Sins Of The Father

by James, Harper

  A half-strangled laugh slipped through his teeth.

  ‘Let’s hope I don’t have so much fun on this case.’

  She leaned forward and put her hand on top of his, gave it a squeeze.

  ‘No chance. Not with me around.’

  He had no idea whether she meant no chance of a romantic interlude, or no chance of ending up kneeling side by side in the dirt, about to meet your maker.

  ‘You want to talk about Hendricks now?’ she said, pulling her hand away, business all the way.

  ***

  ‘JESUS, EVAN. FROM THE look on your face, I’ll take that as a no, shall I?’

  He glanced at the door, thought about making a quick dash for it. She caught him looking and turned to look herself. She turned back, a frown creasing her forehead.

  ‘I think maybe you’re being a little paranoid.’

  He wasn’t about to correct her mistaken assumption.

  She shook her head in exasperation, her breath exiting noisily through her nose.

  ‘Why don’t you show me what he sent you?’

  In his mind, Evan tried to picture Hendricks’ basement, tried to imagine whether there was any chance of a second, lower level. It was impossible. The other memories from that night were so vivid, they obliterated everything else. He’d been too busy trying to stay alive. The possibility of another level had never crossed his mind until Hendricks’ message.

  He noticed her hand extended towards him, a pained look on her face.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Let me see your phone.’

  ‘It’s okay, I wrote them out for you. Save you having to dig through my phone.’

  She gave him a strange look, not the most attractive he’d seen, then burst out laughing.

  ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You don’t want me looking through your phone. You’ve got a secure folder on it you can use for all that sort of stuff, you know.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Pictures of Gina perhaps, that you don’t want me to see.’

  The laughter was still in her voice even if it was wearing very thin. He pulled out his phone and found the messages, held the phone out towards her.

  ‘There’s nothing on that phone I’m not happy for you to see, Kate.’

  She took the phone, read the messages, kept her eyes down when she’d finished.

  ‘Only three?’

  ‘The first one was an email. That’s why I wrote them all out for you, so I didn’t have to carry my laptop around. There’s a ton of porn on that I definitely don’t want you to see.’

  Her head snapped up and she almost fell into his grin.

  ‘Idiot.’

  They were back on track again, and he’d learned something interesting about her today. His mouth was suddenly dry—too much coffee, had to be—his heart thundering in his chest as he placed a scrap of paper on the table, pushed it across to her side. She straightened it, read the messages. Her face was serious when she looked up again.

  ‘There’s a definite escalation in the tone. Taunting to start with, ending with what’s got to be a threat.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. What did you find out about the guy who’s sending them for him?’

  Their unspoken thoughts hung in the air between them so palpably, he might as well have voiced them.

  Who’ll be the one following through on the threat.

  He thought she looked serious before. She managed to ratchet it up a step.

  ‘That bad, eh?’

  She went to raise her hand to call the waitress, then dropped it again, a small, apologetic smile on her lips.

  ‘Don’t want to pick up any of my bad habits, Kate. Tell me your worst.’

  ‘We don’t know it’s this guy—’

  ‘Just tell me, Kate. We both know he’s the best candidate for it.’

  She pulled her notebook out, found the page she wanted. He tried to see what was written there.

  ‘How can you read that scribble?’

  She ignored him, kept her eyes on the page.

  ‘The guy’s a real redneck. His name’s Floyd Gray, age thirty-six, comes from a place called Hillsboro in Texas. Joined the Army in 2000 with Hendricks and Adamson. Convicted of statutory rape of a fifteen-year-old girl in 2005, again with Hendricks and Adamson. They got out on a technicality two years later. Gray didn’t get out until 2010—’

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘Stabbed another inmate. Something happened when his sister was visiting, a guy insulted her. Sounds like he’s good at holding a grudge. And following through on it.’

  ‘Killed him?’

  ‘Not quite. He wouldn’t be here now, ready and willing to hunt you down for Hendricks if he did.’

