The Inside Ring (18 page)

33

Jillian Mattis’s house was on the outskirts of Uptonville, a burg a few miles north of Folkston. It was a boxy, one-story affair in need of a new roof and a coat of paint. On one side of the house was a small vegetable garden where the main crop was a short, flowering weed. Behind the house was a barn with a swaybacked roof, listing walls, and a paddock for horses, though DeMarco could see no sign of livestock.

The woman who came to the door in response to his knock was tall, well proportioned, and handsome. She had striking blue eyes which were squinting as she peered through the screen door at DeMarco, trying to adjust to the contrast between the bright sunlight outside and the dark interior of the house. She was wearing a faded gray housedress that a million washings ago had contained a lilac-colored floral pattern. Her thick auburn hair was streaked with gray strands, and her eyes bore the look of a lifetime of wanting and never getting. If she had dyed the gray out of her hair and applied a little makeup she would have been a stunning woman, but DeMarco sensed she was beyond caring about the way she looked.

She left the screen door shut and said, “Can I help you?” She spoke in a listless monotone.

“I’m looking for Jillian Mattis,” DeMarco said.

“I’m Jillian. What can I do for you?”

DeMarco was surprised. The woman appeared to be only in her mid-forties and Billy was thirty-two when he died. She must have been a teenager when she bore him.

“My name’s Joe DeMarco, Mrs. Mattis,” DeMarco said. “I work for the United States Congress.”

DeMarco decided on the spot not to use his false writer persona. His instincts told him that she would resent some mercenary scribbler trying to make a buck off the tragedy of her son’s death.

“Congress?”

“I’m sorry about what happened to your son, ma’am. You have my deepest sympathy.”

“Thank you,” she said. She was looking at him but not seeing him.

“I know you’re in mourning, Mrs. Mattis, but I was wondering if you would talk to me about Billy.”

DeMarco could see the woman was almost paralyzed with grief, barely able to carry on a conversation, but he needed to know why her son had called her so many times the month before the assassination attempt. He also wanted to know who Billy’s father was. By now he suspected it might be Dale Estep. Estep was just a few years older than Jillian, and since he was crazier than a shit-house rat, DeMarco could also understand why the locals would be reluctant to discuss Billy’s paternity. Dale being Billy’s father also explained other things, like why a man like Billy might cooperate with him in the assassination attempt. The problem with this theory was that if all of DeMarco’s other theories were correct, then Estep had arranged the murder of his own child.

“Why do you want to talk about Billy?” Jillian said.

“As you probably know, ma’am, your son was guarding the President the day someone tried to assassinate him. There are still some unanswered questions about the assassination attempt.”

“I thought . . . I thought a man already confessed to shooting the President.”

“Yes, ma’am. Harold Edwards. But there are still some outstanding issues.”

“Like what?”

“Mrs. Mattis, do you know a man named Patrick Donnelly?”

This is where she was supposed to say: Why, gosh yes—he was Billy’s mentor, pal, godfather, or some such thing. Instead she said nothing. She was looking behind DeMarco. He turned to follow her line of sight and saw a tire swing hanging from the limb of a dying elm. She was seeing a young Billy Mattis, blond hair flying, a grin on his face, as he tried to swing to the moon.

“Mrs. Mattis,” DeMarco said, “do you know a man named Patrick Donnelly?”

“I’m sorry,” Jillian Mattis said, apologizing for her mental lapse. “No, I don’t know him. Who is he?”

“He’s the director of the Secret Service, Billy’s boss.”

“Oh,” Jillian Mattis said.

“What about Maxwell Taylor, Mrs. Mattis. What’s his relationship to Billy?”

Jillian Mattis suddenly gave DeMarco her full attention, her son’s death momentarily forgotten.

“Max?” she said.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You need to leave now.”

The woman seemed scared to death. “Mrs. Mattis, this is important,” DeMarco said. “Let me come in and talk to you. Please.”

