Blood Money (Joe Dillard Series No. 6) (9 page)

Roscoe smiled to himself. Wouldn’t Charlie be surprised when she received the gift he was giving her? She deserved it. Her father was in prison and her mother had abandoned her. Her grandparents were dead and she was living with her uncle Jasper, a man Roscoe believed to be border-line insane. She’d worked her way through law school, and now it was high time that fortune smiled on her. Roscoe intended to make it happen.

The other good thing that had come from the lawsuit was that Roscoe had gone to see his doctor. Roscoe didn’t much care for doctors and rarely submitted himself to examination, but at Charlie’s suggestion, he’d gone in for a complete physical a couple of weeks before he’d gone to see the psychiatrist. What Roscoe found out was that he had lung cancer and, without treatment, would be dead in less than six months. Even with treatment, the prognosis was grim. He’d kept the diagnosis to himself, but it had allowed him to make some decisions and some plans. One of his decisions was about to become very, very public.

Roscoe spotted his son’s black Mercedes as it pulled into a space near the courthouse. Zane got out and started walking toward the front steps. Roscoe stood on the ledge. More people were walking in and out of the courthouse beneath him now, others were moving slowly up and down the sidewalk, dressed in their brightly colored clothes. He could hear the gears clicking steadily behind the clock face, the pigeons cooing softly in the rafters. His legs were trembling; he was a little light-headed.

Lord, don’t let me slip. Don’t let me fall.
 

Someone spotted him. Voices began to call up to him from the crowd that was gathering below.

“Hey! What are you doing up there?”

“Have you lost your mind?”

Zane looked up. He was almost at the top of the steps. He began pointing and shouting. Uniformed men began to appear beneath Roscoe along with men in suits, women in smart dresses and business attire, young people, middle-aged people, old people, all of them staring at the spectacle forty feet above. Someone was banging on the door that closed the clock tower off from the stairs. Roscoe had locked it, but he knew they would soon come with a key. Then they would be in the clock tower, trying to talk him into coming back inside. They might even try to grab him. A siren wailed in the distance.

Roscoe looked upward. The sky was a hard, icy blue, his favorite color. The sun above the mountains was brilliant. A soft breeze washed over him. The clock clicked again. A dove flew past and he watched as it went higher, toward heaven. He thought of his daughter, Lisa Mae, run over by a drunk driver, and of his wife, Mary Beth, a victim of cancer, knowing they’d be waiting on the other side. He looked down at Zane – ungrateful, contemptuous, greedy. He didn’t see Charlie or Dillard and was relieved.
 

It’s a beautiful day to die.

Roscoe bent his knees, braced his backside against the clock, and spread his arms like wings.
 

Then he locked eyes with his son and launched himself toward the concrete below.
 

Part II

Chapter 15

THE
stunning news that Roscoe Barnes had leaped off the courthouse clock tower was delivered to Charlie and me by a bailiff as we were sitting in an anteroom, going over the file one last time before the hearing. I told Charlie to stay put, got up and walked to the front door, and looked out. Roscoe had landed at the top of the concrete steps about fifteen feet away. He was lying face down and twisted on the steps; a large pool of dark blood had formed around his head. Zane was still standing there, absent-mindedly wiping blood from his suit. Roscoe had landed within inches of him, and the blood from Roscoe’s shattered skull had apparently sprayed over Zane like a fountain.
 

I looked upon the body like it was a hallucination. I didn’t know what to do, didn’t know how to feel. I’d known Roscoe for such a short amount of time and the relationship had been strictly professional. I thought about Charlie and turned to walk back inside. I knew she’d be devastated, and she was.

A half-hour later, Charlie and I stood at the table in front of Judge Beckett. Nathaniel Mitchell and Zane Barnes were at the table next to us.
 

“We move for default judgment, your Honor,” Mitchell said. “The defendant has failed to appear.”
 

The judge looked at him incredulously.
 

“Of course he’s failed to appear,” the judge said. “He’s dead.”

