Old Wounds (38 page)

34.

A
RMED AND
D
ANGEROUS

Wednesday night, October 26

Elizabeth shivered and
peered through the dusty workshop window. The fading light outside warned her that it was growing late—probably after five. Sighing, she placed the wreath she had just finished in its box and added it to the stack of others waiting for the FedEx driver.
Two more to do, if they’re all going out in the morning.

She flipped on another light and took down a straw wreath form from a shelf.
Maybe I can get one more done before Phillip gets back. At least there’s not much to do about supper—just heat up the soup and bread and make a salad.

She shivered again and stalked over to the wood heater—a green enameled Jotul woodstove that usually kept the shop reasonably warm. Yanking open the door, she saw only a glowing bed of coals—all that remained of the oak logs that had been burning so vigorously.

Way to go, Elizabeth. No wonder it’s so bloody cold in here. You have to keep adding wood if you want to stay warm, you dunce.

The coals raked forward, she added a few small sticks and scraps of wood, then shoved in two split locust logs.
That ought to do me through one more wreath.
She shut the stove door and adjusted the damper to allow more air into the chamber, glanced out the window again, and returned to her worktable.

There, she began to gather stiff, dried lavender spikes into little bunches and affix them, one by one, to the straw form, using strong pins that were shaped like tiny croquet hoops. A slanting row of aromatic lavender clumps began to spiral around the wreath, short green stems overlapped by the purple blossoms of a second row. A third row of lavender was followed by a row of mixed yellow and white statice, then more lavender.

She held up the half-completed wreath and frowned at it, unsure about the design.
A bit stripe-y for my taste, but it’s what the customer asked for.

The shrill ring of the shop telephone interrupted her aesthetic assessment and she reached for the receiver.

“Hey there, Elizabeth. Just checking to see if you wanted me to pick up anything at the store. I tried the house and your cell and you didn’t answer. I was starting to worry, then I finally remembered you might still be in the shop. What are you doing working so late, anyway?”

Elizabeth smiled. It was nice to have someone worry about her—
I could get used to this,
she decided.

“I’ve got a big order that needs to ship tomorrow. I’m just finishing up the next to last one now—there’ll be time to do the other one in the morning. There’s nothing I can think of that I really need at the store, but I appreciate your checking. Where are you now?”

“On the bypass—in the grocery store parking lot. On my way home as soon as I hang up.”

Home. How good it was to hear him say that.
Phillip’s temporary stay at Full Circle Farm was still officially temporary, but his presence in her house—
and bed…and life
—was becoming more and more an accepted thing.

“Elizabeth, sweetheart…” His voice was hesitant. “Ah…do you have your cell phone with you? It would probably be a good idea.”

She chuckled. “You forget, my phone isn’t one of those snazzy satellite hookups like yours. You know how funky the reception is out here. My cell works fine at the house, but it’s useless down here in the workshop—I might as well be in a deep, dark hole, as far as it’s concerned.”

Phillip made a discontented sound that hovered on the edge of tsk-tsking. “Well, I don’t like nagging, but while I’m on the subject, how about your gun? Do you have
that
with you?”

Several days after the concealed carry class, Phillip had brought her a snub-nosed .357 Magnum. “It’s just like Sam’s gun, but with the shorter barrel it’ll be easier for you to carry.” He had offered her the deadly little weapon with an air of embarrassment. “I brought some different holsters, too, so you could see which one you liked best—dammit to hell, Elizabeth, don’t laugh! This isn’t the kind of present I want to give you, but for now it’s what you need.”

Subdued by the utter seriousness in his voice, Elizabeth had meekly submitted to trying out the various holsters. Both the shoulder harness and the ankle holster seemed uncomfortable in the extreme, and she finally convinced Phillip that the pocket holster that could clip to her waistband was her best choice.

“Yeah, I’m armed and dangerous,” she assured him, looking at the revolver, lying in its holster on the nearby workbench.
For god’s sake, Elizabeth, remember to put that on before you head back to the house.
“Listen, if I finish before you get back, I’ll leave the jeep down here for you and walk on up. I need the exercise. See you soon.”

Phillip switched off his cell phone. No sooner had he started the car than his second cell—the one Gabby had given him—buzzed.

“Shit!” he muttered, and turned off the ignition. He listened intently to the voice at the other end, asked a few terse questions, jotted a line in a pocket notebook, then nodded reluctantly. Ending the call, he pulled out his other phone. She was evidently no longer in the workshop—nor at the house.
Probably walking up.

