The Inside Ring (19 page)

35

Emma was not in her room, she didn’t answer her cell phone, and she had left no messages for DeMarco. She should have returned from visiting Hattie McCormack hours ago. Where the hell was she?

Since Emma wasn’t available to discuss strategy, he called Becky, his friend at the Department of Interior, to see if she had completed her homework assignment. She had. She confirmed what DeMarco had suspected: that Estep had been registered for a series of classes sponsored by the Department of Interior and his attendance in class had been sporadic. However, since this was voluntary adult education, no one took roll call or kept track of the days he had missed. Regarding the day DeMarco cared most about, Becky hadn’t been able to confirm if Estep had been there or not. Once again, no hard data; just another bit of inconclusive circumstantial evidence further indicating that Estep
could
have been involved in the shooting as DeMarco suspected.

Becky finished telling him what she had discovered about Estep then launched into a breathless account of her day battling political villains on Capitol Hill. DeMarco envied her optimism. He wondered, with a twinge of self-pity, what had happened to his own optimism. He didn’t want the call to end but before long she claimed to have some power broker blinking on her other line.

By six p.m. DeMarco’s annoyance at Emma’s absence had changed to concern. He called the operator to obtain a phone number and address for Hattie McCormack. She was unlisted. Next he called the local hospital to see if anyone fitting Emma’s description had been admitted and fortunately drew a blank.

Not knowing what to do next, he decided to get something to eat. He left the motel and drove around until he found a restaurant that was almost empty. He wanted to think and he didn’t want to be surrounded by people. He went into the restaurant and took a seat at the bar in the lounge.

Before his butt hit the bar stool, the bartender came rushing over to serve him.

“What can I get for ya, podna,” the bartender said. He was a scrawny old guy who hopped around behind the bar like an organ-grinder’s monkey, baring stained teeth obsequiously in his desire to please. He was nattily dressed in a white shirt with a Western string tie and blue jeans—Georgia black-tie apparel, DeMarco opined in his sour mood.

“A draft beer and a cheeseburger, please.”

“You betcha.”

While waiting for his dinner he used his cell phone to call the motel. Emma still wasn’t back. He thought a moment and dialed the number of a guy he knew who worked at the IRS. The guy owed him. DeMarco cajoled, pleaded, and finally had to bribe his friend with a case of Canadian beer before he agreed to go back to his office and look up the address on Hattie McCormack’s tax returns. DeMarco wasn’t sure a woman who made her own booze paid taxes, but it was the only way he could think of to get her address.

The bartender brought his beer. As he sipped it, he thought back on his meeting with Taylor. Taylor could have schmoozed him, been nice and friendly, and answered his questions with glib lies. Was he related to Billy? No, just an old family friend. There was no reason for Taylor to get high-handed with him. DeMarco concluded that Taylor couldn’t even pretend to be humble if it was in his own best interest.

The bartender asked if DeMarco wanted a refill.

DeMarco knew no one would talk to him about Taylor, but maybe he could find out something more about Morgan or Estep.

“Sure,” DeMarco said, “and pour one for yourself. You know what they say: you start drinking alone, you gotta go to those meetings.”

Although there was no one else in the bar, the bartender looked around, checking to make sure he wouldn’t be caught nipping on the job. “Well, maybe I’ll just have a wee one to be sociable.” He poured three fingers of Jack Daniel’s.

“I saw a guy today.” DeMarco said. “Looked Indian. Had a ponytail and this scar.” DeMarco traced a scar with his finger from his left eye to his mouth. “Got any idea who he is?”

“Why you askin’?” the bartender said, suddenly less sociable.

“He just looked familiar. The way he was built, I wondered if he used to play ball or something.”

The bartender showed his teeth. “Play ball, that’s a good one.”

“So you know him?”

“Oh, yeah. His name’s Morgan, but if he played any ball it was on a jailhouse team.”

“Jail?”

“Yeah, he did a little time. Was raised wrong, I guess you’d say.”

“Is that right,” DeMarco said.

“Don’t know who his father was, but his mother was crazy as a bedbug.”

“Why do you say that?”

“She just was, livin’ out there on the edge of the swamp in a shack with no ’lectricity. She’d come into town every once in a while to get supplies and she’d walk down the street mutterin’ to herself, lookin’ at people all odd. She was scary. She’d bring Morgan into town with her when he was young and he was always filthy. She treated him like an animal.”

