The Guardians: The explosive new thriller from international bestseller John Grisham (21 page)

“How’d you find me?” he asks.

“Just happened to be in the area.”

“No. Seriously.”

“Well, you’re not exactly hiding, Bruce. And what happened to Brace?”

“How much do you know?”

“A ton. I know Quincy Miller didn’t kill Keith Russo. His murder was a gang hit, drug dealers, and Pfitzner was probably covering for the gang. I doubt I’ll ever find the man who pulled the trigger, but I don’t have to. My job is to prove Quincy didn’t do it.”

“Good luck with that.” He takes off his cap and runs his fingers through his hair.

“They’re all long shots, but we win more than we lose. I’ve walked eight of my clients out of prison.”

“And this is all you do?”

“You got it. I have six clients right now, including Quincy. Did you know him, by chance?”

“No. He grew up in Seabrook, same as Kenny Taft, but I’m from Alachua. Never met the man.”

“So you didn’t work on the murder investigation?”

“Oh no, couldn’t get near it. Pfitzner was in charge and he kept it all to himself.”

“Did you know Russo?”

“Not really. I knew who he was, saw him in court from time to time. It’s a small town. You’re convinced he wasn’t killed by Quincy Miller?”

“One hundred percent.”

He ponders this for a moment. His eye and hand movements are slow. He never blinks. He’s over the shock of someone from his past tracking him down and does not appear to be concerned.

I say, “I have a question, Bruce. Are you still hiding?”

He smiles and replies, “Not really. It’s been a long time, you know? My wife and I left in a hurry, sort of in the middle of the night, eager to leave the place behind, and for the first couple of years I kept looking over my shoulder.”

“But why? Why did you leave and what were you afraid of?”

“You know, Post, I’m not sure I want to talk about this. I don’t know you, you don’t know me. I left my baggage behind in Seabrook and it can stay there for all I care.”

“Understood. But why would I repeat any of this to anyone else? You were not a witness in Quincy’s case. I couldn’t drag you back to Seabrook if I wanted to. You have nothing to say in court.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Because I believe Kenny Taft knew something about the Russo murder and I’m desperate to find out.”

“Kenny can’t talk.”

“Granted. But did he ever tell you something about Russo?”

He thinks long and hard and begins shaking his head. “I don’t remember anything,” he says, but I doubt he’s telling the truth. He’s uncomfortable here so he does what is expected and moves to another subject. “A gang hit, like a contract killing?”

“Something like that.”

“How can you be so sure? I thought there was no doubt Miller killed the lawyer.”

How can I be sure? The visual of Tyler hanging just inches above the crocs flashes through my mind. “I can’t tell you everything I know, Bruce. I’m a lawyer and most of my work is confidential.”

“If you say so. Look, I’m pretty busy right now.” He glances at his watch and does a lame job of acting as though he’s now pressed for time. He suddenly wants me out of the room.

“Sure,” I say. “I’ll be around for a few days, taking some time off. Can we talk again?”

“Talk about what?”

“I’d like to know what happened the night Kenny got killed.”

“How would that benefit your client?”

“You never know, Bruce. My job is to keep digging. You have my number.”

Chapter 26

I take a lift to the top of Bald Mountain and slowly hike down 5,000 feet. I am pathetically out of shape and have many excuses for it. Number one is my nomadic lifestyle, which prevents any chance of a daily workout in a nice gym. The low-end motels Vicki finds do not advertise such amenities. Number two is the fact that I spend far too much time sitting and not standing or walking. At forty-eight my hips are beginning to ache and I know it’s from endless hours behind the wheel. On the plus side, I eat and drink as little as possible and have never touched tobacco. My last physical was two years ago and the doctor said everything looked fine. Years ago he told me that the secret to a long healthy life is to consume as little food as possible. Exercise is important but cannot reverse the damaging effects of too many calories. I have tried to follow his advice.

So to celebrate the hike I stop at a lovely lodge near the base and consume a cheeseburger and two beers while basking in the sun. I’m sure this place can be frightening in the winter, but in mid-July it is heavenly.

