CHAPTER 8

AL PFEIFFER LIVED AS FAR from Elawah County as you could get and still be in the state of Georgia. Dug Rut was a border town on the edge of the Okefenokee Swamp, which meant that the trip would take Jeffrey and Sara into a primitive wetland known mostly for its alligators and mosquitoes, both of which could kill a man. In high school, Jeffrey and two of his friends had planned to take a few weeks during their summer vacation and explore the swamp, but that was the same year that Deliverance came out, and even though the movie was filmed in the north Georgia mountains, it was enough to turn any man off the idea of canoeing.

Still, Jeffrey remembered a little bit about the wetlands from his reading. He knew that the headwaters of the Suwannee and the Saint Marys rivers were located in the swamp, each eventually draining to the Gulf of Mexico and the Atlantic Ocean, respectively. Hundreds of endangered birds and mammals resided in the protected wildlife refuge and the plant life was of the sort you would expect to see in a science-fiction film. The place was as cut off as it was remote, and families tended to live and die there without seeing the rest of the world. Back in the early 1900s, there were folks living in the swamp who still had not yet heard that the Civil War was over. Not much changed in their lives when they got the news.

The ride down was a quiet one. Sara hadn’t had much to say when Jeffrey got back to the motel. Oddly, she had cleaned the bathroom, something she seldom did at home unless she was pissed at Jeffrey or knew that her mother was coming over. She had actually seemed proud about bringing a shine to the crappy fixtures. For Jeffrey’s part, he had stared at the tub while he was taking a leak, fighting the urge to redirect the stream and mess up Sara’s handiwork. If he’d wanted a wife who took pleasure out of cleaning a toilet, he would’ve married his high school sweetheart back in Alabama.

Sara had listened politely as Jeffrey had relayed the details he’d gotten from Nick about the Brotherhood, the meth business running up the eastern seaboard, the possibility that Elawah might be a stop along the cartel’s railroad. She’d nodded, but not offered her opinion on anything. She hadn’t asked him what he’d hoped to accomplish by talking to Al Pfeiffer or how any of this tied in to Lena. Part of him had hoped she would. Jeffrey wasn’t sure how to answer those questions himself. Talking it out with Sara might have helped him understand.

Two hours into the trip, Jeffrey wasn’t even sure he was still in Georgia. Kudzu and knotty pines gave way to sand and palm trees. When he rolled down his window, he caught a whiff of the briny coast mixing with the pungent odor of shit that told him he was downwind from a paper company. An hour later, he followed a back route cutting into the state, toward the little bit of Georgia that fingered into Florida along the Saint Marys. By then, he could barely see the road. The car’s windshield was caked with all manner of streaks from the bugs that had flown into the glass, some of them as big as his fist.

Jeffrey was about to pull over and look at the map Nick had given him when he noticed all the usual signs that indicated you were getting close to the border between two southern states: hot boiled peanuts, fresh produce, fireworks, totally topless/XXX-rated girls. Sara said she needed to use the restroom, so he pulled over at the rest stop on the Florida side. Jeffrey got out of the car to check his bearings, then got back in the car because in the full heat of the sun, it was almost too painful to be outside. He tried to think back to when he was a kid and the first week of November meant wearing a jacket and hoping it would snow so you wouldn’t have to go to school.

In the car, Jeffrey turned on the ignition and ratcheted up the air-conditioning, letting the cold, artificial breeze blow on his face. He spread the map on his lap again and traced his route, squinting to read Nick’s handwriting where the GBI agent had noted streets and landmarks that the original cartographer had either failed to notice or considered inconsequential. Still, Nick had never been to visit Al Pfeiffer and the map only gave detailed directions to Dug Rut, not to Pfeiffer’s house. There was just the street address to go by: 8 West Road Six. It was a good start, but Jeffrey would need better directions than that.

Sara got back into the car. She handed him a bottle of water.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

He stared at her, trying to think of something to say.

She indicated the map. “Do you know where you’re going?”

“I’ll need to stop at a gas station closer in to town and see if they can give me better directions.”

“Okay.” She slipped on her seat belt, clicked it into the buckle.

Jeffrey waited, but she didn’t say anything else. He gave her the map. She folded it up as he reversed the car out of the space.

Jeffrey merged back onto the highway and followed the signs to Dug Rut. Less than a mile off the main road, he understood where the town had gotten its name. The land was obviously part of the canal system they’d built in the early 1900s in an attempt to drain the swamp. New York’s Central Park had suffered this same fate, but the Okefenokee had proved to be too difficult to destroy. The handful of swamps left in America were probably some of the few remaining places on the continent where a man could live wholly sustained by the land, whether it was for food, shelter, medicine, or some of the cleanest drinking water on earth. Jeffrey wondered how long it would be before they were all completely destroyed.

Downtown Dug Rut wasn’t much to write home about. There was a bar and a post office, but not much more than that. The tiny strip of storefronts lining Main Street were all closed. The owners hadn’t even bothered to put rental signs in the windows. There was something sad about the place, and as Jeffrey coasted through a stop sign, he was starting to give up hope of finding a gas station.

