Late Rain (27 page)

After that, Croy felt fine.

Tonight, after finishing the dishes, Croy took a spool of nylon fishing line and his pocketknife, chewed two more aspirin, and went back outside. He crouched next to the galvanized washtub holding the two bags of frogs.

There was no wind.

When he looked up through the bare branches of the live oak, Croy saw a pale slice of moon directly above. The moon looked like a coin that had been inserted in a slot that had not been jammed home yet.

He began cutting the fishing line, varying the length, one piece approximately a foot and a half, the other slightly less than a foot, and put them in two piles.

Bats showed up. They skimmed the sky above the roof. While Croy cut the line, he thought of words that rhymed with
bat.
There were a lot of them.

Bat
spelled backwards was
tab
.
Bat
and
tab
didn’t rhyme, but Croy liked them anyway because they reminded him of amphibians, one thing that was like two things because they could live on land or in the water, and it didn’t matter to them which.

Croy kept cutting the fishing line. His molar ached. He tasted blood and something sour when he pressed his tongue against the gumline around it, so he quit doing that.

His eyes and skin felt hot.

Everything was very quiet except for the thin whine of mosquitoes that had come up from the river.

Croy went back and forth between the two piles of fishing line he’d cut, taking a long piece and tying it to a short one.

Then he got up and took out one of the screens from the cabin windows.

He returned to the washtub and emptied the two sacks of frogs. He grabbed a frog and then set the screen over the tub.

The frog felt like a handful of cold Jello wrapped in cellophane.

Croy tied the frog to one end of the fishing line by its leg, and then he caught another frog and tied it to the other end by the leg.

He draped the fishing line over the back of his neck and started over, repeating the process.

It took a long time, and it was very hard work, but after a while Croy fell into a rhythm of catching and tying the frogs that was like the rhythm of digging and planting flowers he found when Jamie and he had worked for Mr. Sharpe and his landscaping business.

Every time Croy tied frogs to each end of a line, he draped it over his neck. The frogs dangled and jumped against his chest like someone knocking on an old door.

After a while, the pieces of fishing line started to cut into the back of his neck, so Croy figured he had enough for now, and he stood up and walked to the base of the live oak and grabbed the lowest branch and pulled himself into the dead side of the tree.

He crawled out onto the branch, listening to it creak beneath his weight, and then lifted one of the strings of frogs from his neck and draped it over the limb. He moved back a few feet and put another one on the limb.

Croy moved up the tree, hanging the pieces of fishing line with the frogs on them, until there wasn’t any more left on his neck.

Then he climbed down and went back to tying more frogs.

He could smell the river, and on the next trip up, he was high enough over the roof of the cabin that he could see it too and the pale streak of moonlight running down the middle of the dark water.

Two limbs broke under his weight, and each time Croy had to scramble back closer to the trunk. He strung one set of frogs on them anyway.

In the northeastern corner of the sky were some clouds that looked like torn pieces of cloth. The rest of the sky was just stars and the moon.

Every so often Croy thought about the picture of the orange he’d taken from the magazine and put up on the wall of the cabin next to his cot.

Croy made four more trips up the tree before he ran out of frogs.

He was sweating a lot, but it was a fever sweat, not the other kind. The molar smoldered in the back of his mouth.

Croy stepped back to take in his work. It was like he had invented wind. The frogs hanging from the limbs jumped and twisted, sometimes showing their green side, sometimes their white underside.

The other half of the tree was very still.

Against the night sky, the pieces of fishing line were invisible. Croy watched the frogs for a long time. He was standing on the spot where he’d buried Stanley Tedros’s pocketwatch.

Above him, the frogs flopped and squirmed.

The cell phone chirped. At first, Croy thought the sound came from something live. He took the phone off his belt.

Mr. Balen asked how he was doing and then explained the crime he needed Croy to do.

Croy said ok to both.

SUNSET HAD BROKEN the lower portions of the horizon and stacked it with color, thin slats of orange, pink, and purple that the wind left undisturbed, when Corrine Tedros pulled into short-term parking at the Magnolia Beach Regional Airport.

