by John Hart
“Lightning,” Johnny said.
But the big man did not hurry. He dropped a handful of earth into the grave. Leaves clattered in the wind. “Lightning falls.” He dropped more earth on his daughter’s coffin. The wind grew. Jack was already through the gate, but Johnny had no desire to follow. Freemantle stared down at the coffin, unmoving. “God sounds like my daddy.”
“Is that right?”
Freemantle nodded. “Not like the other voice.”
“Other voice?”
“Like chocolate gone soft in the sun. Sticky sweet. Hard to swallow away.” He looked up at the storm. “I hear him when the crows come close.”
Freemantle hefted a stone and threw it at a group of crows in the low branches of the oak tree. He came close, then paused for a long time, and Johnny didn’t push him. The man was crazy insane. Johnny looked for Jack, but Jack was gone. “I’m scared of lightning,” Freemantle said. He raised his face to the storm but did not appear frightened, in spite of what he’d said. “God won’t talk to me anymore.”
The grief was tangible. The loss.
“Here. Wait.” Johnny took the shovel from Freemantle and stepped to the oak tree. The crows called raucously, then flew off, and Johnny used the shovel blade to gouge a circle in the bark. “That’s supposed to protect you from lightning. Only on oak trees, though. It won’t make a difference on any other kind of tree.”
The big man stood, solemn and tense, good eye moving from the scarred bark to the boy. “Black magic.”
“No.”
“Says who?”
“The Celts. They’re dead now. A long time dead.”
“How you know it works if all them Celts is dead?”
“I read it somewhere. It’s not important.”
Freemantle shook his head, doubt all over his tortured face. “Lightning falls,” he said again. “All you can do is pray God it don’t fall on you.” He faced the mound of fresh-dug earth. “She should have words as the dirt goes in.” He turned, face full of hope and inexplicable trust. “Do you have a Bible?”
“I don’t.” Suddenly, Johnny was embarrassed. “But I know some words.” Johnny saw no reason to share his own beliefs on the matter, not here with this strange man and his fear of crows and lightning and voices like sugar. “I’ll say them for you.”
A burst of rain hissed in the treetops. Freemantle’s face twisted in relief as Johnny stepped closer and felt the man’s great height beside him. The scars were puckered and gray, the bad eye iridescent when the yellow light burst. Johnny thought back to long nights reading the Bible, to hours of his mother’s fevered prayer and his own search for meaning. For a long moment, his mind was blank, then he said the only words he could remember. “Our Father who art in heaven …”
Cold rain fell hard.
“… hallowed be thy name.”
Levi Freemantle wept as he buried his daughter.
Johnny stood in the rain and waited for lightning to fall.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Hunt and Yoakum waited in the first-floor lobby of the big building downtown. Ken Holloway’s office was on the fifth floor, but the receptionist, an iron-faced woman north of fifty, was being difficult. Outside, the day was growing darker by the minute. Blown litter scraped across the concrete walk, then lifted and spun in the wind. “We don’t need an appointment.” Hunt’s shield filled his cupped palm.
The woman stood behind a massive teak counter, a phone system to one side, buttons flashing red and green. Holloway’s company filled the entire building. A glance at the directory showed the scope of it. Real Estate Sales, Development, Commercial Construction, Consulting, Property Management. Holloway owned the mall, several of the largest buildings downtown, all three theaters, two golf courses; and that was just in this town. Holloway’s interests stretched across the state.
“This is a criminal matter,” Hunt said. “I can be back in twenty minutes with a subpoena and a warrant.”
The woman’s phone buzzed and she answered. When she hung up the phone, her voice was cold and clipped, her face unbending. “Mr. Holloway is one of the kindest people in this town, and everyone here is aware of your harassment. There will be no shortage of people to testify against you if there is anymore of that here today.” The mask fell away and she smiled. “Mr. Holloway will see you now.” She extended an arm. “The elevator is to your right.”
