A Grant County Collection

by Karin Slaughter

  'Al Pfeiffer,' Sara continued. 'Is that why he left town? Did you throw that firebomb through his window?'

  Valentine just shrugged. 'Things happen.'

  Lena asked, 'Is Cook in on this, too?'

  'Don?' he snorted. 'Don doesn't know jack. He's just holding down that desk until his retirement kicks in.'

  Sara asked, 'Is that why he ran for sheriff?'

  Valentine smirked. 'Wouldn't do for me to run unopposed, would it?' He grinned. 'Poor old Cookie let it go to his head – actually thought he could win.' There was a knock at the back door. Valentine called, 'Who is it?'

  'Me,' a voice called back.

  Valentine pushed away from the counter and opened the door, all the while keeping his gun trained on Sara and Lena. Clint stood at the door holding a large cardboard box.

  He saw Lena and shook his head. 'You're worse than your fucking uncle, you know that? Can't keep your goddamn nose out of anything.'

  'We had a deal.'

  'Yeah,' Clint agreed, reaching into the cardboard box. There was a FedEx pack on top. He tossed it toward Lena. She saw her own handwriting, Frank Wallace's address at the Grant County police station. She had sent the packet to Frank from Kinko's the night before, thinking that if things went bad, Frank would have enough evidence to take down the operation. The original photos and logs were tucked up under the front seat of Hank's Mercedes. Her insurance was gone.

  Clint told her, 'We've been following you since you got into town. You think it's just coincidence we happened to have Charlotte with us the night we ran your car off the road?'

  Lena felt her mouth open, but nothing would come out.

  'You could've gone peacefully a couple of weeks from now. Needle in your arm, suicide note talking about how sad you were that your uncle was dead.' He glanced at Sara, shook his head, sad. 'You almost made it, too.'

  Valentine snapped, 'Stop wasting time and get started.'

  Clint put the box on the counter and walked over to the stove. He pushed Hank's pamphlets off the burners and tried the knobs. None of the burners would come on, probably because Hank hadn't used the stove in twenty years. Still, Clint didn't give up. He turned one of the knobs and leaned down, sniffing for gas. Satisfied, he took out a box of matches and struck one. The flame whooshed as the gas caught. He turned off the burner and tried each one in turn. Two lighted as easily as the first, but he had to take off the grate and use his thumbnail to clean the fourth before enough gas came out of the valve to catch flame.

  Sara asked Valentine, 'What are you doing?'

  He didn't answer as he took various items out of the box Clint had brought and lined them up on the counter. Acetone, rubbing alcohol, ammonia, lye.

  'Shit,' Lena hissed. 'Meth. They're going to cook meth.'

  'Don't worry,' Valentine told her, opening and closing cabinets until he found Hank's coffee mugs. They were old, handmade in Mexico – so fragile that Hank only used them on special occasions. He held up one of the cups, smiled. 'It won't cook for very long.'

  No, it wouldn't. Once the ingredients got too hot, the ceramic would break. The liquid would explode the second it touched the open flame, burning chemicals sticking like hot wax to everything they landed on – walls, carpets, skin. Cooking meth was so dangerous that only meth-addled junkies attempted it, and the ensuing explosions could cause massive damage not just to people but to property. Most states considered meth labs weapons of mass destruction and had asked for funding to clean them up under the Homeland Security act.

  'Is that the business you were doing at the motel?' Lena asked. 'Hank saw you cooking meth?'

  'I told you we were meeting with some associates,' Valentine answered, taking small cans of Coleman fuel out of the cardboard box. 'Some very important associates.'

  'What associates?' she pressed. 'Mexicans? Skinheads?'

  Valentine stopped unloading the box, annoyed. 'You wanna know the story? You wanna know what happened?'

  Now that she had the answer within her grasp, Lena wasn't sure whether or not she wanted to hear it.

  Valentine started to turn back around, but she stopped him. 'Yes. I want to know what happened.'

  He leaned against the counter, propping his gun hand up at the elbow. 'Hank tried to go around me, hook up with some boys at the state.'

  'The GBI?' she asked. Why had Hank gone to the GBI instead of asking Lena for help? He hadn't wanted to get her involved, of course. He'd tried all his life to keep Lena out of the thick of things, just as she'd worked steadily to keep herself right in the middle.