He did a U-turn in the middle of the street and turned back toward the post office. Sara didn’t move to get out when he parked in front of the building, so he nudged her, saying, “You don’t think I’m going to ask for directions, do you? They’ll take away my man card.”

She gave him a tight smile and got out of the car.

Jeffrey watched her make her way toward the building. Her jeans were baggy in the back, and he realized that she had lost more weight. He didn’t like it. Sara had always been lean, but she was too thin now. When he made love to her, he could feel her ribs scraping against his chest. Her hips were disappearing, the curve of her waist cinching too tight. From the back, she could almost pass for a teenage boy.

Jeffrey took a deep breath and let it go slowly. Eight years ago, Sara had come home from work early to find Jeffrey in their bed with another woman. Not just in bed, but in action. The look on Sara’s face—the betrayal, the hurt, the anger—had been the biggest wake-up call of his life, and Jeffrey had used every tactic he could think of to try and win her back. Just getting her to talk to him had been the biggest hurdle. Once she could speak to him without clenching her jaw, he had worked on getting her into bed. It hadn’t been nearly as easy as the first time, but Jeffrey found that waking up with Sara next to him was even more rewarding. Six months ago, he had practically begged her to marry him. Hell, the truth was that he had begged her, even getting down on both knees at one point. Sara had taken her own sweet time, but finally she had said yes.

And now, it was almost like she was disappearing before his eyes.

Sara came out of the post office, and Jeffrey found himself looking at the map again instead of watching her walk toward him.

“They were very nice,” Sara told him as she got into the car. She was holding a postal form where she’d written down some directions. “They said he’s about three miles west of here.”

“Why don’t we just go to Florida?”

Jeffrey heard his words fill the empty space in the car, knew they had come out of his own mouth, but had no idea where the question had come from.

Sara smiled, shaking her head. Still, she suggested, “Drink margaritas on the beach?”

He felt himself smiling back. “Rub suntan oil all over your body.”

“Then aloe when the sun burns off the top layer of my skin.” Sara turned to him, still smiling. “You need to go left on Main Street.”

“I’m serious about Florida.”

“I’m serious about taking a left.”

He reached out to her, tracing his fingers along her lips. “You’re beautiful. Do you know that?”

She kissed his fingers, then put his hand back on the steering wheel. “Left,” she repeated. “Then take a right onto a road called Kate’s Way.”

Jeffrey backed out of the space and turned onto Main Street. He slowed as they came to a gravel road, trying to read the handmade street sign. He did this at three roads before finding Kate’s Way, a bumpy, one-lane path that looked as if it was seldom used. The scenery changed abruptly the farther they traveled. This part of Georgia was flat marsh-land, huge, big-bottomed cypress trees growing straight out of the tea-colored water. Spanish moss draped over the branches like lace and there was a constant sound of crickets, birds, frogs, and the occasional gator bellow that they could hear even with the car windows rolled up tight.

The curves in the road suggested they were following a creek that hadn’t made it onto Nick’s map. Jeffrey slowed the car to a meandering pace, careful not to speed lest he meet a car coming from the opposite direction. He imagined it would be a truck, and that the truck would contain a local who didn’t cotton to someone being on his road, public right-of-way or not.

He didn’t meet any such truck, and when Sara told him to take the next right turn onto yet another deserted-looking gravel road, Jeffrey made a joke about leaving breadcrumbs.

Two miles down, there was a large, rusted mailbox beside a dilapidated lane, and Jeffrey pulled over to check the number. The sign was so faded that neither one of them could read anything, but a quick scan of Sara’s notes told them they were in the right place.

Jeffrey turned down the driveway, slowing to a stop to let a rabbit jump across the path. He went a few more feet, then slowed again for a couple of chickens. After the birds had taken their own sweet time moseying to the other side, Jeffrey accelerated, kicking up dust in his wake. He hadn’t meant to draw so much attention to himself, but maybe it was wise to announce your presence to a man who had been firebombed out of his own home.

“Well,” Sara said, surprised when she saw the house.

Jeffrey shared the feeling. Pfeiffer’s spread was a little more grand than what Jeffrey would have imagined if he’d let himself sit down and think about it. The house was on a rise, thick green grass carpeting the lawn, a stone path leading down to the creek. Built in a mini-plantation style, two large white columns held up a second floor balcony. Large floor-to-ceiling windows let in the afternoon sun and opened for a crosswind on more temperate days. On the bottom floor, a wraparound porch completed the picture.

Jeffrey parked his car on the pad in front of the mansion.

“Nice digs,” Sara commented.

“Why don’t you stay in the car?” Jeffrey suggested. “I’ll go make sure this is the right place.”

She opened her mouth to say something, then changed her mind and gave him a nod instead.

