by John Hart
“They wouldn’t let me see him,” she said.
“You’re on the list, Grace. You’re the only one he wanted to see.”
She shook her head, and her voice was all but gone. “He’s on suicide watch.”
“Grace . . .”
“Suicide watch.” Her voice gave out, she started rocking again, and I cursed Grantham for the hundredth time. She wanted to see Dolf and he wanted to see her. She could ask the questions that I could not; but Grantham had put him on suicide watch. No visitors allowed. I suspected that Grantham’s decision had as much to do with keeping Dolf isolated as it did with keeping him alive. It was smart. And it was cold.
The bastard.
I took Grace’s hand; it was limp and dry. I felt slickness at her wrist and saw that she had not even taken off the hospital bracelet. The swelling was down in her face, the bruises gone yellow at the edges. “Do you know that he has cancer?”
She flinched. “He didn’t talk about it much, but it was always there, like another person in the house. He tried to prepare me.”
I had a sudden revelation. “That’s why you’re not at college.”
Tears threatened and she dashed a hand across her eyes before they could spill out. “All we have is each other.”
“Come on,” I said. “Let me take you home.”
“I don’t want to go home,” she said. “I need to do something. Anything.”
“You can’t stay here.” She lifted her face and I saw the grief. “There’s nothing you can do.”
I took her back to Dolf’s house. The whole time, she held herself as if some deep part of her was frozen. Occasionally, she shuddered. I tried to speak once, but she shut me down. “Just leave me alone, Adam. You can’t make this right.”
It was pretty much the same thing I’d said to Dolf after my father threatened to kill me.
She allowed me to lead her inside and sit her on the edge of her bed. The bag she’d been carrying fell to the floor, and her hands turned palms up on the bed beside her. I switched on the lamp and sat next to her. Her tan was washed-out, her eyelids heavy. The stitches looked especially cruel on her dry, passive lips. “Can I get you some water?” I asked.
She shook her head, and I saw that some of her hair had gone white, long strands that gleamed as hard as stretched wire. I put an arm around her shoulder and kissed her head.
“I yelled at your father,” she said. “He came to the hospital and told me. He wanted to stay with me after he broke the news. He told me I couldn’t leave the hospital, that he wouldn’t allow it. I said some pretty awful things.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “He understands.”
“How can I make this go away?” she asked.
I shook my head. “I don’t know why he’s doing it, Grace. What I do know is that you should go to bed.”
She rose to her feet. “I can’t do anything useful in bed. There has to be something to do.” She paced three quick turns, then stopped, and stood still. “There’s nothing I can do,” she said, looking stricken.
I pulled on her hand, drew her back down to the bed. “Can you think of anyone else that might want Danny Faith dead? Anything at all and I’ll check it out.”
She raised her head, and her eyes held such pain. “You don’t understand,” she said.
“What do I not understand?”
Her hands tightened on mine and her eyes turned mirror bright once again. “I think that maybe he did it.”
“What?”
She stood abruptly and took hard steps to the far corner of the room. “I should not have said that. Forget it. I don’t know what I’m saying.”
“Grace, you can trust me. What’s going on?”
When she turned, the line of her mouth was unforgiving. “I don’t know you anymore, Adam. I don’t know if I can trust you or not.”
I stood, opened my mouth but she rode over my words.
“You’re in love with a cop.”
“That’s not—”
“Don’t deny it!”
“I wasn’t going to deny it. I was going to say that it’s not relevant. I would never put Dolf in harm’s way.” Grace backed into the far corner of the room. Her shoulders drew up, as if to protect the vital parts of her neck. Her fists clenched. “I’m not your enemy, Grace. And I’m not Dolf’s. I need to know what’s happening. I can help.”
“I can’t tell you.”
I stepped toward her.
“You stay right there!” she said, and I saw how close she was to truly breaking. “I need to figure this out. I need to think.”
“Okay. Just calm down. Let’s talk about this.”
She lowered her hands, and the shoulders came down, too. Resolution moved in her. “You need to leave,” she said.
“Grace—”
“Get out, Adam.”
“We’re not done here.”
“Get out!”
I moved for the door and stopped with my hand on the frame. “Think hard, Grace. This is me, and I love Dolf, too.”
“You can’t help me, Adam. And you can’t help Dolf.”
I did not want to leave. Things still needed to be said. But she slammed the door in my face, leaving me to stare at thin, blue paint. I wanted to beat the door down. I wanted to shake sense into a frightened woman that should know better. But she was like the paint, so thin in places that I could see raw wood beneath. I slid my hand down the door, and paint flaked away. I blew bits of it from my fingertips.
Things were in motion that I could not begin to understand. Things had changed, people, too; and my father was right about one thing.
Five years was a long time, and I knew nothing about nothing.
I called Robin. She was at the scene of some domestic disturbance and told me that she could not speak for long. In the background, I heard a woman screaming obscenities and a man repeating the words, “Shut up,” over and over.
“Did you hear about Dolf?” I asked.
“I did. I’m sorry, Adam. They don’t put prisoners on suicide watch without some good reason. I don’t know what to say.”