  Valentine said, 'Fortunately, he went to somebody who was a friend of ours – somebody ready to move up north and take a long vacation.' He smiled at the simplicity. 'It wasn't too hard getting Hank hooked again. You know meth's only got a twenty-two percent recovery rate? And most of them never stop wanting it. Mind over matter, I guess. Clint had a couple conversations with him, shot him up a few times. Pretty soon he was paying for it.'

  'Did you know that I was a cop?' Lena asked. 'Did you know that I would come looking for Hank?'

  'Of course we knew about you,' he told her. 'How do you think we controlled him in the beginning? He was terrified you'd come down and get hurt. Honestly' – he shrugged – 'I can't believe the dumb coot's still alive. The shit Clint was feeding him was pure enough to kill a horse – grade A Ya Ba. He should've been dead weeks ago. We figured by the time you made it down here, it'd be for his funeral.'

  'How can you—' Sara began, but the back door opened. Fred Bart looked just as surprised to see Sara and Lena as they were to see him. It had taken a while, but Lena had finally placed who Charlotte's killer was. Bart had been practicing in Reece since Lena was a kid. It was hard to forget a dentist who had freakishly small teeth.

  'No way,' Bart said, backing up. 'I didn't sign up for this.'

  'Get your ass in here,' Valentine ordered, using the gun to wave him in.

  Bart said, 'I only brought enough for one. Clint didn't say—'

  Clint swung around aggressively. 'What did I say, you stupid cocksucker?'

  Valentine ignored them, asking Lena, 'You got any more questions?'

  She opened her mouth to answer and he slammed his gun into the side of her head. Lena saw stars as she fell. The only thing that kept her from hitting the floor was the fact that she was handcuffed to Sara.

  'Lena!' Sara struggled to pull her back into the chair.

  Lena's ears were ringing. She heard Valentine say, 'Do the doc. I owe it to her husband.'

  'No!' Sara screamed, rearing back, taking Lena with her. Clint stepped in, bear-hugging Sara from behind. Lena was dragged across the floor as Sara struggled against the man, fighting for her life. Valentine's hand clamped down on Sara's handcuffed right wrist and Lena saw Fred Bart jam a needle into her arm.

  Two or three seconds later, Sara stopped struggling. She crumpled to the floor beside Lena, her eyes glassy. Lena put her fingers to Sara's neck, tried to feel for a pulse.

  Bart said, 'It's just a mild sedative, darlin' – something to take the edge off. She'll be fine.'

  Valentine fished the keys to the handcuffs out of his pocket. 'Yeah, she'll be fine until she dies.' He gave Bart the gun, saying, 'Shoot her in the head if she moves.'

  Bart took the weapon, showing the same easy familiarity as that night he'd sat by Charlotte in the back of the Escalade. 'What are you going to do, Jake? I didn't sign on for any of this. I don't hurt innocent people.'

  'You do if you have to.' Valentine twisted the key in Sara's cuff and her hand fell to the ground. He told Clint, 'Take her into the hall so I don't have to look at her anymore.'

  Clint's lips twisted up in a smile.

  'Get right back in here,' Valentine ordered. 'Don't fiddle with her or I'll cut your goddamn cock off.'

  Bart had taken his eyes off Lena. She edged toward the door and he snapped the gun at her head. 'Don't try it, sugar. We both know what I am capable of.'

  Lena sat back in the chair. Th
e cuff was still dangling from her hand and she worked her fingers along the chain, thinking she could use it as some kind of weapon. She grabbed the cold, curved metal in her hand, fashioning it into brass knuckles. If Bart or Valentine got close enough, she would hit them as hard as she could no matter who had a gun pointed at her face. Better to die from a bullet than burn to death like Charlotte.

  Clint came back, the door swinging behind him. Lena caught a glimpse of Sara lying in the hallway before the door swung closed.

  Bart asked, 'Jake, what are we doing here?'

  Valentine reached into the cardboard box and threw out a handful of empty blister packs from a box of cold medicine. 'We're making meth.' He tossed more of the empty packets onto the counter, scattered some matchbooks on the kitchen table. The box had everything he needed: medical tubing, beakers, filters. He dumped the box on the table, too.

  Bart asked, 'Why are these girls here, Jake? I told you after Charlotte that I was finished with this kind of shit.'

