In his office, fortunately, things went quickly. My identification was verified; original documents were photocopied and stamped.
Boone and Sadie Rawson Smith had not left me a vast fortune.
But their house on Eulalia Road had proved a wise investment. The proceeds from its sale had been pooled with the payout from a modest life insurance policy owned by Boone, which Everett Sutherland had claimed and deposited into the Trust Company account in December 1979. The result was a respectable pot of money. A pot of money that had been all but forgotten when Sutherland died in May of 1980. For thirty-four years, the phenomenon that is compounding interest had been allowed to work its magic.
The bank manager tidied the edges of the mound of documents that had accumulated on the table between us. From the top, he pulled one last sheet of paper for me to inspect. He made me initial today’s date, the current interest rate, and the total balance figure for the account.
“Wire transfer? Cashier’s check? We can do either.”
I selected the latter.
Ten minutes later, I exited the bank with an armful of wilting roses and a check for $677,143.27.
• • •
BEAMER BEASLEY MET me at a Waffle House on Roswell Road.
“If I’d had warning you were coming, I’d have organized somewhere nicer,” he apologized, gesturing at the red vinyl booths and the chipped plates, the plastic tubs of jelly and creamer.
“Don’t be silly. This is perfect.”
The gray eyes took me in. “You look good. Like a different person from when I met you three weeks ago.”
“Thank you.” I raised my right wrist, waved it around. “No more wrist brace.”
He nodded. “And no more bullet.”
Beasley slid a padded envelope across the faux-wood tabletop. “Speaking of which . . .”
“No!” I gasped. “Is that it?”
“That’s it. Arrived back in the office this morning. Yours to keep now, if you want it.”
I tipped the bullet onto the table between us. It was ugly. A dull, misshapen lump, with scratches and dents visible even to the naked eye. And surprisingly small, to have caused such pain. Such grief. I closed my fist around it.
Beasley laid his hand over mine while I collected myself. “I read in the morning paper that you’re headed to Mexico. Maybe you could take that with you, throw it out to sea, say your good-byes.”
“Maybe.” I bit my lip. “About that newspaper article. I should have warned you before I sent the reporters calling. I hope you don’t mind my breaking your moratorium on talking to them. Didn’t seem to be much point avoiding them anymore.”
“That’s fine.”
“Anyway, I—I wasn’t sure if you all would let me keep the bullet. But I was thinking that if you did, I might actually have it made into a necklace.” I ran a finger over my stitches. They had nearly dissolved; in the mirror this morning I’d observed that the surrounding bruises had faded from angry purple to brownish yellow. “Aside from a pair of earrings that Cheral Rooney gave me, this is the only thing I have that ever touched Sadie Rawson. I want to keep it close. I suppose that sounds weird.”
“Considering this bullet took her life, you mean?” Beasley tapped the metal lump. “I don’t think it’s weird. It’s a physical connection to her. That must feel powerful.”
We sat for a time, Beasley stirring a second and then a third creamer into his coffee, me rolling the bullet back and forth across my palm.
“I came into some money today,” I said finally.
“Oh? How’s that?”
“The Smiths had a savings account. After they died, the money from their house and from Boone’s life insurance was stashed there. There’s a safe-deposit box, too. I’ll fill in the paperwork to dig that out one of these days. The box got drilled, and the contents handed over to the state years ago.”
“They’ll have liquidated anything personal. Love letters, photographs, jewelry, anything like that.”
“So I’m told. And the personal stuff is all I would really care about at this point. There was more cash than I’ll ever need in the regular savings account. Enough to . . . Well. Enough to open up some interesting possibilities.” I took a sip of weak tea. “I keep thinking about what you said. About justice being what you aim for in a case like this. And it occurs to me that I’m sitting here rolling a bullet between my fingers that ten days ago was inside my neck. Also, I’ve heard from all kinds of nice people who knew my birth parents and loved them. I’m planning a memorial service in their honor. That’s . . . well, it’s not a conviction, obviously. Not closure from a criminal-justice point of view. But it’s something.”
“Mm-hmm.” Beasley studied me. “So why do I get the sense this still isn’t over for you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Are you really going to Mexico?” His eyes were now suspicious slits.
“Of course. Probably the best therapy for me at this point is a pitcher of margaritas and some sun and—”
“And you’re completely at peace and eager to move on. I know. I told you, I read your quote in the newspaper.”
“Well, there you go.”
“You’re also quoted as saying that whoever killed your parents is probably dead now himself.”
“I stole that line from you.”
We looked at each other. Both of us were working hard not to mention the name Ethan Sinclare.
Beasley caved first. “I’ll talk to him. I’ve set up an appointment through his secretary, for end of this week. I’ll raise some of the . . . coincidences that were bothering you. But without the bullet, without any new evidence, I don’t see . . .”
“I know. I understand.”
Beasley opened his mouth to say something else, then snapped it shut again. Sun streamed through the window, refracting through the jugs of fake blueberry and maple syrup stuck to the table, making them glow like stained glass. A waitress delivered hash browns and country-fried steak to a chubby couple in the booth beside us. From the parking lot outside came a crunching sound, a station wagon backing into the bumper of a dirty, white Honda.
