A Darker Justice (12 page)

“That’d be terrific,” she said instead. She put her empty teacup down on the tray and left the study to Irene and her opinion, wondering what kind of files her mother’s small, sad life could have left behind, and amazed that today, after thirteen years, she would soon find out.

CHAPTER 17

Sergeant Wurth had not been joking when he said serious work would begin after Christmas. Cabe had rolled out of his cot at 0700 hours, putting his glasses on with the crazy hope that Willett had returned. But the adjoining bed still sat empty, its unmussed linens tucked tight beneath the mattress. With a sad emptiness spreading inside him, Tommy ate cold cereal with his fellow Grunts, then reported in front of the castle at 0800. It was clear by the way Sergeant Wurth strode up and down in front of them that Christmas at Camp Unakawaya was over.

Yesterday it had been impossible to sneak down to AR. With all the Troopers prowling around in festive high spirits, it had been all Cabe could do to avoid Tallent and Grice. Ultimately he’d sneaked back up to the cave. He’d squeezed through the bars, grabbed the stolen flashlight, and threaded his way back to Willett’s den. The four remaining cans of Coke and the photo of Tarheel remained where Willett had left them. Holding his breath, Tommy had thrust his hand inside the fissure that hid Willett’s secret weapon, hoping wildly that his friend had escaped and was right at that very moment at some police station, loading those files onto a cop computer. But when his fingers curled around the plastic-covered disk, Cabe’s heart sank. Willett was still somewhere at Camp Unakawaya. He would never have made a break for it without his disk. And anyway, Willett never would have left him without saying good-bye.

He stayed in the cave until late afternoon, when it was time to return to the castle for their annual Christmas dinner from the ladies of the Pisgah Valley Baptist Church. Willett had often raved about that meal, about how for once the Grunts got to eat the same food as the Troopers, real plentiful and all of it good. Cabe had looked for him before he sat down at the table, hoping Wurth might have released him from AR for the Christmas feast, but Willett was not there.

This morning Wurth made no mention of Christmas or Willett, but immediately assigned certain favored boys to certain favored duties. Grice and Tallent and the rest of the Troopers were sent to start building some kind of platform in the gym. The Grunts got stuck with their usual jobs in housekeeping—the more promising boys getting kitchen duty or classroom maintenance. Lesser talents like Cabe, who had demerits to work off, had to work outside. Though he usually hated the futility of sweeping dead leaves against a raw mountain wind, he didn’t mind it today. Sweeping would give him free run of the place, and that meant he could maybe sneak down to AR.

He swept the wind-driven leaves away from the corners of the broad front porch, then moved on to the great porte cochere, listening to the snap of Wurth’s huge quasi-American flag as it popped in the breeze. When his knuckles had grown red from the cold, Tommy decided it was time to risk a trip to the basement. Although any Grunt caught snooping around AR was liable to be sentenced to a long stretch there himself, Cabe didn’t care. He was convinced that Wurth had sent Willett there early. As bad as Camp Unakawaya was, Cabe had never known anyone to just disappear in the middle of the night and not be heard from again.

With a hasty glance around, he shouldered his broom and strode to the back of the castle. Only he and another Grunt, who was picking up dead limbs from the tennis court, were out in this frigid weather. He stashed his broom behind a sprawling boxwood and raced up the steps to the mud room that opened into the kitchen. When he pulled the door open, warm, moist air instantly fogged his glasses. He took them off and wiped them on his jacket as he walked inside. Three other boys were washing dishes at the sink, their forearms enveloped in a cloud of steam.

“It’s C-C-Cabe,” Harvey Galloway mocked. “How many of those demerits have you worked off, C-Cabe?”

“I don’t know.” Cabe put his glasses back on. “Maybe two.”

“Pierson ever show up?” Mike Abbot turned his ferret-like face toward him.

“No.”

“I’m telling you he’s dead,” Galloway cried, as if Cabe had just walked in on an ongoing dispute. “You don’t go off on Wurth like that and just cool your heels in AR.”

“He’s not dead, Galloway.” Cabe said it flatly, trying to ignore the sick feeling inside him that Galloway might be right.

“Yeah, C-C-Cabe, as if you’d know.” Galloway sneered back at him.

Abbot gave a nervous snigger and returned his attention to the sink. Tommy stepped quietly through the kitchen.

“Where you going, Cabe?” called Abbot, catching him just as he was turning toward the basement stairs.

“To the john,” replied Cabe. “It’s too cold to shit in the woods.”

The three boys howled with laughter. Cabe started toward the bathroom, but when the dishes began to clatter again in the sink, he turned quickly and slipped through the door that led down into the basement. He would have to move carefully, and he would have to move fast. At Camp Unakawaya there were limits to how long someone could sit on a john.

He tiptoed down the old stone stairs. The basement mirrored the creepy third floor, with lots of small plastered rooms lit by thin windows that began a few feet above ground level and extended downward. Even on bright days it remained dark, and Cabe always wondered if fungus wasn’t the true ruler down here. Trying to ignore the feeling that malevolent spores were watching him from the shadows, he hurried down the T-shaped hall. When he reached the end, he turned left. The top of the T held AR—a series of tiny cells located beneath the upstairs dining room, no doubt arranged so the smell of food could taunt the hungry penitents as they languished in their cells.