As Jeffrey got out of the car, he could hear the buzz of an air-conditioning unit coming from the side of the house, its insistent whirring blocking out the crickets and birds, though the rushing white waters of the creek managed to compete with the fan. He glanced around, looking for power lines, guessing they were buried in the ground. That would’ve set Pfeiffer back a wad of cash. It was three times more expensive to bury lines than it was to string them across the sky. Jeffrey assumed the man had laid a phone line in the process and wondered how he’d managed to have a phone number that Nick Shelton couldn’t trace. Maybe he had put it in his wife’s name, or a family member’s. Obviously, Al Pfeiffer had gone to some trouble to make sure he couldn’t be contacted.

Jeffrey put his hand in his pocket, trying to use the casual gesture to hide his trepidation. He felt the keyfob and realized he’d left Sara without any air-conditioning and no way to roll down the windows. He glanced back at the BMW. Sara waved and he nodded back.

He continued up the path. The closer he got to the house, the more he could see that there was something too new about the place, a crisp whiteness to the vinyl siding, a too-clean look to the porch stairs, that gave lie to its plantation roots. Climbing the cement stairs, Jeffrey figured that the house had probably been constructed by a local builder who specialized in slinging up little Taras. This far out in the middle of nowhere, it couldn’t have come cheap.

Between the sheriff’s pension, disability for his injuries, and whatever he had socked away, Al Pfeiffer was obviously living comfortably. This was certainly not the kind of place Jeffrey would choose for his retirement, but the isolation had its benefits, especially when you were the type of person to open your front door with a shotgun in your hand.

“What do you want?”

Jeffrey’s hand had been raised to knock when the front door was flung open. The shotgun was pointed squarely in his face, about two inches from his nose. Now that Jeffrey thought about it, he’d heard the quick cha-chunk of the pump being jerked, a shell being loaded into the chamber, as he’d lifted his hand in the air. He had been just a few seconds off from registering the sound, though, and those few seconds could have meant life and death if the man behind the gun hadn’t been more careful. Or maybe the man was just terrified. His eyes kept darting over Jeffrey’s shoulder, checking to see if he was alone.

Jeffrey still had his hand in his pocket. He found the keyfob and pressed the lock button, hoping to God the BMW was within reach of the signal.

“You got to the count of three before I blow off your head and ask questions later.”

“Are you Al Pfeiffer?”

“Who the fuck else would I be?”

“I’ve got my—” Jeffrey slid his hand out of his pocket so he could reach for his badge. He stopped when the man moved closer, firmly pressing the barrel of the Remington under Jeffrey’s right eye.

Saliva spit from Pfeiffer’s mouth when he demanded, “You think I’m stupid, boy?”

Slowly, Jeffrey put both of his hands in the air. He wanted to look over his shoulder. Where was Sara? Was she safe? His heart was beating so hard in his chest that he could barely hear his own voice when he told the man, “I’m a cop.”

The weapon held steady, but the fear in the man’s eyes was unmistakable. “I know what you are.”

“My wife is in the car. I don’t want her to get hurt.”

He glanced over Jeffrey’s shoulder. “I don’t give a fuck who’s in that car. She gets out, that’s the last thing you’ll ever hear.”

Jeffrey looked down the barrel of the shotgun at Al Pfeiffer, saw the way he struggled to keep the tremor out of his hands. He also saw the damage from the firebomb. Mottled skin slackened one side of his face, his left eye nearly closed from scarring. He was wearing a short-sleeved dress shirt, white and finely starched, the grotesque scarring on his arms showing where the flesh had been burned off the bone. There were tears in his eyes, but Jeffrey did not know if this was from pain or fear. This close up, it looked like a combination of both.

Jeffrey took a step back, away from the pressure of the barrel against his face. “I’m the chief of police for Grant County.”

Pfeiffer held the shotgun steady at Jeffrey’s chest. “I don’t care if you’re the fucking President of the United States. Get off my land.”

“Why are you scared of another cop?”

“You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t already know the answer to that.”

“I just want to talk.”

“Do I look like I wanna talk to you?”

“I need to know—”

“You see this gun pointing at you, boy?” The man took a step closer, the barrel of the shotgun pressing hard into Jeffrey’s chest. Pfeiffer was about half a foot shorter and twenty years older, but his voice was firm when he said, “You listenin’ to me, boy?” He paused, but not for an answer. “I done told you I ain’t got nothing to say to nobody. You hear? Nothing.”

“I just—”

“You go back and tell them that, hear? You tell them Al Pfeiffer told you to fuck on off back to the hell you came from.”

“If you could just—”

“You get off my property!” the old man screamed. “You get into that fancy car of yours and if you ever come back, I’ll chop you up and throw you to the gators. You got that?”

Jeffrey knew better than to argue, especially since he was entirely confident that Al Pfeiffer was more than prepared to carry out his threat. “I got you.”

“Now, get,” Pfeiffer said, using the barrel to push Jeffrey away.

Jeffrey walked backward, not wanting to turn his back on the man until he absolutely had to. Fury was something he could handle, but fear made people irrational. Jeffrey didn’t want to be in range of that shotgun if Al Pfeiffer decided letting Jeffrey go scot-free wasn’t the right course of action.

Which, the moment Jeffrey turned around, is exactly what the man did.