“Well, then.” Beasley swallowed the last of his coffee, tucked two creamers into his pocket, and laid a $10 bill on the table. “Then I wish you all the luck in the world, Caroline. And safe travels to Mexico.”
“Thank you, Beamer.” I leaned over and kissed the grizzled hair on his skull, and then I was gone.
Forty-eight
* * *
There is no waiting period to buy a gun in Georgia.
No need to secure a firearms permit. You can waltz right in, select the one you want, and carry it out fifteen minutes later in a plastic bag.
There is one catch, though: you have to have a Georgia ID. Gun stores won’t sell to anyone flashing an out-of-state license. I sat in the parking lot of Sonny’s Sporting Goods for more than an hour, pondering this problem.
Sonny’s is a warehouse forty minutes due east of Atlanta. An eleven-aisle superstore, like a surreal Target just for guns. WE BUY AMMO BY THE TRACTOR TRAILER LOAD! announced a banner hanging above the registers.
I had walked the aisles in wonder. Camouflage pants and T-shirts were stacked near night-vision goggles. An entire section was devoted to quivers and crossbow accessories. Plastic bins separated elk whistles from squirrel calls, hog squealers from Canada-goose flutes. I picked up a white tube labeled a Double Reed Cajun Squeal, wondered what kind of swamp animal it was designed to lure.
And then there were the guns.
The entire back wall of the store was lined with them. Scopes and sniper rifles hung suspended. Handguns were laid out on brown felt trays inside glass cases. Everything from tiny, silver Berettas, to Texas Defender derringers, to an antique Colt .45 with a walnut grip and a stamp from General Custer’s Seventh Cavalry. MORE THAN 12,00
0 GUNS IN STOCK boasted another banner. I couldn’t tell how the guns were organized. I only knew that with this many on display, what I was looking for was bound to be here.
“Help you, miss?” A big, bearded man behind the counter.
“Oh, no, thanks. Just browsing.”
I walked the entire perimeter of the store, then stationed myself near checkout, watching how it worked, pretending to engage in an involved conversation on my cell phone. Four cash registers were open and humming away. The cashier closest to the doors was ringing up an overflowing cart of trout-fishing tackle. Not of interest. The next was explaining to an irate customer why his 20-percent-off coupon wasn’t valid on duck waders. But at the third register, a customer was waiting to buy a gun. He had to fill out a two-page form on a clipboard; the cashier took his answers and typed them in. After several minutes, the official FBI seal appeared on her screen, along with a large green rectangle ringing the word PROCEED. The customer handed over five crisp $100 bills. The cashier ran an orange marker over them. Waited. Looked satisfied and stuffed them into the register. Some sort of anticounterfeit check? The man walked out of the store sixty seconds later, whistling and swinging a plastic bag.
I retreated to my car to watch the front door and think. Sonny’s seemed busy for a Tuesday afternoon. An almost exclusively male clientele came and went, revving and reversing pickup trucks into bus-size parking spaces. My compact rental car sat dwarfed between a Chevy Silverado and a rusted-out Dodge Ram.
Around dusk, a Toyota Tacoma with Rockdale County plates pulled into the spot opposite me. One headlight had stopped working, and the truck bed was piled high with firewood. A lean man wearing a flannel shirt and frayed work pants hopped out. He looked my age, maybe a few years older. He walked around the back of his truck, yanking on the ties securing the wood, tightening them down. I watched how he dragged his feet as he worked, and how he kept his shoulders hunched, like a dog that’s used to getting kicked. I scanned his face, hoping to see kindness there, but the light was gone and he was too far away.
Now or never.
I swung my car door open.
“Hey,” I called. “Hey there. Could I trouble you for a minute?”
• • •
FIVE MINUTES LATER he was bent over my car engine, checking the oil.
“I feel so silly that I couldn’t even figure out how to open the hood.” I giggled girlishly and clapped my hands together. “When that warning light came on, saying to check the oil, I didn’t know what to do. Thank goodness you were here.”
He had his sleeves rolled up, his finger looped through the top of the dipstick to wipe it clean. When he leaned back over the motor to reinsert it, I placed my hand lightly on his arm. He flexed his biceps through the flannel, bulking it up for my benefit. This was going well.
“Everything looks fine, ma’am. Start up the engine again, let’s see what she says.”
I slid behind the wheel of my perfectly operational car and turned the key. “You fixed it!” I beamed at him.
“Sometimes those dashboard lights act up. I didn’t do nothing. Your oil’s good to go.”
“I’m so relieved,” I purred. “How can I thank you?” I slid back out of the car, watched him drink me in. My lips were painted ruby red, and I was wearing a blond wig and hip-hugging jeans tucked into my stiletto boots. The sartorial equivalent of the Double Reed Cajun Squeal, expressly designed to lure the human male.
He licked his lips like he’d been shown the promised land.
“What’s your name?”
“Um. Britt. How ’bout you?”
