The Client (51 page)

“Are you getting tired of me, Reggie?” he asked without looking at her.

“Of course not. Are you tired of me?”

“No, Reggie. Right now, you’re my only friend in the entire world. I just hope I’m not bugging you.”

“I promise.”

Reggie had studied the street map for two hours. She completed a wide loop, and now they were on Romey’s street again. They eased by the house without slowing, both gawking at the double garage with a pitched gable above the retractable doors. It needed painting. The concrete drive stopped twenty feet from the doors and turned to the rear of the house. A ragged hedgerow over six feet high ran along one side of the garage and blocked the view of the nearest house, which was at least a hundred feet away. Behind the garage, the small rear lawn stopped at a chain-link fence, and beyond the fence was a heavily wooded area.

They said nothing during the second viewing of Romey’s house. The black Accord wandered aimlessly through the neighborhood and stopped near a tennis court in an open area called West Park. Reggie unfolded the street map, and twisted and flipped it until it covered most of the front seat. Mark watched two heavy housewives engage in truly horrible tennis. But they were cute, with their pink and green socks and matching sun visors. A biker approached on a narrow asphalt trail, then disappeared deep into the woods.

Once again, Reggie attempted to fold the map. “This is the place,” she said.

“Do you want to chicken out?” he asked.

“Sort of. What about you?”

“I don’t know. We’ve come this far. Seems kinda silly to run away now. The garage looked harmless to me.”

She was still folding the map. “I guess we can try, and if we get spooked, we’ll just run back here.”

“Where are we now?”

She opened her door. “Let’s go for a walk.”

The bike trail ran beside a soccer field, then cut through a dense section of woods. The branches of the trees met above it, giving a tunnel-like darkness. The bright sunlight flickered through intermittently. An occasional biker forced them from the asphalt for a few seconds.

The walk was refreshing. After three days in the hospital, two days in jail, seven hours in the car, and six hours in the motel, Mark could barely restrain himself as they rambled through the woods. He missed his bike, and he thought how nice it would be if he and Ricky were here on this trail, racing through the trees without a worry in the world. Just kids again. He missed the
crowded streets of the trailer park with kids running everywhere and games of all sorts materializing without a moment’s notice. He missed the private little trails of his own woods around Tucker Wheel Estates and the long, solitary walks he had enjoyed all his life. And, strange as it seemed, he missed his hiding places under his own personal trees and beside creeks that belonged to him where he could sit and think, and, yes, sneak a cigarette or two. He hadn’t touched one since Monday.

“What am I doing here?” he asked, barely audible.

“It was your idea,” she said, hands stuck deep in her new jeans, also from Wal-Mart.

“It’s been my favorite question this week—‘What am I doing here?’ I’ve asked it everywhere, the hospital, the jail, the courtroom. Everywhere.”

“You want to go home, Mark?”

“What’s home?”

“Memphis. I’ll take you back to your mother.”

“Yeah, but I won’t stay with her, will I? In fact, we probably wouldn’t even make it to Ricky’s room before they grabbed me, and off I’d go, back to jail, back to court, back to see Harry, who’d really be ticked, wouldn’t he?”

“Yeah, but I can work on Harry.”

Nobody worked on Harry, Mark had decided. He could see himself sitting in court trying to explain why he’d escaped. Harry would send him back to the detention center, where his sweetheart Doreen would be a different person. No pizza. No television. They’d probably put leg chains on him and throw him in solitary.

“I can’t go back, Reggie. Not now.”

They had discussed their various options until both were tired of the subject. Nothing had been settled. Each new idea immediately raised a dozen problems.
Each course of action ran in all directions and eventually led to disaster. They had both reached, through different routes, the unmistakable conclusion that there was no simple solution. There was no reasonable thing to do. There was no plan even remotely attractive.

But neither believed they would actually dig for the body of Boyd Boyette. Something would happen along the way to spook them, and they’d run back to Memphis. This was yet to be admitted by either.

Reggie stopped at the half-mile marker. To the left was an open grassy area with a pavilion in the center for picnics. To the right, a small foot trail ventured deeper into the trees. “Let’s try this,” she said, and they left the bike route.

