Redemption (25 page)

Overton closed his eyes.
That went well.
He called Jimmy Jones.

“
You caught me inside on a lemonade break, Sheriff,” Jones said.

“
You find out anything?”

“
Got two names for you, first names only. Romelo and Rommy.” He spelled the names. “Last names were left out of the report.”

“
These were the kids who found the baby?”

“
Yeah, but other than a possible address on Vine Street, that’s all I found out. Sorry.”

“
Don’t be. It’s more than I had before. Got a question: you said Daniel’s parents were killed in a plane crash, right?”

“
Yeah.”

“
Well, why didn’t you tell me that Daniel was on that plane?”

“
He wasn’t on that plane.”

He ... wasn’t?
“But the FAA lists him as a passenger.”

“
Still? The FAA is the most constipated agency in the government. Yeah, he was listed, but Daniel showed up sometime afterwards at a relative’s house in New Jersey. Hell, I even saw him last month in Calhoun.”

Last month?
“Where?”

“
On Vine Street at Dude’s.”

Daniel is here?
“You sure?”

“
My eyes ain’t retired yet. Good-lookin’ kid, tall for his age, muscular. Didn’t understand what a white kid was doin’ there at first, I mean, Vine Street’s about a hundred percent black, but he was there eatin’ a fish sandwich. You ever eat at Dude’s?”

“
No.”
And that boy isn’t a hundred percent white.
“Was he with anyone?”

“
Guy sittin’ next to him on the curb was black, mid-to-late thirties.”

I hope to God I’m wrong, but ...
“Wearing a black hat with black work boots?”

“
No hat. Too hot. You got the boots right. Nice ones. How’d you know that?”

Overton shook his head.
J’s back, all right, but he’s only
fifteen
years old! A teenager is going around settling the score for his daddy! Holy shit!

“
You still there, Sheriff?”

“
Uh, yeah.”
I think.

“
So how’d you know about the boots?”

“
Lucky guess. Did you speak to Daniel?”

“
No reason to. Just nodded and kept on.”

Overton sighed. “I’ll need a description.”

“
What for? Is he in trouble?”

He ran over Annie Mitchem, his own grandmother. How’d he find out that she was his grandmother? Unless he visited Darcy. There was a twelve-pack of Pepsi in the freezer, and grown people don’t serve Pepsi to grown company, do they? So Daniel has the diary? Jesus! Callie’s grandson is out there killing— Callie. Jesus! Callie has to know!

“
Sheriff?”

“
Yeah, uh,
I think Daniel may have been in and out of Snow recently. Is he about six feet tall, short dark hair, kind of tanned?”

“
Yeah. How do you know all this?”

And Margaret. He, or someone fitting his description, visited Margaret. And if he killed Margaret, he might have killed everyone else. But who’s his friend? Who’s the guy with the boots?

“
Jimmy, what are your plans for the day?” Overton asked.

“
I don’t have any now. You have piqued my curiosity somethin’ awful. What do you need me to do?”

Overton eyed Ramsey’s Bronco parked outside. “I’m coming to Calhoun today, and I’ll need your help.”

“
Doing what?”

“
Finding Romelo and Rommy.”

36

Jimmy Lee Sellers couldn’t have been happier.

Most of his sordid past had evaporated before his eyes in less than a week while he was sunning himself at his house on Pine Lake, and he was soon to be a half-million-plus richer from an auction. He looked into the mirror in the Gold Bath, his father’s private bathroom on the third floor, and smiled. “Whoever you are, I owe you big time.”

The results of a phone poll in the
Beacon
(Bowles 59%, Sellers 41%) depressed him only slightly. “That will change,” he said to the picture of his rival on page two. “And if it doesn’t, you’ll be just another obituary. A hunting accident, I think.”

He spent most of the morning on the phone with Southern Digitape, the public relations firm that would produce his commercials, and it agreed to cut him a deal since his father “was a political icon in this state.” Four spots, three positive and one negative, with filming to begin next week at some funerals for five “country folks,” five thorns in his side since the very beginning who recently had been transformed into beautiful roses with their deaths.

Your sudden, tragic deaths and the sympathy that they’ll generate for me could get me elected. Who could ask for better publicity?

After a relaxing swim in the pool, Jimmy Lee showered, put on one of his father’s silk robes, and checked his voice mail.

“
You have ninety-nine messages.”

Ninety-nine since Wednesday?

“
If you wish to listen to your messages, press one.”

He pressed the number one.

“
First message, Wednesday, nine AM: Jimmy Lee, this is Bobby Sims.”

Connor Bowles’s slimy campaign manager
.

“
We’d like to schedule a debate between you and Senator Bowles at Pine County High in mid-October. Please call me back at—”

Jimmy Lee deleted the message.
That’d be a waste of my time. Why debate a guy who’ll be dead a few weeks later?

“
Second message, Wednesday, nine twenty-five AM: Murderer.”

What?

