Fox River (35 page)

“What in the hell are we doing?” he said.

She could feel the night air closing in around her. She didn’t know where they were. She had visions of the forest she’d thought about earlier, where Jeb Stuart Creek flowed over boulders and the canopy of trees blocked all light. She could almost feel the vines pulling at her, twining around her feet until she was imprisoned forever. She was disoriented, frightened, yearning for something she’d only had a taste of.

A taste that might have to last forever.

“Go inside, Julia. I’ll help you to the steps.”

“I…”

“Don’t say anything. There’s nothing you can say. Just go inside.”

She took the robe he shoved at her and let him help her to the steps. Everything felt unfamiliar, as if she had ended up in a new universe. She was home, yet she wasn’t. When he dropped his hand, she reached for it and caught it. She held it against a cheek still damp with tears until he pulled away.

“Tell your husband I intend to get to know my daughter,” Christian said. “I don’t care what else you tell him.”

She stood on the porch and listened as he drove away.

C
hristian didn’t sleep. By the time dawn rolled around he knew trying any longer was futile. Since he and Peter were scheduled to have breakfast with an old woman who was having her annual reservations about letting the Mosby Hunt use her land, he only had a brief window of opportunity to call Pinky. He wanted to tell him what he had discovered about Joachim Hernandez. When he had finished with that, he would manufacture a thousand new jobs for himself so he didn’t have to think about Julia and Callie.

He showered and had a cup of coffee before he dialed Pinky’s number. A sleepy Pinky answered the phone, but once he realized who was on the other end, his voice warmed. “How you doing, Chris?”

They chatted for a moment; then Christian launched into his reason for calling. First he told him about his abortive meeting with Davey Myers. Then he told Pinky about Joachim Hernandez and his connection to Fidelity. Finally he explained about Joachim’s appointment book, the deposits to his bank account and the notations about Miles Inchman.

There was a long silence on the other end. Christian wished he could see Pinky’s face. Then he heard a humorless laugh.

“Well, there’s not much I can say about Inchman,” Pinky said. “Except that you’re barking up the wrong tree there.”

“Why? Can you tell me that much?”

“Listen, we’ll have coffee. Ten-thirty? By then maybe I’ll have more to say.” They made arrangements to meet at the same fast-food restaurant and hung up.

Christian got through the next two hours on stamina and forced patience. He and Peter made the required visit to Sally Foxhall, a woman of eighty-nine who thoroughly enjoyed their attention. But by the time he and Peter had convinced her to keep her land open, he felt as if he was ready to fly apart.

“You seem edgy,” Peter said on the way back to Claymore Park. “Anything wrong?”

Christian wondered if Peter knew that Callie was his daughter. “It’s not easy coming back to a life you left so completely,” he said. “I’m trying to untangle a million threads.”

“At least your job is a sure thing, and pretty soon you’ll be so busy you won’t have time to worry about much of anything.”

Christian wondered if Peter really thought coming back could be that easy. He switched the topic to the opening hunt, scheduled in four days. Until they arrived back at Claymore Park they chatted about strategy, about where they would cast the hounds and which horses they would ride. Christian would hunt the hounds, but Peter would be right beside him if he needed help.

Peter headed back to the house, and Christian had started down to the kennels when Rosalita called to him. “You have a visitor.”

For a moment he wondered if Julia had come to finish last night’s conversation. Then he saw the familiar figure of a woman.

“Pastor…”

The Reverend Bertha Petersen opened her arms for a hug, and he scooped her into his own.

He stepped back. “What are you doing here? How did you find me?”

“The warden told me.”

“He probably hopes you can talk me into turning myself in.”

“Warden Sampsen knows you’re innocent. He hated to lose you, that’s all. He was afraid the program would fall apart.”

“Did it?”

“Javier’s running it and doing a fine job.”

He was glad to hear it.

“I’m going to Ludwell now,” she continued, “but I thought I’d swing by on my way from the airport and see how you’re doing.”

Christian was touched. “I’m coping.”

“Not as easily as you’d like.”

