“Not unprecedented,” Clair said. “Unfortunately.”
“You’d know because the Kincannons were part of your old blue-blood crowd, right? The two hundred or four hundred or whatever constitutes the social register?”
Clair tented her long white fingers, poised her chin at the apex.
“Lesson time, Ryder. There’s a social order in Mobile, of course. Old money at the core, old names. If it weren’t for many of those folks, the symphony, museums, all manner of cultural events would suffer. Many are honorable people, generous with time and money, others are insufferable prigs.”
“The latter being the Kincannons?”
“They’re not part of this group, sassiety types, as Harry calls them. Behind their facade, the Kincannons are coarse and crude. Pariahs. True society types go out of their way to avoid them.”
“I saw all manner of folks squirming after the Kincannons at the party, Clair. I didn’t see much avoidance.”
“You saw politicians and sycophants, Carson. Old-line Mobile families wouldn’t invite the Kincannons to a weenie roast, not that they have them. That may even be a part of the problem.”
“Not having weenie roasts?”
“The Kincannons are shunned. In a coldly civil way, but ostracized nonetheless. It’s made them insular, self-absorbed. They pass out money hoping it buys respect and acceptance, but they’re so heavy-handed and self-serving it only makes the insiders loathe them more. The public, of course, sees none of this.”
“Negative publicity isn’t big with these folks.”
“The family employs the biggest PR agency in the state, the toniest law firm in town, the caterer du jour does all their events, a photographer documents their every turn…”
I held up my hand. “I don’t care for the clan. But I have a hard time picturing them being as malicious as you’re implying.”
“The Kincannons have been playing at being benevolent and likeable for so long that they may even believe that story themselves. They abide by social and legal compacts for the most part. Until something threatens their world. Then you see the dark side of their souls, the broken side.”
“You’re saying they can be dangerous?”
“When threatened. Or denied something they want.”
“Clair, they’re just rich, selfish shits. Maybe you’re making too much of their power to-”
“Shhhh. Listen to me. This girlfriend. Do you still care for her?”
“I’m having a hard time telling her, but…I think so.”
A strange moment of sadness or resignation crossed Clair’s face. “Warn her away from Buck Kincannon, Carson. From all the Kincannons.”
I sighed. “I’ll do what I can, Clair.”
She studied me for a few seconds, then turned away. I pushed to my feet and walked toward the door. At the threshold, I turned, remembering the other day, wanting to thank Clair for holding me in my moment of desolation.
Her back was turned to me. She was looking out the window. I saw the reflection of her face against the night, like a white moon in a sky as lonely as a Hank Williams song. I started to speak but my heart jumped in the way.
CHAPTER 28
The next day was a day off rotation. I’d arisen at eight, late for me, and spent an hour in the kayak, cutting hard through a low surf. I’d followed the kayaking with a three-mile beach run. I had to force myself to sit at the dining room table and do a brief stint with Rudolnick’s papers. I’d put in a boring fifteen minutes when Harry called.
“I’m thinking about running over to the Mississippi line, Carson, that little bass lake over there. You in?”
I’d given a lot of thought to Clair’s warnings. I wasn’t convinced Dani was in true personal danger unless rising so high and fast in the Clarity chain gave her a nosebleed. Still, Clair was not given to cry-wolfing, and I figured I could combine some lax time with some learn time.
“Thanks anyway, bro. I’m thinking about just getting out and driving. Maybe in the country. Roll down the windows and let the air blow my head clear, at least for a while.”
I heard suspicion in Harry’s voice. “Where in the country? Not up by where Ms. Holtkamp was killed?”
“That was northeast,” I corrected. “I’m thinking more to the northwest side. Farm country.”
“You being straight?”
“What? You don’t trust me to simply take a drive?”
Harry grunted and hung up.
Farmland lay as far as the eye could see, melons and cotton and groves of pecan trees. I passed piney woods, trees rising straight as arrows pointed at the heart of the sky. The green smell of pine perfused the heated air.
Then the landscape changed, the woods at my shoulder becoming meadow wrapped with whitewashed plank fences, the land studded with water oak and sycamore, here and there a slash pine looming like a spire. The land seemed cool with shade.
I had once passed through central Kentucky, the horse farms east of Paris and Cynthiana, where fences stretched to the horizon and thoroughbreds grazed in the lime-rich bluegrass. Only here, in north Mobile County, the champions were cattle, Brahmas, with minotaur-heavy shoulders and gray hides as sleek as seal pelts.
Kincannon raised prize Brahmas. I figured I was close.
I passed the hub of the husbandry operation, a half-dozen barnlike outbuildings, open doors revealing tractors and livestock trailers. There was a vehicle carrier with a small Bobcat-type ’dozer on its bed. I saw a feed silo, pens, food and water stations.
I drove on, crossing a rise. Below was a stone arch like a segment of Roman aqueduct, a massive iron K affixed to the keystone. A guardhouse stood behind one of the pillars, almost hidden. The main house was a good quarter mile from the road, white brick, massive, plantation-style. White fence bordered the lane to the house. In the center of the sprawling lawn was a larger-than-life sculpture of a Brahma bull, golden in color, an outsized Kincannon K branded on its flank. The bull held a forehoof aloft and glared toward the road like a challenge. The sculpture seemed an amazing exercise in hubris and I shook my head.
I looked again and noticed a second house on the property, as large as the closer house, tucked back in the trees a quarter mile distant.
I blew past the entrance, continued for several hundred feet, turned on a dirt road to the right. It appeared to be the western border of the property, white-fenced to the right, thick woods to the left. I lumbered to the side of the road and stared into the woods. The main structures would be on the far side of the trees, perhaps a quarter mile distant.
I pulled field glasses from the glove box. Ten seconds later I was over the white fence and moving into the woods. I wasn’t sure of my motives, only that I had to see more, as if I could find a sign or symbol on the vast property explaining who these beings were. And why, having so much, they demanded still more. I pulled the glasses to my eyes and saw a snippet of the white house through the trees. I continued walking, then froze at a voice ahead, high and giggly.
“You can’t find me.”
I slipped behind a slender oak, put the binoculars to my face, tried to isolate the direction of the voice.
“You’re getting warmer,” the voice said.
A sound pulled my glasses to a large and chubby child crashing through the growth. He was perhaps two hundred feet away. I heard a small engine kick in.
Then an adult voice, male. “Where’s Freddy at?”
“You can’t find him! You’re getting colder now.”
A game of hide-and-seek. The engine sputtered, moved nearer. “Where has Freddy gone?” said the adult voice, verging on anger, tired of the game.
A childish giggle. “Over here!”