The Great Divide (21 page)

He took the second call in his study. “I’m listening.”

“You were right all along.” Hamper Caisse sounded as worried as Randall had ever heard. “That Stanstead woman has another file.”

Perhaps it was the hour, but it took Randall a moment to recognize the cold hand that gripped his gut as fear. “Tell me.”

“She had dinner with Glenwood at her house. She told him there was more information. Not a lot, but some.”

“You searched her place.” It was not a question.

“And her office. Top to bottom. Nothing.”

“Then she’s got it hidden.” He sighed, wishing it was over, cursing the compilation of stupidities that had landed him in this situation. “This could be bad.”

“She said it isn’t much.”

“We can’t take a chance she was lying.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Stay on her. Try for an intercept. Something to lead us to where she’s got things stowed.”

“I could, well, stop her.”

“And risk letting the press find whatever she’s got hidden, and blow the horn even louder?” He emitted a puff of breath that fluttered his flaccid cheeks. “I’ll get to work on something at this end.”

Randall hung up the phone, rose, and headed for the bottle on the wet bar. He didn’t want another drink, but he needed it. He could already taste the burning smoke as it settled down and filled the hollow spaces inside him. Or at least numbed them enough to let sleep return.

M
ARCUS’ WEEKEND WAS given over to an exhaustive review of evidence and pleadings. His only time away from the growing clutter in his office was church on Sunday, and that was merely a two-hour review from further afield. By Monday evening he was so tired the stairs threatened to defeat him. He stripped and collapsed into bed, his final thoughts of a soft-edged blond woman and the mystery of why she so desperately wanted to be harsh.

He awoke to sunlight and voices and rumbles from downstairs. The nightmare was nothing more than a vague murmur at the back of his mind, like memories told by a stranger. The light was not the muted horizontal of dawn, but strong and closer to directly overhead. He glanced at his watch, and swiveled his feet to the floor. The dial read half past ten.

He dressed hurriedly and started down the stairs still knotting his tie, only to be halted midway by the sight of Oathell and Darren hauling his conference table through the front door. Marcus had picked it up at the same auction as the law books. In a previous life it had graced a formal dining room and seated twelve most comfortably. Marcus watched as Oathell snagged the carpet and almost tumbled.

“You watch where you put those big feet of yours!” A matchstick of a woman climbed into view carrying a lamp in each hand. Marcus recognized her as Fay Wilbur, Deacon’s wife. “You mess up this floor and you’re gonna be catching my business, you hear?”

“Yes, Aunt Fay.” Oathell’s normal scorn was nowhere to be found. And for good reason. Deacon Wilbur’s wife looked ready to hammer him with either lamp. “It’s heavy, is all.”

“Hmph. You don’t watch your step, I’ll give you heavy. I’ll give you so much heavy you’ll need all the angels in heaven just to carry that load.”

Deacon Wilbur grunted his way through the open door, carrying what was to become Marcus’ office chair. He glanced up to where Marcus stood, then looked away. But the one glance was enough.

Fay Wilbur swung around and showed Marcus a face like an angry washboard. “Just how long did you aim on living in this mess of a half-finished house?”

Marcus pulled his tie free and draped it over the edge of the banister. “Just until your husband gave the trim a final coat.”

“Deacon’s done. He’s been done.” She glared at the silk tie like she would a dead snake. “You aim on leaving your mess hanging there?”

Marcus whipped the tie free. “No ma’am.”

“That’s good. ’Cause I’m too old and too angry to be picking up your messes.” She eased the lamps to the floor, straightened up, and set knobby fists on her hips. With the squinty eyes and the jutting chin and tight frown, the arms looked cocked like two triggers. “Now you listen up. I don’t do windows, you hear what I’m saying?”

Marcus knew better than to argue. “Loud and clear.”

“Then you best be remembering as good as you’re hearing.” She paused long enough to watch the three men hustle back through the door. They were all sweating and puffing hard. “Y’all get a move on, now. We got lots to do ’round here.”

Marcus called out, “I’ll be right there to help you.”

“No you ain’t gonna do no such thing. You got yourself some lawyering to tend to. What you think brought me over here, my health? I got five children and fourteen grandchildren and a growing church making all the messes I’ll
ever
need. I don’t need to take on yours. No sir. Only reason I’m here is on account of my husband not knowing when it’s time to stop painting and start finishing.”