He followed close behind. “Do you know where you’re going?”

“No. But follow me anyway.”

The trail widened a bit, then suddenly gave out and disappeared. Empty beer bottles and chip bags littered the ground. They wove through trees and brush until they found a small clearing. The sun was suddenly bright. Reggie shielded her eyes with her hand and looked at a straight row of trees stretching before them.

“I think that’s the creek,” she said.

“What creek?”

“According to the map, Clifford’s street borders West Park, and there’s a little green line that appears to be a creek or bayou or something running behind his house.”

“It’s nothing but trees.”

She shuffled sideways for a few feet, then stopped and pointed. “Look, there are roofs on the other side of those trees. I think it’s Clifford’s street.”

Mark stood beside her and strained on tiptoes. “I see them.”

“Follow me,” she said, and they headed for the row of trees.

It was a beautiful day. They were out for a stroll in the park. This was public property. Nothing to be afraid of.

The creek was nothing but a dry bed of sand and litter. They picked their way down through the vines and brush, and stood where the water once ran many years before. Even the mud had dried. They climbed the opposite bank, a much steeper one but with more vines and saplings to grab on to.

Reggie was breathing hard when they stopped on the other side of the creek bed. “Are you scared?” she asked.

“No. Are you?”

“Of course, and you are too. Do you want to keep going?”

“Sure, and I’m not afraid. We’re just out for a hike, that’s all.” He was terrified and wanted to run, but they had made it this far without incident. And there was a certain thrill in sneaking through the jungle like this. He’d done it a thousand times around the trailer park. He knew to watch for snakes and poison ivy. He’d learned how to line up three trees ahead of him to keep from getting lost. He’d played hide-and-seek in rougher terrain than this. He suddenly crouched low and darted ahead. “Follow me.”

“This is not a game,” she said.

“Just follow me, unless, of course, you’re scared.”

“I’m terrified. I’m fifty-two years old, Mark. Now slow down.”

The first fence they saw was made of cedar, and
they stayed in the trees and moved behind the houses. A dog barked in their general direction, but they could not be seen from the house. Then a chain-link fence, but it was not Clifford’s. The woods and underbrush thickened, but from nowhere came a small trail that ran parallel to the fence row.

Then they saw it. On the other side of a chain-link fence, the red Triumph Spitfire sat alone and abandoned next to Romey’s garage. The edge of the woods stopped less than twenty feet from the fence, and between it and the rear wall of the garage a dozen or so oaks and elms with Spanish moss shaded the backyard.

Not surprisingly, Romey was a slob. He had piled boards and bricks, buckets and rakes, all sorts of debris behind the garage and out of sight of the street.

There was a small gate in the chain-link fence. The garage had a window and a door in the rear wall. Sacks of unused and ruined fertilizer were stacked against it. An old lawn mower with the handles off was parked by the door. On the whole, the yard was overgrown and had been for some time. Weeds along the fence were knee-high.

They squatted in the trees and stared at the garage. They would get no closer. The neighbor’s patio and charcoal grill were a stone’s throw away.

Reggie tried to catch her breath, but it was not possible. She clutched Mark’s hand, and found it impossible to believe that the body of a United States senator was buried less than a hundred feet from where she was now hiding.

“Are we gonna go in there?” Mark asked. It was almost a challenge, though she detected a trace of fear. Good, she thought, he is scared.

She caught her breath long enough to whisper. “No. We’ve come far enough.”

He hesitated for a long time, then said, “It’ll be easy.”

“It’s a big garage,” she said.

“I know exactly where it is.”

“Well, I haven’t pressed you on this, but don’t you think it’s time to share it with me?”

“It’s under the boat.”

“He told you this?”

“Yes. He was very specific. It’s buried under the boat.”

“What if there’s no boat?”

“Then we haul ass.”

He was finally sweating and breathing hard. She’d seen enough. She stayed low and began backing away. “I’m leaving now,” she said.

K. O. LEWIS NEVER LEFT THE PLANE. MCTHUNE AND COMPANY were waiting when it landed, and they rushed aboard as it refueled. Thirty minutes later, they left for New Orleans, where Larry Trumann now waited anxiously.

