“Thanks for letting me know.”
“I’ll keep trying,” said Beasley. “He’ll turn up. We’ll get this all straightened out. Are DC police still driving by your house every night?”
“No.” I frowned. “Not since last week. Not since my surgery. I mean, the bullet’s gone. There’s no reason anyone would feel threatened by me anymore, right?”
“Speaking of that. The bullet. That was the other thing I called to tell you. They can’t do anything with it.”
“Nothing at all?” My voice rose in dismay.
“Not here in Atlanta. They did identify the caliber. It’s a .38 Special. Full metal jacket, which explains why the bullet passed through your mama’s body and on to you. So the firearm in question would have been a revolver, I’m guessing maybe a Smith and Wesson .38 Special. That’s what we all used to carry. Standard service cartridge for police departments, for many years.”
“Jesus!” I shrieked. “You don’t mean the police were involv—”
“No, no, that’s not what I meant. Cops carried them, but so did plenty of other folks. They’re good guns, work well for everything from personal defense to target practice to popping off rabbits in your backyard. People still buy ’em. The trouble is . . .” Beasley sighed. “Ms. Cashion, the trouble is your bullet from your neck isn’t in good enough condition to make a comparison. It’s scored in several places. Scratched up. Maybe from back when it was fired, maybe from where the surgeon used tweezers to tug at it, to get it out.”
I felt as though I’d been punched in the stomach.
“We’re shipping it up to Virginia, to the FBI. They’ve got a hundred times the manpower and expertise we do.”
“The FBI? The FBI is going to examine my bullet?” I repeated incredulously.
“Best crime lab in the country. Out in Quantico. Literally hundreds of firearms specialists, ammo specialists, forensic techs, special agents, you name it.”
“Did you send the FBI the evidence bullets, too? The sample ones that you all kept from 1979?”
“Yes, of course. That’s the whole point.”
“Were any of them .38 caliber?”
“Listen, let’s cross that bridge when we get there, okay? I’ve already bent the rules, telling you this much.”
“But, Beamer—”
“Ms. Cashion, I’m hanging up now. We should hear back from Quantico by early next week.”
After that I tried to sleep, but every few minutes some noise snapped me awake. A shutter on my neighbor’s house was loose and banging in the wind. Somewhere farther up the block a car alarm went off. When an owl hooted outside my window, shortly after 2:00 a.m., I nearly jumped out of my skin. I checked the settings on the burglar alarm, checked the dead bolt on my bedroom door, then got dressed and waited until it was time to call a taxi for the airport.
PART FOUR
Nantucket
Forty-two
* * *
SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 2, 2013
Verlin Snow’s house was big and square and built of weathered, gray clapboard. But then, from what I could see through the rain-streaked windows of the airport taxi, all the houses on Nantucket were built of weathered gray clapboard. I had never seen such uniform architecture. My initial impressions of the island were of billowing fog and gusting wind, the air split by the shriek of seagulls and sharp with the tang of brine.
There was also the smell of money. The streets were swept, the gardens tended, wet roses curling over freshly painted picket fences, even in November. I endured the drive from the airport with gritted teeth, one hand pressed to the back of my bruised neck, the other braced against the car door. This morning’s back-to-back flights had been smooth; I had wrapped a soft, thick shawl around my shoulders and slept the whole way. But Nantucket’s uneven cobblestone streets were torture. The taxi jounced and splashed through puddles, past coffee shops, an old-fashioned pharmacy, a bank, a pretty church. Half the shops looked closed for winter. The sidewalks were deserted.
The Snow house sat near the center of what appeared to be the biggest town on the island, known, with typical New England austerity, simply as Town. After a couple of blocks, the storefronts on Main Street gave way to great mansions, the former homes of sea captains and whaling merchants. Seagulls aside, Nantucket’s Main Street bore a remarkable resemblance to the swankier blocks of Georgetown.
“Here we go,” said the driver, drawing up near the corner of Main and Milk Streets. Gas lanterns burned on either side of three stone steps and an imposing front door. The brass knocker and letter slot gleamed. I pulled a box of Advil out of my handbag, popped three pills, knocked, and waited.
When the door swung open, the scene was more or less as I had imagined. A dimly lit foyer, fussily furnished but clean. Old rugs, old Audubon bird prints, faded wallpaper, a grandfather clock that looked as if it hadn’t kept time for generations. The woman with the Caribbean accent was friendlier and more soft-spoken in person than she had been on the phone. She introduced herself as Marie. I couldn’t tell if she was a friend or a nurse or a housekeeper or some combination of the above. She took my dripping coat and led me past darkened rooms.
“He can’t talk anymore,” she whispered. “Not for months now. But his mind’s sharp as a tack.”
“How does he—”