He left a quick message on the house phone, then, with a feeling of mounting excitement, started his car and headed out of the parking lot, back toward Asheville.

“Señora Elizabeta, why you work so late?
Y dónde está
Señor Felipe
?”
Julio’s stocky frame appeared in the open doorway. Behind him, his slightly taller brother-in-law shifted from foot to foot.

“Have to, Julio—but I’m almost finished.” Elizabeth jabbed the U-pin around another bundle of yellow and white statice and pushed the prongs deep into the straw of the wreath form. She paused to look at her two friends, both shining clean, hair carefully combed, crisp white shirts tucked into new Levi’s. Homero was turning a new straw cowboy hat around and around in his hands and grinning expectantly at her.

“Wait a minute—this is the night you all were going into Asheville, right? I’d forgotten.”

“Sí,
we are meeting
amigos
at El Chapala. There is
lucha libre
—wrestling on the big television and—”

Homero nodded vigorously.
“Sí! Con El Alacrán Rojo y El Diablo del Muerte y también Los—”

Elizabeth smiled and waved the two away. “Go on, you guys—I just talked to Phillip. He’ll be here in a few minutes. You don’t have to do guard duty anymore.”

“
Seguro, Elizabeta?
We can wait….”

But Homero had already smiled his happy thanks and headed for Julio’s truck, which, like the two men, was in a state of high polish. Julio hesitated.

“Really, Julio, go. I’m almost done here and I’m going to walk up to the house. Phillip knows to bring the jeep up. Truly, I’ll be fine. Besides—” she picked up the holstered gun and clipped it to the back of her waistband “—I’ve got this, remember?”

The spiral wreath was in its box, the woodstove damped down, the shop lights turned off, and still no Phillip.
Maybe he had some shopping to do for himself; he said something this morning about getting some ice cream.

She pulled on her barn coat and started up the dark road. The dogs had long since given up on her and taken themselves off on their own recognizance. There was no moon, but enough light remained to show the outline of the gravel road stretching out before her. Crisp, chill air suggested that there would probably be a frost by morning. Elizabeth sniffed appreciatively, sorting out the many smells: wood smoke drifting in the air, the lavender that lingered on her fingers, the not unpleasant odor of cows, busily cropping the grass in the pasture next to the road, the autumnal aroma of the fallen leaves in the woods just to her left. Higher up, the haunting call of a barn owl echoed through the hollow.

With a feeling of perfect happiness, Elizabeth breathed wordless thanks for the fate that had brought her to this beautiful place. Then, remembering the meal to prepare and the dogs to feed, she quickened her step up the well-known way.

She had reached the chicken house when she heard the familiar sound of her jeep coming up the road. As the headlights’ beam swung around the barn just below the chicken house, Elizabeth stepped to the side of the road, extending a thumb and cocking a hip in what, despite her heavy jacket and baggy jeans, she hoped Phillip would recognize as a sexy hitchhiker pose. As expected, the jeep pulled to a stop beside her and the figure at the wheel leaned over to open the passenger-side door.

“Hey, mister, goin’ my way?” Elizabeth climbed into the welcome warmth of the car. “What’s happened to the overhead light? Isn’t it working?”

35.

S
TAKED
O
UT

Wednesday night, October 26

Where the hell
is Gabby?
Phillip glanced at his watch.
He didn’t say where he was calling from, but it sure seems like he would’ve have been here by now.
From his parked car, Phillip could see the entire lot, dimly lit by three mercury vapor lights; the entrance and exit; as well as Room 222, where, according to Gabby, Landrum’s henchmen had just checked in. Though the room was illuminated only by the fitful blue glow of a flickering television, at least one figure could be seen moving slowly just beyond the partially drawn curtain.

Phillip tried Gabby’s number, but was immediately met with a gabble of static.
Strange, that shouldn’t happen.
A second trial was equally unsuccessful.

Don’t try anything without me,
his former shipmate had warned.
And don’t involve the local boys. Del wants this all to stay as quiet as possible till we have that deposition in our sweaty little hands. Don’t worry, this isn’t wet work; we’re just going to take them into custody. There’re only two—we’ll have them in cuffs, in my car, and on their way to DC before they know what happened. Del’s arranged a quiet little holding facility where these two can be kept out of the way till we have the deposition—or till we fail and Landrum gets the confirmation.

Phillip groaned and ran his hand over his balding head. He and Elizabeth had gone through the copy of
Walden
the night before, page by careful page, noting every pencil mark, and there were many; every underlined word or passage; even every stain and flyspeck.

