Two days passed without any hint of outside interest in the ledger. Judge McKenna and I worked through an outline of a structure for the Second Chance Center. I spoke with Gloria and Roslyn about the purchase of Gloria’s farm. We signed the contract I’d written with the understanding it was contingent on the county approving the center. I wasn’t sure Gloria understood all of the details, but she was pleased I was going to be living on her farm.
The most recent storm had left layers of sleet, wet snow, and freezing rain, making all of the weather forecasters happy. Unfortunately, the precipitation added more weight to the roof of the old farm house, and another portion of it collapsed onto the second floor. Water was seeping into the plaster and parts of the walls, and ceilings had fallen.
I hadn’t heard from IRS Agent Bauer about my tax issues since he witnessed the exchange between Reggie and me. Yesterday, I received a voice message from a Nikki Davenport saying she had heard from Bauer, had reworked Reilly’s taxes, and had documents I needed to review and sign. She said she would bring them by, but the rest of the message was lost when the power went off. I had no idea when and where to meet her and didn’t have her phone number. Agent Bauer didn’t answer his phone on the weekend, so there was little to do but hope she’d call back.
Sunday morning started with the promise of sunshine and moderating temperatures. I drove into Lyle for a coffee and roll at Java Java. Once again, spring tried to assert itself. Mounds of shoveled snow and sleet collected runoff water into small ponds that inundated shoes and soaked socks. Even so, the brightening skies were welcomed by a populace weary of winter’s grip and apparent refusal to leave a place where it was unwanted.
As the temperature soared toward sixty, my kitties were eager to go outside, but only if I left the door to the bunkhouse open. I finally gave in to this demand. I shut off the heat and rationalized that a good airing out couldn’t hurt anything. They busied themselves with bathing in sunbeams and chasing newly hatched bugs while I cleared the gutters of icicles.
Since advertising that I had the ledger, I carried my small automatic with me everywhere. When I spotted a light blue BMW coming slowly down my driveway, I repositioned the weapon in the waistband of my jeans and waited for the car’s arrival. I seriously doubted that Willet was in the car, but Paul and one of the shareholders in the Anderson Historical Foundation were still possibilities.
I was surprised when the door opened and the driver who emerged was a tall young woman wearing a baseball cap. She removed her sunglasses and hat, shook her hair free of its bondage, and stared out through bright green eyes. Wearing no makeup, but slightly tan, she reminded me of the kids I played with as a teen, only with more pronounced curves.
“You’re hard to find,” she said, approaching me.
“That can be an asset depending on who’s looking for me,” I said.
“Sorry. I’m Nichole Davenport. Your tax attorney. You can call me Nikki.”
She glanced at the open front door and the cats waiting on the porch. “Looks like you and your friends are sharing a bad case of cabin fever.”
I must have been staring at her, because she awkwardly lifted her briefcase so I could see it. “Can we talk inside?”
“Sorry. Sure. I didn’t know I had a tax attorney.”
“Agent Bauer said you would be good for my fee and, you know, he can actually hurt you if you don’t pay me.”
She stared at me for a moment, then laughed. “I’m just kidding. I have some good news so you need to lighten up.”
I led her inside and shut the front door. “It may take a few minutes to warm up in here,” I said.
“You should open the door and see if your cats have changed their minds,” she said. “You know how they are.”
I cleared the case file from the café table, but not before Nikki saw a picture of Abigail after she’d been beaten. “Tell me that’s official business and not some fetish of yours.”
“It’s for a client and no, I don’t have a thing for dead bodies,” I said, opening the door.
All four felines ran in and slowly approached Nikki’s outstretched hand. “I can’t have cats because my husband is allergic to them,” she said. “But I miss them.”
I reflexively noted the reference to a husband, then said, “Can I get you something? Coffee, tea? I have cider that I can heat in the microwave.”
She responded by looking at my primitive digs and giving me a worried look.
“I’m using bottled water until the well is flushed, so it should be okay” “Coffee’s fine. Black.”
When I returned to the table, she was looking at the pictures on the mantel. “Wow. Reilly Heartwood was your father,” she said. “My dad loved his music, and I know Felix is nuts about him. He also says you didn’t know he was your father until last year. How did that happen?”
“Long or short version?”
“Start long and I’ll stop you if I’m bored.”
Thirty minutes and a second cup of coffee later, I was talked out. To my surprise, I had told Nikki the whole story of my incarceration, Reilly’s murder, how I’d solved it, and at what price. I immediately wished I had been less forthcoming, but the chance to unburden myself was apparently too hard to resist. She had listened without interrupting, her facial expressions relating her reaction to various events in the narrative.
When I was done, she leaned back in her chair and shook her head. “That’s a pretty awesome story,” she said. “Only you left out the part about inheriting Reilly’s estate, this farm, and his tax problems.”
“Sounds like a good segue to the reason for your visit.”
“I promise you it won’t be as interesting as your story, but you’ll like the ending.”