The first shot must have been fired into the air, but it was loud enough to make Jeffrey hunch his shoulders. He heard Sara scream, then the second shot cracked the air. This one was a more direct warning, scattering the gravel about six inches from where Jeffrey stood. He scrambled to get out of the way, slipping on the loose stone, falling hard on his palms.

“Shit,” he cursed, making himself stand. It wasn’t going to be like this, not with him biting dirt while some madman played target practice. Jeffrey held up his hands in the air, yelling, “You’re gonna have to shoot me in the back, if that’s the kind of man you are.”

The shotgun pumped again, loading another shell.

“No!” Sara screamed, pounding her fists against the window. “Jeffrey!”

He walked toward the car, hands in the air, this time leaving his back as a clear target. He stared at Sara. Her fists froze mid-strike, inches from the window. There was a valet key in the center console. She had to know that. He had told her when he put it there and she’d made some joke about having to drive to Atlanta before they’d find a valet to use it.

Sara’s mouth moved. He read the words. “Hurry, hurry, hurry…”

An eternity seemed to pass as Jeffrey closed the twenty feet between himself and the car. His back felt white-hot, more from the bull’s-eye painted on it than from the blazing sun.

While time had slowed down as he walked to the car, the clock started ticking as soon as he got behind the wheel. He fumbled with the keyfob, and Sara snatched it out of his hand, starting the car herself.

“Go,” she begged. “Hurry.”

He threw the car into reverse and punched his foot on the gas. A quick look showed him that Al Pfeiffer was still holding his stance, legs spread, back straight, shotgun pointed into the air. The bastard had a smug smile on his face as he watched the retreat. Jeffrey let off the gas a little as he reversed out of the driveway, letting the man know he shouldn’t get too cocky just yet.

Jeffrey headed straight out the way they had come. The car bumped against the curve as he pulled back onto the main road. He chanced a look at Sara. She was clutching the door handle so hard that her knuckles had turned white.

As soon as they passed the post office, she told him, “Pull over.”

Jeffrey slowed the car, afraid she was going to be sick.

“Pull over,” she repeated, opening the door.

He slammed on the brakes. Sara didn’t even wait for the car to stop before jumping out.

Jeffrey slid across the seats, following her. “Are you—”

She turned on him, slapping him square across the face. For a full ten seconds, Jeffrey was too stunned to react. She had never hit him, never so much as raised her hand.

He rubbed his face, felt the inside of his cheek with his tongue. “You wanna tell me what the hell that was about?”

Sara paced in front of him, cupping her hands over her mouth. He knew that she couldn’t yell when she was this angry. Her words got caught in her throat and her tone went so low that she could barely make a sound.

“Sara—”

“You asshole,” she whispered. “You stupid, arrogant asshole.”

Jeffrey smiled because he knew that it would irritate the shit out of her. He had no idea what she was mad about, but he knew that if she slapped him again, there was going to be a real problem.

He glanced at the road as a green pickup truck drove by, slowing for the show. They hadn’t seen another car since they’d entered Dug Rut. This was probably the biggest thing to hit town since the stop sign had been installed at the end of Main Street.

Sara waited for the truck to pass before asking, “Why did you slow down?”

“When did I—” He stopped. The driveway. He had slowed when he’d seen that smug look on Al Pfeiffer’s face.

“You couldn’t let him get the best of you, could you? You just had to slow down and goad him on.” She shook her head, tears welling into her eyes. “You’re just as bad as Lena. You play these games with people, these glorified pissing contests, like it’s not a matter of life and death.” She tapped her hand to her chest. “My life, Jeffrey. Your death.”

Jeffrey tried to shrug it off. “His shots were wide. They were just a warning.”

“Oh, you have no idea how consoling I find that.”

“You can’t let people like that know you’re scared.”

“You can’t let people know you’re scared,” she corrected. “He had a gun, Jeffrey. A shotgun.”

“We were out of range.”

“Out of range?” she echoed, incredulous. She held up her finger to stop the words that were about to come out of his mouth. “You locked me in the car. He put that gun in your face and you locked me in the car.”

“I was trying to protect you.”

“Who was protecting you?” she demanded. “I’m not a child, Jeffrey. I’m not some scared little girl who needs her hand held to cross the street.”

“And I am?”

She didn’t answer. Her focus had shifted from Jeffrey to something over his shoulder. The green pickup was back, slowing down for another look. The windows were tinted, but as he turned, Jeffrey could make out two figures behind the dark glass as the truck rolled by. It occurred to Jeffrey that maybe the driver wasn’t looking for a show. Maybe he was looking to finish what Al Pfeiffer had started.

He ordered, “Get in the car.”

Sara didn’t argue. She walked briskly toward the BMW and Jeffrey followed. He climbed behind the wheel and started the engine, not bothering to look for traffic as he pulled back onto the road. He glanced in the rearview mirror, watching the truck make another U-turn.

He told Sara, “They turned around.”

She slipped on her seat belt, clicking it into place.