“I think it makes our point,” Mitchell said. “He was obviously mentally incapacitated. The conservatorship should be granted.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Mr. Mitchell,” the judge said. “There is no conservatorship. There’s an estate. Did he have a will?”
 

“We don’t know, your Honor,” Mitchell said. “We’ll investigate.”

“Mr. Dillard? Do you have any knowledge of a will?”

“No, sir. He didn’t mention anything to us.”

“For the record, the conservatorship case is dismissed,” the judge said. “The costs will be taxed to Mr. Barnes’ estate, if there is one. If a will shows up and is submitted, the case will proceed through probate. Otherwise, his assets will be distributed according to statute. Court is adjourned.”

I was numb. The judge’s voice sounded far away, like an echo off a distant cliff, while the image of Roscoe’s shattered body lingered in my mind. I put my hand on Charlie’s arm and led her out of the courtroom. She hadn’t said a word since the bailiff had broken the news to us. I took her out the back of the courthouse and around the side, avoiding the spot where Roscoe had landed. We drove back to Jonesborough in silence. Once we arrived, Charlie went straight into the bathroom while I told Jack what had happened. We could hear her crying, and the sound of the sobs broke my heart. About ten minutes after we’d walked through the door, a young man wearing a jacket and tie showed up carrying a large envelope. He said he was a courier and the envelope was for Charleston Story. She was the only person who could sign for it. I went to the bathroom and knocked lightly on the door.

“Charlie, there’s a courier here. He says you’re the only person who can sign for the package he’s delivering.”

She came out a couple of minutes later, red-eyed but composed. She walked into the lobby and signed the courier’s receipt and stood there looking at the envelope.

“It says it’s from an attorney named Gerald Benton,” she said without looking up.
 

“Never heard of him,” I said.

“Greeneville address,” Charlie said.
 

She opened the envelope and pulled out a thin sheaf of papers along with another sealed envelope.
 

“There’s a cover letter,” she said. “Please find enclosed documents for your review. I will be submitting Mr. Barnes’ will for probate before close of business today. Call me if I can be of assistance. Sincerely, Gerald Benton.”
 

She moved the cover letter to the bottom of the sheaf and began reading. Her eyebrows arched and her mouth opened.

“What is it?” I asked.

 
“A will,” Charlie said. “It’s Roscoe’s last will and testament,” she said. “It makes me the sole beneficiary of his estate.”

Chapter 16

CHARLIE
asked for some privacy and retreated into Mr. Dillard’s conference room. She seated herself at the table and opened the second envelope. It contained a letter and what appeared to be some kind of old map. Charlie’s fingers trembled as she read the hand-written words:

My Dearest Charleston,

If you’re reading this, it means that I have accomplished my goal this morning and that I no longer exist on this plane. Whether I exist at all remains to be seen. Please do not waste your time grieving. I learned recently that I have lung cancer. I would have been dead soon anyway.

The things that I’ve accumulated over my lifetime stay behind. There is a house, personal belongings, some land, vehicles, a little money. As I write this letter, all those things seem so insignificant. But I want you to take charge of them, to “own” them, as we say. You are well aware of my feelings toward my son, so the fact that I do not wish him to inherit my property should come as no great surprise. I’ve grown tremendously fond of you over the years, and especially the past few weeks, and there is no one to whom I would rather leave these worldly possessions.
 

One of my possessions will require special attention. It is something that is incredibly valuable, something that will change your life. My hope is that the change will be for the better.

I don’t know whether you’ve heard the stories about my great-grandfather. His name was Hack Barnes. He was a moonshiner, a bootlegger, back during Prohibition. He lived on the land I’m giving to you, and he apparently did business with a gangster from Philadelphia named Carmine Russo. The story I always enjoyed the most was that just before Carmine Russo was convicted of tax evasion and sent to prison, he entrusted my great-grandfather with something valuable, something my great-grandfather promised to keep until Russo was released from jail. Some people said it was money, some said it was jewels, some said it was gold.
 

