Beyond Reach (10 page)

Sibyl had spent hours in the library when they were kids. She had been the good student, the one who whiled away her time catching up on homework or reading the latest science magazines Miss Nancy, the former librarian, ordered in Braille especially for her. Lena was the one who moped around, complaining under her breath, until Hank finally picked them up to go home. He used the library as a babysitting facility, making the girls stay there until he could get away from the bar and take them home.

Now, Lena regretted her youthful insolence, her lack of interest in how the library worked. Even blind, Sibyl would have been able to figure out the microfiche machine. Lena couldn’t manage to thread the damn thing. She’d scrolled out two rolls of filmed newspaper archives like a kitten with toilet paper by the time the librarian came up from the basement again. Her look of perpetual disapproval went up a notch when she spotted Lena.

“Lemme have that before you break it,” the woman ordered, snatching the film away from Lena. With her gaudy jewelry, loud voice, and bad attitude, she was certainly no Miss Nancy. From the smell of her—a sickly sweet perfume which did little to mask the stench of cigarettes—Lena guessed the woman was spending her time down in the basement smoking and hiding from the kids.

That was another thing that had not changed—downstairs was strictly off-limits to patrons. The library building had originally been the town’s city hall until the government outgrew it. Built in the 1950s, the structure had all the modern touches, from a sunken concrete seating area you could smack your head open on to a bomb shelter in the basement. Lena had sneaked down there once and been very disappointed to find old voting registers and property deeds instead of the pornographic books and dead bodies that rumors suggested might be hidden in the library’s bowels. The only things that pointed to the windowless room’s former identity were a couple of metal bunk beds crammed into the corner and floor-to-ceiling shelves packed with cans of water and Dinty Moore beef stew.

Lena imagined the whole place reeked of unfiltered Camels now, courtesy of the bitchiest librarian to walk the face of the earth.

“I don’t know why you want this,” the woman snapped, holding up the microfiche. “Do you even know what you’re looking for?”

“I want a particular date,” Lena told her, trying to sound patient. “July 16, 1970.”

“Whatever,” the woman mumbled in a way that made Lena think she hadn’t been listening. She seemed more intent on rolling the films back tight enough to fit into their canisters. The key to the elevator was on a springy chain around her wrist and it kept hitting the metal table-top with annoying, regular clinks.

Lena sat back, giving the librarian more room, trying not to let her impatience show. She finally stood up to avoid a jutting elbow and let the woman have her seat. When Lena was a kid, libraries were silent places—Miss Nancy had made sure of that. She had something she called her “six-inch voice,” which meant you spoke low enough so that only someone six inches away could hear you. There was no running or roughhousing allowed on Miss Nancy’s watch, and she certainly would not have cursed like a sailor as she struggled to thread the microfiche machine.

There was a group of teenagers behind Lena. They were sitting at a table, books splayed out in front of them, but she hadn’t seen one of them doing anything but giggling since she’d walked through the front door. One of the girls saw her and quickly looked down at the book in her hands, but Lena’s eye had caught something else.

The library was small, with about sixteen rows of shelves evenly spaced down the center. Lena walked past each row, trying to find the slender figure she’d seen lurking behind the table of kids.

She found Charlotte Warren in the children’s section. Obviously, Charlotte hadn’t wanted to be seen. She had her nose tucked into a copy of
Pippi Longstocking
when Lena said, “Hey.”

“Oh, Lee,” Charlotte said, her voice going up in mock surprise, as if she hadn’t been the one who called Lena on the phone and told her to come down and check on Hank.

Lena told her, “I found Hank.”

Charlotte shelved the book, taking her time, lining up the spine with the neighboring paperbacks. With her mousy blonde hair and soft voice, Charlotte Warren had been destined from childhood to fill the role of stereotypical American mother, relying on Oprah and Martha Stewart to validate her existence.

Lena asked, “How long has he been like that?”

“I guess about a month now.”

“He’s been hitting it pretty hard.”

“That’s why I called.”

“Who’s selling to him?”

“Oh.” Charlotte looked away, pushing her thick glasses back in place. “I don’t know anything about that, Lee. I just saw him one day and he didn’t look good and I thought that you’d want to know.”

“I don’t know what I can do,” Lena admitted. “He’s hell-bent on killing himself.”

“He’s been real depressed since Sibyl…” Charlotte didn’t need to finish the sentence. They both knew what she meant. She fidgeted with a gold cross she wore on a chain around her neck. “I wanted to come to her funeral, but the kids were in school, and I just…” She let her voice trail off again. “You still a cop?”

