The Blackbird Papers (33 page)
“Not necessary,” Sterling said, compressing the wounded shoulder with his free hand. “I was beginning to think that this wouldn't work.” Sterling pulled the burner out of his jacket pocket. It was still connected to Brusco. “Did I make the forty-eight hours?” he said into the phone.
“By the skin of your teeth,” Brusco answered. “Good thinking with keeping the phone line open. We have everything recorded.”
“Thanks for believing, Lonnie,” Sterling said. “You're a damn good agent.”
“We couldn't have done it without her help,” Wiley said, pointing to Ahote.
Sterling looked at Ahote. “I owe you my life,” he said, bringing her to his chest with his free hand.
She grabbed him tightly, tears spilling down her face. “A lot of this is my fault,” she said. “I should've known about this. Instead, I just trusted them.”
“Don't be ridiculous,” Sterling said. “They had all of us fooled. Except Wilson.”
He took out the envelope containing the Blackbird Papers and with his fingers traced the loops and lines of Wilson's handwriting. Sterling had never been one to believe in spirits or the supernatural, but he felt a tingling sensation that started in his fingertips, traveled up his spine, and straightened the small hairs on the back of his neck. His shoulders relaxed and the taut muscles in his back eased in relief. It wasn't too late after all. For the first time he felt connected to a brother he had never known in life, but had come to learn about and even love in death.
52
E
ven with Veronica at the wheel, the shiny black Porsche wasn't daunted by the steep, rugged climb in the Vermont mountains. Sterling looked out at the familiar, deserted countryside as the wind raced freely through the convertible. His right arm rested in a sling, but his left hand rubbed small patterns along her exposed thigh. The clouds had disappeared and as far as the eye could see there was a soft blanket of light blue sky. Wilson rode along with them in a covered silver urn propped up in the backseat.
Gaylor, Kanti, Bigfoot, and Kay had all accepted plea bargains and been put away in different lockups around the country, serving long sentences despite their deals to cooperate. Mortimer was the only one who got off easy. As the officers rushed into Kanti's house that night, he grabbed Gaylor's gun and fired one fatal shot through his mouth and out the back of his head. Sterling regretted that Mortimer hadn't been forced to suffer the more painful death of public humiliation and scorn.
The actual killers, Horton Crawford and Charlton Gaithers, had been picked up near the Canadian border on a random traffic check. When Crawford's license had been run through the system, the state trooper's computer had flashed an outstanding warrant for his arrest. He later confessed to killing Harry Frumpton in an effort to silence him.
While Sterling was on the run, Dr. Withcott's office had reported to Wiley the laboratory's findings on the saw blade that had broken off in Wilson's chest. Several computer searches later, they had found the store in Ascutney, Vermont, where the blade had been purchased. A combination of receipts and the salesman's memory had identified Horton Crawford as the customer. The impressive length of Crawford's rap sheet suggested that he had bought the blade for something more than carving arts and crafts for the local church fair.
Kay had been stripped of everything she had inherited from the estate, the courts quickly transferring the money, cars, and house to Sterling.
The inside man was identified as Richard West, a low-level investigative specialist who had deposited several large checks in the past several months, all drawn on the Sunny Fields Company account. Among other things, he had doctored Harry's e-mails and the photos to implicate Sterling. He was found dead a couple of days later in the front seat of his car with the garage door closed and the motor running.
Sterling sneaked glances at Veronica. After all they had been through during the last month, he wondered if destiny wasn't sending him a message. She hadn't put any pressure on him, but he could see it in her face, the innocent touches when they were sitting in restaurants or even now as she reached across and ran her hand down the back of his neck. She wanted bigger things for their relationship and this could be the start.
Veronica brought the car around a long curve, and on Sterling's instructions pulled into the same scenic viewing area he had visited by chance a few weeks ago.
“This is it,” Sterling said, jumping out and pulling the urn from the backseat. Veronica killed the engine but didn't move. “Come with me,” Sterling said.
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. I want you to see what Wilson loved so much about these mountains.”
Veronica followed Sterling across the road, her hand resting comfortably in the small of his back. They walked up a short flight of steps to reach the viewing platform.
“Isn't this amazing?” Sterling said, nodding toward the open horizon, a kaleidoscope of rich colors and textures.
“It's the most beautiful place I've ever seen,” Veronica whispered. “It doesn't even look real.”
“Almost what you imagine heaven to be.”
