Fortunes of the Dead

by Lynn Hightower

  “Only because I’m buying and it’s Cracker Barrel.”

  “To tell the truth, I figured you’d be in L.A. by now.”

  “You’re my last stop; then I’m free. I’m taking the red-eye out of Nashville tonight.”

  “Seems to me I’m a little out of your way.”

  “Well, hey, I wanted to thank you for all that help on the mountain. It didn’t seem right not to talk to you again after you helped me out of the woods and dumped me on my ass in front of the barn.”

  I laughed and put my glass down.

  “Did orange juice go up your nose?”

  “No, Wilson, it didn’t.” I wiped my mouth with a napkin, striving for dignity.

  Wilson looked over my shoulder, eyes growing wide.

  “What?” I asked, looking over my shoulder. Our waitress was headed to the table with a tray heavy with food.

  “Tell me that isn’t for us.”

  “You told her you were hungry.”

  It was worth the drive down to watch Wilson’s face as our waitress—Patty, according to the name tag—set country sausage patties, bacon strips, grits, pancakes, three eggs over easy, and another basket of biscuits in front of Wilson. She set a small bottle of maple syrup on the table, and a little dish with foil-wrapped pats of butter.

  “Be sure and put some butter on those grits while they’re hot,” she told him, patted his shoulder, and left.

  “Is that all you’re eating?” Wilson asked me.

  “At the time I ordered I thought I was going all out. Until I saw what you were getting.”

  “Do you people always eat like this?”

  “You people?”

  Wilson put his napkin in his lap. “I’m from California. We’re afraid of food.”

  “You’re just afraid you’ll like it.”

  “Truer than you think.” He poured syrup on the pancakes, speared the butter pat, hesitated, then put it on the top pancake. But he didn’t eat.

  I chewed bacon and sipped coffee and got tired of waiting. “Come on, Wilson, old son. I know why we’re here. Let’s get it out in the open.”

  He put his fork down. “So you did see.”

  He meant did I see him aim his gun at Rodeo, see her hold up her hands, and see him shoot her anyway, three bullets one right after the other.

  “No, Wilson, I didn’t see a thing.”

  His looked at me with a sad sort of summing up. “You better think about that.”

  “I have thought about it, Wilson, you think I’m brain dead? You think being from Kentucky makes me the village idiot?”

  Wilson tilted his head sideways. “I haven’t been in this part of the country all that long, but I have noticed that where the West Coast has a Starbucks on every corner, you guys have a Baptist church. I always thought people were joking when they called this the Bible Belt. I can’t help but think this thing might weigh on you, and that maybe one of these days you’ll want to get it off your chest.” He glanced out the window. “I don’t feel like waking up at night having to worry about that. If you think it’s a possibility, let’s just go to the S.A. here in Lexington, and let him know the whole thing.”

  I thought of Jeff Hayes. “The truth is, Wilson, I’ve been in a similar situation myself, and I understand pretty well how you feel.”

  “What’s your story?”

  “I don’t have a story, Wilson. And neither do you.”

  He didn’t look at me, just kept staring out the window. “That sure is a pretty truck.”

  “Eat your breakfast. You’ve only got twelve hours to make your flight.”

  He grinned at me. “Hey, Lena, if you’re ever in California—”

  “I promise not to look you up.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Wilson felt almost otherworldly as he entered the elevator at the end of the parking garage. The smell of oil and exhaust stayed with him until he stepped into the lobby of the building on Sepulveda, and took yet another elevator to the ATF floor. He was feeling displaced by his time on the East Coast, and the things that happened while he was there. He walked through the heavy outer door that shielded the inner workings of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms, Southern California-style, passed the cameras, raised a hand to the receptionist. He threaded his way through the hallway and the cubicles, feeling nostalgic. Details caught his attention. How thin the carpet was beneath his feet. A scuff mark that had been on the wall ever since he could remember. Stupid stuff, all of it vivid.

