TIRED OF THIS TOWN as he was, Josiah still found himself grateful for familiarity in this situation. Figured he had to get himself hidden quick, because there wasn’t going to be a whole lot of time passing before the police were looking for his truck. Hell, they’d do that on principle, something like that happening so near his home. He wasn’t real eager to talk the matter over with them either.
Time to get off the roads and out of sight, then, and while the idea of flight was appealing, gassing up the truck and heading for the Ohio River line and points beyond, he wasn’t foolish enough to do that. He had a grand total of twenty-four dollars in his wallet and maybe four hundred in the bank, and that wasn’t going to get him far.
He drove about three miles west of his house, into the woods that climbed the hills between Martin and Orange counties, and turned into a gravel drive marked with a half dozen no trespassing signs. Had been a timbering camp at one time, years ago, and now all that remained was a weathered barn and decrepit equipment shed. The place was isolated, though. Josiah had found the spot deer hunting one year-the property wasn’t open to hunting, but hell if he cared-and filed it away in the back of his mind, knowing that such a location could prove useful to any of the handful of illegal ventures he experimented with from time to time. This wasn’t the sort of use he’d hoped to require it for, but right now he was glad that he’d stumbled across the spot.
He stopped and then dug his toolbox out of the truck and found a stout pair of bolt cutters. Should’ve thought to grab a hacksaw, but he hadn’t been exactly flush on time when he’d left the house. He left the lights on in the truck, used them to illuminate the sagging doors on the barn. Just as he’d recollected, there was a rusted chain with a padlock holding them closed, and the chain wasn’t thick. It took him a few minutes of grunting and swearing-his burned and bleeding hand hurt like hell each time he squeezed the bolt cutters-but eventually he broke through half a link and then he slipped the chain apart and dropped the lock at his feet.
The doors swung open with a crack and groan, but they slid apart all right, and inside there was plenty of room for the truck. He pulled it inside, hearing a harsh scrape as he dragged past the door, then turned the engine off, and sat there in the dark.
What in the hell had he done? What in the hell had he just done?
The last fifteen minutes had been too full of action for much thought, but now, up here in the dark barn, hiding his truck from the police who’d soon be looking for it, he was forced to consider what had just occurred. That man was dead, and Josiah had killed him. Killed him, then lit his ass on fire. That wasn’t just murder, that had to be some aggravated version of it. Sort that got you on death row.
It wasn’t as if Josiah had never thought of killing a man before, he’d just never actually expected to do it. Figured if he ever did, it would come slow and calculated, the product of a great deal of provocation. Revenge for some grave offense. But tonight… tonight it had happened so damn fast.
“Was the gun that did it,” he said. “Was his own fault for pulling that gun.”
Surely that had been it. A self-defense move and nothing else. You see a man swinging a gun your way, what in the hell were you supposed to do?
Problem was, it hadn’t been the first blow that killed him. Josiah was almost certain of that. Oh, it had knocked him out well enough, but the one that killed him had been that second strike, when the man in the ditch was already down and out and Josiah jumped down there and laid the cinder block to his head with every last ounce of strength he had in him. That wasn’t Josiah’s nature; he’d never been one for kicking a man he’d already put on the ground. But tonight he’d done that, and then some. And in that moment, that blink-quick moment, he hadn’t even felt like himself. He’d felt like another man entirely, a man who’d enjoyed that deathblow a great deal.
Shit, what a mess. You killed someone, better have both good cause for it and a good plan for dealing with it, and Josiah had neither. Didn’t even know who the son of a bitch was, just that he’d been watching the house. Why had he been watching the house?
He reached over to the passenger seat and got the case he’d stolen, a big leather bag with a shoulder strap, and felt around for the wallet. When he got his fingers around it, he flicked on the interior lights and opened it up. First thing he saw was a photo ID. Licensed Private Investigator.
A detective. That didn’t make a bit of sense, and the name-Gavin Murray-didn’t mean a thing to Josiah either. He studied the picture, confirmed that this man was a stranger. The address given on both the investigator’s license and his driver’s license, which was tucked in the same compartment, was Chicago.
Same city as the man who’d gone to see Edgar, pretending to be making a movie. Two of them in French Lick on the same day, one asking questions about Campbell, the other watching Josiah’s house with a camera. What could these bastards be after? Hell, Josiah didn’t have anything to take.
