To Hannibal, Inova was a chain store just like Rite-Aid or Seven-Eleven. There seemed to be one on every corner in Northern Virginia and the fact that they were hospitals didn’t make him any more confident in them than he was of the service in the Olive Garden. Chains generally give you consistency, but rarely special service.
When Hannibal called Inova Fairfax a minute after Blair disconnected, he learned that Anita was resting comfortably in a private room that must have been provided at Blair’s insistence. He didn’t want to disturb her, and there was little he could do at a hospital at midnight anyway, so he left her to the doctors’ care.
After a restless night he entered the hospital corridors at eight o’clock and rushed to Anita’s room. He half expected to find Blair at her bedside, but instead it appeared that he had sent his second. Henry stood at the foot of the bed, dressed exactly as he was when he entered Hannibal’s office days before. With his hands clasped behind his back he reminded Hannibal of the black jockey figures he had seen on rich people’s lawns in racing towns like Saratoga. He wondered if black butlers were as rare as live black jockeys.
“So happy to see you here,” Henry said in a tone that could have been condescending, or maybe it was subservient. Hannibal didn’t trust his perceptions on that score, so he merely nodded toward Henry and moved to the side of the bed. The rhythmic beeping of Anita’s monitors failed to reassure him. She smelled of iodine and alcohol, and her appearance started a twisting ache in his center. Both her eyes were blackened, her lower lip split and her nose swollen into a new, inappropriate shape.
“I am so sorry,” Hannibal said. “I had no reason to think you were in any present danger.”
“Not your fault,” Anita mumbled through swollen lips. “This has nothing to do with you or the case you’re on.”
“What utter nonsense,” Henry said in the same proper speech pattern. Despite his irritation, Hannibal shared his skepticism.
“Anita, you’re a brave girl, and stronger than I knew, but you can’t do this by yourself. You have to tell me who did this to you.”
Anita clenched her eyes tight and pushed her lip out like a stubborn child. “I don’t know who hit me. I didn’t see. He just came up behind me when I left the market last night. I shouldn’t have been out so late.”
“This is really too much,” Henry said. “Miss Cooper you really must tell us.”
Hannibal clenched his teeth and waved a hand toward the door. “Henry, could I speak with you for a moment?”
Hannibal led Henry around a corner to a small, unoccupied waiting room. He closed the door and turned off the television. Henry stood in front of him, erect as always, as if awaiting instructions. For an instant he reminded Hannibal of his worst moments with Anita. But Henry’s eyes never wavered when Hannibal spoke to him. Instead he met Hannibal’s gaze in a direct and perhaps defiant way. That at least betrayed an unexpected inner strength. Still, Hannibal had to be firm with him and lay down the rules of this game.
“Look, pal, what you were doing in there, that’s not helping her any. Anita needs to be handled pretty gently right now.”
“Yes sir,” Henry said. “And may I inquire as to your intended actions, now that you realize that she is at physical risk?”
Hannibal shook his head. “My intended actions? Well, basically, I intend to find this Rod Mantooth and kick the living shit out of him. Then I’ll get back whatever he took from Anita. And then maybe I’ll just kick his ass again. That sound like a plan to you?” Hannibal pulled his phone out of his jacket. “Think I can get your boss at his office this early?”
“He is at the health club right now,” Henry said. “Perhaps I can help?”
“Not likely,” Hannibal said. “I’ve met another of Rod Mantooth’s victims and if he sent somebody after Anita I’m afraid the other girl might be in danger too. I want to lay on some protection for both of them, so I need to get authorized to spend the money.”
“Oh, well then it’s not a problem,” Henry said. “Mr. Blair has authorized me to tell you to use whatever resources you need in order to bring this matter to a successful close. I have his checkbook if you need ready cash.”
Hannibal considered Henry’s words. This certainly simplified the situation. “Alright then,” he said, pacing and thinking aloud. “I can put Isaac on Anita, leave Sarge on Marquita, and get Ray on the road following the custom car angle while I follow the Hathaway connection.”
