“Damn, girl, you must’ve been a track star in school,” he gasped as he pulled one of the man’s hands away from his face. The man’s skin was a violent red. Tears streamed from his bloodshot eyes and snot ran like a river from his nose as every mucous membrane erupted from the irritation of the spray.
“Soccer, actually,” Marie choked out as Wardell clipped a cuff on the man’s wrist. She had caught a whiff of the spray and it was making her gag.
“Must o’ been good at it,” Wardell said as he pulled at the man’s other wrist. “Come on, boy,” he grunted. “Don’t make Little Speedy here give you another dose o’ that spray.”
“My eyes,” the man groaned. “Oh, God, my eyes…”
“Oughta kick your ass for makin’ me run, boy,” Wardell grunted as he cuffed the man’s other wrist, fastening his arms behind him. “What’n the hell’s wrong with you?”
“I didn’t know what they were gonna do with the guns,” the man blubbered. “I swear to God, I didn’t know.”
“Who?” Wardell said. “Who’re you talkin’ about?”
“Hang on a sec, Sergeant,” Marie cut in. “Maybe we ought to read him his rights.”
Wardell scowled for a moment, then shrugged. “Yeah, okay,” he said. “You do the honors.”
“First off,” Marie said. “Are you Henry Garrett?” The man nodded. “You have the right to remain silent,” Marie began. When she was done Mirandizing the man, she took a handkerchief out of her pocket and gently wiped his still-streaming nose.
“Thanks,” Garrett whispered.
“Don’t thank me,” she shot back. “All that snot was grossing me out. Now, what’s this about not knowing what they were going to do? Who’s they?”
Garrett gave her a look like a whipped dog suddenly shown an act of kindness: grateful and wary at the same time. “I think they were the people who shot up that church. And that diner.”
Wardell sounded disgusted. “And you sold them guns.”
Garrett nodded miserably.
“Boy,” Wardell said, “between the army, the feds, and what we’re about to charge you with …” He shook his head. “When they get done with you, they’re gonna store your sorry ass under the damn jail.” He grabbed the back of Garrett’s T-shirt and began pushing him up the embankment.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Keller pulled up to the ornately decorated wrought-iron gate and rolled down the window. The security guard in the gatehouse was young, skinny, with a weak chin and a brush cut that had been let go for too long. He looked over Keller’s vehicle, his eyes flickering over the balloons filling the backseat and the “Balloon Tyme” logo on the side. Keller had bought the balloons from a local party store. The logo was stuck onto a magnetic sign he had had made at a sign store a while back.
“Hep you?” the guard said.
Keller leaned out. “Got a delivery. The name is Marks?”
The guard looked suspicious. “Nobody tole me nothin’ about that.”
Keller shrugged. “Just ordered about a half hour ago. Maybe some guy forgot his old lady’s birthday or something.”
The guard scratched his chin. “I better call the house and check.”
“It’s supposed to be a surprise,” Keller said. “The guy who called was real serious about that. But I tell you what, you can call my boss and confirm.” Keller pointed down to the magnetic sign. “Number’s right there.” The guard nodded and picked up the phone inside the gatehouse. Keller had called Angela just before pulling up and given her the heads up. The number on the magnetic sign was one of the phone lines for H & H Bail Bonds. He saw the guard talking, then nodding and reaching down. The iron gate swung open and Keller drove through. He waved as he passed by. The guard waved back.
The roads inside Dune Grove Country Club were a winding labyrinth. The street signs were tiny brown wood pointers with painted lettering that Keller supposed was supposed to look rustic. What they were mostly was hard to read. Keller had visited a local real estate office that heavily advertised sales of lots in Dune Grove. He had picked up a brochure advertising its golf course, tennis complex, horse stables, and spacious lots. It was the map of the club, however, that had most interested Keller. Even with the map, he took several wrong turns that led him down to the end of cul-de-sacs. Huge homes in a variety of styles, all expensive, sat on perfectly landscaped lots. Occasionally, he caught a glimpse of the emerald-green grass of the golf course through the trees. Finally, he found his way to the Marks home. Like the others, it was a big place, split-level, with a half-circle of gravel drive in front. Keller parked and got out. He stood in the drive for a few moments and looked the place over, trying to reconcile this affluence with what he knew of Laurel Marks’s life.
The slow tolling of the doorbell chime reverberated inside the house. There was a sound of footsteps behind the door, then a pause. Keller assumed he was being surveyed through the peephole set into the door. He tried to look benign. After a moment, the door opened a crack. Half of a female face peered out at him past the still-fastened security chain. “Yes?” the woman said.
“Mrs. Marks?”
The one eye that Keller could see looked past him to Keller’s car parked near the door. “I didn’t order any balloons,” the woman said. Her voice was a low contralto with a hint of Southern accent.
