A Darker Justice (10 page)

CHAPTER 13

“Anything going on?” Safer’s voice broke the silence of the towering pines.

Mike Tuttle, a man reputedly well accustomed to the tedium of stakeouts, replied. “The boyfriend’s still there. He slept over last night. Otherwise, the only new visitor is our little civilian helper.”

Tuttle leaned against a tree and lit a cigarette. With his shaved head and green camouflage suit, he looked more like a Marine on maneuvers than an FBI agent staking out a target, but Finch, Safer’s boss, had pulled him out of the Boise office expressly to help in this operation. Tuttle was supposed to be one of the Bureau’s best.

“If there are any psycho groups within a hundred miles of you,” Finch told him, “Tuttle’ll sniff ’em out like a truffle hound.”

To Safer, Mike Tuttle seemed arrogant, bandy-legged, and not at all pleased with being assigned to the mountains of western North Carolina.

Tuttle glanced at Safer through his cigarette smoke. “Heard anything from her yet?”

“No.” Safer pulled his collar up around his neck, suddenly aware of the silent cell phone in his shirt pocket. Mary Crow had had more than enough time to reason with Judge Hannah. She should have called an hour ago.

“So what’s she like?”

“Who?”

“Pocahontas.”

“You read her jacket.”

“But what does she look like? I hear these hillbillies marry their own siblings up here. Come up with some pretty weird-looking offspring.”

“She doesn’t have that problem.” Safer turned his back on Tuttle and looked into the forest, remembering the brightness of Mary Crow’s eyes and the straightforward way those eyes had studied him. She’d been attractive enough until she’d walked out of that gas station and handed him that peach tart thing. Then she’d looked up and smiled, and suddenly it was all he could do to get back in the truck and drive them where they were going. Mary Crow was just another pretty woman until she smiled. Then she became radiant, making the truck seem smaller, leaving him sitting far too close to her.

“Think she can talk the judge into letting us on the property?” Tuttle took a deep pull on his cigarette, making the tip glow orange.

Safer shrugged, wincing at the memory of what a jerk he’d been about the peach tart. “She seemed pretty determined. But so’s the old lady.”

“I never knew any woman who wasn’t determined about something.” Tuttle didn’t bother to hide the bitterness in his voice. “Usually it’s grabbing money that doesn’t belong to them.”

Safer made no comment. Tuttle had complained more than once about an ex-wife who hauled him into court on a regular basis. His cell phone chirped and he pulled it from his pocket. “Safer here.”

He frowned as the transmission turned Mary Crow’s low timbre into a squawk. “Can you meet me at the bridge?” she asked. “I think we may have reached a compromise.”

“What bridge?” Safer felt his heart beating faster. Idiot, he thought. All she’d done was smile, for God’s sake. It meant nothing.

“Turn up Irene’s driveway. You’ll see me waiting for you.”

“I’ll be there in five minutes,” he said, then clicked off the phone.

“Make any headway?” Tuttle flipped his cigarette butt into the trees.

“Maybe,” Safer replied as he strode back to the Dodge. “I’ll let you know.”

*  *  *

He drove back to Upsy Daisy Farm, turning up the clay drive and bouncing over the bumps and potholes in the road. He rounded a sharp curve, and suddenly Mary Crow came into view, standing under a huge, bare sycamore tree growing beside one end of a suspension bridge that spanned a shallow rushing river. Slowing, he studied her as if he had a second chance to see her for the first time. She carried her medium-tall height proudly, her head held high. Her glossy black hair just brushed her shoulders, and though she sported the upscale jeans-and-down jacket look of a city woman on a country vacation, she seemed totally at ease leaning against a rickety bridge in the middle of a mountain farm.

He nosed the truck under the tree and turned off the engine. Before he could unbuckle his seat belt, she was standing beside the door. She looked different from when he’d dropped her off. Still serious but playful, like a tiger freed from the constraints of a cage.

“Hi, Safer.” Once again she smiled that smile.

“What’s going on?” He got out of the truck feeling like a schoolboy with his first crush, unable to take his eyes from her face. This was nuts. Who was this woman?

