The Last Day (15 page)

“That would depend on your definition of ‘feel,’ ” Ward replied.

“This is all temporary, kid. I know you were set up and the FBI will figure that out real soon. You gotta keep your chin up. Your father never let the bastards get the better of him, and you're a McCarty.”

“Thanks, Unk. I appreciate your faith in me. I wouldn't have been successful without your
support and experience. That's a fact and I hope you know that.”

“Thanks, kid. But I'm just an old car salesman with a great product line.”

“You've always been there for me. I know it and I appreciate it more than I can say.”

“You're gonna make an old man cry. Listen, the other reason I called is that I got a call from Flash Dibble a few minutes ago,” Mark said. “He asked me to tell you he's as interested as ever to buy the company. He says this virus thing is all a load of crap and he knows you aren't responsible and he is sure you'll be cleared. He thinks that once the company changes hands, its reputation can be salvaged. He also told me that the FBI is going to interview him this morning and he's going to tell them it's a bum rap. His words. He and your father go way back. They were never friends, but they had respect for each other. It's Trey that's the douche bag. Flash is just an astute businessman.”

“So how much less you figure we're worth to him now?” Ward asked.

“He didn't say anything about reducing his last offer. We could have Gene feel him out on that. You want, I can talk to Gene.”

“It seems like the timing on this scandal is sort of providential for Dibble, doesn't it? I'll be interested in seeing if his new offer is a bit reduced.”

“Ward, we both know that at the present, our clients are vulnerable to all of our competition. Being our customers is a potential public relations problem for them, too. This is NASCAR, and moral rectitude, even though it's in short supply, is still a big issue with the fans.”

“It's more than a public relations nightmare for me,” Ward said, angrily. “You want vulnerability? How about a few years in federal prison? Or being a registered sex offender for the rest of my life?”

“We all know this is a setup of some sort. Flash is one hard- skinned son of a bitch, but if it ends up he had anything to do with this, he'd be destroyed, and the man has hundreds of millions at stake. Even if he wanted to do it to force a sale, I just don't see him risking getting caught doing this.”

“There's Trey,” Ward said. “I think he's capable of doing something like what happened.”

“He's one mean, not-too-bright shit-for- brains.
And those are his best points. Still… Ward, I don't think he's behind this.”

“He wants the company as much as, or more than, his father does. If it wasn't for Trey, Flash could certainly have already bought a company like ours for a lot less. If I get locked up, Trey would get some sort of twisted revenge because I said no to him.”

“Ward, this had to have been planned well before you told Trey to his face the deal was dead.” Mark asked, “Way I figure it, what can it hurt to keep the options open?”

“Sure,” Ward said. “Talk to Gene. I'm curious.”

“By the way,” Mark said, “we're open again. The servers are clean, and Gene said the feds have what they need. We gotta start doing some damage control. I'm seeing Lee Blackwelder in Charlotte at two. He's expensive, but public relations disasters are what he does best. I'd be right there with you and Natasha, but I think it's best you stay home for a day or two. You need anything, and I mean anything, you call me first. I'll be checking in with you, and I'll call if anything comes up. In the meanwhile, I'm going to be talking to any client who'll take my call.”

“I'll call Gene about the Dibble thing. I have to talk to him anyway.”

“Your call,” Mark said. “I'll follow your lead, boss … nephew.”

Ward hung up.

He wouldn't sell the company to Dibble for himself, but he had other people to think about. Flash might agree to institute some form of profit- sharing and to not fire employees for a certain period of time. There was also a chance this would somehow work out and Ward would be cleared. All it would take was proving who had come after him. Maybe Todd Hartman could work that miracle. He dialed Gene.

“No news is good news” was how his friend and attorney answered the call. “Wiggins is going to meet with us this morning at ten- thirty He's informed the assistant federal attorney that if he wants to see you, he will bring you in. Any interviews from here out will only be conducted in his presence. Even so, the FBI may pick you up. You can't trust the bastards. If they show up and want to take you in, call me, or have Natasha do it and I'll call Wiggins. It's likely they'll take it slow and easy and make sure they have their ducks lined up before they move. I get the feeling
the prosecutor doesn't have much confidence in the case so far, but that could change at any moment. There's a big commotion to get somebody charged for this …”

“What's Wiggins costing me?” Ward asked.

