“It took me a while to get there,” he said. “But yeah. I mean, you are who you are, you aren’t what you do.”
He motioned me up toward the wide wooden porch, where a pair of weathered wooden rocking chairs sat side by side, like an old couple.
“Come on up,” he said. “Sit a spell. You want some iced tea?” I nodded.
The wooden screen door had been freshly painted, too, but the spring still creaked when O’Conner pulled it open. He grinned.
“Always did like that sound,” he said. “The guys working on the house replaced the old spring with a new one that didn’t make any noise. I made them take the new spring off and put the old one back on.”
O’Conner disappeared, then emerged from the kitchen several minutes later, bearing two tall ceramic tumblers. The one he handed me was ice cold and frosted at the top—fresh from the freezer. I took a sip. I’d had O’Conner’s hot ginseng tea once before, but never iced ginseng. I liked it cold. It had the slightly earthy, tangy taste I’d remembered, and hints of honey, plus maybe a little fruit juice in it, too.
“It’s good,” I said. “You ought to bottle this stuff.”
He smiled. “It’s in the business plan—year two,” he said.
“You’ve got a good head for business, Doc.”
I took another sip. “No, I just know something tasty when I get a swig of it,” I said.
O’Conner sat in the other chair and began to rock in time with me. A small end table separated the rockers, a remote control rested on the table. O’Conner pressed a button on the remote, and a ceiling fan stirred a breeze down onto us.
“Another new addition,” I said.
“Yeah,” he said. “Usually there’s a pretty good breeze, but this summer’s been so hot I finally broke down and hauled in some technology. I can’t remember how I did without it. I got a house in town now, but sometimes, if the night’s not too hot, I’ll come up here and sleep on the porch.” He opened a drawer in the end table and pulled out a small silver flask. “You want a little nip of Jack in there?” he said.
“No thanks,” I said.
“That’s right, you don’t drink,” he said. “You mind if I add a little nip to mine?”
“Go right ahead,” I said. “I’m not sure you’ll be helping the taste any, but you probably know what you’re doing.”
“I’ve done rigorous experiments,” he said. “I think I’ve perfected the ratio.” He poured in a small splash—it couldn’t have been more than an ounce—then screwed the cap back on the flask and replaced the flask in the drawer. “Different,” he said, taking a sip and assessing it. “But mighty good.”
“You gonna bottle that version, too?” I asked.
He laughed. “Year three. Good thing I’m not trying to keep any trade secrets from you.”
We rocked until sundown, and beyond, the sheriff and I. As the daylight dwindled, so did our words, and the night wrapped us in a blanket of comfortable silence. After a while I realized that Jim and I were not the only two people present on the porch. Leena Bonds—Jim’s murdered love—was with us, too, somewhere in the darkness beyond him. So was Jess Carter, I realized—with me in the way that everyone you ever love remains with you, no matter what happens to either of you.
As the rockers creaked and the stars came out, I felt the pain and the fear inside me subside. In their place, I was amazed to find—at least for this moment—peace and a feeling I could only have described as quiet, unexpected joy.
CHAPTER 21
IT WAS RARE FOR ME TO STAY UP LATE ENOUGH TO watch the eleven o’clock news, but I was late getting home from Cooke County. Besides, Channel 10 had promised an update on the manhunt for Garland Hamilton. I’d heard through the Knox County prosecutor’s office that the Tennessee Association of District Attorneys General had offered a twenty-thousand-dollar reward for information leading to Hamilton’s arrest and capture, and Channel 10 was promising to lead off the newscast with more details. Jess Carter had worked closely with district attorneys, so the D.A.’s had taken a special interest in recapturing her killer.
The newscast’s theme music had just started when my phone rang. I checked the caller ID display and saw the main number for the UT switchboard. I knew there were no operators on duty this late at night. That meant the phone call could have come from any one of thousands of extensions scattered across the campus.
“Hello?”
“Is this Dr. Brockton?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Dr. Brockton, this is Officer Sutton from the UT Police calling. We have an alarm going off in the Anthropology Department. Our protocols call for us to notify you when that happens.”