Hannibal looked up to find Henry smiling, more with his eyes than with his mouth.
“What?”
“You are, in fact, the colorful character Mr. Blair said you were,” Henry said.
“Me?” Hannibal said. “I’m not colorful, brother, I’m just for real. You’re the dude that’s colorful. Look at you. Whatever possessed you to become somebody’s servant?”
Henry lowered his eyelids and spoke with a little more force. “Mister Blair needs me. I keep his world spinning while his head is in the stratosphere. And you’re one to talk about anyone’s vocation. A man who spends his life mucking about in other people’s misery.”
“Mucking about?” Hannibal repeated, imitating Henry’s enunciation. “Man, you’ve spent too much time with those Brits. But I’ll tell you, sometimes poking through other people’s garbage is important. Sometimes it’s the only way to solve their problems.”
“Indeed.” Their eyes locked, and Hannibal realized that somehow he had made Henry’s point for him.
An online map service told Hannibal that he could drive three hundred and forty miles southwest and still be in Virginia. And since that was where he could find Brendon Hathaway, Hannibal filled his gas tank and drove onto I-66 west, pointed toward Grayson County.
While most of his mind focused on driving and scanning for police cars, a part of him was still reeling from his web surfing the night before. He had taken Cindy up on her suggestion and visited a few Internet chat rooms. It took him a while to find what he was looking for, but armed with the abbreviation she had given him he soon found himself lurking in a place where he thought the role play would have made Anita feel right at home not long ago. His actual first name was accepted well as a screen nickname. He quickly learned that those who didn’t capitalize their names, mostly women, were treated like children in some chat rooms, and like outright slaves in others. When they typed their conversations, He was struck by the odd convention of capitalizing even pronouns attached to the Dominant people, and the use of lower case by submissives, even to the pronoun “I.” He saw that somehow they could change the color of their type, and lines in one color represented actions rather than speech. In some rooms, the actions were pornographic. In others, rapes and other violent acts were carried out. Sitting at his computer, in contact with the others only through a screen, he still left feeling the need for a shower.
Sunday morning traffic locked Hannibal into a slowly rolling grid at the start of his drive. He didn’t mind, because his car was his office for the day. While he watched the bumper of the Escalade moving in front of him in fits and starts he made his first call.
“Isaac, what’s on your schedule today?”
“Well, I’m working security for a concert tonight,” Isaac said. “Of course, if you need me for something I can cancel.”
“I don’t want to get you in trouble now that you’ve got a full time job, buddy.”
Isaac’s smile came through the telephone speaker as clearly as if Hannibal could see him. “Now Hannibal, if it wasn’t for you Anna wouldn’t even be talking to me. You need me, you got me.”
When the Redskins dropped him from their rolls, Isaac Ingersoll became an abusive husband. Hannibal helped Isaac’s wife and son to leave him before he did any permanent damage. Then, after getting to know him, Hannibal helped Isaac to get counseling and to begin the process of reconciliation with his family. For that, Isaac would always be grateful.
“Isaac, there’s a lady lying in Fairfax Inova Hospital recovering from a serious beating. Serious, as in black eyes, cracked ribs and a broken nose. She’s healing, and her nose has been reset well enough that no one will ever know. I don’t want any more harm to come to her.”
There was a short pause. “And if the guy who did all this shows up?” Isaac asked.
“Then you can have him.”
Like a reformed smoker or drug addict, Isaac Ingersoll had developed strong feelings about people who clung to his former vice. He was also six feet four inches tall and weighed something over three hundred twenty pounds. He was fully capable of teaching any man who battered women what it was like to be on the receiving end of a good beating. Hannibal was certain that Anita would be safe as long as Isaac was at her hospital door.
Traffic was just thinning when Hannibal called Sarge.
“How is Marquita doing, buddy?”
“It’s amazing, Hannibal,” Sarge replied. “She’s so much stronger than she was yesterday. I think she’s ready to go out to the market this morning.”
