The Terror of Living (6 page)

    Drake didn't say anything. The card kept tapping on the table, steady as a metronome. Driscoll's eyes on him, a small, sickly smile lingering at his lips.

    "Kids can make up the damnedest stories," Drake said.

    "Yes, they clan," the agent said, giving the card a final tap on the table, then slipping it across to Drake. They were in the federal building in downtown Seattle. From the freeway, Drake had seen the covered bridge, seven stories up, where the prisoners crossed from cell to courthouse without touching the street or coming into contact with the civilized world. "Is there anything you'd like to add?"

    "I wrote it all down as it happened."

    Driscoll looked away, and when he looked back he said, "Deputy Drake, the truth is that the paper is going to be running a story on this tomorrow."

    "A story on what?"

    "Wasn't there a Sheriff Drake up in Silver Lake convicted of smuggling?"

    Drake didn't say anything.

    Driscoll leaned forward in his chair and looked across the table at Drake. "I can't guarantee they're going to keep something like that out of the article."

    "My father?"

    "I don't know how they heard about all this, but I got them to hold off on running it at least for a day."

    "Thanks," Drake said. "What does this mean now?"

    "It means you better start answering questions."

    "That was ten years ago. What does the past have to do with any of this?"

    "Some would say the past has everything to do with what happens today," Driscoll said. "What do you think?"

    Drake put his hands up on the table and spread his fingers. Flat, cold, metal. He could feel something inside him working loose. Shame? Fear? He didn't know. He wanted to get up, wanted to leave, but there was nowhere he could go. He'd got himself into this mess, and every way he looked at it he couldn't get himself out.

    "You the son who used to play Division One?"

    "The paper tell you that when they called?"

    "That's what I heard."

    "Had to move back after my father went away."

    "What did you play?"

    "Point guard."

    "You were supposed to be some big star, weren't you?"

    "Basketball and my father were almost ten years ago."

    "And now you're a deputy up there? Would have thought you'd be coaching or something."

    "Doesn't pay as much as the state."

    "Well, it won't make you rich."

    "No, but I guess that's what my father thought, too." Drake met Driscoll's eyes for a moment, then looked away.

    "Must be hard to be the son and deputy of the guy who made the sheriff's department famous up there."

    "Like I said, it was before my time."

    Driscoll looked across the table at him. He straightened up in his seat and leaned forward. "You playing on the right side here?"

    "I'm playing on your side, if that's what you're asking."

    Driscoll apologized. "I can't make much sense of it," he said. "I don't know a lot of people who would go up into those mountains. What were you doing there?"

    "My job."

    "Sounds like you were doing your father's as well."

    "It was my father's. It's not his job anymore, it's mine."

    "Sorry," Driscoll said. He did a little wave with his hand, like he was shooing away an odd thought. "I had to ask."

    "It's fine. I know who my father was and I know who I am. We're not the same."

    "I'd guess you'll never be elected sheriff."

    "No? People can surprise you. There's a few forgiving hearts out there."

    The agent took a moment to thumb the report. "I can't say if the story running tomorrow in the paper is going to be positive. You might want to start thinking about that." Driscoll looked through the files in front of him, and when he looked back he said, "This is pretty big."

    "I realize that."

    "This is really going to piss a few people off. I'm just telling you because I think you should be ready. The people you stopped are not going to take this lightly. About now, their only concern is how to make this all go away. That means silencing those who try to get in their way. The story running tomorrow will have your name in it. Are you ready for that?"

    "I suppose I should have thought about that at the time, but I didn't and I don't think I'd have changed the outcome."

    "Taking in the two of them would have been nice."

    "Yes, it would have."

    "Is there anything you can tell me about the second man that could help out my team?"

    "There's not much to tell." Drake knew he wasn't being helpful. Wasn't doing his best. Driscoll was looking for answers and Drake had none to give. All of it was too close to him already. He could almost feel his father's presence, sitting there in the room ten years before.

    "You are the only one, besides the kid, who knows anything about this man."

    Drake tried to draw the man's face from memory. The only image he could find was of his father, fifteen years ago, riding slow up a game trail in the West Cascades. His father turning in his saddle to look back at him, face shadowed, church light filtering down through a patchwork of green forest branches, blue and green as stained glass, yellow slanted columns of sunlight, dusted through with tree pollen, floating, ghostlike. "I'm afraid what I do know is not much," he finally said.

    "Is there anything to add about the second man that I may have skipped over in the report?"

    "I'd prefer not to speculate."

    "But if you did."

    "If I did, I would say he was a very fine horseman."

    "Yes," the agent said. "I had guessed at that from the report." The agent waited for Drake to speak on the subject, and when he didn't, Driscoll continued. "I'm at a loss. I wonder if you might be more familiar with this sort of thing. It's not often we come across something of this caliber. Hippies with backpacks are one thing, but aerial drops and horsemen are something quite different."

    "I'm not the most familiar with this sort of thing either."

    Driscoll gave him a doubting look. "Where did you learn to ride?"

    "My father had a few horses when I was a kid. He would take me into the mountains for rides when he could."

    "How long ago was that?"