Grantham’s words flashed through my mind: I don’t want him killing himself before I get to the bottom of this.
He had to be wrong.
About everything.
“It’s okay. That’s not why I called. I ran into Grantham. He plans to ask your boss to suspend you. I thought you should know.”
“He already asked. My boss told him to kiss off.”
“That’s good.”
“Well, the storage unit tip you gave me was solid. They raided it last night and seized over three hundred thousand dollars of crystal meth. Zebulon Faith may be a bigger player than we thought. On top of that, they found crates of cold medicine that they think were hijacked from a distribution center near the Charlotte airport.”
“Cold medicine?”
“Yeah. They use the ingredients to make meth. Long story. Listen, there’s one other thing you should know—” She broke off, and I heard her voice escalate. She was not talking to me. “Sit down, sir. I need you to sit down right there. Now, stay.
“I have to go, Adam. I wanted you to know that DEA is sending some of its boys around to check out what we seized. They may want to talk to you. May not. I don’t know. We’ll talk later.”
“Wait a minute,” I said.
“Quickly.”
“I need the name of the woman that filed the assault charge against Danny Faith.”
Robin was silent, and I heard the man again. “Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.” And then the woman, who was maybe his wife, screaming, “Don’t tell me to shut up, you lyin’ ass, cheatin’ motherfucker!”
“Why?” Robin asked.
“As far as I can tell, she’s the last one to see Danny alive. Somebody needs to talk to her. If Grantham won’t take the time, I sure as hell will.”
“Don’t get in Grantham’s way, Adam. I’ve warned you about that. He won’t have the patience for it. He’ll come dow
n hard if he finds out.”
“Are you going to tell me?”
I heard her exhale. “Her name is Candace Kane. Goes by Candy.”
“Are you serious?”
Voices escalated behind Robin: two angry lovers ready to tear into each other. “I’ve got to go,” Robin said. “She’s in the book.”
The car was soft leather and familiar smells, the engine so silent I almost couldn’t hear it. I rolled down windows to wash out the heat and felt the overwhelming vastness of the land around me. For a moment, it gave me comfort, but the moment did not last. I needed to talk to my father.
I turned out of Dolf’s driveway, and drove to my father’s house. His truck was gone, but Miriam was on the porch swing. I stepped out of the car and onto the porch. She looked up, but her eyes told me nothing. I thought of sharp blades and tattered hearts.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Yes.”
‘What are you doing?”
“Do you ever feel the need to stop, just for a second, before walking into a room? Like you need to take one last breath before you can handle what’s on the other side of the door?”
“I guess so.”
“I just needed that breath.”
“There’s a lot going on right now,” I said.
She nodded, and I saw that her hair was pulling free from the comb that held it up. Long, black strands spilled over her collar. “It’s frightening,” she replied.
She looked so sad, I wanted to touch her, to put an arm around her, but I did not. It might hurt her, or startle her. The past few days had been hard on everyone, but Miriam looked close to transparent. “I guess Dad’s not home.”
“His truck’s gone. It’s just Mom, I think. I’ve been here for a while.”
“Miriam,” I said. “Do you have an idea who might have wanted to kill Danny?” She shook her head, then stopped, chin cocked sideways. “What?” I asked.
“Well, there was once, about four months ago. Somebody beat him up pretty badly. He wouldn’t talk about it, but George said that it was probably a bookie out of Charlotte.”
“Is that right? Did George know what bookie?”
“I doubt it. He just said that Danny was finally getting some justly deserved payback. When I asked him what he meant, he said that Danny had been living too large for his own pants and it had finally caught up with him.”
“George said that?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know where Jamie is right now?”
“No.”
“Hang on a second.” I dialed Jamie’s number on my cell phone. It rang four times before voice mail kicked in. “Jamie. It’s Adam. I need the names of those bookies. Call me when you get the message.” I closed the phone and placed it on the seat beside me. Miriam looked so fragile, like she might break down at any second. “It’ll be okay,” I told her.
“I know. It’s just hard. Dad’s so sad. Mom is upset. Grace . . .”
We were silent for a moment. “Do you think that Dolf could have killed Danny?”
“As God is my witness, Adam, I have no idea. Dolf and I never knew each other that well and I really didn’t know Danny at all. He was older, hired help. We didn’t associate.”
A sudden thought occurred to me. Miriam said that George described Danny’s beating as justly deserved pay-back. Harsh words, I thought, and pictured George at breakfast the other day, the anger that rose in him as we spoke of Danny.
Danny said I was a joke. He told Miriam that she shouldn’t date a joke.
I’d suggested that Danny remembered a different George Tallman.
Fuck him, then. That’s what I say.
I studied Miriam. I did not want to upset her needlessly. As far as I could tell, George Tallman did not have a violent bone in him; but I had to ask. “Miriam, did George and Danny have issues? Problems? Anything like that?”
“Not really. Years ago, they were friends. The friendship ended. One of them grew up, the other didn’t. I don’t believe there were any issues beyond that.”
I nodded. She was right. Danny had a great power to make other men angry. It was the ego in him. Nothing more.
“How about Dad and Danny?” I asked. “Have they had problems?”
“Why would you ask that?”