Jillian Mattis shook her head.

“What about Dale Estep, Mrs. Mattis? Is he—”

“You need to leave,” Jillian Mattis said. She hissed the words, almost a whisper, as if afraid of being overheard. “My son is dead, and he’s never comin’ back, and I don’t need any more pain in my life.”

She shut the door in DeMarco’s face.

FUCK MAHONEY, DEMARCO thought as he drove back toward his motel in Folkston. He was ashamed of himself for badgering Jillian Mattis. The damn FBI—with their badges and their warrants and their white-coated techies—they should be down here hassling people, not him.

DeMarco continued to sulk as he drove. He was wasting his time and he knew it. He was not going to find a connection between Donnelly, Taylor, and Billy Mattis in the back issues of a county newspaper. And how could Billy’s mother lead him to any real evidence that Estep and Taylor had tried to kill the President?

DeMarco knew what he should do next—he just didn’t want to do it. Had this been a normal assignment, something involving a politician on Capitol Hill, he would at this point vigorously stir the pot and watch for something foul to float to the surface. He would question all the people involved and make sure everybody knew everybody else was being questioned. He would imply that one of the participants was talking to the authorities, turning on the others. He would browbeat the miscreants, lie about evidence that didn’t exist, claim that an arrest was imminent. He would, in other words, do anything necessary to cause a precipitous reaction.

Yes, if this case had involved a leak on some politician’s staff or the shenanigans of a wayward bureaucrat, that’s exactly what he would do. He also knew exactly what his opponents would do in return. They would try to intimidate him by puffing out their chests and flashing their power ties. They would try to frighten him with tales of their awesome, terrible clout. They might try to bribe him; they would certainly threaten to get him fired. Their worst threat, their very worst, was that they would call their retained lawyers and sue his ass into poverty.

But Estep and Taylor, if they were involved—he always had to add “if they were involved”—would not bribe him or intimidate him or sue him. They would kill him.

Yes, DeMarco knew what he should do next—he just didn’t want to do it.

Back at his motel, he called Emma’s room but didn’t get an answer. That morning his badly hungover friend had said she was going back out to Hattie McCormack’s tobacco and moonshine farm. She wanted to question Hattie some more, but this time in a sober condition. DeMarco was puzzled that she wasn’t back yet; she should have been by now.

DeMarco stared out the window of his motel room at the small swimming pool. He didn’t want to talk to Taylor until he had talked to Emma. Or to state it differently, Emma provided an excuse for him to delay meeting with Taylor. So since he could think of nothing better to do, he decided to go down to the pool, drink a couple of beers, and act like a tourist. Hell, he was a tourist.

Arriving at the pool, beer in one hand, bath towel in the other, he discovered two small boys polluting the waters. They were nine or ten years old and wore baggy bathing suits covered with pictures of cartoon characters. They were running around the perimeter of the pool, squirting each other with magnum-sized water pistols, screaming at the top of their lungs.

DeMarco didn’t exactly dislike children, he just wasn’t certain how to act around them. The fact that they looked like short people didn’t mean they were people. A caterpillar may be a butterfly in transition, but it isn’t a butterfly.

DeMarco stood back from the pool and studied the boys. Frowning, he tried to guess the distance a sixty-pound kid curled into the shape of a cannonball could splash water. When he was certain he had it figured out, he placed the motel lounge chair twice that distance from the pool. He tried to relax but then one boy started shrieking because the other kid was trying to drown him. He watched anxiously for a bit, eventually realizing—somewhat to his disappointment—that neither child had the upper-body strength to hold the slippery head of the other under water the required length of time.

DeMarco took off his T-shirt, opened his beer, and settled back into the lounge chair. He took a couple of sips of beer then closed his eyes. He was determined to relax and not dwell on the futility of his current mission. He sat there only a minute when he felt someone staring at him, then realized he could no longer hear the two boys yelling. Opening one eye he saw the boys standing a foot away from his lounge chair. The water pistols hung menacingly at their sides.