  'You're not finished with anything until I say you are.'

  Bart kept the gun on Lena, but he said, 'I don't want to be a part of this.'

  Valentine chuckled as he opened the cabinet under the sink. Years of cleaning products were stuck to the bottom but he swept them aside with his hand, saying, 'Shit we could've just used this.'

  Bart said, 'This is wrong, Jake. This is just wrong. Al never did things like this. Innocent people never got hurt.'

  'Al was bringing in pocket change. We got us a real organization here, Fred. We can't let our people down.' Valentine reached under the sink and grabbed the drainpipe, putting his weight into his heels as he pulled on it. 'That ain't moving.'

  Clint was just standing there. 'What do you want me to do now?'

  Valentine indicated the cans of solvents on the counter. 'Mix 'em up. Get everything ready.'

  Clint started opening bottles and pouring them into Hank's ceramic mugs.

  Bart tried again, 'Jake—'

  'Shut up your whining, Fred.' Valentine groaned as he stood up, cursing, 'Motherfucker, that hurts,' as he held his hand to his side. 'You're not even worried about me, Fred.' Valentine gripped the counter, his hand leaving a bloody print. 'Lookit my damn side. I ripped it open on that stupid door.'

  Bart glanced at the bloody bandage. 'You'll live.'

  'Thanks for your concern.' Valentine wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He was sweating. He picked up the jug of bleach that had been under the counter and set it on the kitchen table with a thump.

  Bart said, 'This is crazy, man. What are you going to do?'

  'What we're gonna do is handcuff her to the sink, then blow this place to hell.'

  Bart shook his head. 'They'll find the cuffs in the—'

  'Yeah, I'll be sure to make note of that when I'm filling out my scene of crime report,' Valentine interrupted. 'One pair of police issue handcuffs.'

  'What about the compound?' He glanced nervously at Lena. 'Did you clear this?'

  'It's all clear,' Valentine told him. 'They took the leash off as soon as she showed up with those pictures.'

  Clint said, 'We're ready here,' indicating the ceramic mugs on the counter. Thin plumes of smoke already drifted out of the mugs as the chemicals combined.

  Valentine asked, 'How long will it take?'

  Clint shrugged. 'The ceramic is pretty thin. I'd say it'll take ten, maybe twenty minutes tops for the heat to crack them. Once the liquid touches the flame, it'll go up like a fucking a-bomb. I'd get the hell out of here as soon as you put them on the heat, though. You never know with these things. The chemicals ain't exactly stable.'

  Valentine patted him on the back for a job well done. 'I hear you, boy.'

  Bart said, 'I am so sick of this shit. You think her husband's going to just let this go?' He waved the gun toward the hallway. 'At least shoot her so she doesn't have to suffer through it.' He glanced at Lena, though with less compassion. 'Shoot them both. What harm will it do to show a little kindness?'

  Valentine splashed acetone around the room. 'Because that'll leave bullets in the body, Fred. I can pocket a pair of handcuffs but I can't hide a bullet in an X-ray. Even if you dig it out, you can tell when a bullet hits bone. Knives leave marks, too, so don't even think about it, Clint.' He shook his head, telling Bart, 'I thought you'd done enough autopsies by now to know how this shit works. We'll just cuff her to the drainpipe and get the hell out of here.'

  Lena finally spoke. 'What are you going to tell Jeffrey?'

  He smiled at Lena. 'That Deacon Simms was cooking meth in Hank's kitchen and you and Sara came along at the wrong time.'

  She didn't even bother to act surprised that Deacon's body would be found in the ruins. It made perfect sense. 'Jeffrey knows you were here.'

  'He'll know that I dropped y'all off,' Valentine countered, splashing ammonia on top of the lye. 'Then he'll know that I went home and had lunch with my wife before she had to go back to school.'

  'He'll put it together that you handed in your badge on the same day that his wife died.'

  Bart had been following the conversation closely. Lena could feel his body tense. He asked, 'You resigned?'

  'Yes,' Lena said, gripping the handcuff in her hand, willing him to come closer. 'Don Cook told me that Jake resigned this morning. Jake got a threatening letter and said he was leaving town before he ended up like Al Pfeiffer.'

