A Grant County Collection

by Karin Slaughter

  'Seems like a pretty dangerous job to take up on a whim, considering the last guy who had it was chased out of town.'

  'He landed on his feet.'

  'Sounds to me like he got when the gettin' was good.'

  Valentine gave Jeffrey a sharp look. 'You telling me I should do the same?'

  'I'm telling you this is a dangerous job for somebody who doesn't have his heart in it.'

  Valentine slowed his car for a turn onto a one-lane dirt road. 'I might just surprise you, Chief.'

  'You know what surprises me?' Jeffrey asked, feeling the temperature drop in the car as they got out of the sun and drove down the tree-lined path. 'It surprises me that you don't seem to have any questions.'

  'What kind of questions should I have?'

  'Start with why my detective gave you the slip,' Jeffrey began. 'Who made Hank Norton disappear? Who got his bar closed down? Who's been setting fires? Who killed your buddy from high school?'

  Valentine slowed the car to a stop. He put the car in park and turned toward Jeffrey. Two things occurred to Jeffrey. One was that they were in the middle of nowhere and the other was that Jake Valentine was the only one of them who was armed.

  He felt a bead of sweat roll down his back.

  Valentine rested his hand on the bottom curve of the steering wheel, his fingers inches from the gun on his belt. He said, 'You look nervous, Chief.'

  'I want to know why you stopped.'

  'To answer your questions,' he said. 'Come on, let's go for a walk.' He opened the door and got out. Jeffrey sat there, his heart beating hard enough to feel. The lane they were parked on was little more than packed dirt, dense forest on either side. No one knew they were out here but Sara, and there were a lot of excuses she could be told as to why Jeffrey never came back.

  Valentine stood in the road a few feet in front of the car. He waved for Jeffrey to get out. 'Come on, Chief.'

  Jeffrey opened the door. He'd left his gun in the back of Sara's car, locked in the trunk with their suitcase. He'd thought they were coming here to tell a man that his son was dead, not chase bad guys.

  Valentine said, 'It's getting cool out.'

  'Yeah,' Jeffrey agreed. He felt the wind stir up as he got out of the car. He'd put on a light jacket over a long-sleeved T-shirt this morning but he didn't zip the jacket closed. He wanted the sheriff to think that Jeffrey wanted to be able to reach into the coat if he needed to.

  Jeffrey closed the car door. The lane was covered in fall leaves, the trees bending over to block out the light. It would've been gorgeous if Jeffrey hadn't had the powerful suspicion that he'd been brought out here for some kind of ambush.

  'This way.' Valentine started strolling down the lane, slow enough for Jeffrey to catch up.

  Jeffrey said, 'I didn't plan on going for a walk.'

  'Pretty day for it, though. Might want to zip up your jacket.'

  'I'm fine,' Jeffrey assured him.

  Valentine reached up and tugged a bright orange leaf from an overhanging branch. He twirled it in his fingers as he talked. 'Good country folk live out here. Real simple people. Most of them, they just wanna go to work, come home to the wife and kids, maybe have enough money left over at the end of the week to get a couple of beers and watch the football game on TV.'

  Jeffrey kept his hands at his sides. There was a way you walked when you were carrying a gun, like you had brass ones swinging to your knees. 'Grant County's not that much different.'

  'Guess not.' Valentine let Jeffrey get a foot or so ahead of him. The move was subtle, but Jeffrey knew the other man was looking for the telltale bulge of a gun at his back.

  Valentine said, 'Most small towns are alike, I think. Politics and all that crap blurs things, but we all have the same goals whether we're in south Georgia or south France or Timbuktu. We want to feel safe. We want our kids to go to good schools and have the opportunities we didn't. We want to live our lives and feel like we've got some control over our destinies.'

  He was sounding like a different person now, the aw-shucks gestures and good-ol'-boy slang all but gone.

  'What's this leading up to, Jake?'

  He gave Jeffrey a lazy smile. 'This way.' He pointed to a small trail that cut through the woods.

  'What's down there?'

  'See for yourself.'

