Deceived (34 page)

Houston to Jackson.

Two hours sleep.

Mac was amazed he could remember his own name.

Rocky Towne, on the other hand, looked like she did this every day. Amazing indeed.

But was this the worst idea in the world?

No. It got him out of LA for a while. It gave him the feeling that he was doing something.

And he liked being with her. He liked the fact that she had gotten the goods on Slezak. He liked the fact that she was not pretentious or sold on herself.

She rented a car at Jackson – Evers International Airport. Drove out into a thundering rainstorm.

“Southern living,” Mac said as Rocky drove.

“We only have earthquakes,” she said.

“Where to now?”

“To find Rosie Summerville Jones,” Rocky said.

“I was hoping you’d say find some chicken-fried steak.”

She looked at him.

“Kidding,” he said. “Drive on.”

5:15 p.m.

Driving, blinking, fighting off sleep. Fifteen hours on the road this last stretch. Just two stops. Not bad.

Almost home
,
Mama. You’ ll see
,
and you’ ll know.

5:20 p.m.

The rain was pounding when they hit the trailer park.

Rocky was glad Mac was with her. His steadiness was comforting, even in the face of their long odds.

All they had was a trailer number. No phone. No other means of contact.

Finding it in the dark and the rain wasn’t easy. Some of the long boxes had less-than-complete numbers. Other trailers didn’t have numbers at all.

And there were bikes and balls and cars strewn in random fashion all over the grounds.

But cool estimation brought them to space number 17, which happened to be one of the more pristine. At least she could clearly see the red numbers in front.

“Of course we didn’t bring umbrellas,” Rocky said, pulling to a stop.

“We’re from LA,” Mac said.

Rocky got out. There was a small awning over the trailer’s door. It took three long, sloshy steps to get there. She knocked on the door. Mac joined her for the second knock.

The large woman who opened it issued a loud curse against someone named Cody, as if expecting him to be standing there.

Then she cursed at Rocky and Mac. The curses had a sing-song, deep southern accent to them. Rocky thought of that cartoon rooster, Foghorn Leghorn.

Rocky held up the case with her investigator’s license in the display. She flipped it open and showed it to the woman. “We’re looking for Rosie Summerville Jones,” she said.

The woman, who might have been thirty, wore a large yellow T-shirt with an oak tree on the front, green sweatpants, and red slippers. The oak tree was stretched at the roots by her girth.

The woman said, “Whuz the name again?”

“Rosie, or Rose, Summerville Jones.”

“Don’t know nobody by that name.”

“She used to live here.”

“She ain’t livin’ here now.”

“Any idea where she moved?”

“I said I don’t know her.”

“How long have you lived here?”

“I don’t see as I got to answer that.”

“Now look — ” She felt Mac’s hand on her arm.

He said to the woman, “You don’t have to answer that, but we’ve come a long way and it’s important for us to find her. That’s all. It’s about her daughter. She may be in trouble. Is there a manager on the grounds?”

“Ain’t no manager.”

“Who’s your landlord?”

“The county,” she said. “They own the place. Try gettin’ anythin’ from ’em ’cept trouble.”

Mac said, “Is there anyone you know who’s been here a long time?”

“You might could try across the way, in thirty. Miss Boaz. Only don’t say I sez so.”

“Thank you,” Mac said. “You’ve been very helpful.”

The woman closed the door.

5:25 p.m.

The old house was just like Liz remembered it. Overgrown grass and a kudzu wall all the way around. Made the place seem like a green fortress. The old wood frame itself looked like it could be blown over.

But still, there it was, with a light burning in the front window.

Liz knocked. The rain had soaked her during the little run up to the door. She wondered if Old Dane would even recognize her.

If he even let her in. She saw his wizened face look out the window at her. She must have looked like a drenched rat.

“Whatta ya want?” His voice strained through the dirty window.

Liz indicated that he should look at her face.

He squinted. Then smiled. His teeth were as brown as ever.

When he opened the door, the smell of pipe tobacco burst out like a padded fist, followed by his high-pitched voice. “Lizzie!”

He practically pulled her in.