“Glad to hear it, Sarge. Just make sure you go with her.”
“You know I’d stick with her every minute if I could,” Sarge said.
Hannibal rolled over the crest of another hill. Modest farms greeted him, and miles of pasture formed a patchwork quilt from his vantage point on the winding roads. “Well, starting today I want you to do just that, on the payroll,” Hannibal said. “Don’t want to take a chance that whoever visited Anita might want to visit Marquita.”
Sarge’s voice dropped an octave. “It would be a mistake for anybody to come out here and try to hurt Markie.”
Hannibal knew that Ray would be sleeping in, so he waited until he reached I-81 before that call. He was already feeling his ears pop when he turned toward Roanoke, climbing into the mountains. The road’s twists became sharper and more severe, with the shoulder disappearing from time to time. The depth of the forest on all sides and on the mountains ahead of him imparted a calm he was sure no drug could match. The mist that settled on the mountain highway cooled the air. Hannibal lowered his window a bit so that he could taste that mist and inhale the sweet clean scent of the mountains. While he was lulled by the countryside he called Ray and explained where he was in his latest case.
“It sounds like you want to catch this Rod character pretty bad, Paco,” Ray said. “Not sure how I can help.”
“Then you’re not thinking Ray,” Hannibal said, pushing the White Tornado into a curve fast enough to leave rubber behind on the road. “I’m pretty sure our boy’s back in the area. I doubt he’s stupid enough to go back to Vienna, but you’ve got a fleet of limousines on the road all the time, running all over the capital area, Northern Virginia and half of Maryland. All I ask is that you tell your drivers to keep an eye out for a candy apple red car that looks like a Stingray married a Caddy and they had a baby.”
“Sure thing Hannibal,” Ray said. “But speaking of getting married and all, have you popped the question to Cindy yet?”
Hannibal yanked the wheel, pulling his car back from drifting into the oncoming lane. He crested a rise and for a second it looked as if the entire world was laid out in front of him. Highland meadows and valleys, laced with streams and creeks, stretched out for miles ahead of him. The term “God’s country” appeared in his mind unbidden.
“Not yet, Ray. The right time hasn’t come up.”
“I’m not getting any younger, pepe,” Ray said.
Hannibal tapped his brakes as the road dived into a two-lane valley.
“I want those grandkids while I can still walk them to the park,” Ray said.
“Ray, some things you just can’t rush.”
“You can call me Papa.”
“Like hell,” Hannibal said, although the thought made him grin.
Five hours after he left the hospital, Hannibal pulled to a stop under a hanging red light in Independence, in the heart of Grayson County. The highlands of the Blue Ridge Mountains looked much like New England to him. The little village had been carved out of the lush greenery of high alpine meadows and the tranquility made the twenty-five mile per hour speed limit a blessing, not something to curse about as he did so often closer to home.
After getting Hathaway’s address from directory assistance, Hannibal had printed out directions from a mapping web site to guide him there. As he slid through the intersection of Routes 58 and 21 he picked up the sheet to make sure he was going the right way. He hardly saw a soul on his way, and he wondered if the entire population of Independence might still be in church.
It took only seconds to leave the town behind and return to streets lined by rail fences. Another ten minutes passed before Hannibal pulled up in front of Hathaway’s home. From there, no other houses were in sight. It seemed like a lot of house for a single man, despite the fact that its earth brown color and soft yellow trim allowed it to almost blend into the surrounding scenery. Three dormers stood out of the slanted roof above the porch that wrapped three sides of the structure. The garage behind the house was a perfect match and Hannibal could see there was a room above the garage that would serve as a studio if the owner were of an artistic bent. To a man looking for a peaceful and safe place to live, this would seem like paradise.
Hannibal listened to his feet crunching on the gravel path, then to the squeak of old wood as he mounted the stairs to the porch. Wreaths hung on each of the four front windows, and the windows of the dormers as well. Patriotic bunting hung over the front rails of the porch on both sides. Festive for the end of spring, he thought. Hannibal pressed the doorbell and stood back so that he could be viewed through the glass. After thirty seconds or so a latch turned and the door opened half way.