“There’s good news and bad news.”

“Start with the bad.”

“She still won’t allow you guys to guard her.”

“So what’s the good news?”

“She’s allowing me to stay.”

“Don’t tell me
you’re
supposed to protect her!”

“That’s the plan. She doesn’t want me here any more than she wants you. But she’s agreed not to have me forcibly evicted from her property.”

“That’s the plan?” He slammed his hand down on the hood of the truck. “Jesus! Where does this crazy old bird get off? Didn’t you explain to her how bad this could get?”

“I did. But she won’t budge from her principles. And she can’t make me abandon mine.”

“Budge from her principles? Christ, you two make this sound like Judicial Ethics 101. Don’t you know this is
real
? You saw that picture. Maybe I should have sent you in there with it!”

“It wouldn’t have done any good.”

“A nice long look at Judge Klinefelter’s head in her lap might have convinced her that she needs somebody around with more than bright eyes and a target pistol.”

“This Beretta is hardly a target pistol, Safer.” Mary patted the gun nestled beneath her arm. “And I’m no stranger to criminals.”

“You might be able to hit somebody standing still. The killer will come at you fast, like a shadow—”

“I’m sorry,” she interrupted, her smile fading. “But me and my Beretta are all you get. It’s still a better deal than you had when you dropped me off this morning.”

Safer could already hear Finch roaring at him over the phone. What was it with these mountain people? Where did this idiot judge get off? Why would she allow this young attorney to put herself in such jeopardy?

“I can’t let you do this,” he replied, the words feeling like gravel in his throat.

Mary Crow laughed. “On what grounds can you stop me, Agent Safer?”

She had him there. She was a private citizen, on private property, carrying a gun she was legally entitled to carry. There was nothing he or the Bureau or even the damn Attorney General of the United States could do about it.

Rubbing his beard, he studied her. “You know she’s maneuvered us both into this corner.”

“Irene hasn’t maneuvered anybody into anything, Safer,” Mary replied evenly. “She doesn’t want me here any more than she wants you. She’s just willing to put up with me.” She gave an impatient sigh. “Look, one of Irene’s mares is going to have a foal, so she’s not going anywhere until she flies to Richmond on the fifth of January. So why don’t you give me a ten-minute course on bodyguarding? If I’m on the inside with a gun and you guys have this farm surrounded, everything should be fine.”

He glared at her, wanting to tell her that it wasn’t going to be fine, and that it could well get very lethal very fast, but he didn’t. What would be the point? Until he could call Washington and have them figure some way out of this, he would have to play along.

“Okay, Ms. Crow,” he said, moving in behind her, standing so close that the spicy warm scent of her filled his nose and made him dizzy. He cleared his throat and spoke slowly, as if he were reciting the first page of a primer.

“The simplest way to kill a man is to rip out his eye. . . .”

CHAPTER 14

The snow Mary had hoped for did not arrive. In fact, Christmas Day dawned an anomaly in the damp cloudiness of a mountain winter. It glittered like a shiny jewel, with a cold aquamarine sky unmarred by the slightest wisp of a cloud. The fields of Upsy Daisy Farm glowed tawny in the sunlight, and from Mary’s vantage point, just in front of the tree line that edged the woods, the whole farm looked like a page torn from a child’s coloring book—blue sky, white house, red barn, golden fields.

“Pretty, isn’t it?” Irene sat beside her on Spindletop, a dark brown horse that shook his head against the stricture of his bit.

“It’s beautiful, Irene. I love it more every time I come here.” Mary rode a little gray mare named Stella and smiled. “I
understand
it more every time I come here.”

“That’s because you’re getting older.” Irene chuckled. “In your twenties, you want bright lights and big cities. In your thirties, other things intrigue you. Come on. Let’s go down to the creek.”

Stella followed Spindletop with no urging from Mary. They picked their way down the hill until they reached the flat, unfenced pasture behind the barn. Then Irene picked up the pace. Though Mary had not ridden in a long time, she quickly remembered most of what Irene had taught her. Soon she and Stella were gliding over the fields in long, ground-covering strides. Mary had not much more to do than just stay in the saddle.