“Yeah,” Lena answered. “You still a teacher?”

Charlotte’s smile wavered. “Going on my sixteenth year.”

“That’s good.” Lena tried to think of something else to say. “Sibyl loved teaching.”

“I’m married now. Did you know?” Lena shook her head and Charlotte supplied, “I’ve got three kids and Larry, my husband, he’s such a great dad. He takes extra shifts at the factory so the kids can have everything they need. He goes to all the ball games and the school plays and the band concerts. He’s a really good man, Lee. I lucked out.”

“Sounds like it.”

“You seeing anybody?”

“No.” Lena had answered too harshly. She felt a warm rush of heat come into her cheeks.

Charlotte glanced over Lena’s shoulder as if she was afraid someone would overhear them. “I’ve got to get my girl home, and…” She laughed, but it sounded more like a sob. “Gosh, you just look so much like her.” She put her hand to Lena’s cheek, let it linger for just a moment too long. Tears came into her eyes, and her lip trembled as she fought back her emotions.

“Charlotte—”

Charlotte took Lena’s hand, squeezed it hard. “Take care of Hank, Lee. Sibby would’ve wanted you to look after him.”

Lena watched her walk over to one of the kids sitting at the table. Though Charlotte was a couple of years older than Lena and Sibyl, she had been Sibyl’s closest friend. From early childhood until high school, the two were inseparable. They had spent hours together in Sibyl’s room, gone to the movies together, even driven down to Florida together every spring break. They had lost touch when Sibyl moved away to go to college, but friendships like that never really went away.

Charlotte was right about one thing. Sibyl would have wanted Lena to take care of Hank. She had loved him like a father. It would have killed her all over again to know he was living like this. But what if she had found out that Hank had lied to them all those years? How would Sibyl have felt about him then?

“It’s set up,” the librarian barked from across the room. She tossed a wave at the microfiche machine like she was finished with it.

“Thank you,” Lena returned, though the woman was already jamming her key into the lock to open the elevator and make her escape.

Lena walked back over to the machine. There were other, better ways to go about this. She could call Jeffrey. She could ask him to search the police database for her mother’s name. She could go down to the sheriff’s office and ask for her father’s murder book. She could track down Hank’s dealer and put a gun to his head, tell him if he ever so much as talks to her uncle again, she’ll splatter his brains all over his shiny, white car.

The dealer was the problem. Jeffrey would want to know why Lena was running her mother’s name. Worse, he would probably want to help out. She couldn’t very well tell him that her uncle was back on meth and had said some crazy things she wanted to check out. Jeffrey would be on his way to Reese before she could hang up the phone.

Talking to the Elawah sheriff might bring some unwelcome attention as well. Hank was using pretty heavily; he might even be under surveillance. Even without that, over thirty years had passed since Calvin Adams had been murdered. All his case files had probably been lost or destroyed by now.

She had to use the tools that were available to her, and the library was the best place to start. Hank had lied to her about so many things that Lena didn’t trust anything anymore. She had to start from the be-ginning and work her way toward the truth. Maybe when she got a little more information, knew better where she stood, she could go to Jeffrey and elicit his help. She had worked with him long enough to know the questions he would ask. What she had to do now was try to find some of the answers.

Lena took a seat at the machine and scanned the front page of the
Elawah Herald
.

LOCAL DEPUTY SLAIN

Lena sat on the edge of her chair as she read the story word for word. She couldn’t recall the article Hank had shown her when she was a child, but this seemed to be it. All the details were there: Speeding stop. Dead at the scene. No suspects.

So, at least Hank hadn’t lied about that.

Lena adjusted the knobs on the machine and scrolled down, overshooting the next edition, then slowly winding her way back. The
Herald
was a weekly paper, not more than fifteen or twenty pages long, and her father’s shooting was the biggest news in town. Each subsequent front page for the next month carried the story, basically regurgitating the same details over and over again. Shot twice in the head. No suspects found.

She pressed the fast-forward button, hoping that she wouldn’t have to change the film to find the week of her mother’s death. She scrolled into 1971, slowing around the first week of March. She scanned the obituaries for her mother’s name, then skipped to the next week’s paper, then the next. She was about to give up when she saw a photograph on the front page of the September 19 edition.