  Vaughn Chesterfield stood in the doorway of his office, waiting for him like always, and Wilson wondered if the man ever really intended Wilson to think he was late. Maybe Chesterfield just liked to stand there when he knew someone was on their way. For all Wilson knew, it could be some kind of Connecticut welcoming ritual. He was beginning to get an appreciation for the cultural differences from one part of the country to the next.

  Today Chesterfield had a friendly smile and the kind of welcome where your superior officer shakes your hand with his right, while squeezing your forearm with his left. It is the kind of greeting given to a soldier who has done a difficult job, and done it well. Wilson looked Chesterfield in the eye, but the spark of resentment in his heart died before it was fully formed. Chesterfield was not grinning, he was not slapping Wilson on the back. He was not even smiling that big. Whatever anybody said about the ATF, Wilson was aware that the organization had managed to put some intelligence into the mix of management. Today, which was the last time he would see Vaughn Chesterfield, Wilson almost liked the guy.

  The sentiment appeared to be mutual.

  Vaughn waved Wilson to a seat, moved around the desk, and settled into his own chair. As always, Vaughn wore a tie and a pressed white shirt. For some reason. Wilson decided he liked that.

  Vaughn studied Wilson for a long moment, then leaned back in his chair. That Vaughn would allow himself to relax with Wilson in the room meant a barrier had gone down.

  “Tough job out there, Wilson. You did it well.”

  Vaughn glanced at Wilson’s bad leg like a man who cannot resist the compulsion, but he made no comment. Wilson was grateful. He knew that people were showing friendly concern when they boomed out Hey, Wilson, how’s the leg?, but since it was clear exactly how the leg was, bad, Wilson would just as soon not include his daily dose of pain in the general social chitchat.

  “You want some time off?” Vaughn asked.

  Wilson had nothing to say to this question, though the offer didn’t surprise him. The Nashville office, during their bout of debriefing slash counseling, let him know that in this kind of situation, a short leave of absence was recommended and offered with no strings. It was one of the few times the ATF would give you time off with a pat on the back.

  “To tell you the truth, Wilson, I thought Rugger was going to put you on the fringe of this thing. Sort of ease you back into the field, see how things worked out. None of us saw how this thing would blow up on you like it did.”

  Hearing Alex’s name jarred Wilson. Chesterfield noticed.

  “Son, I’m going to give you some advice. You sit in that chair and you wince when I say Alex Rugger’s name. I don’t blame you for feeling that way. I saw the photos. You saw the reality. Blood in a picture is a shadow on paper. Blood on your hands from a man you like, a man you respect and consider your friend … that’s another thing.”

  Wilson took a deep breath, but it did not relieve the ever-present heaviness in his chest, the weight that settled like darkness when he pointed his nine millimeter at Rodeo and shot her three times in the chest. Why couldn’t Chesterfield have broken the ice with him before all this happened? He’d been a good enough agent then. He’d given a hundred and ten percent, tried to follow the rules, tried to please.

  Too late, he wanted to say.

  Wilson had no illusions about how the ATF felt about rogue agents. He used to feel the same way himself. He probably had more in common with Rodeo now, than he did with the man across the desk.

  �
�Don’t second-guess yourself about this, Wilson. You made a decision out in the field, and in the moment. It’s been looked at every which way by the investigative team, and you’re in the clear. Don’t judge yourself harshly.” Chesterfield rubbed the bridge of his nose.

  “It’s too easy to think back on these things, to come up with different outcomes, with other things you wish you’d done. And if you do, and you will, I want you to put yourself in the shoes of Janis Winters’s next victim. I want you to think about how that wire would feel around your neck. I want you to think about this guy’s funeral. I want you to picture a closed coffin, because nobody wants this guy’s wife and kids to see how his head no longer fits on his neck. And I want you to think that you did what you had to do. And someday I want you to let it go.”

  Wilson did not know what to say to all this, so he punted and said nothing at all.

  “You’re entitled to some time off here, Wilson. I think you should take it.”

  Wilson pulled an envelope out of his pocket. Sel had beautiful stationery. Heavy linen paper, matching envelopes. Wilson had typed the letter on his personal computer, and used the white paper and cheap envelope he bought at Walgreens on his way home from LAX.