  ‘Thanks a lot. What’s he been doing since he got out?’

  She wrinkled her nose, bit her bottom lip.

  ‘This is where it gets a bit vague. He spent the last six or seven years outside the U.S., working for a semi-legit security contractor as a mercenary’—she consulted her notebook again—‘he’s got an impressive résumé. Syria, Iraq, Somalia, you name a godforsaken hellhole, he’s killed people there.’

  He nodded as she spoke, like the details made any difference.

  ‘Great. Let me guess—special expertise, black ops civilian assassination?’

  ‘Let me check page two of his résumé ...’

  He tried to catch her eye but she kept her nose buried in her notebook.

  ‘Any idea where he is now?’

  ‘Hmm. This is where it gets really hazy. He re-entered the U.S. late last year and disappeared off the radar. He’ll have a stack of tax-free cash that’ll last him. No job, no bank account, no phone or utilities contracts, nothing. Most likely back living in a trailer park in Hillsboro, listening to Country & Western music, drinking himself into oblivion.’

  ‘And running Carl Hendricks’ errands, of course.’

  Guillory shrugged, never one to waste her breath unnecessarily.

  Evan checked his watch. Not bad going. Still only eleven-thirty in the morning and already he had Hugh McIntyre and Floyd Gray after his blood. Perhaps McIntyre might like to hire Gray, rationalize things a bit, avoid wasteful duplication of effort.

  ‘Want to see a photo?’ Guillory said.

  ‘Why not? Might stop me inadvertently buying him a beer in a bar, right before he stabs me in the parking lot.’

  She pulled a photocopied image from the back of her notebook and passed it across. Then she picked up the scrap of paper with the messages on and read through them again while Evan studied Floyd Gray’s mugshot. Closely-cropped dark hair, receding at the temples as male pattern baldness set in. A strong jaw, full lips, a nose that had been broken more than once, pale eyes you instinctively knew you didn’t want to catch in a bar.

  He pushed it across the table.

  ‘Keep it,’ Guillory said, pushing it back. ‘It’s a copy. There isn’t much point checking these out’—she pointed at the list of messages—‘he’ll be using a burner phone and an anonymous web-based email service from a public access computer.’

  ‘There’s nothing you can do?’

  ‘We can check them out if you like. It’ll be a waste of time.’

  He shook his head and got out his phone, took a picture of the image of Floyd Gray, then put the paper copy in his pocket.

  ‘Even if we made a connection between Hendricks and Gray, found out Hendricks calls Gray right before each message, we can’t prove anything.’

  ‘I’ve just got to wait until he makes his move, have I?’

  ‘I didn’t want to say that ...’

  Evan slid out of the booth. There was nothing more to say.

  ‘C’mon, let’s go. You want that?’

  He pointed at the scrap of paper. She picked it up and read it again, screwed it into a ball and dropped it into her coffee cup.

  ‘No
point. I think I know them by heart now anyway.’

  ‘Me too.’

  After they left, the waitress came over to clear the table. She scowled when she saw the screwed-up ball of paper in Guillory’s cup. She hated it when people did that. Why didn’t they take their crap with them? She picked it out of the cup, shook a few drips of cold coffee off it. Then something made her open it up, smooth it out on the table top.

  She read it, snorted. What the hell was that all about?

  I know where she is.

  You were so close.

  How’s it feel, Buckley?

  Don’t worry, it will all be over soon.

  Chapter 7

  MARLENE’S EARS PRICKED UP, a low growl in the back of her throat.

  ‘Shush.’

  Floyd Gray stroked the smooth, sleek fur on the back of her neck, pushed himself out of his chair. He stood off to the side of the window in the kitchen of Carl Hendrick’s farmhouse and watched for movement in the yard. It had been dark outside for an hour or more. If there was anybody in the yard they wouldn’t see him, the whole house in permanent darkness now, the electricity cut off long ago.

