“You know I hate to make predictions,” she prefaced. “But, from what I saw last night, it was pretty straightforward: knife in the back, blade through the heart, death probably instantaneous.” She shrugged. “Does it really matter if he was hit in the head before he was killed, or what he had for his last meal?”
“What about a tox screen?”
“It’ll take months to get results back, and even when we do, what can it tell us?”
“Nothing new,” Jeffrey admitted. “We know he’s a white supremacist by the tattoo. We know he was in the bar before it burned down because we saw him.”
“Do you think he set the fire?”
Jeffrey shook his head. “It looked to me like the fire started from the outside. Besides, I’m certain he was looking for something in that bar when we saw him. He sure as hell didn’t want to leave there without it.”
“Drugs might explain his behavior.”
“But not his motivation,” Jeffrey pointed out. He tried to think through his day, pin down things he could do that would actually move them toward his goal, which was finding out what exactly Lena had stumbled into and trying to help her find her way out. “I want to go by Hank’s house and see if I can find anything.”
“Drop me off at the morgue first and I’ll start the autopsy.”
He had to try, “If you left here around one, you’d be back in Grant in time for supper.”
“Or, I could find us another hotel to stay in,” she countered. “I remember seeing a town with more than a bar and a post office about half an hour from here. Maybe they’ll have something.”
“You know I don’t want you here. I mean, I do, but I—”
She shushed him. “I know.”
The hallway floor squeaked, but this time, whoever it was didn’t go into the bathroom.
Sara pulled her knees to her chest, straightened the blanket so it covered her, just as a light knock came at the door.
Jeffrey said, “Come in.”
Jake Valentine smiled as he cracked open the door. “Sorry to disturb y’all.” He had changed from his skimpy robe into his sheriff’s uniform, a decided improvement, though he still looked as if he was wearing his daddy’s clothes. “Myra’s already gone off to school, but she left you some bacon and eggs on the stove if you want.” His mouth went up in a quick smile, as if the thought of his wife cooking breakfast made him happy.
“Thank you,” Sara told him. “That was very nice of her.”
Valentine took off his hat and addressed Sara. “Anyway, ma’am, I was kind of hoping you’d oblige us again today with the autopsy on Boyd. That’s the man from last night. Boyd Gibson. I can get you cash if—”
“That’s really unnecessary,” she cut him off. “I’m glad to help out.”
“That’s great.” Valentine twirled his hat between his hands. “I’ll head over to Grover’s now, pick him up and tote him to the morgue so he can make the formal ID.”
Sara was never good at hiding her surprise. “You haven’t told him about his son yet?”
Valentine stopped playing with his hat. “Grover does the second shift at the tire factory,” he told her, as if that was an excuse. “I figured I’d let him finish his work, get some sleep, before I told him about Boyd.”
Sara nodded, but her disapproval was evident. Especially in a small town, where rumors pretty much became gospel, a cop had to get to the family first to make sure they heard the truth rather than rampant speculation. It was bad enough when you had to tell a parent that their child was dead, but when you knew the victim, had actually spent time with the family, it made everything harder.
Sara volunteered, “Maybe you could take Jeffrey with you to tell the father. I’m sure Mr. Gibson will have some questions about how his son died, and Jeffrey was one of the last people to see him alive.”
Valentine’s mouth twisted to the side as he thought about her suggestion, more than likely trying to come up with a good reason to say no. “Uh, you don’t need him to help you in the morgue today?”
Sara feigned surprise at the question. She shook her head, giving an innocent-sounding, “Not really.”
Jeffrey offered, “You could interview me on the way there.”
“Interview you for what?”
“About last night,” Jeffrey clarified. “I’m assuming you’ll need a statement from me about what happened. The bar burning down. The dead man being thrown through our window.”
“Yeah,” Valentine agreed. “Okay.” He glanced at his watch. “We’d better get, then.”
“Just give me ten minutes to take a quick shower,” Jeffrey said, grabbing his clothes off the bed. “I’ll be right with you.”
