Running on Empty (14 page)

Relieved their collective attention had been deflected from her, AnnaLise pulled out
the cellphone she'd picked up after stopping home to shower.

Dickens Hart answered on the third ring, as AnnaLise could have predicted. Men like
Hart didn't answer on the first ring. Doing so wouldn't send the right message — which
was, in their minds: I'm busier and more important than whoever you are.

'Hart.'

'Dickens,' AnnaLise said crisply. 'This is AnnaLise Griggs returning your call.'

'Ms. Griggs.' Putting the employee in her place for using his first name. 'If you're
available, I thought this afternoon would be a good time for you to pick up the papers
I mentioned. And we can talk about my book.'

'Certainly. I can be there in fifteen minutes.'

'An hour would be more convenient.'

AnnaLise bet it would. She checked her watch. 'Three o'clock — ' she waited for him
to make 'agreeable' noises on the other end and then added — 'but I'm afraid I have
an appointment at four.'

'Well, that'll hardly give me time to outline what I expect—'

'We'll be in contact throughout the process, I'm sure' — a little white lie, along
with the phantom 'apointment' — 'but I've found that it's preferable for me to look
through the material first and then tell you how I plan to proceed.'

'Well, I—'

'The publishing industry is different than your world, Dickens. It's best to let someone
knowledgeable guide you through the minefield.'

A cough. 'Of course. Today at three will be fine.' He clicked off.

'And next time,' AnnaLise said to her phone, 'answer my call on the first ring.'

'Well, here we are,' Dickens Hart said, ushering AnnaLise into the room he'd just
referred to as his 'archives'.

AnnaLise had arrived at one minute to three. From the outside, the place had the feel
of a Low Country mansion transplanted from manicured, undulating lawns to the High
Country. Beautiful, but out of place.

Hart — the perfect country squire in a camel's hair blazer over a vermilion dress
shirt and cavalry twill slacks — swung open the door to the archive/office and stepped
aside.

AnnaLise thought, I'm not charging enough.

Piled in neat stacks on guest chairs and the floor in front of his desk were thirty
or forty bound journals. 'Diligent. One a year?'

'At first. Then I got a computer.' He handed her a brown accordion file.

'What's this?' AnnaLise slipped the anchored band from around the file and opened
the flap.

'Floppy disks. I started with five-and-a-quarter-inchers, then went to three-and-a-half.
You'll probably have to get them converted. Oh, and CDs and a couple of DVDs. They
store more, you know.'

Unfortunately, she did.

'And, most recently...' Hart moved to his desk and scrabbled through the drawer, coming
up with a handful of USB flash drives. He dropped them into the open accordion folder
as AnnaLise watched, speechless. 'Each one is labeled by month and year.'

Holy mother of God.

'I...' It came out as a squeak so she took a breath. 'I've been journaling for years,
Dickens, but you clearly have me beat. I'm impressed.'

Nauseated, certainly, but grudgingly impressed as well.

'Thank you.' Hart had opened another drawer of his desk and pulled out a checkbook.
Not the kind that fits into a purse. No, this one was big like an old-fashioned ledger.
He swung open the front cover and looked up. 'I think half at signing and half at
delivery of the manuscript is customary?'

Damned if AnnaLise knew, but it sounded good. 'That would be fine, but we haven't
actually signed anything. Don't you want to have a contract drawn up?'

'Certainly.' Hart was scrawling on the second perforated check from the top, the first
having presumably been written and torn out to be given to some lucky tradesman. Or
indentured servant.

He finished with a flourish and held out the check. 'But, in the meantime...'

She took it, waiting for the thunderclap that would signal the irrevocable transfer
of her soul. Holy shit. Fifty-thousand dollars. Could you even cash a personal check
that big?

A child of technology and plastic, AnnaLise's paychecks were direct-deposited to her
account and she paid bills electronically. The journalist's only exposure to paper
checks was when the box from the bank arrived in the mail, and she stuck it in the
top drawer of her desk.

'Would you prefer certified?'

At Hart's words, AnnaLise looked up from the check, startled. 'No, no, this will be
fine.' A weak grin. 'I know where to find you, after all.'

She folded the check in half and, after just a moment's hesitation, slipped it into
the zippered side pocket of her purse instead of her jeans' pocket. Bad form to have
to ask Hart for another because AnnaLise's mother had washed her pants.

As she set the bag aside, AnnaLise searched for an intelligent question to ask Hart,
who was waiting expectantly.

'You've obviously been keeping diaries and journals for years. What made you decide
to write your memoirs — or have them written — now?'

It was a good reporter-type question, and AnnaLise was rewarded with an approving
nod.

'My parents died in an automobile accident when I was in my twenties.' Hart settled
into his desk chair and signaled her to take one of the guest seats.

AnnaLise moved a stack of journals and complied.

'Back then, I was preoccupied with my own life and getting White Tail started' — not
to mention getting significant 'tail', himself, from all accounts — 'and it wasn't
until Mother and Father were gone that I realized I knew nothing about my family.
Where we came from, even how my parents met. Nor do I know of any living relatives.'

