“Do you know who she is?” I asked.
It was another minute before he turned around, and when he did, his expression was soft.
“Kids racing the train,” he said. “I’m afraid I don’t remember the details. It has been twenty-eight years. But I remember this woman. She’s quite lovely, isn’t she?”
I felt a flash of relief mixed with triumph. “So you recognize her?”
“I believe she might have been the last person to die at that crossing before I, as you so crudely put it, played politics and prevented anyone else from dying there.”
“Do you remember her name?” I asked.
He handed the picture back to me. “Twenty-eight years,” he said. “No.”
“What about where she was from? Or if she had any family?”
The softness left his face. His eyes were now as sharp as a hawk’s. “You are asking me these things because her picture was in my son’s desk. Do you honestly think her death had something to do with my daughter-in-law’s? With the deaths of my grandsons? Isn’t it more likely that Ben intended to include that merger in his book about DPC, and she was a small part of that?” His voice turned as sharp as his gaze. “Doesn’t this seem like a colossal waste of time while someone is out there doing God knows what with my granddaughter?”
I held myself from flinching. “Bear with me, sir. As I said, we’re looking at a lot of different things. Do you remember anything about this woman?”
He glared at me. “I went to the funeral. I remember there was talk that her death wasn’t an accident at all, but suicide. I don’t recall why. Maybe Tate started the rumor to downplay the danger of that crossing. That’s as much as I can remember.” He slammed down half of his drink. “Is that everything?”
“Just two more questions. Do you know a woman named Betsy King?”
Hiram crossed his free arm over his chest and looked down at his glass of bourbon. “Sorry, not that I can recall.”
“What about William King?”
“No. Are they suspects?”
“No, sir. What about a railroad bull named Fred Zolner? Do you remember him?”
“Outside of seeing his name just now in that article? I’m afraid not.”
“He was with DPC for decades. I’ve been trying to find him, to ask him if he remembers anything about the accidents. But he’s disappeared.”
Hiram drank the rest of the bourbon down in one swift motion. Something dark and cruel rose in his eyes. In that instant, I glimpsed the appetite behind the mask of the genial businessman; it was like finding a wolf among the guests at a dinner party. Hiram would be a dangerous foe, I realized. And your relationship with him would depend—always—on what you brought to the table. Rapacious, Lancing Tate had said. I found myself agreeing.
Then Hiram’s face softened once more into bland pleasantness and the moment passed. I shook myself and blinked at the sunlight streaming across the polished wooden floors, at the artfully arranged rugs, at the old man with an oxygen tank and a shattered family. For a moment I wondered if I’d really seen it. And if it had been directed at me or Zolner.
Hiram said, “I’m sorry, I don’t remember him. Maybe I spoke with him in the past. But at my age, memories pile up like stones in a cairn. I can’t see them all.”
“I understand,” I said. “Thank you for your time.”
I signaled Clyde and we headed toward the door. We’d almost reached it when Hiram spoke again. “Those who are the least guilty are the ones who feel most at fault.”
I turned back. He was nodding as if to himself. He said, “And those who have sinned walk away clean.”
“Is there some message here I should understand?” I asked.
“It’s just advice, Agent Parnell. If you fail to find my granddaughter, then shed the guilt. It will only hold you back.”
“Is that what you intend to do?”
“When it comes to Lucy . . . I don’t know.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Do you feel guilty about her disappearance?”
“It’s always so with family.”
“If there’s something you should be telling me—”
“Only that I should have spent more time with her.” Abruptly he grinned, a wide, bleak sneer. The wolf was back. “But with everything else? Oh, yes. I walk away without a glance back. Guilt is a useless emotion. It cuts you off at the knees and offers nothing in return.”
“Sometimes guilt helps us grow,” I said softly. “Could be it’s the better way to live.”
“We all make our own beds. Then our own graves.” We both glanced at the oxygen machine. Then he inclined his head graciously. “Find my granddaughter, Agent Parnell. And save us both.”
CHAPTER 19
War is not only the worst thing that will happen to you. It is also the best.
—Sydney Parnell. Personal journal.
Riding down in the elevator with Clyde, I felt dirty. Like I’d stripped and rolled in horse manure.
“He knows something,” I said to Clyde, who looked up at me with worried eyes. “About the past or about Lucy. If it turns out whatever he’s holding back is something that would help his granddaughter, I will kill him myself.”
Clyde and I crossed the residential lobby, heading for the next set of elevators. My headset buzzed just as we were getting on. I answered with “Special Agent Parnell.”
“Agent Parnell, this is Rick Wolanski. I got a message this morning to call you.”
“Yes! Thank you for calling me back, Deputy Wolanski. I’m very glad to hear from you.”
“Wow, I haven’t gotten a reception like that since I asked the class nerd to the senior prom. Hopefully our relationship will go better than that one did. And it’s just mister now.”
“Mr. Wolanski. I work for Denver Pacific Continental. I’m looking into some accidents that occurred at a railroad crossing that was in your jurisdiction when you were a deputy. A grade crossing at Potters Road in Thornton.”
“You’re talking a long time ago. That would have been the seventies.”
“And early eighties. The sheriff’s office says you’re digitizing the old files. I thought you might have records of those accidents. If so, I’d love to see them.”
“I probably do, although I haven’t gone through everything. I agreed to do this for the sheriff, but it turns out I have less free time than I thought I did. Just got back from a fishing trip in Alaska. Incredible salmon. And moose. And the elk! I should have gotten a hunting license.” He paused. “Where was I?”
“The grade crossing. People called it Deadman’s Crossing.”
“Oh, Deadman’s Crossing, yes. I do remember those accidents. Four of them. Terrible. Just terrible. Flesh against metal. It never goes well. And it’s always the worst kind of case when a life is snuffed out before it’s gotten a proper start.”
I cleared my throat. “Mr. Wolanski.”