Hank had only one photograph of their mother. It was a Polaroid, the colors unnaturally bright. Angela Norton was seventeen or eighteen. She stood on an anonymous beach somewhere in Florida, wearing a modest one-piece white-and-blue checkered bathing suit with a large bow around the waist. Her hair was piled on her head and she stood with her hands at her side, palms down, striking a pose. This had been a time when teenagers wanted to look older, more mature, and Lena had always liked the expression on her mother’s face: the pursed lips and serious eyes, the streak of blue eye shadow and the dark, Cleopatra-like eyeliner placing the young woman firmly on the precipice of the sexual revolution.

For Lena and Sibyl’s sixth birthday, Hank had hired an artist from out of town to do a likeness of Angela’s face. The oil painting hung in the living room over the couch. It had been such a staple of Lena’s life that she barely even looked at it anymore.

She looked at the photograph of her mother in the paper, though. Angela Adams, nee Norton, sat in an old rocking chair Lena recognized from Hank’s house. A baby was in either arm, their bodies swaddled in blankets.

Above her, the headline read,
THE GRIEVING WIDOW AND HER TWINS.

TUESDAY MORNING

CHAPTER 6

JEFFREY SAT IN A BACK BOOTH
at the City Diner listening to the messages on his cell phone. The coffee here was the hi-test kind, and when the waitress came over to fill his cup again, he smiled and waved her away, thinking if he drank any more of the black tar his head would vibrate off his neck. He was already hearing a buzzing in his ears and this, combined with the pouring rain outside, was making him feel like he had stuck his head in a hornet’s nest.

He pressed the three button on his cell phone, fast-forwarding through the Heartsdale mayor’s message asking him to get to the bottom of a group of vandals who were kicking over trashcans on his street, an act that to the mayor’s thinking was one of the first signs of lawless thugs taking over the city.

Jeffrey closed the phone after the last message, which was from a vinyl-siding salesman wanting to talk to him about exciting distribution opportunities. There was nothing from Sara and she wasn’t answering the phone at the motel. He hoped that she was taking a long bath, then thought about the grime he had seen at the bottom of the tub last night and hoped instead that she’d stepped outside to get some air. He was worried about her. She had been much too quiet, even before Lena had run rings around her. The many times he’d woken up in the middle of the night, he’d found her wide awake, curled into a ball, her back to him.

He hated leaving her alone this morning, especially in that disgusting room. Frankly, he hated exposing her to the seedy underbelly that, until last night, she hadn’t known existed. The place was what Jeffrey thought of as a jerk-stop motel, the sort of establishment that catered to truck drivers, whores, and the more than occasional cheating spouse. Jeffrey had spent more than a few evenings in such motels with more than a few women, so he recognized the signs. Even a fool would figure something was going on as soon as he checked in. The clerk behind the front desk had asked Jeffrey how many hours he needed the room.

Jeffrey had parked the BMW in full view of the street in case Lena was looking for him. Though, for all he knew, Lena was halfway to Mexico by now. Part of him hoped she stayed there. He was angry at Lena for not trusting him, even angrier with her for duping Sara, and furious with himself for letting it all happen in the first place.

Sara was right about one thing—Lena had been terrified last night. She’d obviously felt that short of getting Jeffrey to leave, her best option was escape. The question remained: Why did she want to get rid of Jeffrey? What could be so bad that she’d refuse his help? The person in the Escalade had been killed. Still, in the cold light of day, Jeffrey couldn’t think of anything—not even murder—that would make him turn completely against her. There had to be an explanation, a reason for her involvement in this death. Lena always played it close to the bone, but she had never willfully jeopardized anyone but herself.

And, still, he could not help but wonder if it was Hank Norton’s body in the back of the burned Escalade. On the way to the diner this morning, Jeffrey had called the station back in Grant County and gotten Hank’s address off Lena’s personnel file. He had tried the phone number she’d given, but no one picked up. Surprisingly, the satellite navigation in Sara’s car had actually recognized the address. Jeffrey had taken this as a sign that he should drive by and see if Hank Norton was home. The place looked abandoned, but Jeffrey assumed that was because it hadn’t been painted or repaired in the last thirty years. He would’ve gotten out of his car and checked for himself, but there had been an Elawah County Sheriff’s Department cruiser parked right across the street. The man had given him a wave as Jeffrey drove by.

If Hank was in the back of the Escalade, that might explain why Lena had run. No matter the bad blood between them, if someone had killed her uncle, she would hunt him down like an animal. If she had killed him herself…Jeffrey had stopped there, not letting his thoughts take him down that dark road. After almost two decades of knowing Lena, he should have a better idea right now about whether or not she was one of the good guys.

