The Homecoming

by Carsten Stroud

  He heard Deitz shouting at him.

  “Chu, for fuck’s sake, what the fuck are you doing? Get in here!”

  Chu turned around.

  Deitz was standing just inside the Pro Shop gates. He had the two glass doors almost shut. There was more chatter from behind him and a series of white splotches stitched across the glass, a line leading right at Deitz’s head. Deitz flinched away from the impact and bellowed at Chu.

  “Come on, you fucking asshole.”

  He was through the doors and Deitz slammed them shut just as another line of white blotches chattered along the glass. It dawned on Chu that the glass was bulletproof. Deitz did something to a keypad beside the door, arming the system, grinning at Chu as he did so.

  “What the fuck were you doing back there? You shot at those cops? And you’ve lost the gun. And your forehead is bleeding. They hit you?”

  “They were shooting at me,” said Chu, wiping the blood out of his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt. “I mean, I’m a totally innocent hostage and they were trying to kill me.”

  “What happened to your forehead?”

  “The gun smacked me in the face when I pulled the trigger. I guess I wasn’t holding it right.”

  Deitz laughed.

  “I guess you weren’t. Well, you’re not a totally innocent hostage now, my friend. Now you’re a fucking desperado.”

  Cops in black fatigues were pouring out of alleys and scrambling up the escalators. More rounds were being fired at the doors.

  Deitz ignored them, turned away, took a breath.

  “There’s a first-aid box over there on the wall. Go get some gauze and wrap your head. You’re getting blood all over yourself. Then we gotta make sure about the staff. And see if there’s any customers fucking around. Orders are for staff to throw out the customers and lock the store down—this place is like a fortress—it was built to withstand full-on armed assault—because of all the weapons—”

  “Won’t they take their own guns out of the display cases and shoot at us?”

  “Nope. Bass Pro management doesn’t want any of their staff shooting a customer by accident. It’s policy—or they can’t get insurance. If they can’t get out of the store, they all go into lockdown—they got a panic room behind the gun lockers—and they hole up until the cavalry gets here—”

  “How do you know all this?” asked Chu, trotting along behind Deitz, dabbing at his bloody forehead with his sleeve, his heart slamming around in his chest. Deitz looked back at him.

  “Because we designed their whole security protocol. All the gear. The systems. The hardware and the software. The passwords. How to harden the walls and the floors. We put it all in. I mean our company. Securicom. I know this system better than the cops do. Better than the store guys do. We can hold out here for weeks. They even got dried food. Lots of bagged water. They’ll cut the power, but we got auxiliary. They’re fucked.”

  “We put the systems in? Securicom did?”

  “Yes,” said Deitz. “And now we’re gonna secure the position and bunker down in here and figure out how to talk our way out of this situation. You and me. You’re gonna tell them all about that Mondex thing, how to trace it. How to find the guys who did the bank. That’s your part. You’re the IT hero. The rest we can deal with. I can say when the prison van went over I hit my head and wandered off. I can threaten to sue the U.S. Marshals for endangering a prisoner. We’ll fuck with their heads. Maybe even get you off for shooting at those cops, you crazy dink bastard.”

  “What about the round you put in that guard’s knee?”

  “Fuck Jermichael Foley. I can say it was self-defense. He wasn’t supposed to be shooting at anybody, the dumb fuck. He’ll be lucky I don’t fire his ass when all this is over. In the meantime, we got work to do. You follow?”

  Chu was painfully aware that when it came to chutzpah and moxie and an Olympian capacity for self-delusion, Deitz was in a league of his own, but in the end, Chu got a bandage out of the first-aid box and followed Deitz, wrapping the gauze around his head as he trotted along.

  What the hell, Chu thought. He might even pull it off.

  Endicott pulled over as the black SUVs and choppers and squad cars began to swarm around the Galleria Mall. He was getting no red dot on his GPS screen because he was too far away and the Lexus was probably parked under a lot of concrete and rebar. It looked as if Deitz was either going to die in this mall or go back to prison, and in either case this was, in Endicott’s view, far from excellent. Very damn far. He was not pleased.

