August 22, 2004, 11:17 P.M.
The wind was blowing leaves and small limbs across the road. In the west, the sky lit up with the first strikes of lightning. Flashes of hot yellow light gave Jordan a brief glimpse of a tall roiling cloud bank intent on gobbling up the stars and the moon. A cold front was sweeping toward them, finally pushing stagnant heat and the drought east, into the realm of memory that was sure to last a lifetime.
But the promise of rain did not matter now. A midnight storm was brewing and the darkness and rage that was evident in the sky only matched what Jordan felt in his heart.
Redemption was the last thing he had on his mind.
It took José ten minutes to drive to Peg's Keg & Spirits—a longer than normal drive since he had to skirt Dukaine and avoid the multitude of police cruisers that clogged the corner of Jefferson and Main.
A news helicopter hovered over the center of town and a bright searchlight was aimed down at the police station, sweeping across the streets in search of a criminal or story. Whichever one came first. After a loud clap of thunder and a heavy gust of wind, the chopper turned and flew over their heads south toward Indianapolis.
Spider's van was parked on the outskirts of the lot, facing toward the gate of the SunRipe plant. The liquor store was still open for business, but only one other vehicle sat in front of the cement block building. The ten-year-old Chevy that belonged to the clerk working the late shift.
José pulled up next to the van and turned off his headlights.
Jordan turned down the police radio. When he rolled down the window to talk to Spider it was difficult for him to see past his anger, not see Big Joe's face instead of his brother's.
Spider followed suit and rolled down his window. Charlie Overdorf was in the passenger's seat—he leaned forward and gave Jordan a nod.
José sat back silently, leaving his hands on the steering wheel. The Mexican had been exceptionally quiet on the ride to the liquor store. Pensive. Almost as if he were unsure, or scared, of what his words would evoke from Jordan.
“Is he still in there?” Jordan asked after returning Charlie's nod.
“He drove to the back, where they park the semis,” Spider said. “What the hell's going on?”
Jordan glared at Spider and looked away—through the windshield at the plant. The wind had replaced the rotting smell of tomatoes with the cleansing aroma of rain. Bright lights from the plant lit the interior of both the cab of the truck and the van like it was daylight. He wanted nothing more than to hunt down Ed Kirsch and kill him. But he remained frozen, unable to act on his darkest desire.
The SunRipe plant looked like it was up and running, operating as if everything in the world was proceeding normally, but the parking lot was empty. José had meekly told Jordan that the third shift had been cancelled.
“Was Ed by himself?” Jordan asked Spider.
“As far as I could tell. He was in the El Camino.”
“I'm going in after him. My guess is he's got Ginny and Dylan in there—or at the very least he knows where they're at,” Jordan said.
“I'm not going to fuckin' argue with you,” Spider said.
Good, Jordan thought. I don't have the patience for it right now. Nor did he have time to grill Spider about Big Joe or tell him what he'd learned from Buddy Mozel. He wasn't sure it was important at the moment. He still wasn't sure whose side Spider was on.
“We don't have much time. Hogue is looking for me. I took a rifle from the gun cabinet in the station. Somebody reported seeing me run down the alley on the way to Holister's house. Downtown is lit up like a war zone. I think you guys ought to stay here and keep a look out. José's got a cell phone—you can call him if something comes up,” Jordan said.
“You're taking him with you? I think you should take Charlie. You can trust him.”
“Can I trust you to be here if I need you? José's already agreed to help,” Jordan snapped.
Spider threw his hands up in the air. “All right, all right. I should have waited for you. I'm sorry. I saw a police car pull up in front of the tavern and I panicked.”
Charlie sat silently, watching.
Jordan didn't accept the apology. He didn't move or change his stoic expression.
“You think Ed's the shooter? That he killed Holister and Louella?” Spider said.
“I don't know,” Jordan answered. But in reality, he doubted Ed really was the shooter, though he was convinced Ed was involved somehow—Ed was at the hospital with Ginny, so there was no way he could have set the house on fire, and as far as Jordan was concerned the two events were linked.
His list of suspects had shrunk from every resident in Dukaine to two: Big Joe and Tito Cordova.
There was no sign that Tito had returned to town other than the existence of the St. Christopher's medal. Buddy Mozel's confession led Jordan to believe that Tito was still alive. And revenge seemed like a logical motive—but there were a lot of holes in his theory, a lot of unanswered questions. It would be easy to place Tito at every crime scene that had occurred since the shooting began. Easy to think a stranger had returned to town with nothing but vengeance in his heart. Too easy. Especially after talking to Buddy Mozel.
When Jordan thought of his father, the holes filled in quickly. But they were still there, even though the logistics seemed a little harder to peg down.