  This time, Valentine took the lead and Jeffrey followed, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling as they went deeper into the forest. The trail didn't appear to be well-used. The ground sloped downward and Jeffrey slowed his pace, putting some distance between himself and the sheriff. Valentine didn't seem to notice. He kept walking, still twirling the leaf. It wasn't until he reached a small clearing that he stopped, waiting for Jeffrey.

  'Lookit this,' Valentine said. He pointed to a sloped rock with a hole in it. A long section of white PVC pipe was propped up against the hole. A trickle of water fed into the pipe.

  'It's a natural spring,' Jeffrey said, more than a little surprised. He knelt down to check it out before he could think about what he was doing. He looked up at the sheriff, waited for the man to make his move.

  'Here.' Valentine offered his hand, helped Jeffrey stand. 'The pipe goes down the hill here.' He started walking, following the pipe's path. The woods started to clear and the trees thinned out as they made their way down the slope toward what looked like an abandoned shack. Jeffrey guessed they walked about fifty yards before they reached a huge plastic holding tank of springwater. Jeffrey could hear the water dripping into the tank, saw the larger plastic pipe feeding into a shack sitting in the middle of a clearing.

  'Plumbing,' Valentine told Jeffrey. 'Springwater goes into the hookup at the house. Cold as a witch's tit if you wanna take a shower, but pretty damn smart, don't you think?'

  'Yeah,' Jeffrey agreed. He could see a beat-up Ford parked in front of the shack. A long wire ran from the roof to an electric pole. Except for the small satellite dish angled off the roof, he could be looking at a home circa the Great Depression.

  Valentine said, 'Just got electricity out here a few years ago. Liked to took forever for the county to do it. Grover had to do most of the work himself.'

  'This is where Boyd Gibson's father lives?'

  'Course it is. Where'd you think I was taking you?' Valentine took off his hat and wiped his forehead with the back of his sleeve. He was sweating as bad as Jeffrey, and it suddenly occurred to him that Jake Valentine had been just as wary during their tense walk through the woods as Jeffrey had been.

  Valentine pointed to a dilapidated wooden picnic table tucked back into the woods. It'd obviously been there for a while; kudzu had taken over. Valentine told Jeffrey, 'Me and Boyd used to sit up there and smoke weed when we was kids. Skipped school all the time, always in trouble. Now, it was his brother, Larry, who was the jock. Me and Boyd were the stoners.' He was quiet for a moment, seemed to be reflecting as he stared at the picnic table. 'Boyd's old man hated my guts. Mind you, I wasn't crazy about him, either. He beat his wife to an early grave and then he started hauling off on his sons. Beat me once, too – blamed me for getting Boyd hooked and I think maybe he's right.' He rubbed his jaw as if in memory of a punch. 'Maybe I'm just fooling myself because I sure as hell drink too much, but with drugs I think that some folks can take it or leave it. I tried a little bit of everything: coke, speed, dope. It was nice, but then I met Myra and she didn't stand for that kind of thing so I just left it behind. Boyd couldn't do that. He got into meth real heavy, started shooting up, which was something I was always too chicken to do – needles scare the crap out of me. Once Boyd started putting that shit in his veins, he never looked back. You and Sara got kids?'

  Jeffrey was taken aback by the sudden question. 'We're trying.'

  'Myra says she won't bring a baby into this world without knowing he's gonna have a daddy.'

  Jeffrey and Sara had talked about the same thing many times. 'It's dangerous work being a cop, but you can't put your life on hold because of it.'

 
; Valentine nodded, looking back at the picnic table. Jeffrey could see the beginnings of a bald spot on the crown of the man's head. That would explain why he wore a hat all the time. Jeffrey's father had been an asshole of the highest degree, but Jeffrey took comfort in the fact that his old man had died with a full head of hair.

  Valentine said, 'Myra and me, we knew each other in high school – well, the kind of way you know who the bad folks are and who the good folks are. Her family moved to town my sophomore year. Big city girl.' He laughed at a private joke. 'Myra was the good one, in case you need to be told. Real religious, loves the Lord. She was pretty surprised when I showed up at the same college as her, thought I was just some dumb pothead who'd end up slinging tires at the factory. I had to work my ass off to convince her I wasn't just some fool chasing a piece of tail.' He chuckled again. 'That was ten years ago, and she hasn't changed a bit. God, but she's pretty. Smart as a whip and don't mind putting me in my place, which I probably need more often than not. Now, I can't even imagine what my life was like without her. Miserable, I guess. Maybe I'd be in jail instead of running the place. Could've just as easily been me as Boyd thrown through your window last night.'

