Silent Son (13 page)

Gardner sank deep in his chair, and covered the side of his face with his hand.

“We are not in a position to offer immunity to anyone.” She looked at Gardner. His fingers tugged at his cheek, drawing down
one eye. “You misunderstood Mr. Lawson, and if you believe that he made such an offer, you can consider it withdrawn.”

Gardner could hear King’s explosive response.

“Sorry, he’s stepped out.” Jennifer uttered a few closing words, and hung up the phone. Then she looked at Gardner like a
mother about to discipline her child. “Don’t
ever
do that to me again, Gard. I mean it.”

He didn’t answer.

The phone rang in IV Starke’s dorm room, and he picked it up.

“Hello?” It was late afternoon, and classes were done for the day.

“IV, it’s Joel Jacobs.”

An unexpected call. “Mr. Jacobs…” IV put down his magazine and sat up on his bed.

“Your dad asked me to call. Heard you had some trouble on the gun range.”

News traveled fast in New York, especially between Wellington Starke and the master. “Yeah, but it’s okay now. They decided
to drop the whole thing.” Thanks to Dad and you, he was tempted to add.

“No suspension?”

“No, sir. They didn’t even make me apologize. Said it was just a misunderstanding.”

Jacobs cleared his throat. “Was it?”

“Huh?” IV didn’t catch the meaning.

“A
misunderstanding
.” His emphasis on the word suddenly crystallized the question.

“Oh. Uh, no. I mean, yes!”

“So you didn’t point the weapon?”

“No, sir!” This time he was emphatic. “It was sort of in their direction, but I never pointed it!”

“IV, you’ve got to be careful!” Joel said suddenly. “Do you have any idea of the consequences of that sort of thing?”

IV went silent. “I said I didn’t do anything dangerous. Don’t you believe me?”

This time Joel paused. It was as if he was counting to ten. “I believe you, son,” he said with considerable effort. “But if
that gun had gone off, all your dad’s money couldn’t save you.”

“It didn’t go off !” IV said defiantly. “I knew what I was doing!”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Jacobs replied. “Your smartass attitude is going to do you in one of these days. Get yourself
under control!” That was definitely an order.

“Uh, I’ll try, Mr. Jacobs,” IV said meekly.

Jacobs was about to hang up, when IV stopped him. “Uh, Mr. J., can I ask you a question?”

“Yes. Go ahead.”

“If something major happened, would you be there for me?” His tone was ominous.

“What do you mean, IV?”

“I mean what if someone said I did something
really
serious? Would you defend me?”

Jacobs cleared his throat again. “You’re going to have to be more specific, son.”

“I mean if someone
really
did get hurt, and they said I did it. Would you be my lawyer?”

“Did you do something else?” Jacobs did not sound pleased.

“No!” IV’s voice suddenly trailed off. “But there’s people… people around here who don’t like me. I’m afraid they may try
to set me up or something…”

“IV! What the hell are you into?”

“Nothing! I swear it! But I’m afraid…”

“What of, son? You’ve got to tell me!”

“Just say you’ll represent me, no matter what. Please!”

“IV, you know I will…” Joel was comforting now.

“Good. I feel a lot better.”

Jacobs waited for more, but his young client stayed silent. “IV, you’d better come up to New York. I think we need to have
a long talk.”

“Can’t do it. Got two more weeks of school. Then I’m goin’ to Nantucket.”

“I suggest you try to fit it in. It’s
very important
.”

IV made an excuse that the dinner bell had rung, and told the lawyer he had to run. “I’ll try to come up.”

“Do more than
try
, son,” Jacobs commanded. Then he said good-bye.

IV put down the phone and looked in the mirror above his dresser. Why would they want to mess with someone as cool as him?
He was rich. Smart. And powerful. Anyone would be stupid to try to take him down. But if they did, he could always call on
his New York reinforcements.

It was 10:30
P.M
., and Roscoe Miller was well on his way to being drunk. He had money in his pocket and sex on his mind,
so he had hustled up past the state line, to a notorious roadhouse known as the Drive Inn. Situated on the interstate, the
gaudy red-roofed saloon attracted truckers, coal miners, and straying housewives. Supported by a two-hundred-room motel that
backed up to the parking lot, the place was ideal for a night out, and Roscoe had no intention of leaving until he got what
he wanted.