Over the next hour, Nikki explained her solution to Reilly Heartwood’s tax problems. Reilly had not only mishandled his charitable deductions, but he had failed to take other deductions to which he was entitled. By refiling most of the returns over the last seven years, and paying two hundred thousand dollars to the IRS and twenty-five thousand in legal fees, the estate would save over half a million dollars.
“I must remind you that Felix Bauer expressed some concerns about whether you intentionally attempted to defraud the IRS. One of my tasks is to determine whether I believe you are hiding funds or assets.”
The warning was delivered with a straight face that quickly morphed into a smirk. “You know I was kidding, right? I mean, I’ve seen people on welfare who live better than you. He actually told me he was quite impressed with you.”
I happily signed all the documents she put in front of me. She agreed to look at my personal taxes and get back to me. With our business completed, she packed up her briefcase. I thought she was ready to leave, when she said, “Felix told me he spoke to a Judge McKenna about opening a facility for kids who get into legal trouble. If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, I’d like to see the farm and hear what your plans are.”
I went through the conceptual plan that Judge McKenna and I had prepared. Nikki studied it for a few minutes. “I would be more than happy to create a charitable entity that would own the farm and operate the facility in a tax favorable way. Do you have time to give me a tour?”
“Sure,” I replied. “You’ll need boots because there’s still snow in places and lots of mud.”
“I have them in my car.”
Nikki was an enthusiastic visitor. She asked about the history of the poor farm, about how I came to play here, about Reilly and my mother, and about the Residents of Heartwood House. The conversation was easy, made more so by warm, spring-like breezes that lifted the still dormant grasses from their icy tombs and twirled them in one direction and then another. At the bank of Lynn Run, I pointed to Gloria’s home and explained my plan for purchasing the property and building a proper house there. For a moment, I thought I saw a woman standing at an opening in the gable just below the peak of the roof, but when I looked again, the person was gone.
Nikki glanced at her watch, a sign she considered it time to leave. An offer of lunch in town was politely declined. As we turned away from Lynn Run, a man emerged from the trees. His face was obscured by a hooded sweatshirt, but the gun in his hand was plainly visible. Nikki gave me a puzzled look that insisted I do something. I reached behind my back, but the man in the hoodie raised his weapon, pointed it at Nikki and shouted, “Don’t!”
The trap I’d set had been sprung. I knew who killed Abigail. But I had inadvertently put Nikki’s life in harm’s way and was powerless to save her.
“Let her go, Paul. She doesn’t know anything and can’t identify you.
We can conclude our business before she calls anyone.”
He lowered the hood. “Oh, now she’s seen me. Too late. Toss your gun to me and let’s take a walk.”
When I complied, Nikki looked at me with a scowl. “You should have shot him. At least one of us would have lived.”
Paul motioned with his gun and walked slowly toward the main house. “I’m sorry about this,” I said.
“For now, it’s probably better that you don’t talk to me”
“She’s right,” said Paul. “So cut the chatter.”
A few minutes later, Nikki glanced at me. “Who is he and what does he want?”
“Paul was stolen from a hospital where many babies born to black parents were killed. Abigail, the woman who brought him here, was the woman in the photograph on my table. She took care of him, raised him, sent him to school, built him a nice house and, in exchange, he beat her to death.”
“Shut up,” snapped Paul. “That’s not how it was.”
“Abigail’s father, Alton Nichols, was a racist and a Nazi sympathizer. He kept a journal of the names of prominent Americans who supplied him with money. Paul wanted the documents and, when she couldn’t produce them, he killed her.”
“You make it sound so premeditated. It wasn’t like that.”
I stopped and turned around. “How was it? How did you come to murder the woman who raised and loved you?”
Paul lifted his gun and pointed at me. His hand was shaking. “She could have exposed them! She could have made the people who did this to me pay for helping the doctors at Sweetwater play God because I wasn’t white or black enough! But, no, she chose to protect her father and her family name. Deep down, she was as bad as they were. When she told me she’d destroyed the papers that would expose them, I hit her. I don’t remember hitting her after that, but I did. So spare me the lecture on guilt. I’m out of sympathy for humankind. But the world needs to know who they were, and what they did. I want their descendants to be publicly humiliated. I want them to feel shame. I want them to pay with their reputations so people like them can’t do it again. I don’t trust you or anyone else to do what needs to be done. So give me what I came for and it will be over quickly. Play games, and I’ll start shooting,” Paul pointed the gun at Nikki. “Who are you?”
“Nikki.”
“I’ll shoot your lady friend in the knee. I know it hurts, so there’s no reason to make me do that.”
“I didn’t say I had them. I said I knew where they were. Abigail thought she burned them, but she put them in an old coal firebox not realizing that it was no longer in use. The house isn’t stable, so we can’t recover them until the old house is torn down.”
“I’m sure you can see I’m not going to wait, so it’s your choice”
“You told him that you had the papers?” whispered Nikki.