They both had flattops, piggy blue eyes, and a sprinkling of freckles across stubby, runny noses. Brothers. Some woman had been twice cursed.

“Mister,” one of them said, “you ever seen an alligator?”

“Yeah,” DeMarco said.
Go away, you little shit
. “I saw one in a zoo once.”

“We saw one in the
swamp
. A big one. Its mouth was open and it had lots of teeth.” The kid opened his mouth and showed DeMarco his teeth. His brother nodded earnestly in agreement.

“Is that right,” DeMarco said.

“Yeah,” the boy said, his face very serious. “Mister, do you think them alligators from the swamp can get all the way over here to the motel and crawl into the swimmin’ pool?”

DeMarco was faced with a great moral dilemma. Should he tell the boys that chances were indeed high that a ten-foot alligator was coiled, chameleonlike, at the bottom of the clear swimming pool? This might make them go away, on the other hand he might give them bed-wetting nightmares of huge reptiles slithering over the transom of their motel-room door. What did they really want, DeMarco wondered—the thrill of danger close at hand, an imaginary beast to hunt with their water pistols, or assurance from a kindly adult that they were safe?

DeMarco opened his mouth to answer, but before he could speak, a woman’s voice said, “Bobby. Randy. Are you kids bothering that nice man?”

“No, Mom,” the two boys said in chorus. Little liars.

DeMarco turned toward the sound of the voice and saw a woman who looked absolutely delicious moving toward him in a very small lime-green bikini. She had light-brown hair streaked blond by the sun, eyes as clear and blue as the water in the swimming pool, and like the boys, a sprinkling of freckles across a pert nose. She was yummy.

“Have these monsters been bothering you?” she asked DeMarco, stroking the seal-wet head of one of the boys. She had a delightful smile.

“Not at all,” DeMarco said, smiling back. Lying to this woman was apparently contagious. “They’ve been asking me about alligators.”

“Don’t I know it,” she said, feigning exasperation. “Ever since we went on that swamp-boat ride yesterday, they’ve been driving me nuts about alligators and snakes.” Taking each child by the hand, she said, “Come on, you devils. You’ve been out here in the sun long enough. Let’s go inside and get cleaned up.”

She smiled at DeMarco again. Her nose crinkled up cutely when she smiled. “We’ll let you enjoy the pool in peace,” she said. “Bye now.”

As she walked away DeMarco enjoyed the view of her lithe body moving gracefully in the tiny bathing suit, her hair swinging rhythmically across her back with each step. The only blemish in this enchanting scene was the armed midgets clutching her hands.

DEMARCO MUST HAVE fallen asleep because the next thing he knew someone was kicking the lounge chair. He looked up into the sun and saw a man in a dark-blue uniform wearing a Smokey the Bear hat and mirrored sunglasses. Sunlight reflected off the badge on the man’s chest. From DeMarco’s reclining position, he seemed enormous, all beer gut and meaty, freckled forearms.

“Your name DeMarco?” the man said.

DeMarco sat up, trying to shake the fog of sleep from his mind.

“Yeah,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

“Mr. Taylor wants to talk to you.”

Well. It looked as though he’d stirred the pot without even trying. DeMarco stood up, not liking the cop looming over him. Upon standing he realized that the man wasn’t as tall as he had originally thought but was still not someone he’d like to arm wrestle.

DeMarco squinted at the badge on the man’s chest: Charlton County Sheriff’s Office.

“Mr. Taylor wants to see me, Sheriff, so he sent you over here to arrest me?”

“Deputy,” the man said. “Deputy Sheriff Pat Haskell.”

“Glad to meet you, Deputy, but why did Mr. Taylor send you?”

The deputy’s mouth tightened in irritation. He was used to more respect than DeMarco was giving him.

“The sheriff’s just doin’ Mr. Taylor a favor. Mr. Taylor said he wanted to talk to you, so my boss had me track you down.”