“Good afternoon,” Hannibal said, flashing what he hoped was a disarming smile. “Brendon Hathaway?”
Hathaway looked into Hannibal’s sunglasses for a moment, and then scanned down, his body beginning to shake in a silent chuckle. “You one of them men in black? Looking for aliens?”
Hannibal thought that might not be too far wrong. Hathaway was average height but very long waisted with legs too short for his body. He stood with his thumbs hooked in his belt loops and elbows out to his sides, as if he needed them for balance. His equine face held upper teeth almost twice as big as they should have been, and the long mane flowing out the back of his straw Stetson only made him look more horse-like.
“Actually, sir, I was hoping to get a few minutes of your time. I’m doing a background investigation on a Vernon Cooper. I understand that you worked with him?”
“Oh, yeah, in my last job,” Hathaway said, nodding. “Golden Pharmaceuticals made me an offer when they built out here, and I had to get away from that city life. Come on in. We can talk on the patio. You want a beer?”
Hathaway was already walking away. Hannibal followed. When he closed the door behind himself he noticed the electronic security system. Even way out here, he thought.
The flagstone patio held two umbrella-topped tables and a gas grill that Hannibal at first mistook for a kitchen gas stove. Hathaway pulled a pair of mugs from under the grill, went to a short stainless steel refrigerator and started pumping.
“You keep beer on tap out here?”
“Well, we were partying out here last night, and we’ll be back here tonight,” Hathaway said, pouring foam from the top of the two mugs before setting them on a table. “The boys out this way sure love to party. There. Now we can talk like civilized people.”
“Yes,” Hannibal said. “Nothing’s more civilized than having a draft in your own yard. You certainly have hit the jackpot, Mr. Hathaway.”
“Buddy, please. Everybody calls me Buddy. And yes, life is pretty damned good right now. I was able to bring something special to the table at the new company. I imagine old Vernon did the same. How’s he doing?”
Hannibal took a moment to enjoy the reddish caste and slightly burnt roast aroma of his brew before tipping it to his lips. The frosted mug chilled his lips just before the smooth, malty liquid flowed between them. He didn’t know that Bass ale was even available in a keg.
“I’m afraid he never achieved your level of comfort,” Hannibal said. “I’m sorry to tell you that Vernon Cooper is dead.”
Hathaway’s mug stopped halfway to his mouth. It hung there for a few seconds while Hathaway seemed to consider this news. His lower lip moved forward just a bit and he nodded as if in salute to a fallen comrade. Then he raised his glass and drank down nearly half of its contents.
“That’s really a shame,” Hathaway said at last. “The man was a brilliant pharmaceutical chemist. If not for him… well. You never know, do you? Anyway, at least his little girl must be doing well with his legacy. What was her name?”
“Anita,” Hannibal said, leaning forward. “But no, she’s not doing all that well.”
“Well, she should be. Why didn’t she make use of what he left her?”
Hannibal could hear a slight wheeze in Hathaway’s chest. Perhaps he was asthmatic. “That is precisely why I’m here. Ms. Cooper knows that her father left her something of value, but he never told her what that legacy was. Now, we fear that someone has stolen or destroyed it.”
“Now that,” Hathaway said, waving his beer at Hannibal, “that would be a crying shame.”
“Indeed. That’s why I have to know what her inheritance was. I can’t find it for her if I don’t know what I’m looking for.”
Hathaway sat back in silence, his mouth forming a hard vertical line. Hannibal stayed quiet, knowing that further pressure would not help. He imagined he could smell the beer from the night before on the table and the patio stones. Hathaway’s mouth dropped open but he considered his response for a few more seconds before actually speaking.
“Sorry, Jones, but I can’t tell you that.”
“Excuse me?”
