The Last Day (20 page)

“Agent Firman is tying up a few loose ends,” Mayes said.

“Please, come in,” Ward said.

Natasha came into the den wearing a loose-fitting T-shirt and jeans. She leaned against the fireplace, arms crossed, staring at the FBI agent.

“Agent Mayes brought some news,” Ward said.

“It appears that you were right about Trey Dibble framing you.” Mayes stood as if behind a lectern.

“Early this morning the police caught some underage kids with meth. They said they got it from this computer tech named Bert Marmaduke. The police went to Marmaduke's place and, armed with a search warrant, went in. Somebody had killed Marmaduke. In their investigation, they uncovered
evidence that Marmaduke had designed the computer virus. They also found evidence that pointed to Trey Dibble's involvement with Marmaduke in the virus, and Dibble had to be investigated as a suspect in the murder.”

“That's why homicide detectives were at Dibble's place before EMS was,” Ward said.

“How did you know that?” Mayes asked, surprised.

“Rumor our lawyer picked up,” Natasha said.

“Anyway we know Trey paid Marmaduke to design the virus, and he killed Marmaduke to keep us from finding him through the hacker. The police found the murder weapon in Trey's garbage can, the phones they talked on, cash at Marmaduke's with Trey's prints on it, and more. Assistant Federal Attorney Walker should be calling your lawyers to give them the news.”

“That was thoughtful of you,” Natasha said.

“Look,” Mayes said. “Agent Firman and I were just doing our job, and there was never anything personal about it. The FBI doesn't apologize officially, but I wanted to apologize.”

“Not officially, naturally,” Natasha said.

“I wish I could do that.”

Natasha said, “You wouldn't want to put a human face on the FBI.”

“Look, we followed the evidence, and it ran right to you. But when it went off in another direction we followed it. I know how hard this was on you.”

“Really?” Natasha said. “I somehow doubt you do.”

“One thing. We don't know who the guy in the hole was, and maybe he's gone for good … Do you have a gun?”

“Yes, we do,” Ward said.

Mayes said, “I think you should be careful.”

“The guard is staying for a while,” Ward said.

“Agent Mayes,” Natasha said. “The name Gizmo is something I'm sure I've heard before. I mean, everybody's heard the word, but I think I've heard it before in some context other than normal. It feels like something related to my practice, but I can't place when or where I heard it,” she said.

“When you do remember,” Mayes said, taking out his card, “call me. Any time, day or night.”

“Look, we appreciate your concern, we really
do,” Natasha said, “but we just want to get on with our lives.”

“By the way,” Ward added. “Can you inform the press, off the record if that's what you have to do, that I've been cleared?”

“I think I can do that. Unofficially.”

Fifteen minutes later, Natasha was behind the wheel of her Lexus, waving at the security guard, who waved back as she and Ward rolled by. The crowd amounted to one TV van, which was aimed the wrong way for a full- blown chase sequence. Besides, the reporter and a cameraman had set up the camera for a taping. The sides of the road were littered with empty water bottles, soda cans, and fast-food sacks, to the point that it looked as though a packed garbage truck had roared by with its rear door open.

“I guess we don't need guards for the press any longer,” Natasha said as she pushed down on the accelerator.

“Looks like the party's over,” Ward said. “Thank God.”

“You can say that again.”

“Looks like the party's over. Thank God.”

FIFTY-ONE

Her hair wet from a long, hot shower, Alice stood looking into her closet trying to decide what she was going to wear to the “toys for bucks” exchange at the mall. She thought about Earl when she looked at the box on her dresser where his gun was hidden.

The question was whether she'd dress comfortably as always, or maybe dress up like a serious businesswoman. It was business she was going to be doing. Two thousand dollars for a little toy car whose doors and hood didn't even open up. For that kind of money there should be a little toy driver who moved his hands and head and maybe even changed the toy oil. It was mind- blowing that anyone would pay that much money for a toy Alice dried her hair, feeling she deserved the money for, if nothing else, keeping it safe.

The car reminded her of visiting her father and his bimbo wife, a Vegas Barbie whose boyfriend was plastic surgeon Ken. She'd already had her lips pumped up so she looked like she lived in a beehive. Alice's three- year- old
half brother was an annoying little dork with a nose that ran constantly. He couldn't talk without yelling demands at the top of his shrill voice.