    "A little over ten years ago."

    "Your father still keep horses?"

    "Not where he is."

    Sorry.

    "You weren't the one to take him," Drake said. Then, after a moment, he said, "Were you?"

    Driscoll smiled, he looked down at the table, and when he looked back up he said, "Riding's not so common these days, is it?"

    "Not as common as it used to be."

    "Why would you say that?"

    "They're expensive animals, not as utilitarian as they were before."

    "No, I suppose not. How much would you say it is to board a horse?"

    "These days it can be expensive. Not something I could afford."

    The agent picked up the report and straightened it on the table. He brought up a leather case and put the report away. "If you were the second man, what would you do?"

    "I don't know anything about that."

    "Speculate."

    "I suppose I would try to get as far away as I could from what was known."

    "This man must work with horses fairly regularly."

    "Yes, I would say he does."

    "I don't mean to pry, but I'd like to ask you something personal. Would that be all right?"

    "Haven't you been all through my personal life as it is?" Drake watched the agent and tried to see how he took it. The agent sat there across the table, lips slightly parted, question waiting on the cusp. Then Drake said, "Does it have bearing on the case?"

    "In a sort of fractured sense it does."

    "Why do you say 'fractured'?"

    "The cracks leading off from the point of impact."

    I see.

    "Don't take this the wrong way, Deputy. Do you have a wife?"

    "I wear the ring."

    "Any children?"

    "Not yet."

    "In cases like this, it is common that people go missing before they appear in court. Naturally, we are very concerned about this."

    "Naturally."

    "By this time tomorrow afternoon the paper will have the story out and I want you to be ready."

    "We'll be fine. It's not the first time I've been through something like this."

    "Yes," Driscoll said, "that's true. But still, we'd like it if you and your wife would come down to the city for a few days. On us, of course."

    "You make it sound almost like a threat," Drake said. "No, Drake, we are certainly not the threatening ones."

    EDDIE CLAPPED THE PHONE CLOSED AND PUT IT DOWN on the table. He was staring at Hunt.

    "I know that look," Hunt said. The pistol lay in front of him on the table and for a moment Eddie looked at it. Then he looked away.

    "I'm not going to tell you it's going to be okay. I think you know that."

    Hunt shifted his eyes over to Nora, who was standing at the window looking out.

    "What is it, Eddie?" Nora asked, not turning from the window. "What is it that he'll have to do?"

    "It's not so simple," Eddie said.

    "I'm sorry about this, Eddie," Hunt said. "I wish there was a better thing I could say. But I don't think it would make a difference."

    "It's strange how things turn out sometimes."

    "Yes, it is, Eddie."

    Nora came over to the table and sat down. A loose hair drifted into her eyes and she tucked it up. "There must be something that can be done."

    Eddie looked at Hunt. "They'd like for you to make a sort of donation."

    "Donation?"

    "Yes, of your time."

    "Isn't that what I just did? You don't see me crying because I didn't get paid for my time."

    "You also didn't deliver."

    "Whose fault is that? They were trying to move too much product."

    "Yes, you could say that. But in their eyes it certainly is not their fault."

    "What is it they want from me?"

    Eddie turned to look at Nora. "You should go into the other room now. It's best if you just go into the other room and turn the television on and don't listen to what I need to tell Phil here."

    Nora looked to Hunt.

    "I'm trying to help you out here," Eddie said. "It's better if you don't know."

    "Please, Nora," Hunt said.

    She looked at both of them in turn, her deep eyes searching. Hunt knew she would ask him later about what Eddie had to say, and he knew he would tell her. She went out of the room and left them sitting there at the table. The television went on and they could hear the midday news.

    THE KID SAT IN A HOLDING CELL WITH NINE OTHER men. He'd been in and out of the cell all morning, answering questions. At first it was a game to him. It was a tough man's game, it was like going to prison and putting up a good face and hoping it would all turn out okay. But there was no one to prove himself to.

    They all knew him. They all knew what would come of him, either way. And he didn't like what they'd had to say. Christ, he thought, what am I doing here, what in God's name am I doing here again? He'd been stupid, thought he was smart. The kid had been told it was like playing the lottery. And he supposed he'd won, he'd won himself something real special, something to be proud of.

    The back of his head hurt where the deputy had tagged him. He'd heard of cases getting dismissed over such things. It was bad PR. But it didn't seem to matter one bit to any of these guys. The DEA agent had listened. But nothing had come of it. At any point he expected to be pulled out of the holding cell and brought back into the interview room.

    All morning he'd been watching as the men in the cell came and went. None of them talked to him. He'd leave, and when he came back, five of them would be gone and there were another five to take their place. He looked around the cell, careful not to meet anyone's eyes. This is how it had gone for him in Monroe. He wasn't a tough guy. He wasn't that at all, but he'd survived by not trying to be, by minding his own business and just trying to make it through his term.

    During his second year he'd caught pneumonia and spent a week in the infirmary. The men talked there and it wasn't like how it was in the cells, with everyone divided by affiliation. He'd known things would all go back to being the same when he left, but it fascinated him then, and he'd thought things might be different.