Christian ran his hand through his hair and tried to smile. “You can tell?”

“It’s never easy, but it must be even harder when so much of your life was stolen unfairly.”

“How many other men and women are sitting behind bars when they don’t belong there?”

“I don’t know. Seems to me you could think about that a little and see what you could do about it.”

He hadn’t expected that. “Like what?”

“We have laws that need changing. And men and women who need help once they get out. Who’s in a better position to know what’s fair and what’s not?”

His first inclination was to laugh this off. He didn’t need to take on anyone else’s problems. But who better?

“Tell me about yourself,” she said, changing the subject.

“I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“You don’t sound happy.”

He wasn’t, and suddenly he wanted to tell her why.

“I’m listening,” she said, as if she’d heard his thoughts. “Just me, and maybe the man upstairs.”

“If there’s a man upstairs, he has his hands over his ears.”

“God has better things to do than run every little moment of our lives. But things do happen, and people learn from them, whether that was the point or not. Through it all, you’ve never been alone.”

“Then why do I feel like I’m the last person in the world?”

“No evangelism today,” she promised. “Suppose you just tell me what’s going on?”

They walked to the fishpond, and Bertha seated herself on a stone bench. Christian told her everything, about Julia, about his search for more information about Fidelity’s murder, and, at last, about Callie. He could hear his own voice, but it sounded unfamiliar. He sounded like a man who wanted something, a man like any other. And when he’d finished, he was frightened.

“You can’t understand why she did it, can you?” Bertha said. “You can’t understand how a twenty-year-old woman, whose entire life had been turned upside down, made a decision that hurt you?”

He didn’t want to answer.

“You do understand,” she said, looking closely at him. “You just don’t want to. You’re afraid if you let Julia back into your heart, even that little bit, you’ll be lost.”

Then he told her the rest, the part he hadn’t been able to tell Julia or anyone else. “I still love her.”

“I know.”

Now he had said everything, but he didn’t feel cleansed.

“Christian, I won’t advise you to break up this woman’s marriage. Is that what you want me to say?”

“I know you can’t.”

“I will advise you to forgive her. Until you do, the past and the present will be struggling and tugging at each other forever. You have to clear the decks for a fresh start, whatever that means. She’s the mother of your child.”

She got slowly to her feet and held out her hand. “You can’t remember this, because it’s been so long. But sometimes life is sweet and easy. It’s a gift when it happens, one you’ll receive again someday. In the meantime, you’ve been given something to look forward to. You have a daughter, and soon enough she’ll know she has a new father. You’ll watch her grow and know you’ve done something wonderful. Julia gave you that much, didn’t she? It would have been so easy to have stopped that little life before it began. But she chose a harder path, and even if you don’t like the fork she took, I suspect she did her best.”

He wanted to remain angry. Anger was safer and surer, a terrain and territory he understood. But anger was melting away, no matter how hard he tried to hold on to it. Because at its center was a child, his child, whom Julia had protected in the only way she knew how.

Callie. His daughter.

“I’m glad I came,” Bertha said. “I felt the strongest need to see you again.”

“I’m glad you came, too,” he said, taking her hand. “Come again.”

“Maybe you’ll come to me next time. I’m going to keep my ear to the ground, Christian. There are things you can do to make this world a better place, and I’m going to find them for you.”

“You do that, Pastor. Then we’ll talk.”

Pinky was waiting when Christian got to the restaurant. He held up a plastic foam cup for Christian, and Christian joined him. His stomach did a slow turn at the entwined smells of grease and steaming coffee. He was reminded of Ludwell.

“Black, right?” Pinky said.

“Thanks.”

“I only have a few minutes.” Pinky poured a pack of sugar into his own cup, then followed with two more. “Here’s what I can tell you, but it didn’t come from me, understand?”

“Perfectly.”

Pinky lowered his voice. “Miles Inchman works undercover for the sheriff’s department. Vice, mostly drugs. And he pays informers.”

Christian looked up. “Joachim?”

Pinky confirmed with a nod. “Worked for Inchman for a year or so.”