Alice's mother had new breasts, probably thinking that with the bigger breasts she could hold a man, or some other silly shit. She read brochures about face-lifts, buttock inserts, and all manner of cosmetic- enhancement nonsense. Alice knew it was a waste of money, but there was no way to convince Delores Palmer, who had the money to waste. If her mother didn't think she could have the pert figure of a sixteen- year- old, Alice could be driving a nice new BMW convertible instead of a shitty little beater.

Alice decided to dress formally. She stretched on a tight pair of black designer jeans her stepmother had bought her in Vegas, a crisp black T-shirt sporting a Jolly Roger where the skull had been replaced with a silhouette of a doughnut, and lightweight socks with yellow bathtub ducks on them. She slipped on a pair of dark gray sandals.

Going down the stairs, Alice heard odd sounds. Slipping to the kitchen door, she looked in to see her mother lying on the butcher- block
island, with her skirt hiked up and her legs spread. Her blouse was open and her new and very erect breasts were exposed for the benefit of Bruce Benning, a neighbor who had just turned seventeen. He lived five doors down and had mowed the lawn since spring. Alice herself had flirted with him on several occasions over the years, but to no avail. Now, standing on tiptoe, his shorts a nylon puddle on the floor, he thrust his hips, driving himself in and out of Delores Palmer, his gaze moving between her breasts and his member's mesmerizing vanishing act.

Furious, Alice turned and went to the den and started to go out through the French doors, thinking she'd slam the door to jar the couple. With her hand still on the handle, a thought occurred to her and she looked at the telephone. She crossed over to the table, punched in 911, and waited for the operator to answer.

“Nine one one. What is the nature of your emergency?”

Alice cupped the receiver and whispered, “Hurry, help me. I'm afraid … he's going to rape me.”

She set the phone down, leaving the connection open so they couldn't call back and spoil
everything. The best thing about living in a good neighborhood was that there were lots of cops with not much to do.

Delores Palmer might figure out Alice had called them, but whatever shit she caught would be worth it. Her mother knew Alice was home, since her car was in the driveway. Delores conducted her life as though she was a busy, single woman without a worry in the world … or a child.

Alice went out the door, closing it gently so her mother wouldn't be disrupted. Alice imagined that the interruption would be much more impressive when accomplished by armed police officers peering in at the fuck session from the freshly mown backyard.

FIFTY-TWO

Standing in his bedroom, Watcher slipped on black jeans and a long- sleeved black T-shirt. His flashlight and the Randall lay side by side next to his black sneakers.

Watcher's mind locked on a memory three years old. One cold night, after spending two adventurous hours in bed with a young sergeant's wife, Ross had just fallen asleep when Watcher slipped out of the man's closet, overpowered the older man, tied him up, and gagged him. He wrapped the naked man in a sheet and carried him, kicking and twisting, out to his waiting car. Watcher drove to an abandoned house trailer ten miles outside Fayetteville. After lashing the sergeant to a kitchen chair, Watcher had gone back into the bedroom and led in his own wife, who began sobbing when he tied her into a chair facing her lover.

Sergeant Ross begged Watcher to let him live, and cried that he was sorry about the affair. Picking up a section of heavy iron pipe from the counter, Watcher broke both of the man's knees with two swift blows. The sergeant's screams reverberated on the cheap paneling and leaked out through the broken windows, carrying over the vacant fields surrounding the trailer.

Watcher had next taken up a propane torch and lit it. Evelyn was new to violence and was certain that she was going to soon follow the sergeant's fate, so her screams were even
louder than her ex- lover's. The sergeant was a fit man of forty, which helped him last two hours while Watcher first played the torch over his naked extremities and then went to work on his torso, neck, hair, and finally his face. Thick smoke and the unmistakable smell of cooking meat filled the trailer to the point that it was difficult for Watcher to see through it.

The last thing Watcher did was turn off the torch, shake up a can of spray- foam insulation, and push the plastic straw into the barely conscious man's throat. Pressing the trigger mechanism, Watcher heard the hissing as the foam shot out, filling Ross's throat with the yellow foam that expanded rapidly, oozing back out of his mouth and nostrils. That done, he removed the sticky surgeon's gloves, slipped on a second pair, and smiled at his wife, who looked at him with terrified eyes. Roughly, he tied rope around her knee, then pulled the loose end behind the chair and tied it around her other knee, opening her legs wide.