JEFFREY DIDN’T KNOW WHETHER it was just for his benefit, but Jake Valentine was a painfully careful driver. The man never met an intersection he didn’t slow down for and he actually stopped at a green light on the outskirts of town, telling Jeffrey, “It turns red real fast.” He liked to talk, and Jeffrey kept his own counsel, nodding to keep him going as they made the trip to tell Grover Gibson his son had been stabbed to death.
After half an hour of nonstop babbling, Valentine seemed to exhaust himself of talk of the weather and local anecdotes involving high school seniors pulling pranks during homecoming week. Not once had he brought up the reason for their trip, or speculated on who might have killed Boyd Gibson. Jeffrey knew that even Jake Valentine would’ve dusted the knife sticking out of Boyd’s back for prints. He’d have to scan in anything he found and send it to the state lab for cross-referencing. Unless he put a rush on it, and that was seriously doubtful, he’d have something back in a few days.
Jeffrey asked, “You ever been in a situation like this before?”
“What’s that?”
“Known a victim,” Jeffrey answered. “This Boyd Gibson. You went to high school with him, you said.”
“We ran in different crowds.”
“You were with the jocks and he was with the stoners?”
“Oh, me.” Valentine laughed. “My daddy’s biggest disappointment was me not being able to handle a basketball.” He glanced at Jeffrey. “Dad was all-state his last year at UGA. Scored thirty-seven points in the last half pretty much on his own. Me, I’m just good for changing lightbulbs and getting down boxes from the top shelf.”
“What made you pick up the badge?”
“Oh.” He waved his hand, dismissing the question. “Just thought it’d be something to do.”
“Seems like a pretty dangerous job to take up on a whim, considering the last guy who had it was chased out of town.”
“He landed on his feet.”
“Sounds to me like he got when the gettin’ was good.”
Valentine gave Jeffrey a sharp look. “You telling me I should do the same?”
“I’m telling you this is a dangerous job for somebody who doesn’t have his heart in it.”
Valentine slowed his car for a turn onto a one-lane dirt road. “I might just surprise you, Chief.”
“You know what surprises me?” Jeffrey asked, feeling the temperature drop in the car as they got out of the sun and drove down the tree-lined path. “It surprises me that you don’t seem to have any questions.”
“What kind of questions should I have?”
“Start with why my detective gave you the slip,” Jeffrey began. “Who made Hank Norton disappear? Who got his bar closed down? Who’s been setting fires? Who killed your buddy from high school?”
Valentine slowed the car to a stop. He put the car in park and turned toward Jeffrey. Two things occurred to Jeffrey. One was that they were in the middle of nowhere and the other was that Jake Valentine was the only one of them who was armed.
He felt a bead of sweat roll down his back.
Valentine rested his hand on the bottom curve of the steering wheel, his fingers inches from the gun on his belt. He said, “You look nervous, Chief.”
“I want to know why you stopped.”
“To answer your questions,” he said.
“Come on, let’s go for a walk.” He opened the door and got out. Jeffrey sat there, his heart beating hard enough to feel. The lane they were parked on was little more than packed dirt, dense forest on either side. No one knew they were out here but Sara, and there were a lot of excuses she could be told as to why Jeffrey never came back.
Valentine stood in the road a few feet in front of the car. He waved for Jeffrey to get out. “Come on, Chief.”
Jeffrey opened the door. He’d left his gun in the back of Sara’s car, locked in the trunk with their suitcase. He’d thought they were coming here to tell a man that his son was dead, not chase bad guys.
Valentine said, “It’s getting cool out.”
“Yeah,” Jeffrey agreed. He felt the wind stir up as he got out of the car. He’d put on a light jacket over a long-sleeved T-shirt this morning but he didn’t zip the jacket closed. He wanted the sheriff to think that Jeffrey wanted to be able to reach into the coat if he needed to.
Jeffrey closed the car door. The lane was covered in fall leaves, the trees bending over to block out the light. It would’ve been gorgeous if Jeffrey hadn’t had the powerful suspicion that he’d been brought out here for some kind of ambush.
“This way.” Valentine started strolling down the lane, slow enough for Jeffrey to catch up.
Jeffrey said, “I didn’t plan on going for a walk.”
