The Clouds Roll Away (24 page)

“Thank you,” he said. “Please have him call me, as soon as possible.”

In the grand driveway, where a boxwood garden enclosed a marble fountain of maidens pouring pitchers into the pond, DeMott's truck looked like it belonged to the gardener.

“Sort of an odd bunch,” I said, climbing into the truck. Snow dusted the windshield.

“Odd but not bad,” he said, turning the key. “They're a little out of touch with the rest of the world.”

“Wealth is a great insulator.”

“Sure. But some other things keep them locked away.”

He drove toward the gate, which opened on our approach, and waved at Barry. In the truck's side mirror, I watched the gate close behind us.

“Most people hate the rich,” DeMott said. “What they don't realize is that money brings as much sorrow as joy.”

I glanced over. In the dark, his perfectly proportioned profile resembled one of the Greek statues decorating the Morgan estate. As he stared out at the road, suddenly remote, I felt an urge to hear his every thought. I'd boxed him in all these years, placing him in the tidy category with the James River plantations. And I remembered how he saved my life last summer. How he wanted no credit for that.

“The older man's the grandfather?” I said, trying to draw him out.

He nodded, turning off Delaplane Grade Road.

“That Confederate uniform belonged to an ancestor, I forget who, some Morgan who fought alongside Stonewall Jackson. That's where the cousin gets his name—Jackson.”

The Southern tradition. My first name was an ancestral last name. So was DeMott. And MacKenna. And perhaps Stuart . . .

“With Willis Barksdale, you can't exaggerate Southern senility. Bring him a drink, he tips you with Confederate bills. And poor Mrs. Morgan.” He looked over, blue eyes full of emotion. “That's Stuart's older brother wearing the Sesame Street tie.”

“Older?”

“Barksdale, named for the crazy grandfather in the uniform.” He shook his head. “Strange how these things go. Now those two are so alike it's depressing.”

“Did any Morgans fight in World War I?”

He frowned. “Why?”

“Just wondering.”

“I wouldn't know.”

The snowflakes twinkled like stars in his headlights.

“May I ask what's wrong with the brother?”

“Long story. I'll tell you over dinner. You're hungry, right?”

“Always.”

He grinned. “I love that about you.”

“What?”

“I mean, uh, I really like the way you eat—and I know a great place. You can't leave Upperville without going to the Hunter's Head.”

But when he pulled into the Hunter's Head, I didn't immediately jump out of the truck. The painted sign had the same faux lettering that infected Colonial Williamsburg, a place where Ye Olde Corporate Moneymakers charged unwitting tourists twenty bucks for fish and chips served on a pewter plate.

DeMott waited. “What's wrong?”

“It looks like a tourist trap. At least with McDonald's, you know what to expect.”

“C'mon, Raleigh. Live a little.”

I started to protest.

“The shepherd's pie is out of this world.”

That did it. I followed him through the stone wall that did nothing to decrease my expectation of historic theme park food. But when he opened the door, I was levitated by a luscious scent of braised meat and roasted potatoes, a winter-warm coziness that thumbed its nose at the cold. The walls were mortar and plank, an old cabin, and DeMott led me to a small room with farmhouse tables and mismatched chairs. I was taking off my coat when he let out a groan.

“What's wrong?”

“You got your wish.” He picked up my coat. “I didn't, but you did.”

Two men sat at a pine table across the room, hunkered over steins. They wore camouflage clothing, their faces reddened by the fire in the stone hearth and the beer in their mugs.

I recognized one of them.

“Don't tell me,” Stuart Morgan said. “Mac wants to see if I'm behaving. She tell you to find me here?”

“You're supposed to be hunting,” DeMott said with a tight smile. “If I'd known you were here, we might be eating Big Macs right now.” He held out my chair. “I believe you've met Raleigh Harmon.”

Stuart slid his eyes toward me. They were shiny as marbles. He stood, swaying a little, and shook my hand with just the right amount of pressure and dipped his head solicitously. “Well, well, Raleigh Harmon,” he said.

But for all his manners, he didn't introduce his companion.

I offered my hand. His companion barely shook it.

“Elliott,” he said, leaving me to wonder,
first or last name?

Stuart sat to my left, Elliott across the table. DeMott positioned himself at the table's end.

“We were just over at your place. Your dad said you were with Jackson.” He turned to Elliott. “Are you a different cousin?”

“Cousin?” Elliott said.

“The story is I went hunting with my cousin,” Stuart said.

Elliott frowned.

“They're not exactly fans of yours.” Stuart turned to DeMott. “And don't tell Mac. She's on the same page as my parents.”

“You want me to lie to her?” DeMott said.

“No, I want you to keep your mouth shut.” Then, remembering my presence, his face softened. “Please, I'd really appreciate it.”

“What if I keep my mouth shut until they ask if there are any objections to this marriage?”

“Funny, Fielding.”

“Funnier that you think I'm kidding.”

I leaned forward. “Stuart.”

“Raleigh Harmon,” he said.

“May I ask where you went hunting?”

“You like to shoot?”

“She could pick both of you off at twenty paces,” DeMott said.

Stuart laughed. Then suddenly stopped. “Oh. Yeah. You're an FBI agent.”

“And I'm investigating the crimes over at Rapland. You know, that car bomb that killed a teenager? Maybe you heard about it.”