The BMW gave a slight jerk as he pressed the accelerator to the floor. The truck sped up as well. Sweat rolled down Jeffrey’s back as he navigated the snaking road. Two minutes passed before the truck pulled off onto a dirt trail. Either the man had lost interest or he knew that there was no way he could take on the in-line six.

Or both Jeffrey and Sara were paranoid as hell.

“They’re not following,” he told her, though she had seen as much in the mirror on the visor.

She pressed her lips together, stared out the window.

He asked, “Are you all right?”

“Why did we come here?”

“What?”

“Why did we come here?” She was speaking in a regular tone of voice now, but he could tell he was still not off the hook. “Why did we have to come to this place?”

“I told you. I wanted to talk to Al Pfeiffer.”

“To accomplish what?”

“To see why he left town.”

“He left town because someone tried to kill him and his entire family.”

Suddenly, Jeffrey found himself longing for her silence. “This is my job, Sara. I talk to people who don’t want to talk to me.”

“As far as I can recall, you’ve never been shot at by one of them before.”

He let his lack of response concede the point.

She asked, “What does any of this have to do with Lena?”

“I don’t know.”

“How does this help find out who was in the Escalade or why they were killed?”

“I don’t know that, either.”

“Well,” she said, rolling down the window a few inches, letting in some air. “You don’t seem to know a lot of things.”

Now the silence came. Jeffrey gladly welcomed it, staring ahead at the empty highway, counting off the mile markers. He found it difficult to swallow as he thought about the gravel spraying up, the gunshot ringing in his ears. Why had he slowed down the car? What primal instinct had made him take his foot off the gas, to push back at the man who had nearly pushed him into oblivion?

Pfeiffer had been carrying a Remington Wingmaster, the kind of shotgun used by most law enforcement officers. Jeffrey had lied when he’d told Sara that they were out of range when he took his foot off the gas. If Pfeiffer was a good shot, and his nearly fifty years toting a badge indicated he probably was, the man could have taken out Sara or Jeffrey with a twitch of his finger.

He had to get Sara out of here. She was right that he was like Lena, but they were alike because they were both cops. There were certain people in this world that you couldn’t show your weak side to. As far as Jeffrey was concerned, Sara was his weak side. Her safety had been the first thought that came to his mind when he’d seen that shotgun. He had locked the doors because he didn’t want her running to the house and getting her head blown off. He could not worry about his own safety so long as she was in jeopardy, and the only way to remedy the problem was to send Sara back to Grant County.

But, then, why had Jeffrey slowed the car? Why had he kept Sara in range of the shotgun just to prove a point? He could have gotten her killed.

At least half an hour of driving passed before his chest stopped feeling like a rubber band was around his heart, and it took another half hour for him to realize that the reason his hands were sticking to the wheel was because the side of his left palm had been ripped open on the gravel driveway.

Jeffrey coasted into the first gas station he saw.

Sara looked at the gas gauge on the dash as if to check up on him. That hadn’t been why he’d stopped, but the needle was halfway down to the E, so Jeffrey decided he might as well fill up the tank. If Sara noticed the blood on his hands and the steering wheel, she didn’t say anything.

Jeffrey’s gun and holster were still tucked under his seat and he clipped them onto his belt as he got out of the car. He fumbled with the gas cap, fingers stiff from being wrapped around the steering wheel, and managed to get the nozzle in the tank before walking to the little convenience store. When he opened the glass door, he had to duck at the last minute to avoid a cowbell hanging from the jamb.

“Sorry about that,” the clerk apologized, though the smirk on his face said watching unsuspecting customers get smacked in the head was one of his favorite pastimes. “Gotta move that thing one day.”

Jeffrey glared at the young man as he made his way to the back of the store. Inside the bathroom, he looked at himself in the mirror, saw his hair was damp with sweat, that dirt had splattered his shirt when the gravel scattered. His hands were a mess and he used a paper towel to turn on the faucet so he wouldn’t leave blood all over the fixture. The cold water stung like hellfire, but he kept his hands under the stream, trying to clean the debris out of his wounds.

“Jesus,” he muttered, glancing into the mirror again. He shook his head, trying to think through what had happened. His intention had been to talk to Pfeiffer cop to cop, have a little off-the-record conversation about the situation in Elawah so that Jeffrey could figure out what exactly Lena had gotten herself into. Was he dealing with skinheads? Would Jake Valentine be any help? Could anybody left in the sheriff’s department be trusted?

Pfeiffer had been firebombed out of town, so Jeffrey doubted seriously that the man wielded any true power. Smug attitude aside, the ex-sheriff had obviously been terrified to find Jeffrey at his front door. A cop was only afraid of another cop for one reason: corruption. The question was, who was crooked in Elawah’s sheriff’s department? Jeffrey wouldn’t put Jake Valentine at the top of his list, but you never knew. And of course there was always Deputy Donald Cook, who Nick had easily pegged for taking something under the table. Cook certainly wasn’t happy with his job. He’d made no attempt to hide the fact that he thought his boss was an idiot.

But all of this kept bringing him back to Sara’s big question: what did any of it have to do with Lena?