  Chesterfield reached across the desk to take the envelope, and he frowned while he read the letter inside. He read it slowly, and he read it twice, then sighed and sat forward in his chair.

  “Why?”

  Wilson looked rueful and brave. “The leg, sir. I know you and Alex Rugger had some reservations about the limitations I might have. I know I’ve waited seven years to get back in the frame. But the truth is, and it’s time I faced it, I’m no good out in the field.”

  “There are other possibilities here, Wilson. Other kinds of assignments. All of them crucial to the job.”

  “Not for me, sir.”

  “I can’t change your mind?”

  “You can’t, but I appreciate that you tried.”

  Chesterfield stood up and shook Wilson’s hand, and made the kind of noises that management makes.

  “What are you going to do with yourself, Wilson?”

  And Wilson gave him a genuine smile. “I think I’m going to open a restaurant.”

  Chesterfield raised his eyebrows. “Hell, Wilson, I didn’t know you could cook.”

  “I can’t sir.” Wilson nodded, and headed out the door.

  Chesterfield sat for a moment, thinking this over, then he put his head out the doorway to call Wilson back. He wanted to talk to the man more, see if maybe a leave of absence would be acceptable, but it was already too late. For a man with such a sizable limp, Wilson moved quickly, and Chesterfield got a quick glimpse of the bad leg and the well-cut hair, before Wilson turned at the end of the hallway and was gone.

  Chesterfield closed his office door, which usually stayed open, and sat in his chair, turning it around to stare out the window at the traffic on Sepulveda. He couldn’t help but notice the brand new pickup truck, teal blue, extended cab, oversized tires. He watched it squeak through a yellow traffic light, and whistled, thinking he wouldn’t mind having a pickup himself, maybe after he retired.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Tonight Joel and I are hosting the official housewarming party for our new cottage. Joel is down in the kitchen cooking, and whatever it is smells wonderful all the way upstairs, where I am still soaking in a hot bubble bath. I have a little neck pillow now and a foot cushion so I can stretch out lengthwise and not float away. In a few minutes I will get out and get dressed. I have been soaking too long as it is and my hair, which is pinned on top of my head, will be too curly.

  We sent invitations out to our housewarming party three weeks ago. McFee sent immediate regrets, but I called him, and I’m hoping he’ll come.

  Kate’s mother called me yesterday. Kate is out of the hospital and recuperating quickly. Her father went to both Edgers’s and Miranda’s funeral, but she says he won’t talk about it. Yesterday they found Leo in the stall of a rather bad-tempered stallion, but the horse was matter-of-fact and Leo was sitting cross-legged under the feed bin building some sort of structure with straw. It was George who alerted them. Kate’s mother had been sure Leo was taking his nap, and confided that her grandson has an uncanny ability with locks and requires more supervision than she is used to, and she couldn’t be happier. When Kate is well enough, she and Leo were going to move out to one of the old farmhouses on the acreage.

  Joel tells me that the Bass family managed to get Laura buried in private with no publicity at an undisclosed location in Texas, and that they had consented to Wilson’s request to attend. Joel was amazed to learn that Wilson quit his job at ATF, got married, and opened a southern-style barbecue restaurant in Marina Del Rey.

  The Dunkirk investigation changed my relationship with Joel. What we have together is different now, something more complex. We are closer, though we are aware that there are things that each of us hold close and secret, and do not share. I still look forward to taking Joel for granted, but I don’t worry now, that if I make a wrong step the relationship will break. I’ll communicate and Joel will express a feeling every year or two and we’ll manage. As a matter of fact, Joel is getting almost too good at communication, which has resulted in us hiring a cleaning service that comes once a week.

  When I first started taking the kind of cases I do, I admit I saw things in black and white, with good guys and bad guys and no shades of gray. I did not think about clients like Miranda Brady. I know I will be more careful to keep a distance between myself and the people I try to help. It is still a struggle, trying to keep up with the finances and barter system, and I have cultivated the art of living in the moment, and not worrying about bills down the road, trusting that things will work out one way or another, which, Joel tells me, is the worst kind of financial planning he’s ever heard of. I tune him out when he brings up retirement.