  He didn’t mind living in the dark. He’d spent most of his life in a lot worse places than a large comfortable house, even if it didn’t have electricity or heating. The property was up for sale although people weren’t exactly beating down the door. The charred remains of the barns across the yard and the stories of what happened beneath them were sufficient to keep inquiries to a minimum. He didn’t know who’d get the money if they ever did sell it. He didn’t suppose they’d let Carl have it. Not that Carl could spend it where he was. Maybe they’d give it to the woman whose husband and kid Carl and that psychopath Adamson buried alive in the basement.

  There wasn’t anybody outside, must’ve been the wind. He almost wished there had been, give Marlene some exercise, some sport. She was bored with rabbits and squirrels and so was he. It wasn’t what she was bred for, what he’d trained her for. It was insulting for her, bunnies and tree rats. They liked to hunt prey that walked—or ran—on two legs, not four.

  He turned away from the window, picked up his bow—a takedown recurve with a sixty-pound draw weight—and ran his fingers over the polished wood, admired its beauty, the perfect curves. He was a traditionalist, wasn’t interested in a compound bow with all its cams and pulleys, looking like you needed a college education to work out how to use it.

  No, in nature, the really dangerous things were beautiful too. Like Marlene. Apart from which, if he couldn’t take down what he was after with a sixty-pound recurve, it was time to give it up. He wasn’t a particularly big man, he didn’t need to be. He was wiry-strong, his muscular arms rivered with blue veins. Some guys laughed, said he wasn’t big enough to use a bow with a sixty-pound draw. They were wrong. Those guys, that tended to be the last time they laughed for a while, unless they found something inherently amusing about the inside of a hospital.

  He settled back down in the chair, scratched Marlene behind the ears as she sat between his legs, rested her muzzle in his lap. He dug his phone out of his pocket, checked for messages. There weren’t any, but then nobody had the number. Apart from Buckley of course. He’d stopped sending emails, switched to text messages, after he almost got caught sending the last one from a computer in the public library. Carl hadn’t been happy at all. Not just that Floyd nearly got caught. He liked the email address, was sorry to give it up.

  Sarah_Buckley_0712

  Floyd sniggered. The guy’s wife. And the day she disappeared. Bet that made him feel like he sat on a cattle prod when he saw it. You had to hand it to Carl—he’d put a lot of time into finding out the guy’s history. It amazed him, the depth of hatred Carl had for him. He had a lot of time on his hands to think about it. And Carl’s face was a mess now, thanks to Buckley. Floyd found it difficult to look at him, and he’d seen some things. Carl wouldn’t ever get any pussy again, not unless he paid for it—and paid well. If he ever got out of prison, which he wouldn’t—unless of course he said he was really sorry and he’d found Jesus. Then the bleeding-heart liberals would let him out, pay for a vacation for him, buy him a new suit and shoes.

  He got out the faded newspaper clipping Carl had sent him—as if he needed reminding how much he owed him—and read the headline again. He closed his eyes. They’d had some good times back then, before the shit hit the fan. And when it did, nobody cared what Carl had done. They were all the same, these people.

  Sometimes it annoyed him Carl felt the need to remind him every time he wanted something done. Like he was going to say no. He enjoyed sending the messages to Buckley. He hoped he might get at least one reply, even if only to tell him to fuck off.

  Carl said Buckley would come out to the farm, try to get into the basement under the barns. Floyd was looking forward to that. Marlene too. Last time he visited, Carl said the time for words and messages was nearly over. Soon it’d be time to act. He smiled to himself. The Doberman resting her muzzle in his lap sensed it somehow, lifted her head, yawned as if in nervous anticipation.

  The hunt was about to begin.

  Chapter 8

  ‘HOW’S IT COMING ALONG?’ Kate Guillory asked.

  Even though she was on the other end of the phone line, Evan knew there was a smile on her lips. He couldn’t blame her.

  ‘Doing all the work yourself, I mean.’

  He snorted.

  ‘It doesn’t have a lot to recommend it. I’ve done a search on a few of the bigger proprietary databases and didn’t come up with a single hit. It doesn’t help if you don’t have a date of birth, address or social security number. And being—’

  He stopped short, aware he was about to say being an illegal which might have been too much information.

