First Family (42 page)

“And Rothwell found out about it?” said Sean.

“Donna Rothwell is not the sort of person you ever want to cross,” said Frank tersely. “I didn’t know her all that well, but I knew her
kind
real well. I notice things other people don’t. Just the cop’s eye again. I’d seen how she looked sometimes when she wasn’t
the center of attention, or when lover boy was paying some woman more attention than he was her. She was obsessive, she was controlling. And she couldn’t admit to anyone, much less herself, that she wasn’t in control. And that made her dangerous. Even on the golf course she was competitive beyond all reason. Would get pissed off if she was losing.”

Michelle said, “That must be why she made up that lie about letting Reagan play in the golf tournament with Mom. She didn’t want to admit that it was done without her permission.”

“Or being so adamant that your mother was not seeing another man,” said Sean.

Michelle added, “So she planned to kill Mom because she was fooling around with Reagan. She made a dinner date with her, obviously knew about the pool party next door and all the noise. She slipped into the garage and waited until Mom came out…” Michelle’s voice trailed off for a moment. “What did she use? To kill her?” she asked Bobby, who had a cluster of tears in his eyes.

He drew a deep breath. “Golf club. A newfangled putter. That accounted for the weird shape of the head wound. The police found it in her car trunk. Still had trace on it. She went after you last night with a club too. Except it was a driver.”

Michelle rubbed her arm and leg where the bruises were large and purple. “Lady has a natural swing,” she said wryly. “But why come after me?”

Her father answered. “Reagan was at the country club last night. I know because I was too. I was following him. He saw you by the trophy case. He overheard you talking to the man about Donna. He must’ve put two and two together. Did you notice in the picture in the trophy case?”

“That Donna was a lefty? Yeah, I did.”

“So then he slipped away, made a phone call, certainly to Rothwell, and hightailed it off.”

“To your house?”

Frank said, “I wasn’t sure about that because I stopped following him and started following you. But it ended up there because they were planning to ambush you.”

“Why?”

“Why? Because you were getting closer to the truth.”

“No, I mean why did you start following
me
?”

“Because I was worried about you. Because there was no way in hell I was going to let that scum hurt you. Guess I failed at that.”

She reached out and touched his arm. “Dad, you saved my life. But for you I’d be at the morgue right now.”

These words had a remarkable effect on her father. He put his face in his hands and started to cry. His children rose and knelt next to him, holding him.

Sean rose too, but he didn’t join them. He left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

Q
UARRY SAT
in the library at Atlee counting his remaining cash. Two years ago he’d done something he never thought he would. He had sold some of his family’s heirlooms to an antiques dealer to help finance what he was doing. He hadn’t gotten anywhere near what they were worth, but he wasn’t in a position to be choosy. He put the cash away, pulled out his typewriter, slipped on gloves, wound the sheet of paper in, and commenced the last letter he would ever compose on this machine. Like the others he had thought through each word.

The communication after this one would not be through letters. It would be far more direct. He finished and called Carlos in. The wiry little man was staying at the house while Daryl pulled guard duty at the mine. He had a task for Carlos to perform. And after his fight with Daryl he’d decided to keep his son closer to home.

Carlos wore gloves too, as instructed by Quarry. He was going to take one of the pickup trucks and drive north and then out of state to mail this last letter. The man didn’t ask any questions; he already knew what was expected. Quarry gave him money for the trip along with the sealed envelope.

After Carlos left, Quarry locked the door to the library, stoked up the fire, lifted the poker, plunged it into the flames, got it hot, rolled up his sleeve, and added the third line to the mark on his arm. This was a slash perpendicular to the long burn, but on the left side of it. As the skin sizzled and puckered under the touch of the red-hot metal, Quarry sank back in his old desk chair. He didn’t bite his lip since it was all bandaged up and swollen from his fight with
Daryl. He cracked open a bottle of Beam, winced as the alcohol burned his cuts, and watched the rise and fall of the flames in the fireplace.

He only had one more line to burn into his skin. Just one more.

He left the library and staggered up the steps to Tippi’s room. He opened the door and stared into the dark space. She was in the bed.
Hell, where else would she be?
Quarry said to himself.

Ruth Ann had quickly learned Tippi’s needs and had settled into a routine helping Quarry take care of her. He contemplated going in and reading to her, but he was tired, and his mouth hurt.

“You want me to read to her, Mr. Sam?”

Quarry slowly turned around to see Gabriel standing there on the landing, his small hand on the thick wooden railing that a man who’d owned hundreds of slaves had put there a couple centuries ago. Quarry figured that wood was just about rotted out now, as was the man who’d built it, or rather had the sweat and labor of his slaves to do it for him. To see that small dark-skinned hand on top of that old chunk of rotted wood was comforting to Quarry somehow.

“I’d appreciate it,” he said, his damaged lip moving slowly.

“Ma said you fell and hit your mouth.”

“Getting too old for farming.”

“You want me to read any particular part?”

“Chapter five.”

Gabriel stared at him curiously. “Why that one?”

“Don’t know other than the number five just popped into my head.”

“Mr. Sam, you think Miss Tippi might want us to read her some other books too?”

Quarry turned away from him to stare at his fallen daughter. “No, son, I think the one book’ll be just fine.”

“Then I’ll get to it.”

Gabriel walked past him and clicked on the overhead light. The sudden blast of illumination was painful to Quarry and he turned away.