They looked out over the side of the mountain and down into the tree-topped terrain of the valley. The jagged white snowcaps stood stoically in the distance. From their perch thousands of feet in the air, the broad Connecticut River looked like nothing more than a squatter's stream snaking through the rocky quarry. A cackling sound suddenly filled the air, seeming to linger before reluctantly evaporating into the sky. An eagle crested from a nearby tree line, riding the wind in long, lazy arcs. Sterling immediately recognized its white face and tuft of white tail feathers. A bald eagle. As it circled closer, he could make out the hooked bright-yellow beak and feet. Sterling uncapped the urn and pressed close against the railing. He waited for a strong breeze, then slowly emptied the ashes on the back of the wind. Just as Wilson would have wanted.
Acknowledgments
It's interesting how luck and chance happenings can change your life. I've had this story simmering in my head for many years, title and all. But it wasn't until a literary angel by the name of Janet Hill came into my life that this story went from an idea to a reality. Janet is an extremely accomplished editor at Doubleday/Broadway/Harlem Moon. I met her at a gala thanks to one of her authors, E. Lynn Harris, a generous spirit who has selflessly shared with me his wisdoms of the book world. I told Janet about my book idea, and the rest is literary history. Janet introduced me to the incomparable publisher of Doubleday, Steve Rubin, who has supported me from day one and has, over a series of lunches and dinners, shared his publishing genius and vision, which confirmed for me that I was at the right house. Rubes, you're the man, and you know it!
Then came my amazing and tireless editor, Stacy Creamer, who, excuse the cliché, is truly a writer's dream—even if she did go to that school they call Yale. Stacy, thanks for being a magnificent editor and dear friend and making this story sing. You are truly in a class of your own.
I'd be remiss not to mention the rest of the Doubleday crew who have also been terrific: Beth Buschman-Kelly, Stacy's editorial assistant; Bill Thomas, editor-in-chief; Suzanne Herz; Alison Rich; Meredith McGinnis; John Fontana and the rest of the art team for an amazing cover; and the incredible Doubleday sales force.
Thanks to my family—my twin brother, Dana, who is one of the greatest storytellers I know and who has inspired me my entire life to reach for the gold and dream the biggest of dreams. My parents, Rena Cherry and Noy Bustion—I am me only because of the two of you. I hope one day I can accomplish even half of your greatness. My Aunt Lynn, who reads more books than anyone I know and has protected me since I was old enough to get into trouble. My uncles Robert and Johnny—thanks for always being there and making me proud. My grandfather, Robert Cherry Sr.—you will always be the original inspiration, and the lessons and wisdoms you've taught me through life I will one day share with my children.
A very special thanks to my über agent at the William Morris Agency, Jennifer Rudolph Walsh, who I knew when I first met her that she was sheer power, and I soon learned that she could work it like nobody's business. Mary Pender, her ever-helpful and astute assistant, has also been a big help.
My golfing buddies: New York Giant Mike Strahan; the best NFL insider, Jay Glazer; Gene Wolfson; Bob “Brownie” Brown; Ty Williams; and Tony Abrahams. Thanks for tolerating me while I was working on the book. But now that I'm done, get the sticks back out because I'm coming back to the fairways to kick your butts and take your cash!
Special thanks to Harlan Coben. Dude, you're huge! Thanks for showing me the way.
Last but not least, great friends: Jonathan Cardi, Ron Mitchell, and Leon Carter. Thanks to Alex Garfield for my little writing haven. And thanks to all of my teachers who have imparted knowledge and told me I could do whatever I wanted if I worked hard enough. Teachers are the true unsung heroes.
PUBLISHED BY DOUBLEDAY
a division of Random House, Inc.
DOUBLEDAY
and the portrayal of an anchor with a dolphin
are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Grateful acknowledgment is made to the following for permission to reprint previously published material: “The Peace of Wild Things” from
Selected Poems of Wendell Berry
by Berry, Wendell. Copyright 1999 by Perseus Books Group. Reproduced with permission of Perseus Books Group in the format Trade Book via Copyright Clearance Center.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Smith, Ian, 1969–
The blackbird papers / Ian Smith.— 1st ed.
p. cm.
1. African American college teachers—Fiction. 2. Government investigators—Fiction.
3. African American men—Fiction. 4. Hanover (N.H.)—Fiction.
5. Nobel Prizes—Fiction. 6. Brothers—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3619.M588B58 2004
813'6—dc22 2003068804
Copyright © 2004 by Ian Smith
All Rights Reserved
eISBN: 978-0-385-51347-0
v3.0