They crossed the marbled floor and stepped into the elevator. Yoakum pushed the button and the doors slid together. “Delightful,” he said.
“The receptionist?”
“A peach of a woman.”
Holloway’s office covered most of the entire floor. Hunt saw a conference room, a few secondary offices, but the rest was wide-open space. Holloway stood behind his desk. To the right stood his attorney; to the left, a uniformed security guard, armed. Three walls of plate glass offered a view that included most of downtown, including the police station, which looked dingy and small. From this height the storm was a fast-approaching wall of purple and black.
“Detectives,” Holloway said.
Hunt stepped onto an oriental rug and moved past a conference table that cost more than his car. He stopped in front of the desk. Holloway’s smile was forced, his fingertips white on the desk where they took his weight. “You remember my attorney. This is Bruce.” He indicated the guard.
Hunt stared Bruce down. He was in his forties, tall and black in a crisp blue uniform with a gold shield on his chest and matching patch on one shoulder. The man’s face showed no expression. The weapon was a semiautomatic. “You got a carry permit, Bruce?”
“He does,” Holloway said.
“Can’t he answer for himself?”
“No.”
“He’s a grown man.”
“Not so long as he works for me.”
Hunt raised an eyebrow at Bruce, tilted his head, and shrugged. “We’re investigating a possible link between a criminal matter and one of your employees. We need the names and employment records of all of your security guards, particularly those at the mall.”
“What kind of criminal matter?”
“We’d like the names.”
The lawyer leaned over the desk. “I have advised my client to answer no questions absent a court order to do so.”
Holloway raised his hands to show that he had no choice, and Hunt met the attorney’s gaze. “Is that final?”
“Yes,” the attorney said.
“You’ll advise your client against any interference in our investigation?”
“Of course.”
“He is to alert no one of this visit. The investigation is ongoing.”
Holloway put on his professional smile. “We have nothing to discuss outside of court, Detective Hunt. Not my employees, your investigation, or your uncommonly poor choices. Not Katherine Merrimon or her troubled little bastard of a son.”
Hunt held the gaze, then turned on his heel.
“Oh, but first,” Holloway said. “I guess you should know that Katherine Merrimon has refused to see me further. Changed the locks. Hysterics. The usual.”
Hunt stopped, walked back to the desk. “Is that right?”
“We filed eviction papers this morning. She’ll be on the street in thirty days.”
“She’ll manage,” Hunt said.
“Will she?”
Hunt’s vision constricted until all he saw was Holloway’s oiled smile. He felt a pull on his jacket and realized it was Yoakum. “Come on, Clyde.”
Yoakum turned but Hunt did not budge. He eyed Bruce, then Holloway. “Do all of your guards carry weapons?” he asked.
“I’m not going to answer your questions,” Holloway said. “I thought I made that clear.” Hunt eyed the security guard. “He won’t tell you anything, either.”
Bruce kept his mouth shut, his back straight; but when Holloway stopped looking at him, he laid one finger on the butt of his weapon.
The attorney inclined his head. “Have a good day, Detecti
ves. The receptionist will be happy to validate your parking.”
They crossed the room, shoes soft on the rugs, loud when they hit wood. The elevator doors opened, then closed. “A nice office,” Yoakum said. Hunt remained silent, nails biting into his palms. “Nice view.”
They passed the receptionist, who glared but was ignored. On the sidewalk, the building rose tall and dark above them. Electricity charged the air, and Hunt’s voice seemed to carry much of the same raw energy. “You saw it?”
“I did.”
“His guards carry.”
“Not all of them.”
“But one.”
“Yep.”
“One carries.”
They walked to the car and wind made their pants legs flap and stutter. A uniform, a badge, and a gun. A thirteen-year-old-kid could mistake that person for a cop.
Easy as anything.
Easy as pie.
—
At the car, Yoakum put his hands on the roof. Hunt was on the other side, the street empty behind him. “I need to say something,” Yoakum said. “And I don’t want you getting bent out of shape about it.”