Lewis didn’t like it. What the hell was he supposed to do in New Orleans? It was a big city. They had no idea what she was driving. In fact, they didn’t know if Reggie and Mark had driven, flown, or taken a bus or a train. It was a tourist and convention city with thousands of hotel rooms and crowded streets. Until they made a mistake, it would be impossible to find them.

But Director Voyles wanted him on the scene, and so off he went to New Orleans. Find the kid and make him talk—those were his instructions. Promise him anything.

     37     

TWO OF THE THREE, LEO AND IONUCCI, WERE VETERAN legbreakers for the Sulari family, and were actually related by blood to Barry the Blade, though they often denied it. The third, a huge kid with massive biceps, a wide neck, and thick waist, was known simply as the Bull, for obvious reasons. He’d been sent on this unusual errand to perform most of the grunt work. Barry assured them it would not be difficult. The concrete was thin. The body was small. Chip a little here, and chip a little there, and before they knew it they’d see a black garbage bag.

Barry had diagrammed the floor of the garage, and marked with exact confidence the position of the grave. He had drawn a map with a line starting at the parking lot of West Park and running between the tennis courts, across the soccer field, through a patch of trees, then across another field with a picnic pavilion, then along the bike route for a ways until a footpath led to the ditch. It would be easy, he had assured them all afternoon.

The bike trail was deserted, and with good reason.
It was ten minutes after eleven, Saturday night. The air was muggy, and by the time they reached the footpath they were breathing heavily and sweating. The Bull, much younger and fitter, followed the other two and smiled to himself as they bitched quietly in the blackness about the humidity. They were in their late thirties, he guessed, chain-smokers of course, abusive drinkers, sloppy eaters. They were griping about sweating, and they hadn’t walked a mile yet.

Leo was in charge of this expedition, and he carried the flashlight. They were dressed in solid black. Ionucci followed like a bloodhound with heartworms, head down, breathing hard, lethargic, mad at the world for being here. “Careful,” Leo said as they eased down the ditch bank in heavy weeds. They were not exactly woodsy types. This place had been frightening enough at 6 P.M. when they first walked it off. Now it was terrifying. The Bull expected at any moment to step on a thick, squirming snake. Of course, if he was bitten, he could turn around with justification, and, he hoped, find the car. His two buddies would then be forced to go it alone. He tripped on a log, but kept his balance. He almost wished for a snake.

“Careful,” Leo said for the tenth time, as if saying it made things safer. They eased along the dark and weedy creek bed for two hundred yards, then climbed the other bank. The flashlight was turned off, and they crouched low through the brush until they were behind Clifford’s chain-link fence. They rested on their knees.

“This is stupid, you know,” Ionucci said between loud breaths. “Since when do we dig up bodies?”

Leo was surveying the darkness of Clifford’s backyard. Not a single light. They had driven by only minutes earlier, and noticed a small gas light burning in a
globe near the front door, but the rear was complete darkness. “Shut up,” he said without moving his head.

“Yeah, yeah,” Ionucci mumbled. “It’s stupid.” His screaming lungs were almost audible. Sweat dripped from his chin. The Bull knelt behind them, shaking his head at their unfitness. They were used primarily as bodyguards and drivers, occupations that required little exertion. Legend held that Leo did his first killing when he was seventeen, but was forced to quit a few years later when he served time. The Bull had heard that Ionucci had been shot twice over the years, but this was unconfirmed. The people who generated these stories were not known for telling the truth.

“Let’s go,” Leo said like a field marshal. They scooted across the grass to the gate in Clifford’s fence, then through it. They darted between the trees until they landed against the rear wall of the garage. Ionucci was in pain. He fell to all fours and heaved mightily. Leo crawled to a corner and looked for movement next door. Nothing. Nothing but the sounds of Ionucci’s impending cardiac arrest. The Bull peeked around the other corner and watched the rear of Clifford’s house.

The neighborhood was asleep. Even the dogs had called it a night.

Leo stood and tried to open the rear door. It was locked. “Stay here,” he said, and slid low around the garage until he came to the front door. It was locked also. Back to the rear, he said, “We gotta break some glass. It’s locked too.”