Bookends (36 page)

“There’s no set schedule for such things, but when the kennel gets crowded like this, and the animal has been here a long time.…” She shrugged, her meaning clear. “Olive is friendly, even-tempered, already spayed, only three years old, and ready to make someone a fine pet.”

“Sold.” He shoved the paperwork in her hands. “Where do I pay my fifteen dollars?” The bargain of a lifetime, this.

Gently easing the monstrous creature out of her cage, Jonas managed to get his hands wrapped firmly around her bulky body, then turned toward the front door, setting his own voice on purr. “You just wait, Miss Olive. Emilie is gonna flip when she meets you.”

Nathan flipped the remains of his cigarette at the cement walkway that led to Jonas’ front door, then groaned in resignation and retrieved it.
Too classy a street for butts on the sidewalk.

His brother’s place was everything he’d hoped and more. A high-priced two-story in a fancy new neighborhood.
Primo.
He’d had the cab driver swing by the golf course on the trip from the bus station last week, and knew that place was turning into a first-class setup, too.

Nate grinned, despite the dread that tightened his windpipe.
Maybe there really is a God.

Shivering in the morning cold, watching his breath trail out in steamy huffs, he lit a second Camel, hands shaking as they sheltered his lighter from the brisk March wind.

One thing was certain: There really was a Dee Dee.
She of the tight, green dress.
He grinned at the memory. A little older than him, but age wasn’t a concern. Young, old, tall, short—long as they were easy on the eyes, he was game, and this one was fine.

Maybe he’d call her, try and get something set up for the weekend.
And pay for it with what, Nate?
He took a long drag on his cigarette, blowing a curl of smoke out on a frustrated sigh.

Money, money, always money.

According to the calendar in Jonas’ stark kitchen, it was the start of a new month. For him, it was the same old money problems, only worse.

March 1.
The date had gnawed at his soul for two weeks. Cy expected him to cough up eighteen thousand today. Cy also expected him to still be in Florida.

Nate hadn’t told a soul where he was going. Made sure he left no trail of bread crumbs behind him when he disappeared on his Greyhound bus getaway.

He hadn’t heard a peep from Vegas. Had almost stopped looking over his shoulder every ten minutes for an unfriendly face. Maybe in a month or two, he could sleep all the way through the night or walk down the street without picking up speed every time he heard footsteps behind him.

The phone in the house jangled. Not Jonas’ business line, but the house phone. Nate stubbed out his cigarette half-smoked, tucking the rest away for later, and stepped inside.

Could be his brother, calling to say he’d been bitten by a sourpuss. Nate grinned at his own pun.
Funny, man.
What possessed Jonas to buy his girlfriend a cat was anybody’s guess. Moving toward the phone, Nate scratched Trix’s head on the way by. “Don’t worry, girl, he’s not bringing some fool cat into
this
house.”

Out of habit, Nate checked his watch before he answered the persistent ring.
Just after eleven.
“Fielding residence.”

A male voice blasted out of the receiver. “What are you, somebody’s lah-dee-dah butler?”

Cy.
Nate almost dropped the phone. “H-how’d you find me here?”
Stupid question.
He didn’t need to know the particulars, though Cy seemed quick enough to share them.

“My guy in Jacksonville checked with the rental car gal, who remembered hearing you call a cab for the bus station. Then he found a Greyhound agent who remembered talking to you about how pretty Lancaster was. Only a coupla Fieldings in the phone book. See? Not hard, kid. What’s hard is having you do me this way when I’ve been so easy on you.”

Nate gripped the phone. “Look, I’m broke, Cy. Not a dime to my name. Not a penny.”

“That’s not how I hear it. Hear you’re livin’ in a real nice house, ridin’ around in a brand-new black Explorer, makin’ eyes at all the women at church.
Church,
Nate? You goin’ religious on me?”

Cy knew everything, it seemed, except why he was in Lititz. Nate started to explain—about his brother, about trying to get in his good graces, maybe work up to asking for a gig at the new golf course.

But Cy didn’t care about any of that. He only cared about his money.

Nate tried to sound relaxed. “Cy, old buddy. What’s eighteen grand to a high roller like you?”

“I’m not your
old buddy,
got that?” The voice on the other end of the phone had grown cold and sharp, poised to kill like a sheet of ice hanging from a shingled roof. “You’re right. The money is nothin’. It’s the fact that it’s
my
money that matters. The fact that if word gets out that Cy Porter is goin’ easy on people, letting ’em get away without settling their debts … well, that’s a problem, Nate. How’re you gonna solve that problem?”

Nate’s mind struggled to function. As best he knew, Cy had never killed anybody. But he’d hurt people. Trashed their houses. Scared their families.
Cy’s network spread farther than Nate had ever imagined. He’d figured Florida or Pennsylvania was plenty far away from Nevada.

Apparently he’d been wrong.

“April 1.” Nate hated hearing his voice shake. He swallowed and said it again, more firmly. “April 1. That’s when I’ll have the money, all of it plus interest. Let’s make it twenty thousand. Okay, Cy? A little extra for your troubles. Wish I could have it sooner, but it’s gonna take some time to … get it together.”

The phone was silent. He thought the line had gone dead until he realized Cy’s low breathing was still coming over the line. Finally Cy spoke, his voice unnaturally steady. “Is this a joke, Nate?”

Nate’s throat tightened again with a jolt. “No, not a joke! No, nothing funny about this. I … just need another month, that’s all.”