Great. Taylor had enough pull to use the sheriff’s as a messenger service.

“And if I don’t want to talk to Mr. Taylor, Deputy?”

“You know, you’re kinda prickly, partner. I’m just passin’ on a message. If you want to follow me, I’ll lead you out to Taylor’s place. If you don’t wanna go, suit yourself.”

DeMarco stared into the deputy’s mirrored sunglasses. “Give me a minute to change clothes. I’ll meet you in the parking lot.”

34

DeMarco followed the deputy’s car up a long gravel driveway and parked in the shade of a weeping willow next to two late-model pickup trucks. Considering what he knew about Taylor’s income and his influence in the region, the man’s home was a surprise. DeMarco had been expecting a mansion, but Taylor’s house was a simple two-story white house with green shutters and green trim. It was large and handsome and well made but no grander than several other homes DeMarco had seen in the area.

A swing was creaking on the broad front porch and the screen door at the main entrance was banging gently in time to a slight, much welcome breeze. The deputy rapped lightly on the screen door and a large black woman wearing a white apron over a black housedress appeared.

“Why how you doin’, Deputy Pat?” she said. “You here to see Mr. Taylor?”

“No, Tilly, but this fella is. Mr. Taylor asked me to bring him by.”

Tilly nodded at DeMarco. “If you’ll just wait here a minute, mister, I’ll go tell Mr. Taylor you’re here. What’s your name?”

“Joe DeMarco.”

“I’ll be right back, Mr. DeMarco.”

After the maid left, the deputy tipped his hat to DeMarco. “I’ll be seein’ you around, partner,” he said. It sounded like a threat.

DeMarco fidgeted on the front porch until the maid returned. He wasn’t sure what approach he should take with Taylor: go straight at him or beat around the bush. The maid returned to the front door before he had made up his mind.

“You go on down the hall to the first door on the right,” she said. “Mr. Taylor’s there in his office.”

Entering the room, DeMarco saw a young woman and an older man he assumed was Taylor standing together next to a large hand-painted wooden globe. The globe was three feet in diameter and rested in a mahogany floor stand. With one hand the man was pointing at a spot on the globe saying, “You see, Honey, that’s where they all came from.” His other hand rested lightly on the woman’s hip.

Voluptuous. It was the first word that came to DeMarco’s mind. She was the most voluptuous woman he had ever seen. She was barefoot and wearing a light cotton dress that revealed more than it hid. The material barely contained her full breasts and wide hips, and you could see the dark outline of large nipples and the shape of strong thighs through the thin material. The top three buttons of the dress were undone showing a natural cleavage not requiring a bra for accent or support. Her legs and arms were tanned to the perfect shade of gold that was promised on the Coppertone bottle, and tousled blond hair hung to her shoulder blades. The hair framed a flawless face with perfect features, and one absolutely devoid of any sign of intelligence. She was Daisy Mae, a Southern breeding machine—and she was no more than fifteen years old.

DeMarco finally tore his eyes away from the girl and was embarrassed to find Taylor studying him. DeMarco could tell Taylor was amused by his reaction to the girl.

Taylor was in his sixties. He was tall, six three or six four, with a lanky, muscular frame. He was wearing new work boots, jeans, and a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He had a gaunt face, with deep furrows on either side of his mouth. His hair was full and white, and beneath bushy white eyebrows were deep-set dark eyes that glowed with the stern intensity of a country preacher’s sermon. Standing next to the blond child-woman, all Taylor needed was a flowing white beard to resemble a harsh God who had evicted Adam from the garden while keeping Eve for Himself.

Taylor left the girl by the globe and walked over to a large desk made from the same wood as the globe stand. The girl glanced at DeMarco then ignored him, and began spinning the globe as if it were a large toy top. She seemed mesmerized by the blending colors as the world swirled beneath her slim fingers.

