Time of Departure (17 page)

Marc seemed quiet at lunch … but then, I guess we both were. I was going for multiple counts of first-degree murder against Harlan Tribe, which meant the case had to go to the grand jury. Sam had insisted on taking conduct of that hearing, and it was still under way. There was no doubt in anyone's mind that Tribe would be indicted. The thing was … neither of us knew if Sam would hand the file back to me after the indictment was unsealed.

“Aren't you the guy who always knows what's going to happen next?” I asked.

I received one of his typically cryptic replies. “Remember, we're relying on the judgment of others.”

The one other thing I recall about our lunchtime conversation was a completely out-of-the-blue comment he made about train travel.

“There are certain dangers,” he said.

“Dangers? That sounds a bit elitist. What? Like, getting mugged?”

“No. But there's a good reason why people use the phrase ‘train wreck' to describe the disaster-prone lives of other people.”

“Amtrak's disaster prone?”

“It has been said.”

Despite the occasional sensational news report, I figured the odds were less than microscopic that the driver on my randomly selected train would be stoned out of his mind and slam us head-on into a southbound freight. But when I pressed Marc, he changed the subject.

Marc Hastings was a frustrating man to know.

*   *   *

The Charleston Amtrak station wasn't in Charleston at all. It was actually located in a run-down section of North Charleston, ten miles from the city center. The station's office-block design and utilitarian interior reminded me of photos I'd seen of 1950s Greyhound bus stations. I'd always found that a bit strange, considering Charleston's reputation for money and so-called Southern gentility. But, then again, the elegant money doesn't usually ride the rails—unless, of course, it's sipping Bollinger on the Orient Express.

My train arrived after nine that night. My mother was waiting inside the station, looking as spare and withdrawn and carefully collected as always. She was still young enough to attract male attention, but apparently damaged enough to be permanently on guard against that eventuality. I carried stark childhood memories of long, lacerating silences between her and my father. Then, when I was only five, he'd packed two bags and disappeared from our lives forever. After nearly three decades of absence, I could barely remember his face.

Mom gave me a wordless hug, and we walked out through the glass doors, past the row of newspaper boxes, and over to her car.

She lived in a rented second-floor walk-up apartment just off Interstate 26 in Midland Park. It was only a ten-minute drive from the station. Her bedroom overlooked a cemetery, which didn't bother her at all. She always said it was a good thing because I wouldn't have far to move her.

I rolled my suitcase into the spare room, unpacked the Christmas presents that I'd already wrapped, and headed to the living room.

I stopped and looked around, dumbfounded.

No tree.

“Mom?”

“I thought we could get one together.”

I set the gifts on the sofa. “There won't be any left—at least, not any good ones!”

“They've still got some behind the gas station.”

“Are they open?”

“We can go in the morning, dear. You must be—”

“Are they open, Mom?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then? It's Christmas! The one time of the year when I still get to be a kid! I want to decorate the tree! Let's go!”

She gave me one of her trademark shrugs, and went for her coat.

As we went out the door, I playfully put my arm around her and kissed her on the cheek. “And I hope you bought me lots of presents!”

She was quiet for a second, and then she turned to look at me.

I had always preferred small kindnesses to big staged demonstrations, and that suited my mother. The trouble was … it had always suited her too well.

But this time, I saw the faint sign of a twinkle in her eye.

Maybe Christmas wouldn't be completely bleak after all.

*   *   *

Our scrawny Charlie Brown Christmas tree was drooping in the corner and I was lounging barefoot on Mom's recliner, reviewing my copy of the grand jury evidence binder. It was the Tuesday after Christmas, and I was planning an early night. Tomorrow's train back to Florida was scheduled to depart at 5:00
A.M
.

Mom was watching some reality show stupidity on TV. At least, I thought she was. But when I looked up, I discovered she was watching me.

“What did you say his name was?”

“Who?”

“That killer.”

“Harlan Tribe.”

After a pause, she said, “He liked brunettes.”

“You remember the case?”

“Yes. I remember thinking it was safe because we lived in Archer, and he was taking Gainesville girls. But then he took that girl in Newberry.”

“Her name was Amanda Jordan.”

She nodded. “It was the year before you were born. I always wondered if he'd been prowling Archer as well.” She went quiet for a moment. “Has he confessed?”

“No. He hasn't said a word.” I closed the binder, released the tilt on the recliner, and stood up. “I'd better get packed. Are you sure you don't mind driving me? I can always call a cab.”

“My alarm is set. Do you think I have something better to do at four o'clock in the morning?”

“How about sleep?”

“I'll sleep when I'm dead. You're my daughter and I hardly ever see you.”

There was no reproach in her tone, just a sort of hollow regret.

“Okay. Wake me when you get up.” I bent to kiss her good night and turned to go.

“Cat…”

I turned back.

“This case … I want you to be very careful.”

“Mom, Tribe is an old man. He can't hurt me.”

“I know.” She paused. “I just have this feeling.”

“What feeling?”

“That something … something's out of balance.”

I stared at her. “How long have you had that feeling, Mom?”

She sighed. “Since before you were born.”

*   *   *

My mother woke me right on time the next morning. Half an hour later, I was waiting in the small entrance hallway, my pinned-back hair still damp from the shower, while she retrieved her keys from the peg board in the kitchen.

A dozen cut roses were sitting in a vase on the entranceway table. I had picked them up in a half-price deal during my Christmas Eve wanderings at a local mall.

I bent to smell them. When I touched a flower, the petals fell.

I heard a gasp.

I looked up. My mother was standing, keys in hand, with an ashen expression on her face..

I moved to her quickly. “Mom? What is it?”

She opened her mouth as if to speak, and then closed it. She looked at my face as if she were seeing it for the first time.