Inside the terminal, she checked the arrivals board. Southeast Air and Star Aviation were the only two commuter lines based at Magnolia Beach and were primarily used for regional travel or for connecting flights at larger airports in Atlanta, Jacksonville, Raleigh, Columbia, and Charlotte. Puddle Jumpers were what the local businesspeople called them. That, or the Grim Reaper Express, since neither airline was particularly noted for its safety or maintenance records. Two of the pilots Corrine saw standing at the check-in counter for Southeast and chatting up the attendant looked as if they were barely out of high school and would be more at home checking your oil than piloting turboprops.

Buddy’s flight was already in, and Corrine found him at the baggage claim. He spotted her and waved. His smile, as well as his black suit, was badly rumpled. He found his bags, and they walked back to the car.

“You drive, ok?” he said. “I’m bushed.”

Corrine took Old Market Boulevard north. It was a full ten minutes before Buddy spoke again.

“It was a wash,” he said.

“I’m sorry.” Corrine almost meant it. Right then, Buddy looked old and tired.

“I don’t understand,” Buddy said. “First Atlanta and now Charlotte. The same thing each time.” He rubbed his forehead. “A day and a half of meetings. I was ready with the figures and projections. The Charlotte people kept picking them apart. I couldn’t get them to see the restructuring for what it was.” Buddy paused and shook his head. “Quick returns, that’s all they were interested in. We never found common ground.”

“Maybe,” Corrine said and let it hang.

Buddy looked at her, then away. He took out his cell phone and punched a number.

“Hello, Anne? It’s Buddy Tedros.”

Corrine listened to the hope wilt in his voice after Buddy asked if Jack Carson had remembered anything about Stanley’s murder and he got the answer that Corrine had paid for.

“Nothing at all?” Buddy said and lowered his head. “You never know, maybe Jack will come through yet.” Buddy added a moment later, “You too, Anne. Tell Paige hello.”

Buddy sat with the cell phone cradled in his palm and looked out the window. “There’s still Birmingham,” he said after a while. Corrine listened to him try to resuscitate his optimism and confidence in the distribution plans that James Restan, with a couple calls to Birmingham, would doom in advance.

Fifteen minutes later, Corrine pulled into the entrance of White Pine Manor. The sunset had softened, and the swallows were out, cutting and darting through the gathering dusk.

“I made a nice meal,” Corrine said. “It was supposed to celebrate you closing in Charlotte. Let’s call it a welcome home meal instead.” She leaned over and kissed Buddy lightly on the cheek.

Buddy went upstairs to change and shower, and Corrine checked on supper, set the table, and hunted down a bottle of good red wine.

She told herself not to rush things.

Buddy was slowly on his way to again becoming the man she married. He was discovering what everyone did sooner or later. He could not sustain his grief, and his grief could not sustain him.

A little more time to forget, that’s all he needed. In the act of forgetting, you found absolution. Memory and memories were overrated. Dead weight. You forgot, and you were clean again.

Tonight, they would have a nice meal. Corrine would not bring up James Restan’s buy-out offer. After supper, they’d open another bottle of wine. Perhaps she’d steer the conversation toward starting a family. A kid would be a hedge, some insurance, against any trouble Wayne LaVell might make. Then she and Buddy would have sex.

Corrine was sure of one thing. The body had no use for memory or grief. It took care of itself.

THE CENTER OF GRAVITY for the house was the kitchen, and Ben Decovic and Anne Carson sat across from each other at the kitchen table, glasses of wine at their elbows, the lights low and the radio even lower, the radio seemingly tuned perpetually to an oldies station, an easygoing synchronicity at work this evening as Wilson Pickett sang “In the Midnight Hour,” and Ben glanced over at the wall clock and saw that its hands were about to overlap and eclipse the twelve.

“You’re off tomorrow, right?” Ben said.

Anne nodded.

“Maybe you can sleep in a little then.”

Anne shook her head. “Doctor’s appointment at eight-thirty. Dad’s always a little better in the mornings. I need to talk to the doctor about getting dad’s medication adjusted. Things aren’t right.” She and Ben went on to talk about Jack’s new tendency to break into tears at unexpected moments. Anything, it seemed, could set him off. Ben had noticed it too.

