On Wednesday morning Kershaw climbs out of bed and takes a long shower, trying to clear his mind of distractions and focus his attention on the task at hand. Yesterday, as they were finishing lunch, Maguire had called.
We found the Monte Carlo.
Where?
In the back of a used car lot. In Panama City.
I see.
The detective looked over at Faye, who was pretending not to listen by staring out the window at the afternoon clouds gathering, blossoming, over Lake Baylor.
I’m bringing him in, Dave. Tomorrow.
Bringing who in?
Harry Crosby, the guy that owns the lot. And I want you to talk to him.
Fine. What time?
Ten. Look, I can send a patrol car out, Maguire offered in a softer voice. Someone to stay with her.
That’s not necessary. Dieter’ll be here.
A pause. Kershaw looked over at Faye again, who was watching a bass boat, in no particular hurry, putter across the channel.
The writer, Maguire said.
Yeah, the writer.
Great. I suppose he’ll put us all in his next book. He’ll call you Dave Kershaw. And I’ll be that other guy, Jack Maguire.
Kershaw considered denying this then realized that the detective sergeant was probably right.
Faye is already up, already brewing a pot of coffee when Kershaw, fresh from his shower, ambles into the kitchen. He’s surprised by how well rested and upbeat she looks. As someone who routinely encounters cowardice—hard-ass perps bawling in the back seat of a patrol car—he admires her courage, her tenacity, her stubborn refusal, in the face of fear, to cave in. She pecks his cheek and squeezes his shoulder and pours him a mug of coffee. Out the window, the lake’s pewter water trembles in the morning mist.
So you have to go in early huh.
Actually not till Dieter gets here. Not till nine.
Good. While I make us some breakfast, we can talk.
Talk?
I wanna hear about New Orleans. What it was like to grow up in New Orleans.
As he waits for breakfast he describes the house he grew up in on the Bayou St. John, the freshly-ground boudin his mother used to fry on Sunday mornings, his first plate of beignets not at Café du Monde but at a little corner grocery in Faubourg Marigny.
Smiling, Faye sets his plate down. Two fried eggs, three strips of bacon, yeasty rolls slathered with butter and honey. He digs in. Talking about his mother’s boudin has made him ravenous.
In the spring, he says between bites, when he was a teenager, he would catch the City Park streetcar to the French Quarter then stroll along the river listening to a gospel singer’s stirring rendition of “Amazing Grace” or to one of the makeshift horn ensembles in Jackson Square. On Ursuline Avenue the ornate balconies were strung with colorful beads. On Toulouse Street a cop bantered with the driver of a delivery truck backed up to a small café with a tub of crawfish on ice a chef would then transform, evidently through some kind of culinary black magic, his mother claimed, into the city’s best etouffee. Gumbo, jambalaya, etouffee, he practically chants, his gaze unfocused, his voice a curl of smoke.
Faye tells him that she went there once. When she was a kid.
Oh yeah? How old were you?
I don’t know, eleven? Twelve?
And?
And I loved it! We stayed at this quaint old hotel in the Quarter and got up every morning and just walked around, gawking. She laughs, deprecatingly. Typical tourists, right?
Kershaw shook his head. The thing is, when I was a kid I loved the French Quarter just as much as the tourists did. The music, the food, the energy. I took pride in the fact that people came from all over the world to visit my town.
But sometimes nostalgia hurt, too. The stately old St. Louis Cathedral darkened by a canopy of clouds, the earthen levees along the Bayou St. John, Royal Street in the rain. In his mind, in his heart, it was all gone now, ancient history. Even the memories have begun to fade.
So what about you? What about Terre Haute?
Faye laughs at the question but he doesn’t take offense. When was the last time he heard, in this somber, solitary kitchen, a woman’s laughter?
What can I say? Compared to New Orleans, Terre Haute’s pretty, I don’t know, bland?
It’s a factory town, right?
Factory town. Blue-collar town.
Conservative?
You have no idea.
Kershaw glances out the window at the opposite shoreline, momentarily distracted by a glimpse of a man striding, through the mist, across the lawn behind Vince Richardson’s cabin. He’s surprised. Vince usually doesn’t return to the cabin until September.
All I knew for sure, Faye says, when I was growing up? Was that I was going to leave. As soon as I was able, I was going to leave.
Kershaw nods, still distracted. At the edge of Vince’s property the man slips into the shadows of a grove of trees and disappears. Why would Vince come back so soon? He spent his summers up north, in Michigan. Place called Rifle Lake.
So you went to Mexico, he says flatly.
I went to Mexico, she answers, following his gaze out the window. I went to Mexico. And now I’m here.
He shows her the .45 he keeps in the top drawer of his dresser. Nodding, she picks up the pistol and immediately flips open the magazine to see if it’s loaded. Pleased by her apparent familiarity with the weapon, Kershaw grins his crooked grin.
You shoot.
I shoot.
Excellent!
Faye studies him for a minute, amused.
You know you look very . . . I don’t know. Relieved?
No, no, I just didn’t want to alarm you. Didn’t want you to think—
It’s okay, Dave. She touches his arm. I understand.
It’s a precaution, that’s all.
Of course it is.
She follows him down the hallway. He’s carrying a briefcase and he seems more relaxed now, more confident, ready for the day.
So who taught you how to shoot, your dad?
Faye smiles, coyly. You really wanna know?
I really wanna know.
How about I give you a clue.
Fine. I’m good with clues.
I figured as much. You being a detective and all.
In the kitchen she clears the table and loads the dishwasher while Kershaw shuffles through the papers in his briefcase, making sure he has everything he needs.
It was someone in Mexico, she says.
Kershaw nods, still scanning a document. Let me guess. Dieter.
Nope.
Parrish then, the vet.
Nope.
He locks the briefcase and lifts his palms. Sorry, darlin’, but I think I need another clue.
Faye shakes her head, grinning. So is that what you tell your suspects, I need another clue?
Sometimes.
She closes the dishwasher and switches on the pre-rinse. Behind a boarded-up cantina on the outskirts of the village, Chance balanced an empty beer bottle on top of a post. Then he showed Faye how to grip her left hand around her right to steady the barrel of the pistol. How to press, not jerk, the trigger. She closed her right eye, squeezed the trigger, and watched the bottle explode.
Kershaw looks befuddled. You’re kidding me, right? Tell me you’re kidding me, you.
You can’t make it up, she shrugs.
Killer, Chance whispered, leaning in close.
At the front door Faye assures him that it’s okay to leave.
You sure?
Of course I’m sure. Dieter’ll be here any minute. And you need to get to work.
She tilts her face up for a kiss. On the lips this time. Go on now, she repeats, shooing him out the door. Go catch the bad guy. Isn’t that what they pay you to do?