  I don’t think you can immerse yourself in the drama of other people’s lives and come through clean and unmarked. But I think there is a need for someone like me, someone who is not a cop, someone who has been to the dark places and come through okay, someone who used to be a victim herself.

  This is not the life I pictured. I had thought that my days would be more organized, more routine-oriented, certainly smoother. Do the job, pay the bills, curl up at night with the man you love. I figured that by now I would at least have gotten the linoleum off the bathroom floor and painted the hallways and the kitchen and the bedroom.

  Life never follows the rules. But Joel and I did the packing together, and have moved all our furniture in. And the living room walls have two new coats of red, just in time for the party. It looks terrific.

  Turn the page to continue reading from the Lena Padget Mysteries

  LENA

  CHAPTER ONE

  I have often thought that my sister knew she was going to die. I don’t mean that she had psychic dreams; I don’t mean she was pessimistic. I think she evaluated the odds of her situation, and, in her heart and her mind, she had faced the outcome. Whitney was seven months pregnant when my ex–brother-in-law killed her, my little nephew, and, by default, my unborn niece.

  Whitney always knew how dangerous Jeff was—after she married him, she knew. Yet she had one child with him and conceived a second. There were times, many times, when I wanted to strangle her for this stupidity. Easy for me, on the outside looking in. When Whitney looked at Jeff, she saw the person he could be; she saw the best in him. And when she realized (finally, and much too late) that everything good about Jeff was heavily outweighed by everything bad, she cut him out of her life.

  But she always knew that the odds of keeping him out weren’t so very good. My sister knew that she might not win, but knowing that never seemed to make a difference. She didn’t have to know that she would win before she did what she knew was right. That’s brave. It’s powerful, too. It means you are free and clear of the kind of manipulations that can sear your soul.

  Emma Marsden
was like that. She was a lot like my sister in other ways too. She had that same inner vibrancy, a tuned piano full of music. She was ready for the next thing, a wary half smile on her lips, and in her eyes you could see that she was expecting something interesting to happen.

  Her likeness to my sister made me vulnerable to her, according to my one and only, Joel Mendez. It was what made me believe in her. It was what made me work for her, and stick with her, when the rest of the world was ready to burn her at the stake.

  But I think Emma Marsden brought out the best in me, because to me, Emma Marsden was like that elusive Christmas back home when everything goes right. Just being around her eased the nostalgic homesickness those of us who have lost family always carry in our souls. I guess because she was so much like my sister.

  It’s all about taking sides. Life, I mean. That’s what it comes to if you’re honest. Right, wrong, revenge, forgiveness … you take a stand. That’s what Emma Marsden did. She took her daughter’s side. Everything she did was for Blaine, her fifteen-year-old girl. Even when Blaine lost her way. Maybe that’s why women are so much better at taking sides than men are. Maybe it plays on the nurturing and mothering instinct—my child first, no matter what.

  Which is why, when I met her, Emma Marsden’s life was a nightmare. Because she’d been accused of Munchausen by proxy, which, as you know, from watching those television movies of the week that you refuse to admit you watch, means a mother is so reprehensible, and so disturbed, that she will make her own child sick in order to get attention for herself.

  I can imagine the hell a parent goes through when they lose a child. But I have no children of my own, so I can only imagine it. To be accused of killing that child, for motives of personal narcissism, was, according to Emma herself, the tenth circle of hell that is reserved for women who have the temerity to thwart the medical system.

  The first time I met Emma Marsden was in the Main Street office of her attorney and ex-husband, Clayton Roubideaux. It was a small office, behind a brown door in a townhouse-style building. Roubideaux clearly kept an eye on the overhead. He may have been one of the most successful litigators in Lexington, Kentucky, but there were none of the oversized conference rooms, heavy mahogany furniture, or hushed discomfort you find in large law firms where billable hours are considered an art form.