  Jeffrey crossed his arms, wondering if what he was hearing was the truth or some carefully planned story to get his defenses down. Valentine hadn't exactly been forthcoming over the last few days, and now he was laying down his life story like he was testifying at a tent revival.

  Valentine leaned back on his heel, put his hat on his head. 'You wanted to know who's been setting fires, who chased off Hank and got his place closed down?' He glanced back at the small house as if to make sure no one was listening. 'Answer to both questions is Boyd Gibson. He was working the bar, slinging Bud Light with meth chasers, when the ATF came in. As far as who stabbed him, I've got me some ideas, but I'm gonna have to trust you a hell of a lot more before I tell you that.'

  'Did he torch the Escalade?'

  'Wouldn't be surprised.'

  'Why did my detective run?'

  'I gather she's as hardheaded and arrogant as her boss. I arrested her because I think she's involved in this up to her eyeballs. I'm gonna find her again, and I'll be goddamned if I let her slip away from me a second time.'

  Jeffrey spoke from experience. 'You're fighting a losing battle.'

  'Yeah, well ...' He shrugged. 'We'll see about that.'

  'Who's in charge?' Jeffrey asked. 'Who's running the skinheads?'

  'If I could answer that, you and me probably would've never met.' Valentine's sloppy grin came back. 'Anyways, Chief, I guess I should warn you that the last time I saw Grover Gibson, he threatened to beat the shit out of me if I ever stepped foot on his property again.'

  Part of Jeffrey relished the idea of the young sheriff getting his ass kicked. 'Maybe you should call some backup, then. I'm not really here in an official capacity.'

  'I figured as much when you got into my squad car without your gun.' He gave Jeffrey a wink before heading toward the house, saying, 'I hope that pretty wife of yours really is a doctor. I have a feeling I'm gonna need some stitches.'

  LENA

  FOURTEEN

  Deacon Simms was one of those men who always looked old and out of step with the world, even when he was in his twenties. Lena supposed Deacon had considered himself a rebel, that when his gray braid slapped against his back as he drove his ancient Harley to the bar, he had thought he was making some kind of statement against society. He still looked every inch the Hells Angel he'd been in his younger days: Handlebar mustache. Confederate flag on the T-shirt stretching across his gut. Leather chaps over faded jeans.

  Even in the 1970s, he had looked like someone caught in a time-warp, an old hippie whose slow speech and delayed reasoning proved that you didn't quit being a pothead no matter how many years ago you stopped lighting up. Like Hank, Deacon was wrapped up in AA and NA and any A that would have him. Unlike Hank – please God, hopefully unlike her uncle – Deacon was dead.

  Now, leaning over the man's body in Hank's attic, Lena guessed Deacon had been beaten to death. His face looked more like a bruised plum, his sunken cheeks caked with dried blood. His lip had been broken open, the split cutting into his mustache so that it hung off like an actor's prop. Deacon must have lived for a while. Lena wasn't a doctor, but she had seen enough bodies at Sara Linton's morgue to know that you didn't bruise like that unless your heart was still pumping blood. If Lena had to guess again, she'd say that he'd been dead a week, maybe ten days. How long had he waited to die? Had the con with the swastika stuck him up there? Had Hank?

  There were certain procedures to follow when you found a stiff. Lena had learned them all her second week at the police academy, when they taught the important stuff they didn't want to waste on the cadets who washed out in the first week.

  First, you roped off the scene, then you made the phone calls. By law, the coroner had to pronounce that the person was dead, even if the body was so putrid the smell made your eyes sting. It was the coroner's job to decide whether the death was suspicious or not. Deacon Simms was what you'd call a no-brainer, an instant call to your chief who would then radio out homicide to take over. Next, forensic evidence had to be gathered, pictures taken, the area around the body vacuumed and fingertip-searched for any trace evidence that might have been left by the killer. Only after that would they remove the body for autopsy and go over their findings in order to track the killer.

