He thought the old-timer would say no. To his surprise the rocker creaked and Coot stood up and walked over to him. “Sure. Be happy to go along. Thanks for the invite.”
“I’d enjoy the company,” Dustin said, guessing there was more to be learned from the old man.
“We gonna drive?”
Dustin nodded. It seemed like a simpler and safer alternative, with a possible killer skulking in the nearby woods.
Coot knew which car was his and waited patiently at the passenger door for Dustin to open it.
The drive was short. Coot didn’t talk; he merely gazed out the window at the darkened landscape.
Delilah, who was waiting tables again, welcomed them both warmly. Her coffee was fresh, good and strong, and in a few minutes they ordered—the daily special, chicken potpie—and sat facing each other. The café’s only occupants when they came in were a family foursome that appeared to be parents and a girl of twelve or so and a boy of maybe ten.
Delilah, of course, knew all about them. They were the Richardson family and they were driving to Nashville from Colorado; their daughter had won tickets to see the newest sensation on the Nashville charts.
Coot sipped his coffee and stared at Dustin while they waited for their meals.
“You don’t look like you’re in any trouble to me,” he said.
“I’m not in trouble.”
“Thought you law guys hated it when they want you to see shrinks or go through therapy.”
“No, I was ready for a respite. That’s about it,” Dustin responded.
Coot shrugged and lowered his head, trying to hide a smile. Then he glanced up. “I know who you are,” he said.
“You do?” Dustin smiled. “Dustin Blake. That’s my name, sir. Special agent—that’s what I do for a living.”
“I heard about a boy they called Dustin about twenty years ago. I was a reporter in my day. In Nashville, I used to hang out with the cops—I handled the police beat. I’m pretty sure that boy was you. You would’ve been a kid, a few years older than the two at that table over there, when this all happened, but I remember your name. Hell, even the media has some decency. They didn’t let out your name, and maybe I just heard your first name among friends. Anyway, you picked up some knowledge on the street—or in some other way—that helped them find a killer. Am I right?”
Dustin’s coffee cup was halfway to his lips. He paused. It was so long ago. No one ever connected him with the Opry-Buff, as the killer had been labeled, or the police shootout that had taken him out.
“I am right,” Coot said, nodding sagely. “So what are you doing here?”
“I’m enjoying the Horse Farm. Really.”
“Sure. So, you seen the general?”
“Hasn’t everyone?”
“Oh, everyone claims he sits on that warhorse of his up in the hills, ever watching out. But not many really see him.”
“But you have?”
“Yep. I’ve seen him. I’ve had him tip his hat to me. When the mists are lying low over the pastures and fields, some folks see him ’cause they want to. They see him in the cloud patterns, too, on a summer’s day. But there are those who really see him. Like young Olivia.”
Olivia, he thought, had to be in her mid-to late twenties. To Coot that was young.
“And, I reckon,” Coot went on, “you.”
“Who knows what we see and don’t see?” Dustin said evasively.
“I’ve been thinking about Olivia, you know. She’s one special person. The girl could’ve done just about anything, gone just about anywhere. But she’s done some mighty good things instead. Sometimes she’s got kids with autism so bad the parents are at wits’ end, and she can calm ’em down for a few hours and get ’em grooming the horses, laughing in the field. She’s great with the youth-in-rebellion types, too. I don’t want anything happening to her.”
Dustin felt a coldness in his gut. This old man—this old observer—was worried.
“She thinks someone killed Marcus Danby,” Coot said.
“Well, she’s upset. She doesn’t want to believe he went back to his old ways.”
Coot snorted. “You really figure that’s what he did? I didn’t take you for a fool, Special Agent Blake!”
Dustin was careful when he spoke. “So you think someone drugged Marcus Danby and threw him in the ravine?”
Coot narrowed his eyes. “Threw him, or gave him a shove. Yeah. I knew Marcus. A guy like that doesn’t go twenty-odd years, then take a walk in the woods one day and decide he’s gotta have a fix. Think about it, boy. It doesn’t work like that.”
“I’ve seen addicts go in and out of recovery.”
“There was nothing—absolutely nothing—to make Marcus do that. It would be like me waking up and saying to myself, ‘Hey, nice day, think I’ll put a Smith & Wesson in my mouth and pull the trigger.’”
“Everyone else seems to have accepted it.”
“They only see what’s there. They aren’t looking for more. Sometimes people have to look beyond the obvious to get the real picture. Hell, you know that.”