Nothing. It was all a bunch of loose threads that may or may not tie together. Skinheads trafficked meth, Hank Norton used meth. Ethan Green was a skinhead, the thug in the white sedan was a skinhead. Al Pfeiffer was terrified of cops, Lena had escaped from the cops.

Someone had died in Lena’s presence. There had to be something out there that Jeffrey was missing, some piece of information that would pull it all together. There had to be a reason Lena had left that hospital without talking to him first. She could be ball-breakingly stubborn about so many things, but she was not stupid. There had to be a logical explanation.

Using one of the flimsy paper towels from the dispenser, Jeffrey washed his face as best he could, patting his neck and chest to clean off the dried blood. His hand was still throbbing, but he tried to ignore it as he walked back through the store.

“What’s the damage?” Jeffrey asked, pulling out his county credit card.

“Sorry.” The clerk pointed to a sign behind him that said, “In God we trust. All others pay cash.”

“Right.” Fortunately, Jeffrey had dropped by a cash machine before heading out of Grant County yesterday afternoon. He pointed to the first-aid packets behind the clerk. “Give me a couple packs of those aspirin, too.”

“Thirty-eight fifty-three,” the clerk told him, tossing the aspirin on the counter and taking the bills Jeffrey handed him. “Bad day?”

Jeffrey ripped open the pack with his teeth. “What do you think?”

The clerk bristled. “No need to take it out on me, buddy.” He rang the sale and handed Jeffrey the change. “You take care, now.”

“You, too,” Jeffrey managed, ducking past the cowbell as he left the store.

In the car, Sara kept her own counsel. Jeffrey pulled back onto the road and followed the signs back to the highway.

The sun was finally setting as he managed to get to the interstate. The aspirin hadn’t even touched his headache. Sara must have been exhausted. By the time they crossed into Elawah County, her head was tilted to her shoulder, and she was making that soft, clicking noise she always made when she slept.

Jeffrey took the unopened bottle of water she’d bought him at the rest stop and drank it down. There was some wisdom to the adage that you should be careful what you wish for. This morning, he’d been thinking it would be nice to see a flash of Sara’s anger. Now, all that he could think was that it was a hell of a lot easier to love her when she was sleeping.

The sign outside the motel was barely doing its job when he pulled into the space in front of their room. Only seven letters were left to illuminate the entire parking lot. Jeffrey cut the engine as he surveyed their surroundings. A black Dodge Ram was parked a few spaces down from him. The flickering light in the hotel office told him that the manager was watching television. When Jeffrey had checked in, the boy had glanced up from the set with glassy eyes, so bored he could barely manage to blink. Jeffrey imagined there were worse jobs you could have. Working a convenience store where your biggest thrill came from whacking strangers in the head with a cowbell came to mind.

Jeffrey reached over and gently shook Sara awake. She squinted at the hotel, confused for a moment, then sat up, obviously remembering soon enough where they were and what had happened.

He couldn’t keep himself from asking, “You okay?”

She nodded, opening the door, getting out of the car.

Jeffrey followed suit, stretching his back as he stood. His hand went to his holster when he heard a noise behind him.

“Sorry about that.” Jake Valentine came out of the shadows, an open beer bottle in one hand, a small cooler in the other. He startled when he saw Jeffrey. “Something happen?”

“Just went for a drive,” was the best that Jeffrey could come up with.

Sara walked toward the motel room, offering, “I’ll leave you two alone.”

“Uh, ma’am?” Valentine stopped her. “I just wanted to say I’m real sorry for what I said last night. Heat of the moment and all. I should’ve just held my tongue. I didn’t mean what I said.”

She nodded. “Thank you for apologizing.”

If Valentine had been expecting a more grateful response, he was talking to the wrong woman. Jeffrey unlocked the door for her. Sara reached down and wrapped her hand around his wrist, letting it rest there for a few seconds. He felt pathetically grateful for the gesture and gave her the room key because it seemed like a symbolic thing to do. She smiled at him—genuinely smiled—and he felt the band that had been squeezing his chest for the last four hours loosen some more.

“Only be a minute,” Valentine said, as if he was worried Jeffrey would follow Sara into the room.

Jeffrey was tempted, but as the door clicked shut, he asked Valentine, “What’s going on, Jake? You find Lena?”

Valentine chuckled as he put the cooler on the ground and pulled out a fresh beer. Jeffrey saw four empties tucked into what was left of the ice. “Brought you one of these. Peace offering.”

“Thanks,” Jeffrey said, holding the cold bottle against his head. He’d driven at least ten hours today on about two hours of sleep. His muscles ached, his head throbbed, and the last thing he wanted to be doing right now was talking to Jake Valentine.

Still, he walked toward the front of the motel, seeing if the sheriff would follow. The man obviously wanted something, and Jeffrey was going to make it as difficult as possible for the sheriff to ask for his favor. He could consider it payback for their little do-si-do in the linen closet last night.

A long tunnel ran behind the front office of the motel, giving access to either side. Jeffrey wasn’t really hungry, but he knew he should try to eat something. He asked Valentine, “You got any money?”