Last night at the hospital, she’d had her chance to ask for his help and voted with her feet. Obviously, she wanted to go it alone. Obviously, Jeffrey wasn’t going to let her do it. There was still the matter of her being a detective on his force who was involved in a violent crime. She had left that hospital because she was running from something—something she desperately did not want Jeffrey to know about. Whether she was involved in the explosion or had set it herself, Jeffrey was going to figure out what had happened. Jake Valentine couldn’t find his ass in an ass-storm. If Lena was going to be extricated from this mess, it was all down to Jeffrey.

Of course, this would have been a lot easier if he had any idea what the hell was going on.

After he drove past Hank’s house, Jeffrey had called the Georgia Department of Corrections to make sure Ethan Green was still locked up. They had assured Jeffrey that Ethan was still behind bars, but as nice as the woman on the phone had sounded, Jeffrey didn’t quite trust the information she had pulled up on her computer. He had called Coastal State Prison himself and spoken directly to the warden. It was a relief to hear from the man that Ethan was still a resident of the state penal system, but Jeffrey was not stupid enough to dismiss the con from his list of possibilities.

Though he claimed to be reformed, Ethan Green had been a skinhead since childhood. He was raised in a skinhead family and had been arrested along with his skinhead friends. Jeffrey had seen the black swastikas and disgusting images the young man had etched into his skin. There was no way Ethan hadn’t realigned himself with his boys the minute he’d walked back into prison. The only way for animals like that to survive was to live in packs. The only question was how far was Ethan’s reach outside the prison walls? The man at the hospital last night had sported a red swastika on his arm. Was he somehow connected to Ethan? Had the imprisoned skinhead sent one of his boys to get to Lena? That might explain her fear. But, would it explain why she would refuse Jeffrey’s help?

He looked at his watch, wondering why Nick Shelton was late. The Georgia Bureau of Investigation’s southeastern field rep was a busy man. They had chosen the diner as a halfway point for both of them—far enough from Reese to avoid prying eyes and close enough to Macon so that Nick wasn’t out of the office too long. Jeffrey had been cryptic on the phone last night as he arranged to meet the man, but he was hoping Nick could fill in some blanks on Jake Valentine and what was going on under the new sheriff’s watch. Nick worked on cases that crossed county lines, and Elawah was in his district. If anyone could tell Jeffrey whether or not skinheads were operating in town, Nick Shelton could. The GBI agent took pride in bringing down the bad guys, and despite his tendency toward the flamboyant, he was a damn good cop.

He was also late by almost an hour.

Jeffrey picked up his cell phone and thumbed to the number for the motel. Before he’d left, Jeffrey had asked Sara to get in touch with Frank Wallace back in Grant County, but they both knew that this was just an excuse for Jeffrey to call in later and check up on her. Jeffrey very seriously doubted knowing who the white sedan was registered to would open any earth-shattering leads. It was the kind of base-covering work that Jeffrey usually assigned to junior officers.

Jeffrey was listening to the phone ring, his chest feeling tight as each one passed unanswered, when Sara finally picked up.

“Jeff?”

“You sound out of breath,” he told her, relieved to hear her voice.

“I went for a walk,” she told him, then started to explain why. When she got to the part about buying a map, he found himself squeezing the phone so hard that it nearly popped out of his hand.

“So,” she continued, obviously excited by her little stroll. “It was just a vacant lot, but still, I thought I could go to the county courthouse and see whose name is on the property deed. What do you think?”

Jeffrey couldn’t speak. Tracking down the registration from the relative safety of the motel room was one thing. Walking into what could have been a den of skinheads—or worse—was quite another.

“Hello?” Sara said. “Are you still there?”

Jeffrey cleared his throat, trying to keep his tone steady and not go with his gut reaction to demand what the hell she thought she was doing. “I’m here.”

“I was saying that I can go to the courthouse—”

He stopped her dead in her tracks. “I need you to stay in the room, Sara. Don’t go to the courthouse. Don’t make any more phone calls. Just stay in the goddamn room and keep out of trouble.”

She was the one who was quiet this time.

He spoke through gritted teeth. “I can’t do my job and worry about you at the same time.”

She let some time pass before answering. “Okay.”

He could tell from the way she’d said the word that she was angry, but there was nothing he could do about that right now. “Promise me you’ll stay there until I get back.”

Again, there was the hesitation. Suddenly, he realized he was wrong. Sara wasn’t angry. She was disappointed with herself because
he
was angry. He could almost hear her thoughts, knew that she was berating herself for doing one more stupid thing.

