Roberts had given them the route that the Atkinses’ truck had to have taken that night to where it was later found. They were now retracing that route. It was along a rural road; all the roads here were rural and winding and devoid, for the most part, of living things, except for the critters residing in the woods. They counted only five homes along the way. Three of them were occupied; two were abandoned. They stopped and asked their questions and found out that none of the people living here now were there during the relevant time period.
After the last interview, Pine and Blum drove to the spot where the truck had been found. It was an old Esso gas station long since abandoned, with the four letters and the neon tubes backing them having been used for target practice over the intervening years; only the sign’s metal spines survived. It was a bare, eroded filament of civilization in a forest that looked determined to reclaim its own. They sat in the car next to where the gas pumps used to be. Pine took a look around, and the view was as desolate as her hopes. But then something occurred to her.
“Okay, the truck and Desiree ended up here,” said Pine. “But why here?”
Blum gazed around. “I think this is a place to meet someone. ‘Hey, so and so, come get me at the Esso station.’ It was probably the only such landmark around. Desiree didn’t know when the body would be found. She wanted to get away, but not in a vehicle that could be traced.”
“And the ‘so-and-sos’ are pretty limited. In fact, there are only two possible choices, to my mind.”
“Len and Wanda Atkins, her in-laws,” replied Blum. “But Sheriff Roberts said that he talked to them after Joe was killed and Desiree disappeared. They both said they hadn’t heard from Desiree.”
“And they were both probably lying to save their own asses. You saw the picture of Mercy with them. They knew she was being held against her will. They knew if this all came out, they were going to prison. That’s why they got the hell out of here pretty soon after Mercy escaped and Joe was killed. I’m now certain that Desiree called them that night and told them what had happened. They arranged to meet her here where she abandoned the truck. They drove her somewhere, maybe a bus or train station. And off she went to start a new life with a new identity. Then they went back to their trailer and were there when they got the word the next day about their son.” She eyed Blum. “Any of that seem unlikely to you?”
“No, it all sounds spot-on, Agent Pine.”
Then Pine’s eyes narrowed and her look became less certain. “But it does seem unlikely that they would just take Desiree’s word for it that he was dead. They might have thought they could still save him, or that she was even lying about it. But if he was dead, they would have been terrified that animals could have torn Joe’s remains apart overnight. And we know that didn’t happen.”
“So maybe they were the ones to make sure their son’s body wasn’t desecrated?”
“Which means we need to find Len and Wanda Atkins and ask them that directly.”
“If they’re still alive.”
“If they are, they would be getting Social Security and Medicare. We could find them that way.”
“And he was a Vietnam vet. He was wounded. So . . .”
Pine picked up this thought thread. “That means he might be in contact with the VA for meds and treatments and the like. That would actually be faster for us than going through the HHS bureaucracy, because I don’t really have good contacts there.”
She pulled out her phone.
“Who are you calling?” asked Blum.
“Who else? John Puller. He already helped me get Len Atkins’s military records.”
She spoke with Puller, who told her he was recovering quickly from his injuries. He also said he knew several people at the VA because of his father being in one of their facilities, and he would do all he could to help her locate Len Atkins.
She thanked him and clicked off. “Okay, we’ll let him work his magic.”
“While he’s doing that, do you think you should go and visit Jack Lineberry?”
Pine’s expression hardened and she glanced out the car window. Lineberry’s image swelled up in her head like a nightmare. “You asked me that before.”
“And you never answered me, which is why I’m asking again.”
“Why should I go see him?” asked Pine, her tone heated.
“Like it or not, he is your biological father. And the way you left it with him?”
“Look, I’m not proud of what I did.”
“And now it’s time to move on to another level with him.”
Pine glanced sharply at her friend. “And why do I have to do that?”
“Because you’re going to need his help, whether you find your sister or not.”
Pine looked even more confused. “Come again?”
“I presume you still want to find your mother. And Tim Pine, now that you almost certainly know he wasn’t in that grave. And Jack can be a valuable asset in helping you do that. However, I’m not asking you to cut him any slack.”
“Good, because I don’t intend to,” interjected Pine.
“But,” continued Blum imperturbably, “I think he is trying his best to do the right thing. And he is your father. And if you don’t at least make an effort to have a relationship with him, I think you’re going to regret it later.”
“I regret a lot of things, Carol,” said Pine. But she put the car in gear and headed on to see the man who had lied to her more than any other person in her life.
Except for my damn mother.
CHAPTER
4
JACK LINEBERRY’S ESTATE WAS AN hour south of Atlanta. He had made an enormous fortune in the financial world and owned, in addition to this main residence, a penthouse in Atlanta and a pied-à-terre in New York, as well as a private jet. It was a lifestyle that most people would be thrilled to enjoy. Pine was not among them.
If you need that many toys to enjoy life, then you’re still a child.
They had already called ahead and arranged to meet with him. They checked in at the front gate, were admitted into the house, and escorted to Lineberry by one of the maids. He was still in bed, the woman told them—which alarmed Pine, because it was well into the afternoon.
They entered the room and the maid left. The space was dark and overly warm, with all the window shades lowered. It was like a tomb with wallpaper and carpet, and living people. The effect unnerved Pine.
“Jack?” said Pine.
Something stirred on the bed. A pajama-clad Lineberry struggled to sit up, and finally managed to do so. Pine and Blum drew nearer and looked down at him. Their features betrayed their alarm at the state of the man. He looked like he had aged two decades since the last time they had seen him. A tall, handsome man in his sixties, he looked shrunken, withered, fragile, and, most tellingly, done with life.
Blum said, “Jack . . . what happened?”
He focused on her with a pair of weary, bloodshot eyes, his brow crinkling in annoyance approaching anger. “Nothing . . . happened. I’m . . . doing okay.”
“You don’t look okay,” Pine said bluntly. “You don’t look okay at all.”
“That’s your opinion,” he replied testily.
“That would be any reasonable person’s opinion,” countered Pine.
“I was shot, Atlee. It’s not like I have a case of the flu. Nobody just pops back from that. Particularly not someone my age.”
“I realize that,” she began before glancing at Blum. “And I know I was mad beyond all reason after my last visit here.”