Valentine pulled a handful of coins out of his pocket. Jeffrey took what he needed and fed it into the machine. He stared at the candy bars and crackers, trying to decide which was less likely to give him indigestion. He settled on SunChips and made the selection.

“I like those, too,” Valentine offered.

Jeffrey held out the bag. “You want some?” Valentine shook his head and Jeffrey took a seat on one of the wooden benches opposite the vending machines. He ripped the bag open with his teeth and ate a few chips. They were stale.

Valentine just stood there watching him, obviously not knowing what to do. He looked even younger out of his uniform, his spaghetti build punctuated by the high-waisted jeans and overlarge polo shirt. The Georgia Bulldog red ball cap he was wearing wasn’t helping much, either. It sat tilted slightly to the side on his narrow head. Even with the noticeable bulge from his ankle holster, he looked like a starter for the varsity basketball team.

If Jake Valentine was the secret drug kingpin of Elawah County, he was sure hiding it well.

“Nice night,” Valentine murmured. “You and the wife out for a drive?”

Jeffrey opened the bottle with a twist, ignoring the pain shooting through his hand. He hated beer, but his head was hurting so bad he would’ve drunk poison to make it stop pounding.

Valentine said, “All jokes aside, still no sign of your detective.”

Jeffrey wasn’t surprised. Short of Lena knocking on the front door of the jail and asking to be let in, he doubted very seriously that she would be found. Jeffrey had asked Frank Wallace to keep an eye on her credit cards, but Jeffrey assumed nothing had come up or Frank would’ve called. He also asked the senior detective to keep an eye out in Heartsdale, but both men had agreed that it was highly unlikely Lena would show back up in Grant County.

Jeffrey stared at the abandoned building on the other side of the motel, a tin-roofed hovel that some enterprising soul had painted to look like a grass shack.

“Hank’s place,” Valentine volunteered, nodding toward the building. “Bartender was selling meth from behind the counter. ATF said a secret informer tipped ’em off. Told me this after the fact, mind you. First I heard about it was Junior, the night manager here, calling to ask me did I know Hank’s bar was surrounded by sixty state police cars.”

Jeffrey took another swig from the bottle. He could hear the trickle of a stream, the swaying of trees in the forest that backed onto the hotel and bar. He wanted to be home, floating on his back in the lake, the sound of Sara and her sister’s laughter muffled by the cool water. He wanted to be in bed, lying on his back, with Sara’s mouth on him.

Valentine cut through his thoughts. “I’m guessing you already knew about Hank’s bar,” he said. “Just like I’m guessing you’re the one who cut the ATF tape on the back door.”

“Good guess,” Jeffrey said, though he had a feeling Lena had done the honors. So, she was looking for something. The cut tape was like a fingerprint. All it told you was that someone had been there. It didn’t tell you when or why. Maybe she had gone there for money. Maybe she had been there last night while Jeffrey and Sara tried to sleep.

“Anyway…” Valentine stubbed his toe against the asphalt. “I was in the neighborhood and figured I’d just…”

Jeffrey gave a heavy sigh as he stood from the bench, too tired to let this play out slow. “I take it from the empty bottles in your cooler that you’ve been here a while. You’re not in uniform, so you’re trying to look like you’re off duty, but the fact that a three-year-old could spot that ankle holster tells me you’ve either been watching too much TV or you’ve got something to be afraid of. My bet’s on the last one.”

Valentine chuckled, but Jeffrey could tell the younger man was shaken. He looked out at the parking lot, took a long pull from his beer.

Jeffrey tossed the empty SunChips bag into the trash. “Tell me about Al Pfeiffer.”

“Al retired.”

“Why?”

“Wanted to spend more time with his grandbabies.”

“And less time on fire?”

Valentine’s eyes narrowed. “Why’re you interested in that old man?”

Jeffrey took a healthy mouthful of beer, trying not to shudder from the bitter taste. Not only did Valentine look like a teenager, he had the tastes of one. Jeffrey would’ve bet his pension the kid hadn’t paid more than three bucks for the six-pack.

“Lookit,” Valentine said. “I just wanted to let you know we’ve got the coroner coming in tomorrow.”

Finally, the reason for his visit. “That so?”

“He’s gonna look at the body from the Escalade, let us know what he thinks happened.”

“Sounds like a good plan.”

“You mentioned before about your wife…” Valentine’s voice trailed off. When he saw that Jeffrey wasn’t going to help him, he added, “It just sounded to me like she’s got a lot of experience.”

Jeffrey could not believe what he was hearing. “She does.”

“I’d be real grateful if you could have her come over, maybe look at the body, tell us what she sees.”

Jeffrey tried to see the angles, to figure out why Valentine would make such a request. Nothing came to mind, and the beer wasn’t helping. “I thought you said your guy was good.”

“Oh, he is, but something like this…look, we’d pay her. We’ve still got some money left in the budget. Just tell me what her rate is.”

Jeffrey knocked back the rest of the beer and immediately wished he had another, then he thought of his father and wished he hadn’t drunk anything at all.