  He sat there for a while, working through the possibilities, the various courses of action.

  Then he called Warren Smoles.

  A hundred feet back, slouching down behind the wheel of his mud brown Chrysler Windstar van, Edgar Luckinbaugh drank strong black coffee out of a thermos and set it down on the console beside him. On the passenger seat he had a box of Krispy Kreme donuts, a police scanner, a cell phone plugged into a charger, and a widemouthed one-gallon milk jug, empty, for now, but given enough coffee he’d be making a contribution to it fairly soon.

  It had been difficult for him to get sick time cleared, and when he did get it he had to borrow the most nondescript and forgettable vehicle he could locate, which was this piece-of-shit Windstar that belonged to his Aunt Vi, who was too frail and incontinent to drive anything other than her relatives crazy.

  Fortunately Vi doted on Edgar because he brought her macaroons and whiskey and Kools, which, according to her doctor, were going to kill her but so far hadn’t, so screw him, and she was happy to let Edgar rent the van from her for twenty bucks a day, paid a week in advance, the grasping old bat.

  Edgar had no idea that the grasping old bat was wildly rich, in a small way, and that his twice-weekly deliveries of Kools and Jameson’s Irish and Pepperidge Farm Macaroons had secured for him a favored position in her last will and testament, which, had he lived, would have run to over fifty thousand dollars.

  At any rate, after considerable exertions, Edgar was now parked a few yards behind Endicott’s black Caddy in the vicinity of the Galleria Mall and listening to the cross talk on the police scanner. As was Mr. Endicott, Edgar had no doubt.

  He had been present when Endicott had set up his own two-car surveillance post near a neat wood-frame rancher at 237 Bougainville Terrace in the Saddle Hill neighborhood of southwestern Niceville.

  A quick check of the Reverse Lookup White Directory had confirmed the rancher as belonging to a Securicom employee named Andrew Chu, known as Andy. He had relayed this information to Sergeant Coker’s text message center as soon as he had determined that Harvill Endicott had settled in for a long night of watching Andy Chu’s house.

  He had left the message on a voice mail server that could not be traced to anyone on this planet and had gotten back, a short time later, a brief heard and understood charlie mike text message from the same number, charlie mike meaning Continue the mission. Edgar had no idea what was going on, and he intended to keep it that way.

  He was professionally satisfied that his identification of Harvill Endicott as a Person of Interest to Staff Sergeant Coker had panned out. Clearly Mr. Endicott had a strong interest in the whereabouts of Byron Deitz, since he had followed Deitz and Chu all the way from Chu’s house to this mall, where events seemed to be overtaking the best-laid plans of practically everyone.

  Edgar Luckinbaugh had no interest in any of these events, since too much knowledge was a dangerous thing and frequently led to being indicted, or worse.

  So he plucked another Krispy Kreme from the box—honey-glazed, his favorite—and set about it, quite content to be a simple man doing a simple thing and doing it well.

  Trail of Tears

  Eufaula was there when Kate called from the SUV.

  “No, Miss Kate. The boys aren’t here. I’ve been here since two and they haven’t called or anything.”

  Eufaula looked at the kitchen clock, frowning.

  “But they should be, should
n’t they? Do you want me to go see if they’re walking along North Gwinnett, rambling around like they always do?”

  “Eufaula, would you mind?”

  “Not at all. I’ll take my cell and call you if I find them. Shall I go all the way up to Regiopolis?”

  “No, honey, thanks. We just called and they’re not there either. The staff went out looking, but neither of them is on the grounds. Nobody knows where they are.”

  Eufaula had already observed that Rainey had very circuitous ways about him, and that he was having a bad influence on Axel, and that baby Hannah didn’t like him at all, no sir, but she felt it wasn’t her place to say so. She herself found Rainey to be an unsettling child. Furtive and sly, with a mean streak when cornered.

  Sort of like a possum.

  Kate thanked Eufaula and shut the cell down. She looked over at Lemon.

  “Not at home?” he said, and she shook her head, her chest closing up. They were parked outside Sylvia’s house—Rainey’s former home—a large stone mansion at 47 Cemetery Hill, tucked up into a stand of trees that ran down a long slope to a tributary of the Tulip.