“What?”
“We don’t need to see the employee files.”
“They might help.”
“But we don’t need them.”
Hunt shrugged. “I wanted to see him. I wanted him to know that I’m looking.”
“That’s not enough reason.”
“You’re probably right.”
“Then why come here at all? Why involve Holloway if there’s no need? You knew he wouldn’t answer your questions. He hates you.”
Hunt stared back, eyes shuttered.
“Oh, shit.”
“Get in,” Hunt said.
They slipped into the car; the wind noise fell away. “He’ll call his people,” Yoakum said. “That’s how he is.” Hunt started the car. “He’s probably on the phone right now.”
“Maybe.” Hunt put the car in gear, checked traffic, and pulled away from the curb.
“You set him up,” Yoakum continued. “He’ll call his people and you’ll charge him with obstruction.”
Hunt kept his mouth shut.
He drove for the mall.
—
The mall was a monolith of concrete and stucco. Slab-sided and bleak, it rose against the dark sky. Glass doors flashed from gray to purple as people filed out, eager to beat the storm home. Hunt threaded through traffic and steered for the back. He rounded the corner and a few hard drops cracked against the windshield. They passed Dumpsters and loading docks and old cars.
They were halfway down the back wall when Hunt slammed on the brakes. His door clanked open and he was out before Yoakum called. “What are you doing?”
But Hunt was already moving. “Ma’am?” Hunt called out to a woman who stood, bent, on the outer edge of the nearest loading dock. “Ma’am?” The woman was in her sixties, attractive. Silver-white hair bobbed at the collar of her expensive dress. Hunt gave her his best smile. “Hi. Detective Hunt.” He flashed the shield. “Sorry to bother you.”
“May I help you?” She was thin-boned and elegant. The diamond at her throat looked to be two carats and real.
A few more drops struck the macadam. “I couldn’t help but notice …” Hunt gestured at what she held in her hand.
“Tuna fish.” She tilted the can, embarrassed. The top was off, tuna gone bad. She gestured at the edge of the dock, where she had just placed a fresh can. “There’s a dear of a cat. I can’t abide seeing it rooting around in the Dumpster.”
“Is the cat tired of tuna?” He tipped his head at the spoiled can.
“I haven’t seen her in a few days.”
“What does the cat look like?” Her puzzlement showed, her hesitance, so Hunt offered his best smile. “If you don’t mind. I’m a cat lover, too.”
She beamed, stepping closer. “Brown tabby with gold eyes and two white paws.” She raised both shoulders, smiled brilliantly. “Just full of life.”
Hunt stepped up onto the loading dock. “May we come through your store?”
“I don’t know—”
“I have to insist.”
The store sold clothing. Hunt and Yoakum pushed through storage, then past the dressing rooms. Women looked up, startled, but Hunt ignored them, making for the escalators. “Clyde. Slow down.”
The crowd was still large, storm notwithstanding. Families, kids—a surge of color and noise.
“Clyde!”
Hunt drove through the crowd, Yoakum trailing in his wake. “This is the guy.”
“Who’s the guy? What are you talking about?”
“It’s the same cat from Johnny’s house. Brown tabby with two white paws. This is our guy.”
“Who is?”
“Whichever guard carries a gun.”
“Johnny’s cop.”
Hunt took the escalator at a run. He emerged into the food court, shouldered past a group of shoppers and made for the door marked SECURITY. It was locked. Hunt pushed the buzzer.
“Security.”
Hunt recognized the voice. “Steve. This is Detective Hunt. Buzz the door.”
“Is there a problem?”
Hunt slammed a palm on cold metal. “Buzz the fucking door.”
The door buzzed and Hunt took the stairs two at a time. Yoakum pounded concrete behind him. They rounded the landing, weapons out. Steve met them at the top of the stairs, door cracked open behind him. “Step aside, Steve.”