Old Dane Lowery was not really that old, maybe sixty. But ever since Liz could remember, that had been his nickname. His hair was the color of hickory nuts and he had wild, furry eyebrows over blazing blue eyes. He was thin and sinewy, like her own mountain forebearers. But there was no hint of hillbilly about him. Liz knew he had killed two men, both criminals, who had tried to cheat him.

The bodies were never found.

She was like him, she knew, in more ways than shared heritage.

He was also the best fence in the South. No one knew better how to move hot property.

He sat her by the fireplace and got her a towel.

“Now, little girl,” Old Dane said, “what’s got you to my door on a night like this?”

“You know,” she said. “I need your ser vices.”

“Last I heard, you were gone to make your fortune in LaLa Land. You thinking of settin’ up here again? ’Cause I could — ”

“No! I’m getting out. As soon as I can. Soon as you fence what I’ve got. I want to go away. I want to go somewhere. Out of here. Mexico. A place where I can live like I want. A place where they won’t get me. I want to — ”

“Easy, girl, easy. Let me get you something warm to drink.”

“Whiskey,” she said.

“Natcherly,” Old Dane said. “Then you can tell me all about your merchandise.”

“It’s big,” she said. “Really big.”

He raised his substantial eyebrows. “It sounds big.”

“Bigger than that,” she said.

5:29 p.m.

The old woman at the door looked suspicious.

As well she should, Rocky thought. Two wet strangers in the night, knocking.

“Miss Boaz?” Rocky said.

“Who wants to know?”

“We’re looking for Rosie Summerville Jones.”

The woman was in a bathrobe that might have been fresh in 1978. She said, “You’re a friend of Rosie’s?”

“Her daughter,” Rocky said.

“Lizzie? Is she out here?”

“That’s what we think.”

“That girl is trouble, always has been. Runs in the family.”

“Can you help us?” Mac said.

“You want to find Rosie, do you?”

“Yes.”

“I can help you with that. Oh yes, I can.”

5:42 p.m.

“Help me!”

“Easy girl,” Old Dane said.

“Don’t tell me to take it easy! Don’t tell me that anymore. I’ve got to go.”

“It’s pouring out there.”

“Help me!”

“You’re just plum exhausted. You drink up and sleep. I’ll take the couch. Tomorrow is time enough — ”

“Help me stay out of hell!”

Old Dane put his arms around her and stroked her hair. It felt like flames of fire licking her head.

“You just quiet down now,” Old Dane said. “You just rest now.”

Wednesday

10:32 a.m.

The grass was still wet, with drops sparkling in the sun. The smell of moist leaves, along with the scent of mud, filled Liz with a kind of earthly comfort.

She drank it in.

Mama was resting peacefully under the plain brass plate.

Liz laid a diamond ring on top of the plate. The simple grave was in a row under some willow trees, dripping with the remnants of rain.

“I made it, Mama. You knew I would. It was tough there for a while, but I did it. You always said I could, and I did. But there’s something real big about it this time. I got some luck. Did you know Arty died? I didn’t really want him to, but once it happened, what could I do?”

Some leaves blew across the grave. One of the leaves landed on Mama’s first name.

Liz took the leaf, wet and brown, and lifted it to her cheek.

“Did I do it right, Mama? Did I get what was coming to me?”

She took the diamond ring and pressed it into the soft grass below the plate. She pressed it with her thumb as far as she could. Then she pulled her thumb out with a
goosh
sound.

“Mexico maybe, Mama. I’ll live like you wanted me to.”

Good luck. Now the seed had been planted. Mama had the ring and that meant good luck forever and ever.

“Hello, Liz.”

She shrieked at the voice and spun around.

10:34 a.m.

Mac thought, She looks like a wounded animal.

A dangerous, wounded animal. With crazy eyes.

No quick movements, he told himself. She might snap.

Liz looked between them. Mac sensed Rocky’s tension, but she was letting him do the talking.

For the moment.

They were three people alone in a cemetery. A hundred yards away, a man was mowing some grass. The steady hum of the mower was the only sound.

Liz started shaking her head. No words. Just swiveling with a mad uncertainty.

Mac said, “Whatever’s happened, it can be made right.”

