Keller didn’t move. “Am I under arrest?” he said.
“No, sir,” Cassidey answered. “We just want to ask you some questions.”
Keller stepped back into the house. “You can ask me those here, then,” he said. “C’mon in.”
Sanderson and Cassidey looked at each other. They obviously weren’t used to people refusing to come with them. Sanderson stepped through the door tentatively, as if he expected someone to jump out at him. When no one did, he asked Keller, “Sir, is there some reason you don’t want to come with us?”
“Yeah,” Keller said. “My grandma told me never to get in cars with strange men.” He sat down on the couch and picked up his coffee. “Or strange women,” he said to Cassidey, who was still standing in the doorway, “although I’ve been known to fudge a little on that rule. You coming in or going out, Agent Cassidey?”
Cassidey’s lips drew into a thin line. She came in and shut the door. She didn’t sit down, however. She stood by the doorway as if blocking Keller’s escape.
“You guys want coffee?” Keller asked. They both shook their heads. Keller shrugged and lit a cigarette. He picked up his coffee cup and leaned back on the couch. “You had some questions?” he said.
Sanderson took the easy chair. “You’ve been tracking a young woman named Laurel Marks.”
“Yeah,” Keller said. “She didn’t show up for her court date. We’ve got paper on her. I’m supposed to bring her back.”
“We want to know everything you know about her and a guy named Roy Randle.”
Keller took a sip of coffee. “What do you want to know?” “What were you doing out at Randle’s place on the river?” “Looking for her,” he said. “He’s her boyfriend. I thought she might be there.”
Cassidey spoke up. “You didn’t find her.”
“No.”
“Is that why you burned the place down, Keller?” Sanderson said.
Keller didn’t answer. He took a long drag on his cigarette and studied Sanderson for a moment. Then he said, “What the hell are you talking about?”
Cassidey sat next to him on the couch and snapped open the briefcase. She pulled a manila folder out and flipped it open on the coffee table. There was a sheaf of photographs in the folder. Keller had to lean forward to see.
He recognized the dirt lot where the trailer had stood. It was mostly gone, burned out to the frame. A figure stood off to one side. It was impossible to tell if the figure was a man or a woman because of the bulky orange coverall it wore. A square helmet that looked like it belonged on a kid’s drawing of a spacesuit hid the person’s face.
“What’s with the HazMat suit?” Keller asked.
“Turns out the place is rotten with toxic waste,” Cassidey said. “The development’s been on the EPA’s Superfund list for years. Somebody used it as a dumping ground. Plus, it looks like Randle had been running a methamphetamine lab. He was just dumping the waste on the ground.”
So that’s where he got his money, Keller thought. “What makes you think I’m the one who burned it down?”
“Your girlfriend told us all about it. She said you two went out there looking for Laurel Marks. She told us you went in.” He smirked. “She said the door was unlocked, but I think we both know better than that.”
Keller shrugged. “He had something better than a lock.”
“So we heard,” Sanderson said. “And we also heard you got pretty pissed off about Randle’s security system.”
“Yeah. Getting shot is kind of a pet peeve of mine. I’m funny like that.”
“We also know some of your history, Keller,” Sanderson said. “We know you got bounced out of the army on a medical discharge. Went pretty nutso, I hear. Since then you’ve been in and out of trouble. Even managed to beat a couple of murder charges. And we know you’re under psychiatric care.”
Keller looked at him. “So?” he said.
Sanderson started to say something, but Keller interrupted. “Look, quit jerking me around. If Jones told you what happened, she also told you we came straight back here. Right after she left, I was talking on the phone with my doctor. Then some more friends stopped by and we were here all night. If you think you can work that timeline to stick in enough time for me to drive all the way out there, torch the place, and come back, be my guest. Otherwise, stop treating me like I’m stupid.” He sat back again and took a sip of coffee. “You get a match on the cartridge Jones found out there?”