When Irene reached the stream, she gave Spindletop his head and let him drink. Mary eased up beside them to let Stella do the same. Early that morning they’d given the horses their special Christmas breakfast—an apple, pear, and molasses concoction that Irene added to their regular food. After they’d eaten their own breakfast, Hugh had returned to his farm and she and Irene had gone to the stable, saddling up Spindletop and Stella for a long ride. “They’re fat as pigs,” said Irene. “They needed a special Christmas breakfast about like I needed that extra slice of pecan pie. A little exercise will do us all good.”

Now Irene looked at her as the horses sucked up long draughts of sweet, cold water. “So tell me. What’s Jonathan doing while you’re up here bodyguarding me?”

Mary had known this question was coming. She’d put off formulating an answer, mostly because she didn’t know what to say—to herself or anyone else. “Jonathan and I aren’t together anymore,” she replied, the words sounding strange in her own ears.

“What?” Irene spoke so sharply that Spindletop flinched. “When? Why?”

“He moved out last spring. He said he wasn’t happy in Atlanta, but the fault was really mine.”

“Yours?”

Mary looked at Irene with wistful eyes. “Work got crazy. We caught a man called the Dance Hall Demon—a guy who was romancing older ladies out of all their money, then killing them after he’d bled them dry. We had him on one count, then the cops dug deeper. Ultimately I indicted him for four different murders.”

Irene whistled. “I heard about that. Wondered if you were in on it.”

“I didn’t work on anything else from last Christmas to Memorial Day.”

“And Jonathan didn’t like that?”

“He said he didn’t like the city, but I think he resented the hours and the pressure and the emotional ups and downs.”

“And?” Irene pressed.

“And he hated the evidence files on the dining room table. The depositions I had to read each night in bed.” She pressed her lips together and stroked Stella’s neck. “Mostly, though, he hated the filth that rubbed off on me.”

“Oh, Mary.” Irene reached over and squeezed her shoulder.

“It’s okay. I hung four murders on the Dance Hall Demon. Jonathan went out west and came back with a new girlfriend on his arm.”

“You’re kidding.” Irene looked as if someone had just presented her with irrefutable evidence that the world was flat.

Mary nodded. “Ruth Moon. A full-blood Cherokee from Tahlequah, Oklahoma. She’s pretty, she’s smart, and she’s trying to amend the Constitution to allow Native Americans in Congress.”

The reins fell slack in Irene’s hands. “I’m so sorry.”

“Me, too,” Mary replied softly and felt as bereft as she had the day she’d found Jonathan’s note, telling her he was going back home to Little Jump Off. She squeezed Stella’s reins hard and tried to think of something else.

“May I give you a piece of grandmotherly advice?” Irene leaned over and gently touched her shoulder again.

Mary nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

“Ride on,” whispered Irene.

“Ride on?” Mary looked at her friend.

“Just ride on. Your road isn’t close to ending. Who knows who you’ll meet along the way?”

“But . . .”

“It’s the only cure,” said Irene as she turned Spindletop around and urged him forward. “Trust me. I know.”

*  *  *

They rode the horses fast, then. Up through the woods, along the creek, finally around the whole perimeter of the farm. The warm sun on Mary’s shoulders did seem to push Jonathan far away and relegate her heartbreak at Little Jump Off to something that happened to her in the distant past. Like so many times before, Irene Hannah had known the balm to soothe Mary’s soul. As they rode down along the fence line that paralleled Lick Log Road, Mary saw two parked green vans with tinted windows. She grinned. She had no doubt that Daniel Safer was inside one of those vans, watching their every move.

“Hey, Irene,” she called, pulling back on Stella’s reins. “Look. There are your friendly local G-men.”

Irene slowed Spindletop to a walk as she eyed the vans, then her eyes began to sparkle with a devilish glee. “Want to show them what terrific horsewomen we are?”

“I don’t know that I’m so terrific. I haven’t ridden in a while.”

“I’ll ride up and do this trick Spindletop and I have been working on. When you hear my signal, ride up hard behind me. Think you can do that?”

“I’ll try.”