“The cops doubt Dolf’s confession. They think that he might be lying to protect Dad.”
Miriam shrugged. “I don’t think so.”
“Does the name Sarah Yates mean anything to you?” I asked.
“No.”
“What about Ken Miller?”
She shook her head. “Should it?”
I left her on the porch swing, wondering if she had a blade tucked away somewhere. Wondering if her talk of “one last breath” was just talk.
I turned the car toward town, called information and got the number and address for Candace Kane. I knew the spot, an apartment complex near the college. I dialed the number and let it ring ten times before hanging up. I’d try again later. When the road forked, I pulled onto the gravel shoulder and stopped. The cops were not going to look beyond my family to explain Danny’s death. I refused to accept that. I had two possible leads, people who shared a history of violence with Danny Faith: Candace Kane, who swore out an assault warrant, and whoever it was that beat Danny so badly four months ago. Candy was out somewhere and Jamie was not answering his phone. I had nowhere to go. Frustration put knots in my back. There had to be other avenues.
But there were not. Zebulon Faith was off the radar. Dolf would not talk to me. My father was gone.
Damn.
My mind turned to the other issue that bothered me. It was smaller, less urgent, but still, it ate at me. Why did Sarah Yates seem so familiar to me? How did she know who I was? I put the car in gear, and at the fork in the road, I went left. Davidson County was to the left.
So was Sarah Yates.
I crossed the river and forest marched beside me as I struggled to get my head around this powerful sense of knowing her. I turned off the road and onto the narrow track that led to her place on the river. When I came out of the trees, I saw Ken Miller in a lawn chair by the purple bus. He was in jeans, with bare feet stretched out in the dirt, and his head tilted back to catch the sun on his face. He stood when he heard the car, shaded his eyes, then stepped into the road to block my passage. He held out his arms as if crucified, and frowned with great commitment.
When I stopped, he bent low to peer inside, then stepped to my window. Anger put an edge on his words.
“Haven’t you people done enough for one day?” he demanded. His fingers gripped the window frame. Earth grimed his neck and gray hairs protruded from his shirt collar. Swelling closed one of his eyes. The skin shone, dark and tight.
“What people?”
“Your goddamn father. That’s what people.”
I pointed at the eye. “He did that?”
“I want you to leave.” He leaned in closer. “Now.”
“I need to speak with Sarah.” I put the car in gear.
“I have a gun inside,” he said.
I studied his face: the hard line of his chin, the vein that pulsed at the temple. He was angry and scared, a bad combination. “What’s going on, Ken?”
“Do I need to get it?”
I stopped at the blacktop. It was empty, a long slice of hard black that curved away in a two-mile bend. I turned left for the bridge, window down, noise level ramping up. I came out of the bend doing fifty. Any faster and I would have missed it.
Sarah’s van.
It was parked at the back corner of a concrete biker bar called the Hard Water Tavern. She’d nosed it in beside a rusted Dumpster. All but hidden, it was definitely hers. Same maroon paint, same tinted windows. I slowed the car, looking for a place to turn around. It took another mile, then I whipped into a gravel drive, backed out, and gunned it. I parked next to her van and got out. Sixteen Harleys were lined up between the door and me. Chrome threw back sunlight. Studs gleamed on black
leather saddlebags. The bikes angled out with military precision.
Inside, it was dark and low. Smoke hung above pool tables. Music blasted from a jukebox to my left. I went to the bar and ordered a beer from a weary woman who looked sixty, but was probably not much older than I. She stripped the cap off a longneck and put the bottle down hard enough to bring foam out of the mouth. I sat on a vinyl swivel stool and waited for my eyes to adjust. It didn’t take long. Lights hung over green felt. Hard light pushed in from the edges of the door.
I pulled on the beer, set it down on the moisture-stained bar.
It was a one-room, three-table joint with a concrete floor and drains that would serve equally well for washing down booze, vomit, or blood. Ten feet down, a fat woman in shorts slept with her head on the bar. Two of the pool tables were in play, circled by men with beards so black they looked polished. They handled the cues with calm familiarity, and looked my way between shots.
Sarah Yates sat at a small table in the back corner. Chairs had been pulled aside to accommodate her wheelchair. Two bikers shared the table with her. They had a pitcher of beer, three mugs, and about fifteen empty shot glasses. As I watched, the bartender threaded her way across the room and delivered three more shots of something brown. They clinked glasses, said something I could not hear, and knocked them back. The bikers slammed the empties down. Sarah lowered hers between two delicate fingers.
Then she looked at me.
There was no surprise in her face. She bent a finger to summon me over. The bikers made room for me to pass, but not much. Hard cues brushed my shoulders, smoke exploded in my face. One man had a teardrop tattoo on the edge of his left eye. I stopped at Sarah’s table, and the pool games resumed. Her companions were older than most of the other bikers. Prison tats on thick arms had faded to powder gray. White streaked their beards, and lines carved their faces. They wore thick rings and heavy boots, but appeared neutral. They would take their cue from Sarah. She studied me for half a minute. When she spoke, her voice carried.
“Do you doubt that any of these boys would split your head if I asked him to?” She gestured around the room.