“Take a seat,” Taylor said, pointing DeMarco to a chair in front of the desk. It was an order, not a polite offering. To the girl he said, “Honey, be a little darlin’ and go fetch Morgan.” The girl acted as though she hadn’t heard him and continued to turn the globe.

“Honey, I’m talkin’ to you,” Taylor said.

Without looking at him, she said, “Don’t like Morgan, Uncle Max.”

Uncle Max? She was his niece?

Taylor smiled slightly, either amused by her childish pout or by her attitude toward this person Morgan. “Morgan won’t bother you, Honey. Now get a move on it.” He spoke softly but his impatience was beginning to show. Taylor was a man used to having his orders obeyed instantly.

The girl looked at the spinning globe a final time and reluctantly turned away from it. Taylor’s eyes followed her, enjoying the motion of her full hips and the play of muscles in her bare calves as she walked slowly from the room. His lust was transparent, and considering the girl’s age, sickening.

Whatever pleasant thoughts he had been having disappeared when he looked back at DeMarco. “Bob Storch over at the newspaper said you were askin’ about me. I thought I’d better see what you’re up to.”

All DeMarco had done was ask the newspaper editor if he knew Taylor—the editor had said no—but that one question had apparently been reason enough for the editor to alert Taylor. The man had an early-warning system better than NORAD.

“I’m a writer, Mr. Taylor. I freelance for magazines. I read about Billy Mattis, how he lived his life, how he died, and I thought he’d be a good subject for an article. I’m here doing research.”

“You got identification?” Taylor demanded.

Shit. DeMarco took out his driver’s license and handed it to Taylor. Taylor looked at it, then took a pen from his desk and wrote down the information from DeMarco’s license.

“Go on,” Taylor said.

“That’s it. I’m just a guy doing some research for a story.”

Taylor was still holding DeMarco’s license. He stared at DeMarco as he tapped the laminated card on the surface of his desk. “So why were you askin’ about me?”

“Did you know Billy Mattis, Mr. Taylor?”

Annoyance flared in Taylor’s eyes and he opened his mouth to snap out an angry response; DeMarco was asking questions instead of answering them. But then Taylor restrained himself, the effort noticeable, and his lips twitched in an insincere half smile.

“Sure I knew him. I’ve lived here all my life and know damn near everyone in the county. If memory serves, Billy was a hell of a shortstop for the high-school team. Probably could have gone to college on a scholarship but he decided to go into the military. Now answer the question I asked you. Why are you askin’ around about me?”

DeMarco shrugged. “Your name just came up. Somebody said they thought you and Billy were related.”

“Who told you that?” Taylor said, his eyes blazing.

“I don’t really recall, Mr. Taylor. It may have been Billy’s wife.”

“You talked to Billy’s wife?”

“Sure,” DeMarco said. “So is it true that you and Billy are related?”

“No it’s not true and I don’t appreciate you asking questions about me behind my back, mister.”

“Mr. Taylor, I don’t know what you’re getting so upset about. I’m just trying to write a nice piece about a local hero. I would think—”

“I don’t give a shit what you think. My experience is you damn journalists never have anything good to say about anybody. But we’re gettin’ off the point here. I don’t like strangers asking questions about me. I won’t put up with . . .”

Taylor stopped speaking and looked over DeMarco’s head. At the same time DeMarco heard the sound of a boot scraping the hardwood floor behind him. He turned to see who was there and saw the man from the diner, the one with the ponytail and the lightning scar on his cheek. He was wearing scuffed cowboy boots, black jeans, and a gray sleeveless T-shirt that showed off a weight lifter’s hard biceps. He looked at DeMarco just as he had that first time in the diner—his face expressionless, his eyes unemotional yet intimidating.

DeMarco exercised. He was in relatively good shape and the man standing behind him was only slightly taller than him and at most twenty pounds heavier. Yet DeMarco had the same feeling he had when he once shook hands with the starting middle linebacker for the Washington Redskins. The linebacker hadn’t been much taller or heavier than DeMarco either, but DeMarco had known immediately that the linebacker was of a stronger, more violent species, one which would rule the earth if it came down to unarmed combat.

