by Tim Willocks
On the surface it didn’t seem like much, but two things set Atwater’s heart beating. First, the letters combined an implied urgency with a total lack of concrete subject matter, which was strange. Second, the date on which Daggett said he planned to call on Grimes in person was yesterday—the same day on which Lenna Parillaud had received her letter and all hell had broken loose.
Atwater didn’t have time to put the picture together piece by piece; he just knew it was there. He ran back upstairs and found an atlas. On the map of Georgia he located Jordan’s Crossroads. He hit the cell phone again and made a call to Gough Lovett, a private eye out of Savannah. He gave him a description of Grimes and Parillaud—they’d stick out like cold sores—and told him to get on down to Jordan’s Crossroads ASAP. Atwater could’ve called Filmore Faroe, too, to let him know what he’d found, but he didn’t like the idea of any plans being made out there at Arcadia without him being present. He’d tell Faroe in person. Then maybe Faroe would understand what kind of an operator he was dealing with in Rufus Atwater.
Atwater left Grimes’s apartment and sped back through light traffic. The size of Faroe’s plantation always misled him. He’d driven out there a score of times but Arcadia was always that much bigger than he remembered. The route to the house didn’t take him past the Stone House—that was buried miles away—and Atwater was glad. If he never saw that place again he’d be happy. Atwater was a straight guy; he didn’t like weirdness, and that was as weird a setup as he’d ever seen. And that was before the terror of his life—when he’d found Jack Seed’s nude and butchered corpse in the silent cage. Atwater shivered and headed through the wrought-iron gates to the mansion.
When he got there, there was a helicopter sitting on Faroe’s lawn. Atwater knew nothing about choppers but the machine on the lawn was big and looked like the ones he’d seen in Vietnam War pictures, except it was painted matte black and wasn’t sporting any machine guns. On the other hand the spies who seemed to be everywhere were. On his way to Faroe’s office Atwater must’ve passed at least a dozen of them. Most of the Cubans were wearing combat fatigues and carrying either Ml6s—or maybe Armalites—or shotguns. He spotted one Kalashnikov. Jesus. Herrera had let the “Colonel” business go to his head.
Atwater was worried—for Mr. Faroe’s sake—that it was all getting out of hand. He’d been happy enough for Jack Seed to round up a few wetbacks to do their dirty work for them. And he didn’t blame Faroe for calling in Herrera—the guy was out of touch; he had no contacts. But this second phase of reinforcements was over the top. There was Atwater doing the fine stuff—finding clues and hiring Pis—and meanwhile Arcadia was turning into a fucking boot camp. Maybe Herrera was preparing some kind of coup d’état.
Sure enough, when he entered Faroe’s study Herrera was there, greasy as a loose turd. Atwater made like Herrera didn’t exist and marched up to the desk. Filmore Faroe, with his shaved skull and snake eyes, looked as bright as a button. Atwater thought about the dry ampules of speed he’d brought back for Faroe from the hillbillies’ place. The boss man was jacked up high as all Jesus. Atwater had heard that speed could do strange things to people. Plus, he’d been locked inside that fucking weird cage for thirteen years. Maybe that accounted for the overkill on the mercenaries. Fuck it. Atwater stopped at the desk. Faroe looked up.
“You were right,” said Atwater. “I got something.”
“Sit down,” said Faroe.
Atwater sat and told him about the letters from Holden Daggett. As he spoke he took the letters from his pocket. Faroe read them without speaking. He looked up at Atwater.
“Jordan’s Crossroads is a hayseed town deep in moonshine country,” said Atwater. “I’ve got a private eye on his way there from Savannah. He’ll be there before noon. He’ll keep an eye on this Daggett guy and he’s got descriptions of your wife and Dr. Grimes. He reckons in a place that size they won’t be hard to spot. That’s if they show up.”
“And if they do?” said Faroe.
“He’ll let us know and await instructions.”
Faroe frowned. “We’re dealing with desperate individuals, Mr. Atwater. I remind you what happened to Jack Seed.”
Atwater felt like saying, “Look, buster, it wasn’t my idea to send old Jack off to stick his pecker up your wife’s ass.” Instead he said, “So what do you want me to do?”