“That’s on a need-to-know basis,” Cassidey said. “You don’t have any …”
“Okay, we’re done.” Keller said. He stood up. “I’ve got to get to work. If I catch up to Laurel Marks, I’ll be sure to let you guys know. After I’ve surrendered her downtown and cleared her paper.”
Sanderson stood up. “You’re off that case, Keller,” he said. “You try to interfere in a federal investigation, and we’ll—”
“Good luck, guys,” Keller interrupted.
Sanderson and Cassidey hesitated, then got up. They walked past Keller and out the door. Sanderson turned as they reached the bottom of the steps. “Don’t leave town, Keller,” he said. Keller didn’t answer. Sanderson seemed nonplussed by that. He turned and walked back to the car.
Keller closed the door. He was washing the coffee cup and putting it into the sink when his cell phone rang. He answered. “Keller.”
“That you, balloon man?” Ellen Marks’s voice was hoarse.
“Mrs. Marks,” Keller said. “Yes, ma’am, this is Jack Keller. What can I—”
“The son of a bitch hit me,” she said. “He hit me.”
“Who?” he replied. “Your husband?”
“Twenty-two years we’ve been married,” she said. “He’s never raised a hand. Can you believe that? It was what I always told myself…the things they say can’t be true. He’s never raised a hand to me. He’s never hit me. So I believed every word he said. That son of a bitch.” Her voice broke on the last word.
“Mrs. Marks,” Keller said. “You need to call the cops.”
Her voice was steadier as she said, “Oh, yes, Mr. Keller,” she said. “I will. Believe it.”
“Why do you think he hit you?” Keller said.
“After all this time …” Her laugh was a horrible sound, like that of crows feasting on a corpse. “He didn’t like me talking to you. Oh, no, not one little bit. He thought I might lead you to Laurel, and if Laurel started talking again … who knows what might happen?”
“So you know where she is,” Keller said.
“I know where she might be,” she said.
“I’m listening,” Keller said. “You’ll need to come to the house,” she said.
“Why?” he said, but she had hung up.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The news set was in a state of barely controlled chaos as Grace walked in. The morning-news anchor had been on live since the news of the hog-plant massacre had come over the police scanners, but he had long since run out of new information to report. The station had sent the Live-Cam helicopter to the scene, and the young anchor was rereading the official press release from the local sheriff over the aerial shot of the mess on the ground.
The monitors showed a jumble of automobiles strewn across the road like toys tossed out by a small child. Here and there, red and blue lights flashed among the tangle as law enforcement tried to sort out the crime scene. Grace walked quietly in the dimly lighted space behind the cameras. Picking her way over thick black cables that stretched across the floor, she made her way to the control room.
Howard was standing behind the technical director. He was calling out directions into his headset microphone in a low tense voice. His forehead was glistening with sweat.
“Okay,” he was saying. “Wrap up and throw to commercial. In five … four … three …” he counted down the seconds. As the music swelled up and the news logo rolled, he whipped his headset off.
“Howard,” Grace said.
“Not now, Grace,” Howard snapped.
He turned to the technical director. “When we come back—”
“He called me, Howard,” Grace said, a little louder.
Howard turned toward her. “What? Who called you?”
She gestured to the monitor that showed the feed from the chopper. “The guy that did this. Or one of them. The ringleader.”
Howard looked skeptical. “How do you know it was him, Grace?” he said. “It could have been some kid—”
“Because he told me. He was on his way to do it. He told me it was ‘show time.’ Right before that happened.”
“Holy Christ,” the TD murmured. He glanced at the clock. “Two minutes, Howard,” he said.
Grace handed Howard a CD and a floppy disk. “I wrote my copy at home before I came in,” she said. “It’s on this disk. The pictures they sent me are still on this CD. Put me on, Howard.”
Howard took the disc. “I haven’t had time to review the copy …”
She leaned forward. “This is the biggest fucking story in town right now. Probably in the whole country. You can run it right goddamn now, my way, or I can walk out of here, pick up the phone, and be on any one of a dozen national shows by this evening. Your choice.”
