I decided to take Big Pappy’s advice, so it took me a couple of weeks to get things arranged so I could make the trip to West Virginia. First, I had to pick up the car and the extras I needed. The car was a white Chevy Monte Carlo. Georgia plates. In the trunk was a backpack that contained $20,000 in hundred-dollar bills, a couple of prepaid cells, and two Georgia driver’s licenses with my photo on them. One of them had been photoshopped to make it appear as though I wore a beard and glasses. They both said my name was David Wilkes and that I lived in Atlanta. There was a matte-black, Beretta 92FS nine-millimeter pistol with a box of ammunition and two fifteen-round magazines. There were also two eight-by-ten, glossy mug shots of Donnie Frazier and Tommy Beane with the address Big Pappy had told me about written on the back of Donnie’s mug shot. I immediately went to a gun store in Maryville and bought ten more boxes of ammo. Then I went to a Walmart in Surgoinsville and bought another ten. I wanted to put at least a thousand rounds through the Beretta before I aimed it at Donnie Frazier and Tommy Beane.
I parked the Monte Carlo in a StorageMax facility not far from my law office. The space was ten feet by thirty feet and cost more than $200 a month, but thanks to Pappy, I had plenty of money. I paid cash and used one of the false IDs Pappy had provided, the one without the bearded face in the photo.
The next thing I did was call an old law school friend of mine, Marty Henley. Marty and I had graduated at the same time, had taken several classes together, and had done some fishing together. I knew Marty was also an avid hunter and his family leased a couple of hundred acres northwest of Knoxville just outside of Petros—not far from the old Brushy Mountain State Penitentiary—on which they hunted deer. I told Marty I’d decided to get into shooting and asked whether he’d let me go up there and practice. He was more than happy to oblige. His family had a shooting range all set up, he said. He gave me directions, and I spent several evenings there over the next ten days. I was getting behind at my law practice, and I could tell Grace was wondering what I was up to and where I’d been each night when I came home. But she didn’t push, and I didn’t offer any explanations.
In the meantime, I was talking to Pappy. He had a guy on-site in West Virginia, making sure nothing had changed. Frazier and Beane were still living with the woman in the trailer on Williams River Road just outside of Cowen. They were still frequenting the bar called Sammy’s. They were sleeping during the day and breaking into cars and houses at night.
As a final touch, and at Pappy’s suggestion after seeing the second photo ID he sent me, I went into a costume store in the Old City downtown district and bought a realistic-looking fake beard and some adhesive. I also bought some nonprescription glasses that made me look like Clark Kent.
On the night before I left for West Virginia, a cold drizzle started to fall just as I left the range where I’d shot two hundred rounds through the Berretta. It was a Wednesday, and I showed up at Grace’s apartment just after dark and walked in. I could hear classical music playing—probably Beethoven—and smelled garlic sautéing in a pan. I walked into the kitchen, and Grace was standing at the stove, wearing a red apron over her jeans and button-down blouse. There was a half-empty glass of red wine on the counter behind her.
“Hungry?” she asked.
I nodded. I wasn’t hungry, but there was no point in hurting her feelings. “What’s cooking?”
“Chicken parm.”
“The garlic smells fantastic.”
“It’ll be ready in about forty-five minutes. Would you like some wine?”
I’d stayed away from alcohol since my mom’s murder, afraid of how it might affect me, but Grace was smiling and the mood was so pleasant that I accepted. “Sure. Just half a glass, though.”
“You should loosen up just a little.”
“I’m trying.”
She turned down the heat on the garlic, poured a half glass of wine, and walked over to me. She set the wine down on the counter and draped her arms around my neck. “You’re the best-looking man I’ve ever seen, you know that?”
“And you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.”
“Do you still want to marry me, Darren? It hasn’t come up since . . . well, it hasn’t come up.”
“Of course I still want to marry you. I just need a little time. I remember the night I proposed to you, while I was kneeling, and told you I know I bring a lot of baggage but I’d work hard to overcome it. I have more baggage now, which means I have to work harder. I’m working, Grace, I swear I am.”
“Is that where you’ve been every evening? Working on your baggage?”
“You could say that.”
“Don’t be coy with me, Darren. Are you seeing someone on a regular basis? A counselor or psychiatrist?”
“A grief counselor,” I lied.
She smiled a smile so genuine it made me feel even more ashamed for lying. Then she kissed me gently on the lips and turned back to the stove. “I’m proud of you.”
“Grace, I need to tell you something. I’m going to go away for the weekend.”
“What? Where?”
“I’m just going to get out of here for a couple of days. I’ll be back by Monday, maybe even Sunday evening. I’ll probably fish a little and camp. I just want to try to clear my head.”
“You don’t want some company?”
“I’d love some company, but the counselor says I need to try to sort a few things out on my own, and that’s what I plan to do. You won’t be able to reach me. I’m not even going to take my phone.”
Grace reached around for her glass of wine and held it up. “To peace of mind.”
“To peace of mind,” I said, and we both took a drink.
CHAPTER 13