“We’re playing for high stakes,” said Faroe. “That can never be done safely.”
Faroe retreated into himself, thinking. After a respectful pause Her-rera said something in Spanish. Faroe grunted and nodded his shaven head. Atwater waited.
“I want them alive,” said Faroe. “They can always be killed later.”
“Sir,” said Atwater.
“Colonel, how soon can your force be ready?” said Faroe.
“They are ready now, sir,” replied Herrera.
“Good. Tell them they’re leaving in ten minutes.”
Herrera saluted and strode from the room.
Atwater leaned forward. “You’re sending them up to Georgia?”
“If we wait for your Savannah gumshoe to spot them we’ll lose the hours it will take to get there. By then they may be gone.”
“What if Grimes and Parillaud aren’t there?”
“Then all we’ve lost is a few gallons of aviation fuel. Do you question my judgment?”
“No, sir. It’s just that, with all due respect, sir, I’m not sure I’d trust these guys one hundred percent. If I didn’t say so I wouldn’t be doing my job.”
“I appreciate that, Mr. Atwater. What’s more I agree with you,” said Faroe. “That’s why you’re going to go with them. You’ll be in charge on my behalf.”
“You mean I’m in the catbird seat?”
“Colonel Herrera will answer to you.”
Rufus Atwater tingled all over. He was more than just a killer. He was going straight to the top at last.
EIGHTEEN
IN HIS DREAM Lenna Parillaud was sitting on the sofa in Grimes’s cabin with her blue dress hitched around her waist while Grimes knelt between her legs and fucked her. Lenna looked at him with her green eyes, her thighs taut as she pushed the tips of her toes into the floor and lifted herself into him. Her sullen mouth was open and she made quiet, intense sounds in the back of her throat. With her right hand she masturbated. With her left she kept reaching out and putting her palm against his chest. Just as Grimes was about to come, in what he knew would be the single most gratifying orgasm of his life, he woke up with a crippling hard-on and blinked in despair at the wallpaper of Mrs. Stapleton’s guest room. The hard-on remained to torment him but the contents of the dream rapidly faded away to leave a haunting space, never to be filled, in the pit of his stomach.
There were two beds in the room. Grimes rolled over and looked toward the second. Lenna, fully clothed in her black suit, lay in what looked like a deep sleep. She was lying on her stomach, her eyes shaded by the crook of her arm. She had one leg bent, the effect of which was to tighten the cloth of her pants into the crack of her ass. The word voluptuous sprang to Grimes’s mind, followed by several others, shorter and less elegant. He rubbed his eyes and prayed to God, as he had so often before, to neuter once and for all whatever glands, chromosomes and neural tracts conspired to afflict him with the burden of lust.
As his mind struggled toward a more useful level of consciousness Grimes realized that though sex with Lenna was a nice idea, the reality of it would carry a greater price than he was prepared to pay. She was fucked-up, so was he and they were in a fucked-up place. He liked her and he cared what happened to her but he didn’t love her. He didn’t want to love her; or anyone else for that matter. In his experience it was rare for sex to be truly casual for both parties at the same moment; it was inconceivable to him that this now might constitute one such moment. Either he would fall for her or she for him and there would be difficulty and heartache all around. He now regretted kissing her in the car. He’d been exhausted and crazed; so, prob
ably, had she. Now he was rested. He looked at his watch. It was after three P.M. Instead of the two hours he’d promised himself, he’d slept for almost four. He swung off the mattress and stood up. From the floor at the foot of the bed Gul sprang up and came to him. Grimes crouched down and rubbed his flanks.
“Shhh,” said Grimes.
Lenna didn’t stir. Grimes went to the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face and rinsed his mouth. He was starving. He went back into the room. Lenna was still flat out. If he could go and get Jefferson’s suitcases alone it would save him a certain amount of worry. However he cut it, he was still a couple of hours ahead of his father. He scribbled a note for Lenna on the pad on the table, left some money in case she woke up hungry, then stuck the Colt in the back of his pants and trod softly from the room with Gul at his heels.