“Evelyn, my darling slut,” he said emotion-lessly aiming the straw's tip at the exposed target. “Could I interest you in a refreshing douche?”

FIFTY-THREE

The gates into pastoral Oakwood Cemetery faced Church Street in Concord. Behind the painted iron fence, narrow asphalt roads serpentined among gently rolling hills lined with stone monuments dotted with evergreens, boxwoods, and stately oak trees. Barney's grave was located just to the left of his grandfather's in the family plot where McCartys had been buried since 1918.

Natasha parked under a large oak at the top of a hill.

Ward reached to the floor for the flowers purchased from a florist on the way, leaned over to kiss Natasha, then opened his door and stepped out into the afternoon heat to the buzz of insects.

They walked hand in hand between the rows of graves to the familiar cluster of headstones. Still clutching hands, they stood before the newest stone and gazed down. The grass was brown due to the drought. Dried flowers crumbled in a vase that leaned against the granite
base of Barney's headstone. Ward handed the new flowers to Natasha and she replaced the dead ones.

“It's so nice here,” she said. “Peaceful.”

“Barney, we love you,” Ward said, his voice choking. “We'll always love you.”

“He knows that,” Natasha said, squeezing Ward's hand. “He knows.”

Ward took Natasha into his arms and together they wept softly.

“Maybe we should come here more, together,” Natasha said.

“He isn't here,” Ward said. “Barney is in heaven. I truly believe that. He isn't in there,” he said, looking at the grave. “But we can visit this place … for us.”

They stood holding each other for ten minutes. Ward kissed Natasha gently on her lips and put his forehead against hers. Taking her hand, Ward led his wife back to the car.

FIFTY-FOUR

When they returned, the TV van was gone. Ward stopped beside the guard standing near the throat of the driveway and rolled down his window. The guard, a tall, wide- shouldered bald man, smiled when they stopped. He had a black garbage bag in his hand, fairly full by the look of it. The street looked pristine compared to only hours earlier. Several bags were already filled and lay side by side near the
NO TRESPASSING
sign the guards had put up around the property.

“We can pick up the garbage,” Ward told the guard.

“Gives me something to do,” the guard said, smiling.

“Looks pretty quiet,” Ward said. He noticed calluses on the man's strong hands. The black uniform looked uncomfortable in the heat. There was a large survival knife on the gun belt. The man's eyes weren't smiling in concert with his lips.

“Word's out that you're not news anymore,” the guard said. “That FBI agent told the media
creeps they were wasting their time and could call Tom Wiggins if they wanted the scoop. They checked it out and hauled ass. I'm just waiting around to be officially dismissed. Todd said with the hole behind your house, you might want some protection until you don't.” He put a hand on the gun at his side. “I'll make sure nobody bothers you guys.”

“I guess you should hang around a little while,” Ward said.

“I'm not going anywhere as long as there's a threat. We'll leave the go- away sign,” he said.

“Thanks,” Natasha said. “We really appreciate it. I don't know your name.”

“People call me Thumper. Y’all have a nice evening. As long as I'm here, you won't be in any danger from any hole- dwelling creep.”

Ward pulled away, rolling the window back up as he went.

“Somehow I don't feel any safer,” Natasha commented. “He is sort of…”

“I know,” Ward answered.

Ward parked the Lexus in the garage and went into the house, closing the rolling door behind them.

“Sometimes I wish we had a big dog,” Natasha said.

“That's doable,” Ward said. “How about a wolf?”

“I was thinking more like a Labrador,” she said. “Or a golden retriever.”

“So, what do you want to do with the rest of the evening, after?” she asked him.

“After what?”

She put her arms around his waist, and kissed him. “If you'll follow me, young man, I'll show you what.”

FIFTY-FIVE

Alice Palmer pulled up in front of Earl's ramshackle house just as the sun was going down. The Tucker home was in a downwardly mobile subdivision off Brookshire Boulevard. As Alice pulled up she saw a girl leaving the porch steps, walking away without looking back at Earl. Earl stood at the porch steps and ambled slowly to the Toyota like an old man
shuffling in fast- moving water. He opened the door and slunk into the car, buckling his belt slowly.