“Mrs. Marks, my name’s Jack Keller. I need to ask you some questions about Laurel.”
The door closed. Keller was reaching for the doorbell again when he heard the rattle of the chain being removed. The door swung open. The woman who stood there appeared to be in her late forties. She was short, slender, dark-haired, and expensively dressed. She had been drinking; Keller could smell bourbon from where he stood. “I don’t know where Laurel is,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am,” Keller said. “But if I could come in and ask some questions…”
She arched an eyebrow at him. “Why is a balloon deliveryman looking for my daughter?” she asked.
“I work for Laurel’s bail bondsman,” Keller said. He reached in his pocket and handed her a card. “We need to know where she is.” “Ahhh…” she said, taking the card. “And the balloons were to get you past the gate. Very clever.”
Drunk or sober, Keller realized, it would be a mistake to underestimate this woman.
“So, she’s in trouble again,” the woman said. She let out a short contemptuous laugh. “Figures.” She waved a hand in the air negligently and turned away. “Come on in,” she said. “Don’t know what I can tell you, but it beats watching Dr. Phil.”
Keller followed her into the house, down a hallway, into the living room. The room was bright with sunlight from an enormous picture window that looked out over a water hazard on the golf course. White leather-covered furniture was arranged on the dark hardwood floor facing a wide-screen TV.
“Nice house,” Keller said.
“Uh-huh,” the woman said. She plopped down on the sofa and turned the TV down with the remote. On the coffee table in front of the sofa was a bottle of Maker’s Mark, a bucket of ice, and an empty glass.
“Would you like a drink, balloon man?” she asked.
“Not now, thanks,” said Keller.
“Hah,” she said. “It’s got to be five o’clock somewhere, doesn’t it?” She plopped a couple of ice cubes into the glass and sloshed a few fingers of the dark amber bourbon into the glass. She pulled a cigarette out of a pack on the side table and lit it.
“Mrs. Marks …” Keller began.
“Ellen,” she said. “And your name was Jack, right?”
“Still is,” Keller said. “Ellen, Laurel didn’t make her last court appearance. She’s dropped out of sight. Do you know anyone she might go to if she was in trouble?”
“Well, it sure as hell wouldn’t be here, Jack,” she said. The slight whiskey slur made the word come out “heah.” “Laurel walked out of this house on her eighteenth birthday and we haven’t seen or heard from her since.” “Why was that, Ellen?”
“Is that why Social Services was involved when she was younger?”
“Well, you’ve certainly done your homework, haven’t you?” She took another drink. “Yes, Jack,” she said. “Laurel told a teacher that Ted… my husband … had sexually abused her. It was a lie, of course. He never touched her.”
“How do you know it was a lie?”
She gave him a bitter smile. “Because she admitted it was a lie. She recanted. Of course that was after she and her brother had been out of the home in foster care for several months.”
“Her brother?” Keller said.
“Yes. His name is Curt. He’s a student at …” She stopped. “I don’t want you bothering him,” she said.
“Do you think she’d go to him for help if she was on the run?”
She laughed. “Not by a long sight, Jack. He was very upset by the whole incident. Curt idolizes his father. It tore him apart to see the family separated like that.”
“He blamed Laurel,” Keller said. Ellen looked at him blankly.
“Of course,” she said. “Laurel was to blame. Fortunately, Curt eventually convinced her to tell the truth.”
Keller let that go. “Can you think of any place she’d go, any friend she’d call?”
She looked thoughtful for a moment. She opened her mouth as if to say something, but stopped at the sound of the front door opening and closing. There was a sound of something heavy being set down in the front hallway.
“Ellen?” a male voice called out. There were footsteps in the hall. A man entered.
He was in his late fifties, tall, stocky, with the build and swagger of a man used to intimidating by his size alone. His hair was almost gone on top, with only a few strands combed over his sunburned and freckled scalp. His bright green golf slacks and bright yellow shirt made his already ruddy face look nearly apoplectic. He stopped and regarded Keller with narrowed eyes.
“Hello,” he said, without an ounce of welcome in a deep, gravelly voice.
Keller stood up, extended his hand. “Mister Marks?”
The man ignored the hand. “Who are you?”
“Mister Keller is a bail bondsman,” Ellen Marks said. She hadn’t bothered to get up. “He’s here asking about Laurel.”
The man’s jaw tightened. Keller could see the resemblance to Laurel. “We don’t know anything about her,” he said.
“I understand she’s not here, sir,” Keller said, “but I wanted to know if—”
“You need to get your ass out of here, Keller,” Marks said. “I don’t know how you got in, but—”
“She’s jumped bail, Mister Marks,” Keller said. “If you know anything about where she might be—”
“God damn it,” Marks said, “I said get the hell out!” He moved toward Keller as if to grab him.
“I wouldn’t,” Keller said. His voice was low, but his tone stopped Marks cold. His hands dropped to his sides.