I sighed. “Maybe in hindsight it doesn’t seem like a good idea, but a few days ago—”
“Move,” yelled Paul.
“If you have a plan, say so. Otherwise, I’m going to take my chances that he’s not a good shot”
“I have an idea, but…”
“Shut your God damned mouth!” screamed Paul.
I led Nikki and Paul to the porch of the farmhouse.
“Show me the basement,” demanded Paul. “If the notebooks are not there, I’ll punish Nikki. Play games with me and I’ll punish Nikki.”
Reluctantly, I pushed open the front door. The house smelled of wet plaster and wood. The air was damp and heavy. The cold penetrated my sweater and made me shiver. With each step, the old house creaked and snapped. I opened the door to the basement stairs. Paul peered down the dark, cavernous stairwell. “Turn on the lights.”
“I’ve shut off the power. I have flashlights in the kitchen.” Paul pressed the barrel of his gun to Nikki’s head. “No tricks.”
At Paul’s insistence, we made our way down the stairs one step at a time. As we collected at the bottom of the stairs, encased in a grayness that faded quickly to black, Paul became tense. I considered the possibility that Nikki might be able to run into the shadows while I took on Paul, but he seemed to read my mind. He grabbed Nikki by her hair and pulled her close to him. “Show me the papers,” he said.
“This way,” I said, directing the beam of my flashlight toward the coal firebox. I lowered my head and moved quickly toward the old boiler. Paul, who was almost as tall as me, charged after me. He hadn’t taken two steps before he smacked his head on a low joist.
“Fuck!” he screamed.
Nikki turned and grabbed for his gun. She managed to knock it from his hand just as he swung his flashlight at her head. The beam painted a bright arc in the darkened cellar. I heard her cry out as the light from Paul’s flashlight went out. I stepped back and grabbed Nikki’s hand, then opened the firebox of the old boiler. The door was heavy and it let out a piercing scream from its rusted hinges. Behind us, Paul was on the floor, frantically searching for his gun. In quick succession, I pressed the release lever on the jack and pushed Nikki toward the firebox. “Get in!” I yelled. Nikki dove into the firebox. I reached the firebox door before the first shot rang out. I used the door to shield myself from the next few rounds while I kicked at the floor jack. A searing pain on the left side of my head dropped me to my knees.
I heard Nikki pleading with me. I heard Paul cursing me. And then I heard a piercing, wailing noise that sounded almost human. The cracking of the massive beams sounded like cannon fire. I pushed hard against the floor and reached the firebox as the weight of two stories collapsed around me. The noise of the debris hitting the iron box was deafening and seemed endless.
And then there was quiet.
I found Nikki’s hands and held them. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”
I awoke to a dim light and wondered if my cynical views of heaven and hell had been a bad idea. I don’t know how much time passed.
I moved my head and was rewarded with a sharp pain and lightning bolts flying between my eyes. “Shit!”
“It’s good to know you’re not dead.”
“Really? After almost getting you killed, I thought you’d have reason to feel otherwise.”
“I didn’t say I forgive you, but other than a bump on the head, I’m all in one piece. What about you?”
I directed my fingers to a spot just above my right temple. “I may have stopped one of those bullets with my head, but it can’t be too serious or we wouldn’t be chatting.”
Nikki found my hand and guided it to a rectangular object.
“I can’t see it,” she said, “but it feels like a cloth-covered box. It’s heavy enough to contain a book and a lot more. I gather this was what Paul was trying to get his hands on. Is it important?”
“After all the trouble it’s caused, it better be.” I moved so that my feet were touching the door to the firebox. “Now all we have to do is get out of here.”
“I hope it’s soon,” said Nikki, “because I have to pee.”
I gave the door a kick, my effort rewarded with a sharp pain behind my right eye.
“Move over,” said Nikki, “and let me try.”
She kicked the door three times before it opened. I moved to the door and peered out into a mosaic of shadow and light. Just in front of the boiler was a tangle of furniture, electrical wires, and splintered wood. I crawled out of the opening and carefully pushed on the debris around me. Nothing moved. Convinced that the wreckage was stable, I helped Nikki extricate herself from the old boiler.
I could see light through the tangled remains of the once proud house. We picked our way upwards and stepped out into the open air through what had been an upstairs window.
As we looked back, dust rose above the remains of the old farmhouse like smoke from a burned-out building. Moments later, I heard sirens in the distance, their urgent screams growing louder with each second.
“I don’t understand what just happened,” said Nikki, “but I’m sure you’ll explain and apologize.”
I tried to remain standing, but I couldn’t. I slumped to the ground as pain shot through my head. I heard Nikki’s voice calling my name. I looked at her, then at the remains of the old house. “I thought I was going to get you killed. That would have pissed off Agent Bauer, I’m sure.”
“You are truly one messed-up man,” said Nikki, my head propped in her lap.
“That’s not an original conclusion,” I said.
“I suspect not.”