The man projected genuine regret. He looked up, meeting AnnaLise's eyes. 'I swore
that I would put all this into a readable form, so I wouldn't do that to my
own
children.'

Since Hart didn't have any kids he owned up to, it seemed a pretty moot point. But,
ask and ye shall find out. Sometimes.

'Which... children are those, Dickens?'

'My,' Hart said, leaning back in his chair, 'you are a straight-shooter, aren't you?'

'It helps in my profession.'

'Then I think I've chosen the right person to write my memoirs.' He rocked forward
in his chair and stood. 'Let me get my man to help you with these.'

His 'man' was about sixty-five, with a grizzled mustache and a military bearing, introduced
as Boozer Bacchus. After AnnaLise packed the journals into boxes, Bacchus hefted each
box onto his shoulder, wrapped a tattooed bicep around it and carried it down to the
Mitsubishi where AnnaLise arranged them. Tight, but she managed to fit all the journals
in the trunk and back seat of the little convertible.

Thank God for the information age, she thought. It could have been much worse. Dropping
the envelope with the external storage disks and drives onto the passenger seat, she
turned to say goodbye to Hart, who had followed Bacchus and her down on their last
trip.

Hart had removed his camel's hair jacket, apparently in a show of solidarity with
the people actually doing the work. 'Best you put the top up,' he suggested. 'Otherwise
you could lose half of these resources to the wind.'

And still have more than AnnaLise would ever be able — or motivated — to read. 'Should
I start with any particular year? Perhaps the one you opened White Tail?'

'No, no. You'd miss my travels and my early formative period. And those, in their
own way, are the most fascinating parts of a fascinating life.'

Gag me with a silver spoon. 'It's an awful lot of material for one book,' AnnaLise
said as she swung open her car door.

'Then maybe we'll make it into a trilogy,' Hart said, closing her door. 'Like
The Lord of the Rings
.'

More like
The Lord of the Bed Springs
, AnnaLise thought as she backed up in order to head nose-first down the driveway,
under Hart's watchful eye.

Or maybe...
Star Bores
?

AnnaLise giggled. Better yet,
The Silence of the Glands
.

AnnaLise kept giggling and, seemingly pleased by her cheerfulness in beginning his
project, Dickens Hart waved and turned back toward the house. Putting her car into
gear, AnnaLise stepped on the gas.

Just as, behind her, two shots rang out.

Chapter Eleven

'What the hell is going on around here?' AnnaLise demanded. 'First Rance Smoaks, then
Ichiro Katou, and now Dickens Hart? Did somebody put out a contract on people with
unusual names?'

Boozer Bacchus scratched his head. 'Sure hope not.'

The two were standing side-by-side, arms crossed, watching as Hart was treated by
EMTs. Two patrol cars were also on the scene, dome lights rotating, but so far the
chief himself hadn't arrived.

'Sorry, Boozer,' AnnaLise said. 'I didn't...'

'No need to be sorry,' he said without looking at her. 'My mama knew right enough
what I was in for when she named me.'

AnnaLise glanced uncertainly toward him. 'Your real name is... Boozer?'

'Family tradition.'

'Oh.' Eyes front.

'I'm Boozer Bacchus the Third.'

She cleared her throat. 'Has a nice ring to it.'

'Thanks.' Still watching the EMTs. 'You know what I can't figure out?'

'What?'

'There's been a mess of people threatened to kill 'ol Dickens over the years, but
this is the first time somebody's actually gone and tried it.'

Now Bacchus turned an unblinking stare at her. 'Why would that be, do you think?'

'Luck?' AnnaLise wasn't sure whose luck or whether it was good or bad, but it was
pretty much all she could think to say.

Bacchus just shrugged and went back to watching.

A third patrol car arrived.

'You're Lorraine's girl, aren't you?'

AnnaLise was startled by not only the out-of-the-blue question, but at Bacchus' use
of Daisy's given name. 'You know my mother?'

'Sure do. Her — and most of the folks around — worked at the White Tail one time or
the other, though there's them that like to forget Dickens Hart was the reason they
got a decent start in life.'

It was a new way of looking at the place. And the man. 'I guess that's true,' AnnaLise
said. 'My mother and Mama — I mean, Phyllis Balisteri. Even Mrs. Bradenham—'

'Ema Sikes Bradenham,' Bacchus snorted. 'What an uppity piece of work that woman is.
She's one of them who don't give the boss his due.'

What Mrs. B did or didn't give 'the boss', wasn't something AnnaLise felt she should
weigh in on.

No matter, Bacchus didn't give her the chance: 'Now your ma, on the other hand, was
always just plain nice to everybody.' Bacchus looked AnnaLise up and down. 'You don't
take after her much, excepting you're short, too. Both pretty, though.'

Bacchus chin-gestured toward the EMTs. 'I better go make sure those medics don't fuck
something up.'

Hart, upper arm heavily bandaged, was now being lifted onto a gurney. Enroute to the
ambulance, Bacchus passed Chief Greystone. The two men stopped and spoke briefly,
then each continued on his way — employee to employer, Chuck to AnnaLise.