Thirty-Two

For the first time in years, a middle of the night phone call awakened Jack Wilkins.

He grabbed the phone automatically, barking, “Wilkins,” just as he had when some gunshot or stabbing would get him out of bed. But instead of a police dispatcher, Mary Crow’s voice came over the line.

“Jack? I’m sorry to wake you up, but I need your help.”

“What’s wrong?” he asked, flattered that she’d thought of him.

“Some thugs are coming down pretty hard on Grace and Zack Collier.”

“Oh?”

“Somebody broke into their home and demolished Zack’s bedroom. Decapitated all his stuffed animals and arranged his Barbie dolls in a kind of sex scene.”

Wilkins cringed at the notion of a grown man having Barbie dolls at all, but he pushed the thought aside and refocused on Mary Crow. “Did they call it in?”

“Yeah. Jerry Cochran came out and promised to up the patrols.”

“Then how can I help you?”

“I have an idea that somebody’s trying to scare Zack Collier into a confession. People have battered their mailbox, put dead animals in their yard, and they’re getting phone calls. Little girls call Zack during the day, pretending to be Teresa Ewing. A man makes threatening calls to Grace at night.”

“Did she tell Cochran all that?”

“She did, but she didn’t want to. She’s afraid of the cops. According to her, Buck Whaley comes over, hassles Zack every month or so.”

Wilkins frowned. “And you think Whaley’s behind all this?”

“No, no,” said Mary. “But I think that whoever’s doing this to the Colliers knows a lot about Teresa Ewing’s murder. If we can find them, we might finally learn the truth about what happened.”

He stretched the shoulder that always stiffened when he slept. “So what do you need from me?”

“I just called in a favor from some other clients of mine. I’m relocating the Colliers to some of their property tomorrow morning. I want you to find out who’s doing these things while they’re gone.”

Wilkins thought of the hours and days and years he and the rest of the department had devoted to this case. “I’m sorry, Mary, I can’t work to exonerate Zack Collier. It would be like, I don’t know, betraying my friends.”

“But you’d be trying to find out who’s stalking a fifty-something woman and her autistic son. That’s a crime, right there. Anyway, if my idea holds water, then you just might be the one to crack this case.”

He looked at the red numerals glowing on his clock radio. 1:23. He hadn’t been awake at this hour in years. It made him feel not sleepy, but youthful—as if the universe had reversed itself and was giving him another shot at catching the person who killed that child.

“Okay.” He grabbed a pen and the crossword puzzle book he worked every night, ready to write in the margin. “Tell me when and where.”

That had been six hours ago. Now it was just past dawn and the smell of coffee was wafting in from his kitchen. It was time to get up. Not to tend chickens or play golf, but to go somewhere and do something with meaning and purpose. He shaved and dressed, fixed the dog a bowl of kibble and himself a bowl of bran flakes. Then he let the chickens out of their coop, gathering four eggs in the process. After that, he went into the room that served as his office. Slowly he opened the lap drawer of his desk and pulled out his PI license. Though he hadn’t carried it for two years, it had not expired, and his ID photo still looked more or less like him.

“Who knew?” he whispered, glancing at his picture of nine-year-old Teresa Ewing. “All this time, and it’s still you.” He closed the drawer and wondered if he ought to get his Smith & Wesson. At first he thought, no, he was too old for fireworks. But then he changed his mind and grabbed the gun. You never knew when you might need protection, and these days a lot of nitwits sported their Second Amendment rights locked, loaded, and ready to go.

He strapped on his gun then zipped up the light tan jacket he wore on the golf course. As he headed for the back door Lucky followed him, tail wagging, bright eyes hopeful of inclusion. Jack had planned to leave him shut up in the kitchen with food and water, but then he changed his mind.

“Come on, boy,” he said. “You dug up the first clue in this old case. Maybe you can dig up the next one today.”

He drove to the address Mary had given him. Grace Collier’s house was a modest rancher, set back off a county road at the end of a gravel drive. Not totally isolated, but definitely out of the way to those unfamiliar with the area. The front yard was lush with flowers and bird feeders; a tall privacy fence hid the back yard from view. Jack saw Mary’s Miata parked near the garage, so he pulled up beside it. Leaving Lucky in the truck, he walked to the front door. Grace Collier answered his knock. He recognized her dark Cherokee eyes and high cheekbones right away. Though her hair was still black and her olive skin unlined, her mouth was drawn, and she looked at him warily.

“Hi, Jack.” Mary suddenly appeared behind Grace. “Did you have any trouble finding us?”

Before he could answer, Grace spoke. “You came to see us before, didn’t you,” she said softly. “With Whaley. When we lived on Salola Street.”

He nodded. “Yes ma’am. Whaley and I were partners then.”

“Did they bring you back on duty?” Grace’s tone was bitter. “Just to question us again?”

“I brought Detective Wilkins here, Grace,” Mary explained. “He’s retired from the force, working for me as a private investigator. I’m hoping he can figure out who’s been harassing you, while you and Zack are away.”

Grace snorted. “Oh sure. And just for fun maybe he can plant some new evidence.”