He stood by the end of the bar, mouthing the end of a long-necked beer bottle. The honeys were out in force, and Roscoe’s
eyeballs probed the dusk for a likely target. He never had a problem with women. They liked his dark skin and his bright eyes.
Some even said he looked like a TV star. And that made it easy for him to score.

“How do!” Roscoe spotted his mark sitting at a table by the dance floor. She had long, curly blonde hair, bare flesh spilling
out of a ruffled shirt, and a curvy butt polishing the seat in time to the music.

He shuffled over and leaned down in her face. “Evenin’.”

She looked up at him, her eyes as blue and hypnotic as his own, her face youthful and smooth. “Hello.” She was a nineteen-year-old
farm queen, beautiful and bubbly. And she was ready.

“Excuse me!” A male voice suddenly interrupted his move from behind. Roscoe turned around, and found himself confronted by
a hulking miner.

“Whut the hell do you want?” Roscoe was not at all intimidated. Back home, he ate punks like this for lunch.

“Cain’t talk to her,” the miner said. “She’s with Charlie.”

Roscoe glanced back at the table. The girl was alone. Then he turned and put his hands on his hips. “I don’t see no Charlie.”

The miner put his hands on his hips also. “He’s on night shift.”

Roscoe smiled. These West Virginia bozos! Letting their women out under guard. “Too bad for Charlie,” he said sarcastically.
Then he turned back to the girl.

“Guess you didn’t hear me!” the miner said as he grabbed Roscoe’s shoulder.

Miller whipped around and delivered a kick to the miner’s groin with the metal tip of his boot.

“Agggg!” There was a scream of pain as the man went down.

Instantly, six other grimy look-alikes converged from the bar.

Roscoe took a defensive position, and reached into his jacket pocket.

The miners began to approach, their faces set with the look of revenge.

“You-all gonna die!” Roscoe barked as he pulled out a handgun.

The men froze. After what had just happened to their friend, there was no question this guy was serious. He was one crazy
motherfucker.

Roscoe stood calmly as the miners gathered up their fallen comrade and retreated to the bar. Then he stuffed the gun back
in his pocket, took the blonde by the elbow, and pointed her toward the back door. He had some heavy-duty plans for the rest
of the night.

The sunlight was streaming into Appalachian Park from a cloudless sky. For a weekday morning, the place was understandably
deserted. Dads and moms were at work, and kids were at school. The only movement, except for the darting birds en route to
their nests, was from two lone figures in the middle of the ball field.

“Catch it!” Gardner shouted as a baseball arched high into the air and dropped toward Granville’s outstretched glove. A day
off from the office had been mandatory, after yesterday. He and Jennifer had barely spoken last night, and he knew if he went
to work, he’d be tempted to get into the Bowers file again. So, he and his son were playing hooky at the park.

“Awww…” Granville juggled the ball, and it dropped to the ground.

“That’s okay,” Gardner yelled. “It was a good try. Throw it back, and I’ll hit you another.”

Granville gave the ball a mighty heave, but there was little power behind it. Gardner had to run up to fetch it, then backtrack
to the batting area. It was strange, really. The two of them in that situation. Granville was unfit for school, and Gardner
was unfit for work. Both were psychologically wounded.

Gardner pondered that point as he hefted the ball with one hand and swung the bat with the other. A child could not even walk
into a grocery store and be free of a visitation from hell. Predators were everywhere, and every time they struck, the consequences
were unfathomable.

“Get it!” Gardner yelled as the ball squibbed off his bat and bounced across the ground.

Granville moved to the side and positioned himself in front of it the way his dad had taught him. Suddenly the ball hit a
rut and jutted off at an angle, striking Granville in the knee. He dropped the glove and fell backward, ending up in a sitting
position on the ground.

“Shake it off,” Gardner yelled. “Get up, and shake it off.”

Granville stayed down, rubbing his knee.

“Gran! Get up.” The ball had not hit him that hard.

But the boy didn’t get up.

Gardner walked over and plopped down on the grass next to his son. “You okay?”

The boy had tears in his eyes. “Uh-huh,” he said weakly.

Gardner pulled up the child’s pants leg and exposed his knee.

“Where’d it hit?”

“Here.” Granville pointed to a spot, but there was no mark. The skin was clear.

Gardner rubbed the area gently with the tips of his fingers.