Mary watched as Irene turned Spindletop in a tight circle, then she began to race toward the van. When she pulled directly alongside it, Irene brought Spindletop to a skidding cow-pony halt. Faster than she could breathe, the horse reared up on his hind legs, his forelegs pawing the air. Mary looked on, astonished. It was the coolest move she’d ever seen anywhere outside a rodeo. Federal District Judge Irene Hannah on a rearing horse.

“Into the breach, my friends!” Irene cried as she waved at the vans full of Feds. “Charge!”

With that, Spindletop leaped obediently into a gallop, his tail flying out behind him as he sped up the hill. Mary followed on Stella. If she fell off now, she would be the laughingstock of every cop between here and Washington. Hunched over the saddle, she gripped the reins tightly while Stella thundered after Spindletop. When they reached the top of the hill, they stopped. Slowly the driver’s window of the second van rolled down. A single arm in a plaid jacket sleeve emerged, gave a brief wave, and then vanished back inside the vehicle. Mary and Irene began to laugh.

“I think they enjoyed that,” Irene said, delighted.

“Good,” Mary gasped. “Let’s not give them an encore. I’m not sure I could hang on.”

“Me neither, actually. We can walk the horses back to the barn. Maybe in a little while I’ll bring those boys one of my pies.” She looked at Mary, then shrugged. “After all, it is Christmas.”

And so they walked, side by side, back to the old barn, Mary once again content to cast her sorrows on the hills of Upsy Daisy Farm.

*  *  *

Tommy Cabe did not wake up early on Christmas morning. He had no illusions regarding Santa Claus and not many more about goodwill among men. He did have, that morning, a profound gratitude for the twenty-four hours of Christmas liberty Wurth had given them, and he honored the holiday by spending the first part of it in warm, delicious slumber. Curled up on his cot, the scratchy wool blanket pulled to his ears, he floated through every Christmas he’d known—from the early, exuberant ones at his grandfather’s farm in Kentucky, to the leaner, but still happy ones with his mother in Cherokee. Finally he landed on this one, and thought of the previous day, when Willett had shown him his cave. It hadn’t been anything like he’d expected. True, it did smell a little bit, but it was also beautiful and mysterious.
It’s cool inside, Tommy-boy. You can go flying inside your head!

At the memory, his eyelids fluttered open. Blinding sunlight shone through his window, high in a crystal blue sky. It would be a perfect day to spend outside—cold, but bright. He and Willett could go back to the cave. Sitting up, he turned toward the cot next to his. “Hey, Willett,” he called. “Wake up—”

Suddenly the words stuck in his throat. Willett’s bed looked empty. He fumbled for his glasses.

“Willett?” he repeated.

Though his friend’s bed was made up with the military precision Wurth demanded, Willett was gone. His battered Nikes were gone, his thin blue jacket was gone, even his Bulls cap, which he usually stashed beneath his mattress while he slept, was gone. Tommy Cabe peered down the long dorm room. All the rest of the Grunts still slept, each bed holding a boy deep in whatever dreams carried him away from Camp Unakawaya.

“Hey, Galloway! Young!” he called to the nearest sleepers. “Have you guys seen Pierson?”

George Young rolled over and groaned without opening his eyes. “Not since yesterday,” he muttered before he covered his head with his pillow.

“Maybe he flew away.” Harvey Galloway sat up and blinked sleepily at Willett’s bed. “That’s what he was always talking about doing.”

“You didn’t hear anything last night?” Cabe asked.

Galloway shook his head as he, too, settled back down to sleep. “Sorry, Cabe.”

Tommy looked at Willett’s bunk, stunned. They’d stayed up well past midnight, Willett alternately reading his airplane magazine and then rolling over to look out the window, goofily checking for Santa Claus.
Wouldn’t it be cool if Santa Claus was real?
he’d said, his face shining with the wonder of a four-year-old instead of a teenager of fourteen.
Man, I wouldn’t ask for anything but a lift out of this shithole. I’d never have to go to Attitude Realignment again!

That was it, Cabe realized. Wurth had changed his mind. Wurth had decided that Willett didn’t deserve Christmas after all and had sent him to AR early.

