But not for too long. By eight a.m. he saw the first movement of something larger than a rooster on the property—a new gray Chrysler 300 rolling up the dirt road towards his father’s farm. It looked like it was probably a rental car, but after it stopped and two men climbed out, Court knew in a heartbeat these guys were either FBI or state investigators, or perhaps CIA officers posing as law enforcement.
Court lowered his eye back into the rifle scope and tracked the men carefully as they parked by the F-250 and headed up to the front door of his father’s old trailer.
The door opened after a few knocks, and Court put his eyes in his binoculars. His father answered, and he stood there in worn boxers and an old gray T-shirt with the logo for the NRA on the front.
Court zoomed his binos in on his father’s face.
“Jesus, Dad. You got old.”
Court chastised himself immediately. The last time he’d seen his father’s face, James would have been in his late forties. Court himself had been a teenager, and since then his life had been hard lived, to say the least.
He figured if anyone looked twenty years older than the last time the two had spoken, it would be Court.
The three men on the little wooden porch talked for over a minute, and Court couldn’t hear a bit of it. The Walker’s Game Ear was in place, and he could clearly hear their voices, but with the ambient sounds of a steady breeze and the clucking chickens it was hard to make out much of the conversation.
Finally Court heard one word, spoken by his father, in a surprised, questioning tone.
“Breakfast?”
These goons were asking to take Court’s dad to breakfast on this fine Saturday morning.
And this told Court exactly where they were heading.
He wanted to back away right now, but instead he waited, and he was glad he did, because James Gentry invited the men inside, presumably so he could change clothes. As soon as the door closed, Court began a quick but careful egress across a small field till he got to the higher brush near the pond, and then he stood in a crouch and began hurrying back to his Bronco.
As soon as he made it to his vehicle, he pulled out all the clothes in his backpack and began digging through them. He wanted to pick just the right attire to wear for the surveillance he had planned.
Five minutes later Court had already changed clothes, and he was pulling out of the trees and onto a dirt road.
—
There wasn’t just one diner that served breakfast in Glen St. Mary. There were two. But as long as Court could remember, his father had only gone to one of them.
Court pulled into Ronnie’s dressed in jeans, work boots, a canvas jacket, and a baseball cap. With these clothes and the three-day growth on his face he looked like every trucker, every farmhand, every male for ten miles in any direction.
He was the Gray Man—he knew he could remain invisible, even to the government types palling around with his father.
Court was already sitting at the counter, a cup of black coffee in front of him and a plate of toast and eggs on order, when his father entered with two men in suits. The elder Gentry wore jeans and a Carhartt pullover, a Caterpillar baseball cap, and Roper boots, and he nodded to the young waitress behind the counter. She greeted him by name and gave a quick but curious glance to the two men, as did another table of old-timers, but no one looked Court’s way, not even his dad when he passed within feet of him on his way to his favorite table, a booth in the back corner.
Court had his Walker’s Game Ear in his right ear and he had turned it up before the trio arrived, so when his eggs came he was able to position the hearing enhancer perfectly in line with the booth on his right while he ate.
In this way he could hear every word the men said.
“Again, Mr. Gentry. The two of you haven’t had any contact in how long?”
Court listened to his dad sigh. He thought the old man sounded much older than he remembered him sounding, and his voice was slow, slurred a little.
Court had the impression his dad was drunk.
“I told you this morning, and I told your coworkers the other day when they came by.”
“Sorry, Mr. Gentry, but we need you to tell us again.”
“You fellers want to write it down this time? Might help you remember.”
“Please, sir. How long?”
A sigh. “It’s been nineteen years, give or take.”
Court bit into his toast, and he heard the pages on a notepad flipping over at the corner booth.
“What do you do for a living, sir?”
“Social Security. I had a stroke a few years back. Can’t work.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“Shit happens,” James said.
Court wanted to look to his father, but he fought the urge. He ate his bacon and looked at his plate, finding himself relieved the man was not, in fact, drunk.
One of the men said, “You had another son. Chance. He was a police officer for the City of Tallahassee.”
A pause before the elder Gentry responded. “That’s correct.”
“He was killed in the line of duty.”
“Are you asking me, or telling me? Because I already know.”
Court knew about his brother, but it still hurt to hear his dad talk about it. He chanced a half glance to his right, but still kept his ear turned towards the booth. He saw his father looking out the window now.