Deep in his heart, Jordan hoped he was wrong about his father. He hoped beyond all hope that Big Joe McManus was not capable of murder, even though he was certain Big Joe was behind Tito's abduction—which solidly linked Big Joe and Ed Kirsch. And at the moment, he had to reconsider his thought process. Maybe he was wrong about Ed being the shooter.
If Ed had found the bones at the pond during a meth deal and thought the skeleton was Tito Cordova—then he could have alerted Big Joe that they were in trouble, they were about to be found out. What did Big Joe say at the hospital? “The past has come back to haunt us.”
But, as far he knew, Ed didn't know the bones weren't Tito's. Buddy had told him that José found Tito at the pond near death—not dead. Ed didn't know what he knew. All Ed Kirsch knew was that Tito Cordova's body was dumped at the pond and a skeleton had been exposed by a drought twenty years later. Ed had assumed what Holister had assumed; the bones were the remains of the little boy he'd killed.
But that would still not explain the St. Christopher's medal. Or why Big Joe had Tito taken in the first place.
“Have you heard from Big Joe?” Jordan asked.
“Not since we left him at the hospital,” Spider said. “He's probably still with Celeste.”
“I hope you're right.”
The storm edged closer. The first sprinkles of rain began to dot the windshield. Thunder rumbled close enough to send a vibrating wave through the truck.
The police radio was alive with chatter. Jordan listened for a minute. “Change of plans,” he said. “They're looking for your van, Spider. You can't stay here.”
“Damn it!” Spider said, slapping the dashboard.
“I have a solution,” José said.
“I'm listening,” Jordan replied.
“The controls to the parking lot lights are on the south side of the building. Next to the docks. I can shut off the lights and we can hide the van and the truck behind the plant. No one will see us. Not Ed Kirsch or the policia.”
“Is the box locked?”
“I have the key,” José said. “Once the lights are off, take the truck and follow Spider. I will meet you there.” He opened the door and stepped outside. “I am sorry, Señor Jordan, I fear this has been difficult for you. The past cannot be changed any more than the course of a river can be changed. We all should have dried our feet long ago.”
Jordan didn't know what to say. He leaned forward and offered José the .38. “You might need this.”
“Do not worry. I am prepared,” José said, forcing a smile as he ran toward the plant.
The Mexican was still spry for his age and it only took a second for José to cross the road and disappear into the shadows.
Jordan turned his attention back to Spider, clutching the .38. “If you betray me, I'll shoot you if I have to.”
“We got your back, Jordan,” Spider said. “I promise. I want to catch Ed Kirsch as much as you do. Maybe more.”
“You know I never liked that motherfucker,” Charlie added.
Distant voices on the radio distracted Jordan again. The parking lot lights went off. “We need to go,” he said. “Hogue's heading this way. The liquor store clerk just called us in. Everybody's really jumpy right now.”
“Why not wait for 'em?” Charlie asked.
“It's a long story,” Spider said.
The van rumbled to life. Jordan slid over to the driver's seat of the truck and followed Spider across the street.
All of the lights on the outside of the four-story building flickered off. Lightning danced in the sky, closer. Thunder exploded above them almost immediately. Jordan could barely see through the windshield as the wipers pushed away the heavy rain. He wasn't sure if José had turned off the lights or if lightning had struck a transformer.
The wind buffeted the truck as Jordan drove through a maze of semi-trailers and came to a stop behind the van. When he opened the door he heard a chorus of sirens competing with the thunder and wind. The temperature had dropped an easy ten degrees in the last five minutes.
José was standing on the dock. A tall garage door was open behind him, and it exposed the interior of the plant—lit only by dim emergency lights. Jordan grabbed the Remington, all of the magazines he'd taken, and the police radio. By the time he reached the dock, his jeans and bloody T-shirt were soaked to the skin.
“I shut off all the lights except the emergency lights,” José said.
Ed Kirsch's El Camino was parked next to a semi-tractor attached to a trailer. He was nowhere to be seen.
Charlie jumped out of the van, holding his shirt over his head with one hand and a sawed-off shotgun in the other. He ran to the sliding door behind the driver's side of the van and popped it open. He didn't wait for the automatic lift to fold out. He put the shotgun down and disappeared inside, exiting a second later with Spider thrown over his shoulder.
The rain was blowing vertically and Jordan and José stepped to the right of the large garage door, out of the rain.