“Excuse me.” Netty appeared in the side doorway. She said to Marcus, “Randall Walker is on his way out.”

“Randall Walker is coming here?”

“Any minute now. I was just going to have Oathell go up and wake you.” Her tone was apologetic. “I thought you’d want to see him.”

“You thought right.”

“He said it was extremely important. And urgent.”

“It’s fine, Netty.”

“There, you see now?” Fay Wilbur had listened all she cared to. “You get on to your lawyering, you leave this shifting about to Deacon and the boys.”

Marcus said to no one in particular, “I need a cup of coffee.”

“Pot’s been cooking up all morning. Oughtta be just about right. Dropped an eggshell in it for flavor, just like your granddaddy liked it.”

Marcus stared at the wizened woman. “You knew my grandparents?”

“That’s for another time.” One bony finger rose in the air between them. “Right now I got just one more thing to say to you. I’ll come back ’round from time to time to help clean and give this place a woman’s touch. Can’t say when, can’t even say how often. I’ll come when I can. But on one condition.” The finger moved in closer. “Don’t you ever bring no outside messes inside this house. You do and I’ll quit ’fore I get started. You hear me?”

“Yes ma’am.” Marcus watched her heft the lamps and stump away.

His secretary gave him a satisfied smile and said, “About time somebody brought you in line.”

Marcus walked to the kitchen and was halfway through his first cup of coffee when Deacon huffed his way through the back door. “Marcus, I can’t tell you how sorry—”

“It’s fine.”

“No it ain’t. Fay’s not like this often, but when she is, there’s just no stopping her.”

“It’s better than fine. You want a coffee?”

Clearly this was not the reaction Deacon had expected. “Better not.”

“I was going to try to get Charlie Hayes and the Halls together and take them to a pig picking today. You want to join us?”

The old man’s eyes lit up. “Law, I do surely love a country pig picking.”

“See if Oathell and his brother will join us. I need to thank them for all this.”

“No, Oathell’s got to get on to his office and Darren’s got some
piecework he’s picked up for this afternoon. That’s why we’re hurrying.” The concerned expression returned. “But all this commotion, and in your house while you were still upstairs—”

“It’s better than fine,” Marcus assured him. “It’s a gift.”

M
ARCUS WAS ON THE PHONE
with Austin Hall when his secretary showed Randall Walker into his newly appointed office. Randall did a slow sweep of the room as Marcus finished up with, “So you’ll pick up Judge Hayes and meet us here in an hour? Thank you, Professor, that’s great. Good-bye.”

Randall watched him set down the phone and said, “That wouldn’t happen to be old Charlie Hayes, now, would it? I thought he was dead.”

Randall Walker stood waiting to be recognized and ushered into a chair. But because of Randall’s lofty probing to discover if Charlie had spoken of their conversation, Marcus tossed his manners aside with his pen. “What do you want, Randall?”

The smile vanished. “And I suppose the Professor refers to Dr. Austin Hall.”

Marcus leaned back in his chair, liking the way it creaked and settled under his weight, and waited.

“Quite a nice spread you’ve got yourself here.” Randall gave the room another slow inspection. “Lot nicer than I expected, I got to admit.”

Marcus had to agree. The room was spacious and lit by a brass chandelier that once held gas lamps. Tall sash windows spilled late-morning light. A grand sycamore and the oldest dogwood he had ever seen stood lookout. The oak flooring shone ruddy and ancient. His desk was battered old solid mahogany that reeked of Fay Wilbur’s application of linseed oil. The air was redolent with the odors of a newly completed house. It was a good place to work and live, and Randall Walker’s presence was a bane on this new start. Marcus repeated quietly, “What do you want?”

Randall accepted the question as the only invitation he would receive, and slid into the hard-backed chair opposite Marcus. “I came out here to make your day.”

Marcus settled his hands across his middle and tried to ease the knot of sudden tension.

“No. Scratch that. Make your entire year, is more like it.” Randall offered his full-wattage beam, the one that had melted the hearts of a thousand female jurors. “You know our firm.”

“I know of it.”