I’ve definitely become a creature of the night,
he thought.

He didn’t notice Gabriel staring at him until the little boy said, “Mr. Sam, you doing okay? Anything you want to talk about?”

Quarry focused on him as Gabriel sat there next to Tippi, the precious Austen novel cradled in his hands.

“Lots I want to talk about, Gabriel, but nothing you’d find interesting.”

“Might surprise you.”

“Might,” Quarry agreed.

“That was real nice what you did. Leaving this place to Ma.”

“And to
you
, Gabriel. And to you.”

“Thank you.”

“You go on and read now. Chapter five.”

Gabriel turned to this task and Quarry listened for a while and then he walked downstairs, his boots clunking hard on the floorboards. He sat on the front porch for a bit admiring a night that had a crispness too rare down south.

A minute later he was driving his old truck. He bounced and heaved over uneven dirt roads. Finally he got there, pulled to a stop, and climbed out. His stride ate up the distance, but he halted before he got to the little house he’d built. He squatted on his haunches about ten yards from it.

Two hundred and twenty-five square feet of perfection, stuck out here in the middle of nowhere. His legs weary, he finally sat on his butt in the dirt and continued to stare at the house. He flicked a smoke out of his pack, slipped it between his lips, but did not light it. It just dangled there like a piece of straw. Somewhere along the treeline an owl hooted. In the sky he could see the wink of an airplane as it skated by. No one up there could see him here in Alabama. The plane would never land here, probably heading on to Florida or maybe Atlanta. Never stop here. Not much here worth stopping for, he knew. Still, he lifted his hand up and did a slow wave to the passengers even though he doubted any of them were looking out their windows.

He got up and strode over to the spot where Carlos would be. He looked back at the house, did a rough eye trajectory, probably for
the thousandth time. It hadn’t changed, not once. Not a millimeter. The camera was up there, the live feed to Carlos. The remote that would trigger it all. The SAT phone to Quarry at the mine. The dynamite. Willa. Her real mother. Daryl. Kurt already lying dead in a shaft in the south end. His Patriot buried in ignominy.

Ruth Ann.

Gabriel.

And finally Tippi.

See, that was the hardest part of all. Tippi.

He left the knoll and walked with a purpose in the direction of the house. This time he kept going, though, and walked up to the porch. He didn’t unlock the door. He just sat on the planked porch, his back against a support post; his gaze dead on the door.

That was the hardest part.

He breathed in a bit of chilly air and then spit it out. It was as though his lungs didn’t like the crispness of it, the purity. He coughed. He was getting the hack like Fred.

For a few seconds Quarry did the unimaginable, at least for him. He actually thought about stopping. The letter was already gone, but he didn’t have to follow it up. He could fly up to the mine tomorrow, get Wohl and Willa, and leave them somewhere safe, where they would be found. He could just stay here with Tippi.

He got back in his truck and drove hard to Atlee. He hustled to his library, locked the door, ignored the Beam, and took a drink of Old Grand Dad. He sat at his desk, stared at the empty fireplace, felt the swollen skin on his forearm. He abruptly lashed out and swept everything off his desk; it all crashed down on the floor.

“What the hell am I doing!” he cried out. He stood there, bent over, breathing fast; his nerves had no elasticity left. He rushed out, plunged down the stairs, pulling the set of keys from his pocket. He hit the basement, ran down the passageway, unlocked the door, and went in the room. He flicked on the light and stared at the walls. His walls. His life. His road map to justice. He stared at all the old names, places, events, the intersecting lines of string that represented years of sweat, of tenacity, of an overpowering drive to figure it all out.

His breathing grew regular and his nerves reclaimed their rigidity.
He lit a cigarette, released the smoke out slowly. His gaze settled on a photo of Tippi over at the far end of the walls, the place where it had all began.

The walls had won out. He was in this until the end. He clicked off the light, banishing the walls to darkness, but they had already fulfilled their purpose. He locked the door and headed upstairs.

Gabriel had finished reading to Tippi and gone to bed. Quarry checked on him as he passed by his bedroom. He opened the door a crack and listened to the soft breaths of the boy, saw the rise and fall of the blanket covering him.

A good boy. Probably grow into a fine man. And lead a life that would take him far away from this place. Good thing. He didn’t belong here. Gabriel didn’t belong here to the same degree that Sam Quarry did.

Everyone had to choose his road. Gabriel still had his decision to make. Quarry had already picked his route. There was no exit off his highway. He was heading a million miles an hour straight down it.

As he walked upstairs to bed he checked his watch. Carlos would be dropping the letter off in a couple more hours. Figure a day or two to reach its destination, three tops. He’d allowed for that in his instructions.

Then it would happen. Then he could have his say. And they would listen. He was sure of that. He would make it clear. And then the decision would be up to them. He had a pretty good idea of what that decision would be. But people were strange. Sometimes you could just never figure them out. As he reached his bedroom at the top of the house, he realized that he was a testament to not being able to figure folks out.

He didn’t turn on the light. He just chucked his boots and socks, undid his belt, unzipped his pants and let them drop to the floor. He moved over to the couch and started to pick up his bottle of liquid painkiller. Then he glanced over at the bed.

What the hell? He lay down on it, put aside the bottle, and started to dream of better days.

Yet that’s just what it would remain for him. Only a dream.