Black River
Page 27
He gave a serene shrug. “Who can say? Perhaps it was her duty.”
“Her duty?” Corso considered this comment. “What if the prospective husband changed his mind and decided he didn’t want her for a wife?”
“For no reason?”
“Yes.”
“Then it is more likely that Mr. Pov would have killed the prospective husband. In the Cambodian tradition, he would be within his rights to do so.”
“What if…before the wedding…she became involved with another man?”
The question seemed to startle the monk. “Then the man to whom she was promised might be well within his rights to kill her. As would her brother. It would then be her duty to save them the trouble and take matters into her own hands.” He read Corso’s expression. “I’m sure this all sounds rather quaint and bloodthirsty to your ears, Mr. Corso, but as I told you earlier, our customs are often seen as odd by outsiders.”
“People change their minds all the time.”
“In your tradition, Mr. Corso, not in ours.”
“Till death do us part.”
“Hmmm,” was all the monk said.
44
Wednesday, October 25
11:01 a.m.
On the far side of the marsh, three white vans were parked along the top of the levee, doors open, orange lights pulsing. Corso watched as a pair of men in bright yellow jackets wheeled a gurney to the rear of one of the vans and lifted a slack, black bundle inside. He pulled his eyes back across the surface of the water, his gaze floating from the rushes, whose brown tops leaked white into the fall wind, to the matted grassy hillocks cowering a foot above the water-line, to the rotten stumps and the lace of lilies, spread here and there across the wavering surface. And finally to the near shore, where the little man stood, stiff and straight at the water’s edge, his fingers laced behind his back, his elbows touching.
Corso crossed the grass and stood silently at his side.
“The birds have all gone,” Nhim Pov said, after a moment. “They have no tolerance for the noise and the engines and the lights.”
“They’ll be back,” Corso said.
Nhim Pov pointed at the vans with his chin. “They’ve been here all morning. Ever since it was light enough to see.”
“Tomorrow they’ll be somewhere else.”
Nhim Pov inclined his head. “Certainly, there is no shortage of death and misery.”
“No…there never is.”
“The son of Mr. Barth. He called. Said he’s going back to Boston. Asked me to distribute what was left of his father’s things.”
“It’s time for him to get on with his life.”
Nhim Pov nodded. “One must go forward. Time never looks back.” He brought his hands out from behind his back and heaved a sigh. For the first time, he looked at Corso. “So, you are still working on your story?”
“The story’s over,” Corso said. “This morning, a man confessed to the murder of Donald Barth.”
Nhim Pov averted his eyes. “What is that saying you Americans have? Confession is something for the soul.”
“Tonic,” Corso said. “Confession is tonic for the soul.”
“Yes.”
“He will go to trial?”
“No,” Corso said. “The confession was part of a plea agreement. The matter is closed.”
“For all time?”
“Yes.”
“Do you imagine he feels better now that he has un-burdened his soul?”
Corso watched the wind plow furrows in the marsh water as he thought it over.
“I think…like most of us, he just did what he felt he had to do.”
“Sometimes that is all that remains.”
“Or so it seems at the time.”
Nhim Pov emitted a dry laugh. “There are no mistakes, Mr. Corso. In the final act, everything comes to the end for which it was intended. If this man killed Donald Barth, I’m sure he had a good reason.”
“And if it was another man who actually killed Mr. Barth?”
“Why would the first man have confessed if he was not guilty?”
“Perhaps he was induced to do so.”
Nhim Pov smiled. “Forced by outside influences.”
“Yes.”
“Then I must assume the real killer had an equally good reason for his deed. Everything is done for a reason.”
“What would be a good enough reason to kill another man?”
“Honor,” Nhim Pov said immediately.
“Whose honor, the killer or the killed?”
“Both,” Nhim Pov snapped. “To live without honor is to be no more than a beast of the field. To die without honor—” He broke off, his eyes locked on Corso’s. The two men stood in silent conversation for what seemed an eternity.
“What about fear?” Corso asked. “What of a man who kills from fear?”