“Sure you’re not pulling some April Fool’s prank on your
old buddy?
”

Nate’s laugh was thin, high and wavery, more like the yelp of an animal in pain. “I know better than to try and fool you, Cy. Thursday, April 1. Got it marked right here.” Nate drew an imaginary circle on the wall calendar with a trembling finger. “You won’t have to call again. The money will be there, on the first.”

“No more second chances, Nate. This is it. Understood?”

Only too well.

Nathan dropped the receiver in place, then sank to his knees on the hardwood floor. Everything ached—his head, his chest, his gut. There wasn’t a medicine in the world that could take away this kind of pain.

How did it come to this?

That’s what he couldn’t figure out. His three brothers were big shots in their communities, their mother had been a saint, their father had been a flippin’
hero.

“So what are you, Nate?” He rammed his fist against the floor, then cursed when he bruised it, shouting into the empty house. “What are
you?
A screwup? A write-off? Who needs you, Nate? Who needs you?”

He bent over, hugging his knees. “I’ll tell ya who. Not a livin’ soul.” Long past tears, long past regret. Only the rage and the pain remained.

“Nobody needs you, Nate Fielding.” He tore the word out of his throat.
“Nobody.”

Jonas wasn’t there when the phone call came.

The message on his answering machine from Ben Haldeman, the contractor responsible for the initial ground clearing for the course, had been brief but enigmatic. “Something’s come up you oughtta know about, Chief. Call me. Soon.”

Messages like this one had become commonplace the last few weeks. Most of his work as a developer had come in the early stages—two, three, four years ago. Sell the concept, buy the land, put the players together, get the financing approved, jump through all the legal hoops, fill out all the paperwork. Twenty hours a day of nothing but work.

No time for doing something capricious like driving south to Lancaster to buy a cat for Dr. Getz. Though considering the sacrifice she’d made for Carter’s Run, the fifteen dollars was practically a business gift. Grinning as he flipped open his notebook with Ben’s phone number, Jonas pictured the look on her face Monday when he’d knocked on her door, Olive in hand.

“Jonas!”
Clearly, she’d been overwhelmed with his generosity. “Not another … pet?”

He’d smiled and handed over the furry mass. “It’s the least I can do to say thank you, Em.”

The cat, the litter box, the food, the works. No wonder Emilie was speechless. He’d only talked to her by phone the last few days, always thanking her profusely for letting him proceed without a fight.

What a woman!

It was obvious what was going on. She cared too much to cause him that kind of grief. And he cared about her, didn’t he? Sure he did. Enough to drive sixteen miles round-trip for a silly cat.

However fond the memory, though, today was a serious workday. Five weeks exactly until the grand opening. Now more than ever, he was the go- to guy for problems, the point man when it came to taking concerns before the steering committee. His schedule was his own
until
a situation reared its ugly head.

Ben’s deal sounded like a situation and a half.

Jonas punched in the numbers and was relieved when Ben answered his cell phone on the first ring.

“Ben? Jonas Fielding. Yeah, fine. What’s up?”

“It’s like this, Jonas.” The man’s rough-as-gravel bass rolled across the line. “I’m working on another job in Cherry Hill, New Jersey, with some of the crew who worked for me on your job last year. Sure is a fine place, that Lititz. You ’bout ready for your big opening?”

“Right.” Nobody could drag out a story like Ben Haldeman. “And …?”

“And we were talking about weird stuff we’d unearthed on clearing gigs. You know, bathtubs, gravemarkers. Found a ’49 Chevy in Lansing, Michigan, once.”

“I gotcha. So …”

“So one of the fellas—Gary, I think, guy from Pottstown. No. Not Pottstown. Pottsville. Potts-something-or-other.”

Jonas bit his lip. “Uh-huh. Go on.”

“Anyway, Gary—I think his name was Gary. Coulda been Greg. Well, he said he’d found the craziest thing on your golf course over there. Too big for a grave, too small for a modern house, he thought. Not exactly a foundation, but close. Walls were eighteen inches thick, Gary said. Lotta pieces of pottery and stuff. Looked real old, he thought.”

Jonas felt an uneasy twinge skip up his spine. “Why is this the first time I’m hearing about this, Ben?”

“To be honest, Jonas, you weren’t there. This was last June, remember? You were in Hungary. No. Haiti, was that it?”

The mission trip to Honduras.
“I left you in charge, Ben, as I recall.”

“Yeah, you sure did.” His chuckle sounded like an old truck engine on a cold morning. “Jonas, the thing is, we were almost finished the afternoon Gary found this. You were outta the country and I was on another machine on the far end of the course. Down at the ninth hole. Say, did that turn out like you wanted it to? I thought the bunkers were a bit—”

“Yes!” Jonas stood up to keep from exploding. “It’s all great, the course is great. But Ben, this news is
not
great. Are you telling me Gary just shoved dirt over this foundation and left it there?”

“Well … yeah. I mean, we didn’t have any instructions otherwise. Nothing on the clearing order, nothing on the permits, no red flags in the dirt, no notices posted. You know the routine.” He sounded a bit miffed. “Look, we did our job, Jonas. Gary never mentioned it, that day or any other day, until the subject came up here in Cherry Hill. Man, this place is nothing like
Lancaster County. Nothin’ but highways and byways and malls out the—”

“Ben.”
Jonas paused to catch his breath while the man rambled on. “Ben, the question is, where on the course did Gary see this old foundation? Did he remember?”

“Sure. Who forgets a thing like your eighteenth hole? It’s the crown of the course, Jonas, you know that. Why, the closing—”