From the corner of my eye, I saw Elliott's head snap toward Stuart, who didn't respond with so much as a glance at his companion.

“Of course I heard about it,” he said. “You'd have to live in a cave not to, especially on the James.” He looked at DeMott. “You and Mac were talking about that car bomb the very next day.”

“This morning,” I continued, “two guys were found dead in the Chickahominy.”

“Sounds like a bad day on the river.”

“How do you know it wasn't the swamp?”

He ran his tongue over his lips. “What?”

“I said the Chickahominy, but I didn't say whether it was the river or the swamp.”

“I guessed.”

“The guys had some interesting tattoos. You want to guess what they said?”

“The dead guys?”

“The tattoos.”

“I can think of a few things.” He smirked. “You really want to hear them?”

“Three letters.”

“The word I was thinking of has four.” He grinned at Elliot.

“They said KKK.” I saw something pass behind his eyes.

“Why tell me?” He picked up his beer, sipping.

“Because I think you know who they are.”

“Now how would I know a thing like that?”

“Because you're part of the new Klan,” I said.

Elliott shot up, the chair tipping back. “I gotta work tomorrow.”

He tossed a five-dollar bill on the table and hurried past the crowd reading the chalkboard menu.

“He's jumpy for a hunter,” I said.

Stuart turned to DeMott. “Your girlfriend's not exactly making dinner conversation.”

“Girlfriend?” I said, glancing at DeMott.

“Tell her to get to her point.”

DeMott turned to me. “Raleigh, what
is
your point?”

“Stuart knows.”

“You make a very weird couple. Did you tell my parents the FBI was looking for me?”

“No, she didn't,” DeMott said.

“Why not?”

DeMott looked at me, waiting for the answer.

“It didn't seem appropriate,” I said.

“Because you saw my retarded brother, is that it? You felt sorry for my parents? I've got news for you. My brother's not retarded. And he's not autistic. And he's not the result of over-breeding, which probably crossed your narrow mind.”

“Hey, Stuart,” DeMott said. “Cool it.”

“Mac told me how you're in love with her. Man, if this is the girl you want to marry, you need your head examined.”

I pulled back.

DeMott's throat colored. He refused to meet my eyes.

“Way to go, Stu,” he said.

“My brother was at the top of his class at Georgetown,” Stuart said, as though no atomic bomb had just detonated. “Double major, physics and astronomy. Straight A's. Brilliant. One night coming home from a lecture on nanoparticles he got off the Metro and some black guys jumped him. They had knives.”

“I'm sorry,” I said.

“Save it for somebody who believes you. He hands over his wallet, his cell phone, his shoes, for crying out loud. They still stabbed him. Twenty-seven times. A nurse was coming home from her shift. She found him crawling down the street. He's bleeding to death and those guys were having a party, charging Cristal on his credit card. His brain's never coming back. The smartest, best—” His voice cracked.

“C'mon, Stu, I'll drive you home,” DeMott said.

“And you!” he said. “You bring this chick Fed up here who thinks she knows how things are. But she's wrong. I know what happened to my brother. And I know that guy on the river is part of the problem.”

“Wait—you're saying it's true?” DeMott said.

“He's made millions selling hate. Telling them to destroy, to kill. And now he sits around that ugly house counting his cash, whining that somebody's bothering him. You know what? My brother had to relearn the alphabet.”

“Wait—” DeMott was still incredulous. “You're in the Klan?”

“I'm going to the restroom.” Stuart stood, no longer swaying. “When I come back, you'll both be gone.”

“I still have a few more questions,” I said.

“Good. Call my lawyers.” He gave me a hard smile. “My lawyers will bury the federal government.”

chapter thirty

I
n the Hunter's Head parking lot, just beyond the quaint stone wall, I asked DeMott which truck belonged to Stuart.

He shook his head.

I walked among the vehicles. Mercedes. Suburbans with trailer hitches. Audi TT. Infiniti sedan. More Suburbans with trailer hitches. None of them looked like Stuart Morgan. But at the farthest end, a new Chevy pickup sported a crust of mud on its dark green paint. And across the cab's back window, a high-powered rifle rested in its rack, complete with a 100-millimeter night scope.

I kneeled beside the driver's side.

“You're not,” DeMott said. “Seriously, Raleigh.”

I pulled out my keychain, opened my pocketknife, and spread a tavern napkin across my thigh. I slipped the two-inch blade into the wheel well, scraped, and carefully balanced the soil, depositing it on the napkin. Not exactly ideal evidence collection, but when it's fourth and long, punt.

“Here he comes,” DeMott said, raising his voice. “Stuart, hey, listen, this seems like a big misunder—”

“She's slashing my tires?”

I put the napkin in my coat pocket and closed the knife.

In the cold night, he seemed taller, larger, as if the brisk air braced him for a fight. His eyes mineralized with anger.

“I didn't touch your tires,” I said. Technically, that was true.

He spun around. “Fielding, you're out of the wedding. Don't even show up. And you can tell Mac why. Tell her how you and your girlfriend cornered me in public, slandered me, then tried to slash my wheels.”

Slamming the truck door, he revved the engine and peeled out of the parking lot, spewing the gravel and ruining whatever evidence was in the tire treads. I watched his truck speeding down to Delaplane Grade Road, to the mansion, to the odd family dressed for dinner and awaiting his arrival.