Downstairs, the excellent Mrs. Stapleton, in memory of her dog-loving husband, gave Gul a bowl of milk and water and Grimes made a call to Holden Daggett. He reached the office and got an answering machine. Grimes hung up without speaking. By the telephone was a directory. Grimes flipped through it and found Daggett’s home number. He rang. After three rings it was answered.
A calm, dry voice said, “Holden Daggett speaking.”
“Afternoon, Mr. Daggett,” said Grimes. “This is Eugene Grimes.”
“Dr. Grimes,” said Daggett evenly. “How are you?”
“Fine,” said Grimes. “I need to see you.”
“Let me give you directions to my office,” said Daggett.
“You don’t sound very surprised,” said Grimes.
‘When one of your patients tells you he thinks he’s Napoleon Bonaparte I don’t imagine you sound very surprised either.”
This was a fair point, though Grimes wasn’t very comfortable with its implications. He listened to Daggett’s instructions, then collected Gul and strolled a pleasant mile west into the center of Jordan’s Crossroads.
The walk did him good. At the local diner he left Gul sitting outside and went in and bought two cheeseburgers to go, a coffee, black with sugar, some juice and a raw sixteen-ounce T-bone. Further down the street he found a bench and sat down to eat the burgers while Gul wolfed down the steak. There was a light Saturday afternoon traffic up and down Main, folks, mostly white, wandering and shopping, small trucks parked with shotgun racks in their cabins. The coffee didn’t do an awful lot for Grimes, but it was a start. He was halfway through the second cheeseburger when a florid-faced local in jeans, sneakers and a green FALCONS windbreaker ambled by and smiled at him affably from beneath his baseball cap.
“Afternoon,” said the Falcons fan.
Gul growled unpleasantly. Grimes, fearing the random mutilation of an innocent man, put his fingers under Gul’s collar and whispered in his ear.
“Hey, be civil,” said Grimes. He looked at the man. “Good afternoon.”
“Handsome dog,” said the man. His voice was long and wide and syrupy.
With his growling black German shepherd dog and his limp half-burger Grimes suddenly felt horribly exposed. He felt like he had the word stranger tattooed on his forehead. He calmed himself. The guy was just being friendly: it was nice. Lots of people liked to go up to dogs. Give the guy a smile before he calls the cops.
Grimes smiled as best he could. “Thanks,” he said.
“My brother-in-law’s got a shepherd bitch. You wanted to breed from this beauty, I reckon he’d be interested.”
There didn’t seem any point in lying.
Grimes said, “I’m just passing through.”
“Well, good luck to you. You all take care of each other, now,” said the man.
“We will,” said Grimes.
The man clicked his tongue at Gul, smiled at the dour lack of response and ambled away without looking back. Grimes dropped his garbage in a can and walked on. Further down Main he found the neat red-brick building that Daggett had described. On it was a brass plaque engraved with Daggett’s name. He rang the bell and Holden Daggett appeared in pressed gray slacks and a white short-sleeve shirt. His eyes flickered over Grimes’s beardless face and clean shirt.
“This time I put some shoes on,” said Grimes.
Daggett smiled and they shook hands.
“This is Gul.”
“Charmed,” said Daggett. “Come on in.”
Daggett’s office was neat and shelved, paneled and furnished with old wood. A sense of honest industry. On the wall, among various diplomas, was a black-and-white photo of a group of young marines in full-dress uniform. Daggett was an emaciated-looking youth in the front row. It was captioned Parris Island 1951. Graduation day.
“What can I do for you?” asked Daggett.
Grimes sat down.
“Mr. Daggett,” said Grimes. “The letter you brought me yesterday has kind of turned things upside down for me. It was from a man called Clarence Jefferson. I presume he was your client.”
Daggett’s face remained neutral. “Go on, Doctor.”
“Maybe you don’t know who Clarence Jefferson really was, it doesn’t matter. But I need to know where I can find what Jefferson called ‘the Old Place.’ ”
“The Old Place,” said Daggett in a flat tone.
“Jefferson asked me to go to the Old Place. He told me how to find it but I lost the letter. My father, George, has it. For reasons of his own he’s trying to carry out Jefferson’s instructions himself. I’m pretty sure I’m ahead of him and it’s important to me that it stays that way. I want to keep him out of danger.”