Valentine took his silence the wrong way. “I can get cash if—”

“Are they paying you off?”

“What’s that?”

Jeffrey pressed his empty bottle into the man’s chest. “Something’s going on in your town and you’re either a part of it or you’re taking money to look the other way.”

Valentine gave a forced laugh. “You sure those are my only options?”

Jeffrey warned him, “Listen, Barney Fife, I’m going to find out what’s going on here one way or another, and I don’t care whose toes I have to step on to do it.”

“You gonna punch me again?”

Jeffrey thought back to Sara slapping him, how powerless she must have felt locked in the car. “I might.”

Valentine leaned down to put Jeffrey’s bottle in the cooler. When he straightened, he gave Jeffrey a lazy half-smile like they were old friends. “You should come to my house for supper sometime.”

Jeffrey walked back down the tunnel toward the parking lot. “Why would I want to do that?”

Valentine matched his stride. “I’ll show you around, point out the little projects I’ve been working on.” He flashed his goofy grin. “I’m a lot handier than I look.”

“You going somewhere with this?”

“We’re trying to build a deck out back. Every payday, we buy a couple of pieces of cedar for it. The wife figures it’ll take a year before we’ve got everything we need, but we’re real patient people. We’re not like some folks who can just throw money around, raising mansions out of swampland. We just take our time and do it the right way.”

He was talking about Al Pfeiffer. Jeffrey wondered if Valentine knew his old boss had been paid a visit today. Pfeiffer probably still had ties to the community, maybe came back to see friends. People would know where he was living. They would keep in touch.

Jeffrey was in front of the room. He pointed to the door. “This is my stop.”

Valentine tipped his hat. “You enjoy your evening, Chief. Let me know what your wife says.”

Jeffrey watched the man put the cooler in the passenger seat of his black truck, then walk around to the driver’s side. He opened the door and tossed Jeffrey a wave before getting in. Once the truck pulled away, Jeffrey could see the desk clerk peering out the window. He felt the kid’s eyes on him as he knocked on the door.

Sara wasn’t exactly smiling when she opened the door, but she hadn’t called him a stupid asshole in at least four hours, so maybe his luck had turned.

The room was as dank as it was depressing; exactly as Jeffrey had remembered it from the night before. Sara had already removed the dark, multi-patterned coverlet off the bed. He wondered how much DNA had been transferred in the process.

She asked, “What did our new best friend want?”

“For you to do the autopsy on the body.”

“Why would he want that?”

“Good question,” he replied, sitting on the bed. He thought better of it and lay down on his side, bunching the pillows up under his head, kicking off his shoes. “Add that to the long list of things I don’t know.”

She walked to the door and checked the lock, then turned out the lights. In the dark, the mattress shifted as she got into bed. Like Jeffrey, she didn’t bother to take off her clothes. He waited for her to curl up beside him, but she didn’t.

Sara had once told him that even when they were divorced, she’d still had nightmares about getting a phone call in the middle of the night. It was something even cops couldn’t joke about, that fateful call that told your wife or girlfriend or lover that your number had finally come up. Some coked-out idiot or stupid drunk had pulled a knife, squeezed the trigger, and there was nothing your loved ones could do but pick up the phone, wait for the words.

She must have been thinking about that today when Al Pfeiffer pulled the trigger. She must have been terrified that she was going to be trapped in the car, unable to help him, watching him die.

“Jeff?” He wasn’t sure what he expected Sara to say to him, but as usual, she managed to come up with something he could have never anticipated. “I was thinking about fixing the patio—maybe replacing some of those broken stones, making the wall a little higher so people can sit on it without their knees going up around their ears.” She paused. “What do you think?”

He rolled over onto his back. A thin stream of light was coming in through the curtains and he could just make out her profile. “I think the last time you messed with concrete, we had to borrow your dad’s jack-hammer.”

“The bag said it was self-leveling.”

He smiled at the familiar excuse.

“I want to do the autopsy.”

Jeffrey didn’t know what to say. His initial response was to say no, but that was only because Jake Valentine had asked her to do it. “I don’t know that it’ll get us out of here any sooner.”

Her silence told him she wasn’t going to be easily swayed. Jeffrey tried to frame his next words carefully, offering, “I can ask Frank to drive down here and pick you up after you’re finished.”

“No,” she told him. “I’m not going to leave you.”

“What if I want you to?”

The phone started to ring before she could answer. Jeffrey leaned over her and picked up the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Why are you still there?”

Jeffrey sat up so fast that he jerked the phone off the bedside table. “Lena?”

“You can’t be there,” she said, her voice a raspy whisper. “Why are you still there?”

“Where are you?” he asked. “Let me come get you.”

She started crying, sobs choking her words. “Why…?” she cried. “Why didn’t they kill me instead?”

“Who?” he demanded, confused. “Who are you talking about?”

“Just go,” she begged. “You have to go before they—”

“Who’s they, Lena? Who’s after you?” All he heard was the staccato of her breath. “Lena?” He pressed the phone to his ear. “Lena? Are you there? Where are you? Let me come get you.”

The line went dead.