“That’s somebody else’s business and not mine to tell,” Hathaway said. “I can’t help you.”
Hannibal took his time rising to his feet. “I don’t think you understand. This is for his daughter. If it’s anybody’s business it’s hers. The guy who stole from her took advantage, and took things that probably can never be recovered. The one thing I can do is get back what her father wanted her to have. And you’re saying you won’t help?”
“I’m saying this is my town and I intend to keep it that way. And I’m saying it’s time for you to leave.”
Independence lacked even a single hotel, and Hannibal was quite pleased about that. He had booked one of the four rooms in the Davis-Bourne Inn, a Queen Anne Victorian mansion that was earning its living as a bed and breakfast. After changing his clothes he had enjoyed a fine lunch on the wraparound porch watching a young couple sharing lustful stares on the porch swing. Then he moved to a rocker and pulled out his cell phone. He was admiring the landscaped grounds and colorful gardens when he heard a familiar voice at the other end.
“Virgil? It’s Hannibal. Can I get you to help me out for a day’s pay? Great. No, this actually might call for a little finesse. Yeah, and bring Quaker with you. No, finesse isn’t really his style, is it? Well, that’s why I called you first.”
Brendon “Buddy” Hathaway sometimes thought that the best thing about his new life was that he could play his country music as loud as he wanted it without anybody whining. His outdoor speakers really rocked the house, but now that his last couple of guests were getting into their pickups he would go inside and turn the music down.
It had been quite a bash, with what might have been a record crowd of good old boys. He was pretty sure there were a couple of fellows there that night that he had never seen before. Not that it mattered. He had plenty of beer and the ribs had come off the grill just about perfect. Of course, that was five hours ago, but there were plenty of chips, nuts and pork rinds to keep anybody from going hungry.
Hathaway felt a chill as he stepped inside. He understood why. The side door had been standing open for hours, making the air conditioner run full tilt. He pulled the door closed and headed for the stairs. He had enough beer in him to guarantee a good night’s sleep. He was just reaching for the banister when he realized what was missing. The door hadn’t made the little beep noise that indicated the alarm was on. He needed to go set it at the box by the front door.
As he turned his bleary eyes toward the door he realized that he wasn’t alone. The skinny guy in front of him had wild brown hair over an angular face, sitting on top of a pencil neck. Hathaway thought he looked a lot like the star of the old Max Headroom television show.
“Who the hell are you?” Hathaway asked. “I didn’t say anybody could stay over tonight.”
The stranger shrugged. “Sucks, don’t it?”
Then someone pulled a cloth bag over Hathaway’s head and cinched its edges tight around his neck. Hathaway swung his arms wildly for a few seconds, but lack of oxygen combined with the impact of hours of heavy drinking turned his efforts to fight into meaningless thrashing in the dark. He felt a deeper darkness descending on him, and wondered if he was to die without ever knowing why.
Hathaway’s eyes fluttered open grudgingly, as if they blamed him for the pain bursting behind them. His hair was hanging in front of them, and he was staring through it at the wooden box he was standing on. He tried to raise his head without success. His arms were tied behind him, and he could not lower them. They must be tied to the ceiling, he reasoned.
“Hey, sleeping beauty’s awake.” That was the voice of the intruder Hathaway had seen just before he was attacked.
“Good,” a deep, flat voice said. “Let’s get what we came for and get the hell out of here.”
“What do you want with me?” Hathaway asked. Twisting his head he managed to get a brief look at the second man. He was very big and very black, with puffy arms and hands. The whites of his eyes had a brownish tint. Hathaway had seen that look on homeless men in Washington; men he assumed were drug addicts. This could be bad.
“You think he’ll talk if we just slap him around a bit?” the white intruder asked.
“Talk?” Hathaway asked. “Talk about what? Who the hell are you?” At that, the white man walked closer. The room was very dark, lit by only a couple of candles in a distant corner.
“You can call me Quaker,” the first man said. “It ain’t my official name, but it’ll do. There’s a fellow at Isermann — Borner wants to know exactly what you and Cooper stole from them. Something about proprietary information?”