  In the case of Hank's attic, someone would point out the way the rat turds and dust were disturbed in a large swath from the access panel to Deacon's final resting place and conclude that he'd been dragged there. Maybe they would notice the boxes stacked in front of the body and assume that he'd been hidden there, left to die. Certainly, they would see the deep cuts on his palms and forearms and say that he had tried to defend himself from someone who was wielding a very sharp knife. The fact of his missing clothes would indicate that there had been something on said clothes that the killer felt might lead back to him. Or maybe the doer got some kind of sick twist out of beating a sixty-year-old man to death and leaving him naked up in an attic to die.

  The most disturbing part was the trophy – the patch of skin that had been removed right above Deacon's left nipple. Blood surrounded the area, but the wound had not been fatal. It was just the skin the killer had wanted, a two-inch by two-inch square that had been expertly peeled from the body. The faded tattoos surrounding the missing flesh offered some clue as to what had been drawn on the removed section. Before his death, Lena had never seen Deacon without his shirt on, but she was more than familiar with the scenes adorning his chest. Deacon was Hells Angels, the original hate-mongers.

  Someone had carved off his swastika.

  The only good thing the missing skin told her was that Hank had not been involved in Deacon's death. The two had argued just about every day of their lives together, but Hank would never have hurt the only person in the world who could be called his friend. No matter what dark places Lena had let her mind go to over the past few days, she knew now without a shadow of a doubt that Hank would never intentionally harm anyone but himself. He was not a murderer.

  The thought brought Lena to an obvious question: what had Hank been doing while someone had beaten Deacon to death and left him in the attic to die?

  She had to find Hank. The local police would assume Hank had something to do with Deacon's murder. They would see a desperate drug addict and a violent death and leap to the obvious conclusion. Even Jeffrey would have a hard time believing Hank was innocent. He'd want to know how many days had passed with Hank living in the house and Deacon lying dead right above him. He'd want something more concrete than a missing piece of skin to prove Hank's innocence. Lena couldn't give him any of that. The fact that Hank was missing sure didn't do much to help matters. You only bolted if you had something to hide.

  Or maybe Hank was hiding from someone. Maybe he was hiding from Lena.

  She crawled back across the attic on her h
ands and knees, then dropped down onto the kitchen chair. Lena reached around the access panel and moved the box back in place. When she was finished, she found a rag in the bathroom and wiped the trim around the panel's opening so that her dirty fingerprints didn't show. She put the chair back in the kitchen, turned off all the lights but the one over the kitchen sink, then locked the door behind her.

  She felt like a criminal as she drove her Celica through town. Hell, she was a criminal. Not only had she failed to report Deacon's death, she'd hidden the body, wiped off her fingerprints. She could just imagine sitting in Al Pfeiffer's office, the old fart leering at her as she told him what had happened. Al would find Hank. He'd bring him in and have him up on murder charges before Lena could even open the phone book and look for a lawyer.

  Some of the outside lights were on at the bar as Lena pulled up, but there were no other cars in the lot. She assumed the lights were on timers, but then saw the rigged cords where Hank had strung together some cheap solar panels. The bulbs were a pale, fading orange and she doubted they would stay on for much longer. She leaned over and got the flashlight out of the glove compartment before getting out of the car.

  Tape with the logo of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms still crisscrossed the front door. Lena checked the seal with her flashlight to make sure it hadn't been broken before heading to the back of the building. She felt the hair on the back of her neck go up as she crossed out of the semi-lit parking lot and walked along the dirt path that led to Hank's office. Considering the week she was having, she didn't think her paranoia an unhealthy emotion.

  She had tried to cover the hole she'd kicked in the wall of Hank's office with a couple of trashcans from the bar. Unless you knew what you were looking for, the damage wasn't as obvious as she'd thought. She glanced over her shoulder, shined her light toward the woods, before pushing aside the trashcans and going into the office.

  Inside, the shack looked exactly as she'd left it. She couldn't decide if it was a good thing or a bad thing that Hank hadn't been back. Deacon Simms was dead. Other than Charlotte Warren, Hank didn't have any friends he could turn to. There was no couch he could crash on, no spare room he could hole up in.