“ ’Course you do. Retired governor, two senators, Congressman Hodges, all partners. Nationwide reputation. Why, we’re even thinking of opening an office in London, England.”

Marcus realized the man had paused because he expected a response. “Long way from Rocky Mount.”

“Now you’re talking.” If anything, the smile broadened. “How’d you like to run that office for a couple of years. Leave all this mess and baggage behind.”

“Are you offering me a job?”

“More than that, son. More than that. I’m offering you a
future
. A chance to start over. We’ve been watching you. Saw how you almost collapsed, watched you recover. Not many men could come back from what you’ve faced.” The smile was gone, the mask now showing deep concern. “You’re a strong man, Marcus. A good man. We want you on our team.”

Marcus reached for his pen, his hands suddenly restless. Listening to words about his past slip from between those lips filled him with a homicidal urge. “I’m honored.”

“Well, you oughtta be.” The benign smile returned. “Yes sir, honored is the absolute right response.”

Marcus studied his opponent. Randall Walker’s suit was navy mohair, his shoes handmade. His hair was as precisely cut and fitted to his head as his smile. The skin of his cheeks and neck flowed over his starched collar. “What’s behind the offer?”

“That’s simple enough.” Randall was not the least bit shaken by Marcus’ query. “The legal world is full of, I’ll scratch your back, you scratch mine. Successful lawyers learn early and well to do one another favors. But you know all this, don’t you. ’Course you do. Life its own self is built on finding how everybody wins.”

“You want me to throw the Hall case.”

“Well, now, it’s hard to tell sometimes just how good a job a lawyer’s done.” The smile tightened, a thin line cut across pasty features. “You can always blame a negative verdict on the judge or the jury. Or the wind.”

Marcus nodded slowly, as though taking it all in. Finally he said, “Release the girl and we drop all charges.”

The smile slipped away unnoticed. “You can’t be serious.”

“Deadly.”

“Son, we’re talking a lifetime career opportunity here.”

Marcus leaned across the desk. “I want Gloria Hall.”

“Do you now.” The words hardened. “Shame I don’t have the first idea what you’re talking about.”

Marcus met the man and his glutinous gaze head-on. “Then we don’t have anything to discuss. Do we.”

“If I wasn’t the gentleman I am, I’d say something about your landing in over your head.”

“Thanks for stopping by, Randall.”

“Well.” The man rose to his feet. “Glad I had one final chance to meet you, Marcus.” He tapped the desk lightly. “Don’t bother to get up, I can show myself out.” Another tap. “You just go on sitting there. Enjoy the place just as long as you possibly can.”

T
HEY LEFT
R
OCKY
M
OUNT
just after midday, heading east. Marcus drove. Austin Hall sat beside him. Charlie Hayes and Deacon Wilbur took the backseat and argued over directions with the good-natured banter of old friends. Occasionally Marcus glanced over to see if the dispute was bothering his client. Austin remained silent and still in the manner of the stiffly bereaved.

There was a reason to be cautious with directions, as their destination had no name and shifted location every second or third autumn. Marcus left the highway for a county road, and that for a long thin strip that cut an asphalt swath through tobacco fields and time-washed farmhouses. The journey became a withdrawal from worry and the world for all save Austin Hall.

They knew they were drawing near when their car joined a convoy. Most of the other vehicles were pickups with rifles in the rear window and kids and dogs jumbled in the back. Leathery arms rose in languid salute to other mud-spattered pilgrims. Everybody was headed in the same direction.

The parking lot was a newly plowed field. Close up to the road sparkled a few Buicks and Cadillacs, their owners not wanting to muddy up a citified shine. Marcus followed the pickups down a red-clay
track and stopped by an ancient tobacco barn. A long-forgotten painting advertised Redman chewing tobacco in letters washed of all color. Below that, just beside the door, was an almost invisible ad for Burma Shave.

Charlie Hayes was talking as they walked the hard-beaten clay path and joined the swift-moving line. “Back there used to be the Columbia Road.”

“Naw, Judge,” Deacon corrected. “You got that wrong. That road led down to New Bern.”

Charlie looked affronted. “You saying you know this region better than me?”

Deacon’s grin creased his face worse than the field they had just crossed. “Reckon I am.”

Charlie turned to the man in coveralls in front of them. “Mister, you know this area?”