DeMarco looked back at Taylor. Taylor could see that DeMarco didn’t like having Morgan at his back and his lips twisted into a thin smile with all the warmth of a winter’s eve. “This fella’s from Washington, D.C., Morgan,” Taylor said, speaking to Morgan but looking at DeMarco. “Says he’s a writer. He thinks that gives him the right to go around asking questions about people behind their—”

“Mr. Taylor, I wasn’t—”

“Shut up,” Taylor said. “Don’t ever interrupt me when I’m talking.”

There was an arrogance about Taylor that was palpable. It was the kind of arrogance DeMarco had observed all too often in powerful politicians: men so accustomed to being catered to, so confident of their authority, so used to unquestioning obedience, that they come to believe they are untouchable.

“You need to understand something, mister,” Taylor said. “You’re not in Washington goddamn D.C. right now, and I won’t tolerate you sneakin’ around this community.”

DeMarco guessed a real writer would go into First Amendment orbit at this point, explaining he had the right to do anything he damn well pleased.

“You won’t tolerate it?” DeMarco said.

“That’s right. I won’t. In fact, I think you better leave town tomorrow. That would be the smart thing for you to do.”

“Are you threatening me, Mr. Taylor?” DeMarco said. Talk about a dumb question.

Taylor smiled at him; his teeth were like small tombstones.

“Can I have my driver’s license back?” DeMarco said.

Taylor tossed it to him.

DeMarco rose from the chair and turned to leave the room but Morgan was blocking his exit. He didn’t budge when DeMarco said, “Excuse me.” He just stood there, staring impassively into DeMarco’s eyes, the same way he had stared at DeMarco in the diner. DeMarco apparently wasn’t leaving until Taylor dismissed him.

DeMarco didn’t scare easily but Morgan . . . he raised the short hairs on his neck. DeMarco sensed that there wasn’t anything
inside
the man.

DeMarco turned back to face Taylor. Taylor’s dark eyes were shining with satisfaction. He had made his point. DeMarco was on his turf, playing by his rules. The sheriff’s office was a limousine service that brought people to him. This was not, as he had said, Washington goddamn D.C.

“I want you out of Charlton County tomorrow,” Taylor said. “Do you understand?”

DeMarco nodded.

“Let him by, Morgan,” Taylor said.

Morgan let DeMarco squeeze by. He executed the move like a boxer circling an opponent, shuffling slightly to his right, his hands ready, his eyes locked onto DeMarco’s.

DEMARCO PULLED HIS rented Mustang out of Taylor’s driveway and then stopped at the side of the road. The sky looked threatening and he decided to put up the convertible’s top in case it started to rain. He latched down the top and was about to start the car again when he looked over at Taylor’s house and saw the girl, Honey. She had just come out the front door and was taking a seat in the porch swing.

She put her legs up on the porch railing and with the short dress she was wearing, her shapely, tanned legs were exposed to the tops of her thighs. DeMarco stared a minute, then shook his head in self-disgust. She was a teenager; you had to draw the line somewhere. He began to turn the key in the ignition when he saw Morgan walk around the side of the house. Morgan also saw the girl sitting on the porch.

Morgan moved slowly toward the girl, placing his feet carefully so as not to make any noise. He reminded DeMarco of a panther closing in on its prey. Morgan stopped less than three feet from her, his body hidden by a large rhododendron, then he stood there, still as a statue, and stared at the girl. They stayed that way for a few minutes—DeMarco watching Morgan, Morgan watching the girl—then the girl sensed Morgan’s presence. She jumped up from the swing, pointed a child’s accusing finger at Morgan, and ran into the house. Morgan didn’t move after the girl left, but continued to stand motionless, almost invisible in the shadows and foliage surrounding the porch.

He was still standing there when DeMarco drove away.