I call Bruce Gilmer’s office number and get voice mail. I’ll pester him today and tomorrow, then leave town. I can’t see making this journey again. Future conversations will be by phone, if they happen at all.

I find a library in Ketchum and make myself at home. I have a stack of materials to read, including Guardian’s assessment of a potential new client in North Carolina. Joey Barr has spent seven years in prison for a rape he claims he didn’t do. His victim agrees. Both have sworn that their relations were completely consensual. Joey is black, the girl white, and when they were seventeen they were caught in bed by her father, a rough character. He pressured her to file charges, point the finger and keep doing so until Joey was convicted by an all-white jury. The girl’s mother, who had divorced the girl’s father and despised the man, took up Joey’s cause after he was sent away. Mother and daughter have spent the past five years trying to convince the appellate courts and anyone else who might listen that Joey is innocent.

Such is the nature of my daily reading. I haven’t had the luxury of finishing a novel in years.

The brain trust at Guardian believes that we are about to walk Duke Russell out of prison, so it’s time to think about reloading our docket.

I’m in a quiet reading room on the main floor of the Ketchum public library, with papers strewn about a small table, as if I own the place, when my phone vibrates. Bruce is getting off work and wants to talk.

He drives a golf cart along an asphalt path and we wind around the course. It’s busy, with golfers hacking away on a perfect cloudless day. He stops on a ridge overlooking a gorgeous fairway and puts on the brake.

“Just beautiful,” I say, absorbing the mountains in the distance.

“You play?” he asks.

“No. Never have. I assume you have a low handicap.”

“At one time, yes, but not so much now. Not enough time. A round takes four hours and it’s hard to squeeze it in. I talked to my lawyer this morning. He’s down there on the tenth green.”

“What did he have to say?” I ask.

“Not much. Here’s the deal, Post. I’m not going to say anything that might get me involved, not that I know anything to begin with. I’m not signing an affidavit and I’ll ignore any subpoena. No court in Florida can touch me anyway.”

“I’m not asking for any of that.”

“Good. You said you wanted to talk about the night we were ambushed. How much do you know?”

“We have a copy of the file from the Florida state police. Freedom of Information stuff. So we know the basics, know what you said to the investigators.”

“Good. I didn’t tell them everything, as you might guess. I got nicked in the shoulder and was in the hospital for a couple of days before I talked to anyone. Had time to think. You see, Post, I’m sure Pfitzner set up the ambush and sent us in. I’m sure Kenny was the target, but they also tried to kill me too, and they would have but I got lucky.”

“Lucky?”

He holds up a hand as if to say, “Hang on.”

“It was a narrow gravel road with thick woods on both sides. Very dark, three a.m. We got hit from both sides and the rear, so there were several bad boys with guns. Man, it was awful. We were riding along having a laugh, not too worried about anything, and in a flash the rear window got blown out, bullets were popping through the side windows, all hell broke loose. I don’t remember stopping the car but I did, slammed it in park, then slid out the door and into a ditch, bullets smacking my door and ricocheting everywhere. I heard Kenny when he got hit. Back of the head. I had my service revolver loaded and cocked, but it was pitch black. As suddenly as it started, it stopped. I could hear men moving in the woods. The thugs were not leaving. They were getting closer. I peeked through some weeds, saw a silhouette, and fired. Nailed him. I was a good shot, Post, back in the day. He screamed and yelled something, and, Post, it was not in Spanish. No sir. I know a cracker when I hear one, and that poor bastard grew up within fifty miles of Seabrook. They suddenly had a problem—a badly wounded comrade, maybe even a dead one. He needed help but where could they go? Wasn’t my problem, really. But they backed off, retreated, vanished in the woods. I waited and waited and noticed blood on my left arm. After a few minutes, could’ve been five, could’ve been thirty, I crawled around the car and found Kenny. What a mess. Bullet entered from the rear, exit wound took half of his face. Killed instantly. He was also hit in the torso several times. I got his gun, crawled along the ditch for twenty or so feet, made a little nest, and dug in. I listened for a long time and heard nothing but the sounds of the night. No moon, nothing but blackness. According to the dispatcher’s log, I called in at 4:02, said we’d been ambushed. Kenny was dead. Pfitzner was the first one there, which seemed really odd. Just like he was the first one at Russo’s office.”