“Then he wasn’t selling drugs to supplement his income from polo.”

“No, he was responsible for a couple of major busts.” Pinky stirred his coffee. “Fidelity Sutherland was on his hit list, but somewhere along the way she got smart and stopped using altogether. Went clean as a fresh-picked goose, according to what I hear. Was clean for months before she died.”

Christian was happy to let this theory go. He was glad his old friend had come to her senses, and he thought Samantha would be glad to know Joachim wasn’t as black-hearted as she’d feared.

“What if somebody was afraid Fidelity was going to turn him in?” Christian said. “What if she knew too much and someone decided to be sure she stayed quiet?”

“Joachim was in a good position to know. There was no indication anyone had been worried about her. She was small potatoes. Didn’t know anything important and not worth a hit.”

“Sounds like that’s a dead end, then.” He grimaced at his own pun.

“You know how much chance you have of finding out something about the Sutherland girl’s death that we don’t already know?” Pinky said.

“I’d be happy if I just found out something you
did
know. Everything you know, in fact.”

“Very little, you want the truth. The department never picked up the ball on this one, Chris. It’s that simple. You were there holding the knife that killed her, and even though you told them you’d just picked it up off the ground, you couldn’t produce your own. What more did they need to find out?”

“Who really did it, for openers.”

“Except for the drug angle, the investigation was as basic as they come. I’ve just about memorized that damn file by now, so I know. They talked to friends and family and got statements and alibis for all of them. She didn’t seem to have any enemies, no stalkers, no professional intrigues. And now nobody cares even that much about conducting another investigation. Nobody’s going to come after you again, and all your so-called leads are probably going to turn out like this one. That’s the main reason I came. To tell you that you don’t have to keep up with this. You aren’t going to find anything, and you don’t need to. You’re a free man.”

Christian took a sip of his coffee. “What if Fidelity stumbled on something she wasn’t supposed to know? Not drugs, but something?”

Pinky rolled his eyes. “You’re playing the long shots.”

“What would people around Ridge’s Race kill for, Pinky?”

“Just about anything, like people everywhere.”

“I’m thinking about land. You’ve seen the signs at this end of the county. Growth is the dirtiest word in the dictionary.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Davey Myers told me that about the time Fidelity was killed, he was supposed to build a development close to South Land, but the land didn’t pan out.”

“You’re reaching, you know that.”

Christian knew Pinky was right. He didn’t have the tools nor the knowledge to conduct an investigation. He only had motivation, and it was eating him alive. “Zandoff claims he worked construction. Construction was supposed to go up near South Land. Then Fidelity was murdered by Zandoff. It’s like a puzzle with all the right pieces, but I don’t know how to put it together.”

“Even if you do, the picture might be blank.”

“I guess that’s a chance I’ll have to take.”

“And you want me to see if I can find out something?”

“Just see if anyone remembers anything about developers in the area. Any tensions over property.”

“Then you’ll call it quits?”

Christian didn’t know. “You’re a good friend.”

“Chris, this is the coldest trail south of Santa’s Workshop. You know, you got to let go of the past.”

The advice sounded like Bertha’s. “I’ll think about what you’ve said.”

“You do that.” Pinky toasted Christian with his cup.

By some standards Mosby Hunt was a small club, but it had a sterling reputation. Some of the best equestrians in local history had hunted with Mosby, as well as some of the wealthiest men and women in Virginia. Still, times had changed, and to survive, the club had changed with them. Formal social events were held at local country clubs or estates large enough for full-scale entertaining. More often socializing was informal. Tailgate parties and bottles passed after a hunt’s conclusion. Summer picnics and trail rides. Evening bonfires at the season’s conclusion, where the best chases were recounted and entered into myth.

This year, as the board scheduled fixtures—or locations where each hunt of the year would take place—they’d voted to have the opening breakfast at Claymore Park. Tents like earthbound cumulus clouds would dot the hillside where the hunter’s pace had been run, and caterers with tureens of peanut soup and silver platters of Virginia country ham would feed the multitudes. Peter had supervised every detail.