Russo never got out of jail. He died less than a year after he was convicted. My great-grandfather was murdered around the same time, along with his wife and two of his children. I’ve read old newspaper accounts of the murders. Reporters called it the “Buck Mountain Massacre.” My grandfather, James Barnes, was a teenager at the time. He was visiting a cousin in Indiana and was the only surviving family member. After the murders, a story began circulating that just before Russo died, he told his wife about what he had entrusted to my great-grandfather. Russo’s wife sent some men to Tennessee to collect it. My great-grandfather refused to give it to them or even acknowledge its existence, and a fight ensued. One of the gangsters started shooting, and before they realized what they were doing, they’d killed everyone. They went back to Philadelphia empty-handed.
 

I never put much stock in the story. After all, there was never any real proof that Hack Barnes and his family had been murdered by gangsters from Philadelphia. They could have been killed by a business rival or someone who believed my great-grandfather had cheated them. They could have been killed by thieves. Hack Barnes was a criminal himself. He dealt with unsavory characters. No one really knew, and to be honest, I never gave it much thought.
 

But then I made a discovery. Back in late December, I carried a box of Christmas decorations up to the attic. When I got to the top step, I tripped and the box went flying. It banged into an old dresser. There was a photograph of Hack Barnes in a frame on top of the dresser. It was taken in 1929, a few years before his death. I’d seen it many times, but had never paid it any attention. The box knocked the photo to the floor and I heard glass break. I picked the photo up. Both the glass and the frame had been broken. As I examined it, I noticed that there was something between the matting and the back of the photo. I took the frame apart and found what turned out to be a map. I don’t know who drew it; I can only assume that it was Hack Barnes. The map is enclosed with this letter. It now belongs to you.
 

I followed the map, Charleston, and I’d like you to do the same. It leads to a cave on the mountain near the southern border of my property. The cave is almost impossible to find, so you must look very carefully. Inside the cave, there are two large chambers. When you enter the lower chamber, keep going and you’ll find a stream. Downstream leads under the rock wall and out of the cave, but upstream leads to my gift.

There is only one person in the world, other than you, that knows this thing exists. That person is my son. He does not know where it is, but he knows its value and he knows it’s somewhere on the property. He knows because I made the mistake of taking one item out of the cave. Zane found it, and he took it. He desperately wants the rest.

I trust that you will see to it that Zane’s desire is never fulfilled. I also trust that you will take what I am giving you and use it to your greatest benefit. I wish you peace, Charleston. May this gift help you live a long, happy and prosperous life.

Roscoe

P.S. Do you remember the story of Prometheus and the fire, Charlie? Read it again, and take heed.

Charlie set the letter down and looked briefly at the map. She folded everything and slid the papers back into the envelope. Her hands continued to tremble; she could feel her heart beating inside of her chest. Her mind was racing. Was this really happening? Had Roscoe really left her everything he owned? A map? A cave? Gangsters? Was this someone’s idea of a sick joke?
 

Charlie picked up her cell phone and dialed the number on Gerald Benton’s letterhead. She identified herself to the person who answered the phone, and within a few seconds, Benton came on the line.
 

“I thought I’d be hearing from you,” he said in a deep baritone. “Is Mr. Barnes gone?”

“Yes… you knew?”

“I’m sorry,” Benton said. “He expressed deep affection for you.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” Charlie said. “Can you explain any of this?”

“How did he die?”

“He jumped from the clock tower at the courthouse.”

“My goodness. I had no idea he was planning something so spectacular.”

“But you knew he was planning something?”

“I assumed. He came in two weeks ago and asked me to draft a will. He said he’d been diagnosed with lung cancer and had decided to end his life on his own terms. I advised him against it, of course, but I suspected that he was going take his own life. He didn’t say anything about
how
he was going to do it, but he had obviously planned it carefully.”

“Did you know him well?”

“Not well, necessarily, but I’ve known him for quite some time. I met him under difficult circumstances. I represented the man who killed his daughter. He said you reminded him of her.”