  This part of Garrison Hills was Serious Old Money and looked it. The Teagues had been a wealthy family, but then the Teagues’ line, throughout its long and checkered history, had shown a talent for acquiring wealth, if not affection. Sylvia’s husband, Miles, was a man Kate had never been able to warm to, and his suicide a few days after Rainey was found alive had struck her at the time as an act of utter narcissistic selfishness.

  “Will we go in and see?” said Lemon.

  “Yes. And if they’re in there …”

  “Take it easy, Kate. Rainey’s not a bad kid, and Axel has a lot of sense for a kid his age.”

  Kate said nothing and Lemon followed her up the stone steps to the large oak door. Set into the carved frame was a shielded keypad. Kate punched in the code and the latch popped open. They went through the door and into the wide entry hall, a cavernous space that rose up three floors to the vaulted ceiling. The interior of the house gleamed with brass and polished oak and antique carpets in blue and ochre and amber. The hall lights were on but the rest of the huge old house was dark and silent. It smelled of wood polish and still air. Kate walked to the foot of the center-hall staircase and called out.

  “Axel? Rainey? Guys, are you here?”

  Nothing. Just an echo and the sound of the house ticking as the day cooled down.

  They walked through the main-floor rooms—a large formal dining room, and on the other side of the central hall a formal living room done in pale beiges and dark woods, with splashes of bright color here and there. An oil painting of Miles and Sylvia in their early years hung above the stone mantel of the massive fireplace. The house breathed of absence and emptiness.

  Beyond the living room there was a wood-lined library full of comfortably threadbare furniture in worn plaids and brown leather. The glass-windowed shelves were heavy with books and framed snapshots.

  Sylvia’s desk—an antique dresser with a gleaming French polish—was set into the wall opposite the large flat-screen television that rested on a rosewood sideboard.

  Lemon put his hand on top of Sylvia’s Dell.

  “It’s still warm,” he said.

  “See when it was last opened,” said Kate. “I don’t think they’re here, but I’ll check the rest of the house.”

  Kate walked into the kitchen area and looked out the wall of glass to the gazebo where they had found what was left of Miles. Lemon had done the yard recently and the bluegrass was smooth all the way down to the willows and oaks at the bottom of the lawn. No footprints. No Axel. No Rainey.

  No one in any of the upstairs rooms either, although it looked as if someone had been lying down on the bed in the master bedroom. The coverlet, a plush and silky duvet, showed a depression about the size of a small kid.

  Kate got an image of Rainey lying here and staring up at the carved oak ceiling and thinking … what?

  Kate had no idea.

  After all these weeks, after what she had found out about him today, Rainey was more of a mystery than ever. And what sort of effect was he having on Axel? Or Hannah, for that matter? Axel had never been devious, at least not at this level. Rainey was a different story.

  But then he’s a Teague, isn’t he?

  When she got back to Sylvia’s office, Lemon was shutting down the computer.

  “Whoever’s been here—”

  “Let’s assume it was the boys.”

  “Okay. First of all, I think they’ve been using Sylvia’s Internet connection to send out phony e-mails. Clever stuff too. One of them has the makings of a great hacker. I can’t tell which. They’ve also been going over all of Sylvia’s Ancestry files. From what I can see, they’ve been looking for …”

  Lemon hesitated, so Kate helped him out.

  “Rainey’s story?”

  “Yes. That’s what it looks like. Rainey was adopted from Sallytown, if I’m right?”

  “Yes. From a foster home up in Sallytown. At least, that’s the story.”

  Lemon heard the slightly sarcastic tone in her voice. He sat back and looked at her.

  “Well, whatever the truth is, Kate, he’s been searching for it. With Axel’s help, I guess. And for Rainey’s parents who died in that barn fire. The Gwinnetts.”

  “And they’ve had no luck?”

  Lemon shook his head.

  “Not so far.”

  “I’m not surprised. Neither have I.”

  Kate sighed, leaned against the wall, closed her eyes.