Daggett’s expression didn’t change.
Grimes said, “I’m hoping that if you handled Jefferson’s affairs you might know where this Old Place is. I give you my word you wouldn’t be telling me anything Jefferson didn’t want me to know.”
Daggett frowned and turned to stare through the window. Grimes waited for him to say something but he didn’t. Grimes sensed he’d be wasting his time trying to cajole an old horse trader like Daggett into doing something he didn’t want to do. And he wasn’t going to threaten him. After a few moments Grimes stood up.
“I understand you’re bound by confidentiality,” said Grimes. “That’s a sacred trust, especially to a dead client.”
Daggett turned back to look at him.
“But I’d be grateful if you’d think about it,” said Grimes. “If you change your mind you can leave a message for me at Mrs. Stapleton’s.”
Grimes stood up and turned toward the door, hoping that Daggett would stop him. He didn’t.
“Corne on, pal,” said Grimes to Gul.
On his way across the office Grimes’s eye caught the old photograph again, of the young marines at Parris Island. He stopped. It was worth a shot.
“Which division were you with?” asked Grimes.
Daggett glanced across the room at the photo, then at Grimes.
“The First,” answered Daggett.
Grimes looked at him. “You held the Chosin Reservoir.”
A ghost flitted across Daggett’s eyes. Grimes glanced again at the gaunt youth in the photo and wondered what he must have felt facing the endless massed wave attacks of the Chinese infantry.
“You’re well informed,” said Daggett.
“My father was with the Sixth,” said Grimes. “First Battalion. In the Pacific.”
Daggett pursed his lips. “Those boys did some things,” he said.
“So I’m told,” said Grimes.
Daggett nodded slowly. He swallowed.
“Would you excuse me for a moment, Dr. Grimes?”
“Sure,” said Grimes.
Grimes went into the reception room and sat down. The room was hot. There was a fan in the ceiling but it wasn’t moving. Grimes thought about taking his jacket off, then remembered the Colt sticking into the small of his back. For a moment, beneath the ticking of the fan, he thought he could hear Daggett speaking. Then Daggett emerged from his office wearing his straw boater.
“Come along,” said Daggett.
Dagge
tt drove them in a tan Lincoln Town Car, over a decade old but well preserved. They didn’t pass back through the center of town but headed west. Daggett seemed preoccupied and didn’t speak and Grimes didn’t ask any questions. As the miles rolled by they left behind the light industry and cultivated fields that occupied the outskirts of the town, and wound through hills deeply forested with cedars, cot-tonwoods and pines. For a while other vehicles would approach and pass them every half a mile; then the cars became fewer until there were none at all and it felt to Grimes like they were the only travelers in the land.
Gul sat between Grimes’s knees, peering through the window and occasionally looking up at his face. Grimes winked at him. Maybe things aren’t going to be so bad as we thought, pal. If he could collect the goddamn suitcases from the Old Place at least his father would have nothing to do except lie low. What about Ella MacDaniels and Lenna? And Faroe? The shit was still flowing deep and fast. Grimes cursed Jefferson’s black soul. One step at a time, he told himself, that’s all you can do. Just grab the suitcases and take it from there.
The Lincoln topped the crest of a hill and started to descend. The trees shading the road from either side gradually thinned out and the landscape opened into a broad valley. To their left—the south—the valley’s meadowed floor sloped down a shallow gradient toward a winding thread of water, golden in the late afternoon sun.
“The Ohoopee River,” said Daggett.
Grimes figured that the land had been cleared for agricultural purposes, but now it was rampant with wildflowers. That reminded him of Lenna’s plantation, but these bottomlands were much prettier. In the center of the spreading fields, set half a mile back from the river, stood a farmhouse and barn. Grimes felt his heart thumping. Daggett turned off the road and bumped along hard-packed dirt, lined here and there with trees. As they got closer Grimes saw that the barn was missing half of its roof. The farmhouse was paint-peeled and leaning, canted over with age and rot. Some of the windows had cracked under the strain. There was no sign of life. Daggett drove around to the back of the farmhouse into a cobblestoned yard facing down to the river. He turned the Lincoln in a circle until it pointed toward the road again and stopped. He looked at Grimes.