Jack was surprised at the woman’s cynicism, then further surprised when Mary Crow came to his defense. “That’s uncalled for, Grace,” she said, her voice like a knife. “You’ve hired me as your attorney. You have to trust that I’m doing the right thing.”

“Hadi.” Grace folded her arms across her chest.

Jack listened as they went for a couple more rounds in what he assumed was Cherokee. Mary Crow’s eyes flashed as she spoke, and it occurred to him that she’d be the last person he’d want to tie up with in court. Finally she stepped back as Grace Collier nodded at him. “Please come in, Detective Wilkins,” she said. “Forgive my rudeness. I just don’t have a very good history with the Pisgah County Sheriff’s Department.”

He smiled. “I understand.” He started to say something more—that he knew Whaley could be a jackass, that he’d ridden her son way too hard then and had, apparently, continued to do so, but then the boy himself came into the living room, dripping from a shower, with only a skimpy towel around his waist.

“Who’s here, Mama?” Zack asked, turning wide eyes on him. Jack marveled at how little the boy had changed. Where his own sons had put on muscle and grown out of their baby fat, Zack Collier had just turned into a bearded version of his fifteen-year-old self. There was little muscle tone in his arms and his fingers had dimples where knuckles should have been. Despite all that, Jack could see that had he been normal, he would have been as striking as his mother.

“You remember Mary, don’t you?” Grace hurried toward her son. “She’s going to take us on a vacation. Her friend Mr. Wilkins came along with her.”

“Is he going on our vacation too?” Zack eyed him suspiciously as his mother herded him out of the living room.

“No. I need you to pack up your videos and your animals and put on some clothes. We’re going to leave soon.”

“But I don’t want to leave! I want to … ”

“Zack, we talked about that this morning. Some very nice people are letting us use their cabin.”

Mary and Wilkins stood in the living room as their voices faded down the hall.

“That’s Zack in a good mood,” Mary told him. “It’s a whole different ball game when he gets mad. Most of these paintings are covering holes he put in the plaster.”

“Don’t they have places for people like him?” he asked.

“According to Grace, very few that welcome adults with anger-management issues.”

Jack nodded, remembering Whaley’s pet theory—that Zack Collier had killed Teresa Ewing and Grace had covered it up. In a way he couldn’t blame her—what parent would want to see their only, damaged child spend the rest of their life in the criminal ward at Naughton Hospital?

He turned to Mary. “Why don’t you show me where all this bad stuff’s been going on?”

She took him on a brief tour of the yard—pointing out where the dead animals had surrounded the bird feeder, showing him the remnants of the shattered mailbox.

As they returned to the front porch, he pointed to a series of small holes in the side of the house. “Grace ever mention these?”

Mary peered at the line of small dots. “Bullet holes?”

He nodded. “Looks like from a .22. Probably from a rifle, fired from the street.”

“Wonder why they didn’t aim for the window?” asked Mary.

Wilkins shrugged. “Bad aim, crappy rifle. Who knows?”

“Let’s just keep them to ourselves,” said Mary. “Grace may not know about them and it would be just one more thing for her to worry about.”

They went back inside the living room, where Grace had left her diary on the sofa. Mary picked it up and handed it to Jack.

“‘How I Was Driven Crazy, Volume 4’?” Jack had to laugh. “At least she hasn’t lost her sense of humor.”

“Everything’s in there—dates and times of footsteps in the driveway, crank calls at night. Even little cartoons that illustrate every incident.”

“If these calls are coming in on a landline, I can tap that here in the house. Phone records would take a subpoena.”

Mary was searching for a phone when Grace came back in the room.

“I’ve gotten Zack loaded up,” she announced, looking at Mary. “We’re ready to go any time you are.”

“Grace, have you got a landline?”

“In my room.” She led them to her bedroom and pointed to an old white phone on the bedside table. “Why?”

“I can record whoever’s calling you,” said Jack.

“How nice.” Grace gave another sardonic smile. “Our whole lives will be open for inspection.”

“Not really,” he replied, feeling both sympathy for and irritation with this woman. “Just the parts Ms. Crow wants me to inspect.”

Mary stepped forward. “Remember Grace, you need to trust me on this.”

She gave a reluctant sigh. “Okay. I’ll leave my house keys on the kitchen table. Mary, we’ll be waiting for you in the car.”

She feels violated, Jack thought as he watched her leave her own bedroom. Probably thinks I’m just another cop, trying to nail her son. He frowned at Mary. “Your client doesn’t seem exactly thrilled with any of this.”

“I don’t care,” Mary replied. “My client needs to do what I tell her.” She shouldered her bag. “I’ll leave you to it, Jack. I’ll give you a call tomorrow.”

“You have a weapon?”

She laughed. “You sound like my boyfriend.”

“Well, do you?”

“My old Glock Nine,” she said. “In my glove compartment.”

“Keep it with you. You never need it until you need it, and then you need it big-time.”

“Now you really do sound like Victor.”

He smiled at the woman he was growing to like. “Then I’ll take that as a compliment.”