“Sometimes the ball doesn’t go where we think it’s gonna,” he said softly. “Sometimes it takes a crazy hop.”

Granville looked up through his tears. “I’m sorry, Dad.”

Gardner was not expecting that reaction. “Sorry?”

“Uh-huh. I know I’m not s’posed to cry.”

“Who told you that?”

Granville pulled his pants leg back down and stood up. “You did. You said to pretend it didn’t hurt…”

Gardner stood up also. He’d told Granville to pretend the ball was a marshmallow that just mushed when it hit.

“But it
did
hurt,” Granville continued.

Gardner picked up the boy’s glove and handed it to him. “I never said it wouldn’t hurt.” He put his hand on Granville’s narrow
shoulder. “You just can’t let it stop you from playin’…”

Just then, Gardner was struck with the irony of his own words. The comment could just as well have referred to himself. He
was on sick leave too, out of the game. He had been preaching perseverance and tenacity all his life. But lately he’d quit.

Gardner took his son’s hand and led him to a nearby bench. They sat down, and Gardner looked into Granville’s wide brown eyes.
“Gran, I need to talk to you about something,” he said.

“What, Dad?” Granville could tell that his father was about to discuss something important, and he started to squirm.

“I want you to think real hard,” Gardner began. “Real
real
hard…”

“What is it, Dad?” The boy’s voice quavered.

“I want you to think about the day you got hurt,” Gardner said softly. “Tell me what you can remember…” It was time for the
prosecutor to find out for himself how much the only eyewitness really knew about the crime.

S
USPECTS

Gardner leaned against the bench’s backrest and looked at his son. Granville’s legs dangled above the ground and he nervously
traced a semicircle in the air with his right foot.

“Gran, I want you to think back to the day you got hurt,” Gardner began. “Do you remember going to the cave?”

Granville’s foot speeded up its circular motion, and he gripped the edge of the bench with both hands. His eyes were cast
down.

“Do you remember the cave?” Gardner repeated. This was definitely against the rules that Nancy Meyers had decreed: there should
be but one inroad into Granville’s troubled mind, the therapeutic course prescribed by her. No interrogation. No pressure.
But the investigation was stalled, and the killers were still on the loose. They might decide to come back for Granville.
Gardner couldn’t wait. He had to act now.

“Gran?” Gardner took him gently by the chin and turned his face. “I really need you to talk to Dad, okay?”

The boy hesitated, but finally made eye contact. He appeared to be holding his breath. It was obvious that even a benign reference
to the day of the murders could cause an electrical storm to erupt inside his brain. Granville’s eyes broke contact almost
immediately, as if they were searching for a safe haven away from his father’s words.

Gardner felt a surge of frustration. The information was in there. Inside his head. But the boy was too scared to even turn
in that direction, much less confront what lay beyond the door.

“Gran.” Gardner tried to CASE away from the urgency of his previous words. “We don’t have to talk about that now. Let’s talk
about something else.” Going in head first was not the way, Gardner thought. Maybe he could sneak around the side.

Granville’s face slowly turned back, and it seemed that he was breathing again.

“What say that we go out to Simpson’s pet store and look at some pups? Would you like that?”

Granville nodded. Since the “talk” began he hadn’t said a word.

“Great,” Gardner continued. “Maybe we can find one just like Minnie.”

The sun suddenly burst through the overcast in Granville’s eyes. Minnie had been the family dog, back when he, Carole, and
Granville were a family, a docile golden retriever with a mother complex who allowed her tail to be pulled, and herself used
as a stand-in for a riding horse on many occasions. After the divorce, she’d found a home with a family across town, and blended
in there as if she’d never even known the Law-sons. But she was sorely missed. By Gardner, in his separate life. And by Granville,
whose love for the dog went deeper than anyone knew. “Remember the bally-wally?” Gardner smiled as he recalled teaching Granville
how to make Minnie fetch. They’d nicknamed an old beat-up tennis ball “bally-wally,” and they would chant that phrase as they
went out to throw the ball for Minnie to race after, snap up in her mouth, race back, and drop at their feet. “Bally-wally!
Bally-wally!” Granville would sing. And Minnie would go crazy. Jumping and leaping in anticipation of the chase, even before
the ball was thrown. Just the mention of the words “bally-wally” would send Minnie into hyperspace, running in circles, to
the delight of Gardner and his toddler son.