The first was to write a check for $10,000 to Jessica Yeo. I’d teased her once that if my birth parents left me a million dollars, I’d split it with her. They hadn’t, but they’d left enough that I could afford to return a few favors. In the memo line, I wrote, For being relentless. I dropped the check into a hotel-stationery envelope and printed her name and the newspaper address on the front.
Next I called Mom and told her that I would be tied up with projects for the next few days. I assured her that I was fine, eating well, and would check in soon.
After Mom, I dialed Martin’s number and asked him to keep an eye on my house.
“What’s this I hear about Mexico? Dad says you’re going to Cabo.”
“I want to disappear for a while, get off the grid,” I replied, more truthfully than my brother could have realized.
“You’ll be okay on your own? Tony said you were behaving a -little . . . erratically the other day, when you two drove out to that gun range.”
“Erratic? That was the word he used?”
“Err, no. Full-on wack job was actually the way he put it.”
“Can you blame me?” I sighed. “Mother Teresa herself would be behaving like a wack job if she’d been in my shoes these last few weeks.”
“I know. I’m glad you’re getting away, Sis. It’ll do you good to unplug.”
“I’m thinking of staying down in Mexico a couple of weeks, maybe a month or so. To rest and clear my head. Think Mom will go nuts if I’m not around for my birthday?”
“Yep. She’ll go nuts, all right. I’ll do my best to remind her that the wine will keep and the steaks will freeze. Tony and I’ll distract her on Thanksgiving, too. Just promise me you’ll come home by Christmas? Otherwise I can’t be held responsible for her actions.”
The last thing I did before sleeping was to slip on boots and a jacket, exit the side door of my hotel, and walk five blocks to a bar. From the pay phone by the bathrooms, I called Ethan Sinclare. He answered on the fourth ring. I kept it neutral and short. I was in Atlanta for a brief visit, I told him. An appointment tomorrow had been canceled, leaving me with an opening in my schedule.
Might he have time to meet?
Forty-nine
* * *
WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 6, 2013
You couldn’t plan things this way, you really couldn’t, not if you tried. I could have needed the bullet removed in February. Or December. The pain could have slammed me on a breezy, warm day in May. It had happened when it happened, who could say exactly why?
I had been keeping an eye on the date. As the clocks fell back and the nights grew longer, I had watched it creeping closer. But still it felt momentous, to roll over in the morning and to see it—WEDNESDAY, -NOVEMBER 6—illuminated in bright digits on the home screen of my phone.
November 6. The anniversary of Boone’s and Sadie Rawson’s murders. They had died on this date, in this city, exactly thirty-four years ago.
Here’s another point to consider: Boone Smith was shot through the brain, his wife through the heart. Only the one bullet ever recovered, as you know. The one pulled from my neck. A .38 Special. And now here I was. Their only child, the only survivor of that day’s carnage, back in town with fifty rounds in my pocket and a newly purchased Smith & Wesson .38 Special revolver. You see?
There was a lovely symmetry to it. Even, you might say, a certain -inevitability.
? ? ?
BEAMER BEASLEY HAD talked about a volcano. The one that erupted, spewing rocks and ash, after lying dormant for more than a century. The metaphor had given me pause.
But it was a different image that took root in my mind this morning. I thought of a bear. How a hibernating bear will sleep through long winter months, its chest rising and falling, dreaming sweet dreams of honey. But wake that same bear, provoke it, and it will attack with speed and savagery, biting and slashing with claws like knives. There is no way to know which bear you may encounter—placid or violent—when you stand at the mouth of the cave, peering into the dark.
Standing on Ethan Sinclare’s front porch felt a little like that.
I had hesitated when he invited me here. His home, his territory, his terms. At least it would be private, I reasoned. On the phone last night he told me that he had been away, traveling. I was lucky to have caught him. He was driving up to his lake house tonight; his wife, Betsy, was already there. Today, though, he was in Atlanta, picking up fresh clothes and running errands. Why didn’t I drop by the house for lunch? Something casual, sandwiches and Cokes. He knew a deli that made an outstanding pastrami on rye. He would pick us up a couple, some chips and pickles, too.
Sinclare gave me an address on Tuxedo Road, in the heart of Buckhead. I left the rental car parked at my hotel and took the bus. It dropped me three blocks away, and as I walked, I studied the houses. They were large and set deep in rolling lawns. This was old-money, establishment Atlanta. A van from a pool-cleaning service sat parked in the next-door driveway. From across the street came the whine of a leaf blower. Otherwise the only sign of life was two middle-aged women dressed head to toe in Lululemon, blond ponytails bobbing in unison as they power walked past.
Sinclare opened the door while my finger was still pressing the buzzer. He must have been watching as I picked my way up the prettily curved stone path.
“Caroline.” He extended his hand, took mine in a warm grip. “How good to see you.”
He closed and locked the door behind us, then led the way past the front stairs, past the living room, into a large and sunny kitchen. A round table in the window was set for two. Bone china, linen napkins and place mats, stemmed crystal glasses. I raised my eyebrows.
“I’m afraid you’re still stuck with pastrami and pickles.” He smiled. “Betsy would be furious, though, if I didn’t at least serve it to you on the good china. Southern ladies and their place settings! Don’t tell her I skipped the real silver. Too damn much trouble. You can’t throw it in the dishwasher when you’re done.”
“I’m sorry to miss meeting her.”
“She’ll be sorry, too, when she hears that she missed you. We keep a cabin on a lake, up in the northeast corner of the state. Lake Burton.”