“Pretty day for it, though. Might want to zip up your jacket.”
“I’m fine,” Jeffrey assured him.
Valentine reached up and tugged a bright orange leaf from an overhanging branch. He twirled it in his fingers as he talked. “Good country folk live out here. Real simple people. Most of them, they just wanna go to work, come home to the wife and kids, maybe have enough money left over at the end of the week to get a couple of beers and watch the football game on TV.”
Jeffrey kept his hands at his sides. There was a way you walked when you were carrying a gun, like you had brass ones swinging to your knees. “Grant County’s not that much different.”
“Guess not.” Valentine let Jeffrey get a foot or so ahead of him. The move was subtle, but Jeffrey knew the other man was looking for the telltale bulge of a gun at his back.
Valentine said, “Most small towns are alike, I think. Politics and all that crap blurs things, but we all have the same goals whether we’re in south Georgia or south France or Timbuktu. We want to feel safe. We want our kids to go to good schools and have the opportunities we didn’t. We want to live our lives and feel like we’ve got some control over our destinies.”
He was sounding like a different person now, the aw-shucks gestures and good-ol’-boy slang all but gone.
“What’s this leading up to, Jake?”
He gave Jeffrey a lazy smile. “This way.” He pointed to a small trail that cut through the woods.
“What’s down there?”
“See for yourself.”
This time, Valentine took the lead and Jeffrey followed, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling as they went deeper into the forest. The trail didn’t appear to be well-used. The ground sloped downward and Jeffrey slowed his pace, putting some distance between himself and the sheriff. Valentine didn’t seem to notice. He kept walking, still twirling the leaf. It wasn’t until he reached a small clearing that he stopped, waiting for Jeffrey.
“Lookit this,” Valentine said. He pointed to a sloped rock with a hole in it. A long section of white PVC pipe was propped up against the hole. A trickle of water fed into the pipe.
“It’s a natural spring,” Jeffrey said, more than a little surprised. He knelt down to check it out before he could think about what he was doing. He looked up at the sheriff, waited for the man to make his move.
“Here.” Valentine offered his hand, helped Jeffrey stand. “The pipe goes down the hill here.” He started walking, following the pipe’s path. The woods started to clear and the trees thinned out as they made their way down the slope toward what looked like an abandoned shack. Jeffrey guessed they walked about fifty yards before they reached a huge plastic holding tank of springwater. Jeffrey could hear the water dripping into the tank, saw the larger plastic pipe feeding into a shack sitting in the middle of a clearing.
“Plumbing,” Valentine told Jeffrey. “Springwater goes into the hookup at the house. Cold as a witch’s tit if you wanna take a shower, but pretty damn smart, don’t you think?”
“Yeah,” Jeffrey agreed. He could see a beat-up Ford parked in front of the shack. A long wire ran from the roof to an electric pole. Except for the small satellite dish angled off the roof, he could be looking at a home circa the Great Depression.
Valentine said, “Just got electricity out here a few years ago. Liked to took forever for the county to do it. Grover had to do most of the work himself.”
“This is where Boyd Gibson’s father lives?”
“Course it is. Where’d you think I was taking you?” Valentine took off his hat and wiped his forehead with the back of his sleeve. He was sweating as bad as Jeffrey, and it suddenly occurred to him that Jake Valentine had been just as wary during their tense walk through the woods as Jeffrey had been.
Valentine pointed to a dilapidated wooden picnic table tucked back into the woods. It’d obviously been there for a while; kudzu had taken over. Valentine told Jeffrey, “Me and Boyd used to sit up there and smoke weed when we was kids. Skipped school all the time, always in trouble. Now, it was his brother, Larry, who was the jock. Me and Boyd were the stoners.” He was quiet for a moment, seemed to be reflecting as he stared at the picnic table. “Boyd’s old man hated my guts. Mind you, I wasn’t crazy about him, either. He beat his wife to an early grave and then he started hauling off on his sons. Beat me once, too—blamed me for getting Boyd hooked and I think maybe he’s right.” He rubbed his jaw as if in memory of a punch. “Maybe I’m just fooling myself because I sure as hell drink too much, but with drugs I think that some folks can take it or leave it. I tried a little bit of everything: coke, speed, dope. It was nice, but then I met Myra and she didn’t stand for that kind of thing so I just left it behind. Boyd couldn’t do that. He got into meth real heavy, started shooting up, which was something I was always too chicken to do—needles scare the crap out of me. Once Boyd started putting that shit in his veins, he never looked back. You and Sara got kids?”