“Twenty thousand retainer for starters. That a problem?”

Ward paused, then forged ahead. “Nope.”

“Then bring your checkbook. That pays up through arraignment and plea. The rest depends on what he has to do. This goes to trial, a hundred thousand easy.”

“A
hundred thousand dollars? Listen—Unk told me that Flash Dibble still wants the company. Flash called him. If you want to, you can see if the offer stands, but if he tries to drop it, it will make me wonder if he's involved in bringing down the value. Keep me posted.”

“You change your mind?”

“No, I haven't. I don't know. Let's just say I want to do what's best. And maybe there are other potential buyers.”

“Who'd offer less and sell to Flash,” Gene said. “By the way, Todd Hartman making any progress on this?”

“I haven't talked to him today. So far, his people have kept the press away.”

“See you at ten- thirty Ward.”

“Sounds good.”

Ward called Todd's cell phone. It rang four times and went to his voice mail.

When Natasha came in, he filled her in on his conversation with Gene.

When his cell phone rang a minute later, Ward looked at the caller ID. It was Todd Hartman.

“Todd,” he said. “We need to talk to you. Something's come up that might be important.”

“I was coming to see you with good news. I'll be there in ten minutes.”

THIRTY-SEVEN

When Ward opened the front door, Todd was parking his Denali. Leslie Wilde drove in behind him. He waited for her to join him and kissed her on the cheek, and they came to the door together.

“I tried to call,” Leslie said, holding up her cell phone. “My battery is dead and I don't have my car charger. I thought I could run errands or whatever you need done. I'm going to take a personal day.”

“You don't have to do that, Leslie,” Ward said.

“I know, but I really want to help. Cheryl is covering your phone for the day. If it's okay?”

“We both appreciate what you've already done, more than you know. Come on in,” Ward said, holding the door open.

“The media vultures are still up there,” Leslie said. “It's the same thing over and over on the news. I guess they don't have anything better to put on. It dominated the
Today
show this morning. It's international news. The virus is still spreading, but they've been warning people about not opening the e-mail with the subject ‘You have to see this.’ ”

Ward led them into the den, where Natasha greeted them with a bright smile.

“Todd, what's your good news?” Ward asked.

Todd looked at Leslie. “Maybe we should talk in private,” he said.

“No problem. I'll give you guys a few minutes,” Leslie said.

Todd said, “It's about the prototype.”

“Leslie can hear it,” Ward said. “She knows all about it.”

“You're the client,” Todd told him, smiling at Leslie.

Todd took a tape player from his briefcase and placed it on the table. “I wired myself before I spoke to her.”

He pressed down on the play button and the quartet listened to the meeting on the campus of UNCC.

After the conversation played Todd clicked off the machine.

“Ward told me she looks young,” Natasha said.

“Yes, she does,” Todd replied. “She could pass for twelve.”

“And by now she's seen the news, and even before that she was insinuating that she thought Ward made overtures toward her. What if she thinks she can shake him down?” Leslie asked.

“I think we're past that,” Todd said.

“Christ,” Ward said.

“She's a disturbed young lady with a need for attention,” Natasha said. “This could get her some.”

Ward asked Todd, “How do we handle it?”

“She was in the middle seat, so I got the name of the man seated beside her on the aisle. His name is Albert Gaines, and he lives down in Rock Hill. I'll talk to him—I'd bet he saw the car when you showed it to her and that he was away from the seat only while you were. And he'll know whether or not you seemed to be coming on to Alice. Sitting that close he'd have to have seen or heard everything that went on.”

“Okay,” Ward said. “I'm sure you're right. He was right there.”

“I spoke to Alice Palmer late last night. She and her boyfriend tried extortion—asking for ten thousand. I told her I'd talked to witness Gaines, and said you'd go two and I wouldn't have them put in jail. Everybody gets what they want. We're going to pay to get the car back. Eight tonight at Concord Mills food court.”

“Let's just hope she doesn't decide to call the police anyway,” Natasha said. “Maybe she doesn't need the money as much as she needs attention.”

