“I meant for when you’re not in the field,” he said. “When you’re in the office, or at home. I know you’re not a gun-totin’ kind of guy. But maybe for now, till we catch him.”
In fact, I had already considered it. “You think I’m in danger?” I asked.
He considered that. “Depends on which matters more to Hamilton,” he said, “getting away or getting even. He already tried to kill you once. He might consider that unfinished business—a score he’s got another chance to settle, now that he’s on the loose.”
“Gee, this is making me feel better,” I said.
“I’m not trying to scare you,” he said. “I’m just being realistic. Get a weapon. Hell, you’re a TBI consultant; I’m sure we can get you a permit. We’d just need to take you out to the firing range and get you qualified.”
“Damn,” I said. “I hate this. But if you can make it happen, I’ll do it.”
“Good,” he said. “I’ll see what hoops we need to jump through. And I’ll let you know as soon as we find anything on Hamilton.” He shook my hand and turned to go. “Be careful,” he said.
“Sure.”
After Morgan left, I picked up the phone and dialed.
“Cooke County Sheriff,” said a brisk voice in an East Tennessee twang. “Kin I hep you’uns?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m wondering if the sheriff’s in.”
“Kin I tell him who’s calling?”
“It’s Dr. Bill Brockton from UT.”
“I’ll tell him, hon,” she said. I felt like I was in a truck-stop café rather than on the phone with a law-enforcement agency.
“Hang on, if you don’t care to.” The expression—which actually meant “if you don’t mind”—made me smile.
Ten seconds later, I heard Jim O’Conner’s voice. “Doc, you all right? I hear things have gotten exciting down there.”
“I’ve had better times, but I’m okay,” I said.
“I’m sorry he’s loose.”
“Not half as sorry as I am,” I said. “Listen, you gonna be around late this afternoon?”
“Should be,” he said. “Unless somebody does some spectacular lawbreaking up here in Cooke County. Which,” he added, “is always a distinct possibility.”
“Mind if I come see you?”
“Come on up. Any particular occasion?”
“Got something to show you,” I said.
“I’ll be here. You remember how to find us?”
“Sure,” I said. “Drive east till civilization ends, then follow the sound of the gunfire.”
He laughed. “Yup, you remember. If something comes up and I can’t be here, I’ll give you a call.”
“Same here,” I said. “It’ll be good to see you, Jim.”
“Be good to see you, too, Doc.”
TWO HOURS later and fifty miles to the east, I took the I-40 exit for River Road, the winding, two-lane blacktop that snaked along a tumbling mountain river and into Jonesport, the county seat of Cooke County.
The sheriff’s office was tucked into a granite courthouse that looked more like a small fortress than a seat of county government. As I parked, I noticed a couple of stoop-shouldered whittlers occupying a bench on the courthouse lawn. Shavings were heaped almost knee-high between the feet of each man. I had seen these same whittlers on that same bench in the exact same postures some nine months earlier when I’d been up in Cooke County. I wondered if they had even left their post, or were they permanent fixtures, like the Civil War cannon and the statue of Obadiah Jones, the town’s founder and namesake? I tucked the box of Leena’s bones under one arm. As I passed the bench, I lifted my other hand in greeting. Neither man spoke or waved, but there was a flicker of eye contact and the barest hint of a nod from each aged head, and both pairs of eyes swiveled to the box under my arm.
“That’s a mighty good pile of shavings you-all got there,” I said. “Just be careful you don’t drop a lit match. I’d hate to have to come identify your burned bones.”
“Is them bones you got in that box?” one of the men asked.
“From that Kitchings girl?” asked the other.
“She weren’t a Kitchings,” corrected the first one. “She were a Bonds.”
“Bonds. I knowed that,” said his friend. “I just disremembered.”
“Are them bones? That Bonds girl’s bones?” persisted the first one.
“You’d need to ask the sheriff about that,” I said.
“Sheriff’s inside,” said Whittler Number Two.
“Is he doing a pretty good job cleaning up the county?” I asked.
“View from here is pretty much the same all the time,” said the first whittler. “Don’t too many folks commit their crimes right here in front of the courthouse.”
The second one laughed, exposing toothless gums. “They was a lot of crime going on inside the courthouse,” he said.
The first one wheezed out a chuckle at that.
“Course we didn’t know about some of it at the time. New sheriff might be doing stuff we don’t know about neither.”