Nhim Pov sighed. “What is more universal than fear? What would make him more human than fear? A man without fear is not a man at all.”
Half a mile away, the three white vans were moving, turning around one by one, and heading back toward the road, lights flashing like orange pinwheels.
The two men stood in the quiet, watching the procession bounce out into the road and head north toward the freeway. Corso turned to leave. Nhim Pov’s hand on his elbow stopped him. Pov started to speak but stopped himself. Corso pointed.
Above the tree line a dozen canvasback ducks veered across the sky, wheeled once around the marsh, and then splashed into the water, where, amid impatient quacks and airborne feathers, they began to feed.
45
Wednesday, October 25
1:19 p.m.
The Attorney General of the United States stood behind the bank of microphones, her short hair rippling in the breeze. “And I am pleased that the jury has so quickly and unequivocally brought this matter to an end, so that the long-suffering victims of Nicholas Balagula’s criminal empire can finally find some sense of closure and some measure of peace in this tragedy,” she concluded. The press began to fire questions but she ignored them. Smiling and waving like the queen, she turned and walked away from the podium.
“How long was the jury out?” Corso asked.
“Twenty-eight minutes. Guilty on all sixty-three counts.”
Meg Dougherty pushed the button on the remote control. The screen went black.
“Am I crazy or did that woman just take credit for the whole thing?”
“Only the winning part,” Corso said.
“So you’ve finally got an ending for your book.”
Corso couldn’t help himself. He laughed out loud.
“Guess what?” Dougherty said.
“I’ll bite.”
“The Times’s insurance company is picking up my hospital bill. Since I was working for them when it happened, they figured it was only fair.”
“Not to mention good publicity.”
“There’s that.”
Corso wandered over to the window and pushed the curtain aside. The morning sun poured itself onto the floor. As Corso stood looking down on Ninth Avenue, Meg Dougherty asked, “You okay?”
Without turning her way, he said, “I suppose.”
“Want to tell me about it?”
He shook his head.
“It’s that bad?”
“It’s that something,” he said. He released the curtain and ambled toward the bed, then stopped in the middle of the floor and shrugged. “One of my oldest movies up and changed its ending on me.”
She tilted her head on the pillow. “What movie is that?”
“The Western. The one where the intrepid sheriff ”—he patted his chest—“faces down the lawless gang.” He waved a hand. “All alone.” He read her puzzled expression. “You know,” he said. “Sun directly overhead, lots of dust, guy with a star on his chest. That kind of thing.”
“High Noon?”
“More or less.”
“So?”
He hesitated, seeming to list
en to some inner voice, and then said, “So maybe I didn’t turn out to be as brave and intrepid as I’d always imagined.”
“How so?”
He winced. “It was much more ambiguous than I figured. It was hard to tell the good guys from the bad guys. There didn’t seem to be any moral high ground. More like we all just got down in the swamp together and rolled around in the muck.”
“And you do love the moral high ground.”
He nodded sadly but did not speak. The streaming sunlight highlighted flecks of airborne dust, filling the room with a glittering curtain of mist. Corso eased his right hand into the shimmering shaft of light, turning it this way and that until, satisfied that the sun had touched it all, he returned it to his pocket.
“When are they going to let you out of here?” he said finally.
“Two weeks,” she said.
“Ought to take me about that long to put an ending on the Balagula book,” he said. “After that I could use some help on—”
She waved him off. “Thanks,” she said, “but I’ve still got a lot to process. A lot of healing to do.”
She almost smiled as he tried to speak with boyish enthusiasm.
“Maybe we could…you know…after you’ve had time to—”
“We’ll see,” she said, turning her face away.
Corso hesitated and then wandered over to the bedside, where he stood looking down at her. He bent over the rail and kissed her once on the cheek, lingering a moment before straightening and making for the door.
“Corso.”
He stopped and looked back over his shoulder. She had tears in her eyes.
“You’re the best friend I ever had,” she said.
She couldn’t tell whether the movement of his head was a nod or a tremor. Either way, he grabbed the door handle, slid through the narrow crack, and disappeared.