The head shake grew more pronounced. Then stopped as she stood up. She reached into her purse. She pulled out a gun.

They were ten feet apart.

Mac stepped in front of Rocky. “Liz, listen to me. I’m not out to get you. I want to help you. So does Rocky.”

“No,” Liz said.

“Yes, Liz, we do. We came here to help.”

“Not her.”

Rocky moved to Mac’s side. “Yes, Liz, me, too.”

Pointing the gun at Rocky now, Liz shook her head. “You hate me.”

“I don’t know you,” Rocky said. “And I never gave you a chance.”

“Both of you hate me.”

She’s getting close to crumbling, Mac thought. No sudden moves.

He said, “We’re family. We need to work this out together.”

“Not family,” Liz said. “Can’t be fixed, can’t be fixed. Can’t put it back together.”

“Put the gun down,” he said softly. “Let’s talk it out.”

A beat.

Then another.

No one moved.

Then, slowly, with a look of astonishment, Liz began to lower the gun.

Rocky took two steps toward her.

Something didn’t look right. Mac was about to yell
stop
when Liz whipped the gun up again.

Mac pulled Rocky behind him.

Liz put the gun to her own temple.

Mac jumped, without thinking, hands out, grabbing, contact.

And heard the shot, as if in the distance.

As if in a dream of death.

Saturday

The skies over LA were, at last, blue again. The city woke up to the weekend tentatively, almost as if it expected the rains to return.

This despite what the cheery meteorologists on the local broadcasts had been telling them for the last few days.

Yet gradually there was, in the early morning activities of Angele-nos, a sense of new beginnings.

But not all was rosy.

The
Times
carried a story about the fear of a hellish fire season a few months hence, because of all the new growth that would be caused by the rain. A scorching summer was expected, the story said, and fierce Santa Ana winds would turn the hills into tinderboxes.

“We could be getting the worst fire season in a decade,” Los Angeles Fire Department Assistant Chief Wayne Gregg was quoted as saying. “But then again, they’re all bad.”

In the
Daily News
, the lead story was about the mayor’s new proposal to quell gang violence. He was calling the plan “Love ’em Early,” and in a tearful news conference promised to reach at-risk kids at ages eight or nine instead of fourteen or fifteen.

It was only going to cost twenty-four million dollars.

And the
Pack Canyon Herald
burst forth with an across-the-page headline — its first in many years — announcing the closing of Pack Canyon Park.

The city of Los Angeles had closed the park after state toxics regulators warned of a positive test for lead at a former skeet range, an area that now had a grass field and basketball court.

An environmental consultant hired by the city found that one-third of the samples it took contained lead that exceeded health standards.

Mark Young, captain of Rolling Thunder, a wheelchair rugby team that used Pack Canyon Park for practice, was upset. “We have three practices a week. Park space is hard to find. Now what are we going to do?”

Los Angeles Parks and Recreation General Manager Glynnis Kirk was quoted as saying, “The safety of our park patrons always comes first, and while we understand a park closing is inconvenient, this was mandated by the State of California.”

The California Department of Toxic Substances Control ordered a chain-link fence erected at the entrance to the park, with a red warning sign prominently displayed.

HAZARDOUS MATERIALS! DO NOT ENTER!

At 9:31 Saturday morning, members of the Los Angeles County Sherriff’s Crime Scene Unit completed the first phase of their investigation of 871 Feather Lane, Pack Canyon. Luminol procedure had revealed blood spatter and a footprint.

Sheriff’s Homicide Detective Kathy Moss, just three hours after her return from Mississippi with a prisoner, confirmed that the size of the footprint matched the shoe size of one Theodore Gillespie.

9:52 a.m.

“You were gone,” her father said.

“I had a little business to attend to,” Rocky said.

“Working?”

“Actually working.”

“Getting paid?”

“You always know the right thing to say.”

His face clenched. At least he was in his own house now. His neighbor, a woman named Jesse, had been checking in on him.

“I don’t know anything,” her father said.

Rocky said nothing. She had the urge to hold his hand. She didn’t, though. She didn’t know if he wanted her to.

“I need to tell you something,” he said. “Before I die.”