  'She's lying,' Valentine said. 'I resigned, but I—'

  'He said he was leaving town,' Lena repeated. 'Look at this stuff, Fred.' She indicated the beakers, the chemicals. 'They had all of this ready to go. Why do you think that is?'

  'Don't listen to her,' Valentine told Bart, a warning in his tone.

  Lena pressed on, putting together the pieces. Valentine must have been pretty fucking pleased with himself. Lena had handed him surveillance photos. The right ones shown to the right people would paint Fred Bart as the mastermind to the whole operation. 'They were going to set you up, Fred. They've been planning this all along, just waiting for the right time to bang you up.' He shook his head, and she insisted, 'Think about it, Fred. Look at what's going on here. Jeffrey would've needed an explanation, somebody to blame for his wife dying. Can't you see Jake is setting you up for the fall? You are the explanation.'

  'Don't listen to that crap,' Valentine said, but even Lena could tell she'd struck close to home. The man was visibly nervous. He couldn't stop himself from looking at the gun. 'Come on, Fred. Things were just getting a little hot and I—'

  Both Lena and Valentine ducked as Bart squeezed the trigger. Instinctively, Lena put her hands over her head and the loose cuff slapped her in the face. She looked up, expecting to see Jake Valentine lying dead, but it was Clint who had been shot. Bart was an excellent marksman. The bullet had gone straight between the man's eyes.

  For his part, Clint seemed the last one to realize he'd been shot. He stood there, his eyes staring blankly, body swaying to the side, at least two full seconds ticked by before he collapsed back against the door. It swung open as he fell, the chain looping his wallet to his belt clanging against the wood.

  'What the fuck did you do that for?' Valentine demanded. 'For the love of Christ, Fred. He was Jerry's man.' He stamped his foot on the floor. 'You're going to have to explain this, you stupid asshole.'

  Bart had the gun trained squarely at Valentine's chest. 'You think I don't know what you're doing?'

  'What?'

  'She's right,' he said. 'You've never cooked meth in your life, and Clint was too far up the ladder to fool with this shit.'

  'That's not—'

  'What were you doing with all this stuff?' he asked, indicating the chemicals, the beakers. 'You were planning on leaving me holding the bag while you skipped town with that fat wife of yours.'

  Valentine's fists clenched. 'Don't you dare bring Myra into this.'

  Bart said, 'Al and I kept this town in line, kept the good people away from the bad, for thirty years. You didn't give a shit ab
out right and wrong. You just offered it around like candy.'

  'Money is money, man.'

  'At what cost?'

  'Them fistfuls of cash I was giving you every week didn't seem to bother you none.'

  'Like I had a choice,' he snapped back. 'You were nothing but a little pissant before you married into that family. Then all of a sudden you're the big man in town, waving your dick around like you're somebody special. All you ever were was a fuck-up.'

  'Like it was my bright idea to throw Boyd through the fucking hotel window!' he yelled. 'What about that, Fred? Another one of your grand gestures, just like the schoolteacher you torched on the football field. She's what started this shitstorm in the first place.' Valentine looked pleased with his point. 'You and your foolish ways, thinking you'll scare people off like in the old days, and all it ends up doing is throwing gasoline on the fire. And here I am, trying to clean up your mess. Who's the fuck-up now?'

  'You know why they kept me around?' Bart demanded. 'You ever ask yourself why they didn't give me a one-way ticket to the swamp? It was because they didn't trust your skinny little ass as far as they could throw you.'

  Valentine chuckled. 'If you know them so well, then you know how they feel about family.'

  'I think they'll be glad to get rid of you, is what I think.'

  'I think that I'm the only one standing between you and death right now.'

  'Get over by the sink,' Bart ordered. 'Both of you.'

  Valentine started, 'Hold on now—'

  Bart shot him in the leg.

  'Shit!' Valentine screamed. 'Jesus Christ, what the hell are you doing?'

  Bart reached down and picked up the shell from the bullet. 'I said both of you get over by the sink.' When Lena didn't move, he kicked her chair. 'There are worse ways to hurt you than with a bullet, darlin'.'

  She got up, moved toward the sink.

  Valentine held his bleeding leg, fuming, 'You think you can get away with this?'

  'I think I'm gonna have an awful lot more bullets to dig out of your body down at the morgue if you don't get down in front of that sink and cuff your hand through that pipe.'