“Ellen,” he said, “call the cops.”
“Call them yourself, Ted,” she said lazily. She took another drag from the cigarette. “Or try to throw Jack out. That really would beat watching Dr. Phil.” She gave a low throaty laugh.
“Don’t worry,” Keller said. “I’m leaving.” He turned to Ellen Marks. “You’ve got my card,” he told her. “If Laurel contacts you, try to persuade her to come in voluntarily, It’ll be easier for everyone. Or if you hear anything about her, call me.”
“I’ll do that,” she said. She hadn’t taken her eyes off her husband. They were bright with anticipation. Keller realized she wanted her husband to make a move on him, wanted to see him hurt. He shook his head. Ted Marks moved quickly to get out of Keller’s way as he walked out.
As he left, Keller saw a tan Lincoln Navigator looming in the driveway behind his car. There were a pair of bumper stickers on the back. One said, I’D RATHER BE GOLFING. The other said, MY SON AND MY MONEY GO TO NC STATE. He remembered Ellen Marks saying that her son was a student and filed that away for reference.
“This phone’s almost out of juice,” Stan said. He peered out the van window. “Not like it’ll make any difference, out here in the sticks. Where the hell are we, anyway?”
“Almost there,” Laurel said.
Stan stole a nervous glance at Roy. He had been grim and scary, even more so than usual, since setting the trailer on fire. He didn’t know what to make of it. “The turn’s up here on the right,” he heard Laurel say.
“I know,” Roy said. He slowed the van and turned off the hard road onto a narrow dirt track in an overgrown field. Weeds grew in the center of the road and whispered against the sides of the van as they bumped along. There were fields on either side, fenced in by stands of pine. The fields were grown up in waist-high pale grasses. Here and there a young pine thrust up where crops once grew. They passed an old tobacco bam, its tin roof fallen in.
“What is this place?” Stan asked.
“My grandma’s old farm,” Laurel said. “No one ever comes here.”
“No shit,” Stan said.
“Which is why it’s a good place to hide out,” she snapped. “Get it, genius?” Stan felt his face redden.
They passed through another stand of trees and came out at the lip of a broad, bowl-shaped valley. There was a grove of pecan trees on the valley floor, lined up in neat rows in the undergrowth. The dirt drive led between the rows to the top of the opposite slope. There, the ground leveled off into a yard in front of a small white farmhouse. Roy parked in front. He got out without speaking.
“What’s eating him?” Stan asked.
“He’s just stressin’, is all,” Laurel said. “Let me handle him.” She looked at Stan. “I may need to spend some time with him,” she said. “You know, to get him calmed down.”
Stan frowned. “I don’t like that idea.”
Laurel glanced at Roy. He was bending down to retrieve the key that was hidden under a rock by the front door. She leaned over and whispered to Stan, “Now, what did I tell you, sweetie? We’re not like other people. We don’t live by rules like that.”
“It ain’t a rule,” Stan said. “It’s just the way I feel.”
Laurel glanced back again. Roy had gone inside. She leaned over and kissed Stan quickly. “I know, honey,” she said. “I used to feel the same way. But it’s better this way. Trust me, okay?”
“I don’t like it,” Stan repeated stubbornly.
“Well, Stan,” she said, her voice suddenly cold, “you better learn to like it. Because this is the way it is.” She opened the van door and got out. Stan heard the deep cough and sputter of a gasoline motor starting up. Laurel slid the van door open and took hold of a huge red cooler. Stan didn’t move. He was still in the back, his knees drawn up to his chest. Misery and confusion were gnawing at his gut.
“You gonna help me get this stuff inside?” Laurel said.
“What’s that noise?” Stan asked “Gas generator,” Laurel said. “We set it up for electricity.”
“Won’t somebody hear?” Stan asked.
“No,” she replied. “Not this far off the road. It’s a big place. Now help me with this damn cooler.”
Stan took the other handle and helped her wrestle the cooler out of the van. It was stuffed full of food, ice, and beer, and they struggled awkwardly with it as they hauled it to the door.
Inside, they found themselves in a small room, with pale white walls and a dusty heart-pine floor. The room was illuminated by a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling by a frayed wire. The only furniture in the room was an old, tom-up couch that looked like somethin
g someone had rescued from the side of the road. Across from the couch was a new-looking color TV. Roy was fussing with a black box on top of the set. He gave a grunt of satisfaction and stepped back.
There was a bit of snow and static in the reception, but the picture was reasonably clear. On the screen, a man in an expensive-looking leather jacket was walking up and down between lines of cars, talking about incredible below-invoice deals in an excited voice. Roy sat on the couch, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees. His gaze was riveted to the screen. The commercial ended and the screen filled with the picture of a beautiful blonde woman and a handsome bearded man arguing about someone named Troy. A soap opera.
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