“Growing up, I never saw him cry once,” Anne said. “Not once. I don’t know what I’m going to do. Earlier this afternoon, he broke down and cried for twenty minutes over a commercial for aluminum foil.”

Ben reached across the table and rubbed the back of Anne’s right hand.

“I don’t know what’s next,” she said.

Ben tried to locate a smile that might pass for reassuring. Anne slowly slipped her hand out from under his and picked up her glass of wine.

Over Ben’s shoulder, the radio played doomed rock and rollers, starting with Buddy Holly, then segueing into Richie Valens.

“Well,” he said, pointing to the end of the kitchen table, “Paige must be happy. I see she got her laptop. I thought it was still in layaway for a while.”

Anne tucked her hair behind her ears and took a sip of wine before answering. “I had an extra good week in tips at the restaurant. I knew Paige needed it. Mr. Deane, the guidance counselor, thought so too.”

Ben had interviewed enough suspects to know when one was lying, and Anne wasn’t a good liar to begin with, but he let the whole thing go, chalking it up to pride, figuring that Anne had gone out and gotten a loan to finish up the payments on the laptop. He wasn’t about to make her feel worse by pushing too hard. She wasn’t a criminal or suspect, after all.

“Mr. Deane thinks Paige is making real progress,” Anne said. “He says she has a lot of anger that she can’t find ways to productively channel. He told me she’s learned to use her intellect as a weapon.”

Ben didn’t say anything. He lifted the bottle of wine and held it against the light, checking its level, and then topped off his glass and reached across the table to do the same for Anne.

“I’ve been thinking,” Anne said.

Ben’s cell phone went off. He checked the number and slowly let out his breath. “I need to take this one, Anne. It’s important.”

She sat quietly for a moment, then nodded and picked up her glass of wine and moved to the kitchen sink and stood with her back to him and looked out the window. From where Ben sat, she was silhouetted by the ceiling light.

Ben checked missed calls and hit send.

“Figured you’d be up,” Andy Calucci said. “I tried calling the apartment a couple times but kept getting your machine, so I figured you might be over at the other place.” He paused. “I’m not interrupting something, am I?”

“No,” Ben said. “It’s ok.” He listened to the inevitable click of Andy’s lighter as he fired up a Kool.

“You probably figured why I’m calling,” Andy said. “My friend Joey Rommata sent on the first batch of photos and bookings.”

“And?” Ben said.

“I can’t say I’m exactly fond of the smell here.” Calucci paused, then asked, “What exactly are you planning to do with these?”

“Follow up on a hunch,” Ben said. “Nothing more than that.”

“There’s never a
nothing more
with you,” Andy said. “I know how you work. I partnered with you in case you forgot.”

“Come on, Andy,” Ben said. “How many did Rommata send to you?”

Calucci sighed. “Ok, sure, against my better judgment here. Four of Raine. Three of Rhain. Two of Rhayne. One of Rain. One of Rayne.”

“Is she in the batch?” Ben glanced over at Anne, who still stood at the kitchen window with her back to him.

“I considered not telling you that Rommata sent them at all,” Andy said. “They came in, I took a whiff, and I’m thinking, something smells like this, the best thing to do is bury it.”

“Except you didn’t,” Ben said.

“There’s still time.”

“Listen, Andy, I told you, it’s a hunch. Anything turns up, I take it straight to Homicide. The one running the case is a guy named Hatch.”

Calucci went into another sigh. “I don’t like the smell here,” he said after a moment.

“I think your olfactory distress over the booking photos has been fully and clearly established, Andy.”

“Ok, Ben, ok, she’s in there, ok? The one spelled R-A-Y-N-E. She’s younger, her hair a different shade of blond, but it looks like her.”

“So you’re sure it’s Tedros?” Ben saw, out of the corner of his eye, Anne look over her shoulder, then turn back to the kitchen window.

“A one hundred percent?” Andy said. “No. I saw her picture on the TV and in the newspapers a couple times, and I’m saying it looks like a match to me.”

“Sounds good enough.” Ben asked Andy if he could fax all the photos and booking sheets to the main office at the White Palms Apartments first thing tomorrow morning.

“The apartment office?” Andy said. “Why not the Department?”