“Mom?”

She gave a long blink, and then answered slowly. “I'm sorry. Just then, you reminded me…”

“Of what?”

“Of … someone.” She took a deep breath, slung her purse strap over her shoulder, and said, “Let's go.”

As we drove out of the parking lot, I leaned closer and put my arm on the back of her seat. “Mom, your face went gray back there! What was that about?”

“It was a long time ago, dear.”

“Mom?”

“Please let it go, Claire-Bear. I was just confused.”

She might have been confused, but I was disconcerted. My mother hadn't called me Claire-Bear since my father left. That's what he had called me.

We drove to the station. Despite the hour, the waiting room was full of post-Christmas travelers. We found a couple of seats and Mom waited with me until the southbound Meteor pulled in.

When we stood, she kissed me and then hugged me tighter than she had in years. “I love you, Claire-Bear. Always remember that. Always remember that your mother loves you.” Her eyes were big and wet, and as soon as I heard those words, my vision blurred.

“I love you, too, Mom. I'll try to come more often.” I wiped my eyes and reached for the handle of my suitcase.

“Claire…” Her face wore a strange expression. “I don't understand … how…” Words died in her throat. She seemed transfixed by a thought.

“How, what?”

She didn't respond.

“Mom? What is it?”

“Just … thank you. Thank you, sweetheart.”

I puzzled over that as I walked to the train. She stood watching until I made my last turn to wave before I boarded.

 

24

When I rolled my suitcase up to my car in the parking lot outside the Palatka station, Marc Hastings was leaning on the trunk. Before I could open my mouth, he pulled me into a hug.

I was too startled to return the warmth of his welcome. “Thank you,” I said, perhaps a bit severely, after he released me. I thumbed the remote to unlock my trunk. “Now, tell me why you're here.”

“I have news,” he replied, ignoring my coolness. He hefted my bag into the trunk.

“You could have phoned.”

“Your phone's been turned off.”

“You could have left a message.”

“I wanted to see you.”

I wasn't touching that line. I looked around. “How did you get here?”

“I got a ride.”

“From?”

“A friend.”

“You don't have any.”

He smiled. He opened the passenger-side door and held it for me. He stood there, unfazed, until I surrendered and got in the car.

He went around the car and slid behind the wheel. He held out his hand for my keys. I gave them up.

“When do I get to meet her, this friend of yours?” I asked as we drove away.

He didn't reply.

“It is a ‘her,' isn't it?”

“Sam got the indictment,” he said.

“That's your news?”

“Yes. The grand jury returned nine counts.”

“I thought they went into recess for Christmas!”

“They agreed to skip the after-Christmas sales and sit on Monday. And all week, if necessary.” He paused. “It wasn't.”

“Nine counts! So we kept Jane Doe!”

“Yes.” His voice softened. “You kept Jane Doe.”

We rode for a mile without speaking.

Finally, I asked, “Why didn't Sam phone me?”

“I told him I'd tell you.”

I was about to say that I found that hard to believe, but Marc got there first. “Sam's attitude toward me has changed. I was the last witness he called. He was more than polite during our meetings before … and after.”

“Tell me.”

As we talked, the subject of his mysterious female friend slipped from my mind.

*   *   *

That evening, we ate at the Thai place on North Main that had replaced Tribe's former seafood restaurant.

“Did you find those missing pages?” I asked after our food arrived.

“Not yet.”

As I lifted my chopsticks, his cell phone rang. He checked the display and then stood up. “Just be a minute.”

“Your girlfriend?”

The phone rang again.

“No.”

I shrugged and plucked a jumbo shrimp off my plate.

As he walked behind my chair, he trailed his fingertips across the nape of my neck. “My girlfriend's sitting right here,” he whispered.

My shrimp froze in midair a few inches from my mouth.

The phone rang again. He answered in mid-ring, walking away. He didn't say hello or hi or give any kind of greeting. I heard only four words before he moved out of earshot: “I know it's hard.”

For the next few minutes, I picked at my pad Thai, occasionally glancing at Marc. He was standing in the restaurant entrance lobby, facing determinedly away from our table, speaking in low tones.

I read somewhere that the sensation of being watched is triggered by a faculty of heightened awareness that is hardwired into our basal ganglia—otherwise known as our reptilian brain. I have no idea whether that is true. I only know that, as I watched Marc, I had an overwhelming feeling that someone was watching me. I swung my head, but no one in the restaurant was looking at me.

When my attention shifted back to Marc, he was snapping his phone shut.

I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. A figure in the shadows outside a window near our table was in motion.

The figure was turning away.

Turning away … and at the same time removing a phone from his—or her—ear.

The figure disappeared into the gloom.

Marc returned, grinned apologetically, and took his seat. As he picked up his chopsticks, I laid mine down.

He looked at me. “You're not eating?”

“I've lost my appetite.”

“What's wrong.”

“I'll tell you what's wrong! I'm sick of you and your secrets!” Smoldering anger drove me to my feet. I snatched my coat off the back of my chair and grabbed my purse. “You're a man with a past, and you're hiding something! You're also a witness in a murder case—
my
murder case! When I really analyze it, I should have nothing to do with you outside the courtroom!”

“You should, and you will,” he said calmly.

Too calmly.

“Don't be an ass!” I snapped, raising my voice and turning heads at nearby tables. “You're twice my age! Give me my keys!” He handed them over. “Take a taxi home! Or call your girlfriend! And stay away from me until the trial!”

I felt every pair of eyes in the restaurant follow me as I strode out.

The drive home gave me plenty of time to regret my cruel words.

 

25

I was late getting into the office on Thursday. There was a handwritten message sitting on my chair:
SEE ME
!

I walked quickly to Sam's office.