  ‘Being what?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  She laughed, that deep throaty laugh that always made him smile along with it, even when he was the butt of the joke.

  ‘Have it your way. I’d help you if you’d let me.’

  ‘Ask Frank Hanna next time he takes you out to dinner.’

  He didn’t get the bite he was hoping for.

  ‘Maybe I’ll do just that. You tried DMV yet?’

  ‘The next brick wall to bang my head against, you mean? I’m going to drive over there as soon as I’m finished up here, kill two birds with one stone.’

  It was out before he knew it.

  ‘What’s the other bird, or can’t you tell me that either?’

  He might as well tell her, now the surprise was spoiled. He hadn’t been planning on telling her about his new car, was just going to pick her up in it when he took her out to the dinner she said he still owed her for all the help she gave him on the last case.

  ‘I’ve got a new car. I need to get it registered.’

  ‘Really? I hope you look after it better than the last one. What’ve you bought? Something with a small engine so you can’t do too much damage, I hope. And rubber bumpers all the way around.’

  He gave a nervous laugh, no idea what he had to be nervous about.

  ‘It’s a ‘69 Corvette Stingray.’

  He almost hunched down as he said it, knowing what was coming. She didn’t disappoint.

  ‘What?’

  ‘A 1969—’

  ‘I heard what you said. You rob a bank or something? Or am I in the wrong job?’

  ‘It’s a long story—’

  ‘For this, I’ve got all day.’

  He was sure he heard the sound of a chair being pushed back, then the sound of heels landing on a desk.

  ‘Comfortable?’

  ‘Yes, thanks.’

  ‘You remember the girl I told you about in Louisville—’

  ‘Gina?’

  ‘No, the other one, Destiny.’

  She clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth like she was having trouble keeping up, all the women in his life.

  ‘She’s the one saved yours and Angel’s asses, right? Not the
one who got abducted because you were fast asleep in her bed—that’s Gina. Or did I get that the wrong way around?’

  He knew there’d be a certain amount of this sort of thing when he told her, supposed it was better to get it out of the way over the phone. He got up and walked to the window, looked down at the Corvette that he’d parked in Tom Jacobson’s double-sized slot, the paintwork immaculate, gleaming in the sun.

  ‘The Corvette was hers. Then the club where she worked got closed down—’

  ‘Thanks to you.’

  ‘Exactly, thanks to me. She lost her job—’

  ‘Surely there’s more than one strip club in Louisville.’

  Evan paused a moment.

  ‘It’s lucky you’ve got all day, because this’ll take that long if you don’t stop interrupting.’

  There was a very realistic zipper sound on the other end of the line, then a muted mmm, mmm.

  ‘She lost her job. She also lost her appetite for it, decided she didn’t want to do it anymore. She wants to go to college or open her own gun shop depending on which day you speak to her. She had to choose between the car or her guns—’

  ‘That’d be the guns she used to save yours and Angel’s asses with.’

  ‘And she decided to let the car go. Trouble was, the offers she was getting were so low—’

  There was a burst of laughter from Guillory. He knew he wouldn’t get away with it.

  ‘So low, that a big, soft-hearted schmuck stepped in and offered her, what, five grand over the going rate?’

  He didn’t say anything, didn’t need to. Anybody would think they’d been married twenty years, she knew him so well. Despite the fact she’d mentioned it twice in the last five minutes, she was forgetting that if it wasn’t for Destiny, he would’ve come back from Louisville in a box. She was having too much fun.

  ‘Four grand over? Three?’

  ‘Two.’

  There was a silence between them, the sort of silence that goes with head shaking and wry smiles.

  ‘Remind me to call you first next time I want to sell my car. Where’d you get the money anyway?’

  ‘Took out a bank loan. I still had what Linda Clayton insisted on giving me as well. It seemed like a good thing to use it for. Besides, it’s an investment.’