“Whoa. Hey.” Steve’s hands went up when he saw the guns.
Into the security office. Fat security guard at the monitors, another standing in front of the broad glass window overlooking the food court. Both were startled, scared. Neither carried a weapon. “Office,” Hunt said, then saw the closed door, the windows with slatted blinds. “You.” He jabbed a finger at the standing guard. “Sit.” The guard scurried to the nearest chair. Hunt motioned to the office door and Yoakum flanked it. Steve looked dazed.
“Anybody in there?” Hunt asked.
“Mr. Meechum? He left.”
“Who is Meechum?”
“The boss man.”
Hunt gestured Steve away from the door, then looked at Yoakum and counted down from three. The door opened easily, and they were through, into the empty office.
“I was saying—” Steve filled the open door. “Mr. Meechum just left.”
“When?”
“Five minutes, maybe.”
“Describe him,” Hunt said.
“I don’t know. Sixty-five. Skinny but strong. Thin hair, busted-up nose. Kind of a dick.”
“Does he carry a sidearm?” Hunt asked. “Is he in uniform?”
“Jeans, usually. A kind of safari shirt. But he wears a pistol on his belt. He’s the only one here that’s allowed to.”
“What kind?”
“Huh?”
“The gun. What caliber?”
“Forty-five, I think.”
Hunt met Yoakum’s eyes, and both understand. Same as the shell casing found in David Wilson’s car.
“Does he carry cuffs?” Yoakum asked.
“We all do.”
“John.” Hunt gestured to the desk in the office. It was old and scuffed, nothing special. A bank of monitors sat on its surface, tied into the mall’s surveillance system. Three of the monitors were fed by cameras overlooking the food court. Each one showed the same thing: a table of young girls, maybe fourteen, maybe less. The shots were zoomed in. Hunt could see braces, dimples, the ready laughter, the toss of hair. “This is our guy.”
Yoakum leaned in. “Motherfucker.”
“Why did Meechum leave?” Hunt asked, and there was a terrible certainty in him.
Steve did not hesitate. “He got a call from Mr. Holloway. I don’t know what they talked about, but I put the call through myself.”
“When?”
“Just now. Right before you got here.”
“Steve,” Hunt said. “We’re going to need Meechum’
s address.”
“I don’t know his address, but you can walk to his house in two minutes.”
“How’s that?” Hunt asked.
“He lives behind the mall. A few weeds, a ditch or two, and you’re at his back door.”
“Show me,” Hunt said.
“Now?”
“Right this minute.”
Steve licked his lips, threw a nervous glance around the room. “Really?”
“Yeah.” Hunt’s hand fell hard on his shoulder. “Really.”
—
Cold rain drummed against Hunt’s face when he opened the door onto the back lot; it slashed in at an angle, beat itself to mist on the blacktop. Visibility was muted, as if light itself had been sucked from the air. A car rolled past, windshield fogged over, blades throwing water off the glass in wide, crystal arcs. “Where?” Hunt raised his voice.
Steve pointed. The heavy door clanged shut behind him. “There. Between those trees.” Hunt saw the trees, two scrubby cedars sprouting from the edge of a ditch across the lot. “There’s a trail. It’s not long.”
“I need you to show me.”
“Aw, man.” Steve looked up at the rain. “You’re going to get me wet and fired.” Nobody laughed.
“Now,” Hunt said.
They dashed across the flooded pavement, slipped between a parked Suburban and a battered Ford with plastic taped over one window. Behind the cars, the ditch was already flooded. Dark water carried fast-food wrappers, plastic bags, and cigarette boxes downcurrent. The trail began at the trees, ran narrow and straight through the tall weeds of a vacant lot. Yoakum’s hand fell on Hunt’s shoulder. “Backup?” He held up his radio.
“We’re not waiting.”
“Good.” Yoakum put the radio in his pocket and racked the slide on his weapon. “I hate waits.”
“Which house?”