“That's possible,” Todd said, “but I'm sure her boyfriend just wants a payday.”

“By the way, I have someone looking into
Trey Dibble, and I'm trying to find out if Lander Electric has an investigator they use locally or one their lawyers use. You know which law firm they've retained?”

“I forget the name. Gene's been dealing with them. They're a big firm with offices around the country and two- hundred- plus lawyers. Their North Carolina office is in Durham.”

“If you don't mind, I'll call him for that information.”

Ward wrote down Gene's phone numbers for Todd.

“This could get expensive,” Todd said.

Natasha said, “Whatever it takes, Todd. We'll handle it. Let's just get it fixed as quickly as possible.”

Todd nodded, but he didn't seem to be listening. He was looking out through the window at something near the trees. He turned to look at Ward. “I want everybody to just keep talking like you are now. And don't look outside.” He reached into his pocket for a walkie- talkie and, holding it in his lap, keyed it.

“Number two,” Todd said, as though he was talking to Ward, “circle the house. Slow and quiet. I saw a light flare in the trees, up on the
back ridge, ninety degrees out from the living room. Might be a camera.”

“Everyone just keep talking, and don't look out the window.” Todd looked back toward the kitchen, stood and walked toward the door, turned, and sprinted for the front.

Ward, Natasha, and Leslie sat frozen, as Todd had instructed, until Ward heard him yell out, and he turned to see the investigator running gazelle- like among the trees along the ridge, gun in his hand. Ward also saw the man Todd had called, working his way among the trees on the ridge, coming in from the left side.

Standing, Ward saw Todd signal the other man before sprinting deep into the woods. Five minutes later the two men came walking back, their guns holstered. Todd was wiping dirt from his pants and his jacket.

Ward walked out through the kitchen door and onto the patio in front of the covered pool, Natasha and Leslie following. He saw the two men looking down at the ground. Todd had disappeared below his waist. From a distance, he looked half buried. He reached down and came up with something that looked like a blanket with a man- size hole in the middle.

“Wait here,” Ward told the women. He walked swiftly down the grassy slope and up the rise, approaching the two men.

“He got away,” Todd said, reaching down into a hole that was about four by six feet wide and a good three feet deep. He lifted out a pair of armored binoculars by the strap and inspected them gently. What Ward had thought was a blanket was actually fine netting stretched across a wood frame with dead leaves attached to the material.

“Mr. McCarty I'm Bixby Nolan. I work for Mr. Hartman.” The other man turned to Ward and nodded.

“Nice to meet you,” Ward said absently.

Nolan, wearing black jeans and a T-shirt under a lightweight jacket, was five six, and he looked like a prizefighter. He had a thin scar across his forehead, just above the dark sunglasses, and his blond hair was gathered into a ponytail.

“I didn't see anybody,” Nolan said.

“I saw a reflection from these glasses,” Todd said. “He ran from the hide when I broke around the house. He was wearing black jeans and shirt
and ball cap. Maybe six feet tall with wide shoulders. He vanished into thin air.”

Todd reached back into the hole and took out a small, rectangular, flat, dull orange object, which he studied for a moment before he set it on the ground beside the binoculars.

“What's that?” Ward asked.

“See the writing. ‘Fine India Made in the USA’ stone. For sharpening a survival knife,” Todd said. “Stones just like this one come with Randall fighting and survival knives. It fits in a little pocket on the holster.”

“That's an expensive knife,” Bixby said.

“I doubt the guy was a reporter,” Todd said, reaching down and feeling something in the front wall of the hole. He straightened and, climbing out, moved to the backside of the hole and kneeled to look in.

“How do you know that?” Ward asked.

“He's been here for a lot longer than just since yesterday, when the virus hit.”

When Ward came around and knelt beside Todd he saw, carved in the clay walls, scores of carefully crafted letters stretched out in long straight lines, stacked to fill the space like a lesson painstakingly chalked on a blackboard. At
the base of that wall was a pile of small bits of dry clay, lying where they'd fallen during the carving. Ward realized that the words were, in fact, one word written over and over, and, although they were run together without any spacing, the word was immediately readable because of the capital
G
every fifth letter. Whoever had been here had time and patience.