At one point they had both been sure that a pattern of some sort was emerging. “This is reminding me of…Oh, hell, Phillip, there’s something familiar about this, but I can’t quite…” Elizabeth had pored over the pages, until finally, unwilling to admit defeat, she declared, “I just need to step back for a while—it’ll come to me. Let’s try again tomorrow night. If we can’t figure it out then, maybe your friend in DC can.”

If something there makes sense to her and she can figure out where Sam might have put that stuff, maybe I’ll be sending Del the photos and the deposition tomorrow. And that’ll be the end of that sorry son-of-a-bitch Landrum’s political career. Sweet Jesus, a hundred-something acres, three houses, barns, outbuildings—it could be anywhere. Come on, Sam, old buddy, give us a clue to your clue, for god’s sake.

A sleek black Mercedes sports car pulled into a slot near the door of 222. Phillip slouched down in his seat but kept his gaze fixed on the new arrival. A silver-haired man in a suit got out, swept the parking lot with a furtive glance, and hurried to open his passenger’s door. A young woman in a very short, very tight black skirt writhed her way out of the car. A pink camisole top ended just below her very improbable breasts, leaving exposed a long expanse of tanned flesh, while a wide belt of sparkling rhinestones rode low on her hips, well below the top of her skirt. As the woman and her nervous escort passed beneath one of the parking lot’s tall lights, Phillip could see the black triangle of her thong high above the back of her tiny skirt.

He groaned, remembering having seen his daughter, Janie, in a similar outfit, and watched as the pair exchanged a lingering kiss outside the door of 226. As the man’s hand traveled down the curve of her skirt, the young woman turned her head and yawned.

A sudden movement to the left caught Phillip’s eye. The door to Room 222 began to open and the silver-haired man abruptly ceased his explorations. In one eye-blurring movement, he pulled wide the door of 226, yanked his companion inside, and slammed the door firmly shut.

A hunched form stood in the doorway of 222, head turned back and evidently speaking to someone in the room. Phillip’s hand went to his automatic but he forced himself to stillness.
Not unless they both come out and try to leave,
he told himself.
Wait for Gabby.

The person in Room 222 wavered, hand on the door, deep in shadow. At last the conversation came to an end and the object of Phillip’s scrutiny moved through the door and into the light.

Phillip stared at what seemed to be an old lady. Fluffy white hair formed a halo around her gently bobbing head. Her purple sweatpants were topped by a white sweatshirt on which, as the woman passed under the light beside her door, Phillip could plainly read the words “World’s Greatest Grandma.” As she slowly moved away from the open door, Phillip could see an elderly man sitting on the edge of the bed, a walker beside him. He appeared to be absorbed in a television program.

The old woman reached her destination—a nondescript light green car with a “We Still Pray” sticker on its rear window. She fumbled in first one pocket and then the other before locating her keys. At last she opened the back door and leaned in. After some moments of searching, she backed out, bringing with her a large shopping bag. Painfully, she began the trip back to her room, hesitated, returned to the car, locked it, and resumed her hobbling progress back to Room 222. Inside, the old man had not moved.

Phillip watched with mounting incredulity.
Sweet Jesus, did I get the room number wrong? Or the motel?
He scrabbled in his shirt pocket for the little notebook and wrenched it open.

This is where he said, all right.
Phillip stared at the enigmatic door of 222.
Disguises? I suppose it’s possible, but…

He tried Gabby’s cell number again. But the same frustrating static answered his call. Next Elizabeth—house, cell, workshop—no joy. A nameless trepidation began to swell within him.

“Goddammit to hell!” he whispered as he jumped out of his car and sprinted to the window of 222. Through the gap in the curtains he could see the old man and woman with the contents of the shopping bag laid out on the table just inside the window. A hasty glance before he returned to his car showed him a homemade picnic—sausage biscuits, a jar of applesauce, and two thick slices of layer cake.

“What’s going on here?” he growled, grabbing his cell and keying the DC number.

Del answered almost immediately. “Do you have it, Phil? We’re running out of time here.”

“I think we’re close, but first you need to tell me about Landrum’s people—what do they look like?”

“Look like? I talked to Gabby this morning and he told me he was tailing a little dark Colombian guy and a big African-American who looked like he could’ve played some football. But I told him not to worry about them anymore, because you and the lady thought you were about to crack the code. I told Gabby all he needed to do was to keep an eye on Sam’s Liz.”