“Didn’t he go to school?”

“Not till his teens. One day he showed up in Folkston by himself. Someone asked him where his mother was and the only thing he’d say was that she was gone. That’s all, just gone. The sheriff went out to where they lived to look for her but she’d disappeared like Morgan said. No one knows what happened to her.”

The bartender ignited a cigarette and took a sip of his bourbon. “Anyway, the sheriff gets the reverend to take Morgan in and he makes the boy go to school to see if they can teach him to read and write. I understand he went for a while but then they sent him upstate, to a reform school. He was botherin’ the girls.”

“Bothering them how?” DeMarco asked.

The bartender shrugged. “Don’t know. I was working over in Florida about that time so I wasn’t here when it happened. But he musta done something more than pull their pigtails.”

DeMarco could see Morgan, hiding behind the rhododendron, spying on the girl on Taylor’s porch.

“What happened after that?” DeMarco asked.

“Oh, when he gets out of jail, he’s full grown and he’s got that lightnin’ scar on his face. And he’d been lifting them dumbbells in jail too, cuz he came back harder than an ol’-time blacksmith.”

“What’s he do around here?”

The bartender finished his drink in one swallow. “Hey, thanks for the drink, podna,” he said, “but I’d better go see if your dinner’s ready.”

DeMarco’s cell phone rang while he was eating. It was his pal at the IRS and he had Hattie McCormack’s address. DeMarco got directions from the bartender then called the motel one last time to see if Emma had returned. She hadn’t.

DEMARCO WAS JUST a block from the restaurant, driving in the direction of Hattie McCormack’s farm, when he checked his rearview mirror and saw a red pickup truck tailgating him. The pickup passed, swerved in front of him, and stopped abruptly. DeMarco had to slam on his brakes to avoid a collision; he stopped with his front bumper just touching the rear bumper of the pickup.

The driver’s-side door of the pickup opened. It was Morgan.

Morgan walked slowly toward DeMarco’s car, his dark face unreadable. DeMarco opened the door to get out of his car but before he could completely exit the Mustang, Morgan lunged forward, grabbed a handful of his shirt, and pulled him from the vehicle. Morgan then spun him around, grabbed his left wrist, and forced DeMarco’s left arm up behind his back so that his hand was between his shoulder blades. The pain in DeMarco’s left shoulder was instantaneous and excruciating, and Morgan had executed the move so quickly that DeMarco had had no time to react.

With his arm pinned behind his back, Morgan marched DeMarco over to the passenger-side window of the pickup. Taylor was seated in the pickup; the window was rolled down. He was dressed as he had been earlier in the day, in a plaid work shirt and jeans, except now a red baseball cap sat atop his head. His gaunt, old-time prophet’s face was livid with anger.

Morgan released DeMarco when they were next to the pickup but DeMarco was furious and he spun around to confront Morgan. Before he could complete the spin, Morgan simply slammed him in the back with his palm, driving him up against the truck. My God, but the man was quick.

“What’s your damn game, mister?” Taylor said

“What in the hell are you talking about?” DeMarco said.

Morgan took his hand off DeMarco’s back allowing him to step away from the truck. Now he was standing slightly behind DeMarco, on his right-hand side. His breathing was normal, his face was expressionless. He was as relaxed as a man waiting for a bus.

“I called Washington, you jackass,” Taylor said. “You’re not a writer. You’re a damn lawyer up there and you work for Congress. Now I want to know what the hell you’re doing here and why you’re asking questions about me.”

Who had he talked to, DeMarco wondered? Donnelly? Maddox? Billy’s wife? It had to be Donnelly. But how much had Donnelly told him?

“What I’m doing here is confidential, Taylor. Now—”

“Goddamnit, don’t you dare play games with me!” Taylor screamed. “Morgan, make this idiot understand I’m serious.”

Morgan grabbed DeMarco’s right shoulder, spun him partially around, and hit him in the solar plexus. The blow was so hard that it felt as if his belly had been driven into his backbone. DeMarco doubled over, clutched his gut, and tried to keep from puking while simultaneously trying to get his lungs to readmit air.

“You havin’ a problem here, Mr. Taylor?” DeMarco heard a voice say. “This fella hit your truck?”

DeMarco looked up. Thank God. To his relief he saw a Charlton County sheriff’s cruiser and a young deputy standing near the hood of Taylor’s pickup. The deputy could see the condition DeMarco was in: bent over, holding his stomach, his face contorted with pain.