He crept forward, keenly aware that time was passing, aware, too, that if he was caught here he would be in trouble like never before.

“Willett?” he whispered as he approached the first cell. He pressed his ear to the heavy wooden door. No sound came forth. Tentatively he put his hand on the doorknob and turned. The door swung open, revealing a tiny room, empty except for a single short stool squatting in the middle of it.

He moved on to the next door, again calling Willett’s name, again getting no response. That door swung open easily, startling several huge pale roaches that scurried back into the shadows.

When he reached the third door he stopped. This was the last room. If Willett wasn’t in here, then Willett wasn’t anywhere. With a silent prayer, he leaned close to the door and whispered, “Willett? It’s me, Cabe!”

He thought he heard a soft moan. When he tried the door it opened readily, but only revealed a small cell with a foul, stained mattress on the otherwise empty floor. Willett Pierson was not down here having his attitude realigned at all. He was not in his room, nor was he hiding in his cave. In that moment the sick feeling in Cabe’s stomach grew heavy as a stone. Maybe Galloway had gotten it right; maybe Wurth couldn’t allow insubordination like Willett’s. Maybe Wurth had killed him and was betting that Cabe didn’t have the guts to find out.

CHAPTER 18

At quarter past one, Irene emerged from her office. She and Mary went out the back door and headed toward a small red pickup truck that glittered in the sun.

“Do you still have your Mercedes?” Mary remembered the old brown tank of a car that Irene had careened through the mountains in ever since she’d known her.

“Yep. I save Miranda for the paved streets of Richmond. Out here, I drive this.” Irene climbed behind the wheel of the little pickup.

“Are you one of those asshole truck drivers who go a hundred miles an hour and blind you with their headlights before they mow you down?” Mary pulled open the passenger door. Inside, Irene’s truck looked no bigger than her Toyota.

Irene grinned mischievously. “They don’t call me Haul Ass Hannah for nothing.”

Mary tugged her seat belt tight. With a long rev of the truck’s engine, Irene bore down on the narrow suspension bridge, zooming across before the sympathetic rumbling grew deafening.

They skidded down the driveway, then out onto the main road where Safer had dropped Mary two days before. How long ago that seemed, she thought, wondering what Safer had been doing. She didn’t figure him for anyone who would call to wish them Merry Christmas, but he might have at least checked on them this morning. The cell phone, however, had not beeped a single time since he had stomped off, livid that she’d gotten the nod to guard Irene. Safer was weird, she decided as she looked at the dark green forest that pushed up against the pavement. But come to think of it, what Fed wasn’t?

The twisting mountain road joined another, less twisting county road, and soon they were driving on 441, between vacationers toting skis to Wolf Laurel and Cattaloochee and long skidders hauling newly cut timber to the sawmills. Mary watched each vehicle they passed, looking for what, she didn’t know. At Upsy Daisy, she felt confident in her ability to keep Irene safe. Out here in the real world, she was growing edgier by the minute. By the time they rolled into downtown Hartsville and pulled up at a sprawling old Victorian that had been turned into a small office building, she felt like she’d mainlined a half-dozen espressos.

Dr. John Moreland’s reception room had once been the front parlor of the old home. Bright and sunny, it was now filled with two overstuffed sofas and an array of aging magazines. Kenny G issued from the speakers overhead, while a heavyset Cherokee woman in a white hospital coat sat at the reception desk.

“Hey, Miss Irene,” the woman called cheerfully as Mary and Irene entered. “How you doing today?”

“Fine, Rebecca. How about you?”

“I’m okay. You bring along some moral support?” Rebecca eyed Mary with suspicion.

Irene smiled. “Rebecca Taylor, this is Mary Crow. Mary clerked for me in Asheville. Now she’s a top DA down in Atlanta.”

Mary immediately recognized the look in Rebecca’s eyes. She’d first seen it the day she started grade school. By the time she graduated from Cherokee High, she knew it all too well.
Tsalagi,
it said,
but not real Tsalagi. Skin too pale, eyes too light to be truly one of us.

Rebecca Taylor’s mouth drew down in a smirk. “DA, huh? You put away as many criminals as that New York lawyer gal on TV?”

“I’ve nailed a few,” Mary replied. “In real life it’s not that glamorous.”

“Uh-oh.” With a dismissive toss of her head, Rebecca turned her attention back to Irene. “Room two, Miss Irene. Doc’ll be with you in just a minute.”

Irene frowned as Mary fell into step behind her. “You’re not going in the examination room with me, are you?”

“How long will you be in there?”

“I have no idea,” Irene replied in the snappish tone she usually reserved for nitpicking attorneys. “Sit down and read some magazines. You’re going to drive everyone crazy.”