“
If you wish to repeat the message, press one. If you wish to save the message—”

He pressed the number one and heard a deep voice say “murderer” again.

He quickly deleted the message.
Probably Michael Lavender playin’ a prank, the dead bastard.

“
Third message, Wednesday, nine twenty-six AM: Murderer.”

This time it was a higher voice, a child’s voice.

He deleted the message.
And he was getting his kids in on the act, too. The prick!

“
Fourth message, Wednesday, nine twenty-seven AM: Murderer.”

A woman’s voice? Sharese, too? But she’s not supposed to know about any of this shit! Why would Michael ever tell Sharese that he killed her boyfriend?

He deleted the message, gathering the robe around him more tightly.

“
Fifth message, Wednesday, nine twenty-eight AM: Hey Jimmy Lee, this is J. Sorry I fumbled in the state quarterfinals, but is that reason enough to kill me? Give me a call sometime.”

That voice! I know that voice!
He replayed the message then deleted it. “Jesus,” he said, and he nearly put down the phone.

“
Sixth message, Wednesday, nine twenty-nine AM: Hey Jimmy Lee, J again. Sorry I danced with your girl. I didn’t mean nothin’ by it, but is that reason enough to kill—”

He deleted the message. “Michael, if you were alive,” Jimmy Lee whispered, “I’d kill you
myself
this time.”

“
Seventh message, Wednesday, nine-thirty AM: Hey Jimmy Lee, J here. Sorry I was your brother. I had nothin’ to do with that. I’d talk to our daddy about it, but he ain’t here where I am. He’s in the other place. Caught a glimpse of him goin’ down in flames though. Guess he didn’t
succeed
, huh? I’ll be seein’ you soon, huh?”

Jimmy Lee deleted the message and let the computerized voice talk to him for a while as he sorted through his thoughts.

It
sounds
like him, but it can’t be him. Can it? He’s dead, he’s buried, and he’s in the ground. But whoever this is knows too damn much! It had to have been Michael. He was always good at mimicking people. He was just trying to scare more money out of me.

He dialed the operator. “Is there any way I can find out who leaves messages on my voice mail?”

“
Do you have Caller-ID?”

“
Yes.”

“
Check your display.”

Oh yeah.
“Thanks.”

He descended the stairs to the foyer and stood in front of a library table where a silver phone with a Caller-ID box lay. He backed up his calls to Wednesday. Nearly every one was marked “NO DATA SENT” except for several of Bobby Sims’s messages.

He dialed the operator again. “What’s it mean when the message on my Caller-ID box is ‘no data sent’?”

“
You may have picked up the phone too soon, or it simply didn’t register.”

“
But I haven’t been home to pick up the phone for two days.”

“
So it must not have registered. You may have a defective box, sir. Is it the only one in your residence?”

“
Yes, but other calls came in fine.”

“
Perhaps there’s a short. Would you like me to call you to check the line, sir?”

“
Sure.”

He hung up. He let the phone ring three times, but once again the screen read “NO DATA SENT.” He picked it up. “It ain’t workin’—”

“
Murderer.”

Click.

He let the phone fall through his fingers to the floor and steadied himself against the banister. “Son-of-a-bitch!”

His hands shook as he picked up the phone and dialed the operator. “I called about two minutes ago with a problem and—”

“
Hey Jimmy Lee, J again. How you doin’, Bro?”

He gasped. “
Who the hell is this?
”

“
It’s J. How’ve you been? No, don’t tell me. I already know. I’ve been watchin’ you. Wanna know what it’s like to be dead?”

Jimmy Lee hung up and hesitated before dialing the operator once more, this time calling directory assistance. “Thank you for calling. What city, please?”

“
No city, I, uh, I’m havin’ trouble reachin’ the other operator, the one for residential complaints.”

“
Hold sir, and I’ll transfer you.”

He heard a click then some soothing music that calmed him down.
Must be the heat or something,
he thought as he turned down the thermostat in the hall.
Heat must be crossin’ the wires, that’s all it is.
The soothing music ended, followed by an
a capella
version of “We Shall Overcome.”

“
What the hell is this shit?”

He heard a series of clicks then a pleasant female Southern voice, say “How may I help you today?”

“
I’m havin’ all sorts of trouble with my phone today. The Caller-ID’s gone haywire, and when I try to make a call, I get some prank caller or somethin’. Is there
any
way you can send someone out today?” He cleared his voice. “You see, I’m runnin’ for state senator, and my phone is my lifeline to the world.”
Which is bullshit. My last name is the only thing keeping me in this race.

“
I understand, sir,” she said pleasantly. “I can get someone to you by ... oh dear. Monday’s probably too late, isn’t it?”

“
Yes, it is.”

“
Well ... will you be at your residence for the next two or three hours?”

“
Yes, but—”

“
Good,” she interrupted. “Stay by the phone. I’ll have a technician call you as soon as possible, and we’ll get you fixed up in a jiffy. Is there anything else I can do today to give you outstanding service?”