He removed the cash from the wallet and put it in his pocket, then felt around in the case and came across a fancy leather folder, took that out and opened it, and found himself studying a sheet of paper with his own name, date of birth, and Social Security number. Plus a list of addresses going back the better part of fifteen years, places he’d almost forgotten about. He thumbed past this sheet and saw that the next one detailed his arrest history, complete with case numbers and dates of arrest and charges. He flipped through a few more papers, then found one that said Client Contact. There were two phone numbers and a fax number and e-mail address, but Josiah was far more interested in the name itself:
Lucas G. Bradford.
This morning the humidity had arrived even ahead of the heat. It was a liquid breeze that came in through the screen as dawn rose, and Anne, expecting to see heavy clouds when she got out of bed and looked out the window, was surprised to find sun.
She showered, a process that now took too much time and too much energy, holding on to the metal railings with one hand at all times, and then dressed in slacks and a light cotton blouse and the sturdy white tennis shoes she wore every day. Had to wear them; balance was all that kept her from a hospital or a nursing home. She loathed those shoes, though. Hated them with a depth of passion that she’d rarely felt for anything. When she was young, she’d been a shoe fan. All right, that was an understatement and a half-she’d been crazy about shoes. And the shoes she loved had heels. They were tall and elegant and you had to know how to walk in them, you couldn’t just clomp around, you had to walk like a lady. Anne McKinney had always known how to walk. Had earned her share of stares over the years because of that walk, had watched men’s eyes drop to her hips all the time, long after she became a mother, even.
She took short, steady steps now in her flat, sturdy shoes. Hated the walk, hated the shoes. The past taunted with every step.
Once she was dressed, she went out onto the porch to take the day’s first readings. The barometer was down to 29.80. Quite a drop overnight. The sun was out, but the lawn didn’t sparkle under it, no heavy dew built up overnight the way there had been recently. She leaned out from under the porch roof and looked up and saw a cluster of swollen clouds in the west, pale on top but gray beneath. Cumulonimbus. Storm clouds.
All signs, from the clouds to the dry grass to the pressure drop, indicated a storm. It was confirmation of what she’d suspected yesterday, but she felt a vague sense of disappointment as she studied the clouds. They were storm makers, sure, but somehow she’d expected more. Still, it was early. Spring supercells developed quickly and often unpredictably, and it was tough to say what might find its way here by day’s end.
She recorded all of the measurements in her notebook. It was a ritual that usually gave her pleasure but today, for some reason, did not. She felt out of sorts, grumpy. It happened when something of note occurred, like Eric Shaw’s visit, and she had nobody to share it with. It was then that she felt the weight of the loneliness, then that the mocking of the empty house and the silent phone rose in pitch. She’d kept her mind all these years, her memory and logic, was proud of it. Mornings like this, though, she wondered if that was best. Maybe it was easier to be the doddering sort of old, maybe that dulled the sharp edges of the empty rooms that surrounded you.
“Oh, stop it, Annabelle,” she said aloud. “Just stop it.”
She would not sit around here feeling sorry for herself. You had to be grateful for every day, grateful for each moment the good Lord allowed you to have on this weird, wild earth. She knew that. She believed it.
Sometimes, though, believing it was easier than at other times.
She went back inside and fixed toast for breakfast and sat in her chair in the living room and tried to read the paper. It was tough to concentrate. Memories were leaping out at her this morning, nipping the heels of her mind. She wanted someone to talk to. The phone had been quiet all week but that was partially her own fault-she’d worked so hard to convince those at church and in town of her strong independence that they didn’t worry about her much. And that was good, of course, she didn’t want to give anyone cause to worry, but… but it wouldn’t hurt if someone checked in now and again. Just to say hello. Just to make a little conversation.
Heavens, but Harold had loved to talk. There had been plenty of times when she’d said, Harold, go outside and give my ears a break, just because she couldn’t take the unrelenting chatter. And the children… oh, but those were his children, sure as anything, because both of them caught the gift of gab like it was a fever. This house had been filled with talk from sunrise to sundown.
She set the paper down, stood up, and went to the phone, ignoring, as she usually did, the cordless unit that sat beside her, because it was good to move around, good to stay active. She called the hotel and asked to be put through to Eric Shaw. It had occurred to her last night that she’d never asked what family he was researching. Maybe she could help. Maybe if he told her the family name, she’d remember some things about them, maybe she could tell him some stories.
It went to voice mail, though, and so she left a message. Anne McKinney calling, nothing urgent. Just wanted to check in.