Hathaway let his head drop. Did they think they could beat his secret out of him? Let them try, he thought.
“Look at him,” the Black man said. His words slid out like the voice of Eeyore in the Winnie the Pooh cartoons. “He’s kept his secret long enough now he won’t open up to anybody for anything. Besides do we really need to know?”
Quaker paused and thought a moment. “Well, I guess all we really need to know is that it’s not something he’ll blab around, Virgil.”
“That’s easy enough.” Virgil said. “We just stick him in a hole and cover it up.”
The room felt very close right then. It was hot, and the humidity made it so much harder for Hathaway to breathe, especially with his arms cinched upward as they were.
“Well, that might be easier,” Quaker said, “but it’s not all the boss asked for.”
“So what?” Virgil asked, in a louder tone. “You want to waste a couple of hours down here, punching and kicking this idiot? I say we ice him, we hide him, we leave. Neater that way.”
One of the candles went out, making the dim visions ever harder to see. Hathaway could smell the smoke from the extinguished wick. He was finding it hard to think, but the conversation he was hearing seemed clear on one point.
“Hey, are you guys arguing about killing me?”
“Shut up,” the bigger man said.
“Look,” Quaker said in a tired voice. “I know it’s work but if we get the information we can leave him alive. That way, nobody’s looking for us real hard.”
“He’s making sense,” Hathaway said, feeling his stomach lurch. Trying to stay on his feet was making him queasy, but if he relaxed his legs it threw his arms into agony.
“Didn’t I tell you to shut up?” Virgil said. Then, to Quaker, “See what I mean. He’s a hard case. We could be here all day getting him to tell us what they stole. If he’s dead, the story ends right here.”
“I don’t know man,” Quaker said. “Maybe you’re right.” He pulled a knife from his pocket. The blade flicked out at the touch of a button.
“Wait a minute, fellows,” Hathaway muttered. “It ain’t a secret worth killing for. Not that big a deal, really.”
Virgil grabbed Hathaway’s hair, lifted his face up, and then let it drop. “He’s drunk. He won’t even feel a good beating and he’ll probably pass out. Then he won’t be able to tell us jack.”
Hathaway’s mouth was getting very dry, and his eyes ached from trying to look up at the two arguing faces. Throughout their conversation the two thugs never looked at Hathaway. In fact, they acted as if he wasn’t even there. Yet this was all about him, and he wasn’t about to let some darkie talk this pencil neck into killing him just to make their lives easier.
“Look, we can work this out if I just tell you what I took, right?”
“Who the fuck cares?” Virgil snapped. “See, he’ll say anything to try to save his own ass. Now he’s going to hand us some crap about taking money from the till or something.”
“No, really,” Hathaway said, shaking his head. “If I tell you, then you won’t have to kill me, right?”
“He’ll lie,” Virgil said, walking away. “And then he’ll run straight to the cops if we let him go.”
“Maybe not,” Quaker said, turning his back to Hathaway. “What if we just got the dope on Cooper? Then he’d have no reason to run scared to the cops and we could just go home.”
“Yeah, that’s right,” Hathaway said. “I’d have no reason to tell anybody about you. Please.” It was getting hard to breathe, and he felt like he was going to throw up any minute.
Virgil turned on Quaker, holding a knife that looked to Hathaway like a machete. The man was clearly near the end of his tether, teeth flashing in a hateful grimace. “Look, we don’t need this cracker, and he probably don’t even know what Cooper took.”
“Addiction!” Hathaway had shouted the word and begun sobbing. The other two men finally turned to look at him. “Cooper cracked it. He was a genius in brain chemistry. I never got past pain medications.”
Virgil wheeled and in the near-darkness Hathaway saw the blade in his hand rise over his head. Quaker put a hand on Virgil’s chest.
“No, man. I ain’t gonna let you kill him if he don’t need to die. You don’t need to die, do you boy?”