“I know you were just trying to help out, but, Sara, Jesus, the thought of you traipsing out on your own like that…this isn’t Grant County. You didn’t grow up here. These people don’t know you. It’s not safe, Sara. Do you understand what I mean?”

“Yes.”

“Baby…” He shook his head, words failing him. “Please, just stay in the room. I’ll get back as soon as I can.”

“No,” she told him. “Do your job. You’re right. I’ll stay here.”

Now he felt like a complete asshole. He looked out the diner window. Nick Shelton was getting out of his Chevy pickup.

“It’s not your fault,” he told her. “Listen, Nick just pulled up.”

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll see you when you get here.”

She didn’t slam down the phone, but Jeffrey wished she had. Sara wasn’t compliant. She was headstrong and arrogant and demanding—all the things a man could want in a woman. Over the last few months, he had watched her go from a fighter to someone who just rolled with the punches. Jeffrey wanted her to be angry again. He wanted her to tell him to fuck off, that she knew what she was doing and he should be grateful she was wasting her time down here helping him out when she could be back home tending to patients. He wanted her to scream at him, to rail against the Powells and all the other bastards who were trying to keep her down.

He wanted his brilliant, beautiful wife back.

“Hey, Chief.” Nick Shelton came through the front door of the diner, rain flattening his long brown hair to his skull. “Sorry I’m late.”

Jeffrey stood up, shaking the other man’s hand. “No problem.”

“Raining like a pisser out there.” Nick called over to the waitress, “You got some fresh coffee for me, darlin’?”

She gave him a big smile. “Sure do.”

“Leave me a little room at the top, will you? Maybe this much?” He held his thumb and forefinger about an inch apart.

“Be right back.” She giggled, giving him a wink. Jeffrey had barely gotten a “good morning” from the woman, but he gathered Nick, with his tight jeans and the heavy gold chain around his neck, was more her type.

The GBI man watched the waitress leave, giving her wide bottom an appreciative smile. “Might get me some fries with that shake.”

Jeffrey tried to steer the conversation away from the waitress. “How you been doing, Nick?”

“Working like a dog, is how.” He picked at the napkin dispenser on the table, shredding the first few. “State cut my budget in half for goddamn Homeland Security. We got gangs and drugs and murderers running around here faster than clam chowder through my grandma but the feds are making us shoot our wad on fighting damn terrorists who couldn’t even find Elawah or Grant County on the map. Hell, they don’t even need to make the trip. Give us a few more years and we’ll all kill each other on our own.”

Jeffrey had never had a conversation with Nick that didn’t involve some kind of complaint, but he tried not to fuel it with his own. “Sorry to hear you’re having a hard time, Nick.”

“Bob Burg’s working some consultancy job up north making twenty times more than the state ever paid him.”

Jeffrey felt himself getting pulled in. Bob Burg had been Nick’s counterpart, handling counties that ran along southeastern Georgia. “What happened?”

Nick used the shredded napkins to wipe the rain off his face, saying, “I guess they figured all that time I wasted popping home to sleep and change my underwear could be put to better use. They kicked him out and gave me his territory.”

“They fired Bob?”

“‘Merged the offices to streamline the operation,’” Nick quoted in a businesslike drone. “Bunch of dumb-ass pencil-pushing motherfuckers, and don’t even get me started on them cash bonuses they’ve been handing out to the higher-ups to thank them for all this kissing up and kicking down.” He sat up as the waitress came back. “Why, thank you, darlin’. You did it up perfect.” He gave her a wink and the woman giggled again before sashaying off.

Nick continued, “I can’t blame Bob for being pissed off, but he left a freakin’ mess for me to clean up. Paperwork missing, files incomplete.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Nick shrugged, brushing it off. He asked, “How’s Sara doing?”

“She’s good,” Jeffrey lied, trying to fight the sadness he felt.

Nick gave him a sharp glance over the coffee cup. “Heard you and her’s already made some friends in town.”

“That got around fast.”

“It’s not every day that a crack squad loses a prisoner.” He gave Jeffrey a wink. “And gets gut-punched for their trouble.”

Jeffrey felt a grin on his face. “He was asking for it.”

“I have no doubt.”

“Tell me what you know about Jake Valentine.”

Nick grabbed the sugar dispenser off the table. “Jake Valentine,” he echoed, giving the name a jaunty ring. “Ol’ buddy Jake was a deputy for maybe two days before he ran for office.” He kept pouring the sugar as he talked. “There was this old coot, Don Cook, wanted the job, but people in town were sick of the codgers sitting on their asses, collecting their paychecks, while the rest of the town was going to hell in a handbasket.”