“Tammy.” I batted my eyelashes. “I hate to impose on you for another moment. You must be so busy. But I have another little bitty favor to ask.”
“Anything,” he breathed. He looked as if he meant it.
“You’re going in there anyway, right?” I darted my eyes toward the Sonny’s entrance.
“Sure. What do you need?”
“Well. It’s my boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend. Johnny. He’s a horrible man. He . . . he hits me.”
Britt opened his eyes wide. “That cocksucker. Excuse my French.”
“It’s okay. We broke up months ago. But he keeps following me and threatening me and I . . . I’d feel much safer if I had a gun.”
“Course you would. Let’s go in. I’ll help you pick a—”
“No. See, I can’t buy one. I don’t have Georgia ID. So I was wondering . . . if I made it worth your while . . .”
I watched him register this.
“Oh.” He stepped back. “Oh. No, I can’t do that.”
“Just something simple. For self-defense.”
“No, I—that’s a felony now. Buying a gun for somebody else. They do a background check at the register, ask whether you’re an illegal alien, or a convicted felon, or if you’re buying it for someone else.”
So lie, I wanted to hiss. “I said I’d make it worth your while.” I reached into my back pocket, let his eyes linger on the curve of my jeans. “This is a thousand dollars. Cash.” I handed him an envelope with ten bills inside. “You can take it to your truck and count it if you like.”
He stared at me as if snakes had popped out of my head.
“And there’s another two thousand, when you meet me back here. Easiest three thousand bucks you’ll ever make. Britt? Three. Thousand. Bucks. In and out of Sonny’s in less than half an hour. I’ll give you cash to pay for the gun, too.” I forced myself to smile alluringly. “What do you say? You’d be helping me so, so much.”
I waited, sweat beading between my breasts, dripping down the small of my back, wondering whether he was about to shout for the police.
He licked his lips again. “What kind of gun?”
• • •
BRITT TUCKED THE envelope into his shirt pocket. “You need ammo, too? Better off with hollow points. They’ll mushroom, rattle around inside the guy.”
I shuddered. “Fine.”
“Fifty rounds’ll do you?”
“That’s plenty.” I was starting to feel as if I’d placed an overly complicated order with a short-order cook, or a Starbucks barista. Just buy the damn gun, Britt.
“And you really wanna git .357s instead of .38s,” he said thoughtfully. He had a pack of chewing tobacco out now, was working a wad deep down inside his cheek.
“What’s that? A different cartridge?”
“Is your cocksucker ex-boyfriend a big guy? You got a three-hundred-fifty-pound guy on crack running at you, you wanna know you’re packing maximum power.”
I closed my eyes. Was I really standing here, in a rural Georgia parking lot, having this conversation?
“I switched ’em in the gun my wife carries in her purse,” Britt added with pride. “Switched her .38s for .357s. She ain’t never gonna notice. I’d rather she be firing a .357 when some guy’s coming at her.”
His wife. Jesus. He’d thrown out that morsel even as he tried to sneak another peek down my blouse. Sleazy. Not, mind you, that I was in a position to pass moral judgment on anyone at this precise moment.
“I’ll stick with .38 Specials. The smallest box. I’ll meet you right here.”
Britt nodded, spat a stream of tobacco juice, and shuffled toward the entrance.
I settled into my car to wait. Locked the doors. Then jumped back out. If flashing blue lights suddenly appeared, or if Britt returned with a security guard, I shouldn’t be sitting there waiting like an idiot. I ducked my head and walked to a corner of the lot, near a concrete island of dejected shrubs. From there I had a clear view of the store entrance, the vast expanse of asphalt in front, and the highway beyond. I waited. Shivered. The temperature had dropped sharply with the sunset.
After what seemed forever but was in fact twenty-seven minutes, the doors swung open and Britt walked out. I watched. No one followed him. He wove back
toward my car. He was peering into the window on the driver’s side, hands cupped around his eyes to cut the glare from the streetlights, when I reached him.
I touched his arm.
He jumped six inches. “Holy crap, you scared me. Where’d you git to?”
“Bathroom emergency.” I nodded toward the shrubs. “Well?”
He held out a bag. I glanced around. A woman was climbing into a truck double-parked at the front curb; a car was reversing on the far side of the lot. No one was close. I had seen no security cameras, but to be safe I shifted position, so we were hidden behind the hulking cab of the Silverado in the next parking space.
“Got you a five-shot revolver,” whispered Britt. “Smith and Wesson, .38 Special. Made in the 1970s, like you asked for. She’s scratched up but she’ll shoot fine. Two hundred and forty-nine dollars plus tax. Decent gun for the price.”
I handed over the second envelope. “Thank you.”
He stood there, smiling hopefully, wide, little-boy eyes above tobacco-stained teeth. “Buy you a beer?”
“Another time.” I was already in the car, strapping on my seat belt, shoving the plastic bag deep inside the glove compartment.
Britt leaned in the open window. “Can I git your number?”
“I think you ought to go on home, don’t you? You wife’s probably got dinner on the table. Use some of your new money, stop and buy her flowers on the way.”
The Bullet Page 25