“A minute-thirty,” the TD said.
Howard hesitated for a moment, then grabbed the floppy and the CD. “Load it up,” he snapped at a nearby production assistant.
He turned to Grace. “Get Grace a mike,” he snapped into his headset. “Camera two, get ready for the two-shot. One, you’re on Gary, three, medium on Grace.”
“One minute,” the TD murmured.
Howard pulled his microphone away from his mouth. “I’m trusting you, Grace” he said. “Try not to get us all arrested. Or sued.” She barely heard the last word as she bolted down the stairs. The audio guy was fastening a lapel mike onto Grace’s blazer even as she slid into the co-anchor chair. The guy glanced over at Gary, who was listening intently to instructions from the control booth in his earpiece. Grace slid her own earpiece in as she swiveled to face camera two for the shot of her and Gary. The TD’s voice came over the earpiece, “Three, two, one, and….” The music came up, the logo rolled, and Grace saw her words come up on the TelePrompTer screen in front of the camera.
“In the latest on the Barnwell Foods Massacre this morning,” Gary said smoothly, “Action News anchor Grace Tranh has this exclusive report. Grace?”
She turned slightly to look intently into camera three. “In a startling development,” she said, “the man believed to be behind not only the Barnwell Foods massacre this morning, but also behind the church and diner shootings a few nights ago, has contacted this reporter with information about his motives. We warn you, some of the exclusive images in this report are extremely graphic….” Network, here I come, she thought.
Marie was seated on the floor with Ben playing a complicated game with trucks and blocks for which only he seemed to fully understand the rules. He’d occasionally give a theatrical sigh, followed by an exasperated ‘No, Mom, not there,” and correct her error. He was so serious, his brow furrowed with such concentration, that it was all Marie could do not to laugh.
After her conversation with the lieutenant last night, sleep had eluded her. The lieutenant had tried to be reassuring, saying over and over that it was only temporary, that they’d soon enough break Garrett’s story down, that she’d be back on the road before she knew it. But, he had said, policy was policy. After a rash of brutality complaints and a number of lawsuits against departments across the state, all complaints had to be investigated thoroughly to avoid later charges of whitewash or cover-ups. And the officers involved had to be on suspension. No exceptions. Marie had taken the news stoically, trying hard to show nothing on her face. She held on to Shelby’s advice not to do anything permanent. But she doubted if she was going to come back. And that upheaval had kept her tossing and turning all night. Her eyes felt gritty and she had to stifle the impulse to yawn.
The ringing of the kitchen phone jarred her out of her reverie. She rose to her feet and bent over to give Ben a kiss on the top of the head. “I’ve got it, Dad,” she called. She walked into the kitchen and picked up the phone. “Hello?”
“How’re you doing, Jones?” It was Shelby.
“I’m okay,” she said. “Thanks.”
“They done it again,” he said.
She felt a hollowness in the pit of her stomach. “Where?”
“Hog processing plant down east,” he replied. “Bunch of people was in line to get in the parking lot ‘fore work. They drove up and shot ‘em down.”
Marie rubbed her forehead. “Guess they haven’t made any progress on finding Randle and the Marks girl?” “Naw,” he said. “You want to come out to the house later? We can talk more there.”
“Sure,” Marie said. “But why …”
“Can’t talk any more here,” he said. “I’ll see you about six o’clock.” She hung up the phone as her father came into the kitchen.
“That was Shelby,” she said. “They think the church shooters just killed a bunch of people on their way in to work.”
He grimaced. “Shit,” he said. “Bad news. Good of him to tell you about it, though.”
“He wants to talk to me,” she said. “In person.”
He looked impressed. “Looks like you got yourself a friend in high places. This bullshit may blow over after all.”
There was a different guard at the gate when Keller pulled up. “Jack Keller for Mrs. Marks,” he said, and the guy waved him through. Well that was easier, he thought.
