I was looking for Hannah—had been given directions to a downstairs conference room—and was striding down the hallway, glancing at numbers on doors as I hurried along, when Hannah and Detective Ron Jackson stepped out into the hall. They were still talking; didn't notice me until I was only a few yards away. Hannah glanced up, focused, seemed to refocus, then held her arms out so that I could take her into mine. Into my ear, she whispered, "I'm so sorry. Please believe me, if I'd known anything about it, I'da stopped it."
I held her away from me. Said, "I'm sure of that, Hannah," as Jackson cleared his throat and said, "I take it you two know each other."
I manufactured a weary but congenial smile. "They got you up early for this one, Ron."
"Early? I never got to bed. As I was telling Mrs. Darroux, I've been assigned to this . . . particular community problem." He made an open-palmed so-here-I-am gesture.
"Any idea who did it?"
"Not a lot to go on, I'm afraid. Still trying to assemble what I can, and we'll take it from there." I could tell he didn't want to talk about it in front of Hannah. He asked, "How's your buddy?"
I told them both what the doctor told me, but I tried to make it sound better than it was. I'm not sure why. Tomlinson was the one who believed in the power of positive thought waves, not me. Tomlinson, I said, would remain in intensive care under observation, and if need be, he would go back into surgery in a day or so. The doctors had high hopes. Judging from the way Hannah was looking at me, she knew I was lying. Maybe Jackson knew it too, but he played along. When I had the chance, I said to Hannah, "Would you excuse us just for a minute?" She stood there, obviously confused, as I took Jackson by the arm and walked with him a little way down the hall. When we were far enough, I said in a hoarse whisper, "They tried to kill him, Ron. Did you talk to the doctor? They did everything but run over him with a truck."
Jackson had already considered that; was shaking his head. "No ... if they wanted to kill him, they would have used the knife to cut his throat instead of cutting letters into his head. I don't think they cared if he died. I think what happened was, somehow they got the idea your buddy was spying on them, and they beat the living shit out of him because of it. Left him out along the roadside, like: Don't come over here and screw with us."
I glanced back at Hannah. I hadn't seen her since I'd jumped into my boat and blasted full speed back to Dinkin's Bay to alert the locals and then drive to the hospital. She had her hair tied back in a blue and white kerchief. She had changed into jeans and a black turtleneck sweater. It was the first time I'd ever seen her in shoes. Brown leather deck shoes. She gave me a troubled, quizzical look—Don't you trust me?
To Jackson, I said, "Maybe that's what happened. Maybe some outlaw netters thought Tomlinson was spying on them, but it could also be just a ruse. Somebody smart enough to lay a false trail."
He said, "What? What are you talking about, Ford?"
"There's a guy I want you to check out. A guy named Raymond Tullock."
"Never heard of him. He's one of the commercial guys?"
I told Jackson what I knew about Tullock's background. I didn't know where the man lived, but his business number could be found in the yellow pages. I asked him not to mention Tullock's name to Hannah—why risk tipping him off? Jackson said, "You have some solid reason to believe that he's involved?"
"Nope. Nothing solid. But I think the guy's a flake. I saw him in action tonight. I think he's obsessive-compulsive when it comes to Mrs. Darroux. First Jimmy Darroux gets blown up. Now the guy who's living with her— Tomlinson—ends up comatose in a hospital. Maybe there's a connection, maybe there isn't. I don't know if Tullock had the opportunity, and I don't know if he's twisted enough to do it. But the motive is there."
Jackson thought that over. "Mrs. Darroux, the way she looks . . . she packs a wallop. Funny thing is, I didn't notice it at first. But just now, when we were alone in the room . . . whew. Yeah, I can see it." He glanced up at me. "That's all you've got? A hunch?"
Tomlinson would have found that amusing—me functioning on instinct rather than reason. "That's all," I said. "A hunch."
"I don't know. That other name you gave me is looking pretty good. Kemper Waits? The guy's been in and out of prison. Cocaine trafficking, assault and battery. He was up on a manslaughter charge, but it was dropped. I went to work on it this afternoon after talking to you. But it's all computer stuff. I need more before I try to nail him."
I said, "How about if I drive up to Sulphur Wells tomorrow, do some poking around? See if I can come up with some information on Waits and Raymond Tullock."
"I don't know. . . ."Jackson was studying me, a severe cop-expression on his face. "I think it might be getting too personal for you, Ford. I don't like the tone in your voice. It's a little too light and breezy. You know what they say: Don't try to bullshit a bullshitter."
"I'm just trying to help, Ron—"
"You've already helped. You gave me a good lead." He was still staring at me. "Yeah, I think that's how we'll leave it. You get some rest; go home and have a beer. Let me and my partner work on things. We'll find whoever did it, and I'll let you know. If you want, maybe even let you tag along on the bust."
I smiled amiably. "Geez, Ron. That would be nice."
I was walking with Hannah. Had my left arm over her shoulder. She had her fingers knotted into my left hand. Ahead of us, far down the hall, Detective Jackson stood impatiently at the elevator. I wanted to time it right so that he would have to take the elevator without us. When the doors opened, he looked at us, glanced at his watch. I called, "Go ahead, Ron. We'll catch the next one." He stepped aboard; the elevator doors closed.
Ahead of us, down the hall, was an open, darkened room. When Hannah and I were abreast of the doorway, I swung her into the room. Held her there, my face inches from hers, and said, "Who did it? You know, and you're going to tell me: Who jumped Tomlinson?"
"Hey . . . Ford! You're hurting me!"
"Tell me, goddamn it. No more games. No more secrets. Talk to me!"
She wrestled out of my grip and stepped back, rubbing her arms. "I already told him everything I know," she said stubbornly. Meaningjackson.
"Yeah? So now you're going to tell me."
"You don't believe me?"
"That's right. I don't believe you. The bad publicity might stall that precious money you're counting on from Tallahassee."
Enough light came through the doorway that I could see the expression on her face: astonishment, a touch of disappointment, mostly anguish. She touched a hand to her forehead, stood poised for a moment . . . then stumbled forward and fell into my arms. I felt a convulsive tremor move through her body that exited as a sob. "He's going to die," she whispered. "You know that, don't you? I . . . should have seen it comin'. Maybe Tommy did see it—his powers were stronger than mine. But I didn't see it, and now he's going to die."
I stood there holding her, feeling her tears hot on my face . . . but felt no emotion of my own, nothing, except for a mild surprise that a woman so strong could shatter so completely . . . and that she trusted me enough to allow me to see it happen.
There was a leather couch against one wall—it was some kind of consulting room—and I steered her toward it, then sat, still holding her tightly. "If Tomlinson dies, he dies," I said. "Either way, I'm going to find out who did it—and you're going to help me."
"I don't know who did it. You wouldn't believe me anyway!"