Quayle sat in a rental car across from the Weavers’ property. Thanks to Giller’s hard work, Quayle already had in his possession a great deal of information about Holly Weaver’s life, including the school attended by the boy she was calling her son, but he had no idea what the boy in question looked like. He did know the time Saber Hill Elementary got out, though, and thirty minutes earlier had found himself a spot in a disused lot from which he could watch the road leading to the two Weaver houses.
At one p.m., a blue Chrysler that wouldn’t have been worth the price of the gas needed to get it to the dump, driven by a white-haired man in a black coat who was still trying and failing to secure his safety belt as he drove, pulled out and made the turn south. This would be Holly Weaver’s father, Owen. Quayle knew all about him as well: widowed once, divorced once; owned a big rig; not much money to speak of, and none likely to materialize at this late stage in his life.
Quayle stayed behind the Chrysler until it reached the school. He took a space farther along, from which he saw the white-haired man cross the street and join the conclave of parents milling by the gate. Quayle heard the school bell ring, and moments later the first of the children began to emerge, among them a boy with dark hair who moved slower than the rest, as though the bag on his back weighed more than it should, but who still managed the faintest of smiles for his grandfather.
Quayle released his breath, his whole body sagging with relief, like a man long burdened with illness welcoming at last the possibility of an end to his pain. Hand in hand, Owen Weaver and the boy walked to the car, Quayle’s eyes fixed on them throughout.
Funny, Quayle thought, how some boys take after their mothers.
He needed no further confirmation from Giller. He had found Karis Lamb’s child.