This time, he found the house with no trouble. He noticed there was a bright red soft-top Jeep Wrangler parked out front. It looked new.
Ellen Marks answered the door at the first ring. She was dressed in a tailored black pantsuit that showed off her curves without being ostentatious about it. She wore large tinted glasses that hid most of her eyes. “Hello, Jack,” she said. “Come in.” She turned and walked back into the house. At least she’s sober this time, Keller thought. Or at least she hasn’t had enough for me to smell it on her. Yet. He followed her back into the living room. He could see out the window to where a golfer was lining up his shot at the edge of the water hazard.
Ellen Marks sat down on the couch and lit a cigarette. She didn’t speak. She just looked at him. Finally, he broke the silence.
“You said you knew where Laurel might be,” he said.
“Let me ask you something, Jack,” she said. “If you find Laurel, you’re going to bring her in alive, correct? I mean, if you can.”
He nodded. “Right. If … something happens to her, the court may remit the bond. That means the bondsman may not have to pay the court. But it’s up to the court. Still, I don’t get paid if that happens.”
“So you’ve got an interest in keeping her alive until you bring her in. A financial interest.”
“Right.”
She laughed sharply. “Self-interest. That’s something I can trust.” She took another drag on the cigarette, then studied it for a moment, as if fascinated by the stream of smoke rising from the tip. Then she abruptly stood up. “Follow me.” She walked past Keller and out a side door.
Keller followed her down a long hallway. They ended up in what appeared to be an office. A large, heavily varnished oak desk dominated one end of the room, with papers arranged neatly on it. There was a leather couch along one wall. Over the couch was a small framed photograph. The frame looked as if it was made with old scrap wood, as if from a bam or old house. It looked jarringly out of place among the sleek leather furniture of the rest of the room. Ellen walked over and stared at the photograph.
It was a small black-and-white, an old Polaroid shot, going slightly yellow with age despite being sealed under glass. It showed a family standing and looking solemnly into the camera. The background behind them appeared to be a grove of trees. There was an unfocused white blur in the distance behind the trees that might have been a house.
There was an older man dr
essed in overalls, standing stiffly beside and slightly behind a younger woman. His face was lined with care and his body seemed slightly stooped, as if he had been broken and not put back together just right. The woman was younger, her face less worn. There was a hint of laughter in her dark eyes, fighting the sadness in the lines around them. She had her hand on the shoulder of a dark-haired girl about eight years old in a frilly white dress. The dark-haired girl stared into the camera with what looked like resentment, as if she wanted to be somewhere, anywhere else. Another, younger girl beside her looked off-camera, her mouth slightly open as if in surprise. Keller looked more closely at the older girl. She looked familiar.
“Tell me, Jack, would you have ever taken me for a farm girl?” Ellen Marks spoke up. Keller didn’t answer. “It’s a terrible life, you know,” she went on. “If there’s too much rain, the tobacco gets blue mold and you go broke. If there’s not enough rain, the crops dry out and you go broke. If there’s perfect weather, there’s so much tobacco at market that the price goes down and you go broke.” She took another drag on her cigarette. “And when things work just right, you have to go out and pick it. Your back hurts from stooping over to pick the sand lugs. And you feel like you’ll never get that sticky juice off your hands.” He recognized the older girl now. It was Ellen Marks.
“Good thing you got out.”
“Yes,” she said. “Good thing.”
“So, is this your family’s old farm?” he asked.
She shook her head, as if suddenly coming back. “Still is,” she said. “I keep trying to convince my little sister to sell. But she won’t do it. My parents are buried out there, you see. And their parents as well. There’s a little family graveyard on the hill.”
“You think that’s where Laurel might be?”
“She always liked it there. Even after Daddy… my father died and the place started to fall apart. She loved to go see her granny. When she could.”
“You make it sound like it was a pretty rare thing.”
Ellen turned to look at him. “My mother couldn’t stand my husband, Jack,” she said. “And the feeling was mutual. It was … one of the things I found attractive about him.”
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