“Okay, okay.” Chastised, Mary watched Irene disappear down a short hall. She sat down and thumbed through a two-year-old
Field & Stream,
then an
Outdoor Life.
Bored by the articles and not particularly compelled by photos of writhing muskellunge, she got up and gazed out the tall reception-room window. The bright December sun sparkled off the tinsel that hung from the streetlights. Across the street a woman emerged from Beckett’s Bakery, one of their distinctive red-and-white cake boxes in her arms. Two little boys ran inside Roses’ department store. It was amazing how many people were out on the streets. Anybody could be lurking out there. Anybody at all. She checked her watch. Irene had been in the chair fifteen minutes. Maybe she’d better see how she was doing.

With a glance at Rebecca Taylor, she walked back and peered into room two. A lanky, gray-haired man in a white coat stood reading an X ray. In the chair, looking like someone with numb lips, Irene raised her hand and waved. Everything was okay, Mary decided as she returned to the reception room.

“Not nearly as exciting as court, is it?” Rebecca Taylor raised one eyebrow scornfully.

“No, thank God. It’s not.” Mary sat down and opened another
Field & Stream.
She scanned an article about bow hunting and thought of Jonathan. Though he gave little notice to most official holidays, he always celebrated Christmas like a kid, buying presents, stringing up lights, passing out candy to the children who came into the store. Last year they’d drunk eggnog and exchanged his presents in bed. This year Jonathan was doing that with Ruth Moon. Mary felt a heaviness in her chest as she wondered what gift he’d given his new love. Tossing the magazine on the table, she went back to check on Irene.

“Any change?” Rebecca Taylor smirked as Mary returned thirty seconds later.

“Nope,” reported Mary with a tight smile. She gave up on the magazines and looked out the window again. Two teenaged girls hurried into the video store; three old men gossiped in front of Comer’s Drugs. A black dog trotted across the street. She glanced at her watch, then sat back down in the chair, determined to find something entertaining in
Dentistry Today.

She turned the pages, the sun growing warm upon her back. She read one article on advances in tooth implants, then another on building a successful practice. As she started to read about how to soothe overly nervous patients, Irene appeared, upright, mobile, and ready to depart.

She scheduled her next appointment with Rebecca Taylor, then turned and jingled her keys at Mary. “Okay. Let’s go.”

Mary stood, grateful to shake off the warm drowsiness of the room. Rebecca Taylor did not look up from her desk as Mary strode into the hall beyond, zipping up her jacket as she did so.

“How’s your tooth?” Mary asked as they climbed back into Irene’s truck.

“I can’t feel a thing now,” replied Irene. Her bottom lip looked slightly swollen. “I might sing a different tune when this novocaine wears off.” She started the engine. “Let’s go to the feed store and hurry on home.”

“Suits me,” said Mary.

Irene started to back out into traffic, then she braked and pulled back up to the curb. “Damn,” she said disgustedly. “I forgot those pain pills he gave me.” She shoved the truck into park but left the motor running. “Wait here while I run in and grab them. Won’t take me a second.”

Before Mary could protest, Irene was halfway up Dr. Moreland’s steps. Mary settled back in the seat with a sigh, glad that this little excursion into Hartsville would soon be over. She was beginning to understand why Safer always looked so sour. Bodyguarding was nerve-racking work.

Two teenaged boys on skateboards surfed down the sidewalk, their cheeks chapped from the wind. A sallow-faced woman parked a station wagon beside the truck; she and a little girl got out and scurried across the street to Beckett’s Bakery. The truck’s motor kept running; a high-pitched fan came on to cool the engine. Mary looked at the door of Dr. Moreland’s office. Irene had been in there a long time. In fact, Irene had been in there more than long enough to grab a bottle of pills.

Mary switched off the ignition and flung open the door. In an instant she was running up the stairs, yanking the heavy, ornately carved paned door open. The old dentist was standing in his reception room, tying a red wool scarf around his neck while Rebecca Taylor was covering her computer with a plastic hood.

“Where’s Irene?” Mary asked.

“I don’t know,” snapped Rebecca Taylor. “She got her pills and left.”

“When?”

“Just a minute ago,” said Dr. Moreland. “Tylenol with codeine. In case her tooth hurt tonight.”

Mary stared at them, unable to speak.

“She’s probably in the bathroom.” Rebecca Taylor looked irritated at this little glitch in her own departure. “Sometimes dental work makes older people sick to their stomachs. She probably—”

Mary was out the door before Rebecca Taylor finished her sentence. There might be a lot of things that would make Irene Hannah sick to her stomach. Dental work wasn’t one of them. With her hand gripping the Beretta, Mary flew down the long carpeted hall, passing the Masterson Insurance Company on her left, Jaxie’s Beauty Shoppe on the right. The bathroom stood at the end of the hall. She pulled her gun and knocked on the door.

“Irene? Are you okay?”

She heard water running behind the door.
Thank God,
she thought.
She’s in there. Maybe she had gotten sick.

“Irene? It’s Mary. Are you okay?”

Again, nothing but the sound of running water. Mary grabbed the doorknob and turned it; the door opened easily. Inside was a toilet and small pink vanity. A crushed paper towel lay on the floor, hot water ran steaming from the faucet. Irene Hannah was not there. But lying on the white tile floor, directly in front of the sink, was a single black feather from the wing of a bird.