Jeffrey was taken aback by the sudden question. “We’re trying.”
“Myra says she won’t bring a baby into this world without knowing he’s gonna have a daddy.”
Jeffrey and Sara had talked about the same thing many times. “It’s dangerous work being a cop, but you can’t put your life on hold because of it.”
Valentine nodded, looking back at the picnic table. Jeffrey could see the beginnings of a bald spot on the crown of the man’s head. That would explain why he wore a hat all the time. Jeffrey’s father had been an asshole of the highest degree, but Jeffrey took comfort in the fact that his old man had died with a full head of hair.
Valentine said, “Myra and me, we knew each other in high school—well, the kind of way you know who the bad folks are and who the good folks are. Her family moved to town my sophomore year. Big-city girl.” He laughed at a private joke. “Myra was the good one, in case you need to be told. Real religious, loves the Lord. She was pretty surprised when I showed up at the same college as her, thought I was just some dumb pothead who’d end up slinging tires at the factory. I had to work my ass off to convince her I wasn’t just some fool chasing a piece of tail.” He chuckled again. “That was ten years ago, and she hasn’t changed a bit. God, but she’s pretty. Smart as a whip and don’t mind putting me in my place, which I probably need more often than not. Now, I can’t even imagine what my life would be like without her. Miserable, I guess. Maybe I’d be in jail instead of running the place. Could’ve just as easily been me as Boyd thrown through your window last night.”
Jeffrey crossed his arms, wondering if what he was hearing was the truth or some carefully plan
ned story to get his defenses down. Valentine hadn’t exactly been forthcoming over the last few days, and now he was laying down his life story like he was testifying at a tent revival.
Valentine leaned back on his heel, put his hat on his head. “You wanted to know who’s been setting fires, who chased off Hank and got his place closed down?” He glanced back at the small house as if to make sure no one was listening. “Answer to both questions is Boyd Gibson. He was working the bar, slinging Bud Light with meth chasers, when the ATF came in. As far as who stabbed him, I’ve got me some ideas, but I’m gonna have to trust you a hell of a lot more before I tell you that.”
“Did he torch the Escalade?”
“Wouldn’t be surprised.”
“Why did my detective run?”
“I gather she’s as hardheaded and arrogant as her boss. I arrested her because I think she’s involved in this up to her eyeballs. I’m gonna find her again, and I’ll be goddamned if I let her slip away from me a second time.”
Jeffrey spoke from experience. “You’re fighting a losing battle.”
“Yeah, well…” He shrugged. “We’ll see about that.”
“Who’s in charge?” Jeffrey asked. “Who’s running the skinheads?”
“If I could answer that, you and me probably would’ve never met.” Valentine’s sloppy grin came back. “Anyways, Chief, I guess I should warn you that the last time I saw Grover Gibson, he threatened to beat the shit out of me if I ever stepped foot on his property again.”
Part of Jeffrey relished the idea of the young sheriff getting his ass kicked. “Maybe you should call some backup, then. I’m not really here in an official capacity.”
“I figured as much when you got into my squad car without your gun.” He gave Jeffrey a wink before heading toward the house, saying, “I hope that pretty wife of yours really is a doctor. I have a feeling I’m gonna need some stitches.”
LENA
CHAPTER 14
DEACON SIMMS WAS ONE OF THOSE MEN who always looked old and out of step with the world, even when he was in his twenties. Lena supposed Deacon had considered himself a rebel, that when his gray braid slapped against his back as he drove his ancient Harley to the bar, he had thought he was making some kind of statement against society. He still looked every inch the Hells Angel he’d been in his younger days: Handlebar mustache. Confederate flag on the T-shirt stretching across his gut. Leather chaps over faded jeans.
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