23
Elizabeth couldn’t sleep. She came close more than once, but every time she drifted, she jerked awake thinking she’d heard Channing’s voice, or Gideon’s. Once that happened, her imagination kicked in, and she saw them as they probably were: Channing in general population, Gideon in a narrow bed. They were still her responsibility, so it seemed wrong to be tucked under a soft blanket with long views of purple water. So instead of sleeping, Elizabeth prowled the house. She walked long halls beneath carved beams. She fixed another drink, then stepped onto the deck and thought of other times and other waters.
The car, when it came, was like a voice in the woods.
Elizabeth walked back through the house and onto the rear porch in time to see the limousine roll to a stop.
“Where’s Mr. Jones?” She met the driver, a big man with large features, beside the car. Seen up close, she thought he seemed afraid. How long since they’d left? Twenty minutes? Less?
“You’re the cop, right? The one that’s in the papers?”
“Elizabeth Black, yes. Where’s Faircloth?”
“He told me to have some dinner.”
“Yet, you’re here.”
“Truth be told, ma’am, I’m worried. I’ve been driving Mr. Jones these past days. He’s a nice man, and gentle. Always the kind word, the bit of advice. He’s an easy man to care for, and—well—that’s the problem.”
“Where is he?”
“See, he wanted me to leave him there.”
“At the old farm?”
“I didn’t want to do it. I told him the man there was not his sort, not with the scars and hard looks and darkness coming down.”
“He’s at the farm, now?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And you came to me, why?”
“Because after twenty years driving all kinds of people into all kinds of situations, I’ve learned to trust my feelings, and those feelings tell me that was a bad place, ma’am, a dangerous, bad place and not right at all for a gentleman like Mr. Jones.”
“It’s good of you to worry. I mean that. But, Adrian Wall’s no danger.”
“The old man thought that, too, so I figured it might be the case.” The big head tilted, the thick hands twisted white. “But, then there was the car.”
*
The car.
Elizabeth turned out of the drive.
Gray, he’d said. Two men.
That was bad enough: a gray car with two men, parked at the end of Adrian’s drive. It had to be the same, first at Crybaby’s house, now at Adrian’s. But that wasn’t the worst of it.
They left before I dropped the old man, but I think I passed them later.
Later?
Like they were going back.
How far?
Three miles, maybe. Edge of town, and driving fast. That’s why I asked if you were police. ’Cause it wasn’t right, is all. The car. The way they looked at us. ’Cause they were fast moving at the old man, and ’cause something about ’em just scared me.
They worried Elizabeth, too. William Preston had a dark streak. She’d sensed it at the prison, and on the road above Crybaby’s estate. He had the wrong kind of interest in Adrian Wall. Prison guard. Ex-prisoner. It wasn’t right. There was an arrogance there, not just complacency but the unmistakable sense of easy violence. That’s what thirteen years of cop told her, that someone like Preston had no business anywhere near a man as fragile as Faircloth Jones.
Not after dark.
Not on an ex-con’s burned-out farm.
Elizabeth’s lights split the gloom as she drove. Tarmac. Yellow paint. In the darkness beyond, houses ghosted past, flickers of gravel and light, cars in silent drives. She was alone on the road, just her and the wind and the last line of bruised sky as full night descended. She crossed a wide creek, then crested a final hill before the road flattened and the farm road snaked in from the right. She made the turn—tires drifting—and saw the fight from a distance, not sure exactly what it was: a car in the drive, figures moving in the slash of her lights. Two men were on the ground, Adrian fighting with a third. Fifty feet closer, she saw that fighting was the wrong word. Adrian swung again, and the man went down with Adrian on top, his fists rising and falling and slinging red. The ferocity of it was so extreme that even parked and close Elizabeth sat frozen. Adrian had no expression, the face beneath his fists so pulped and bloody, it barely looked human. She saw Crybaby, motionless, another man down and crawling. For a second more she sat transfixed, then spilled from the car, knowing only that someone would die if she didn’t do something.
“Adrian!” she yelled, but he didn’t react. “You’re killing him.” She caught an arm, but he ripped it free. “Adrian, stop!”
He didn’t, so she drew her weapon and struck his head hard enough to drop him in the dirt. “Stay down,” she said, then ran to Faircloth Jones and gently rolled him. “Oh, God.” He was unconscious and so white he looked bloodless. She found a pulse, but it was irregular and thin.