel path until he came to the house, although that term clearly didn't do it justice. He wasn't sure exactly what he had been expecting, but it wasn't this.

"Antebellum" was the first word that jumped to mind. It was large, constructed of white clapboard and sections of stone with black doors and shutters and no fewer than four stone chimneystacks. A broad front overhang supported by rows of elaborately milled columns offered up a fine porch with rocking chairs, sturdy tables, hanging plants and an upholstered swing anchoring one end. The landscaped yard stretched on and on with the perimeter bordered by stacked stone walls. In a cobblestone-paved motor court was parked a muddy pickup truck along with a Mini Cooper in racing green with a white top.