Jordan listened for movement and scanned the inside of the plant for anything that would alert him to Ed Kirsch's presence. He had checked the exterior locks on the plant nightly, but had not been inside more than a handful of times. The sheer size of the building was overwhelming. Seventy-five foot ceilings extended as far as the eye could see, and every inch of the football field–sized floor seemed to be filled with machinery that looked like a roller coaster inside a giant's kitchen. Several silver vats, each the size of a small car, lined the far wall. A water flume traversed up and over his head, an inclined conveyor belt with small paddles on it that was used to wash the tomatoes once they entered plant. The flume eventually angled down onto another conveyor belt where the tomatoes were manually sorted. Beyond the sorting stations, a series of large blades hung in wait to begin the chopping phase. Stacks and stacks of fifty-five-gallon drums were piled everywhere. Tomato paste waiting for transport. There were a million different places for Ed to hide. If that was his plan.
The plant smelled worse on the inside than it did on the outside. Yellow emergency lights gleamed softly overhead. There was much more than just the shipping and receiving section of the plant, and Jordan was glad José was with him.
Charlie sat Spider on the floor next to Jordan.
“I'm not sittin' this one out,” Spider said.
Charlie disappeared outside again.
“What now?” Jordan asked José, ignoring Spider.
“There are many places to hide. If he knows we are here,” José said.
“I don't think he's here to hide,” Jordan said.
José nodded. “No, me either, señor.”
Charlie ran up the ramp of the dock, pushing Spider's wheelchair. The shotgun was in the seat, wet from the rain. Charlie picked up the gun, wiped it down quickly, and hoisted Spider off the floor and into the wheelchair.
Thunder boomed. The wind whistled, and pushed more rain inside the door. Small pebbles of hail danced on the roof of the van. Lightning flashed every couple of seconds, and the sirens had quieted.
Jordan turned up the volume of the police radio. Hogue was at the liquor store.
“You guys stay here. Keep an eye on Ed's car in case he slips by us and tries to get away,” Jordan said.
“What if Hogue shows up?” Spider asked.
“Tell him José and I are inside. We might need the help.”
“What if he still thinks you're the shooter?”
“I can prove I'm not. I'm going to have to take him at his word that he was just doing his job. Hogue might be a lot of things—and I've got a lot of reasons to believe that he might be involved in this. But there's one reason to believe he's not.”
“What's that?” Spider said.
“He's always been a good cop. He cleaned up the sheriff's department and kept it that way. I can't see him risking everything he's worked for to cover for Ed.”
“If you say so.”
“Just stay here,” Jordan said. “Call us on the cell phone if you need help, or if you see anything.”
“I need the number.”
José gave his cell phone number to Spider, and quickly followed after Jordan, who was making his way up a ladder on the wall.
Jordan stopped halfway up the ladder. “Call Big Joe, Spider. Find out where he's at. You've got his number, don't you?”
Spider nodded. “I always call him on his cell phone these days.”
Pain screamed through his body as Jordan pulled himself upward to a catwalk that extended outward through the plant, branching off in several different directions. He was exhausted. The Remington on his shoulder was heavy, and he wasn't sure he was going to make it to the top. But he had to. Ginny and Dylan's life depended on it. On him.
José followed Jordan up the ladder. Jordan stood back and allowed José to take the lead. He chambered a round in the .38, put it back in the holster, and loaded a magazine in the rifle.
They moved slowly, quietly, searching for any sign of movement. The storm echoed through the metal building and the rattling hail on the roof made it difficult to detect any sound out of the ordinary. There was nothing but shadows and machinery below them. It did not take long for Spider and Charlie to disappear from their sight.
The air cooled as they passed over a row of freeze dryers. José stopped. A second later they heard Charlie yell from far behind them. A gunshot. Followed by another. And then the distinct retort of a shotgun echoed throughout the plant. They ran as fast they could back to the ladder.
Spider was sitting in his wheelchair holding his right leg. Charlie was out on the dock, the shotgun at his shoulder, aiming out into the darkness.
The fiercest part of the storm was past them—the thunder rolled east, shaking the ground as it went. Lightning still lit the sky every few seconds.
“That son of a bitch Ed Kirsch came out of nowhere and shot me in the leg,” Spider said. His hand was covered in blood as he put pressure on the wound. “Good thing I can't feel a fucking thing.”
Even in the dim light Jordan could see that Spider's face was pale, pasty. “We need to get him an ambulance.” It didn't matter that Spider couldn't feel anything, his body would still go into shock, still react to blood loss.
A semi rumbled to life, the engine as loud as the thunder. Jordan brought the rifle up to aim and ran to Charlie on the dock.
“He's getting away,” Charlie said.
“Your shotgun won't do any good. You're out of range,” Jordan yelled. He zeroed in on the tires of the semi and then inched his sights up to the cab. The semi lurched forward. He locked onto his target—he was going to try and shoot Ed through the passenger window. His finger was on the trigger, ready. He tried to regulate his breathing. There was only going to be time for one shot before the semi was gone.
Lightning flashed in the black sky and Jordan saw Dylan Kirsch sitting in the passenger seat as he pulled the trigger.