About the Author
G.M. Ford is the author of five previous, widely praised Frank Corso novels, Fury, Black River, A Blind Eye, Red Tide, and No Man’s Land, as well as six highly acclaimed mysteries featuring Seattle private investigator Leo Waterman. A former creative writing teacher in western Washington, Ford lives in Seattle and is currently working on his next novel.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.
Resounding praise for
G. M. FORD
and
BLACK RIVER
“Another two-fisted shot from the hard-boiled school of crime fiction…Ford demonstrates an adroit hand with roughhouse action and crackling dialogue and gonzo humor… Black River zips along with relentless drive, a Dodge Charger of a novel.”
Seattle Post-Intelligence
“G.M. Ford has decided to get serious…Seattle takes on more interesting shades from Corso’s darker perspective.”
New York Times Book Review
“Beach Book of the Week.”
People
“Ford serves up great dollops of intrigue, danger, and edge-of-the-seat suspense…What more could a mystery fan want?”
Booklist
“Corso is a terrific, unpredictable character worth spending time with.”
Albany Times-Union
“The best writer of Seattle-based crime fiction these days is…G.M. Ford.”
Seattle Magazine
“Black River overflows with a well-conceived plot, true villains, and an anti-hero whose focus never strays. Ford invests a subtlety in Black River that makes the story seem deceptively simple. It’s not…A briskly moving plot that never falters…Ford delivers a thoughtful thriller.”
Ft. Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel
“Pace, plot, pitch, prose: all precisely as they should be in a model modern mystery…Corso’s terrific.”
Kirkus Reviews (* Starred Review *)
“Gritty…atmospheric…Balagula is a well-rounded villain…Ford tells an engaging story with several clever twists. Plot is clearly his forte.”
Pittsburgh Post-Gazette
“Frank Corso is irresistible, part Sam Spade, part
Hunter S. Thompson…You’re in the hands of a superior storyteller.”
Martha C. Lawrence
“Welcome back, Mr. Corso—and Mr. Ford.”
Publishers Weekly (* Starred Review *)
“G.M. Ford…may be the best-kept secret in mystery novels…He’s at the top of his genre and that’s as good as it gets.”
Dennis Lehane
“Ford is a stylish and supremely confident writer. His depiction of Seattle is masterful, his scenes of violence deft and chillingly convincing…Corso may…develop into one of the more interesting and durable series heroes around.”
St. Petersburg Times
“The Raymond Chandler of Seattle.”
San Antonio Express-News
“[Ford] continues to create some of the most colorful major and minor characters in mystery fiction.”
Milwaukee Journal Sentinel
“Corso is definitely Ford’s hottest character to date.”
Toronto Globe and Mail
“Ford is wham-bang, straight-laced, no fooling around…I admit that I’ve never been a huge fan of series mysteries… [Black River] may just keep me coming back.”
Denver Post
Also by G. M. Ford
FURY
The Leo Waterman Series
THE DEADER THE BETTER
LAST DITCH
SLOW BURN
THE BUM’S RUSH
CAST IN STONE
WHO IN HELL IS WANDA FUCA?
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
BLACK RIVER. Copyright © 2002 by G. M. Ford. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition © NOVEMBER 2007 ISBN: 9780061851971
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
About the Publisher
Australia
HarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd.
25 Ryde Road (PO Box 321)
Pymble, NSW 2073, Australia
http://www.harpercollinsebooks.com.au
Canada
HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.
55 Avenue Road, Suite 2900
Toronto, ON, M5R, 3L2, Canada
http://www.harpercollinsebooks.ca
New Zealand
HarperCollinsPublishers (New Zealand) Limited
P.O. Box 1
Auckland, New Zealand
http://www.harpercollinsebooks.co.nz
United Kingdom
HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.
77-85 Fulham Palace Road
London, W6 8JB, UK
http://www.harpercollinsebooks.co.uk
United States
HarperCollins Publishers Inc.
10 East 53rd Street
New York, NY 10022
http://www.harpercollinsebooks.com