“He was probably in the woods directing things,” I say.

“Probably so. They took me to the hospital and treated my wound, nothing bad. Just got grazed. But I asked for some meds and they knocked me out. I told the doctors I didn’t want to talk to anyone for a day or two and they protected me. When Pfitzner finally came in, along with the State boys, I didn’t tell the part about nailing one of the thugs, a dude whose mother tongue was definitely not Spanish.”

“Why not?”

“Pfitzner wanted both of us dead, Post. He wanted to eliminate Kenny because Kenny knew something, and since I was along for the ride it was necessary to rub me out too. Couldn’t run the risk of leaving behind a witness. Think about that, Post. A sheriff elected by the people and trusted by the entire community sends two of his men into an ambush with the plan to get both of them killed. That’s Bradley Pfitzner.”

“He’s still alive, you know?”

“I don’t care. My dealings with him were over twenty years ago.”

“What did you tell him in the hospital?”

“Everything but the part about me nailing one of his thugs. I’ve never told anyone that, and I’ll deny it tomorrow if you repeat it.”

“So you’re still afraid?”

“No, Post. I’m not afraid. I’m just not risking any trouble here.”

“No word from the guy you hit?”

“Nothing. It was before the Internet and searching was more difficult. I dug enough to learn that there were two shooting victims admitted to Tampa’s public hospital on that date. One was shot by an intruder who was caught. The other guy was found dead in an alley. I couldn’t prove anything so I lost interest. About that time, my wife and I decided to leave town.”

“How did Pfitzner treat you afterwards?”

“The same. He was always very professional, the perfect cop, a good leader who believed in discipline. He gave me a month of paid leave after Kenny’s funeral and did everything he could to show concern. That’s why he was so treacherous. The community admired him and no one believed he was corrupt.”

“Was it known among his men?”

“We had our suspicions. Pfitzner had two pit bulls who ran things, Chip and Dip. They were brothers, a couple of real leg-breakers who did the dirty work. Arnie had a mouth full of oversized teeth and one of his front ones was chipped; thus, he was called Chip behind his back. Amos had smaller teeth but a fat lower lip that was always packed with a thick wad of smokeless tobacco; thus Dip. Below them were a few members of their team who were in on the action, the drug payoffs, but they kept all that separate from the routine business of protecting the county. Again, Pfitzner did a good job as sheriff. At some point, long before I arrived, he succumbed to the temptation of drug money. He protected the port, allowed the stuff to come in, provided safe zones to store it, and so on. I’m sure he made a mint, and I’m sure Chip and Dip and the others got their share. The rest of us had good salaries and benefits.”

He waves at a golf cart and two attractive ladies wave back. He follows them around a fairway, then veers over a small bridge to a secluded hideaway under some trees. When we are settled in, I ask, “So what did Kenny know?”

“I don’t know, he never said. He dropped a hint one time but never finished the conversation. You’re familiar with the fire that destroyed a bunch of evidence, including stuff from the Russo murder?”

“Yes, I’ve seen the report.”

“When Kenny was a kid he wanted to be a spy. Sort of odd for a black kid in a small town in Florida, but he loved spy books and spy magazines. The CIA never called so he became a cop. He was really good with technology and gadgets. An example: He had a friend who thought his wife was fooling around. He asked for help, and Kenny, in a matter of minutes, rigged up a phone tap in the guy’s utility room. It recorded every phone call and the guy checked the tape every day. Before long he heard his beloved cooing with her Romeo and planning their next rendezvous. Kenny’s friend caught ’em in bed and beat the shit out of the guy. Slapped her around too. Kenny was right proud of himself.”