  “Look, Lemon … keep this to yourself, okay? Before Dad disappeared … I mean, right before … he wrote a memo expressing concerns about Rainey’s date of birth, about his adoption in general. After … the mirror thing, with Glynis … I looked into it. Dad was right. Rainey’s adoption papers were—they made no sense. After I was made guardian, I felt I had an obligation to clear up the confusion, make sure everything was in order. What I found just made it worse.”

  Lemon sat quietly and listened. He knew a bit about this, but Kate had never opened up on the topic. He let her run.

  “For starters, there was no record of Rainey’s birth as a Gwinnett in any of the databases, local, county, statewide, adjoining states. Canada, Mexico, Jupiter. Nothing. The foster home, no record of it ever existing. The Palgraves, his foster parents, the only Palgraves I ever found were Zorah and Martin Palgrave. Would you like to know when they were married?”

  “Yes, I would.”

  “Zorah and Martin Palgrave were married at the Methodist Church in Sallytown on March 15. In 1893. Dad found an old photograph of a family reunion—The Niceville Families Jubilee, John Mullryne’s Plantation, Savannah, Georgia, 1910. All four of the Founding Families were there—the Haggards, the Cottons, the Walkers—”

  “And the Teagues.”

  “Yes. The name of the company that printed the photo was on the card. Zorah and Martin Palgrave.”

  “Maybe a coincidence?”

  Kate gave him a wry look.

  “You don’t believe that yourself. Not after everything that’s happened. I don’t know what to make of it. Or of this. On April 12, 1913, the Palgraves banked a letter of credit drawn on the Memphis Trust Bank. The letter stated that the funds were to cover costs related to ‘the care and confinement of Clara Mercer and the delivery of a healthy male child on March 2, 1913.’ The credit letter was issued on the account of Glynis Ruelle. We have every reason to believe that the man who got her pregnant—and started the whole feud—was Abel Teague. He’s in the shot, and so is Clara. Beside his name somebody wrote the word shame.”

  “Miles had to know about all this. He was the one who arranged the adoption for Sylvia.”

  “Yes. He hired a lawyer named Leah Searle to handle it. I found a letter from her to Miles, at least it had her signature on it, dated May 9, 2002, prior to Rainey’s adoption, and in the letter she provided a copy of Rainey’s birth certificate, which stated tha
t he was born in Sallytown on March 2, 2002. It listed his parents as Lorimar and Prudence Gwinnett. They were supposed to have died in a barn fire so Rainey went into foster care with the Palgraves. Except none of this was true. Or if it is, there is no way to verify it. To be honest, I think Miles paid Leah Searle to fake the documents.”

  “Did Sylvia know anything about this?”

  “I think she was looking into it when Rainey was kidnapped.”

  “Have you talked to the lawyer, Leah Searle?”

  Kate said nothing for a while.

  “No. I couldn’t. She died after the adoption.”

  “How?”

  “She drowned, according to her obituary.”

  “So what you’re saying is, nobody knows who Rainey really is?”

  Kate shook her head.

  “No, I’m not saying that. I sure as hell don’t think that Rainey was born on March 2, 1913, and that he is, in reality, the illegitimate son of Abel Teague and Clara Mercer. On the other hand, there’s no way that Rainey is eleven either. He’s already well into puberty. His voice is changing. He’s filling out. Getting muscle. He’s almost my height now, and probably just as strong. If he’s under fifteen I’ll be … I don’t know. I just don’t know. I mean, if his birth certificate is a fake, then how old is he, really?”

  “Kids are doing that earlier and earlier, Kate. Growing up too fast. Every generation does it.”

  “It’s more than that. Sometimes, when I’m talking to him, it’s like there’s something inside there, looking out at me through his eyes. And whatever that is, it’s not a kid.”

  She teared up, fought it down.

  “Kate, this is all … it’s just a screwup with the records. Happens everywhere.”

  She smiled, her eyes bright and moist. “Yes. It does.”

  “Boonie said something at the Pavilion—maybe he had a point. Maybe one of us—you and me, or Reed—he’s a cop and would have more weight to throw—should drive up to Sallytown and look around the place one more time.”

  She nodded but could not say anything. Her fears were all on the table, and looking at them was making them worse.