“Fuck that!” Cabe cried aloud. Christmas was going to be Willett’s last day of freedom for who knew how long. The two of them had planned to have some fun.

Tommy threw off his blanket and got to his feet. He’d talk to Wurth. He’d get Willett out of AR, even if he had to volunteer to take his place.

He dressed hastily, paying attention to the details Wurth held such store by. By the time Cabe reached the first floor of the castle, his cowlicks had been tamed, his teeth were gleaming, and his shirttail was well tucked in. Squaring his shoulders, he walked down the long hall to Wurth’s office, his heart thumping in his chest like a rabbit’s.

He lifted his hand and knocked on the door. Wurth answered immediately, his voice crisp with command. “What is it?”

Tommy opened the door. He’d been in Wurth’s office only once, the first day he came here, but he remembered it clearly. A big, ornate desk faced the door, with red leather chairs set around it. Various flags stood around the room, mostly weird versions of Old Glory. A wicked-looking Ninja-type sword hung on the wall in an ebony sheath, and from one bookcase leered a human skull with a bullet hole in the very center of the cranium. On this morning, Sergeant Wurth stood behind his desk with a bald man in a black leather jacket, both of whom looked up from some kind of blueprint. Wurth’s mouth drew down when he saw Tommy. “Yes, Cabe?” he snapped with impatience.

Cabe shuddered as he took two steps inside the room. It smelled of cigar smoke and coffee. Wurth looked at him with cold eyes.

“It’s W-W-Willett, sir,” Cabe said, mortified at the sudden girlishness of his voice.

“W-W-Willett? W-W-Willett P-P-Pierson?” Wurth mocked him.

“Y-yes, sir. He doesn’t deserve to be in AR, sir. He was just trying to help me get m-my words out yesterday.”

“And?” Wurth’s eyes glittered like a cat’s.

“And I was thinking maybe you would let me take Willett’s place in AR. The whole thing was my fault, anyway.”

“You’re absolutely right, Cabe. It was your fault. But what makes you think Pierson’s in AR?”

Tommy blinked. “He’s gone, sir. His clothes are gone and his bed’s made up.”

Wurth rolled up the blueprint he and his friend were studying before he replied. “Willett’s gone, you say? Well, isn’t that just too bad.”

Tommy frowned. He wasn’t understanding this. Wurth had sentenced Pierson to AR. Wurth must have sent someone to get him in the night. Upchurch, maybe. Or maybe David Forrester had returned. “Sir?”

“Mr. Cabe, boys come and go out of this camp all the time. Sometimes their pathetic excuses for parents manage to wrangle custody back, other times the DHS places them elsewhere. The order can come down at any time, and they can be gone, just like that.” Wurth snapped his fingers as if he were cracking a walnut.

“So DHS p-picked Willett up in the middle of the night? On Christmas Eve?”

“I can’t discuss that with you, Cabe. All juvenile records are confidential.” He planted his hands on the desk and leaned forward. “The only boy you and I can discuss, Mr. Cabe, is you.”

“C-can’t you even tell me where’s he gone?” Tommy heard his already ridiculous voice begin to quiver.
Please, God, don’t let me cry now.

Smiling, Wurth shook his head. “Pierson is in much better circumstances, Mr. Cabe. Let’s just say Santa Claus came last night and brought him a present. Now, would you care to talk about you?”

Tommy stood there, stunned. Wurth had just told him all he was going to about Willett. Now the attack had turned toward him. Wurth was probably going to say more terrible things about his mother, in front of this stranger.

“No, sir,” Cabe answered meekly. “I’m fine, sir.”

“Very well, then, Mr. Cabe. Have a Merry Christmas. Spend it wisely. You’ve got some demerits to attend to, tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir.” With that he turned and walked out, trying to look like the Trooper he would never be. He closed Wurth’s door behind him, his hands shaking with frustration and terror. Willett was in AR, he knew it. Willett had no relatives to demand custody of him, and the DHS wouldn’t take a kid anywhere on Christmas Eve. Wurth had probably taken him to the basement early and just didn’t want to admit it in front of that man.