Taylor hadn’t seen the deputy drive up. Now he glanced over at him in irritation and said, “No, he didn’t hit anything. Take off, Gary. This is private.”

The deputy hesitated. He looked at DeMarco and said, “If you say so, Mr. Taylor. Just wanted to make sure everything was okay.”

Jesus Christ
, thought DeMarco.
What’s wrong with these people?

“It is. Now take off,” Taylor said.

The deputy gave DeMarco another guilty glance and drove away.

DeMarco was still hunched over from Morgan’s blow. He thought of coming up out of his crouch, spinning, and hitting Morgan in the balls. As if Morgan could read his mind—or the subtle change in DeMarco’s position—he stepped back a pace. He was ready for DeMarco, balanced lightly on his feet, palms turned slightly forward. DeMarco knew he’d never get to Morgan in time—so he decided to threaten Taylor instead.

“Taylor,” he said, his breathing labored, “if this son of a bitch hits me one more time he better kill me because I’ll get federal marshals down here and have you both arrested.”

Taylor’s response was an arrogant smile. “That’ll be the damn day,” he said, then he looked over DeMarco’s shoulder and nodded to Morgan.

Morgan’s right hand whipped out and encircled DeMarco’s neck from behind and his fingers dug into DeMarco’s throat. DeMarco tried to pull free but Morgan just jerked on his neck, with one hand, upsetting his balance. DeMarco reached up with both hands to break Morgan’s grip on his throat which gave Morgan the chance to grab his left wrist and he again pinned DeMarco’s left arm behind his back. With only his right hand, DeMarco was unable to pry Morgan’s fingers loose from his throat; Morgan’s fingers were talons embedded into his skin.

Morgan increased the pressure on DeMarco’s throat and the upward pressure on his left arm until he stopped struggling.

“Now I’m gonna find out what you’re doing down here,” Taylor said. “And if I have to have Morgan rip your arm out of the socket, by God, I will.”

Morgan released the pressure on his throat slightly so DeMarco could speak—and breathe.

“Taylor, I’m not talking to you until this bastard lets go of me,” DeMarco said, his voice strained, the pain in his shoulder joint almost unbearable. He didn’t know what he was going to say if Morgan released him, but he needed to get out of this arm hold to have a chance to defend himself.

Taylor looked into DeMarco’s eyes: he could see pain and anger, but not the fear he was looking for. “I can see I’m just not gettin’ through to you, boy. Morgan, just bust his goddamn arm.”

Fuck! DeMarco tried again to pry Morgan’s fingers from his throat and to twist free of his grip, but it was impossible. Morgan was just too strong and he could feel the soft things in his shoulder—the muscles and tendons and ligaments—start to yield and pull away from the bone.

“Max, did you have an accident? Can I help?”

Morgan reduced the pressure on DeMarco’s arm and throat but continued to restrain him. DeMarco looked over to see a middle-aged woman in a Cadillac. She was speaking to Taylor while staring at DeMarco, a concerned look on her plump face.

“Goddamnit,” muttered Taylor, “this town’s gettin’ more crowded than Atlanta.” To the woman he said, “Thank you, Ellen, but everything’s fine here. You just go on about your business.”

“Call the state po—” DeMarco said. Morgan’s fingers dug in again; it felt as if his trachea was being crushed.

The woman looked nervously over at Taylor. “Are you sure everything’s okay, Max? If I can help, you know I’ll be glad to.”

Taylor’s patience snapped. “Goddamnit, Ellen! I said everything’s all right. Now get the hell out of here!”

The woman flushed red with embarrassment. “Sorry, Max, sorry,” she muttered and drove away so fast she burned rubber.

Taylor looked over at DeMarco then turned his head and looked up the street. There was another car coming in their direction.

“Shit,” Taylor muttered. “Come on, Morgan,” he said, “get in the truck.”

Morgan’s grip immediately relaxed and DeMarco collapsed to his knees. As Morgan passed him he looked down at DeMarco. He said nothing and his face was expressionless, but DeMarco could read in the Indian’s eyes his amusement at DeMarco’s condition and his contempt for his weakness.

From the pickup window, Taylor pointed a finger down at DeMarco and his lips parted to speak, but then his hand dropped and he grunted to Morgan, “Take off.”